[bunhrtd]

𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗡 𝗜’𝗠 𝗗𝗢𝗪𝗡 𝗢𝗡 𝗠𝗬 𝗞𝗡𝗘𝗘𝗦, 𝗬𝗢𝗨’𝗥𝗘 𝗛𝗢𝗪 𝗜 𝗣𝗥𝗔𝗬

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐄 ' 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗆𝖾𝖺𝗇𝗍 𝗍𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗈𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗇 𝗆𝖺𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝖼𝗋𝖾𝖾𝗄. 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗎𝖻𝗅𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖾𝗑𝗉𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗉𝗉𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝗁𝖺𝗉𝖾𝗅 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗆𝗈𝗄𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝗁𝗂𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖼𝗁𝗈𝗈𝗅. 𝗃𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗌𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗐𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇’𝗍 — 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖺𝗌𝗍𝗈𝗋’𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗇, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗈𝗅𝖽𝖾𝗇 𝖻𝗈𝗒, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗈𝗇 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗎𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗇𝗍𝖾𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝗂𝖿𝖾, 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝗈𝗒 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗌𝖺𝗏𝖾 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗈𝗇𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗀𝗂𝗇𝗌 𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗒𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾 𝖻𝖾𝗅𝗂𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗌. 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖿𝗂𝗋𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾, 𝗃𝖺𝗄𝖾 𝗐𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗂𝖿 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗀𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍𝖾𝗌𝗍 𝗌𝗂𝗇 𝗐𝖺𝗌𝗇’𝗍 𝗐𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗒𝗈𝗎, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗍𝖾𝗇𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝗂𝖽𝗇’𝗍

ᦸ 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌𝗍’𝗌 𝗌𝗈𝗇!𝗃𝖺𝗄𝖾🧁 𝖽𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗇𝗍!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋‎ ‎ 22.3k ⠀˃̵ᴗ˂̵⠀ first times NSFW corruption kink religous allusionsㅤ reblogs&kisses

You hated the town long before you learned its name.

Your father insisted that hatred was a strong word, one that people reached for too quickly whenever life refused to accommodate them. Still, he had never understood that some places possessed the uncanny ability to reject you before you had even crossed their borders. Hatred, in your opinion, implied familiarity; this feeling was stranger than that. It was instinctive, immediate, almost animalistic, settling somewhere beneath your ribs the moment the highway dissolved into narrow country roads lined with skeletal oak trees and weathered fences whose peeling white paint looked as though it had been touched by every season except change. The farther the city disappeared in the rear-view mirror, the more oppressive the silence became, until even the hum of the old Ford sounded intrusive against the vast stretches of open fields and endless blue sky.

Chicago had always been loud enough to drown out your thoughts.

This place seemed determined to make you listen to every single one of them.

The moving truck rolled slowly down Maple Street, its engine grumbling as though it, too, objected to the destination, and you rested your forehead against the cool glass of the passenger window while watching the neighbourhood reveal itself slowly. Every lawn had been trimmed within an inch of perfection. Every mailbox stood upright instead of leaning drunkenly toward the road. American flags fluttered from polished porches despite there being no holiday worth celebrating, and flowerbeds burst with arrangements of roses whose petals looked too immaculate to have survived wind or rain. Even the children riding bicycles seemed strangely choreographed, calling cheerful greetings to neighbours who knew each of their names, their laughter carrying through the warm spring air before disappearing beneath the distant toll of church bells.

Your father finally slowed the truck in front of a modest two-storey house with pale blue shutters and a wraparound porch. He turned off the engine without saying anything, gripping the steering wheel for several seconds while cigarette smoke drifted lazily from the one balanced between his fingers. The divorce had split everything neatly down the middle—house, furniture, bank accounts, holidays—but no one asked where eighteen-year-old daughters wanted to go. Your mother stayed in Chicago with the apartment she'd fought tooth and nail to keep. Your father accepted a new job three states away because "there was nothing left" back home.

"You can take whichever room you want," he said eventually, still looking through the windshield instead of at you.

It was such an ordinary sentence that it almost made you laugh.

Not Are you okay?

Not I'm sorry your life fell apart because ours did.

Typical.

You climbed out before he could say anything else, letting the truck door slam harder than necessary, and inhaled air that smelled overwhelmingly of freshly cut grass and damp earth instead of gasoline, hot concrete, and rain-soaked asphalt. The breeze carried the scent of lilacs from somewhere nearby, sweet enough to become cloying after only a few breaths, and the oppressive neatness of the neighbourhood wrapped itself around you with the suffocating gentleness of a freshly washed bedsheet.

It didn't feel real.

It felt staged, like someone had built an entire town from the collective memories of people who believed America had once been simpler than it actually was.

Your father lit another cigarette almost immediately after finishing the first.

"Apparently," he muttered, exhaling smoke toward the afternoon sky, "the pastor lives next door."

You followed his gaze without much interest.

The neighbouring house was much older than yours, its white clapboard walls softened by decades of climbing ivy that curled around the porch railings in thick emerald vines. Rose bushes bloomed beneath every window, their crimson blossoms almost unnaturally vibrant against the white paint. While rows of lavender swayed gently beside a stone pathway leading toward the front steps. 

A woman emerged from the garden carrying a wicker basket balanced against her hip, and even from across the lawn there was something effortlessly graceful about the way she moved, brushing loose strands of dark hair behind her ear before looking toward the moving truck with an expression that immediately softened into a welcoming smile.

She waved.

Your father waved back with awkward enthusiasm.

You offered the smallest possible nod.

The woman didn't seem offended by your lack of warmth. If anything, her smile only widened before she disappeared inside the house, leaving the front door open behind her as though expecting someone else to follow.

"You could try being polite," your father remarked.

"I nodded."

"You looked like you were attending a funeral."

"I kind of am."

The words escaped before you could stop them.

Your father didn't answer; he simply looked away, crushing the cigarette beneath his shoe with more force than necessary before opening the truck and beginning to unload boxes in silence.

◌ֹ   💭  ִ  ՞

Your bedroom overlooked the street.

It wasn't particularly large, but the slanted ceiling and wide window gave it the illusion of space, and if you ignored the floral wallpaper left behind by whoever had lived there before, it might even have been pleasant. You left every box untouched, stepping instead toward the window where the neighbourhood stretched beneath the late afternoon sun in quiet perfection. From here, the church dominated everything.

It stood only a short walk away, its white steeple rising confidently above the rooftops until it became the highest point in town, casting a long shadow that crept slowly across the surrounding streets as the sun drifted westward. The stained-glass windows caught the light in fractured colours, spilling ribbons of sapphire, crimson, and gold across the stone walls, and every hour the bell announced itself with unwavering certainty, as though reminding the entire town exactly where its heart resided.

You had never been particularly religious. 

Your mother claimed belief was something people found when they were desperate enough. Your father claimed nothing at all.

Still, there was something undeniably magnetic about the building—not welcoming, exactly, but impossible to ignore. It possessed the quiet confidence of institutions that had existed long before the people inside them and fully expected to remain standing long after everyone currently alive had become names carved into marble.

The longer you stood there, the more impossible it became to convince yourself that the church was simply another building.

Every street curved toward it, every sidewalk appeared to lead back to its weathered stone steps, and even the houses seemed arranged in quiet deference, as though generations of families had built their lives around its presence without ever questioning why. It reminded you less of a place of worship than of a watchtower, standing silently above the town with the patient certainty that everyone, eventually, regardless of where they wandered, would find themselves returning to its doors.

With a quiet sigh, you stepped away from the window and looked around your bedroom for the first time. Brown cardboard boxes towered against one wall with your mother's handwriting still scrawled across the tape in black marker—BOOKS, WINTER CLOTHES, BEDROOM—small pieces of a life that no longer existed packed away as though memories could be folded as neatly as sweaters. For a fleeting moment, you considered unpacking, imagining where your records might sit or which shelf your novels would occupy, but the thought felt strangely disloyal, as though arranging your belongings meant accepting that this house was something more permanent than a temporary stop on the way back home.

Because that was what you kept telling yourself.

You weren't staying.

Your father might believe in fresh starts, but you believed in endings, and sooner or later, this one would end too.

You left the boxes where they were.

Downstairs, the muffled scrape of furniture drifting across hardwood floors reminded you that your father had continued working without you. You could picture him perfectly without even looking—the sleeves of his flannel shirt rolled to his elbows, another cigarette dangling absentmindedly between his lips despite promising your mother years ago that he'd quit, moving through the house with the determination of someone who believed staying busy was easier than admitting he didn't know what else to do with himself.

He had always been good at pretending. Pretending as if the shouting matches hadn't rattled the windows, that your mother's packed suitcases hadn't sat untouched by the front door for nearly a week before she finally carried them downstairs herself, that signing a stack of divorce papers in a lawyer's office on an unremarkable Tuesday afternoon was no different from signing for a parcel at the post office.

Some people cried when their marriages ended.

Your father had simply bought another pack of cigarettes.

You wandered downstairs without thinking much about where your feet were taking you, trailing your fingers lightly along the polished banister as unfamiliar floorboards creaked beneath your weight. The house carried that peculiar scent all recently vacated homes seemed to share, a mixture of fresh paint and old timber. 

Your father was standing in the kitchen with his back to you, staring blankly into an open cupboard that contained nothing except two chipped mugs the landlord had apparently forgotten to remove. For several moments, he didn't move at all. He simply stood there with one hand braced against the counter, cigarette smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling while the afternoon light spilled through the sink window and painted long rectangles across the floor.

For a fleeting second, he looked impossibly older than you remembered.

Not because of the grey beginning to thread through his dark hair or the pull of his permanent frown that exemplified a network of deep wrinkles, but because loneliness had a way of ageing people unevenly. It hollowed them out from the inside until they carried themselves like houses after a fire—still standing, somehow, but unmistakably changed.

He noticed you only when the floorboard beneath your foot groaned.

"There's a diner a few blocks over," he said, reaching automatically for his wallet. "I figured we'd get dinner there. Saves unpacking the kitchen tonight."

You leaned against the doorway.

"Sure."

He hesitated.

"You hungry?"

"I guess." You sighed.

Another silence settled between the two of you, stretching just long enough to become uncomfortable before he cleared his throat and slipped the wallet into his back pocket.

"People say the pie's good."

The comment felt almost painfully rehearsed, like something he'd read in a brochure on how fathers were supposed to speak to daughters after destroying their lives.

"That's reassuring."

"I thought so."

You almost smiled.

Almost.

Instead, you looked past him through the kitchen window.

The church steeple was visible even from here.

It rose above the rooftops in the distance, brilliant white beneath the lowering sun, impossible to escape no matter which direction you faced. The cross at its peak caught the fading light so intensely that for a moment it seemed suspended in the sky itself, detached from the building below, watching over the town with quiet indifference.

"Everything around here revolves around that place, doesn't it?" you asked without turning away from the window.

Your father followed your gaze.

"I suppose it does."

"That's depressing."

"It depends who you ask."

You let out a quiet hum.

"I wasn't asking."

◌ֹ   💭  ִ  ՞

The diner sat on the corner of Main Street, tucked between an old hardware store and a tiny bookshop whose faded sign looked as though it hadn't been replaced in decades. A little brass bell chimed above the door as you stepped inside.

It looked exactly how diners always looked in old American films, with red vinyl booths polished smooth by generations of customers, spinning chrome stools lined neatly along the counter, and waitresses who somehow remembered every regular's order before they'd even sat down. A jukebox stood silently in one corner, its coloured lights flickering despite no one feeding it coins, while framed photographs of local baseball teams and town parades crowded every inch of the walls.

The conversations stopped. Not all at once, but you felt it nonetheless.

Heads lifted almost imperceptibly from steaming coffee mugs and half-finished meals. Eyes lingered a fraction longer than politeness allowed before drifting away again, only to return moments later under the pretence of looking elsewhere. 

You were no longer just another girl.

You were the new girl.

The divorced man's daughter.

The strangers from Chicago.

Your father either didn't notice or chose not to. He slid into a booth near the window, picking up a laminated menu, prompting you to sit down too. Your fingers drifted absently over the frayed edge of the laminated menu, though you weren't really reading it. The words blurred together into an endless procession of burgers, meatloaf, club sandwiches and slices of homemade pie, all priced cheaply enough to suggest the recipes had remained unchanged for decades. It struck you that this diner, like everything else you'd seen since crossing the county line, seemed entirely uninterested in becoming something new.

A waitress appeared beside the table with two glasses of water balanced expertly on a round metal tray tucked against her shoulder. She looked to be in her late fifties, her greying hair pinned into a loose bun beneath a paper hat embroidered with the diner's name, and she smiled with the effortless familiarity of someone who had spent most of her life recognising faces before names.

"You folks must be the Parks," she said brightly, setting the glasses down without needing to ask whether you wanted lemon. "We've all been expecting you."

Your father looked up in surprise. "You have?"

"Oh, honey." She laughed softly, her voice oozing with honey. "Nothing much happens around here. New neighbours are practically headline news."

You lowered your eyes to the condensation gathering on your water glass, tracing a fingertip through the droplets before they slipped onto the tabletop. Somehow, hearing it confirmed felt infinitely worse than merely suspecting it.

The waitress scribbled something onto her notepad before looking between the two of you again.

"Your daddy's taking over at the engineering firm, isn't he?"

"That's right," your father replied politely.

"Well, we're happy to have you both. Lord knows this town could always use a few fresh faces."

Your father offered the strained smile he'd perfected over the last year. "Thank you."

She turned to you then, her expression softening almost instinctively.

"And you'll be starting at Saint Augustine's on Monday?"

You blinked. "I guess."

"You'll like it there."

The certainty with which she said it made something inside you churn.

"What if I don't?"

She paused for the briefest moment before smiling again, as though she believed every difficult thing could be solved with enough kindness.

"Oh," she said gently, "I'm sure you will."

When she finally wandered off toward another table, your father reached automatically for the sugar dispenser despite drinking his coffee black.

"You didn't have to answer like that."

"I answered."

"You know what I mean."

"No," you replied, lifting your glass. "I really don't."

He sighed quietly, rubbing a hand across his jaw before staring out the window instead of arguing further. It had become another habit of his lately, abandoning conversations the moment they threatened to become honest. You sometimes wondered whether it was because he genuinely wanted to avoid conflict or because he no longer trusted himself to say the right thing.

Outside, Main Street basked beneath the last warmth of the evening sun. A teenage boy wheeled his bicycle past the diner's window, one hand balancing a paper bag hooked over the handlebars while an older woman called after him from across the street, reminding him not to forget choir practice tomorrow evening. He lifted a hand in acknowledgement without even turning around, clearly having heard the reminder a hundred times before.

Choir practice.

You almost smiled to yourself; of course, there was choir practice.

Of course, there were church picnics and Sunday bake sales and Christmas pageants where everyone knew every line before the first rehearsal. You could already picture the bulletin boards covered in handwritten notices, casserole dishes appearing mysteriously whenever someone fell ill. 

The waitress returned with a steaming mug of coffee for your father and a basket of warm dinner rolls that she insisted had "just come out of the oven."

"They're on the house," she said with a wink. "Welcome to Maple Creek."

Your father thanked her.

You stared at the basket for a long moment before pulling one apart absentmindedly, watching gasps of steam escape into the air. The bread was still warm enough to burn your fingertips, tasting like someone's grandmother had been making them exactly the same way for fifty years, refusing to write the recipe down because she'd never needed to, measuring ingredients by instinct rather than teaspoons, and somehow producing the same perfect result every single time. You truly hated how good it was.

Your father noticed the expression that crossed your face before you had the chance to hide it, the smallest flicker of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth as he reached for one himself. "See?" he said quietly, tearing his own roll in half. "The pie probably isn't lying either."

You looked up just long enough to roll your eyes.

"Don't get ahead of yourself."

"I'm just saying," he replied with a shrug that felt almost familiar, "the place has potential."

"The bread has potential."

"I'll take that as progress."

"It isn't."

He smiled anyway.

It was brief—gone almost as soon as it appeared—but for the first time since you'd crossed the state line, your father looked a little more like the man you remembered. Before the lawyers, before the cardboard boxes stacked shoulder-high in your old living room, before every conversation between your parents had become another carefully measured negotiation about who got what and when. There had been a time when he laughed easily, when Sunday mornings meant burnt pancakes and classic rock playing too loudly through the house while your mother complained that neither of you knew the meaning of an inside voice. Sometimes it frightened you how difficult it was becoming to remember those versions of them. 

The waitress returned, balancing two heavy plates against her forearm, a skill that could only come from years of doing the same job every single day. She placed your father's meatloaf before him first, thick slices drowned in peppered gravy beside a generous mound of mashed potatoes. She then set your cheeseburger and fries in front of you with a smile.

"Everything looks alright?"

"It looks fine," your father answered politely.

"You just let me know if you need anything. Ketchup's already on the table, and don't be shy about asking for more fries. Earl always makes too many."

She drifted away before either of you could respond, stopping at another booth to refill an elderly couple's coffee cups without needing to ask. The old man thanked her by name. She asked after his wife. Two booths over, someone else called her over just to tell her that his grandson had finally gotten into college, and she clasped both hands over her heart as though the news belonged to her own family.

You watched the exchange for longer than you meant to.

You had the uneasy feeling that, by tomorrow morning, half the town would know exactly where you'd eaten dinner on your first night. By the end of the week, they'd know which house you lived in, what car your father drove, and probably the fact that you'd barely spoken through the entire meal. In a place this small, stories didn't spread because people were cruel. They spread because there simply wasn't much else to talk about.

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You learned later that the woman from earlier was Mrs Sim, the pastor’s wife. She arrived with a still-warm peach cobbler, which your father accepted with a gratitude that seemed genuine, the lines around his eyes softening as she spoke to him about the community, the quiet, the good schools. You lingered in the doorway of your new bedroom, arms crossed, watching the performance of small-town benevolence. Mrs Sim’s eyes eventually found yours. “You must be y/n,” she beamed. “My son, Jake, is about your age. I’ll send him over later to help with the heavier boxes. It’s so nice to have young people in the house next door again.”

Jake.

The name meant nothing to you; it was simply another piece of information about a place you hadn't asked to know.

A pastor's son.

Someone who probably belonged here in the same way everything else seemed to.

You imagined someone polite, someone with perfect manners and neatly folded clothes, someone who had grown up knowing exactly where he fit in the world because everyone around him had spent his entire life reminding him. The kind of person who would wave at strangers while driving, volunteer on weekends, and probably know every verse of every hymn before he was old enough to understand why he was singing them.

Someone who would look at you and immediately know you didn't belong.

"That's nice," you replied.

Your father gave you a look, but you ignored it.

Mrs Sim only smiled. "You'll meet him soon enough."

Mrs Sim's words lingered in the air even after she had finished speaking, though you weren't entirely sure why. There was nothing particularly significant about them. She had simply mentioned her son in passing, the same way someone might mention a neighbour's dog or a nearby restaurant or which grocery store had the freshest produce. It should have been forgettable, another harmless detail about a town you had no intention of becoming attached to. Yet somehow, the certainty in her voice bothered you. You'll meet him soon enough. Not if you want to. Not if you happen to. Just a quiet assumption that, eventually, your lives would cross because that was how things worked here. Everyone knew everyone. Everyone belonged to someone. Everyone had a place already waiting for them.

You wondered if that was what made small towns feel so comforting to the people who loved them. There was no uncertainty. No endless possibility of becoming someone entirely different from who you were yesterday. In places like Chicago, people disappeared and reinvented themselves all the time. They changed schools, changed neighbourhoods, changed friend groups, changed everything about themselves until sometimes even the people who knew them best couldn't recognise who they had become. Here, it seemed impossible to escape the version of yourself that other people had already decided existed. Your family history, your mistakes, your reputation, your name—all of it followed you down every street and through every doorway.

Maybe that was why everyone here smiled so easily.

They had never needed to wonder who they were.

The conversation continued downstairs, though you stopped listening. Your father asked Mrs. Sim about the school district, and she answered with the same gentle enthusiasm she seemed to offer everything else, explaining which teachers were wonderful, which streets were safest, which shops had been around for generations. She spoke about Maple Creek as though it wasn't simply a town but a living thing, something delicate that required care and loyalty. You watched your father absorb every word, nodding along with an expression of relief that you recognised immediately.

He wanted this to work.

That was the part you hated most.

If he had been miserable, if he had admitted he regretted moving, if he had looked around this unfamiliar house and said that maybe he had made a mistake, then perhaps you would have felt less alone in your resentment. But instead, he seemed lighter here. Not happy exactly, but closer to it than he had been in months. The possibility that this place could become something good for him felt unfair somehow, because while he was finding a reason to believe in a future here, you were still grieving the one you had lost.

You quietly stepped back into your room before either of them noticed, closing the door without making a sound.

The peach cobbler sat untouched on the kitchen counter.

You could smell it even from upstairs.

Another thing this town seemed determined to make impossible to dislike.

You hated that. You hated that the houses were beautiful, that the neighbours were kind, that the diner food was good, that your father looked slightly less broken every time someone welcomed him. You had spent the entire drive here building a version of Maple Creek in your mind—a place where you could justify being angry, where every smiling face could be dismissed as fake and every gesture of kindness could be interpreted as pity.

But what were you supposed to do when people were genuinely nice? Anger was easier when you had something to fight against.

You sat down on the edge of your bed, staring at the unopened boxes surrounding you, and pulled your knees toward your chest. The room was quiet except for the faint sounds of movement downstairs, the occasional creak of floorboards beneath your father's footsteps, and the distant hum of traffic passing along the main road.

Somewhere outside, a church bell rang.

You looked toward the window instinctively. You had never understood the comfort people found in places like that.

The idea of faith had always seemed strange to you—not because you thought people were foolish for believing, but because certainty itself felt like something you had never possessed. Some people moved through life convinced there was a plan waiting for them, that every heartbreak had meaning and every loss had a purpose. They believed things happened for a reason.

You had never been able to understand how.

Your parents had loved each other once.

At least, everyone said they had.

There were photographs proving it. Old videos, memories you carried from childhood of them dancing in the kitchen, laughing over burnt dinners, holding hands while walking through crowded streets. There had been a time when their marriage had seemed as permanent as the church standing at the centre of Maple Creek.

And then one day, somehow, it wasn't.

So what exactly was faith supposed to do with things that broke?

What was the point of believing something was sacred if it could still be destroyed?

The question followed you as you unpacked only the things you needed for the night. A toothbrush. Clean clothes. Your phone charger. The essentials required to pretend that tomorrow would be normal, even though nothing about your life felt remotely familiar anymore.

You avoided opening the box marked BEDROOM, avoided touching the photographs, avoided anything that felt too much like admitting you were staying.

Downstairs, your father eventually called goodnight, and you answered automatically.

Then you were alone.

The first night in the new house was quieter than you expected. Not peaceful—peace implied comfort—but quiet in a way that made every small sound noticeable. The pipes shifting behind the walls. The wind moving through the trees outside. The occasional footsteps of your father crossing the hallway below.

And beneath everything else, faint but unmistakable, the church bells. They rang once more before midnight.

You lay in the unfamiliar bed, staring at the ceiling, listening as the sound travelled through the darkness.

You didn't know anything about Maple Creek.

You didn't know its streets, its people, its traditions, or the boy whose name had been casually introduced to you before you had even met him.

For now, though, all you knew was that you were eighteen years old, three states away from everything you had ever known, living beside a church you didn't believe in, in a town that seemed determined to believe in you before you had even decided whether you wanted to believe in anything at all.

◌ֹ   💭  ִ  ՞

The next morning, Maple Creek looked almost deliberately beautiful.

You resented it immediately.

The sky was clear, the kind of bright blue that seemed almost too perfect to be real, and sunlight spilled across the streets as though the entire town had been carefully arranged for someone else's happiness. Birds moved between the trees, children walked toward school in groups, and neighbours greeted each other from opposite sides of the street with the casual familiarity of people who had been doing the same thing for years. There was something almost offensive about the way everything appeared untouched by the chaos that had brought you here. The lawns were freshly cut, the gardens were beginning to bloom with the first signs of spring, and every house seemed to sit peacefully beneath the morning light as though heartbreak, divorce, and starting over were things that happened somewhere far away to other people.

It was impossible to hate something that looked like it belonged in a memory.

You stood in the kitchen drinking coffee your father had made before getting ready for work. m He had already unpacked half the kitchen, organised the cupboards, and somehow found the patience to locate the coffee machine among dozens of unopened boxes that still crowded the dining room and hallway. It was such a typical thing for him to do that, despite everything, it almost made you smile. Your father had always dealt with uncertainty by creating order wherever he could. When things became unpredictable, he cleaned. When conversations became too difficult, he focused on practical tasks. When emotions became too overwhelming, he found something that could be measured, arranged, or fixed. He had spent the last year losing control over nearly every aspect of his life, and now that he had a new house with empty shelves and rooms waiting to be filled, he seemed determined to rebuild everything piece by piece.

You watched him move around the kitchen, placing mugs into cupboards and checking his work schedule on his phone, and you realised that this was probably the first time in months that he had looked like he knew what he was doing. It was strange seeing him like this. You had grown used to the version of him who sat silently at the dinner table, who stared at paperwork longer than necessary, who seemed to carry the weight of conversations he never dared to start. The divorce had changed both of your lives, but you had always been more focused on what you lost than you had forgotten he had lost something too.

That did not mean you were ready to forgive him for bringing you here.

It only meant you understood him slightly more than you wanted to.

"You should probably leave soon if you don't want to be late," he said, breaking the silence that had settled over the kitchen as he reached across the counter for his keys. He glanced briefly toward the clock hanging above the stove before looking back at you, his expression carrying the same quiet concern he had been trying to hide since the move. "First impressions are important."

You took another sip of your coffee, letting the warmth distract you from the uncomfortable feeling building in your chest. You glanced toward the clock above the stove, even though you already knew exactly what time it was.

"You already checked my schedule, didn't you?"

Your father paused for half a second, his fingers still wrapped around his keys, and that tiny hesitation gave him away immediately. He had always been terrible at pretending he wasn't overly involved. He tried to act casual, as though he hadn't spent the previous night reading through your school information or memorising your timetable, but you knew him too well. When he was worried, he disguised it as preparation.

"You need to admit that you would forget something important if I didn't."

You looked at him over the rim of your mug, unimpressed.

"I wouldn't."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, the kind that suggested he had been waiting for you to say exactly that.

"You forgot your passport before our flight to Florida."

You looked away.

"That was one time."

Your father leaned back against the kitchen counter, folding his arms across his chest.

"You forgot your wallet at a restaurant last summer."

"I got it back."

"After I drove back twenty minutes to get it."

You opened your mouth to argue, but he continued before you could.

"You left your phone on top of the car."

You immediately looked away.

"That happened once."

Your father's smile widened slightly, and for a moment, the heaviness that had followed both of you since the divorce disappeared. It was such a small thing, barely noticeable, but it reminded you of the person he used to be before everything became complicated. The father who teased you about losing things, who laughed when you became stubborn, who knew exactly when to push and when to leave you alone.

He picked up his briefcase from beside the kitchen table and moved toward the front door, but before he stepped outside, he stopped.

The hesitation was subtle. Most people probably wouldn't have noticed it, but you did. 

"Are you nervous?"

The question was simple, almost too simple, and that was what made it difficult to answer. You looked toward the front window instead of at him, watching a neighbour across the street wave to someone passing by. Everyone here seemed so certain of themselves, so comfortable in a world that already knew their names. Meanwhile, you were standing in a kitchen that still smelled like cardboard boxes and unfamiliar paint, preparing to walk into a school where nobody knew you except as the girl who had just arrived.

You could have lied.

You almost did.

"No."

Your father didn't say anything, he didn't need to.

The look he gave you carried the quiet disbelief of someone who had known you your entire life and could tell when you were pretending.

You sighed, setting your coffee mug down on the counter.

"Maybe a little."

It was the closest thing to admitting the reality that you were willing to offer.

His expression softened immediately, and for a second, you prepared yourself for the kind of speech parents always gave in moments like this. Something about how everything would be okay. Something about making friends and giving people a chance and remembering that everyone felt nervous sometimes. You expected reassurance because reassurance was what adults usually offered when they didn't know how else to help.

Instead, he simply nodded.

"That's normal."

You looked back at him, almost surprised by how little he said.

"That's it?"

He shrugged slightly, his fingers tightening around the handle of his briefcase.

"What do you want me to say?"

You looked down.

"I don't know."

The honesty of the answer seemed to surprise both of you.

Your father let out a quiet breath, his gaze drifting briefly around the house. The unopened boxes stacked near the hallway. The unfamiliar walls. The unfamiliar kitchen. For the first time, he looked less like someone who had brought you here with a plan and more like someone who was simply trying to figure everything out alongside you.

"Neither do I," he admitted.

The words settled between you. And strangely, they helped more than any perfect speech could have.

Because your father had spent so long trying to make everything seem manageable that you had almost forgotten he was also struggling. He didn't have some hidden answer for how to rebuild a family after it had fallen apart. He didn't know the secret to making a new town feel like home or how to erase the memories you had left behind. He was just another person standing in unfamiliar surroundings, hoping that somewhere along the way, he had made the right choice.

"I'll see you after school," he said eventually.

You nodded.

"Okay."

He opened the front door, letting in a rush of cool morning air that carried the scent of grass and flowers from the neighbouring garden. He stepped outside, then paused with one hand still resting against the doorframe.

"Y/n?"

You looked up.

"Try not to get suspended on your first day."

You stared at him.

"Seriously?"

A small smile appeared on his face, the first genuine one you had seen that morning.

"I'm just saying."

"I haven't even been there yet."

"I know my daughter." He smiled as you watched him walk down the front steps and toward his car, his briefcase held loosely in one hand while the morning sun stretched across the driveway

You grabbed your bag from beside your stool and checked your phone one last time before leaving. There were still messages from Chicago, but fewer than yesterday. The group chat that had been impossible to ignore during the drive had become quieter overnight, conversations naturally shifting toward things you weren't there to experience. Someone had posted a picture from a coffee shop you used to visit after school. Someone else had mentioned a teacher you had complained about for years. Tiny pieces of your old life continuing without you.

You stared at the screen for longer than you should have.

Then you locked your phone.

There was no point in torturing yourself with reminders of somewhere you couldn't return to.

At least, not yet.

You stepped outside, locking the front door behind you, and immediately became aware of the house beside yours. The pastor's home stood exactly as it had the previous evening, peaceful and untouched beneath the morning sunlight. The garden that had seemed almost excessive yesterday looked different now—not less perfect, but more alive. The roses beneath the windows moved slightly in the breeze, and the ivy climbing along the porch railing cast delicate shadows across the white wooden walls.

You wondered briefly what kind of person grew up in a house like that.

Not because you were interested, you reminded yourself of that.

It was just simply curiosity.

A house like that came with expectations. You knew enough about people to understand that. The pastor's son probably had a reputation before he was old enough to create one himself. People probably knew him as a child before they knew him as a person. They probably expected kindness from him, patience from him, goodness from him. They probably looked at him and saw his father's occupation before they saw anything else.

You wondered if that ever became exhausting.

The thought disappeared quickly.

You adjusted your bag over your shoulder and started walking toward school.

The route was shorter than you expected, which somehow annoyed you. You had imagined getting lost, having an excuse to turn around, having some dramatic reason to delay arriving at a place where you knew nobody. Instead, Maple Creek made everything inconveniently simple. The streets were easy to follow. The sidewalks were clean. The school appeared at the end of the road exactly where the map on your phone said it would be.

Even the town was refusing to give you a reason to hate it.

The school building was larger than you expected, though it carried the same old-fashioned charm as everything else in Maple Creek. Red brick walls covered in climbing greenery, tall windows reflecting the morning sunlight, neatly maintained gardens surrounding the entrance. It looked less like a school and more like a place people took photographs of during graduation.

You stood at the edge of the school grounds for a moment longer than necessary, letting the flow of students move around you as though you were standing still in the middle of a river. Everyone seemed to know exactly where they were going, which hallway they needed, which friends they were meeting, which teachers they needed to avoid before the first bell. There was a strange confidence in the way people moved through familiar places, the kind that only came from years of repetition. They weren't thinking about where to turn or whether they belonged there. They simply existed within the routine of it.

You missed that.

Not the school itself. Not the crowded hallways or the endless assignments or the people who had somehow made every small inconvenience feel like a personal crisis. But you missed knowing what to expect. You missed walking into a building where you knew which staircase was always empty between classes, which vending machine stole your money, which teachers would let you hand things in late without a lecture. You missed the comfort of being a person who already had a place, even if that place wasn't perfect.

Here, everything was unfamiliar.

And unfamiliar meant vulnerable.

You hated that feeling.

You followed the signs toward the main office, your shoes making quiet sounds against the polished floor as you entered the building. It was exactly what you expected inside. Framed photographs lined the walls, displaying graduating classes from decades before you were born, sports teams holding trophies with proud expressions, theatre productions captured mid-performance, students who had once walked through these same hallways and eventually left to create lives somewhere beyond the town.

It was strange seeing so much history preserved.

Back home, schools changed constantly. Posters were replaced, rooms were renovated, people came and went so quickly that it was easy to forget anyone had existed there before you. Here, the past seemed carefully protected. Maple Creek held onto things. It held onto houses, traditions, names, and memories with the kind of devotion usually reserved for things people were afraid of losing.

The thought followed you into the office, where a woman sitting behind the front desk looked up immediately. She had the same welcoming expression everyone here seemed to possess, the kind that made you suspicious because you couldn't understand why a stranger would look genuinely pleased to see you.

"You must be Y/n."

You stopped.

It was becoming unsettling how often people knew who you were before you had introduced yourself.

"Yeah."

The woman smiled and reached for a folder beside her computer. "I'm Mrs. Li. We spoke briefly with your father yesterday when your enrolment paperwork came through. Everything has been processed, and your schedule is inside.

She handed the folder across the desk.

You accepted it carefully, glancing down at your name printed neatly across the front.

"Thank you."

"You'll find everyone here is very welcoming," Mrs Li added.

There it was again.

The phrase everyone seemed determined to use.

Welcoming.

You wondered if there was a meeting where the entire town agreed on the same vocabulary.

You forced a small smile.

"I'll keep that in mind."

Mrs Li didn't seem offended by your lack of enthusiasm. If anything, her expression softened slightly, as though she understood more than you had said.

"Your first class is English. It's just down the hall and to the left. If you have any trouble finding anything, ask someone. We have a wonderful group of students here."

You nodded.

"Okay."

The hallway had become busier now, students moving between lockers and classrooms as the first bell approached. Conversations blended together around you, creating a constant stream of voices that you tried not to focus on. You kept your eyes on your schedule, pretending you didn't notice the occasional glance in your direction.

You knew what they were thinking.

Who is she?

Where did she come from?

Why is she here?

You had been the new girl before, but never like this.

In Chicago, being new meant being one person among thousands. There were always other transfers, other unfamiliar faces, other people trying to figure out where they belonged. Here, you felt like the entire town had watched your moving truck arrive. You weren't just a student who had transferred schools.

You reached your classroom and paused outside the door, hearing voices from inside. The urge to turn around was immediate and irrational. Not because you were afraid, but because walking through that door meant admitting this was real, that you were actually here and not on some sort of visit. You weren’t just passing through; this was your life now.

Eventually, you pushed the door open.

The classroom was brighter than you expected, sunlight spilling through the wide windows and casting shapes across the desks. Students looked up briefly as you entered before returning to their conversations, their curiosity subtle enough to be polite but obvious enough that you noticed. You had become aware, almost immediately, of how visible you were here. 

You made your way toward the empty seat near the window and placed your bag down, grateful for the small distance it gave you from everyone else. For the first few minutes, you simply sat there, watching the classroom. The teacher arranged papers on her desk. Students exchanged conversations that seemed to continue from yesterday, last week, and years ago.

The rest of the morning passed in a way that felt strangely unreal, as though you were watching yourself move through someone else's routine rather than actually participating in your own. Every classroom had its own rhythm that you didn't understand yet; every teacher seemed to know exactly how much time to spend explaining something, exactly when to move on, exactly which students would answer questions before they even raised their hands. 

You found yourself observing more than listening, studying the small details that revealed how deeply connected everyone was to this place. The girl in front of you had a sticker on her notebook from a local charity event. The boy beside the window wore a jacket with the school emblem stitched neatly onto the chest. Two students passing your desk exchanged a joke that clearly referenced something that had happened years ago, something you could not possibly understand because you had not been there to witness it.

By the time you checked your schedule again before your next class, you were already expecting another subject you would have to pretend to care about, another room where you would sit quietly and allow people to decide what they thought of you. Instead, your eyes stopped on the words printed beneath the next period.

Chapel.

You stared at it for several seconds, convinced that maybe you had misunderstood.

You looked back at the schedule.

Still there.

A mandatory chapel period.

Not an optional gathering. Not a once-a-week event. Not something students attended only if they wanted to participate. It was built directly into the school day with the same certainty as mathematics, English, or science, another requirement that everyone accepted without question.

You almost found it impressive.

Only a town like Maple Creek could create a school where religion was not simply something people practised, but something embedded so naturally into everyday life that nobody even considered questioning it.

Of course, they had a chapel.

You followed the other students toward the chapel building, trying not to let your expression reveal exactly what you were thinking. Nobody else seemed bothered. That was what caught your attention more than anything. They weren't walking there reluctantly. They weren't whispering complaints about having to attend. They weren't rolling their eyes or joking about finding a way to escape.

They simply went, like it was normal.

The chapel itself was beautiful, which added to your growing irritation. The building was old but carefully maintained, with dark wooden beams stretching across the ceiling and rows of polished benches facing a raised platform at the front. Sunlight filtered through stained-glass windows, breaking into fragments of blue, red, and gold that shifted slowly across the floor as the morning passed.

You took a seat near the back, naturally, the safest place for someone who had no intention of becoming involved.

The teacher at the front began speaking about faith, purpose, and community, and you tried to listen. You genuinely did. You weren't there to mock anyone or disrespect something that clearly mattered to the people around you. But there was a difference between understanding why something was important to others and feeling it yourself.

People always talked about faith like it was something that remained when everything else fell away, but what happened when the things you believed in failed you first? What happened when the people who promised they would always be there were suddenly the reason you had to leave your home? What happened when forever turned out to be something people said only because they wanted to believe it at the time?

Maybe that was why religion had always felt so distant to you. It wasn't because you hated it, and it wasn't because you thought people were foolish for believing in something greater than themselves. You understood the appeal of having something permanent to hold onto when everything around you felt temporary. The problem was that belief required a kind of trust you no longer knew how to give. You had spent too much time watching things people promised would last forever eventually fall apart, watching something that was supposed to be unbreakable become fragile enough to disappear. It was difficult to surrender yourself to the idea of certainty when your own life had become proof that certainty could be taken away without warning.

The clock above the doorway seemed to move more slowly with every passing minute, each second stretching longer than the one before it. You tried to convince yourself that you could sit there until the period ended. It was only one class. Forty minutes of listening, pretending, and doing what everyone else seemed completely comfortable doing.

But the longer you remained in that room, the more aware you became of how different you felt from everyone around you.

The chapel, which seemed to offer comfort to everyone else, began to feel strangely suffocating. You felt as though the room itself was asking something from you—some kind of acceptance, some willingness to belong, some acknowledgement that this was now your world too.

You looked around one more time, almost hoping to find someone else who looked as uncomfortable as you felt.

You didn't.

Every student seemed exactly where they were supposed to be.

Everyone seemed to have a place.

Except you.

The realisation irritated you more than it should have, and before you could talk yourself out of it, you quietly gathered your notebook and slipped your bag over your shoulder. You waited until the teacher turned her attention toward the front of the room before standing, moving carefully between the rows of benches and making your way toward the side exit. Nobody stopped you. Nobody questioned where you were going. For a moment, you wondered if that was because nobody noticed, or because in a place where everyone seemed to know everyone, you were still too new to matter.

Either option was strangely comforting.

The moment the chapel doors closed behind you, you exhaled.

The hallway outside was empty, and the sudden absence of voices felt like stepping out of a crowded room after holding your breath for too long.

You walked without a destination, following instinct rather than any actual plan, letting your feet carry you away from the main buildings where students gathered and teachers watched.

The further you walked, the quieter the school became.

Eventually, the polished pathways and carefully maintained gardens gave way to a less noticeable section of campus behind the sports fields. It was the kind of place people probably passed without ever really seeing, hidden behind a line of tall trees that separated it from the rest of the school grounds. The branches stretched overhead, creating patches of shade across the grass, while the old maintenance building stood quietly against the edge of the property, its brick walls worn by years of changing weather.

It wasn't somewhere students were supposed to be, which immediately made it somewhere you preferred.

There was something comforting about finding a place that hadn't been perfected. Unlike the rest of Maple Creek, which seemed determined to preserve every detail and present itself as something untouched, this corner of the school existed without trying to impress anyone. The grass grew unevenly. The walls carried marks left behind by time. Nobody had placed flowers here or added signs explaining its importance.

It was simply there.

And for the first time that morning, you felt like you could be too.

You leaned back against the wall, pulling the cigarette from your bag with the familiar ease of someone who had done this too many times to feel guilty anymore. You knew exactly what people would say if they saw you. You knew the assumptions that would immediately follow. The new girl from Chicago who couldn't even make it through her first day without breaking a rule. The divorced man's daughter who clearly had an attitude problem. The outsider who had arrived and immediately proved everyone right.

You almost laughed at the thought.

People loved being right about others.

It made them feel like they understood the world.

The lighter flickered in your hand, and for a moment the small flame was the only movement around you. You watched the cigarette catch before lowering your hand, allowing the smoke to disappear into the cool morning air. The irony wasn't lost on you.

You had escaped a chapel full of people searching for meaning only to find yourself hiding behind a building with a cigarette in your hand.

Maybe everyone had their own way of coping, and yours was just less socially acceptable.

For the first time that morning, you felt like you could breathe properly. There was no teacher watching you. No receptionist smiling at you like she already knew your entire story. No students glancing over and wondering where you came from.

Just complete silence.

You closed your eyes briefly, letting yourself enjoy the rare moment where nobody expected anything from you.

Then you heard footsteps.

At first, you assumed they belonged to another student who had discovered the same hiding place. You didn't bother moving. If anything, you were slightly annoyed that even your one quiet corner couldn't remain yours for longer than five minutes.

The footsteps came closer, slow and unhurried.

Not the hurried steps of someone trying to sneak away.

Someone who knew exactly where they were going.

You opened your eyes.

A boy stood a few feet away, one hand resting casually in the pocket of his uniform trousers, his expression difficult to read. He wasn't wearing the usual look people gave you when they caught you doing something wrong. There was no immediate judgement, no smug satisfaction, no excitement at having discovered someone breaking a rule. He didn't have the expression teachers usually wore when they found students somewhere they shouldn't be, that careful mixture of disappointment and authority that suggested they had already decided what kind of person you were before you had the chance to explain yourself.

Instead, he simply looked at you.

He appeared to be around your age, dressed in the same Saint Augustine's uniform as everyone else, though somehow he carried it differently. The other students you had seen that morning wore their uniforms like an extension of the school itself, every shirt neatly tucked, every tie perfectly adjusted, every detail reflecting the careful order that seemed to exist everywhere in Maple Creek. This boy didn't look careless, but there was something less deliberate about him. He looked comfortable, as though the uniform was simply something he wore rather than something he used to prove that he belonged.

His eyes briefly moved toward the cigarette between your fingers before returning to your face, and you waited for the inevitable reaction. You waited for the sigh, the disapproving expression, the comment about rules and responsibility and how this was not the kind of behaviour expected at a school like Saint Augustine's.

Instead, when he finally spoke, his voice was calmer than you expected.

"You know, I'm pretty sure this isn't exactly where you're supposed to be during chapel."

You stared at him for a moment, caught slightly off guard by the fact that his words sounded more like an observation than an accusation. The cigarette remained between your fingers, smoke curling lazily upward before disappearing into the cool air surrounding the trees.

"I'm aware," you replied.

Your tone was sharper than necessary, but you had already spent the entire morning surrounded by people who were trying to make you feel like you were being welcomed while simultaneously reminding you that you didn't belong. Defensiveness had become easier than politeness. It was a habit you had developed without realising, something you reached for before anyone had the opportunity to hurt you.

The boy didn't seem bothered.

If anything, he looked slightly amused.

"Good," he said simply.

You frowned.

That wasn't the response you were expecting.

Most people would have continued. They would have taken your attitude as an invitation to argue, because people often mistook defensiveness for a challenge. They liked proving they were right, especially when they believed they were helping.

You studied him for a moment before asking the question you already knew the answer to.

"Are you going to report me?"

The question came out automatically, almost like a test. You weren't actually interested in whether he would tell someone. You were interested in seeing what kind of person he was. Whether he was the kind who followed rules because they mattered to him or because breaking them gave him a reason to feel superior.

For a moment, he didn't answer.

His gaze moved briefly toward the school building in the distance, where students were still sitting inside the chapel, probably listening attentively to whatever lesson you had decided you couldn't endure.

Then he looked back at you.

"No."

The simplicity of the answer made you hesitate.

"Why?"

He shrugged slightly, his expression remaining thoughtful rather than dismissive.

"Because I don't think getting you in trouble is going to change anything."

You tilted your head slightly. "What does that mean?"

"It means," he said, looking toward the ground for a moment as though choosing his words carefully, "that if someone doesn't want to be somewhere, making them feel worse probably isn't going to make them suddenly want to be there."

You looked away, taking another slow drag before exhaling toward the trees.

"You're surprisingly understanding for someone at a religious school."

There was a slight pause, then he smiled faintly.

"Is that supposed to be an insult?"

You shrugged. "I'm not sure yet."

That earned a quiet laugh from him, and the sound surprised you because it wasn't the kind of laughter you expected from him.

"You thought I was going to give you a lecture."

"I mean, you're standing behind a church school talking to someone who skipped chapel and is smoking," you said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you as though the situation itself explained everything.

His eyebrows lifted slightly, not in disbelief, but in genuine thought, as though he was actually considering your words rather than waiting for his turn to respond. It was a strange reaction, and you found yourself watching him more closely because you couldn't figure out what he was trying to do.

"Do people usually do that?" he asked.

The question was so simple that it almost confused you.

You glanced away for a moment, looking toward the empty field beside the building where the morning sunlight stretched across the grass. "Usually."

You didn't need to explain what you meant.

He seemed to understand anyway.

"And does it work?"

The question caught you off guard.

Not because it was difficult, but because you had expected him to ask something else. You expected him to ask why you smoked, why you skipped chapel, why you seemed so determined to reject everything about the place you had just arrived in. You expected him to focus on the action itself, because that was what people usually did.

You looked back at him, studying his expression carefully.

"What?"

"Does it work when people lecture you?"

For a moment, you didn't answer.

The cigarette slowly burned between your fingers, the ash growing longer before falling quietly onto the ground beneath you. You opened your mouth, ready to give him the easy response. The sarcastic one. The answer you usually gave whenever someone asked a question that felt too close to the truth.

Something like depends who's asking.

Or clearly not, considering I'm still here.

But the words didn't come.

"No."

The answer came out quieter than you intended.

The boy didn't look surprised. He didn't look pleased, either, like he had somehow won an argument. He simply nodded slowly, as though your answer confirmed something he had already suspected.

"Then I don't see the point."

There was something unusual about the way he spoke, like he wasn't trying to convince you of anything. He wasn't saying it because he expected you to suddenly agree with him or because he wanted credit for being understanding. He said it like it was an obvious conclusion, like forcing someone to listen to advice they had no intention of accepting was just another way of making yourself feel useful.

You watched him carefully, trying to figure out what kind of person said things like that.

It was difficult because he didn't fit neatly into any of the categories you had already created for everyone in Maple Creek. You had expected people here to be predictable. You had expected the students at Saint Augustine's to be polite in the same rehearsed way the rest of the town was polite, carrying themselves with the quiet confidence of people who had never had to question whether they belonged. You expected judgment hidden beneath kindness, because that was what you had grown used to.

Before you could stop yourself, you spoke.

"You know, I don't think I ever got your name."

For a moment, something almost amused passed across his expression, like he hadn't realised until then that you had been standing there having an entire conversation without knowing who he was.

His eyes softened slightly, and he shifted his weight away from the wall, extending his hand in a gesture that felt strangely normal considering how unusual the circumstances were.

"I'm Jake."

You looked at him for a moment, your fingers still holding the cigarette as you tried to place where you had heard it before. It sounded familiar, but the thought disappeared before you could catch it. There were too many new names, too many new faces, too many pieces of information being thrown at you since arriving in Maple Creek.

You would remember eventually.

"Y/n." You replied.

He repeated your name quietly back to you, almost absentmindedly, like he was making sure he remembered it.

And you hated how much you noticed.

◌ֹ   💭  ִ  ՞

The walk home felt strangely shorter than it had that morning, and you found yourself resenting that more than you probably should have. The Sim house came into view as you turned onto Maple Street, standing beside yours exactly as it had the day before.

You looked at it only briefly before turning toward your own house.

You didn't have the energy to think about anything else.

The day had already been long enough.

You dropped your bag beside the stairs, kicking your shoes off before walking further inside. The living room looked slightly different from when you had left that morning, although you couldn't immediately identify what had changed. Your father had clearly spent the day trying to make the space feel more lived in. A few boxes had disappeared, the curtains had been opened, and the empty shelves that had made the room feel like a stranger's house were slowly beginning to fill with pieces of your old life.

It was strange watching him rebuild everything so quickly.

Your father had always been good at practical things.

He knew how to assemble furniture without reading instructions. He knew how to fix things that broke. But making it a home was something else entirely, it required something you couldn't unpack from a cardboard box. It required time, memories.

You found him in the kitchen, standing at the counter with his sleeves rolled up while sorting through paperwork beside a half-empty mug of coffee. He looked up when he heard you enter.

"You're home."

You leaned against the doorway.

"Unfortunately."

A small smile tugged at his mouth before disappearing almost immediately.

It was one of the things you noticed about your father. He rarely laughed properly anymore. Since the divorce, happiness seemed to appear in brief moments before he remembered there were still things to worry about.

"How was school?"

You knew what he wanted. He wanted some kind of reassurance that this hadn't been a mistake. That moving three states away hadn't made everything worse. That his decision to leave Chicago, to take the job, to start over, had actually been the right one.

You could have given him the answer he wanted.

You could have complained about everything and proven yourself right.

Instead, you placed your bag down beside the counter and shrugged.

"Fine."

The word was deliberately vague, and you knew it the moment it left your mouth.

Your father knew it too.

He looked up from the papers he had been sorting, his expression changing only slightly, but you noticed the shift anyway. He didn't look angry or disappointed. He didn't even look surprised. If anything, he looked like someone who had expected that answer before he had even asked the question.

"Fine?" he repeated, leaning back against the counter.

You opened the refrigerator door, more to give yourself something to do than because you actually wanted anything inside it. The shelves were organised with the same careful precision that seemed to define everything your father had done since arriving. Groceries were arranged neatly, containers were stacked, and everything had already found a place despite the fact that you still hadn't decided where half your belongings belonged.

"Yeah."

You could feel him watching you.

"You know, most people would probably use more than one word to describe their first day at a new school."

You didn’t reply, and he didn't ask again.

Instead, he simply returned to the papers on the counter, allowing the conversation to move on without forcing you to explain something you weren't ready to explain.

After a few moments, he glanced down at the papers before speaking again.

"The Sims stopped by earlier."

You glanced back at him, immediately recognising the name. The woman from next door had already made more of an impression on your first day than most people had managed to in years, mostly because she seemed almost impossibly comfortable in a way you couldn't understand. She had arrived with a warm peach cobbler, spoken to your father as though they were old friends rather than strangers who had only just met.

"The neighbours?" you asked, even though you already knew the answer.

Your father nodded, placing the papers aside and leaning back against the counter. "Yeah. They invited us over on Sunday."

There was something about the way he said it that immediately made you cautious. Not because you disliked the Sims specifically, but because you had started to understand that in Maple Creek, every friendly gesture seemed to come with some deeper connection to the town itself. 

You looked at him carefully.

"For what?"

Your father hesitated only briefly, but it was enough for you to notice. He had always been terrible at hiding things from you, especially when he knew the answer would probably annoy you. There was a certain expression he got when he was trying to approach a subject carefully, like he was mentally preparing himself for the reaction before the conversation had even started.

"Church."

You stared at him, waiting for him to laugh or explain that he was joking, but his expression remained completely serious. Of course, he was serious. This was Maple Creek, after all. You should have expected that the first invitation from the neighbours would involve the very building that seemed to watch over the entire town from its place above the rooftops.

Your father watched your expression carefully, already knowing exactly what you were 

"I don't know why we have to go," you said, trying to keep your voice neutral, although your father clearly heard the resistance underneath it.

He set his mug down slowly, and for the first time since you walked through the door, you saw the patience he had been holding onto begin to weaken. You knew your father well enough to understand that the church was not the real issue. The issue was everything that had come before it — the constant rejection of every attempt he made to make this place feel less unfamiliar, the way you had spent days insisting that Maple Creek was a mistake before you had even given it a chance.

"They're being kind," he said.

"I know."

"Then why does it bother you so much?"

You looked away because you didn't have a simple answer. It wasn't that you thought Mrs Sim was a bad person. She wasn't. It wasn't that you thought your father was wrong for wanting to meet people. He wasn't. The frustrating part was that everything about Maple Creek was making it harder for you to stay angry.

Your father watched you for a moment before letting out a quiet breath, the kind that carried more exhaustion than frustration. "You know, I understand that you're upset."

You stayed silent.

"I understand that you didn't want this. I understand that you miss Chicago and your friends and the life you had before everything changed. I understand that you feel like you were dragged here because of choices you didn't make."

"But you have to understand something too."

You looked back at him.

"I didn't choose this either."

The words made you pause.

Because you had spent so much time thinking about what you had lost that you had forgotten your father had lost something too. He had lost the same home, the same routines, the same version of your family that you missed. The difference was that while you had been angry, he had been trying to make sure there was still something left to save.

"I am trying," he continued, looking around the kitchen that still didn't quite feel like yours. "I'm trying to make this work. I'm trying to make this place feel like somewhere we live instead of somewhere we ended up."

The honesty of it made you uncomfortable because you didn't know what to do with it. Anger was easier. Anger gave you something to hold onto. But your father's frustration wasn't coming from a desire to control you. It was coming from the fact that he was tired of feeling like he was the only person willing to believe things could get better.

"I'm not asking you to love Maple Creek," he said after a moment. "I'm not asking you to suddenly become someone you're not. I'm just asking you to stop deciding that everything here is against you before you even know what it is."

The kitchen fell quiet again, filled only by the distant sound of the town outside and the faint ringing of the church bell in the distance. You hated that the timing almost felt intentional, as though Maple Creek itself was reminding you that it was still there, waiting patiently for you to stop fighting it.

But after a long moment, you finally sighed and looked back at your father.

"One Sunday."

The surprise that crossed his face was immediate, and you regretted agreeing almost as quickly as you saw it.

"Don't make it a big deal," you warned.

A small smile appeared on his face, the first one you had seen since the conversation started.

"I won't."

You narrowed your eyes slightly because you both knew that wasn't entirely true.

"You will."

He laughed quietly, shaking his head as he picked up his mug again.

"Maybe a little."

You grabbed your bag and headed toward the stairs before he could say anything else, still uncertain about whether agreeing had been a mistake. You still weren't looking forward to Sunday. You still didn't understand why this town seemed so determined to pull you into its routines, its traditions, its carefully preserved little world where everyone seemed to know exactly where they belonged.

But as you entered your bedroom later that evening and looked out through the window toward the church steeple standing above the rooftops, you found yourself wondering what exactly waited for you there.

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The Sunday you were dreading seemed to come faster than you wished.

The pews creaked under the weight of the congregation as you sat rigid beside your father, the stiff collar of your dress scratching at your neck. The sermon droned on, the pastor's voice booming from the pulpit, but your attention drifted until the side door opened. A boy about your age slipped in late, Bible tucked under one arm, and took the empty seat two rows ahead. The moment his profile turned, your stomach dropped. It was him—the same guy who had caught you behind the school last week, cigarette between your fingers, smoke curling from your lips.

Jake.

For a moment, you wondered if he had noticed you, but he seemed completely absorbed in the service, carefully opening the worn Bible beneath his arm before offering a quiet apology to the elderly woman beside him for arriving late. She smiled as though she had forgiven him before he'd even spoken, patting his arm affectionately before turning her attention back toward the pulpit.

Every movement he made carried the unconscious ease of someone who had spent years within these walls. He knew exactly when to stand, when to sit, when to join the hymns without needing to glance at the page numbers announced from the front. Even the people around him seemed to move naturally around his presence, greeting him with small smiles whenever the congregation shifted or the peace was exchanged, as though he wasn't simply another student from school but somebody they had watched grow up.

You couldn't imagine what that felt like.

The service continued, the pastor's voice echoing beneath the high timber ceiling while coloured light from the stained-glass windows drifted slowly across the polished wooden floor. You tried—genuinely tried—to pay attention, but your concentration wandered almost immediately yet again, your gaze drawn back toward Jake every few minutes despite yourself. It wasn't curiosity anymore, at least not entirely. It was something closer to disbelief. The boy who had found you smoking behind the maintenance building somehow looked exactly the same here, yet completely different at the same time. 

Eventually the pastor closed his Bible, offering a final blessing before the congregation answered in practiced unison. Almost immediately the atmosphere changed. The solemn quiet dissolved into conversation as people rose from their seats, hymn books slid back into their holders, and families gathered in the aisles with the familiar ease of people who had repeated the same ritual every Sunday for decades. Children darted between rows of pews while older couples lingered to catch up.

Your father stood beside you, smoothing invisible creases from his shirt before offering you a hopeful glance.

"Come on," he murmured. "We should say hello."

You resisted the urge to sigh.

Instead, you followed him reluctantly through the growing crowd, offering polite nods whenever another unfamiliar face introduced themselves. Everyone smiled. Everyone seemed genuinely pleased that you were there.

It was exhausting.

Across the room, you caught sight of Mrs Sim weaving effortlessly through the congregation with the same warmth she'd shown the day she'd arrived at your house carrying a peach cobbler. The moment she noticed the two of you, her face lit up, and she crossed the room with surprising speed before your father had any chance of escaping.

"I'm so glad you came," she said brightly, clasping your father's hands between hers before turning that same smile toward you. "And you must be surviving your first week at school."

"Barely," you replied.

Mrs Sim laughed, apparently choosing to interpret your answer as a joke.

"I'm sure it'll get easier."

You weren't convinced.

"Oh," she said suddenly, looking over her shoulder. "Jake!"

You followed her gaze instinctively.

Jake had been speaking with an older man near the front of the church, but at the sound of his mother's voice, he excused himself immediately and made his way over, offering the man a polite smile before crossing the aisle. Up close, he looked exactly as he had behind the school, except for the blazer he'd pulled on over his shirt and the Bible still tucked beneath one arm.

"Jake," Mrs Sim said warmly as he reached the group, resting a gentle hand against his arm. "I'd like you to meet our new neighbours."

He turned obediently toward your father first, offering a polite smile before extending his hand. "Hi, sir. I'm Jake."

"Nice to meet you, Jake," your father replied, returning the handshake. "I'm Daniel, and this is my daughter." Only then did Jake's attention shift towards you.

Recognition crossed his face almost immediately, so brief that anyone else would have mistaken it for an ordinary pause, but you caught it anyway. His eyes widened the slightest fraction before settling, the corners of his mouth threatening a smile he seemed to think better of almost as quickly as it appeared. 

He hadn't expected you to be here.

You hadn't expected him either.

"Hi," he said after the briefest hesitation, extending his hand towards you exactly as though the two of you had never spoken before.

You looked at his outstretched hand for a second before taking it.

"Y/n."

"Jake."

The corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly, "It's... nice to meet you."

You caught the tiny pause before meet, and for a moment you wondered if anyone else had noticed it. Judging by the bright smile spreading across Mrs Sim's face, they hadn't.

Mrs Sim's smile widened with obvious satisfaction as she looked between the two of you, entirely convinced she had just witnessed the beginning of a perfectly ordinary introduction. "Isn't that lovely?" she said, clasping her hands together for a moment before turning her attention back to your father. "I've been telling Jake all week that he should properly come over and welcome you both, but between school and helping his father prepare for Sunday, we simply haven't had a moment."

Jake withdrew his hand slowly, offering his mother a small, almost sheepish smile that suggested this was hardly the first time she'd volunteered his time on his behalf. "Sorry about that," he said, his attention returning to you for only a moment before politely addressing your father again. "I should've introduced myself sooner."

"It's been a busy week for everyone," your father replied easily. "We're still finding boxes we forgot to unpack."

"I can imagine."

The conversation settled into an easy rhythm almost immediately, though you found yourself contributing very little. It wasn't intentional; there simply wasn't much to say. Your father and Mrs Sim seemed strangely well suited to one another's company, discussing the town with the comfortable enthusiasm of two people standing on opposite sides of the same experience—one eager to tell stories, the other grateful to hear them. Your father listened with genuine interest, asking questions whenever she paused, and you realised with some surprise that he was smiling more than you'd seen him smile since leaving Chicago.

"You survived your first week."

Jake's voice came quietly from beside you. You turned your head just enough to find him standing beside you, close enough to speak without raising his voice but careful not to crowd your space. He wasn't looking directly at you. Instead, his attention rested somewhere across the sanctuary where a little girl in polished black shoes chased her younger brother between the pews before their mother caught both of them with an exasperated laugh. The corners of Jake's mouth lifted ever so slightly at the sight, his expression carrying the quiet amusement of someone who had probably watched the same scene play out countless Sundays before.

"Barely," you admitted, your answer escaping with a dry honesty that surprised even you.

A quiet laugh escaped him before he could stop it, dissolving almost as quickly as it appeared. For a brief second, the carefully composed image everyone seemed to have of Jake dissolved, revealing someone your age rather than the pastor's son everyone else appeared to see.

"I figured," he said, the smile lingering faintly as he glanced down for a moment before looking back toward the sanctuary.

You studied him for a second, curiosity getting the better of you.

"You figured?"

His attention finally shifted towards you, and there it was again—that impossibly gentle expression that somehow never felt rehearsed. "Most people," he said with the faintest trace of amusement colouring his voice, "don't decide to skip chapel on their first day."

You couldn't help the quiet smile that tugged at the corner of your mouth, the memory arriving almost uninvited. You could still picture the look on his face when he'd stepped around the maintenance building and found you leaning against the brick wall with a cigarette balanced lazily between your fingers. You had been so certain you knew exactly how that conversation would unfold. You had expected disappointment, a lecture rehearsed from years of Sunday sermons, or at the very least the smug satisfaction of someone catching another person doing something they shouldn't.

"No," you replied, folding your arms loosely across your chest. "I figured I'd make an impression."

Jake's head dipped as another quiet laugh escaped him, this one accompanied by the smallest shake of his head. "You definitely managed that."

"Oh?" you asked, unable to resist. "I was under the impression you were trying very hard not to think about it."

"I was."

"But?"

"But..." He hesitated, searching for the right words with the same care he seemed to give everything he said. "You're not exactly easy to forget."

The admission seemed to surprise him almost as much as it surprised you. The words hung between you for a moment before a faint flush climbed slowly across his cheeks, and you watched the realisation dawn on him that he'd spoken aloud instead of keeping the thought to himself.

"I didn't mean—"

"I know what you meant."

His shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, grateful that you hadn't chosen to make things more embarrassing than they already were. A sheepish smile tugged briefly at the corners of his mouth before he ducked his head, his fingers absentmindedly tightening around the worn spine of the Bible tucked beneath his arm. It was strangely endearing, watching someone who seemed so composed unravel over a sentence as innocent as that.

For a moment, neither of you spoke, then Mrs Sim's voice drifted across the sanctuary before either of you had the chance to say anything else.

"Jake, sweetheart," she called, waving him over with an affectionate smile. "Would you mind helping your father carry the coffee urn into the hall?"

Jake glanced over his shoulder toward his mother, then back at you, and for a moment he looked almost reluctant to leave. 

"I should probably..." he began, his voice trailing off as he nodded toward where his mother was waiting.

You glanced in the same direction before looking back at him.

"Go," you said, unable to hide the amusement in your voice. "Before she sends someone else over here to get you."

He adjusted the Bible beneath his arm, his fingers brushing over the worn leather cover as though he needed something to do with his hands.

"It was..." He paused, searching for the right words, and the hesitation was so unlike the confident, composed version of him everyone else seemed to know that it almost made you smile. "It was nice to officially meet you."

You looked at him for a moment, letting the irony sit between you.

"We're still pretending that's what happened?"

A small smile appeared on his face, one that he tried and failed to hide.

"...It was nice to officially meet you too."

Something about your answer seemed to genuinely please him. His smile widened, then he disappeared into the crowd, moving easily between familiar faces and Sunday conversations, stopping every few steps to greet someone who knew him by name. You watched him for a moment longer than you intended.

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The weeks after that passed slowly enough that you almost didn't notice when Maple Creek began feeling less like a place you had been sent to and more like somewhere you actually existed.

You still missed Chicago in ways you didn't always admit. You missed the noise of the streets outside your old apartment, the constant movement of people who didn't know your name and didn't care enough to ask. In Maple Creek, everyone knew everything, or at least they acted like they did. The neighbours waved whenever you walked past. Teachers remembered your name. People asked how you were adjusting with genuine concern, and you never quite knew what to do with their kindness.

It wasn't that the town had suddenly become home. It hadn't. There were still mornings when you woke up convinced that if you looked out of your bedroom window, the familiar skyline of Chicago would somehow have returned overnight, replacing the church steeple that stood stubbornly above the rooftops. There were afternoons when you found yourself reaching instinctively for your phone to text friends who were no longer part of your daily life, only to remember that conversations became difficult when they were separated by three states and an entirely different routine. Life back home continued without you, just as yours continued without them, and there was something quietly devastating about how quickly people adapted to absence.

School settled into something resembling routine before you realised it had happened. The novelty of being the new girl faded as other distractions claimed everyone's attention, and the curious glances that had followed you through the corridors during your first week gradually disappeared. Teachers stopped introducing you to every class. People no longer whispered your name after you walked past. 

To your surprise, you found yourself sharing more classes with Jake than you had expected.

English, where the seating plan placed him one desk beside you after Mrs Henderson announced she wanted "fresh perspectives" before rearranging the entire room. History, where he somehow managed to answer questions without sounding like he was showing off, speaking only when the teacher called on him and never a moment longer. Even Chemistry, where your assigned lab partners changed every fortnight until, through what you suspected was extraordinarily bad luck, you ended up standing opposite him at the same scratched black laboratory bench.

"You look disappointed," he observed one afternoon while measuring chemicals into a graduated cylinder with infuriating precision.

"I was hoping for someone who'd let me do absolutely nothing."

The corner of his mouth lifted, though he kept his attention on the clear liquid slowly rising against the measurement lines.

Your eyebrows rose.

"You did?"

"No."

You let your head fall back with exaggerated disappointment.

"There goes my entire plan for the afternoon."

Jake finally glanced up, the faint smile still lingering on his face.

"You had a plan?"

"I usually don't," you admitted as you leaned against the bench, absentmindedly spinning an empty beaker between your hands. "That's probably the problem."

"I noticed."

You looked at him suspiciously.

"Was that supposed to be an insult?"

"No."

"It sounded like one."

"It wasn't."

"You didn't even deny noticing."

"I didn't think I had to."

For a second, you simply stared at him before a reluctant laugh escaped you. Jake smiled in return, before returning his attention to the experiment.

It was becoming increasingly difficult to remember why talking to him had once felt awkward.

The strange thing about Jake was that conversations with him never felt like conversations you had to win. He never treated your sarcasm like a challenge or an invitation to argue. Most people responded to your remarks by trying to outmatch them, determined to prove they were cleverer or funnier or somehow immune to the walls you built around yourself. Jake simply accepted them for what they were, answering with the same gentle humour every time until, before you realised it, you found yourself talking without thinking quite so carefully about every word.

You hated how easy that was becoming.

One morning you arrived at English to find the teacher running late, and Jake had absentmindedly saved the empty seat beside him without either of you acknowledging it. You would steal half his fries at lunch because, according to you, "sharing was a Christian virtue," and he'd sigh with theatrical disappointment before sliding the carton a little closer anyway. Another afternoon you discovered your pen had run out halfway through a history test, and before you could even ask, another one appeared silently on your desk. He never made a point of it. By the end of the lesson, he'd simply asked for it back with an absent-minded, "I only own two."

Neither of you ever spoke about it.

There simply came a point where being around one another stopped requiring an invitation.

By the time October settled over Maple Creek, the trees lining Main Street had begun surrendering their leaves one by one, covering the sidewalks in deep shades of amber and burnt gold that crunched beneath your shoes on the walk home. The afternoons grew cooler, sunlight fading earlier than it had only weeks before, and your routine settled into something that almost resembled normality. School. Home. Homework you pretended to hate. Dinner with your father, who looked a little less exhausted every evening.

One Friday evening, you arrived home to find the house smelling faintly of rosemary, garlic and something roasting in the oven. Music drifted quietly from the old radio your father had finally unpacked, filling the kitchen with the familiar sound of Fleetwood Mac while every available surface had somehow become covered with bowls, chopping boards and ingredients.

"What happened?" you asked, eyeing the organised chaos spread across every available surface.

Your father looked over his shoulder, the wooden spoon still resting in his hand, his brow creasing with mild confusion.

"What do you mean?"

"You cooked."

A quiet laugh escaped him as he returned his attention to the saucepan.

"I do know how."

"You ordered takeaway four nights this week."

"I was busy."

"And now?"

He hesitated for only a second before a small, almost satisfied smile settled across his face.

"I invited the Sims over for dinner."

The words landed with enough force that you straightened instinctively.

"You... invited them?"

"I did."

You stared at him for a long moment, trying to decide whether he was joking. Judging by the calm expression on his face as he sprinkled herbs into the saucepan, he wasn't.

"The pastor's family?"

"Our neighbours," he corrected gently.

You let out a slow sigh, dropping into one of the kitchen chairs as you rubbed a hand across your forehead.

"You really expect me to survive an entire evening of polite conversation?"

Your father smiled to himself as he stirred the sauce once more.

"I think you'll manage."

You narrowed your eyes at him.

"I think you're overestimating me."

His smile only grew. "Dinner's at six tomorrow."

You groaned quietly, letting your head fall back against the chair.

"I wasn't asking."

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The following evening arrived with surprising speed, carrying with it the kind of nervous anticipation you refused to acknowledge. By half past five, the house had been transformed into something almost unrecognisable. The dining table, which had spent the better part of a month buried beneath unopened mail and half-unpacked boxes, now sat neatly arranged with your father's best plates and polished cutlery that hadn't seen daylight since Chicago. 

Your father had changed shirts twice.

You knew because you'd watched him do it.

The first one had apparently been "too wrinkled." The second, according to him, made him look like he was trying too hard. Eventually he'd settled on a navy button-down you'd seen him wear exactly twice before, smoothing imaginary creases from the sleeves every few minutes as he checked the oven for what had to be the sixth time.

"You know they're only coming for dinner," you observed from where you leaned against the kitchen doorway, watching him fuss over the table with growing amusement.

Without looking up, he adjusted one of the forks by what couldn't have been more than half a centimetre.

"I know."

The doorbell rang precisely at six.

Your father disappeared into the hallway before you had a chance to move, and moments later the sound of warm greetings drifted through the house, accompanied by the unmistakable laughter of Mrs Sim. You remained exactly where you were for another moment, taking a steadying breath before reluctantly following.

The Sims stood just inside the front entrance, autumn coats folded neatly over their arms after escaping the cool evening air. Mrs Sim was the first to notice you, her face brightening instantly as she crossed the hallway with the same effortless warmth she seemed to carry everywhere, wrapping you in a brief hug before you had any real opportunity to avoid it.

"Oh, sweetheart," she said, stepping back to admire you with an approving smile. "It's lovely to see you again."

You returned an awkward smile, still adjusting to people who expressed affection so freely.

"You too."

Pastor Sim stood nearby, extending a firm hand toward your father while thanking him again for the invitation. He carried himself with the same quiet authority you'd heard in his sermons, though stripped of the pulpit and formal robes, he seemed considerably less intimidating than he had on Sunday morning. He laughed easily, spoke gently, and thanked your father three separate times before stepping inside.

Jake lingered near the back of the group, waiting until everyone else had entered before quietly closing the front door behind them. Unlike church, where he'd worn pressed clothes and carried a Bible tucked neatly beneath one arm, tonight he looked comfortably ordinary. Holding a charcoal knit jumper over his arm, he wore a pale collared shirt whose sleeves had been rolled casually to his forearms, and his hair, usually kept neatly in place throughout the school day, had begun to curl slightly around his forehead in the cool evening air.

His eyes found yours almost immediately.

A small smile appeared before either of you spoke.

"Hi."

"Hi."

The greeting was simple, almost laughably so after weeks of sharing classrooms and conversations, but somehow it felt different here. There were no teachers nearby pretending not to overhear you, no church congregation moving around you, no hurried walk between classes limiting the conversation to a few passing words. This was your house. He was standing in your hallway.

"So..." you said, leaning casually against the hallway wall as the adults disappeared into the dining room. Your eyes moved over him with deliberate curiosity, taking in the fact that the boy who spent his days looking perfectly composed at school was now standing in your house looking slightly out of place. "This is how you spend your Saturday nights?"

Jake glanced towards the dining room before looking back at you, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. He seemed caught between defending himself and admitting you had a point.

"Apparently."

Before you could say something back, Mrs Sim called for both of you from the dining room, and Jake gestured for you to go ahead.

You looked at him suspiciously as you walked past.

"Just manners?"

He smiled.

"Just manners."

Dinner was easier than you expected.

You had prepared yourself for an evening of uncomfortable silence and forced conversation, the kind where every question felt like an interrogation and every answer had to be carefully chosen. Instead, the night moved naturally. Your father and Pastor Sim carried most of the conversation, discussing the town, work, and everything you had missed during your first few weeks in Maple Creek. Mrs Sim filled in the quieter moments with stories about the neighbourhood, laughing whenever your father admitted something embarrassing about adjusting to a smaller town.

You mostly listened. Jake sat across from you, occasionally catching your eye when the adults became too invested in their conversation. Each time, there was a quiet understanding between you both—a shared amusement at the fact that neither of you had expected the evening to be as normal as it was.

By the time the dinner had ended, the plates were cleared away, the last traces of conversation drifting from the kitchen as your father and the Sims continued talking.

You had just started relaxing into the evening when your father returned from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel as he glanced between you and Jake.

"You know what?" he said, wiping his hands on a towel. "You should show Jake your vinyl collection."

You looked up immediately.

"My what?"

Your father ignored the disbelief in your voice, leaning casually against the doorway.

"You spent all that time organising them last week."

You narrowed your eyes at him, already knowing exactly what he was doing.

Jake glanced towards you, a small smile forming. 

"I'd like to see them." He responded.

"Fine.", you sighed, standing from your chair. 

Your father smiled in victory.

"But if you judge my music taste," you added, pointing at Jake, "I'm making you leave."

A quiet laugh escaped him as he followed you towards the stairs.

You led the worn wooden stairs creak under Jake's weight as you guided him up to your room. You could feel the heat of his gaze on the back of your neck, a palpable thing that had nothing to do with the heat of the evening. "My dad has a few old gospel records," he said, his voice softer than it had been downstairs. "But they're predictable. The same messages."

You pushed your bedroom door open, "Predictable is boring," you stated, your tone leaving no room for argument as you gestured for him to enter. He stepped over the threshold like he was crossing into another world, his eyes wide as they took in the turntable on your desk.

You watched his throat work as he swallowed.

You pulled a record from its sleeve, toying with the black disk in your hands. "This one," you said, not asking, as you placed it on the platter and lowered the needle. A slow, grinding bassline filled the room, something primal that seemed to push against the walls. Jake flinched, just slightly. "Listen," you instructed, standing close enough that your arm brushed his. You didn't move away. "Hear the difference?."

He stared at the spinning record, but his attention was fractured, pulled to where your skin met the crisp cotton of his polo shirt. "It's intense," he managed, his voice tight. You turned to face him fully, closing the small distance. You saw the conflict in his eyes, the lifetime of doctrine warring with a raw, waking curiosity.

"You don't have to analyse it, Jake," you murmured, your hand coming up to not quite touch his cheek. You let it hover. "You just have to experience it." His breath caught. His eyes fluttered shut for a second, and when they opened, the look in them was one of surrender. You finally let your fingertips graze his jawline. He leaned into it, ever so slightly.

Your other hand found his, prying his fingers open from the fist he hadn't realized he'd made. You guided his palm, placing it flat against the album cover on your desk. "This is what you wanted, isn't it?" you asked, the music swelling around you both. He didn't speak. He only nodded, a slow, deliberate dip of his chin, his eyes locked on yours.

The song ended with a final, resonant thrum, and the sudden silence felt louder than the music. Jake’s hand remained on the album cover, his knuckles pale. You watched him, the rise and fall of his chest beneath his starched shirt a little too quick. You didn’t move your fingers from his jaw. The air in the room grew thick, charged with the things he’d been taught to confess and repent.

You finally broke the contact, turning back to the turntable. You lifted the tonearm, the click of the switch cutting off the faint surface noise. “There’s more,” you said, your voice a low murmur, not looking at him as you flipped through the crate, the cardboard sleeves stacked against each other. You could feel him watching you, his eyes following your every move.

You selected another record, this one with a stark, abstract cover in deep reds and blacks. “This one builds slower,” you explained, your back still to him as you slid the vinyl out. “It takes its time. It makes you wait for it.” You placed it on the platter, setting the needle down with care, and a single, clean piano note echoed through the speakers, followed by another, spaced apart by a breath of silence. Jake let out a slow exhale behind you. You heard the soft rustle of his clothes as he shifted his weight.

You turned then, leaning back against the edge of your desk, crossing your ankles. You studied him openly—the way his hair fell a little too perfectly over his forehead, the rigid set of his shoulders that was beginning to soften. His eyes were fixed on the record as it spun, but you knew he wasn’t really seeing it. He was listening, truly listening, to the music.

“Do you understand now?” you asked, your voice barely above the level of the unfolding melody. His gaze flickered to yours, and in the low light from your desk lamp, you saw the first crack in his composure, a fine, hairline fracture. He gave another small, silent nod. You held his look for a long moment, then let your eyes drift back to the spinning black disk, letting the music fill the space where words would have been a trespass.

His fingers slowly curled, lifting from the album cover. He brought his hand back to his side, but it didn’t hang with its usual relaxed posture. It was a fist again, though looser this time, as if holding onto the ghost of the sensation. The piano melody wove around a slow, deliberate drumbeat. He took a half-step forward, then stopped, as if an invisible line on your floor marked a boundary he wasn’t sure he was allowed to cross.

You didn’t invite him closer. You simply watched, your expression neutral, giving him nothing but the space to choose. His eyes traveled from the turntable to your face, then down to your lips, before snapping back up, a faint flush coloring his neck. The music built, layer upon layer, a sonic cathedral of something entirely secular. It was beautiful in a way that felt dangerous to him, you could tell.

“Where did you find this?” he finally asked, his voice rough. It was the first question he’d dared to ask since entering your room. It wasn’t about the music, not really.

“A little shop downtown,” you answered, your tone casual. “The owner knows what I like.” You uncrossed your ankles and stood up straight, taking a single, slow step toward him. He didn’t retreat. The distance between you was now just a matter of a few inches. You could see the rapid pulse at the base of his throat.

“It doesn’t sound like anything I’ve ever heard,” he admitted, the confession seeming to cost him something. His gaze dropped to your collar, to the hollow of your throat, before he forced it back to your eyes. He was trying so hard to be polite, to maintain eye contact, even as every instinct was pulling him elsewhere.

You reached out again, this time not towards his face, but towards the stiff collar of his polo shirt. You didn’t grab it. You merely hooked a single finger under the fabric, just beside his neck, and gave the slightest tug. His breath hitched audibly, a sharp sound swallowed by the swelling music. His entire body went still, a deer caught in headlights.

A slow, wry smile touched his lips, a flicker of his usual self breaking through the tension. “Checking the thread count?” he asked, his voice a rough whisper that carried a surprising hint of humor. It was a defense mechanism, a quick-witted retreat into something safe and mundane, but it faltered as your finger remained, the back of your knuckle resting against the pounding pulse in his throat.

You released the collar, your finger brushing the warm skin of his collarbone as you withdrew. “Just seeing if it’s as ruined as your demeanor,” you replied, matching his tone but letting your gaze drop meaningfully to his lips. The color in his cheeks deepened, but he held your look. The music built around you, a complex tapestry of sound that felt like it was weaving the two of you together in the dim light.

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “My mom insists on a specific laundry routine. Says a crisp appearance reflects a… an ordered mind.” The words were a confession and an offering, a glimpse into the world of rules that shaped him. He was letting you in, piece by piece, even as his body trembled on the precipice.

Your hands came up to frame his face, your thumbs stroking over his cheekbones. He leaned into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a moment. You kissed him, your mouth demanding against his, and after a moment of stillness, Jake responded with a desperate, hungry fervor that shattered his careful composure. His hands came up, hovering awkwardly at your sides before finally settling on your waist, his fingers digging into the fabric of your shirt. A low groan vibrated from his chest into yours. You walked him backward until his legs hit the edge of your bed, and he sat down with a soft thump, breaking the kiss only because he had to.

You stood between his knees, looking down at him. His lips were swollen, his breath coming in short pants. You reached for the hem of his polo shirt again. This time, you didn’t tease. You pulled it up and over his head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside. His chest was pale and smooth, his skin heating under your gaze. Your fingers went to the button of his chinos. He watched, mesmerized, as you undid it, then the zipper. You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his pants and his briefs. “Lift,” you commanded softly.

He obeyed instantly, raising his hips so you could strip the last barriers from him. He was fully, beautifully exposed, sitting on the edge of your bed. You let your eyes travel over him, a slow, appreciative look that made him shiver. Then you sank to your knees on the floor before him. His eyes widened, a soft “oh” escaping him. You didn’t make him wait. You took him into your mouth, your tongue sweeping a broad, wet stroke along his length. His whole body jerked, a choked cry tearing from his throat. His hands flew to your hair, not pushing or pulling, just tangling in the strands as if he needed to hold onto something solid.

You set a slow, deep rhythm, your mouth a warm, slick haven. His hips began to move in tiny, helpless thrusts, a rhythm as old as time but entirely new to him in this context. His breaths were ragged prayers, gasps of “please” and “God” that had nothing to do with the divinity he’d been raised to worship and everything to do to the sinful paradise you were building with your lips and tongue. You could feel the tension coiling tightly in him, his thighs trembling against your shoulders. Just as he was teetering on the edge, you pulled back, leaving him gasping and bereft. You looked up at him, your chin glistening. “My turn,” you whispered, and you rose to guide him back onto the bed.

He hesitated for only a second, his face flushed with shame and arousal. “I… I shouldn’t,” he whispered, voice trembling. “This is wrong… I was taught to resist this kind of temptation.” Yet his body betrayed him. His cock twitched visibly, already leaking at the tip, and he didn’t resist when you pushed him onto his back. He lay there obediently, arms at his sides, fingers clutching the sheets like he was praying for strength. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, wide and pleading. “Tell me what to do,” he said softly. “I’ll do it. I’ll be good for you.”

You guided him onto his back, and he went without resistance, settling against the sheets with his arms loose at his sides. His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths. His cock lay hard against his stomach, flushed dark and twitching with every pulse of his heartbeat. You climbed over him, straddling his hips, and his eyes followed your every movement like he was watching something forbidden yet irresistible.

"I shouldn't," he whispered again, the words catching in his throat. "It's a sin. I've prayed against this... against wanting it." His voice cracked on the last word, but his hips lifted slightly, seeking contact even as he spoke against it. His hands stayed where they were, fingers digging into the bedding, waiting for your command.

You leaned down until your lips brushed his ear. "Then pray while I use you," you told him. A soft, broken sound escaped him, half a whimper and half a moan. You reached between your bodies, wrapped your fingers around his cock, and lined him up. His whole frame tensed as the head pressed against your entrance.

"Please," he breathed. "Tell me I'm allowed. Tell me to take it."

"Push up," you ordered.

He obeyed at once. His hips rose in one smooth thrust, sliding into you with a single, desperate motion. The moment he was buried to the hilt, a strangled prayer tore from his lips—half-formed words of repentance mixed with raw need. You stayed still above him, letting him feel every inch of your heat gripping him, while his thighs trembled beneath you.

"Move," you said.

He started with shallow, careful thrusts, trying to keep some measure of control, but it quickly unraveled. His hips snapped upward harder, chasing the slick friction, each stroke punctuated by soft, guilty gasps of "God" and "forgive me." His hands finally left the sheets to grip your hips, not to guide you but to hold on as if you were the only thing anchoring him. Every time he bottomed out, his eyes squeezed shut like he was both praying for strength and begging for more.

You leaned forward, pressing your chest to his, and whispered against his mouth, "You're being so good for me. So obedient."

A shudder ran through him. "I want to be good," he panted. "I want to please you. Even if it's wrong. Even if I have to confess later." His thrusts grew faster, more urgent, the wet sound of your bodies meeting filling the room. Pre-cum leaked steadily from him inside you, mixing with your own slickness. His abs flexed with every movement, the muscles in his arms standing out as he held you.

You sat up again, rolling your hips in a slow circle that made him cry out. "Don't come yet," you warned.

He nodded frantically, biting his lower lip hard enough to leave marks. "I won't. I won't until you say. I'll hold it. I'll be good." His cock throbbed inside you, right on the edge, but he forced his hips to slow, following your command even as his entire body shook with the effort. Sweat beaded on his forehead and chest. His eyes stayed locked on yours, wide, glassy, and completely surrendered.

You stayed seated on him, savoring the way his cock pulsed inside you with every desperate heartbeat. His grip on your hips tightened, but he kept his thrusts shallow and controlled exactly as you ordered. Sweat glistened across his pale chest, and his lips moved in silent prayer even while his body betrayed every word of it.

"Good boy," you murmured, rolling your hips in a slow grind that dragged a broken moan from his throat. "Keep praying. Let me hear it."

His voice cracked as he obeyed. "Forgive me... Lord, forgive me for this... for wanting it so much..." Each word dissolved into a gasp when you clenched around him. His thighs quivered beneath you, and his cock twitched hard, threatening to spill, but he fought it back with visible effort.

You leaned down and kissed him hard, swallowing the next plea. When you pulled back, a thin strand of saliva connected your mouths. "Now fuck me properly," you told him. "Hard. Don't stop until I tell you."

The permission hit him like a command from above. His hips snapped up in one powerful thrust that drove the air from his lungs. He buried himself to the hilt again and again, the wet slap of skin filling the room. His fingers dug into your flesh hard enough to leave marks as he used every ounce of strength to obey. Each stroke punched a ragged sound from him—half curse, half prayer.

"Yes... yes, use me," he panted. "I'm yours... I'm so sorry, God, but I'm yours right now." His eyes stayed locked on yours, glassy with guilt and lust. Pre-cum leaked steadily from him, mixing with your slickness and making every thrust louder, filthier.

You reached between your bodies and rubbed your clit in tight circles while he pounded into you. The sight of him—flushed, sweating, desperate—pushed you closer. "Don't come," you warned again. "Not until I do."

He nodded frantically, jaw clenched, veins standing out in his neck. His rhythm never faltered even as his whole body shook with the effort of holding back. "I won't... I promise... I'll be good... I'll wait..." His cock swelled inside you, so close to the edge it hurt to watch, but he kept driving upward exactly as you wanted.

You rode him faster, chasing your own release while he suffered beautifully beneath you. His prayers had dissolved into wordless, broken sounds. Every thrust hit deep, the head of his cock dragging against that perfect spot inside you until your thighs started to tremble.

"Now," you gasped. "Come with me."

The permission shattered what little control he had left. His hips jerked upward in one final, brutal thrust as he came hard, flooding you with hot pulses. A loud, guilty cry tore from his throat—your name mixed with another broken apology to God. His cock throbbed violently inside you, emptying everything he had while his body arched off the bed. You clenched around him and came right after, your walls pulsing and milking every drop from him.

He kept thrusting weakly through both orgasms, unable to stop even after he was spent. When the last aftershocks faded, he collapsed back against the sheets, chest heaving, eyes squeezed shut in shame and relief. His softening cock still twitched inside you, sensitive and overstimulated.

You stayed on top of him, letting him feel the mess he'd made. After a long moment he opened his eyes, looking up at you with raw, wrecked devotion.

"Thank you," he whispered. "For... for letting me. Even though I shouldn't have." 

◌ֹ   💭  ִ  ՞

You hadn't expected Jake to become so desperate for you. Then again, you couldn't argue against it since the boy had never touched anything until that night in your bedroom. That night had been your experiment, a little game to see if the golden boy preacher’s son would crack, and he had shattered. Now, three weeks later, the crack had become a canyon, and he was falling through it daily, reaching for you.

He appeared at your usual smoke spot, his crisp button-down looking absurd against the scarred wall. His hands were shoved deep in his khaki pockets, his shoulders tense. "The archives in the library basement," he said, his voice low and urgent, skipping any greeting. "The theology section. No one goes there on Wednesday afternoons." His eyes, usually so clear and certain, were clouded with a need that looked like physical pain. You took a long drag of your cigarette, blowing the smoke out slowly, watching him flinch. Not from the smoke, but from the delay.

It became a pattern. A folded note tucked into your sociology textbook with a time and a location scrawled in his neat handwriting: *Boiler room, 3 PM.* A text message that just read *Empty classroom, second floor, east wing. Now.* He never asked if you wanted to. He simply presented the opportunity, a sinner offering his own temptation, his voice always carrying that same ragged edge. You’d find him there, pacing or standing perfectly still, his jaw clenched so tight you thought it might break. The moment he saw you, the calm would evaporate, replaced by a frantic energy as he fumbled with his belt, or yours, his prayers forgotten, replaced by whispered pleas against your skin.

You met him in the designated broom closet. It was cramped, smelling of lemon cleaner and dust. He had you pressed against the shelves before the door clicked shut, his mouth hot and demanding on yours, his hands pulling at your clothes with a clumsy haste. "I can't stop thinking about it," he gasped against your neck, his hips already moving against you. "About you. That's all I think about." His confession was torn from him, as he learned your body with a fervor he'd once reserved for scripture, each touch a new verse in a gospel of his own damnation.

Afterward, he would help you dress with trembling hands, his fingers brushing your skin as if memorizing it. He’d smooth his own hair, try to rearrange his face into something resembling the composed Jake everyone else saw. But the look in his eyes gave him away—a hollowed-out, hungry thing. "Tomorrow," he'd say, not as a question, but as a statement of fact, a necessary appointment for his survival. "The photo development lab. During the yearbook committee meeting."

You saw him at a campus ministry barbecue two days later. He was flipping burgers, laughing politely, the perfect picture of clean-cut devotion. His eyes scanned the crowd, found you leaning against a tree at the edge of the lawn. He held your gaze for a fraction of a second too long, and the plastic spatula in his hand snapped clean in two. He looked down at the broken pieces, then back at you, a slow flush creeping up his neck. He turned back to the grill, abandoning the ruined burger, and walked away from the crowd without a word to anyone.

The broken spatula was the first public crack. He didn't come to the smoke spot for two days, and you assumed maybe the guilt had finally won, that the prayer circles and his father’s disappointed eyes had rebuilt the wall. You were almost disappointed. Then, on the third day, as you were leaving a late class, a hand closed around your wrist from the shadow of a doorway. It was Jake, but he looked ravaged. Dark circles smudged under his eyes, his hair was uncharacteristically messy, and his collar was undone.

"Walk with me," he said, his voice hoarse. It wasn't a request. He didn't let go of your wrist as he steered you away from the main paths, toward the old greenhouse at the edge of the botanical gardens. It was locked for the night, but he produced a key from his pocket. Inside, the air was thick and humid, and he finally released you, turning to face you under the ghostly light filtering through the glass ceiling. "I tried," he breathed out, the words sounding ripped from his chest. "I prayed. I read. I went to confession." A harsh, humorless laugh escaped him. "It just made it worse. All I could think about was the smell of your skin in that closet."

He reached for you then, but his touch was different. It wasn't the frantic groping of before. His hands framed your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks with a terrifying tenderness. "You ruined me," he whispered, his forehead leaning against yours. "Do you understand that? Completely. And I don't want to be fixed." His mouth found yours, and this kiss was a slow, deep claim, devoid of its earlier panic. It was a surrender. He guided you down onto a bed of soft peat moss behind a tray of orchids, his movements deliberate.

He took his time. He peeled your clothes away with a reverence that was more unsettling than his prior desperation. He mapped every inch of you with his lips and tongue, whispering things that sounded like prayers but weren't. "This is my communion," he murmured against your stomach, his breath hot. "This is my only truth." When he finally entered you, it was with a slow, devastating roll of his hips that made you cry out, the sound swallowed by the dense air. He moved with a focused intensity, his eyes locked on yours, watching every flicker of pleasure on your face as if studying for a final exam.

After lying tangled together on the borrowed jacket he’d spread beneath you, he didn't scramble to leave. He traced idle patterns on your arm, his head on your chest. "My father is giving the sermon at the downtown mission on Friday night," he said, his voice quiet in the humid dark. "The office in the back will be empty. The door locks." He stated matter-of-factly. The dependency had crystallized into something calm and absolute.

◌ֹ   💭  ִ  ՞

Your father stood at the stove, absently stirring a saucepan while an old Fleetwood Mac song played softly from the radio, the familiar melody blending with the quiet clink of cutlery as you wandered in to grab your jacket from the back of a chair.

"You've been going out a lot lately."

His voice was casual, almost conversational, though you could feel him watching for your reaction.

You shrugged one shoulder as you zipped up your jacket.

"So?"

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he looked back at the saucepan, stirring it slowly.

"I don't know..." he said after a moment, choosing his words carefully. "You just seem happier."

Your hand paused around your keys, turning to look at him properly, a faint crease appearing between your brows, "Really?"

He nodded once, meeting your eyes for only a second before his attention drifted back to dinner, "I think so."

You let out a quiet breath, leaning your hip against the counter as though considering the possibility for the first time.

"...I didn't notice."

"I don't think you were supposed to."

The silence that followed settled easily between you, neither awkward nor heavy. The saucepan continued to bubble softly on the stove while somewhere outside, a car rolled slowly down Maple Street.

You pushed yourself away from the counter, slinging your jacket over your shoulders.

"You're not going to ask where I'm going?"

Your father smiled to himself, shaking his head almost imperceptibly.

"I thought about it." He admitted.

"And?"

He looked back at you then, amusement warming his expression.

"I figured you'd tell me it was none of my business."

A slow grin spread across your face, "See you later."

"Don't stay out too late," he called after you, though there wasn't much authority behind it anymore.

You glanced back over your shoulder, a teasing smile still lingering on your face.

"No promises."

The downtown mission was cold and smelled of old wood and candle wax. He was waiting for you in the dark, a silhouette against the faint light from the stained-glass window depicting the crucifixion. He didn't speak, he simply took your hand and led you to the low, padded kneeler at the front of the small room. He guided you to kneel, then knelt beside you, not before the altar, but facing you. His hands trembled as he reached for the hem of your skirt, pushing the fabric up your thighs.

His repentance began with his mouth between your legs, there on the kneeler, his whispered prayers lost against your skin. Each flick of his tongue was a plea for forgiveness, each deep, worshiping stroke a confession of his weakness. He drank from you like communion, his hands gripping your hips to hold you steady as he sought his own form of absolution in your taste. When your back arched and a stifled moan escaped your lips, he only pressed closer, his own need evident in the desperate sounds vibrating against you.

After, as you trembled, he rose to his feet. He unzipped his dress pants with a soft hiss that was obscenely loud in the quiet. He took your hand and wrapped your fingers around him, his own hand covering yours, showing you the rhythm. "Do it," he breathed, his eyes clenched shut, his head tilted back toward the vaulted ceiling. "Let me feel you… take your penance from me." Your hand moved on him, slow at first, then faster at his urging, his hips jerking into your fist. His other hand came up to cover your mouth, muffling the sound of his own ragged, broken gasps as he spilled over your fingers, his release hot and sudden in the dim, holy space.

He sank back onto his heels, breathing heavily, his forehead resting against your shoulder. The silence returned, thick and heavy. He pulled a pristine white handkerchief from his pocket, the kind he always carried, and carefully wiped your hand clean. Then he wiped himself, folded the soiled cloth, and tucked it back into his pocket without a word. He stood, straightened his clothes, and ran a hand through his hair. He looked at you, still kneeling on the padded bench, your skirt rumpled, and in his eyes was a profound, unsettling peace. The crisis had passed. The sin was complete. He offered you a hand up, his touch now steady.

Sunday night found you in the back pew of the very same church, the evening service sparsely attended. Jake was at the pulpit, his voice clear and strong, speaking about grace and the burden of temptation. He looked every inch the devoted son, his suit crisp, his expression serene. His eyes scanned the congregation and landed on you. There was no flicker of recognition, no secret smile. His gaze passed over you as if you were a stranger. The sermon ended. The final hymn was sung. People filed out, offering him quiet greetings which he returned with gentle nods.

You waited until the last person had left, until the sexton had dimmed the lights and exited, leaving only the eternal flame flickering near the altar. The heavy door clicked shut. Jake remained at the front, his back to you, staring up at the cross. You stood and walked down the center aisle, the sound of your footsteps swallowed by the cavernous space. He didn't turn. You stopped a few feet behind him. For a long moment, there was only the faint hum of the building's electricity.

"Tell me you're sorry," you said, your voice soft but echoing slightly in the empty church.

He finally turned. In the dim light, his face was unreadable. He took a step toward you, then another, closing the distance. He didn't touch you. He simply looked down at you, his expression a mask of perfect, placid devotion. "I am washed clean," he stated, his voice low and even. Then his hand came up, not to your face, but to the top button of his own shirt. He undid it. Then the next. He took your hand and placed it flat against his bare chest, over the frantic, hammering beat of his heart. His skin was fever-hot. His eyes never left yours. The lie was a physical thing between you, trembling under your palm.

"I haven't been able to sleep," he rasped, his voice sounding ruined. "Every time I closed my eyes, I felt you. Every time I spoke of purity, I could taste you on my tongue."

He didn't kiss you softly. He claimed your mouth with a bruising intensity, his tongue demanding entrance as if he were trying to consume you. There was a desperate edge to him now; the seal had been broken, and the floodgates were wide open. He wasn't just a man resisting temptation anymore—he was a man who had tasted the forbidden fruit and found he couldn't survive without it.

His hands were frantic, sliding up your thighs with a familiarity that made your heart race. He knew exactly where you were most sensitive, exactly how to touch you to make you arch your back and moan his name into the silence of the church.

"You've ruined me," he groaned against your skin, his lips trailing fire down your neck to the swell of your breast. "I go to the altar and all I can think about is the way you scream when I'm deep inside you. I'm a liar. A hypocrite. And I don't care."

He reached down, his fingers trembling slightly as he freed himself from his trousers. He was already rock-hard, pulsing with a need that eclipsed any sense of divine duty. He gripped your hips, pulling you to the very edge of the table so he could align himself with you.

He looked you in the eyes, his expression a mix of agony and ecstasy. "Tell me you want this," he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous vibrate. "Tell me you want me to forget everything but the way you feel."

As you whispered your consent, he drove into you in one fluid, powerful motion, filling you completely. He let out a guttural sound—half-sob, half-growl—as he buried himself in you, his forehead crashing against yours. The rhythm was savage, a relentless pounding that shook the heavy table, the sound of your colliding bodies echoing through the hallowed halls.

For Jake, this wasn't just sex; it was a desecration, and every thrust felt like a deeper plunge into a beautiful, shimmering hell. He clung to you as if you were the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth, his movements becoming faster, more desperate, as he chased the blinding peak that would leave him shattered and ruined once again.

The sound of the mahogany table groaning under the weight of their colliding bodies filled the room, a rhythmic, visceral thud that drowned out the distant chiming of the church bells. Jake was no longer the composed man of God; he was a storm of sweat and desperation, his breath coming in jagged, ragged gasps that sounded like prayers to a different kind of deity.

He gripped your hips so hard his fingers left crescent marks on your skin, anchoring you as he drove into you with a relentless, punishing force. Every thrust was deeper than the last, hitting a spot that made your vision blur and your toes curl. You could feel the sheer size of him filling you, stretching you, the friction building a heat that threatened to consume you both.

"I can't... I can't stop," he groaned, his voice a guttural wreck. He shifted his angle, lifting one of your legs and hooking it over his shoulder to plunge even deeper. The sensation was overwhelming, a piercing, electric pleasure that radiated through your entire body.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down, your nails digging into his shoulders through the thin fabric of his shirt. You whispered his name—not as a plea, but as a command—and the sound of it seemed to break the last shred of his restraint.

Jake’s movements became frantic, a blur of motion and heat. He was chasing a release that felt like it would tear him apart. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin, his voice a low, shaking moan of "Oh God, oh God..."—though now, it wasn't a prayer. It was a surrender.

The tension reached a breaking point. You felt the first wave of your orgasm crash over you, tightening your walls around him in a series of rhythmic, pulsing contractions. The feeling of you gripping him was the final trigger. Jake let out a loud, unrestrained cry—a sound of pure, unadulterated release—as he thrust one last time, buried as deep as he could possibly go.

He shuddered violently, his entire body locking up as he spilled himself inside you in hot, heavy bursts. He collapsed against you, his chest heaving, his heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. For several long minutes, the only sound in the vestry was the sound of two people trying to remember how to breathe.

As he slowly pulled away, the cold air hit your skin, but the heat between you remained. Jake didn't move immediately. He stayed there, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes clouded with a mixture of absolute bliss and a crushing, lingering guilt.

He looked down at the wreckage of their clothes, then back at you, a dark, hungry smile playing on his lips. He leaned in, kissing you softly.

"I'm condemned," he whispered, "And I think I'm going to spend the rest of my life making sure we both burn for this."

୨୧ from ♡ 𝑘𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑎𓏼⑅ ♥︎ ୧ this is the longest fic i have ever wrote... so it is kind of proofread... i rlly hope you guys like this because i put so much effort into this and im scared u guys wont!! also im not trying to offend anybody with this fic, its purely for entertainment and entirely fictional!!! + this layout is inspired by katsuiki

[dollhoonki]

(>ᵥ_ᵥ<) ── THROUGH YOUR TEETH ⋆ PARK SUNGHOON。

⋮ ⌗ ┆概要⨾ pearl bite restores the smiles of vampires and humans alike, folks travelling nationwide to attain results from the man and myth himself, park sunghoon. running a successful dental practice isn't easy, long hours invested and feeding schedules sidelined. luckily for him, you've never been one to forget.

朴成训 𝔁 𝒻 .ᐟ读者 ── 5.6k      explicit content ⋆ smut (mdni)、heavy mentions of blood & biting/feeding (sunghoon feeds from the reader during sex)、condescending dom!sunghoon、sub!reader、established relationship、hints of brat & brat tamer dynamics、degradation/humiliation、vaginal fingering、handjob、semi public sex、exhibitionism、breath play、unprotected sex (don't do this)、creampie、hints of pain kink、hung!hoon、size & bulge kink、slight praise & crying、reference to marking/beard burn、an attempt at some fluff and angst..petnames used: perfect/sweet girl、princess.⌇ℳ.list

⋮ ⌗ ┆便条⨾ so...how about them vampire brand drops? 😁 the teasers released so far feel really fun but are so polished and align so well wih enha's vampire concept! their creative team always has my heart. they definitely have my heart for this concept alone, which...i wrote because my other wips were mocking me 😭 perhaps imposter syndrome will give me a break the next time i visit them, but for now, enjoy this corner of my brain :3 haven't written about vampires before, so a lot of creative freedom is taken here! let your imagination run free and as always, much loveeee! <333

Downtown is abuzz, springtime bringing out lifeforms in their fullest, humans on a leisurely stroll and vampires in their element, nightfall cast to upheave the sluggishness of day, canines bared and timeless beauty arresting. On the way to your destination, a concrete jungle of scaffolding and pets on leashes, you stop at an intersection. Cars zoom, traffic lights ticking down until they turn green again. The road, a blur of cars would usually have your attention, if not for the huge billboard plastered above the pizzeria and jazz bar just ahead. 

Pearl Bite: A bloodless white, a perfect smile. 

Your own faux canines show, tongue run beneath their point as your eyes dazzle at the advert. Specifically, the creator and model for Pearl Bite ─ your one and only boyfriend. 

College sweethearts, Sunghoon describes your romance as a sneaky attack on your behalf, nothing but his passion on his mind, only to be derailed. The brilliance of your smile, the heartiness of your laugh, your endless glow he couldn't shy away from. The next century is meant to build upon his newly-found interest in dentistry, open his own practice with amassed generational wealth and give back to his community. His initial plan only accounts for vampires, at the mercy of many cycled conversations of blood-stained fangs and how there's no vampire-equivalent for teeth-whitening. Then he meets you, unknowingly opens himself up more to the human experience, recognizes how they can differ vastly from his own, yet share so many similarities. 

You're the most selfless person he knows, a long-line of people served before you're last in line. Amongst the juggle of others' needs and aspirations, yours kind of included somewhere, he learns you're a product of everything you've ever loved and suffered from too. In the months passing too quick for his liking - still toeing the line of friendship(ish) - you bare yourself to him in the late night diner you work at. 

The one he walks you home from, drinks the shitty coffee because you've brewed it. The things vampires do for love.

In a dim corner booth, your chin perches on your folded arms, fingers drumming against a table you're yet to clean and are honestly too tired to at this point. It's been non-stop shifts packed into a never-ending semester, and whilst your job's meant to supplement your means of living, it also serves another purpose. 

"I owe my mom everything," you start, the bat of your lashes turning Sunghoon into a statue, knowing what's to come yet unsure. Uncertain how to proceed. "No matter how little we had to our name, she always made sure I was taken care of. That if one of us was happy, it was always me,"

Your nose twitches, eyes glossy with a sigh coming from trembling lips. A vague crack sounds in his chest. 

He wishes his hand had the kind of warmth you'd lean into. 

"Losing her best friend, and in a way, losing me ─ has brought her to her knees," your fingers drum, pupils shaking as you will your tears to only exist before your waterline. "I'm doing as much as I can, but there's only so much to do from across the country. I can't check in on her and the house between lectures, I can't pay for anything medical other than some lousy insurance, I can't transfer that weight to myself,"

"Because at least then, it wouldn't be her burden to bear." 

The welled emotions in your chest demand you to straighten, more space for lungs to expand and when stray tears fall, you can only exhale, elbows propped to the table to wipe them away. Your hand falls to the surface in perfect timing, searing skin meeting a cool, steady palm. You're just as still as him, the thump of your heart felt in Sunghoon's fingertips, all the way through to his ears ringing with its race. Only empathy occupies him, remnants of a life before immortality tethering you two together by more than held hands, the quiet compassion he delivers sticking with you forever. 

Time has since passed, that corner booth a bittersweet memory. In spite of long-carried pain, you and your mom see brighter days ─ graduation, your first adult job, the return of her smile. Depression has a way of mystifying the future ahead of you, the present clouded in miserable, inescapable grey clouds. To push on takes all the more effort, so things start to give ─ sleep, appetite and the wither of everything else. While she's managed to pick herself up by the aid of you and others, your mom still holds a keepsake she'd rather do without. A dimmed smile you're doing your best to help restore. But in a household where annual doctor's trips are rare, the luxury doesn't come easy. And by the time you're examining what other expenses to cut back on, Sunghoon pitches his latest project. 

Pearl Bite, for humans and vampires alike. 

Endless trials, modifications, moulds that have bitten the dust and brave participants that bring his dream into fruition. Only now, his dream accounts for not only you, but your mother. Additional modules and clinicals to fit in the study of human teeth, revitalizing the last part of a past your mother is moving forward from. And when everything's said and done, your mother instinctively cowers from the mirror before she weeps, holding onto Sunghoon with a life force as gratitude soaks into his white coat. In the corner, his eyes find you, the water-lined tears in your eyes like then, now reflecting the kind of appreciation and love he knows is priceless. 

Pearl Bite takes off, his humble practice fighting to accommodate for the onslaught of patients he tries helping. People come from far and wide, all with a story that picks at their nails and prompts reluctance when it comes time for Sunghoon's inspection. Overbites, plaque, shaven-down fangs, blood stains ─ the list goes on. However, their reluctance is all but forgotten once he commits himself to their well-being, a sigh of relief filling his mask before he hands over what feels like a magic mirror, sorrow turning into happiness. One practice isn't enough, not for endless clients, or aspiring dentists with the same aspirations. Multiple dot themselves across the country, his time split between sights he flies to (your stomach still drops whenever both your feet leave the ground). He has a line of products, an alternative solution for those he cannot meet and to no surprise, it takes off. You climb your own career ladder, finding something just as meaningful and building your life together with the man who saved yours and your mother's smile. 

His practice bustles as it always does, a mixture of clients flipping through magazines or sharing stories in the waiting room. To his assistance, you wave, your presence always welcome when your schedules align. In the hall leading to his office, your head nods at more waiting patients, smile brimmed in manner with a glance at the clock. 

It's feeding time. 

A flutter in your chest disturbs the peace you've maintained for the day's majority, current sparked as your palm meets the door handle of his office, shallowly pulled to the side only to let yourself in. No one occupies the dental unit, spotlight tucked away with the space sterilised and clean, its sleek hues of white, grey and muted baby blue burrowing comfort in your chest. Attempts to slow the rabbit Sunghoon hears, a heartbeat so attuned to he forgoes his inventory count and goes to filter back into the main room, surprise alight in his eyes as he's urged back. 

"I didn't know you were coming," his voice carries the sentiment, the half-hearted draw of his inventory's door schemed behind you. 

Innocence brims in your smile nonetheless, arms strung around him as his hands fall to your waist, steady and firm. 

"You forgot your dinner."

"Dinner?" a lone eyebrow raises, the slope of his nose in full view as his head turns to the mini fridge metres away. "I should have enough blood bags for─" 

Your nails rake through his nape hairs once and for all, stepping back before you haul yourself on the counter space he'd been working so diligently on, showcasing the dinner he's seemingly left behind.

You. 

No one would bat an eyelash at the length of your skirt, a conservative length if not for an extra long stride ─ the cross of your legs ─ where skin reveals itself, blemishing with incessant teeth marks, beard burn and a mouth pulling into a disbelieving smile as you reveal yourself to him, making sure to crane your neck enough to hint at the location of his last feed. 

"So," mischief lives in the lines of your smirk, your own canines peeking through in an ask. "Will you finish what you started?" 

With centuries spent living amongst vampires and humans, you'd think Sunghoon would have some know-how. Predict the patterns humans have made of themselves, ingrained in wired DNA passed down from generation to generation. Yet, you always seem to surprise him. Bring the disbelieving and amused laughter out his huffing chest, his proximity drawn closer as his hands staple on either side of your thighs, skirt material bunched in your lap, goosebump-riddled from the arctic temperature of his office. 

His eyes burn with a dial of lust, iris colouring into a wine hue before his pupils swallows the field whole, gaze flickered between your eyes and lips. 

"This is risky," he notes, nosing along your jaw. The instinct to give your neck away wears him down more than you'll know. "Anyone could come in and see us. Hear us," 

He deserts the raised skin trail he's created from slight grazes alone, satisfaction on his lips as he creates space to marvel at the mess you're boiling down to. 

"But that's what gets you off, right?" his fangs show, his grin too amused and cocky to shield them, his head tilted to only emphasis his point. "Just can't keep your pretty moans to yourself." 

Air fills your lungs through a nasal inhale, chest slumping with a gulp audible to your own ears. You'd waltzed in here first, you can't lose control just yet. 

You bring yourself closer to the counter's edge, skirt riding up further to expose hints of lace, knowing it'll do nothing but torment him. Taunt him as his canine and lower teeth toy with an inner piece of his check, restraint tested.

"Come on, you haven't fed in days," he's standing straighter, hands off the counter. He's close enough though, the perfect distance for your leg to hook at his lower back and draw him in, your hand waiting before his length eventually throbs in your palm, your grin a work of sin as you peer up at him with dark magic eyes. "I know you're hungry." 

Control is commanded, and to some extent, Sunghoon submits. Lets you carry out your charade, allows the concept of power to exist in your frame of mind. However, deep down, you both know. Undeterred, Sunghoon lets you palm his growing erection, smirking like it doesn't turn him on. Like he doesn't give your hand one grind, starved for friction. 

His hand raises to outline the shell of your ear with his fingertip, pleased with the shiver erupting down your spine. 

"Funny how blood and sex are so intertwined," he leads, voice husky as his eyes fall to yours again, standing their ground. "For you, especially."

It's meant to be a call out. In some measure, you suffer from its consequences, prickly skin and heated cheeks. However, you've been with Sunghoon long enough to quit playing shy. You plan to spend eternity with him too, it's only natural you reward him with your honesty.

"It's another layer of intimacy," the sweetness of your words juxtapose your actions, palm firm against his shaft as your thumb glides over his tip in sweet, torturous motions, smile stretching at the waver of his breath. You cock your head, a call for attention. "Wouldn't you agree?"

He's close like this now, shuffled to you in a tighter circle of your hooked legs, the column of his throat licked. The grain of stubble against your tongue hums your pleasure into his skin, his own mirrored sound coming when your teeth nibble on the teased skin.

"Hmph," he groans, losing focus. Losing to you. "I do, but my mind can't help but wonder," 

Further words peaks your interest, Sunghoon's hand settling across your neck, face further away as he handles you for his viewing pleasure. His other set of knuckles push his glasses up his nose bridge, chin lifted as he looks at you through low eyes, the quiet but hard thump of your pulse meeting the pad of his thumb.

"If it's the euphoric high you're starved for," Sunghoon's thumb moves over the tender skin, thump gaining traction as you attempt withstanding his complete read of you. "Or maybe it's the slight pain," 

Through the time you've known Sunghoon, you've only ever known him to be humble. No matter what feat he reaches, trait or skill he posses and displays, he'll pretend as if it's not his own. Won't gloat, won't brag ─ except for times like these. 

When he's got you right where he wants, his fangs pinpoint on your skin between the fan of his thumb, your heartbeat the equivalent of being chased. 

You hear his smirk first before you see it, space created again as his eyes cannot be without your sight for too long. 

"Which one is it?"

The hand that'd been palming him arrests the counter's edge, knuckles burning white in an act of self-restraint. Control you're being frayed to abandon, a harsh run of your tongue on the back of your teeth as your other leg hooks behind him, nowhere to hide as your hip roll to meet his, a grind you see chipping away at him.

Pressure adds to the grasp on your neck ─ a test to you too. 

"Wouldn't you like to know." 

Again, that almost incredulous yet amused chuckle meets your ears, this time more mocking as Sunghoon's tongue pokes his inner cheek, his eyes bleeding over with an intensity you've only been anticipating.

"I'll find out either way," one corner of his lip lifts, small but all-knowing. "Spread your legs." 

The last thing you'll do is indulge him, even if your body aches for him in the worst way ─ bone deep, lust sinking in your body like an anchor. You're already pressed against him, the friction of few layers a blessing in disguise for someone as insatiable as you are. This, you can do with. The same can't be said for Sunghoon, who in the questioning look he gives you, your smile extends ─ a slice of heaven and a lot of hell. 

"What's with the attitude?" he chuckles, one last squeeze against the sides of your neck to make you squeak. The departures paves the way for his impatience, enough strength to pry your crossed ankles apart. "Didn't you want this all along? Treated the way you are in my office because you couldn't wait?"

You can't compete against an immortal, his strength bending your body to his will, thighs braced against the arctic counter top. Spread to his liking. 

"Ah, that's why," it's the second time in such little time you've heard him smirk, a more evil moon crescent shape to his eyes as he marvels between your legs. Specifically, the wetness that's soaked through the flimsy fabric. "It's okay, I want you just as much." 

A gentle kiss is pressed to your forehead, because your ego has its' moments, bruising like a peach. You could huff, turn away from the supposed affection he gives you, but he's quicker. A peck to the tip of your nose and happiness in the light chuckle he does afterwards. 

Then, when you're looking at him again, albeit reluctantly, he smiles regardless. Cups your cheeks, holding you as if porcelain and kisses you. Soft and pillowy, lingering to savour the simple press of flesh, a slow and sweet swirl back into desire. Melting in his cold grasp, you move in patterns known to each other, the audacity to start pulling away breathing a snicker between your lips, his smile against your lips after he's chased them, your own introduced moments later. 

He picks you apart in the most delicate way, undoing you with adoring kisses and assured hands, consuming you with every breath he steals, hands of desperation hinging themselves against his arms. Sunghoon kisses you as if it's your last, with deeper meaning coming from the lifetimes he's lived, your bottom lip between his teeth as he tugs gently. 

A move applicable to everyone. Doing its worst to you. 

While other teeth tease, his fangs threaten, a harsher skim against the flesh your breath hitches at, a swipe of his tongue meant to soothe, only to fuel the fire burning in you. 

While his hands no longer cradle your face, he kisses you without fault. Pouring affection into the tender overlap of lips, the only thing you manage to do is lift your hips as his hands tug your panties down your legs, tucked away in his back pocket as a souvenir. If you weren't so dazed, you'd make fun of him, like when you'd felt his cock kick when you'd started kissing, the venture of your tongue making him sigh a stuttered breath. 

Smacked lips and laboured breaths no longer only occupy the office/closet space, abundance of slick lapped up on the span of two fingers, the most piled on Sunghoon's fingertips as they tease your entrance, thumb doing slow circles against your clit. 

Fingers carding through his hair, your breath stutters in his mouth. Whines and huffed whimpers bleed into his kiss-stained lips as his fingers push in with no resistance, welcomed as your walls conform to their shape. He stretches you with the scissors of his fingers, the stretch simmering with a touch of discomfort, grinding down to blooming pleasure as you yield, his fingers 'curl pushed into the spot making you see stars. 

"Think I'll give your thighs a break," Sunghoon whispers, your tongue dipped into the curve of his lips. "All those hickeys and beard burn can't be good for you ─ too much friction," 

"N-not enough," you wail, running feverishly hot and without any care, bucking your hips helplessly. "Want ─ more." 

"I've made you such a greedy thing, haven't I?" he murmurs, humming at all the sounds you reward him with ─ vulnerable moans, sloppy kisses you try giving but it's no use. You're gone, in too deep to realise the moment you'd walked into his office, your fate had been sealed. 

Other points deserve attention, is Sunghoon's thought process as he leaves your lips with one last slow kiss, saliva strung between your quivering lips before he peppers his way down your chin, up the curve of your jaw and stops right below your earlobe. You know where he'll go next and it sends a buzz through your every cell, makes you tremble and shake. And before your brain can catch up to the signs, Sunghoon knows too.

Hears the chaos of your heart, the disarray of your pulse and plays along.

"Haven't even got to your neck and you're leaking all over my fingers," he muses, a peck smacked onto the dipped skin before his teeth catch onto the fleshy part, a fang punctured close to where your lone piercing is. An automatic response is relayed by your body. "Squeezing my fingers for all their worth, huh?"

Lolled to the side, a partial part in purpose but the other because your head's swarmed in haziness, twice its weight from Sunghoon consuming you, his non-beating heart having the decency to not prolong your long-awaited ask. He descends, inches but makes his way with the tread of his teeth down your neck column. 

"What happened to that little attitude of yours, sweet girl?" he asks, the squelch and twitch of your body unearthing a rarity in condescending nature. "Did I fingerfuck it out of you, hm? You wanna be my good girl now?"

You nod hard enough to feel the jumble of your brain, cut up into pieces and free-floating in your zero-gravity headspace. 

"You know nods won't do," he's there. The exact spot he feeds from, and it's maddening. The release of adrenaline, the rabbit chase your heart does, nails scraping into marble. 

He noses along the mark, a momentary pause noting how gone he is for you too, intoxicated at the mere scent of your blood before everything crumbles, his willpower the only thing standing as he pries away, looking you in your eyes as he says, 

"Let me hear you say it, princess." 

"I'll─I'll be good," the words slosh in your mouth, lips pressed to muffle your desperate squeaks. "I just─just let me come please?" 

"I'm no animal," dark laughter licks up your spine, stuck in its slouch as Sunghoon's rhythm picks up, fingertips knocking deepest in you, your jaw pried open in silent surprise. "I couldn't deprive you if I tried." 

"Come on, sweet girl," he comes closer, fresh linen scent engulfing you as a kiss lays upon your temple. "The quicker you let go, the faster you get my cock." 

The quicker he'll feed. 

The mere thought is almost like magic, contracting your walls in an impossible squeeze as the coil in your stomach sizzles at the tips of your toes, shooting up to burst through every avenue ─ every pore ─ of your body. Detonating right in the palm of his hand, he kisses your wails away until they subside, fingers working you until you're twitchy and overly sensitive, glossy eyed yet itching to unbutton his slacks. 

"Impatience will get you hurt," is his later comment, letting you mess with the buckle of his belt, metallic clashes resonating through the room. Dripping more slick onto his office counter. "So rushed when you'll struggle taking me."

The last notch of his zipper sounds louder than the rest, your head snapped in his direction. "Now, that you can't mock me for," 

Your eyes drop down to the heavy bulge imprinting through his briefs and slacks, hoping his eyes follow along. 

"I take your literal monster cock like a champ, thank you." 

"Give or take." 

You kiss your teeth, knowing better but still cursing at him in your head.

"Whatever," your eyes roll, pushing enough of his waistband down to get your hand around his cock. Barely, but it's not of the essence. What is is the need his tip heats with, generous precome beaded in his slit your thumbs runs over. A hiss releases in spite of his efforts, met with the cockiness of your grin. "You're the one who needs me here," 

"Blood bags only taste so good," you drawl, pulling him out to get a better handle of his length. Head ducked to dribble spit on his skin as makeshift lube, enveloped by your palm in a mixture with precome as your hand comes up and twists up his veined shaft. Now it's his turn for braced hands on the counter's edge, his grip strong enough to snap the marble in two. The thought ignites lightning in your stomach. 

Your mouth gets the chance for payback ─ hovering over the shell of his pointed one, a lapsed breath released in the anticipation of your words. The slow, tight jerk of your hand. "And none can get you off, so…" 

A huff of defeat ─ still humoured ─ sounds past your shoulder, Sunghoon's back muscles flexing through the white coat ruffling as he pushes off the table, hair slicked back back as his fingers run through dark strands, his pale features accented with a pretty rosy tint. 

Lips swollen with kisses. Skin glittering in the low light.

"You're annoying," his hands swats away yours, his focal point you as your figure reflects in the honey sweet hue of his eyes. "I love you." 

"Love you t─ah!"

Sunghoon had knocked your knees further apart, lined himself with your entrance and now, starts to slide his length in. Ever since your last orgasm, you'd hinged on his counter for the moment his cock would stretch you out, but even if your eyes blindly followed his shifts, you'd got lost in his confession. The sheer honesty and sincerity brimming in his eyes as he said so, his last words to you before you reconnect again as one. 

A frantic hand jumps to secure yourself on one plane of his shoulder, a sharp inhale sucking in all frigid air of his office into your shaken lungs, the bitten back moan he lets slip flooding the glide of his length, inches sparingly used. Yet the thought of being split open remains alive and well. 

"You're good, you can take it." 

It's one of his sentences that doesn't reek of condescension, the kind of sugary encouragement you can't help but want to do your best for, relying on your practiced methods of breathing and trying to relax. Except to accommodate to his size, you're gripping and adjusting, depleting his ability to be gentle with you. In the adjustments you make, one sentence lurks in the misty halls of his mind as he only gives as much as you can take, a hand and grazed-thumb on your hip to ground you. 

"What I'd do to stuff your hole full of me right now…"

Luckily, he doesn't have to do anything. Living up to your words, the inches continue to disappear, the sorest sight for his centuries-vision filled eyes, shoulders coming down in relief with a mouth ajar. Your hand's over the lower half of your stomach, not exposed by your shirt, but Sunghoon knows. 

You feel him there. 

"Remind me," he huffs, stalling for your adjustment, the stretch as delicious as it is a dance around torture. "You take what like a champ?"

Sunghoon gets a kick out of it, this you already know. Somehow, it still makes your jaw tick, the weight cramped in you, making friends with your lower stomach is colossal, enough for an eye twitch and a sharp head turn in his direction.

"Your cock," every word spoken has a letter with a centre part, the disapproving head shake you do continued as your hips shift, leaking tip grinding up into the spongy spot you keen at. "Now move, before I fuck you." 

Sunghoon's sorely mistaken. Painfully hard, yet he still continues ─ cat and mouse game too good to give up. 

"All bark, no bite," he muses, eyes in false moon crescent, hips pulling back to offload the fill of your entrance. "Leave that to the real vampire, huh?" 

Of course he'd leave you with that. Provide you some relief before he eases back into you again, grin shit-eating but eyes attentive, making sure this is pleasurable for you, to which it becomes. Accommodation is never easy, no matter how frequently you fuck, but he makes every grit of your teeth worth it. Falls into slow deep breaths you unknowingly follow and unwind with, moves his cock in and out at any pace you're comfortable with kisses you through it all, praises seared into the skin his lips meet.

A tempo builds, meek whimpers whispered into the hollow of his neck now barely contained moans. Your arms form a loose circle around his shoulders, the groans and whines he saves for your ears swirling a sickening pit of lust in your stomach.

"If only─hmph," you struggle, nails pressing into the fabric of his coat. "You put your mouth to better, fuck ─ use."

Past your ear, his laugh is bright. "You're bewitched,"

The smack of his pelvis against the back of your thighs teases your own teeth into his shoulder, whimpers releasing instead. 

"Are my fangs all I'm good for?"

Turns out, you have your own timing. Comedic timing, it seems, because when you pry from him, mourning the loss of his cool skin, your eyes peer down between your legs. At the cock he uses with you as priority, a simmered sensation you unwind to, wetness drenching his length as the faint bulge of his tip makes itself known. 

"You're good for other things too."

"Unbelievable," you hear your partner laugh, light and breathy because he's so fine-tuned to the human experience, large hands setting themselves up firm against your hips. "Now, if you will, let me do for what I'm good for."

Like you've always known him to be, he prides himself on his craft, making good of his word as he starts pistoning into you, the grind of his pelvis notching against your clit to make you squeal, his shoulders fastened to as the back of your thighs echo with your indecency. You're choking on moans, trying to keep noise to a minimal, but how can you when your vampire boyfriend knows you best? Knows what angle generates current in your body, what pace has you doubling over, holding him because the building pleasure is too immense for how contained your body feels? Knows when to flip the switch with you, the grounding presence you need or the kind that presses you into the ground. 

"My perfect girl," he murmurs, a soothing hand cascading down the back of your head. "I'll never get over how good you feel." 

He isn't the former for long, sheep's skin shed when your eyes start glossing over, legs hooked round his waist with your toes curled, tears of ecstasy saturating his coat's shoulder. How can he when you're basically offering yourself to him, enough distance created for your hands to support you from behind, neck craned for his taking. 

"Is this what you're into?" he asks, the outline of his body unfair under layers of clothing as his cock stuffs you full. "Do you fantasize about being feed on because you feed off the pleasure and pain?" 

You could consider his question, answer truthfully wherever it lies. However, you're a bit preoccupied. The one or two things he's good for working against you, reducing you to a worthless pile of mush, the same matter made of your brain, melted and spilling out your ears, hearing stifled. 

"Answer me." 

Your throat works, suddenly so dry with a swallow for saliva to quench some thirst, vision fuzzy as you fight off the impending doom. 

Not now, not yet. 

"Yes," you respond. "I'm into it because─" 

He notches himself with a particular force, one you do a withered whimper at, pupils shaking as they blow over your iris' ring. 

"Because it's with you," your hand's on his jaw, holding him firm as you add on. "I have a you fetish." 

"Fuck," there's a hitch in Sunghoon's thrusts, a slight hiccup when he disintegrates at your words, head hung only to come back up with the brightest smile on his face. The one you could spend eternity looking at. "You're such a tease." 

"A pretty, sloppy, needy─" emphasis in his stupidly seductive tone matches with the brute of his thrusts, concentrated and attuned to what'll make you break. "─tease." 

Against your forehead, his own falls, a kiss shared as his low body temperature attempts to dial back yours, the coil in your stomach too hot for you to function.

"Good thing you're close because I am too," he nods, one last kiss before he asks. "Do I have the honours?"

It's one of the easiest yes' you'll utter. 

"Always." 

What you could compare the initial seconds of Sunghoon feeding from you to is a piercing. The clamminess of your palms, an escalated heart rate even if you'd mentally prepared for the moment and eyes incapable of focusing. To gain it back, your only function boils down to managing your breaths as anticipation itches beneath your skin.

Then, it happens. 

A momentary flicker of pain, sharpened enamel piercing through skin and sinking, nestling where no vitals are endangered. It's minor, so minor it's forgotten the second after it's felt, the burst of euphoria incomprehensible. Words fail to explain the phenomenon, amounting to a standard you're on a constant chase for, bewitched as Sunghoon so lovingly puts it, him just the same ─ if not worse off ─ as he shamelessly moans at the taste, the vague waft of blood's metallic scent replaced with the blanket of his linen scent. 

Blood and sex are so intertwined, mentioned previously by Sunghoon. And while he'd said this in response to you, the words ring truest for him, a broken moan vibrating into your skin as his hips start rutting, erratic as he surges towards his orgasm. His priority forever and always, he wedges his hand between your bodies, your clit played with to bring you to a similar pace, something like come coating your walls as you squeeze his cock one last time, a cry from your lips before you come undone. 

Eventually, he relents, having had his fill with a pry he holds your body up for, still dazed from the aphrodisiac-like remedy in his venom to seal your skin together. When the world stops moving in separate circles, you catch sight of his fangs, coated in the rich crimson of your blood, only having the energy for a lazy smile before he sorts you two out. An eventual knock echoes at his door, Sunghoon spitting the last of Pearl Bite toothpaste out his mouth, fangs like brand new as you two feign normalcy. 

Like he hadn't fed from you, or how his vampire-equivalent to come isn't leaking between your crossed thighs. 

Just another day at Sunghoon's practice. 

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[aesprn]

10 THINGS I HATE ABOUT YOU ──── P. Sunghoon

PLOT! After leaving Gotham and moving to Metropolis, you finally got a job at the Daily Planet. Only problem? Theres one guy who's always late yet always gets the scoop. And boy, do you hate him. Alternatively: A list of the things you hate about your coworker, Park Sunghoon.

CONTENT! Sunghoon/Fem!Reader, Superman!Sunghoon, Gotham!Reader, slight rivals to lovers but its one sided, everybody works at the Daily Planet, you hate love sunghoon and he's obsessed with you, SMUT MDNI IM NOT KIDDING, p in v, oral (fem Receiving), slight overstim if u squint

AUTHORS NOTE! ok fun fact this is my old superman fic that i archived and i reworked it into being sunghoon so if it looks familiar i didnt copy bc its legit my work... also im keeping the fact that theyre in metropolis, but im changing sunghoon from being from bumblefuck midwest america to south jeolla to fit the country-esque vibe. PLEASE let me know if there are any errors i wrote this over a year ago and simply just changed names and places pls help a girl out.

STARRING! Chaewon (Le Sserafim), Jungwon + Jake + Riki + Heeseung (ENHA)

WORD COUNT! 6.9k

1 ── You hate that he's always late.

Metropolis is cleaner than Gotham, sure. Shinier. The streets sparkle like they’ve never seen a body chalked on the pavement, and people here walk a little faster—like they’re going somewhere they actually want to be. But beneath the polish, it’s the same grind. New City, same newsroom. 

You should’ve known The Daily Planet wouldn’t be much different than The Gotham Gazette. The coffee is just as burnt, the interns just as sweaty, and deadlines still loiter like stormclouds, waiting to downpour. You expected chaos. What you didn’t expect was Park Sunghoon.

He’s late.

Every. Damn. Day.

You hear him before you see him—always the same: the hurried shuffle of too-big shoes, the frantic slam of a shoulder against the swinging glass door, and the apologetic murmur of “Morning” that barely beats out the time clock.

You don’t even look up from your monitor. “It’s 9:47.”

Sunghoon wheezes into his cubicle—which, of course, is right next to yours. His tie is crooked, his glasses fogged, and his hair’s got a single, infuriatingly perfect curl bouncing on his forehead like it was placed there by angels. 

“Yeah,” He huffs. “Sorry. There was traffic.”

There’s always traffic in Metropolis. But that excuse is wearing thin, especially when he is the only one in the building who acts like he has to physically leap over it. 

You finally glance up, deadpan. “You know who else got stuck in traffic today? Me. Chaewon. The kid from copy who literally rides a unicycle to work. We all still made it to work on time.”

He runs a hand through his hair and smiles sheepishly, like that’s supposed to mean something. And somehow, it always does—with everyone else. Chaewon laughs it off. Riki yells, but only half-heartedly. Even Jake calls him “Jeolla” like it’s an inside joke and not an indictment of his hometown and somehow his incompetence. 

But you?

You are not charmed.

You’re Gotham born and bred. You’ve filed stories from under police tape, from fire escapes, from alleys where the blood was still wet. You didn’t claw your way out of that city just to share a byline with a man who treats deadlines like vague suggestions and shows up to work looking like he just wrestled a tornado.

Again!

“You’ve been late every day this week, Park,” You mutter, turning back to your monitor. “If you’re aiming for a record, congrats. You’re winning.”

He’s quiet for a beat. You think you’ve shut him up, finally. But then—“I’ve never really been good at winning things,” He says softly, almost like he’s talking to himself. 

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. There’s something about the way he says it, not pathetic. Just… strange. Like maybe he means something bigger. You almost ask. 

Almost.

Instead, you scoff and shake your head. “Try winning a Pulitzer. Might help your case.”

He grins again, that irritating, dimpled grin, and unpacks his bag like he didn’t walk in almost an hour later. You hate that he’s always late. You hate that nobody seems to care. You hate that he never has a good excuse, but still somehow gets away with it.

And most of all?

You hate that you’re starting to care enough to notice.

2 ── You hate his "aw shucks" act.

If Park Sunghoon’s lateness is a thorn in your side, then his personality is the knife twisting next to it. 

Not that it’s a bad personality, exactly. That’s the problem. On paper, he’s the perfect coworker—polite, humble, well-liked by every living soul in the building. He holds elevators. He offers to do coffee runs even when it’s pouring. He once helped Heeseung from Archives fix the jammed printer with nothing but a safety pin and a hopeful smile.

People adore him. They smile when he walks into the room. Laugh at his dumb jokes. Trust him. 

You do not.

Because you’ve been watching. You’ve been taking mental notes since week two. That “aw shucks, I’m just a small-town guy from Jeolla” routine is too well rehearsed. No one is that gentle and that oblivious. No one stammers through meetings and then turns in a perfect copy by the end of the day. No one is that clumsy—spilling coffee, tripping over wires—and yet somehow always lands on their feet.

You didn’t come from Gotham to fall for the world’s oldest trick.

So when he chuckles nervously after Chaewon slaps him on the back for landing a quote from the Steel Syndicate leader—a quote you had been chasing for a week—you grit your teeth and mutter:

“Oh, give me a break!”

Sunghoon turns to you, blinking. “Sorry?”

You don’t bother to fake it. “You play the ‘golly gee’ routine, but you’re sharper than you act. And frankly, it’s annoying.”

His brows knit behind his glasses. “I’m not acting.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Right. You just accidentally out-interviewed me and walked away with the best lead we’ve had all quarter.”

He laughs, scratching the back of his neck, all bashful. “I really wasn't trying to one-up you. I just—I guess he liked me?”

You scoff. “Of course he did,” You mumble. “Everyone does. Must be the charm of your down-home, butter-wouldn’t-melt-bullshit!”

“I’m from Jeolla, not Nebraska,” He says, like that explains everything.

You lean forward across your desk, voice low. “I’ve met people from Jeolla. They don’t act like they’ve never heard someone curse before.”

Sunghoon shrinks back slightly, like your words sting, but there’s a twitch of something else in his eyes—like he’s fighting a smile.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you curse,” He offers gently.

You narrow your eyes. “I save it for when I’m alone. Or keep it in my head. Like right now, for example. Internally? It’s a full symphony of four-letter words.”

He snorts, an actual snort, then claps a hand over his mouth like he’s embarrassed by it. That’s when you realize something terrifying. He’s not pretending to be harmless.

He is harmless.

And that somehow makes it worse.

Because no one is harmless in this job. Not in journalism. Not in Metropolis. Especially not if they’re good at it. And Sunghoon? Despite the dopey smile, the apologies, the way he trips over every desk in the bullpen. Sunghoon is very good at it.

You hate that his small town bullshit works. You hate that it makes people underestimate him. You hate that it almost worked on you. But the worst part? You’re starting to realize it’s not an act. It’s who he is.

And that makes you want to scream.

3 ── You hate how he somehow always gets the exclusive.

There’s something sacred about how the word exclusive in a newsroom. It’s the holy grail—the thing that earns you front pages, corner offices, Pulitzers. You’ve chased exclusives down back alleys, stayed on hold for eons, bribed a coffee-stained secretary with two croissants and a MetroCard just to get one measly quote from a crooked city councilman

But somehow, Park Sunghoon just gets them.

Every. Fucking. Time.

He never brags. That would at least make him bearable. He just shows up—late, of course—shrugs off his coat, and drops a crisp interview transcript on Riki’s desk like he tripped over it on the sidewalk.

It’s infuriating.

You first noticed it during the Union Square train derailment. Superman was spotted hauling survivors out of the wreckage. No reporters got near him. Police kept everyone back. Even Chaewon couldn’t get close. And she's Chaewon!

But the next morning?

There it was: Superman Speaks on Metropolis Disaster by Park Sunghoon.

You stared at the byline like it had personally offended you. Your fingers hovered over your keyboard as you read the quote—exclusive, lengthy, insightful. Too insightful.

“He said that?” You asked Sunghoon across the bullpen.

Sunghoon blinked. “Uh, yeah. He flew by while I was walking back from a source.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And what, he just… pulled you into the sky for a heart-to-heart?”

Sunghoon smiled, bashful. “We’ve talked a few times.”

You nearly choked on your burnt coffee.

A few times?

Since then, it’s been quote after quote. Superman says this. Superman warns that. Every piece is conveniently labeled “as told to Park Sunghoon.” You’ve pitched a dozen stories with solid leads, real impact, and Riki still passes them over in favor of Sunghoon’s Superman exclusives.

You’ve tried to ask how he does it. Casually. Aggressively. Once while both of you were on a stakeout at a warehouse near Suicide Slums, you even offered him your last protein bar if he’d just tell you how the hell he keeps finding Superman.

Sunghoon just smiled. That soft, maddeningly patient smile, and said, “I think he trusts me.”

Trusts him.

Like Superman sits around rating journalists on a Yelp scale.

You stare across the bullpen now, watching Sunghoon quietly type something into his terminal. He looks like a librarian. One of those sleepy, gentle ones who offer you a tissue when you cry reading To Kill a Mockingbird. 

And yet somehow, he gets the hero in blue to spill his guts.

You hate it.

You hate that it makes you question your own work. You hate that you keep looking for the cracks in his story, the thing that explains how he’s doing this. You’ve doubled-checked timestamps. Scrubbed security footage. Asked sources. Nothing adds up. 

No one sees Sunghoon talking to Superman.

And yet Sunghoon knows things. Small details. Direct quotes. Reassurances Superman has never given anyone else.

You lean back in your chair and stare at the ceiling. Either Park Sunghoon is the luckiest man in Metropolis… or he’s hiding something.

And you don’t believe in luck.

4 ── You hate that he doesn't talk shit.

Newsrooms run on gossip.

That’s just a fact.

You don’t survive in this field—not in this city—without learning to weaponise information. It’s part of the culture. You swap barbs while the coffee brews, trade snark over late-night edits, hurl critiques and conspiracies like dodgeballs. Everyone does it. It keeps you sane. Keeps you sharp.

Except Sunghoon.

Sunghoon doesn’t talk shit.

At first, you assumed it was a tactic. A kind of passive power play, let everyone else tear each other down while he keeps his hands clean and his halo polished. You even waited for him to crack. Made space for it.

Chaewon stormed past your desks muttering, “If I have to rewrite one more of Franklin’s clickbait trash, I swear to God—” and you turned to Sunghoon, ready.

Nothing.

He just said, “Franklin’s trying to juggle two kids and night school. He’s doing the best he can.”

You blinked. “That’s your take? Really?”

Sunghoon smiled, easy. “Well, it’s not like yelling about it helps.”

You stared at him for a full beat, then scoffed. “Wow. How do you make ‘reasonable’ sound so smug?”

He laughed. Not mocking. Not defensive. Just… amused.

It keeps happening.

Gina in Copy fakes sick twice in one week to go see her boyfriend in Coast City. Nobody buys it. You expect Sunghoon to at least comment. Something gentle, like “Must be nice to have a love life” but he just covers her calls without being asked.

When Jungwon blows a quote in a city council interview, you hear three people mutter about it near the break room. Sunghoon hears too. You watch his eyes flick in that direction, but he doesn’t engage. He just brings Jungwon a coffee the next morning with no explanation.

You don’t get it.

You’ve worked with assholes and saints and everything in between. But there’s always a crack. A vent. A gripe. A single “Jesus Christ, can you believe this guy?” at happy hour.

Sunghoon? He smiles, he listens. He takes the fall for other people's mistakes, and never once asks for anything in return.

It’s not that he’s quiet. He barks. He just doesn’t bite. 

You should hate it. Actually, no, you do hate it.

Because it makes you feel mean. Makes you feel like every time you roll your eyes or mutter something under your breath, you’re the one slinging mud at a guy who just… doesn’t throw it back.

He’s not better than you. That’s what you tell yourself. He’s not better. He’s just boring. But that’s not true, is it?

Because when Carol’s mom lands in the hospital, he’s the one who quietly organizes a grocery drop-off.

When Riki has a meltdown over a typo in the Sunday headline, Sunghoon doesn’t flinch. He just calmly fixes it. Compliments the new intern’s formatting, and reminds Riki to breathe.

When you come in one morning with three hours of sleep and that coil, pre-caffeine snarl already at your lips, he places a black coffee on your desk without saying a word.

You hate how it makes your chest tighten.

You hate that he makes kindness look easy—not loud or performative or fake, just… part of him.

You hate that you’re starting to notice how often his eyes go soft when someone’s having a bad day.

You hate how your shoulders drop just a little when he walks in.

You hate how, for all the ways he frustrates you, he never gives you a real reason to hate him back.

You tap your pen against your notebook and glances at him—across the bullpen, bent over his desk, tie askew, glasses sliding down, that same stupid curl on his forehead. He’s reading something, mouth twitching like he might laugh, and you watch him longer than you mean to.

You shake yourself.

No.

This is just a strategy. Observation. Knowing your competition. It’s not softness. It’s not a crush. It’s not a slow-burn, late-blooming kind of fondness, the kind that sneaks up on you when you’re too tired to fight it.

It’s not.

You just hate that he doesn’t talk shit. That’s all.

5 ── You hate how he remembers everything you say.

You’re not the type of person who expects people to remember things.

You’ve had too many conversations die halfway through a sentence. Too many men nod politely, only to ask you the same question a week later like they never heard your answer the first time. You’ve learned to file your words under ‘for now’—disposable, temporary, forgettable.

Park Sunghoon doesn’t see it that way.

You noticed it during your first lunch break, maybe two weeks in. You’d been ranting—venting, truly—about how every salad in Metropolis comes pre-drenching in some sort of smug artisanal vinaigrette. You weren’t even talking to him. Just muttering to yourself while stabbing a piece of limp kale in the breakroom.

The next day, he passed you a plain turkey sandwich from the deli on 6th and said, “They don’t just dressing unless you ask. Though you might like it.”

You blinked at him

“You remembered that?” You asked, caught off guard.

Sunghoon shrugged with a smile. “You seemed passionate.”

You were half convinced it was a fluke. But it wasn’t.

Because the pattern kept happening.

You mentioned once—once—that your favorite weather is when it rains but the sun’s still out. A week later, during one of those golden, misty drizzles, he caught up to you on the steps and said, “Looks like your kind of day, huh?”

You told him offhandedly that your least favorite movie trope is the girl tripping while running. Three nights later, you passed each other in the hallways after working late, and he asked if you’d seen the new action flick in theaters. “No tripping heroines, I promise.”

You said that once your dad used to call you ‘kid’ and that no one’s used the word since.

He’s never called you that. But you catch him hesitating once. Mid-sentence. Like it’s on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it.

You don’t know how to feel about that.

Because you never asked him to remember. You never wanted him to.

You’ve known people who remember birthdays because Facebook reminds them. Or likes and dislikes so they can use them later. But Sunghoon? He never uses it. He just stores it. Quietly. Thoughtfully. Like your words matter. Like they’re puzzle pieces he’s collecting, not to solve you, but to understand you.

And maybe that’s what bothers you most.

Because no one’s ever tried to understand you.

Not really.

Gotham trained you to guard your secrets with blood. To keep your walls high, your smile sarcastic, your stories brief and impersonal. But Sunghoon listens like he’s trying to paint a picture of you in his head, one brushstroke at a time.

And you despise it.

You hate that it makes you feel seen. 

You hate that it makes you feel real.

You hate that it makes you wonder how much you’ve remembered about him.

You glance at his desk. Same stupid Superman bobblehead he swore he didn’t buy himself. Same chipped I Heart Korea mug. Same pair of extra reading glasses tucked into the drawer, just in case.

You remember that he doesn’t like spicy food. That he uses semicolons like they’re going out of style. That he hums the theme from Star Wars when he’s writing something he’s proud of.

You remember way too much.

So maybe you don’t hate that he remembers everything you say. Maybe you hate that you’ve started doing it too.

6 ── You hate that he looks at you like he sees you.

There’s a kind of look people give you when they think they know who you are.

Back in Gotham, it was always the same—calculating, wary, sometimes impressed. You were the youngest on the crime desk, the loudest in the pitch room, the one with the sharpest elbows and the thinnest armor. People look at you like a problem to solve or a rival to beat.

But that’s not how Sunghoon looks at you. He looks at you like you’re someone. Not a headline. Not a byline. Not the girl from Gotham with a chip on her shoulder and a pen like a scalpel.

Just you.

And it drives you batshit crazy.

Because it’s not just in meetings, when you sneak up and catch his gaze across the table—it’s in the little moments. When you’re half-asleep at your desk and he walks by with a fresh coffee. When you’re biting your tongue in an argument and he gives you a look like he already knows what you want to say. When you laugh—really laugh—and you see him watching like it’s a rare event he doesn’t want to interrupt.

It’s too much. Too soft. Too honest. You don’t want to be known like that. Not by him. Not by anyone.

But he keeps doing it. Like it’s effortless. Like seeing you, the real you, the messy and angry and guarded parts is just what happens when he looks at someone.

And you hate that you notice it. And you hate that some small, quiet part of you never wants him to stop.

7 ── You hate how nervous he makes you feel.

You’re not nervous around people.

You’ve been yelled at by corrupt mayors. Cornered by gang members for writing the wrong names in the right story. You’ve told a Gotham crime boss to spell his name correctly if he wants to be quoted. You know how to stand your ground, spine straight, heart steady.

But Sunghoon makes you so nervous that you might shit your pants.

Not in the usual nervous way—not in the way bad people do. He doesn’t threaten or belittle or hover too close. No, Sunghoon stands a respectful distance away and still somehow manages to get under your skin. He fidgets when you talk. He laughs at your sarcasm. He listens like he’s memorizing you on purpose. 

And lately… you’ve been messing things up.

You dropped your pen the other day. Three times. In one meeting.

You forgot what you were saying mid-sentence when he looked at you—just looked at you—like the whole room had gone quiet except for you.

You called him Sunghoon and it came out soft, almost breathless, and it startled you. Like your mouth knew something your brain just hadn’t caught up with yet.

When you brushed against him near the elevator, shoulder to shoulder, your pulse stuttered. Not fear. Not irritation. Something else. Then it hit you.

You like him.

God, you like him.

You like his stupid glasses and his kind eyes and the way he always holds the door for people even when they don't say thank you. You like the way he scribbles notes in the margins of his reporter’s notebook and the way he lights up when someone says the words human interest. You like that he takes his job seriously without ever acting like he’s the smartest man in the room.

You like that he’s good. You trust him. And that might scare you more than anything else on this planet.

You hate that he makes you nervous, because it means your guard is down. And you never let your guard down. Especially not for someone like him. Especially not when he might possibly, slightly, maybe, feel the same way.

Because if he does.. if he does… you’re not sure what happens now.

8 ── You hate that he's Superman.

You almost died today.

Not in the dramatic, flashing-lights-before-your-eyes kind of way. More like sudden and sharp. One second, you were walking past LexCorp Tower with a coffee in hand. The next, the sky cracked open with a sound like the earth tearing apart, and something enormous. A ship? A drone? It spiraled out of control and straight into the street.

You didn’t scream. Not at first. Your body froze instead, the kind of instinct that Gotham should’ve removed. Get big, get loud. Scare the monster away from you.

But flight or fight invited a friend to the party. Fawn. And she told you not to move a muscle. To get small. Get still. And pray to Jesus of Nazareth that the monster passes.

It didn’t.

It was coming right for you.

And then, just like every headline you’d ever written about him, Superman was there.

He was a blur at first. Then red. Then blue. Then everything stopped. The drone crumpled against the pavement thirty feet away, a crater the size of a bus sinking into the asphalt. Wind whipped around you, debris in your hair, your coffee exploded on the ground. And in the center of it all, standing perfectly fine like the chaos had bent around him on purpose—

Him. 

Superman.

He turned to you, eyes impossibly soft for someone who could tear steel apart with his bare hands. “Are you hurt?”

You nodded dumbly. Maybe you shook your head. You don’t remember. Your voice wasn’t working.

He gave you a smile, the kind that should’ve made you feel safe. It did. But it also unsettled something deep in your chest. Almost like recognition.

He took off again in a gust of air and cape and godlike power, and you stood there shaking, your hands empty.

That night, you sat cross-legged on your couch with the local news running in the background, half-heartedly typing notes for tomorrow’s article. You watched grainy footage of Superman returning a flaming car to the street like it was a paper toy. You watched people cheering, waving, chanting his name.

You knew he was a hero. You knew he’d saved countless lives. But seeing him up close? Feeling the air shift around him, the sheer weight of him?

It rattled you.

And yet, what kept circling in your brain wasn’t just the blur of the cape or the force of the landing. It was his eyes.

The way he looked at you.

Like he knew you. Like he saw you.

And then your fingers stopped moving.

Because you’d seen that look before.

Early this week. At the Daily Planet. In the elevator, when you’d complained about the vending machine eating your dollar. 

Sunghoon had looked at you like that.

You stared at the paused frame on your screen. Superman mid-turn, mid-expression.

You grabbed your phone, opened the gallery. A photo Jungwon had taken at Chaewon’s birthday last month. Sunghoon, standing beside you with that same crooked smile. Same jawline. Same posture.

Your heart sank.

No.

You looked again. 

You zoomed in.

And all at once, every thing—every late arrival, every exclusive quote, every ‘You okay?’ after a tremor, every ‘How did he know?’—every moment fell into place like puzzle pieces you’d been too close to see. 

Park Sunghoon is Superman.

You sat there frozen, blinking at the screen as a sick kind of heat spread through your chest. You hate that he’s Superman.

Not because he’s dangerous. Not because he lied—though God, he did.

You hate it because you were just starting to fall for Sunghoon. Sweet, awkward, late-to-everything Sunghoon. Now you’re not sure where Sunghoon ends and Superman begins.

And worst of all? You’re not sure which one of them you’re in love with.

9 ── You hate how he touches you.

You told yourself it was for the story.

That inviting Sunghoon over to your apartment—late, after deadline, with a six-pack in the fridge and the lights dimmed just enough to feel casual—was a journalistic strategy. You even made a notepad with scribbled questions, highlighted sources in your phone, and pulled up three articles from the Planet’s archive as “references.”

But deep down, you knew exactly what you were doing.

Sunghoon knocked once. Polite. Timid. He always knocked like he didn’t want to disturb you, even when he had to enter the bullpen three minutes before a press conference with ink on his tie. You opened the door and didn’t let yourself look too long at the way his glasses slid down his nose or how the sleeves of his white button-down were rolled to his forearms.

He stepped in, soft-voiced as ever. “You said you needed help with something?”

“An article,” You said, breezy. “About Superman.”

And God, you said his name like a test.

Sunghoon blinked. Just once. Just barely. But you caught it.

You offered him a beer. You talked. You took notes on nothing. And he sat there—not relaxed, exactly, but trying to act like he was. He always had this charming nervousness to him. But now that you knew—knew—it wasn’t nerves. It was restraint. It was a man constantly folding himself into something smaller to pass unnoticed.

You kept waiting for him to lie.

He didn’t.

So you forced his hand.

You said it like it didn’t cost you anything: “You’re Superman.”

Silence. Stillness. The longest pause you’d ever heard.

He didn’t deny it.

He didn’t laugh it off.

He just looked at you.

And it was like the air in the room shifted. Something cracked open between you. Not hostile. Not afraid. Just honest.

“You’ve known?” He asked quietly.

“I figured it out after the LexCorp thing. The way you looked at me.”

He closed his eyes. Like he was trying to protect you from something—or maybe protect himself from what he already knew was coming next.

“I never meant to lie,” He said. “Not to you.”

“But you did,” You replied. “Every day.”

And you should’ve been furious. You should’ve thrown him out. Written the article. Exposed everything. But you didn’t.

Because all you could think about was the way he looked at you in the cratered street. The way he always hovered a second longer when your hands brushed. The way he saw you—really saw you—even before you ever knew who he was.

And the way he touched you now, when he reached across the table to cover your hand with his own—gentle, grounding, warm.

You hated it.

You hated the way the contact burned up your arm and across your chest like he’d set your blood alight. You hated how steady it felt, how calm, how wanted. You hated the way it made you lean in, just slightly, like gravity was tugging you toward him.

“You’re mad,” He said.

“I should be.”

He swallowed. “Are you?”

You looked at him—really looked—and saw all of it. The weight of two lives. The softness behind the cape. The man who brought you coffee when you were hungover. The man who pulled a collapsing building off a school bus.

Park Sunghoon. Superman. Both. All.

And you hated that he made you feel like this. Hated the way his fingers curled around yours like he’d been waiting to do it for months. Hated that your heart was pounding so loud you were afraid he could hear it.

You stood.

He stood too.

You should’ve said something. Pulled back. Cut it off.

But when he stepped forward, eyes locked on yours—when he hesitated, like he needed your permission—and when you didn’t stop him—

His mouth met yours, and the world dropped out.

You hated the way it made you forget every single reason you were supposed to hate him. Hated the way his hands were patient, reverent, like he was memorizing the shape of you. Hated the way you melted into him like you’d done this a thousand times in another life.

You hated the sound you made when he pressed you gently against the wall. Hated the tremble in your breath when his lips found the spot just beneath your jaw. Hated how badly you wanted him—and not just the cape. Not just the secret.

Him.

Sunghoon.

You pulled him closer.

And in that moment, you didn’t hate anything at all.

You didn’t mean for it to go this far. You meant to confront him. To unearth the truth. To hold him accountable. 

But now his hands are at your waist—warm, grounding, familiar—and he’s kissing you like he’s spent decades thinking about it. Like he’s imagined it in quiet mornings between bylines and burning buildings. Like it’s the one indulgence he never allowed himself to have.

Your fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt. “Tell me to stop,” He breathes against your skin. You don’t. Because you’ve wanted this. Hated how much you’ve wanted this.

Not just tonight. Not just since he walked through your apartment door with that bashful smile and that stupid, careful politeness like he didn’t have a goddamn clue you were about to wreck both of your lives.

No, you’ve wanted this since the second week at the Planet. And you’ve finally got it.

You fist his shirt and push him back against the wall, chest heaving, and when he looks at you with wide eyes and his lips parted, looking so vulnerable in a way that makes your throat ache, something inside of you snaps.

“You’re such a fucking liar.”

His breath stutters. “I didn’t want to—”

You cut him off with your mouth.

And that’s all it takes.

The kiss is desperate. Messy. Teeth knocking, breath uneven. His hands roam over you like he’s been starving for it, like he’s been dreaming about this for years. One palm slides up your back, the other fists in your hair, and you moan against his lips before biting down, just enough to make him groan.

You push him toward the bedroom.

He lets you.

You straddle him the second he hits the bed, pressing your hips down until you feel him twitching beneath his slacks, already hard, already straining. You grind slowly, deliberately, and his head drops back with a strangled sound.

You kiss him again, slower this time. Meaner. Like a punishment. Like retribution for every late arrival, every Superman scoop, every time he looked at you like you hung the fucking moon.

When you break away, you lean down, your mouth brushing his ear. “I hate you.”

His breath catches. His grip on your hips tightens.

“I hate how soft you pretend to be. I had that stupid fucking ‘golly gee’ act like you’re not hiding the most dangerous secret in the world. I hate you.”

“God,” He breathes, almost broken. “Say it again.”

“I hate you, Sunghoon.”

And then his hands are everywhere.

He rolls you over, yanking your shirt off so fast the fabric nearly rips. His mouth crashed to your neck, trailing heat down your collarbone, between your breasts, across your ribs. When he pulls back to look at you, there’s something primal in his gaze. Starved. Worshipful.

“Tell me where you want me,” He rasps.

You lean up on your elbows. “You’re Superman. Figure it out.”

His growl vibrates through your chest before he drops to his knees at the edge of the bed, dragging your pants down your thighs. He doesn’t stop to tease. Doesn’t play coy.

His mouth is on you in seconds.

Hot. Wet. Perfect.

You cry out, hips jerking, but his hands grip your thighs and hold you down, unmovable. His tongue flicks in tight, devastating circles, and then he flattens it. Slow and deliberate, until your eyes roll back in your head.

“Fuck—Sunghoon—”

He moans against you, like the sound of his name falling from your lips is the only thing he’s ever wanted.

Your fingers tangle in his hair. “I hate this. I hate how good you are at this.”

He groans again, deeper, louder. You feel him rutting slightly against the mattress like he’s getting off just from tasting you. The thought makes you whine. It’s almost unfair how good he is at this. Like he’s memorized you.

He finds your clit again, circles it with obscene precision, and you arch off the mattress with a sharp gasp.

“You’re close,” He whispers against you. “I can feel it.”

“I’m going to kill you,” You pant.

“I’ll die happy.”

Your orgasm hits like a wave crashing through you, hot and heavy and blinding, You cry out, sharp and breathless, thighs trembling around his head. Sunghoon doesn’t stop. He licks you through it, soft and reverent. Like he wants to savor every second.

You look down at him, wrecked and panting. “I still hate you,” You manage.

He grins, a real one this time, crooked and infuriatingly gorgeous. “Good,” he says. “Then you’ll hate this even more.”

And just like that, he’s crawling back up your body, slotting himself between your legs, the head of his clothes cock nudging against your soaked entrance.

And he’s still hard. Rock fucking hard.

You blink. “Jesus Christ.”

He pulls his pants and boxers down as his smile widens. “Not quite.”

You punch his arm. He laughs, but the sound dies quickly when he lines himself up and pushes in, slow and smooth, inch by inch. You both groan. You clench around him instinctively, and his jaw locks.

“You feel—fuck. Better than I dreamed.”

“You dreamed about this?”

He leans in, kisses you hard. “Every night.”

You’re still trembling from the first wave when Sunghoon pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, pupils blown wide like he;s been holding back an entire storm.

You arch up into his hands, desperate and aching. His lips descend again. This time with hungry insistence, sucking bruises into your skin—neck, collarbone—a map of possession in deep, dark purples. You try to catch your breath but he pins your arms above your head with one hand, the other trailing fire down your ribs, across your stomach.

“Don’t move,” he commands, voice trembling like it’s torture holding himself back.

His mouth covers yours again, hot and insistent, teeth grazing your bottom lip as his fingers move faster inside you. He kisses and sucks at your neck, marking you like he’s carving your name into his skin. 

You shiver, heart pounding as he works your shirt off you, fingertips trailing across your ribs once more. He’s relentless, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. You’re gasping, trembling under the weight of his touch. You’re still sensitive from the last orgasm he coaxed out of you, be he’s not done. Not even close.

His hands tremble as he touches you. The way he looks at you now—wide eyes, desperate, like he’s about to break—makes something wild flare inside you.

He’s not the untouchable hero tonight. He’s yours. And you own every inch of him.

You kiss him hard, biting his lower lip as you maneuver the both of you until he’s on his back and you’re on top of him. His skin is impossibly warm under your touch, slick with heat and desire.

Sunghoon’s breathing is ragged, his chest rising and falling quickly. He presses himself against you, hands tangled in your hair, holding you close like he’s afraid to let go.

You take control, guiding him down until he’s lying back, breathless and vulnerable. You straddle him, sliding your heat against his ache. His hands cup your hips, trembling, and he whimpers softly as you begin to move.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice thick with need. “So good… God, you’re so good…”

His eyes squeeze shut, mouth falling open, exposing raw, desperate pleasure. He’s never been like this, the strong and invincible Superman, not when it comes to you.

He whines when you shift, when you grind, when you tease that sensitive spot that makes him arch into you, hips jerking uncontrollably. Then you sink down onto him.

“Please, don’t stop,” He begs, voice breathy and broken. 

Your hands slide over his chest, feeling the rapid thumb of his heart beneath your palms. He’s lost, undone, and it’s yours to keep. You ride him slowly, building, driving him higher, feeling every shiver and gasp as his pleasure months.

He whimpers your name over and over, voice cracked and raw. “More.” He begs, fingers clutching your hips tighter. You give it to him.

Faster now. Harder. The room fills with the sound of skin sliding, ragged breaths, and his desperate, needy whimpers. When he comes, it’s shuddering and loud—hips bucking wildly, mouth open in a ragged cry. 

You collapse against him, breathless, hearts pounding together in a thunderous rhythm. He pulls you close, lips brushing your hair, whispering your name like a prayer. And you hate that you don’t want this to end.

10 ── You hate that you love him.

You told yourself it wasn’t possible.

Not with Park Sunghoon—Mr. Always-Late, Mr. Aw‑Shucks, Mr. Exclusive‑Scoop Superman. The man who made you roll your eyes before you even opened his email. The man who kept secrets that could’ve rewritten your career. The man you once swore you'd never let in.

And now you’re waking up tangled in his arms, back pressed against his chest, his breath warm against your neck. He’s asleep—still shirtless, still soft beneath the weighted duvet like he’s the one who needs comfort, not the other way around. Your mind whips through all the reasons you shouldn’t feel this calm. This safe. This full.

You hate him.

You hate how he made you laugh at that stupid coffee joke you said while complaining about the crime desk. You hate how he trails kisses along your eyelids when you’re half-awake just to check if you're really real. You hate that he’s Superman—because knowing he could see the world in one blink, yet he chooses to stay here, beside you… it almost hurts.

You roll over carefully and catch his gaze.

He blinks. “Morning.” His voice is rough, like he’s just been dragged out of a dream you wish you were in too.

You raise an eyebrow. “Morning? You know you’re not even supposed to exist before 8, right?”

He grins softly, stretching, then wraps an arm around you again. “I got a day off,” He says. “Superman’s on vacation.”

Your lips twitch. “Vacation. That’s rich.”

He chuckles into your shoulder. “So you don’t mind.”

You scoot back enough to face him. “I mind that you’re gorgeous at 7 a.m. and I can't even hate you for it.”

He quirks his mouth. “Sorry.”

“Oh no, it’s fine.” You tap the bridge of his nose with a finger. “Let the world survive without Superman for one day. Let me hate you slightly less.”

He laughs, and it’s the softest thing in the room. Your chest tightens. You’ve hated him for a lot of things—his lateness, his lies, his speed-of-light heroism—but none of it compares to the strange ache of joy when he smiles at you this way.

“We should get breakfast,” He says, voice low like he’s testing gravity. “I know this place downtown that has killer cinnamon rolls.”

You sit up. Hair messy, pajamas rumpled. You cross your arms. “I hate cinnamon rolls.”

He scowls in mock horror. “No real human hates cinnamon rolls.” Then softer: “Fine. We’ll go anywhere you like.”

You narrow your eyes. “I’ve lived decades off burnt coffee and reuse foam. I don’t crave anything sweet.”

He’s thoughtful for just a beat. “Okay. Black coffee and stale bagels it is.”

A grin tugs at your lips. It’s so utterly him to tease. So… effortless. You're flooded with old habits—cynicism, sarcasm—and they feel braver than you thought.

But then his thumb brushes gently over your hand. And underneath the banter you suddenly realize how loud your heart is.

You clear your throat. “But seriously—I still hate you.” You lie.

He stills beside you. A small smile covers his face.Heartbeat thunders under his palm. “You know,” he says quietly, voice cracking just a little, “I hate how worried I get when you pull investigative duty alone.”

Your gut clenches. “You’ll fly here if anything happens.”

He nods. “In five seconds.”

You stare at him. Really stare. This is not Superman breathing next to you—this is Sunghoon. Vulnerable. Human. Loving.

In that moment, all the hate evaporates.

“We’re a mess,” You laugh softly, looking away.

He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. “Best mess I’ve ever been in.”

He kisses your temple lightly. Tender. Long. Enough that you’ve lost count of everything you should hate about him.

And you hate that this moment isn’t the end. It’s just the beginning.

taglist: @wonubug @wonwounds @seobmoji @jiumeow @kyoteas @rkvist

© aesprn — all rights reserved.

[sunmoonnie]

JEALOUS TYPE

i just can't decide — which road is leading me to hell or paradise?

🦡★. ݁˖ SUMMARY :: your overly possessive boyfriend makes an agreement with his best friend in order to try to control himself and his jealousy issues — his best friend has to flirt with you, and if you fall for it, you'll earn something that you will remember for the rest of your life. This prize for your boyfriend is supposed to be a punishment, however he can't help himself but realize he likes it too...

🦡★. ݁˖ TAGS :: possessive jake, jealous jake, oral sex, cuckolding, threesome, queer themes, internalized homophobia, m x m content, fingering, nipple play, doggy style, hidden feelings, mentioned sunoo and jungwon, toxic jake, unhealthy relationship, possessive relationship, cheating (idk?), loads of dirty talk, breast fucking, masturbation, dom!sunghoon, sub!jake, verbal humiliation, homoerotic friendship, handcuffs, slight bdsm, sunghoon is a freaking braaaaat in this, sassy!sunghoon, unprotected p in v, rough sex, fingers in mouth

🦡★. ݁˖ GENRE :: smut with plot

🦡★. ݁˖ PAIRING :: boyfriend!jake x reader x boyfriend's!best friend!sunghoon

🦡★. ݁˖ WC :: 11k

🦡★. ݁˖ NOW PLAYING 💿 jealous type | doja cat

A/N :: i cant even put into words how much i HATE the first part, but pls dont let it scare you away because the rest is good💔 this is a very old draft haha thought id post something while im working on my longer fics (SURPRISE SURPRISE!!!)

Jake has always been a jealous type since you’ve known him. Ever since you and him got together three years ago, he got envious of the tiniest things. Even seeing you ask for directions in an amusement park from another male made his blood boil with anger. 

You told him it was kind of upsetting you, and he has tried to control it ever since. But it's just so hard, when in his eyes you are the most beautiful and precious thing ever. 

So, instead of trying to control it, he buried the thoughts deep down in his mind. He just hid it that he felt jealous every time you had to go out, possibly meeting someone you know and seeing you smile while talking to someone else.

“She told you she's with her friends” Sunghoon’s voice rasps through the phone’s speaker.

Jake walks around in the living room, almost nervously as he bites down his nails. It is a Thursday night, and you are out with your friends working on a uni project. 

He wanted to trust you and not act childish, so he let you go without saying anything, not even a sneaky comment about how you could’ve just invited your friends over to do the project in your shared apartment.

But here he is, on the phone with his best friend who tries to reassure him as much as he can. Sunghoon finds it funny how Jake gets upset at the smallest things ever. It surprises him a little bit, because before he got with you, he was never like this. 

“What if one of her friends wants to get with her?” He questions, earning a sigh from the other side of the phone. 

“Man, you are seriously something else since you guys are together” Sunghoon says, having the audacity to laugh. 

Jake stops circling around in the living room and looks out of the window, biting his lower lip down. “Are you saying that if you had a girlfriend you wouldn't be—”

“Straight up possessive?” Sunghoon interrupts “No”

“I'm not possessive” Jake projects, clenching his teeth together tightly. “I'm just worried”

Another sigh from the other side of the phone, and Jake is seriously beginning to debate if he should just simply put the phone down and, maybe, maybe… go after you. He knows where you meet your friends all the time, it's always the same bar on the corner of the street.

“Alright” Sunghoon says after a few moments of silence. Jake thinks this is finally the time when he says ‘don’t be a loser’ or something like that, and puts the phone down. “I'm coming over” 

Jake’s eyes widens suddenly hearing the words from his friend, and he opens his mouth to say something back, to deny it, but he already hears the small ‘beep’ that indicates the end of the phone call. 

-

Jake lays on his couch, not feeling like moving a singular muscle when he hears a key in the door. He glances over at it, just to see Sunghoon stepping in. He doesn't even know since when Sunghoon has a key to your apartment, but he doesn't really care at this point. This man has invalidated his private space a long time ago, and he doesn't bother to leave any time soon.

Sunghoon laughs when he sees his best friend laying on the couch unbothered, having his eyes on the tv but not really watching it.

“Jeez, you look faded, man,” Sunghoon comments, putting his leather jacket on one of the kitchen’s chairs.

“I'm not faded” Jake mumbles back, sitting up weakly.

Sunghoon hops down next to him on the couch, slightly pushing his arm to move away. “You are overreacting” he states.

“Thanks, that's really reassuring!”

Sunghoon runs a hand through his dark locks, putting both of his legs on the couch “I’m serious. Have you ever looked in the mirror? Why would she want anyone else when you— nevermind” he trails off mid sentence, turning his head away to look at the glowing tv screen, the light hitting his face making his soft features stand out more.

Jake frowns his brows in slight confusion. Why did Sunghoon get shy all of a sudden? He looks stressed, which isn't an usual thing to see on his face. Not when he was about to compliment his best friend; it was a casual compliment and nothing else.

“What?” Jake lets out a small chuckle, gaze staying on his best friend “when I what?”

“You look good, Jake. You don't have to worry about her cheating on you” Sunghoon barks finally, eyes still avoiding Jake at all cost. He wanted to say handsome, he wanted to say more, but he decided it was for the better to keep his mouth shut. Jake doesn't have to hear all his thoughts about him.

Jake chuckles again, but this time it's different. It sounds like he's satisfied with the compliment. “Thanks” he smiles to himself. “But that doesn't really help. My mind just can't stop” 

Sunghoon ducks his head back and looks at the ceiling, he’s starting to get fed up by hearing the same thing over and over again all the time. Then, just as if a light bulb lit up in his mind, he straightens his back “I have an idea”

Jake looks up at him, cocking a brow curiously. “What is it?”

“I can prove to you that she only wants you. I can test her”

Jake grimaces “You want to flirt with my girlfriend?”

Sunghoon runs his hand down on his face, gesturing with his hands while he explains. Sure, if you word it like Jake, the idea doesn't sound so good… “No, no. I mean, kinda, but she won't fall for it. Trust me. I can flirt with her and everything, and I will tell you everything she tells me. So you will know everything about our interactions.”

Jake curls up in a ball at the end of the sofa, pulling his knees up to his chest and biting down his nails as he thinks through the idea. It seemed very bad at first, but now that he thinks about it maybe it isn't that bad. Sunghoon flirts with you, just like a stranger would. But he can tell him about all of your interactions, how you react to each of his words. Yes, you know that Sunghoon is Jake’s best friend, but it isn't a problem since you guys never actually talked that much, just rushed greetings and goodbyes. 

This is all what Jake wants. This is all he has been wanting ever since you two got together. Ever since he kissed you for the first time, ever since he tasted you for the first time. Knowing how you react when you talk with someone else and he's not there.

“So, what do you think?” Sunghoon asks, snapping Jake out of his cloudy thoughts.

“And what if she does cheat on me?” Jake assumes. 

“She won—”

“No, I’m serious. I'm not overreacting, or whatever. What if she really does?” His tone is serious, meaning every word he says.

Sunghoon bites down his lip, seriously thinking. “Well, then we fuck” he shrugs.

“What the fuck? And what do I gain from that?” Jake exclaims, throwing a pillow at the dark-haired boy. 

“I don't know, man. You can— like— watch?” He says the last part of the sentence like it's the most forbidden thing to say, like it's a slur, quietly. But he still says it, and Jake heard it very well.

“Watch? Are you serious?” He asks, knitting his brows together “You want me to watch how you fuck my girlfriend?” he lets out a nervous giggle, ignoring the shivers that run down his spine at the idea.

Sunghoon throws the pillow back, and Jake catches it smoothly. “Okay, look, I know it sounds bad— like— very bad.” he starts, and licks his lips. Jake looks at him with brows knitted together, eyes as big as ever. Sunghoon looks away from his heavy gaze for a moment. “But, if you think about it… You have to work on your skills. You have to control yourself, to not get jealous.”

“Come on, my jealousy is not that bad”

“You called me to talk about how much it irritates you that your girlfriend went out with her friends to do a project for school” Sunghoon says, in a tone that makes Jake look childish and dumb.  

“Well, yes—”

“The call lasted for two hours. You said it yourself. Your mind can't stop making up shit”

Jake bites down his lip until it bleeds, looking Sunghoon up and down for a flash of moment, trying to take in what he's saying exactly. It's not that bad. You would never actually cheat on him, right? You wouldn't fall for his best friend. 

“Okay”

“What? Really?” Sunghoon asks, surprised at the sudden mind changing. He would never have thought that Jake would let him even try to flirt with you, but letting him fuck you was the bigger thing that made his heart skip a beat. If things go well, obviously. The fact that he would watch it is just cherry on top.

“Yes” Jake lets out a huff and stands up, walking to the kitchen to drink a glass of water. After this conversation he will need something way stronger than water tonight.

Sunghoon follows him, still being flabbergasted by Jake's words. “I can't believe you actually said yes”

Jake turns away from the sink, facing the overly happy Sunghoon “Go home before I change my mind” 

-

A few days, maybe two weeks have passed since the agreement with Sunghoon, and Jake would lie if he would say he was able to stop thinking about it. When you got home, he welcomed you with kisses and hugs, and you could practically not scrape him off of you until you went to sleep. 

He even milked information out of you, making you tell him every single detail about your night. Honestly, it wasn't big of a deal. Meeting your friends for project work never was. You tried to tell Jake about the details of the biological research you guys did, but he didn't care about that. Obviously. 

All the things Sunghoon said kept him up at night. What the bigger trouble was is that he didn't only imagine him flirting with you and felt jealous. That wasn't the case at all. The thing is that he didn't feel even a grain of jealousy as he imagined you with him. 

His mind kept going back to Sunghoon sitting on the couch in a black sleeveless top and black sweatpants, practically begging him to let him flirt with you. He couldn't help, but he had to admit that he found it a little bit hot. Imagining that Sunghoon, his best friend, getting intimate with you, his girlfriend, was even hotter. 

He'd been thinking about Sunghoon so much in the past few days that he had to realize that he found his best friend attractive. Was he okay with that? Jake didn't know. Because even though he found Sunghoon visually appealing, and the thought of him pounding into you made him hard, he still had you. His girlfriend. 

The girlfriend he protected at all cost, the girlfriend he jerked off to on the nights you were out with your friends, working on whatever biology project you had. The girlfriend he loved and admired with his full heart. 

Besides, who said he can’t find two people attractive at the same time? He isn't in love with Sunghoon, his best friend since high school. He is still in love with you. 

And jerking off to two people in the shower while you were away was even more exciting. It felt a little forbidden, dangerous. 

It was always the same scenario that had popped up in his mind; Sunghoon fucking deep into you while your moans are echoing in the room. He sits on a chair, watching and touching himself.

This fantasy in his mind made him come so hard he didn't even know he was able to be all alone, without you. So he let himself keep going. And he didn't tell you, he was way too worried that you would break up with him. 

The small plus that Sunghoon planted the idea into his mind in the first place made it at least three times better, because he kept remembering that this was an agreement at the end of the day. It might happen in real life too.

You were surprised when Jake let you go for the night easily, even though you never mentioned you are working on the project with your friends or anything like that. You had no idea about the fact that when you were not home, he was playing with himself while thinking of you and his best friend. Sometimes together, sometimes not.

The truth is that you started to feel like the atmosphere was suffocating. Sure, in the past week you were working on the school project with Sunoo and Jungwon (your friends), but school made you so depressed at the same time. 

Coming home after a long day on campus and having your boyfriend kissing every inch of skin on your body was good, sometimes. However there were times when all you wanted to do is sleep without feeling any worry of school or anything. You felt like you were missing out on that. 

“Really?” Sunoo’s voice drops, looking at you like you just told him that you are pregnant.

“I'm serious. Not even a ‘the project again?’, he just said yes” you shrug as you explain, pulling your glass of cocktail closer to take a sip from the straw.

Jungwon chuckles “That's not your boyfriend, y/n. Somebody stole him and cloned him, I’m telling you”

The conversation by the bar counter is interrupted by the overly hot bartender who has been looking at you all night, practically eye fucking but who cares about the details. He steps closer when he sees Sunoo's glass being empty and gives you a soft smile. “Another one of those?” he asks, and Sunoo nods.

You watch as he works on the drink, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up perfectly on his arms, just so his forearms are flexing with every move. 

He tosses the glass to Sunoo on the black marble counter when he's done and walks away back to his colleagues.

“Girl” Jungwon slaps your arm playfully “I know Jake is still your boyfriend even though he acts suspiciously careless but that was crazy”

You laugh, eyes flickering between him and Sunoo “What was crazy?”

“Eye fucking with the bartender on a random friday night” Jungwon adds “Now that's something”

“I mean, If you were single or if he wasn't hot I would say it's nothing” Sunoo says, chugging down the rest of his own drink “But Park Sunghoon is something”

You tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear at the mention of the name, your eyes finding Sunghoon in the corner again, his eyes still glued to you although he's chatting with one of the other bartenders.

“He’s the hottest boy on campus” Sunoo looks at him too, shaking his head. 

This whatever thing between you and Sunghoon started around two weeks ago. You already knew him - somewhat - because he's your boyfriend's best friend, but you never had a conversation with him. That changed two weeks ago, when he randomly came up to you after class. He asked if you needed a ride home, and he was just so bubbly and kind that you had to say yes. After that, he might’ve taken that as a sign that you wanted to get closer to him, because he kept inviting you to the bar where he worked after school, he kept offering you rides home which you gladly accepted, and he kept saying you should go to the library together sometime. 

You weren't exactly against getting closer with him. Sure, you had Jake, and Sunghoon was his best friend but all this time Sunghoon’s sudden change of behavior just suggested that he wanted to be friends with you. He knew you were Jake's girlfriend. 

Talking with him felt different than talking with Jake. It's not that you weren't absolutely obsessed with Jake, being with that man felt like winning the lottery, but Sunghoon was approaching you with kindness. He cared about your day while he drove you home, at least he pretended to care about it. Sometimes he even asked back about your biology project you’ve been working on with Sunoo and Jungwon, and you often caught him smiling at you while you talked about the interesting — for you, for someone it could be boring — facts about fishes and their behavior.

In the past few days you might have realized that Sunghoon made you feel in some kind of way. Something scarily close to how Jake made you feel. However, it didn't make you question your feelings for Jake. It made you confused, but you decided to ignore that and enjoy both of their presence at the times when you were with them.

“Whatever.” You shake your head, turning it away from Sunghoon and fixing it on your glass instead “I would never leave Jake. Besides, Sunghoon is only my friend.”

Sunoo sighs, running a hand through his blond hair “I don't want to say anything that would mess up your mind, but Sunghoon definitely wants you too”

-

Your fingers are tangled in Jake’s black locks, pushing him closer to your dripping folds as he devours you. You are laying on your bed, you just got back from a long school day. He told you he couldn't wait for you to get home, and as soon as you stepped inside, he kissed you like he never did before.

When he made you lay down on the edge of the bed and spread your legs, you noticed he was already hard but you didn't question it. 

This time, you let your thoughts leave your mind, letting him do whatever he wanted with you. 

He let out a gasp, his breath caressing your exposed core so heavenly. He backs up a little and looks up at you. You don't look at him, you keep your eyes on the ceiling, one hand in his hair and the other gripping the sheets next to you. 

He swallows and gets back to work, carefully tracing your wetness with his tongue, then he slurps on your clit. You let out a moan at that, but it sounds lifeless.

You enjoy it for sure, you always enjoy it when he eats you out or does intimate things with you. This time you promised yourself to let the thoughts escape your mind, to finally let go a little. However you couldn't stop the thoughts of Park Sunghoon flowing into your mind, and you hated it. A little bit.

“Is this good?” His voice is soft, his index finger reaching up to your clit as he begins to do circular moves on it.

“Yes” you say, trying to sound breathless, but your voice is concerningly firm.

He pushes down harder, the sudden sensation on the bundle of nerves makes you arch your back and let out a moan. He smirks at the sound you make and keeps doing the same movement with his finger. With his other hand, he traces your entrance, teasing the wet hole before he pushes his index and middle finger inside at the same time. 

The sounds you make are finally genuine, and you grip his hair tightly to hold onto something.

“Fuck, you are so tight” he hisses, curling his fingers upwards to press it to your walls.

You whimper “Fuck, Hoon”

Jake is in the middle of speeding up when you let out those two words. He stops immediately, eyes snapping up from your core right into meeting your eyes. 

He pulls out his fingers and wipes it in the sheets. Your heart is beating faster than ever in your chest when you see his sharp look, and you feel like it's about to explode at any moment. 

“Jake, I’m sorry I don't know why—”

He stands up, smoothing his sweatpants out, trying to hide his painfully obvious erect. “Why?” is all he asks, voice coming out more shy than he intended it. He swallows hard, you see the way his Adams apple bobs in his throat.

The lack of reaction surprises you. When the name slipped out of your mouth, you thought he would snap and yell at you. Knowing how possessive Jake can be, especially at a vulnerable moment like during sex, you would've never thought he would just ask why. 

That's why you didn't know what to say.

You prop yourself on your forearm, observing the way he crossed his arms in front of his chest “I’m sorry” you apologize once again.

“Did he fuck you?” 

Your eyes widen, and you feel your cheeks turning crimson at the sudden question. You should’ve expected this one. “No,” you shook your head. “I wouldn't cheat on you”

“Then why did you say his name? Out of all people” Jake hisses, his mind going back to the agreement  once again. The same agreement  he just couldn't get his mind off in the past weeks. Seems like you and him are on the same page, yet it hurts him so bad. 

You bite down your lips, sitting down fully on the bed. You try to cover your exposed breasts with your arms, suddenly feeling way too naked and vulnerable in front of him. 

“I can't lie to you” you begin, taking a deep breath “He has been approaching me in the past weeks, for some reason. He’s very kind, but I thought his intentions were to become friends. I mean, Sunghoon knows you are my boyfriend, right?” you try and look up, into his intense gaze. “I didn't even notice but I guess I… fantasized about him a little. In the past days. But, that doesn't mean I don't love you, Jake. You are my everything and you know that” 

The end of the monologue sounds like you just tried to save your skin, but when you look at him again you see him listening to your every word. And by listening I mean he actually looks like he was interested in what you said, unlikely when you told him about the biology project.

“So” he sits down on the edge of the bed, turning away from you “You want both of us?” he fidgets with his nail. 

You have to think that through for a moment. You were more than confused in the past weeks, the sudden approaching by Sunghoon made your whole world flip around, but you still love Jake. No one could ever question your feelings for him. So, looking at these things all together, you could say yes. It was just weird to think about it like that, because you sounded greedy. 

“Yes” you say in a bitten whisper, between your teeth.

You fix your gaze on your knees, but after a silent beat, you look up. Though, Jake doesn't even have a cool spot on the bed where he had been sitting before. 

Great. He got up and ran away or something, because when you went out to the kitchen + living room, he wasn't there either. 

Oh, what have you done…

-

“What's up, pretty?” 

You jolt your head up at the familiar voice, being faced with the smiley Sunghoon. “Why are you all alone?”

You shrug, looking back at the top of the barcounter, trying not to cry. It has been two hours since the thing between you and Jake, and after you dressed up you made your way straight to the bat where Sunghoon works, you don't know why either. That was the dumbest place you could’ve ran away to. 

During these two hours, two different waiters served you, and Sunghoon just started his shift around twenty minutes ago.

“What's wrong?” his voice softens, tilting his head as he observes you.

You, you want to say, but that would be a little rude.

“Nothing” you bark instead, fidgeting with your own finger instead of looking up at him. 

He pushes his tongue to the inside of his cheek, taking your state in for a few moments before he slaps his palms on the countertop. “Alright” he begins “I see that you are sad, so, what about coming with me tonight for dinner? I’ll cheer you up?” he tries, looking at you with puppy eyes. 

You sigh, trying not to smile at his sweetness “Sunghoon, you know I have a boyfriend… who also happens to be your best friend. You can't keep doing this” your stomach twists as soon as you say the word ‘boyfriend’ out loud. Do you really have a boyfriend? You can absolutely not handle Jake breaking up with you. If something, that will ruin you. 

You swallow hard, and just like if he could read your mind, he says:

“Something happened between you and Jake?” He says it like it's a statement rather than a question. Though, he doesn't seem so concerned about it. His tone is filled with curiosity.

How ironic, Sunghoon being the one who's asking this question “It's complicated.” you say, trying to close the topic as soon as possible.

“You know you can tell me,” he presses.

You clench your jaw tightly, hesitating if you should tell him about the little story or not. The way he looks at you, black shirt sleeves rolled up on his forearm while his palms are on the countertop, tilting his head and looking so cute but also masculine at the same time… it's driving you crazy. “He was eating me out and I kind of might have said a different name. That's all” you say, and the sudden topic of your and Jake's sex life makes him freeze in place for a moment.

“Really?” his voice is slightly more high pitched than before, you don't miss that. He crosses his arms and leans on the countertop, leaning forward to be able to whisper “And what name did you say?” 

You swallow the lump in your throat, getting lost in his dark eyes. He frowns with his thick eyebrows, his expression seeming more serious than before “Yours”

He leans back, humming to himself. The loss of his presence close to you lingers in the air as he moves away to the sink, grabbing a glass and drying it with a towel. “Hm, that's interesting, cuz’ me and Jake have a… how do I say it… an agreement ” he says casually, not looking up while doing his work.

You knit your brows together in confusion. What is he talking about? 

“What agreement ?”

“We figured Jake has to work on his obvious jealousy issues. So, we made a bet that if you fall for my flirting and want to have sex with me, he has to watch it” he places the glass down next to the other ones with a clinking sound that feels heavy in the bar, because in your mind suddenly everything else is silenced. His tone is so calm and casual it nearly makes your blood boil. 

Your heart pounds against your chest heavily. Was it all a game to him? - that is one of the main questions inside your head right now, and you rather shove down the part inside of you which felt excited about the idea.

He turns to you, and his heavy gaze breaks the train of thoughts inside your head. “I guess saying my name during sex makes it up too” he offers a smile.

You don't smile back at him. He lets out a small laugh at your confused reaction, ducking his head down for a moment. 

“So, are you in, angel?” he tilts his head, his smile as sweet as ever.

You bite down your lower lip and nod without hesitation. You love Jake, you really do, but Sunghoon has been driving you crazy since you talked with him for the first time. Having them two at the same time sounds a little bit too good to be true. You knew you had to decide as fast as possible.

He hums in approval, walking around the counter so he can be next to you. “I didn't think you would say yes this fast”

You shrug, finally smiling back at him. Sunghoon leans closer to press a small kiss at your earlobe before he whispers “I’ll give you a ride home”

-

Sitting on the passenger seat next to Sunghoon who is holding the steering wheel with one hand while his other is swinging out of the window has never been so awkward. You don’t even attempt to take a glance at him, feeling too embarrassed.

The air feels oddly suffocating, and your heart is still pounding in your chest. You couldn't stop thinking about Jake ever since you got out of the bar. Last time you were home, he magically disappeared. So, where is he? Did he really run away? Did he get home after that?

Upbeat music radiating from the radio snaps you out of your thoughts, and you finally take a gaze at Sunghoon who is humming along with the beat, tapping on the outside of his car’s door with his fingers.

He must have turned the radio up not so long ago, because you clearly remember the dead silence that filled the car a few minutes ago. Seems like you were so lost in your thoughts you didn't even notice it.

“Traffic is shit these days” he comments to himself, pulling out sunglasses from the glove box and sliding it on the bridge of his nose with a smooth move. 

You are currently stuck in the traffic for the past twenty minutes, which makes this whole situation even more embarrassing for you, knowing where you are going with what suppose. 

You turn away from the window to look at him, getting tired from looking at the same damn electricity pole in these past minutes. “Do you think he's home now?”

When you got into the car, you decided to tell him about every single detail, including the one where he literally disappears out of nowhere.

Sunghoon nods, keeping his eyes on the road.

You furrow your brows “How are you so confident?”

Without a word, he reaches to the backseat, rummaging in his bag for his phone. He hands it to you, the chat with Jake being opened.

you : dude, u fr ran away? dont be a pussy lol. we had an agreement , remember?

Jake : i know. i just needed time to think, thats all

you : are you home now, babyboy? 

Jake : yes

Jake : babyboy…?

you : nice, me n yn are going to your place like rn 

Jake : what? why?

Your eyes scan the messages, your hands gripping the phone a little bit too tightly. “You don't want to answer him or what's up with the last message?”

He shrugs nonchalantly, not being bothered by it in the slightest “We’ll tell him everything once we get there” 

“Makes sense,” you mumble, throwing his phone at the backseat. “Baby Boy?” 

A smile tugs in the corner of his lips, but he bites it down “Just joking”

-

The golden light of the sunset from outside creeps its way into the room through the small gap between the curtains, shining at the spot right where you and Sunghoon sit on yours and Jake's bed, making out.

You both sit on your knees, he has one of his hands on your waist to keep you stable while he stuffs your mouth with his tongue and you let out small moans. 

When you got to Jake’s and your place, Sunghoon explained everything to Jake. He said he was still in the deal, and you guys basically started it right away. It still felt somewhat absurd, especially because you never would've thought Jake would like this kind of stuff.

So, that's why you and Sunghoon are sitting on the middle of the king sized bed, while Jake sits on a chair settled right in front of the bed, watching you. His eyes are flickering between you and Sunghoon, unsure who to watch.

Sunghoon kisses differently than Jake. He’s more rough, like there's no tomorrow. He moves his lips on yours like if it's possible to eat you up, then he is able to do it. 

You can feel Jake's eyes on you, but when you open yours for a moment and glance at him, you see that his eyes are fixated on Sunghoon. He sits still. His posture is straight, his arms are awkwardly on his lap and he doesn't move. 

You would be worried that he feels uncomfortable, but Jake himself said it: he’s still in the deal. And you don't have time to overthink it, since Sunghoon bites down your lip, and you can't help the sound that comes out of you. 

“Fuck” you mumble, pulling back to take off your shirt. 

Sunghoon doesn't try to be subtle with his staring, his eyes immediately set on your red lacy bra, and you see Jake's eyes looking at you from the corner of your eyes too. 

You gulp, straightening your back to push out your chest more. You can't help but feel both excited and nervous at the feeling of their eyes on you, looking up and down at you hungrily.

In the next moments, Sunghoon takes off his shirt too, and your eyes fly to his toned abs. His upper body is perfectly worked out, from his wide shoulders to his small waist. 

He glances at Jake, then smirks at you when he looks back. “Alright” he starts, and grabs you by your wrists.

Before you could ask what he's doing he makes you sit at the end of the bed, leaning your back against the bed frame as you face Jake now, who’s sitting impatiently in the chair in front of the bed. 

Sunghoon shifts next to you and grabs your jaw firmly, turning your head away from Jake to kiss you deeply, his tongue moving roughly in your mouth. While one of his hands holds your jaw, his other makes its way down to your chest, teasingly hovering over one of your boobs. Then he caresses your skin between your breasts with his index and middle finger, making your back arch up in anticipation. He smiles into the kiss and moves his hand lower, pushing down your stomach slightly. 

“Sunghoon” you moan softly into the kiss.

“Shh” he pulls away, licking his lips “let's put on a show for him” 

Your eyes shift to Jake, who’s leaning a little bit forward in his chair. Sunghoon’s hand moves to the button of your jeans. He’s unbuttoning it so slowly that you are sure if he doesn't rip it off of you in the upcoming few seconds your wetness will be visible on your pants. 

When he finally undoes it and pulls it down, throwing it away next to the bed, he grabs both of your thighs, still sitting next to you and giving Jake a clear view as he spreads your legs. 

Jake bites down his lower lip, palming the front of his own — now very uncomfortable — jeans. 

You eye his very obvious bulge, trying to keep the sounds in your throat, but it's getting harder with each second. You can't stop thinking about both of them ruining you, even though the agreement  was only about Jake watching you and Sunghoon. 

You pull up your knees, and Sunghoon moves his palm to your core, massaging your wetness with his slender fingers. He pushes down roughly, and you moan. 

“Fuck, Hoon” you hum, one of your hands going up to grab onto the bed frame. 

Sunghoon’s eyes shift to the top of the bed frame, and he smiles down at you “Great idea” he starts, and you frown your brows at him.

“Do you have any handcuffs?” he asks, his voice sounding way too innocent for this question.

You stutter, making eye contact with Jake who's silent “Uh- yeah it's in the front drawer”

Sunghoon pulls out the said drawer on the bedside table and laughs at the sight “I knew you are a nasty ass couple. I fucking knew it” 

He pulls out two pink handcuffs and grabs your hands, handcuffing them together. “Is this okay?” 

He asks, and when you nod he moves them above your head, cuffing them to the bedframe with the other handcuff. 

“Don't be too greedy” he comments and moves his hand down again, his fingers circling through the wet fabric rougher than before.

“Hmpp— Sunghoon—” you choke out, closing your eyes.

Sunghoon looks at Jake, who still has his right hand on his clothed cock, palming it heavily. “Jake, you should look at yourself now. You look so pathetic.”

A small whimper leaves Jake, and you snap your eyes open to look at his flushed cheeks and heavy eyelids. “You haven't touched yourself because I haven't told you yet. What a good boy” Sunghoon adds, then looks back at you. 

You would be lying if the dirty talk he spoke (yes, even with your boyfriend) didn't turn you on even more. Besides, you are sure you look even more pathetic than Jake, being tied up helplessly and laying on the bed, looking up at him with big eyes.

Sunghoon leans down and presses a kiss in-between your breasts, and god, you want to grab onto his hair so much, but all you can do is to ball up your fists desperately. He hooks his fingers onto both sides of your red panties and pulls them down with a smooth move, throwing it aside probably around where your jeans landed too. 

He looks up at you, shaking his head “Wearing matching underwear, what a slut” 

He glances at Jake again “Do you want to see me finger her?” he asks, voice rough.

Jake nods heavily, and you’ve never in your life seen him being so submissive. Especially for another male, now if something, that was new. 

“Good” he turns his head back to you again as he mumbles, and he leans down to press a kiss on your forehead “I’m going to be rough to make him suffer more” he whispers in your ear like it's some secret. “Is that okay, love?”

And you can't help but nod your head, not knowing exactly what you are signing up for. “Yes”

He gently licks your earlobe, but before you could fully focus on that interesting sensation, his fingers firmly penetrate your leaking hole, making you nearly scream.

“Oh my—” you arch your back, and you hear him chuckling next to your ear. 

He doesn't start off slowly or anything like that, no, instead he moves his ring and middle finger in and out in a fast rhythm. The wetness of your pussy makes it way easier to move, but he still struggles to set up a steady rhythm at first. 

You look at Jake through your knees, he’s biting down his lip so hard it probably bleeds by now. You imagine what he could be thinking about: he probably wishes it was him who was fingering you so hard, and not his best friend. 

Sunghoon lets out a deep sigh, his own aching bulge making it hard for him to keep his rhythm steady and not stutter with his fingers. It's also Jake's presence that feels heavy, but having both of you under his dominance makes his ego boost. 

Sunghoon glances at Jake, and the sight of him, being so desperate to touch himself yet so silent, almost makes his jaw drop. His face is so red, his skin is probably aching for a touch. Sunghoon finds himself wanting to touch his best friend, but he looks back at you quicker than ever when you let out a breathy moan, distracting him.

“You can—” he clears his throat, looking back at Jake who's listening to his every word closely “Touch yourself.” he adds in a commanding voice.

And he doesn't have to tell Jake twice, who is already out of his pants when you look at him while Sunghoon’s long fingers curl inside of you, your mouth hanging agape as you watch him getting out of his boxer, sitting down at the chair with his hard dick in his hand. He has his eyes on you, his precious girlfriend, prettier than ever, laying on the bed, offering yourself like you are a whore.

Sunghoon suddenly adds a third finger, and your vision goes dizzy for a second, letting out a guttural moan. “Take it” is all he tells you.

The stretch is insane, you feel like your walls are about to rip at any moment. He slows down as he sees you struggling, his other hand caressing your hair softly. 

He shifts his gaze to Jake again, who is groaning helplessly in the chair now, leaning back as he strokes his cock. 

“Don't cum” Sunghoon says to Jake, and he pulls his fingers out of you too. 

You take deep breaths, disappointed at the fact that he didn't let you or Jake come. 

He fixates his eyes on Jake, moving his hand to his own hardness now. “What do you want?” he asks gently.

Jake lets go of his shaft, grabbing the armrest of the chair. He hesitates before talking, his eyes flickering between Sunghoon and you “I— Can you kiss me too?” 

The question comes a little unexpected, and you frown your brow at Sunghoon for a moment, just to scan his reaction. He looks surprised too, but he doesn't back up. If anything, he gets on all fours and crawls to the end of the bed, looking at Jake for the whole time.

He doesn't even look back at you, and Jake doesn't bother to take a glance at you either, they just lean in as Sunghoon approaches the man in the chair. Sunghoon kisses him just like he kissed you before: roughly. 

It's torture, because you know exactly how it feels and you know exactly what must Jake feel. The latter’s hands wrap on the sides of Sunghoon’s face, pulling him closer, deeper into the kiss. 

You can't look away from them. Both of them are undeniably hot, and seeing them kiss is also not the least attractive thing you've seen. Sunghoon sits on his knees so he can run his fingers through Jake's dark locks, his fingers grasping his hair into his fists. They look like this is practice for them, like they have been doing this since they knew how to kiss. 

You hear Jake whimper into the kiss, Sunghoon probably bit down his lip. Then, Sunghoon yanks Jake back by his hair, making him look up, a string of saliva still connecting their lips together. “You are so needy, Jae” he smirks and lets go “Sit with your back to the bedframe. I want you to have a clear view”

Jake just nods and crawls to the bedframe, leaning his back against it as he sits down next to you. He’s too embarrassed to look down at you, but you look at him. You have never seen Jake this desperate and needy in your whole life, and it was such a big turn on. He looks pitiful and embarrassed, face red and hair messy because Sunghoon messed it up during their kiss.

However, you don't have much time to enjoy the view of Jake, because Sunghoon stands next to you and undoes the handcuffs that kept you still by the bed. 

He leads you to the end of the bed by your wrists, gesturing you to sit down on the edge of the bed. You do as he tells you, laying down and propping yourself on your forearms to look up at him from under your lashes.

In this position, you see nothing of Jake who's sitting by the bed frame, his semi-hard cock already in his hand again, stroking it vaguely. You only see Sunghoon who squats down in front of you, his eyes shifting behind your back, at Jake. 

“What do you want me to do to her?” He asks, like you aren't even there.

There's a silent beat before the answer comes. “Undo her bra. I want to see her breasts bounce while you fuck her”

Jake’s voice is firm again now, seems like he gained back his confidence he usually has when it's just the two of you. Sunghoon gives him a sly smirk before turning back his attention to you, looking at you like you are the only woman in the world. He pulls his eyebrows together as he looks up, eyes big like a puppy's.

“Can I undo your bra, angel?” 

You nod your head, and his hands are already caressing your back up and down as he reaches for the back of your bra and undoes it with a soft click that feels like an echo in the silent room. You hear Jake murmur when Sunghoon throws your bra away and looks at him. “You want to see her breasts, hm? It must feel so bad that you can't see them right now and it's me seeing them. They look pretty good, right, Jae?” 

You hear something behind your back, and you recognize the sound : Jake is definitely stroking himself again. Sunghoon’s dirty talk works on him better than anything else, and even though it surprises you it makes you oddly turned on too. 

“They are so round, and the nipples are so hard…” he continues, now setting his eyes on your breasts. Jake knows all of it, he knows how your breasts look like more than anything else, but now he only can see your back and it makes him impatient. “Angel, your breasts are perfect” Sunghoon softens his voice, it's crazy that you can make a difference between when he's talking to Jake and when he's talking to you so easily. His whole demeanor changes. “Can I fuck these pretty tits? Please?”

He still squats in front of you and his hands are on your sides, thumbs softly pushing your stomach down as he looks up at you with his pretty, thick eyebrows knitted together. You just can't say no to this. You bob your head, and he finally reaches town to his pants to free his cock that's aching to be touched. 

There's pre-cum spilling out of his flushed tip, and he smears it over his cock with his hand before he stands up in front of you, looking over your head straight at Jake like you were only here when he was squatting in front of you. 

“Baby, I don't want to waste lube yet…” Sunghoon grabs your hair and yanks your head so you look up at him as he offers you a sweet smile “Would you be so kind and let me use your mouth instead?” He lets your hair loose so you can nod, no words coming out of your mouth. 

He moves his hand from your hair to your face and grabs your jaw as he pushes his thumb into your mouth eagerly, forcing you to open it. Sunghoon slightly slaps your cheek before letting your jaw go and he puts his leaking cock to the tip of your tongue. He pushes in slowly, and he moans when he meets the warmness of your saliva, your tongue immediately licking the part of his cock that entered your mouth. 

You lick off all the pre-cum that has leaked in your mouth and begin to move your head, looking up at him from under your lashes while doing it. However his gaze doesn't meet yours, he has his eyes fixed on Jake who still sits in the end of the bed with spread legs, but he's not touching himself anymore. He's completely silent as he watches the scene unfold before him. 

You do your work and bob your head at Sunghoon’s cock while he stays still, one of his hands tangling in your hair to lead you slightly. There's a vein going down from the base of his cock to his tip, and you slide your tongue across it earning a soft whimper. 

After a few moments he averts his gaze away from Jake and suddenly pulls out of your mouth, slapping your cheek again slightly in a form of appreciation. “Fuck, angel, you did such a good job” he comments, his gaze flickering between you and your boyfriend “He taught you so well how to suck dick, you could be a whore by now” 

Jake's brows furrow together at the mention of you with other men, but he doesn't say a word. He lets Sunghoon talk. “Though he is very possessive of you so that isn't in your vision board, I’m guessing” he lets out a laugh “But… seems like he doesn't mind it when you are with me. He's still hard, even though he already jerked off once” 

Sunghoon eyes Jake, and he looks at him like he's just a piece of meat and nothing else. His eyes darted from his flushed face and sharp eyes to his lap and a sly smile tugs in the corner of his lips “Or am I that special, Jae?” 

Jake runs a hand through his messy black hair, looking away from Sunghoon’s dark gaze. “You are not special, it's just a one time thing” he murmurs. 

“A one time thing?” Sunghoon repeats mockingly “Don't act like you don't jerk off to the image of me and your girlfriend together” 

You furrow your brows confusedly at that, looking up at Sunghoon who still has his eyes on the man behind your back “Sunghoon…” you try to hush him 

“It’s none of your business” Jake barks

“It’s hot” Sunghoon says back, like it's the most casual thing ever. But was their friendship ever casual? 

Before Jake could say anything at that, before he could address everything, that he might have slight feelings for his best friend too, Sunghoon is looking at you again. 

“You warmed up my cock so well, love” he reaches down to grope your breast, pinching your nipple that makes you let out a choked sound. “It’s time to ruin these cuties”

He bites down his bottom lip as he moves closer to you again, pushing his hard and flushed cock between your breasts. “Push them together” he commands, and you do as you were told.

He slides his cock upward, the saliva you left on it and the pre-cum it's mixed with makes it move easily. He rolls his hips, watching as his cock slides between your breasts while you push them together so they wrap around it better. “Fuck” Sunghoon’s thrusts stutter while more and more pre-cum leak out of his cock. But before he could come, he grabs onto your shoulders and pushes himself away from you, leaving you with your breasts covered in your own saliva and his pre-cum. 

He looks over at Jake again to see his reaction, and he just sits there while eyeing Sunghoon with his head tilted back toward the bedframe. 

“Do you want to fuck her?” Sunghoon asks, and you turn your head around to look at him too.

Jake's eyes flicker between you and Sunghoon for a few moments before he shakes his head which surprises you. “You fuck her. That was in the agreement.”

“Let's make another agreement,” Sunghoon suggests, looking at both of you. “If you’ll be a good boy and won't touch yourself while I fuck your girlfriend, we both fuck her. How about this?” 

Jake nods with you at the same time, totally synched up. Having both of them in you is all you want right now. Not just Sunghoon, not just Jake, but both of them at the same time. 

“Awesome” Sunghoon smiles, his gaze darkening “Jake you sit back in the chair, y/n you go to the side of the bed.” he commands, and Jake practically jumps out of the bed to sit back into his chair that's placed in front of the bed. 

“Let's make sure you’ll be good for me” Sunghoon says as he walks over to Jake with both handcuffs in his hands, clicking them open to handcuff his hands to the armrests. After he’s done, he gives him a satisfied smirk. “Now you definitely won't touch yourself, right?” he looks down at Jake who is now totally tied up to the chair. Then after a few silent moments, Sunghoon decides to lean forward and click one of the handcuffs open. Jake blinks up at him. 

“You know what? The choice is in your hands, Jae. I give you the right to touch yourself but… as you can see, I left one of the handcuffs on for a reason.” He turns around, not giving any more shit about Jake.

You sit down on the edge of the bed, but Sunghoon gestures to you to stand up instead. “Turn around and bend over, beautiful” 

You get on fours on the bed and bend over slowly, arching your back teasingly to put a show up for him. Sunghoon bites down his lip as he watches your ass get in the air and your chest pushed down to the sheets. He puts his hands on your waist possessively, pulling you closer to himself. “What a good girl” he murmurs as he strokes his cock and places it to your entrance, then pushes in firmly without any warning. You grasp the sheets in your fists, trying to swallow a high-pitched scream. 

He begins to move easily, thrusting deep into you with every roll of his hips until you become a moaning mess. Sunghoon on his own is groaning after every move, enjoying how deep he can go inside you to fill you up. 

He places one of his hands on the arch of your back while his other hand lingers on your waist, digging his thumbnail into the skin of your stomach. Your walls wrap around him so perfectly like you were meant to be filled up with his length, too bad it's Jake who owns you. 

You try to keep your head down on the mattress while Sunghoon pounds into you, the skin-to-skin sound filling up the room. Jake sits in the chair eagerly, trying so hard to not touch himself. It’s hard, because he can feel his cock twitch every time he sees Sunghoon penetrate you deeply as your pussy drips. 

Sunghoon’s hand comes up to the back of your head to pull you by your hair so you can talk. “You like it?” he asks, breathless.

“Yes” you cry out, feeling a drop of tear spilling from your eye “Please Sunghoon keep fucking me like this” you beg.

Sunghoon smiles and furrows his brows in pleasure as you arch your back even more so he can hit you just at the right angle. “You heard that, Jake?” he turns his head towards his friend, who grabs the armrest so hard that his knuckles have turned white. “He likes how I fuck her”

Jake swallows hard, biting the inside of his cheek down as he feels the rage building up in himself. This scenario only worked well in his head — he thinks, though he's undeniably hard again. 

With a long groan, Sunghoon pulls out of you and strokes himself, pushing your back down with his hand to make you arch deeper. “Good girl” he says when he sees you back shrinking down deeper, and after a few moments he spills his cum all over your back with a soft whimper escaping him. 

“Shit” he mumbles when he comes, making a mess of your back. Then, he looks at Jake who’s still sitting in his chair helplessly, one hand cuffed to the armrests and the other grasping the other armrest as hard as he can, trying to restrain himself. 

“You listened to me.” Sunghoon states, analyzing Jake’s state by looking him up and down. “You are so cute like this, Jae. Just sitting in your small chair whining like a puppy while you try to restrain yourself from touching. But you’ll do it eventually, right? Because when you put food in front of a puppy and tell him to not eat, he’ll eat it after a few desperate whines anyway.” He leans forward, their faces close together while you still try to gain yourself together on the bed. “Right?” 

“Just… undo the handcuff already” Jake turns his head away, feeling like he can't look into his best friend’s eyes right now. Not like this. Not in this state. He reaches his cuffed hand as much as he can towards Sunghoon, the chain clinking slightly as he shakes it. 

Sunghoon hums but then gives in and undoes the handcuff, letting Jake’s hand totally free. Now he's not under his mercy, not anymore. Jake massages his red wrist with his other hand, fixing his gaze on his own hands instead of looking at Sunghoon who’s still hovering above him.

“So, are you going to analyze the veins on your hand or would you rather come to see that beauty laying in your bed, hm?” Jake finally looks up and glances at you, who’s sitting on the bed with messy hair and a dirty back. You make eye contact with him for a thin moment, but you both realize it's a bit awkward. 

You’ve never been this vulnerable in this relationship, and neither had him. It’s a new thing, and you aren't sure how things will be after this night. 

Jake walks over to you and leans down to hint a kiss on your forehead. It’s the most gentle thing that has happened to you today. Then, he cups your cheeks with his hands and leans down to kiss you deeply. “Are you okay?” he whispers, only for you to hear. You nod your head in his hands, opening your eyes to look at him.

Jake pulls away from you, letting your face go. Then, he looks at Sunghoon, something pitiful in his eyes. “So, did I do good?” a small smile tugs in the corner of his lips as he asks, and Sunghoon just lets out a laugh. 

“Of course you did” Sunghoon answers, folding his arms in front of his chest “You earn a prize” then, both of them look at you as you sit on the edge of the bed and they are towering right in front of you. 

You suddenly stand up from your place and walk over to them, grabbing both of their heads and pushing them close to each other until their lips meet. Then, you pull your hands away and just watch as the scene unfolds in front of you and they deepen the kiss, Jake’s tongue darting out to lick Sunghoon's lips.

Their hands can't find their places, Jake sometimes grabs onto Sunghoon's neck while Sunghoon's hands get glued to his waist, but they grope each other hungrily everywhere they can touch.

You sit back on the bed to spread your legs, your hand going down to your core. You start to message your clit, watching them kissing each other. Jake lets out a small moan when Sunghoon goes down with his head, kissing on his neck now. He bites and sucks the skin there, and Jake runs his hand into his dark locks “Fuck, Hoon”

Your thumb remains on doing circular moves on your clitoris while you move your middle and index finger between your folds, sliding them down and up. You feel the tension building up in your nerves as the two men in front of you get hungrier and more in heat. Sunghoon goes lower and bites Jake’s collarbone, and Jake can't help but close his eyes to enjoy, feeling every wave of heat the kiss brings go down to his arousal.

“Can I… can” Jake mumbles between small whines, and you push your middle finger in your pulsing hole. “Can I choose a — ah— prize?” 

Sunghoon backs up, looking at him with wide eyes “What do you mean?” 

Jake bites down his lip, unsure if he should really say his thoughts out loud. “Would you give me head?” 

“What?” 

Jake feels his cheeks becoming crimson color, and he turns away “Nevermind” 

You stop your movements and pull your finger out of yourself, watching all of this with pure curiosity. What is up with Jake? Since when is he like this? 

“Okay, you fucked up the whole mood” Sunghoon says as he walks around the room to collect his clothes, already putting his shirt back up. 

“But what about Jake’s prize? He didn't touch himself” you question, kind of confused and disappointed by the sudden cut-end of the night. 

“Maybe next time” Sunghoon pulls his jeans up, doing his buttons. When he turns back around, he faces two blinking faces. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I thought this was… you know, a one time thing” Jake mumbles. 

Sunghoon lets a laugh out “We already talked about this” 

You and Jake share a look while Sunghoon looks for his socks then puts them on, after finding it eventually. “You want to keep doing this?” you dare to ask, and Sunghoon nods casually. 

“Why not? Did you guys have fun? I think we can keep this thing up. As long as no one knows about it… I don't want people to think I’m a weird pervert or something”

“So you want to do it in secret” Jake says, nodding to himself as he lets the words sink in. 

“Yeah” Sunghoon pulls his phone out of his jeans's pocket, checking his messages “Shit, I got called in for work stuff. I have to go.”

“We’ll talk about it, I guess” you add before he goes away, waving goodbye. 

And in the next moment, you and Jake are left alone in complete silence, and for a moment you avoid his gaze. You feel that again, that weird vulnerable feeling you felt when you accidentally said Sunghoon's name while you two had sex. Fiddling with your fingers, you ask “Do you think it's a good idea?” 

Jake folds his arms as he thinks for a moment, then nods “I’m not against it”

“What?” you question, genuinely surprised. That would mean he has to share you with someone, and last time you checked Jake definitely wasn't the type to do that. “You would share me with Sunghoon?”

“Look, I— I don't know, okay? He’s my best friend and I know you are in good hands when you are with him.” he stops for a moment, mouth going dry. “I have to work on my jealousy issues. They cloud my every day, and trust me y/n it’s not good. I hate it, I don't want to have it. I feel like this could help. Sunghoon is open minded and… well, you find him attractive, don't you?”

You bite down your lip until it bleeds a little, your teeth leaving a small wound on it. If he asked you this a few hours or days ago, you would definitely lie to this question. But now, everything has changed. 

“Yes, I do”

“So are you in? It wouldn't be a big thing if it's just between the three of us, right?”

You hesitate for a moment before you say: “Yes”

A/N :: WOOHOOO!! if you reached the end of this, thank you for reading this story ♡ every like, comment (especially comments), reblogs and support is very very appreciated!! and don't be angry about this VERY open end because 🥁🥁🥁 part 2 is comingggg cuz i only wanted to make this as a short smut oneshot as funsies with no specific plot written down in my drafts but its already kinda long and i absolutely fell in love with this plot, and i feel like i can add so much more feelings and stuff to it!! so stay tuned, maybe this'll become my first series

💌 :: @ikigaijo @ateez-atiny380 @anzzghost @yuversi @mymy2424 @yatta-exe @wonscapes @enlov3vampxo

[wxnizz]

-— 关闭 Close Quarters 季度 ᯓ

⤷ ゛no room for distance ˎˊ˗

৻ꪆ SYNOPSIS : Accidentally walking in on Riki fresh out of the shower leaves an unforgettable image burned into your mind, shattering the easy boundary you both spent months building. Despite a mutual pact to never speak of it again, weeks of tension, lingering glances, and unspoken feelings finally pushes both of you to a boiling point. When the careful walls you’ve built finally crumble, you both learn that some boundaries are meant to be crossed.

৻ꪆ CONTENTS : MDNI 18+ ⋆ slow-burn ⋆ friends to lovers ⋆ smut with plot ⋆ mutual pinning ⋆ alcohol mentioned

taglist : @amyishere123 @444pondju @did

৻ꪆ PAIRING : roommate!riki x afab!reader

৻ꪆ WORDCOUNT : 15k

z ⸝⸝ From this request ᝰ.ᐟ

The late morning sun is already warm where it cuts through the gaps in your blinds, casting bright, dusty blocks of light across your blanket. You blink sleepily at your phone.

11:14 AM.

You groan, burying your face back into the pillow. Waking up this late always leaves you in a strange, heavy limbo—not quite tired enough to go back to sleep, but too sluggish to immediately face the day.

For a few quiet minutes, you just lie there, listening to the ambient hum of the apartment. It’s quiet. Too quiet, which usually means your roommate, Riki, is either still dead to the world in his room or has already slipped out for the day.

Living with Riki was easy. He was a good roommate—clean enough, relatively quiet, and easy to get along with. You didn't harbor some secret, burning crush on him, your relationship was strictly, comfortably platonic.

Sure, you weren't blind. He was obviously attractive, and maybe once or twice after a few drinks, a random, passing thought about him had crossed your mind. But it was the kind of dumb, fleeting thought you laughed off the next morning and forgot about. He was just Riki.

A sudden, insistent ache in your bladder finally cuts through your cozy inertia. Dragging the duvet off your legs, you swing your feet onto the cool hardwood floor.

You’re still half entangled in sleep as you pad out of your bedroom. The hallway is quiet, the air smelling faintly of the coffee Riki must have brewed earlier. You rub your eyes, your vision still slightly blurred, focus completely set on the bathroom door at the end of the hall.

Normally, you’d check if the light was on beneath the crack, or listen for the heavy rush of the shower. But your brain is running on a five second delay, entirely fueled by the desperate need to pee, wash your face, and wake up. The door is closed, but not clicked shut—just resting against the frame.

You reach out, push it open, and take a step inside.

The first thing that hits you is the thick, heavy wall of steam. It’s warm, smelling strongly of sandalwood and clean soap.

The second thing—the thing that makes the air instantly trap itself in your lungs—is Riki.

He isn't standing at the sink brushing his teeth. He isn't wrapped in a towel. He’s standing right in the middle of the bathroom, fresh out of the shower, a towel hanging loosely from one hand as if he’d been just about to dry off.

He is completely, entirely bare.

For a long second, the world entirely halts. Your groggy brain tries to scramble backward, but your eyes lock onto him before you can even think to look away.

You’d always known he was tall, but seeing him like this—unclothed, the steam clinging to the broad expanse of his shoulders, the sharp, damp lines of his collarbones, and the lean definition of his chest—makes him look massive. Your gaze involuntarily drops, tracking the droplets of water tracing down the dip of his stomach, and then... everything else.

Those dumb, passing thoughts you'd had in the past didn't even come close to the reality. He is built. Far more than you ever could have anticipated. The clear reality of his body, the heavy proof of how big he actually is, burns itself behind your eyelids in an instant.

Riki freezes, his wet hair dripping onto his forehead, his eyes widening in absolute, startled shock.

The moment snaps.

"Oh my god!" The words tear from your throat, a breathless, high pitched squeak. "I'm sorry! I'm so, so sorry, I didn't—I thought you were—!"

Before he can even utters a sound, you grab the edge of the door, pull it shut, and slam it with a force that rattles the frame.

You press your back against the wood, sliding down slightly as your knees go weak. Your heart is hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird, your face so hot you’re certain you’re about to combust right there in the hallway. You press the cool palms of your hands to your burning cheeks, but it does nothing to cool the flush creeping down your neck.

You close your eyes, but it’s a mistake. The second you do, the image of him—shrouded in steam, dripping wet, and completely exposed—flashes vividly in your mind.

You squeeze your eyes tighter, trying to shake it off, but the memory feels branded to the back of your retinas. This wasn't some silly, half forgotten thought anymore. This was real, raw, and completely inescapable.

And as you sit there in the quiet hallway, listening to the hurried rustle of a towel from the other side of the door, a terrifying realization settles in your chest.

You are never, ever going to unsee that.

You scramble back to your room as quietly as possible, the sound of your own racing heartbeat muffled only by the soft click of your bedroom door closing behind you.

Once inside, you throw yourself onto your bed, burying your face in a pillow to let out a silent, frustrated scream. Your cheeks are still burning, and no matter how hard you blink, that vivid mental image of him refuses to fade.

Your phone sitting on the nightstand reads 11:22 AM.

Okay, you think, taking a deep, shaky breath. Strategy.

Riki has practice at the studio today. He always leaves around 1:00 PM. That means you only have to survive a little over an hour and a half. If you just stay put, keep the door shut, and pretend you suddenly went deaf and blind, you can escape the absolute mortification of looking him in the eye. It is the perfect plan.

But the silence of the apartment doesn’t last long.

Through the thin wood of your bedroom door, you hear the bathroom door finally click open. Soft, heavy footsteps pad down the hallway. He’s walking past your room. You freeze, holding your breath, staring intensely at the doorknob as if your gaze alone could lock it from the inside.

For a horrifying, agonizing three seconds, the footsteps pause right outside your door. Your stomach does a violent flip.

Is he going to knock? What do I even say?

But then, the footsteps start up again, moving toward the kitchen. You let out the breath you were holding in a long, shaky sigh, sinking back into your mattress.

As the minutes tick by, your mind refuses to cooperate. You try scrolling through your phone, but you can’t focus on a single post. Every time you hear a cabinet close or the fridge open in the kitchen, your brain betrays you.

How is he feeling right now?

Despite his cool, confident exterior, he can actually be pretty shy about certain things. You’ve just invaded his privacy in the worst way possible. Is he sitting out there feeling incredibly uncomfortable in his own home? Is he mad? Embarrassed?

The guilt starts to outweigh your own embarrassment. You can't just hide in your room like a coward and pretend nothing happened. You stepped over a boundary, even if it was a complete accident, and you need to actually apologize properly.

Decision made. Before you can lose your nerve, you slide off your bed, smooth down your messy t-shirt, and walk to the door.

Taking one last deep breath to steady your erratic pulse, you turn the knob and step out into the hallway.

Riki is standing by the kitchen island, a glass of water in his hand. He’s dressed now—baggy sweatpants and an oversized black hoodie—but seeing him clothed somehow doesn't help as much as you hoped it would. Your brain instantly fills in what’s underneath the fabric, making the heat rush straight back to your face.

The moment your footsteps hit the hardwood, Riki’s head snaps up.

He freezes, the glass halfway to his mouth. For a split second, a dark, fleeting rush of pink colors the tips of his ears, and he looks incredibly tense.

"Riki," you start, your voice a little breathier than you intended. You keep your hands clasped tightly in front of you, determined to do this right. "Hey. I just wanted to apologize. Properly."

He lowers the glass, clearing his throat, his eyes darting to the floor for a second before meeting yours. "Oh. You don't have to—"

"No, I do," you interrupt gently, wanting to get the words out before you choke on them. "I am so, so sorry. I was completely half asleep, and I didn't even check the light under the door. I really didn't mean to barge in on you like that. It was a total accident."

Riki shifts his weight, rubbing the back of his neck with a small, slightly sheepish shrug. "It's fine. Really. Just... a misunderstanding."

"I promise you," you continue, holding up a hand solemnly, "I’ll never, ever mention it again. It never happened. If you don't bring it up, I won't. Deal?"

A faint, relieved smile tugs at the corner of Riki's lips, though his ears are still burning a light dusty pink. He nods slowly. "Deal. It never happened."

"Okay. Good," you breathe, offering a quick, slightly tight smile.

You practically spin on your heel to head back to the safety of your room, feeling a massive weight lift off your chest.

Okay, you think as you shut your door again. We talked. We settled it. It’s over.

Except, as you lie back down on your bed, your eyes drift to the ceiling, and the image of his tall, lean, completely bare frame immediately flashes in your mind again.

You groan, burying your face in your hands. Setting a rule to never talk about it was easy.

Setting a rule to stop thinking about it was going to be entirely impossible.

The quiet hum of the apartment during the next few days becomes a strange, agonizing test of your acting skills.

In the immediate aftermath of that Sunday morning, the air feels charged with an unspoken tension, even if you are both doing your absolute best to pretend the entire incident had been wiped clean from existence.

True to your word, you don't bring it up. But the brain is a stubborn, treacherous thing, and the harder you try to actively not think about how good Riki looked standing in that steam filled room, the more your mind seems determined to remind you of it.

The first real hurdle comes on Monday evening.

You’re sitting at the kitchen island scrolling through your laptop, trying to focus on a design project, when you hear the front door unlock. Riki walks in, looking exhausted but effortlessly cool in a pair of oversized grey sweatpants and a worn out vintage tee.

"Hey," he murmurs, kicking off his shoes at the entryway. His voice is a low, hoarse rumble from a long day of practicing and recording at the studio.

"Hey," you reply, keeping your eyes glued to your screen, a little too intensely. "How was practice?"

"Long," he sighs, walking into the kitchen. He reaches past you to grab a glass from the cupboard, and for a split second, the faint, clean scent of his shower gel—the same sandalwood scented one from Sunday—wafts over you.

Your fingers freeze on your trackpad.

An involuntary flash of his damp, bare shoulders—the broad, solid lines of his chest dripping with water—blasts through your mind with the force of a freight train. You swallow hard, your throat suddenly feeling incredibly dry.

"You look tired," you force out, hoping your voice doesn't sound as tight as it feels. "Did you guys run the choreography again?"

"Yeah. Over and over," Riki says, leaning against the counter just a foot away from you. He takes a long sip of water, his throat bobbing as he drinks.

Your eyes betray you. You find yourself tracking the movement of his neck, then slowly letting your gaze slip down to his chest, even though it’s entirely hidden beneath the heavy cotton of his shirt. You know what’s under there now. You know the exact contours of his collarbones, the lean cut of his abs. The sheer size of him is no longer a mystery.

"Are you even listening?" Riki's voice, laced with a quiet, amused curiosity, cuts through your sudden daze.

You snap your eyes back up to his face, your heart doing a violent stutter. "What? Yeah! Yeah, of course. Choreography. Hard work."

Riki raises an eyebrow, a small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He doesn't press it, but the way his dark eyes linger on yours for a fraction of a second longer than usual makes your chest tighten.

He places his glass in the sink and heads off to his room with a soft, "Goodnight."

You slump over the counter, pressing your forehead against the cool surface. You are doing a terrible job at being normal.

By Wednesday, you think you’ve finally gotten a grip on yourself.

You’ve spent the last forty-eight hours actively distracting yourself, keeping busy with work, and keeping your interactions with Riki brief and friendly.

You’re close, you’ve lived together long enough to share inside jokes, order food for each other without asking, and comfortably co-exist in the same space. You don't want a stupid, accidental glance to ruin the easy, natural flow of your friendship.

You’re in the living room, curled up on the couch with a book, when Riki walks out of his room wearing a tight, sleeveless black compression shirt and loose athletic shorts, clearly getting ready to head back out to the studio.

The book in your hands suddenly feels like a prop.

His shoulders are incredibly broad, his biceps defined and taut as he reaches up to push his hair back. Seeing him in sleeveless shirts was never a big deal before, but now, your brain instantly connects the dots, filling in the rest of his frame with vivid, agonizing accuracy.

Stop it, you scream at yourself internally. He’s your roommate. He’s literally just going to work. Stop looking.

"Hey, do we have any of those energy drinks left in the fridge?" Riki asks, turning his head to look at you over his shoulder.

"Uh—yeah, I think there's one more on the bottom shelf," you squeak out, your voice cracking slightly at the end.

Riki pauses, his hands dropping from his hair as he gives you a puzzled look. "Are you okay? You sound like you just swallowed a bug."

"Perfect! I'm completely perfect," you say, a little too quickly, flipping a page of your book without actually reading a single word on it. "Just... dry throat. Air conditioning is strong today."

"Right," Riki says slowly, a faint glimmer of amusement in his eyes. He walks into the kitchen, his long legs making quick work of the distance, and opens the fridge.

You let out a quiet, trembling breath, staring blankly at the text in front of you. You can't even remember what this chapter is about. All you can think about is how easily he commands the space in the apartment, how towering and solid he really is.

He comes back out, cracking open the black can of his energy drink, taking a slow sip as he watches you. He stands near the edge of the couch, looking down at you with a head tilt.

"You've been reading that same page for five minutes," he points out, his voice quiet, a teasing edge running through it.

"I'm a slow reader, Riki. It’s a very complex plot," you lie shamelessly, refusing to look up from the paper.

"Sure. Highly complex," he echoes. He lingers for another moment, his presence warm and overwhelming, before he grabs his gym bag from the entryway. "I'll be back late tonight. Don't wait up."

"I won't," you call out, only letting your shoulders drop once the front door clicks shut.

You throw the book onto the coffee table and groan, pulling a throw pillow over your face. This is torture. You’re hyper aware of him in a way you’ve never been before, and the worst part is, Riki is entirely too perceptive. If you keep this up, he’s going to realize exactly why you’re acting like a glitching robot.

Thursday afternoon is when the fragile facade you've built completely crumbles.

It’s a hot, humid day, and the apartment's AC is struggling to keep up. You’re sitting on the living room rug, sorting through some laundry you’d left on the drying rack, when Riki walks out of his room. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of loose grey basketball shorts, his chest and torso completely bare to combat the heat.

Your breath hitches.

You try to look away, you really do. You force your gaze down to a pair of folded socks in your hands, but your eyes keep dragging themselves back up to him.

He walks over to the kitchen to grab a bottle of cold water, his back completely exposed to you. You find yourself staring at the sharp, defined line of his spine, the way his shoulder blades move under his skin, and the tapered dip of his waist. It is exactly what you saw on Sunday, only this time, there is no steam to obscure the view.

He turns around, leaning his lower back against the kitchen counter as he twists the cap off the bottle. He catches you staring.

In a panic, your brain short circuits. You scramble for any excuse, any distraction to prove you weren't just ogling his body.

"You—you have a lint on your shoulder," you stammer, pointing vaguely in his direction.

Riki looks down at his bare, tanned shoulder, then back up at you, a slow, incredibly amused grin spreading across his face. "A lint? On my bare skin?"

You want the floor to open up and swallow you whole. Your face hot flashes, a deep, furious crimson spreading from your chest all the way to your ears.

"I mean—it was... it was a shadow! Or a bug. I thought it was a bug," you scramble, your voice rising in pitch as you wildly fold a t-shirt with trembling hands.

Riki chuckles, a low, vibration of a sound that makes your stomach do a series of complicated flips. He takes a slow sip of his water, his dark eyes sparkling with mischief as he watches you struggle.

"Right. A shadow bug," he says softly. He takes a few steps forward, stopping just a few feet away from where you’re sitting on the floor. He looks down at you, his chest expanding with a quiet breath. "You know, you've been acting really weird lately."

"I have not," you lie, your voice squeaking again.

"You have," Riki counters, his grin widening, showing a hint of his sharp teeth. He leans down slightly, resting his hands on his knees so he’s closer to your eye level.

"You barely look at me when I talk to you. You jump every time I walk into a room. What's going on in that head of yours?"

He tilts his head, his gaze intensely focused on yours. "Are you daydreaming about me or something?"

Your heart completely stops.

The terrifying accuracy of his tease catches you entirely off guard. A wild, desperate panic flares up in your chest. You need to laugh it off. You need to make him think it’s the most ridiculous joke he’s ever made, otherwise, he’ll know. He’ll know you haven't stopped thinking about his body for a single second.

"HA!"

The laugh tears out of your throat, incredibly loud, dry, and painfully awkward. It echoes off the living room walls, sounding entirely forced and completely unhinged.

"Daydreaming? About you? Oh my god, Riki, that is—HA!—the funniest thing I've ever heard in my life! Wow! You really have a great imagination!"

Your laugh is so loud your own ears ring, and you follow it up with a series of quick, choppy, breathless giggles that sound like a failing car engine. You pat your lap awkwardly, trying to look incredibly amused, but your eyes are wide with pure terror.

Riki’s grin slowly falters, replaced by a look of sheer, unadulterated amusement mixed with deep skepticism. He straightens back up to his full height, crossing his arms over his chest, which only makes his biceps flex, further distracting you.

"Okay," Riki says slowly, his voice dripping with playful disbelief. "That was definitely the most natural laugh I've ever heard."

"It was! I'm just... I'm a very expressive person," you sputter, desperately grabbing the pile of folded laundry and standing up. "Anyway! I have to put this away. In my room. Right now."

Before he can say another word, you practically sprint down the hallway, darting into your bedroom and shutting the door with a soft, desperate click.

You lean your head against the cool wood of the door, closing your eyes in absolute, crushing defeat.

Your facade is completely, utterly see through. He knows. Or, at the very least, he knows something is incredibly wrong. And as you stand there, trying to calm your racing pulse, you realize that the unspoken agreement to "never mention it" is rapidly falling apart.

By the time Friday evening rolls around, the air in the apartment is so thick with unspoken tension you could cut it with a knife. You’ve spent the last twenty-four hours practically plotting your movements around the apartment like a secret agent, checking corners and listening for footsteps before daring to leave your room. It is exhausting, unsustainable, and frankly, ridiculous.

You’re sitting on the living room sofa, staring blankly at a movie playing on the TV. You aren't actually watching it, your mind is too busy running in endless, unproductive circles.

The soft click of Riki’s bedroom door opening makes you stiffen automatically. You brace yourself, expecting him to walk straight to the kitchen or head out. Instead, his quiet, heavy footsteps pad directly toward the living room.

Without asking, he sinks onto the opposite end of the couch.

For a few minutes, neither of you says anything. The only sound is the low dialogue from the TV. You keep your eyes glued to the screen, your shoulders tense, counting the seconds.

From the corner of your eye, you can see him leaning back, his long legs stretched out in front of him, ankle crossed over ankle. He’s back in his favorite oversized black hoodie, looking completely relaxed, yet there’s a quiet determination in the way he keeps shifting his gaze from the screen to you.

Finally, Riki lets out a soft, slow sigh. He reaches over and grabs the remote from the coffee table, pressing the mute button. The sudden silence in the room makes your heart do a nervous little flutter.

"Okay," Riki says, his voice low and steady. He turns his body slightly on the cushions so he’s facing you. "We need to actually talk."

You swallow the lump in your throat, finally turning your head to look at him. "About... the movie? Because I agree, the pacing is a little—"

"About Sunday," he cuts in gently, though there’s a tiny, unmistakable twitch of amusement at the corner of his lips. "And about how you’ve been treating me like I’m a ghost haunting the apartment all week."

"I haven't been treating you like a ghost," you protest, though your voice lacks any real conviction. You pull your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them like a shield.

"You literally ran away from laundry yesterday," Riki points out, raising an eyebrow. "And your laugh? I'm pretty sure our neighbors thought you were having a medical emergency."

A hot flush rises to your cheeks, but along with the embarrassment, a tiny bubble of hysterical laughter threatens to break free.

"I was just... trying to keep my promise. I said I’d never mention it. I wanted to make sure you felt comfortable."

"I was comfortable," Riki says softly, his dark eyes softening as he looks at you. "Until my favorite roommate started treating me like a stranger. You don't have to walk on eggshells around me. We've lived together too long for a stupid accident to make things weird."

He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck, and for a second, a fleeting hint of pink colors his own cheekbones. "I mean... yeah, it was embarrassing. But it was just an accident. I’m not mad at you. And you don't have to hide in your room until one in the afternoon just to avoid looking at me."

Hearing him say it out loud instantly makes the heavy, suffocating weight on your chest begin to lift. You let out a long, shaky breath you feel like you’ve been holding since that day.

"Really?" you ask quietly, looking at him through your eyelashes. "You're not weirded out?"

"I'm not," Riki promises, offering you a genuine, reassuring smile. "Though, honestly, I think you're the one who's traumatized. You looked like you saw a monster."

"I didn't see a monster," you mumble, your face burning all over again as the memory of his very built, bare frame flashes in your mind. You quickly look down at your knees. "It was just a lot to take in at eleven in the morning."

Riki lets out a low, quiet chuckle, the sound warm and incredibly comforting. "Yeah? Well, next time, try knocking. Save us both the heart attack."

"I will. I'll knock three times. I'll send a text. I'll ring a bell," you say, a genuine smile finally breaking across your face. The lingering awkwardness between you is rapidly evaporating, replaced by the easy, comfortable rhythm you’ve always shared.

"Good," Riki grins, leaning his head back against the sofa cushion. He watches you for a moment, his eyes twinkling with that familiar, playful mischief. "Though, I gotta admit... the 'shadow bug on my shoulder' line? Truly inspired. You should write a book."

"Oh, shut up!" you laugh.

"And that laugh," he continues, completely ignoring your protests as he mimics your high pitched, panicked chuckle. "'HA! Daydreaming? About you?!' I'm hurt. Am I really that hard to imagine daydreaming about?"

"Riki, I swear to god," you warn, though you’re giggling now, the relief of being able to joke with him again washing over you like cool water.

"I'm just saying," he teases, a slow, incredibly charming smirk spreading across his handsome face. "If you were daydreaming, you at least have a very accurate reference point now."

"You are unbelievable!"

Without thinking, you grab the nearest plush throw pillow from beside you and hurl it straight at his head. Riki laughs out loud, raising his arms to block it, but the pillow hits him square in the chest anyway. He grabs it, clutching it to himself as he shakes his head, his shoulders shaking with genuine amusement.

"Okay, okay! Truce," he chuckles, tossing the pillow back onto the middle of the couch.

You lean back against the cushions, your heart rate elevated, but this time, it’s not from panic. It’s from laughing. The thick, suffocating wall of tension that had built up over the last five days has completely crumbled, leaving only the warm, cozy reality of the two of you sitting together on the couch.

You actually feel a hundred times better. Talking about it, laughing about it, it made everything feel normal again, rather than some forbidden, shameful secret.

But as you look over at Riki, who is still smiling, his eyes bright and relaxed as he watches you, a tiny, quiet spark flickers in the back of your mind. The awkwardness might be gone, but you realize that while you might feel better... your heart still hasn't quite returned to its normal, platonic beat.

By Saturday evening, the heavy tension of the week is completely behind you. You’re standing in front of your bedroom mirror, putting the finishing touches on your makeup, actually excited to let loose.

You’d texted your best friend, Mei, earlier in the week promising a night out to distract you, and tonight is finally the night.

As you grab your purse and head into the living room, you find Riki lounging on the sofa, scrolling through his phone. He looks up as you approach, his eyes sweeping over your outfit. A subtle, appreciative spark glints in his gaze, though he keeps his expression casually cool.

"Going out?" he asks, his voice dropping into that low, relaxed register.

"Yeah, with Mei," you smile, feeling lighter than you have in days. "I'll probably be back pretty late, so don't wait up."

Riki slides his phone into his pocket and starts to sit up, his long frame unfolding from the couch. "Do you need a lift? I can drive you if it's far."

"Oh, no, it's okay! Mei is on her way to pick me up," you say, checking a quick text on your phone. "She should be downstairs in a minute."

Riki nods, sinking back into the cushions, though he keeps his eyes locked on yours with a soft, protective sincerity. "Alright. But call me if you need a ride home, okay? Doesn't matter how late it is. Just call."

"I will. Promise," you offer him a warm wave as you head out the door, his thoughtful gesture leaving a pleasant, lingering warmth in your chest.

The club is a dizzying blur of pulsing bass, flashing neon lights, and sticky floors, and it is exactly what you needed. Within minutes of arriving, Mei grabs your hand and drags you straight to the bar, ordering a round of shots that burn beautifully on the way down.

The alcohol hits quickly, washing away the last remnants of your weekly stress and leaving you feeling wonderfully warm and giggly.

For the next couple of hours, the two of you are inseparable on the dance floor. You lose yourself in the heavy thud of the music, screaming the lyrics to songs you both love, laughing hysterically when some guy tries to buy you drinks with a terribly cheesy pickup line.

Mei is in peak form, aggressively dancing next to you to ward off any unwanted attention, making you laugh so hard your stomach aches.

Eventually, the heat of the dance floor becomes too much, and the two of you retreat to a slightly quieter booth tucked away near the back of the venue. You slide onto the leather seats, both of you flushed, breathless, and pleasantly buzzed.

"God, I needed this," Mei groans, leaning her head back against the booth. She turns her gaze to you, a sudden, mischievous glint entering her eyes as she takes a sip of her drink. "So... how’s that fine ass roommate of yours?"

You nearly choke on your drink. "Oh god, don't even bring him up, please."

Mei’s eyes widen instantly, her glass hovering halfway to the table. "Holy shit? Are you guys...!?"

"WHAT? NO, NO... I just—" You pause, suddenly feeling the warm rush of alcohol making you entirely too honest. You bite your lip, staring at the condensation pooling on your glass, fiercely debating whether you should actually say it out loud.

"Just what? Come on!" Mei nudges your arm, leaning in closer. "You can't just leave me hanging like that!"

"Well... last Sunday... I walked in on him while he was in the bathroom..."

"And?" Mei prompts, her voice dropping to an eager whisper.

"He was naked..."

Mei’s jaw drops, her eyes nearly popping out of her head. "SHUT UP!"

"Shhh!" You frantically wave your hands, checking the nearby booths. "Keep it down!"

"Sorry, sorry," Mei giggles, entirely unbothered, leaning in even closer. "So, like... anything happened since then?"

"Well, besides me avoiding him as much as I can and the constant image of his body on my mind... no," you admit, burying your hot face in your hands.

Mei gasps, practically vibrating in her seat. "Ahhh! So what has he said about it then?"

"Well, we both promised not to bring it up again," you explain, peeking through your fingers at her. "But he noticed I was avoiding him, so yesterday he came out and talked to me. We actually joked about it. I actually feel way better, I think it’s actually the first time I haven’t thought about him since."

"Uh-huh..." Mei murmurs. A slow, deeply teasing smirk begins to form on her lips, her eyes scanning your face with a knowing look. "And, uhm... any new feelings?"

You freeze, her words hanging heavily in the humid air of the club.

You pause, taking in her question, your mind suddenly drifting back to the quiet apartment. You and Riki have been close for so long.

Thinking about it now, there actually was a brief window of time when you first met where you looked at him and thought you could genuinely see yourself with him. But as the months rolled by and your friendship solidified, the idea of being with him like that became the furthest thing from reality.

You were just roommates. Just friends.

But seeing him so exposed... the breathtaking reality of how built he is... and then the way he handled it. His teasing, his effortless charm, the way he laughed off the awkwardness just to make sure you felt comfortable. You already found him attractive—that was just a baseline fact—but this? The way he is going about the whole thing?

Maybe the constant thought of him in your mind, replaying that morning non stop, wasn’t just a simple rush of lust taking over. Maybe you were actually starting to feel something real for him.

You and Mei head back to the bar, the heavy bass of the music washing over any lingering thoughts of roommate dynamics and hidden feelings.

For the next few hours, you completely lose yourself in the night. You drink, you laugh, you dance until your feet ache, throwing back shots of tequila and shouting the lyrics to songs you only half remember. By the time the lights in the club begin to dim, you are completely, beautifully out of it.

The cool night air hits you like a brick when you finally stumble out onto the sidewalk. You’re leaning heavily against Mei, giggling uncontrollably at a crack in the pavement, when your phone starts buzzing in your hand.

You slide the screen open with a clumsy thumb. It’s Riki.

"helllooo?" you chirp, your voice sliding into a high, giggly pitch.

"y/n Hey," Riki’s voice comes through the speaker, low and instantly grounding. "It’s getting late. Are you good? Do you need me to come get you?"

"Riki! Rikiii," you sing, leaning your head against Mei's shoulder as she tries to tickle your neck. "We are... we are so good. Look at the sky, Riki. It’s so... blue. Well, black. But like, shiny." You burst into a fit of breathless giggles, completely unable to hold a coherent thought.

There’s a brief silence on the other end of the line, followed by a heavy, fond sigh. "Yeah, okay. Stay exactly where you are. I’m on my way."

True to his word, it doesn’t take long before Riki pulls up to the curb. He kills the engine and steps out, immediately spotting the two of you leaning against a concrete planter, looking like a pair of absolute menaces.

Riki runs a hand through his hair, a look of pure, long suffering irritation on his face. The last thing he wanted to do tonight was play babysitter to two grown ass, highly intoxicated women, but he’s here anyway.

"Ohh, Riki hiii!" you squeal, waving dramatically with both arms as he walks over.

"Hi, Riki," Mei says, her voice dripping with a teasing tone as she wiggles her eyebrows at you.

Riki stops in front of you, crossing his arms over his chest as his dark eyes scan your flushed faces. "How much did you drink?"

"Not much," you say, holding up a finger and squinting. "Maybe like... eight shots?"

Riki’s eyes widen. "Of what?!"

"Mmm, yea..." you murmur, nodding solemnly as if that explained everything.

A small, helpless laugh escapes Riki’s lips. He shakes his head, unable to stay entirely annoyed when you’re being this childishly soft.

Mei, picking up on the sudden shift in the air, takes a clumsy step back. "Okay, well... I’ll leave you two alone."

"What? No," Riki says, his tone immediately switching to firm as he reaches out to grab Mei's arm before she can wander off. "I'm taking you home, Mei. You can’t drive, you’re drunk."

"I'm fine, Big Rik," Mei protests, trying to swat his hand away with a lazy grin. "Worry about your girl, not me."

Riki just rolls his eyes. Without another word, he grabs both of you by the elbows, gently but firmly guiding you toward his car. He knows you won't run off, so he focuses on getting a resisting Mei into the backseat first.

Once she’s buckled in he turns to you. He guides you into the passenger seat, his hand lingering on your lower back to steady you, before closing the door and jogging around to the driver's side.

He slides in, starts the car, and looks in the rearview mirror. "Okay, Mei. Your address?"

"Let me out, I can drive perfectly fine," she protests, crossing her arms.

"Yeah, sure. Address?" Riki asks again, completely unfazed by her stubbornness.

Mei rolls her eyes, realizing she’s not going to win this battle with him, and finally mumbles her address.

The ride is anything but quiet. For the first ten minutes, Mei begs Riki to turn the music on. The moment he finally relents, you and Mei start screaming the lyrics to a random pop song at the top of your lungs. Riki immediately reaches over and shuts the radio back off, muttering about his eardrums, which only causes the two of you to burst into a fresh wave of hysterical laughter.

When you finally pull up to Mei’s house, she opens the door and shoots Riki a pointed look. "You better give me a ride back to the club tomorrow so I can get my car, asshole. I have work."

"Yeah, yeah," Riki says, stepping out of the car to help her out. He walks her all the way to her front door, ensuring she gets inside safely.

By the time Riki climbs back into the driver's seat, the atmosphere in the car completely shifts. The chaotic energy of the night drains out of the vehicle, leaving a heavy, peaceful quiet.

He looks over at you. Your head is tilted back against the headrest, your eyes half closed as you trace the passing streetlights reflecting on the window. You’re drifting, right on the edge of sleep, the alcohol making your body feel incredibly heavy. Riki doesn't disturb you. He keeps the music off, driving smoothly through the quiet, empty streets.

When he finally pulls into the apartment parking garage, he puts the car in park but doesn't turn off the ignition.

He just sits there, turning his body slightly in the seat to look at you. In the dim, shadowed lighting of the car, your face looks incredibly soft. Your lips are parted slightly, your breathing slow and even.

Riki studies you.

Seeing you like this—completely vulnerable, sleepy, and quiet—does something strange to his chest. It’s a feeling he can’t quite define, a sudden, heavy warmth that makes his breath catch. He’s picked you up after nights out before, but tonight feels entirely different. The playful boundaries you’d redrawn over the week suddenly feel fragile.

Almost magnetically, his hand rises. His long fingers reach out, hovering for a second before he gently, softly strokes the side of your face, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your cheek. His touch is incredibly tender, almost tentative.

The subtle warmth of his hand against your skin pulls you from your light sleep. Your eyelids flutter open, and your hazy vision focuses on Riki. He’s leaning over you, his hand inches from your face.

The moment your eyes meet his, Riki flinches slightly, pulling his hand back immediately. He clears his throat, his gaze darting away to the steering wheel as he tries to shake the sudden, intense rush of heat in his chest.

"We're home," he says, his voice a little lower, rougher than usual as he tries to move past the weird feeling.

You let out a soft, tired sigh, closing your eyes again. You’re too out of it to fully process the tension in the air.

"Come on, y/n. Let's go," he says softly, reaching over to gently shake your shoulder. "You can sleep in your bed."

"Ughhh, fine," you mumble, forcing your heavy limbs to cooperate as you open the door and stumble out of the car.

Your knees instantly buckle the second your feet hit the concrete. Riki is there in a flash, his strong arm wrapping securely around your waist to keep you upright. He pulls your arm over his shoulder, holding you tight against his side as the two of you begin the slow walk toward the apartment lobby.

But before you can even make it to the glass doors, a sudden, violent wave of nausea hits you. Your mouth starts watering, and your stomach does a terrifying flip.

"Riki—stop," you gasp, pushing his chest away with surprising strength.

You stumble toward a concrete trash can near the entrance, gripping the cold metal rim for balance. You barely have time to steady yourself before your stomach completely rebels, and everything you drank tonight comes rushing up.

Riki is beside you in an instant. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't show a single ounce of disgust. He steps up behind you, gently gathering your hair in one hand to keep it out of the way, while his other hand rests firmly on your back, rubbing soothing, slow circles between your shoulder blades.

"I've got you," he murmurs quietly, his voice steady and calm against the quiet of the night. "Just let it out. You're okay."

When the violent retching finally stops, you lean heavily against the trash can, gasping for air. Your throat burns, your eyes are watering, and a deep, crushing wave of embarrassment washes over you. You look away from him, staring at the ground.

"I'm sorry—" you whisper, your voice cracking.

"Don't apologize," Riki cuts in gently. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a clean pack of tissues, handing them to you. His expression is incredibly soft, a sympathetic, patient smile on his lips. "It's fine. Let's just get you to your room, okay?"

You nod weakly, wiping your face. Riki pulls you back into his side, taking almost all of your weight as he guides you through the lobby, into the elevator, and finally through the front door of your shared apartment.

The apartment is dark and quiet. Riki guides you down the short hallway straight to your bedroom, kicking the door open. He gently maneuvers you toward the bed, helping you sit down on the edge of the mattress.

You collapse backward onto the pillows, let out a long, exhausted groan, and close your eyes. The room is spinning slightly, but the bed feels like heaven.

Riki disappears for a moment, his quiet footsteps receding toward the bathroom. He returns a minute later with a warm, damp washcloth. He sits on the edge of your mattress, the bed dipping under his weight.

You blink sleepily up at him. Riki leans in, his expression intensely focused and tender as he uses the warm cloth to gently wipes your face, cleaning away any lingering trace of the night. His touch is so incredibly soft, his fingers brushing against your jawline with a gentleness that makes your heart ache.

As he works, you just stare up at him. The dim light from the hallway catches the sharp line of his jaw, the dark intensity of his eyes, and the broad expanse of his shoulders. The memory of Sunday morning—and the conversation you just had with Mei—swirls together in your hazy, alcohol thinned mind.

You actually feel something for him.

Riki pulls the cloth away, but as he looks down at you, he freezes. He catches you staring up at him with an expression that is entirely too open, too vulnerable. For a long, silent moment, neither of you move. The quiet space of your bedroom feels incredibly small, the air thick with an entirely different kind of tension.

Riki’s throat bobs as he swallows. Slowly, he begins to shift his weight, preparing to stand up and give you your space. "I'll let you sleep..."

Before he can pull away, your hand shoots out from beneath the covers. Your fingers wrap around his wrist, your grip surprisingly tight.

"Stay," you whisper, the word slipping out before you can think to stop it. Your voice is small, almost pleading. "Please. Just... stay until I sleep."

Riki hesitates, his eyes dropping to where your hand is clutching his wrist. The sensible, logical part of his brain tells him he should leave, that you’re drunk and he should let you rest. But looking down at your sleepy, beautiful face, he find he doesn't have the strength to walk away.

With a soft, quiet sigh, Riki relaxes his posture. He doesn't get under the covers, but he shifts so he’s sitting comfortably against your headboard, his long legs stretched out over the top of the duvet.

"Okay," he whispers back, his voice incredibly gentle in the dark. "I'm staying."

You let out a contented sigh, your grip on his wrist relaxing, though you keep your hand resting comfortably against his knee. You close your eyes, the gentle, steady rise and fall of his breathing beside you acting as a perfect anchor.

Riki watches you as your breathing slowly evens out, his hand resting lightly over yours. And in the quiet safety of the room, he realizes that whatever simple, platonic dynamic you two used to have is officially gone. And neither of you wants it back.

The blinding Sunday morning sun feels like a personal attack as you slowly blink your eyes open. Your head throbs with a dull, heavy ache, and your mouth feels like it’s dry.

You groan, rolling over onto your side and staring blankly at your bedroom wall. Bits and pieces of the previous night are there, but they’re scattered and disjointed. You remember the bass of the club, the warm burn of the shots, and screaming lyrics next to Mei. But after a certain point, everything just fades into a fuzzy, warm blur.

You sit up slowly, holding your head as a wave of dizziness washes over you. Taking a deep breath, you swing your feet out of bed and pad quietly out of your room, desperately needing a glass of water.

When you slide into the kitchen, you find Riki already sitting at the island, a mug of coffee in his hand. He’s dressed in a loose grey tee, his damp hair indicating he’s already showered. The second he hears your soft footsteps, his head snaps up.

"Morning," he says, his voice quiet, searching your face with an intensity that makes you freeze for a second.

"Morning," you mumble, keeping your eyes down as you grab a glass and fill it from the fridge. After taking a long, desperate gulp, you turn to him sheepishly, rubbing the back of your neck.

“Hey... listen. I barely remember anything after we left the club, but... I am so, so sorry. For whatever I did or said last night. I know I must have been an absolute handful."

Riki’s hand freezes on his mug. He stares at you, his dark eyes widening slightly, a tiny, hopeful flicker shining in his gaze.

"You really don't remember?" he asks, his voice dropping a notch, sounding almost disappointed.

You shake your head, offering a weak, apologetic smile. "Honestly, the most I know is that Mei and I were both completely drunk off our asses. There’s absolutely no way she could have gotten me home without us ending up in a hospital. So, obviously, you had to come rescue us. Thank you, really. And again, I'm sorry if I was annoying."

Riki stares at you for a long moment, the hopeful look in his eyes slowly dimming into something quiet, guarded, and slightly frustrated. He takes a slow sip of his coffee, looking away toward the window.

"Don't worry about it," he says quietly, his tone suddenly feeling incredibly distant. “You weren't annoying."

He doesn't offer any details. He doesn't tease you about how much you drank, and he doesn't bring up the ride home. He just sits there, strangely quiet, staring at his mug until he finally gets up, washes his glass, and retreats back into his bedroom without another word.

As Sunday bleeds into Monday, a strange, heavy shift settles over the apartment.

Riki is avoiding you.

It’s not loud or aggressive, but it’s painfully obvious. He slips out of rooms the moment you walk in. When you ask him a question, his answers are short, polite, and completely devoid of his usual teasing spark. When he leaves for the studio, he doesn't offer a quiet "see you later" or look you in the eye. He just slips out like a ghost.

At first, you don't mind it much. You figure he’s just tired from work, or maybe he’s still a little annoyed about having to babysit two drunk girls over the weekend. But as Monday afternoon rolls on, the silence in the apartment starts to feel suffocating.

You’re sitting at your desk, supposed to be working, but your mind is entirely occupied by Riki.

The memory of the past week flashes through your head. You had just gotten over the absolute embarrassment of walking in on him. You had finally laughed it off, finally cleared the air, and yet, here he was, suddenly acting like a stranger again.

Why? What could have possibly happened on Saturday night?

The thought begins to crawl into your mind, cold and terrifying: Did I do something weird?

You try to piece the night together. Did you say something offensive to him in the car? Did you throw up on him? Did you make some horrible, unfiltered comment about his body because of how much you'd been thinking about it all week?

The anxiety builds in your chest, hot and heavy, bubbling up until you can barely breathe. You can’t live in this tense, quiet limbo anymore. He’s at work right now, but the second he gets home, you’re going to confront him. You need to know what you did so you can apologize and fix this.

At around 8:00 PM, the front door finally clicks open.

Your heart immediately leaps into your throat. You sit perfectly still on your bed, listening to the familiar sounds of Riki kicking off his shoes, dropping his bag, and heading straight to the bathroom. You freeze, locking your eyes on your closed bedroom door, waiting.

You decide to give him some space first. You'll wait until he’s done showering and has had a chance to get comfortable.

But one hour passes. Then two.

The apartment remains completely silent. You sit on the edge of your mattress, checking your phone, the built up stress twisting your stomach into tight, painful knots. The uncertainty is eating you alive.

Suddenly, a soft, hesitant knock sounds against your bedroom door.

You jump, your heart hammering against your ribs. "Come in!" you call out, your voice slightly tight.

The door opens just a crack, and Riki peeks in. He’s wearing his damp hair messy, dressed in a clean black t-shirt and sweats. He doesn't step inside, keeping his hand on the doorknob.

"Hey," he says quietly, his eyes darting to your floor before briefly meeting yours. "I ordered some food. It's on the kitchen counter if you want some."

"Oh. Okay, thanks," you say softly.

He nods once, his face completely unreadable, and shuts the door.

You wait a minute, taking a deep breath to steady your nerves, before finally getting up. You walk out into the hallway, expecting to find him sitting on the couch where the two of you always eat together. But the living room is dark. The TV is off.

You look toward the kitchen. The bags of food are sitting on the counter, but Riki is nowhere to be seen.

You follow the soft light glowing from the end of the hall. His bedroom door is pushed open, and when you look inside, you find him sitting at his desk, eating quietly by himself.

That’s the final straw. The built up stress of the last forty-eight hours finally boils over, shattering your resolve to stay calm.

You step into his doorway, your hands clenched at your sides.

"Okay, did I do something?"

The words burst out of you, sharp and loud in the quiet room.

Riki freezes, his chopsticks hovering halfway to his mouth. He blinks, staring up at you in complete confusion. "What? No?"

"So why are you being so weird towards me?" you press, taking a step further into his room, your voice trembling slightly with a mix of anxiety and frustration. "What happened? Ever since Sunday morning, you won't even look at me. If I did something stupid or said something horrible when I was drunk on Saturday, just tell me so I can apologize."

Riki stares at you, his chest rising and falling with a heavy breath as he takes in your frantic, stressed expression. Slowly, he sets his food down on the desk.

"Nothing," he stammers slightly, his dark eyes softening, looking genuinely apologetic. "Can you... can you just calm down?"

You look at him, his soft tone instantly cutting through your rising panic. You let out a long, shaky sigh, the anger draining out of you, leaving you feeling incredibly small. You take a step back, rubbing your face in your hands.

"I'm sorry," you mutter, looking at the floor. "I just... I've been stressing about this all day."

"No, it's fine," Riki says quietly. He shifts in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks away, a faint, troubled expression crossing his handsome face. "I'm sorry if I've been seeming distant. I just... I've been having some weird... feelings?"

He says the word feelings almost unsurely, as if he’s still trying to translate the heavy warmth in his chest into actual language.

You blink, completely caught off guard by his honesty. "Oh... do you want to talk about them?"

Riki pauses, his eyes drifting back to your face. He sees the genuine concern and the soft vulnerability in your eyes, and his throat bobs as he swallows.

"Well... not really," he admits softly. But seeing your face fall slightly, he quickly adds, "But it’s not because you did something. I promise. It’s just... something I have to figure out on my own."

"You don't have to explain. I get it," you say.

And you genuinely do. Because with how your own feelings have been going every which way ever since you saw him completely vulnerable in that bathroom, your brain has been a chaotic mess. You understand exactly what it’s like to have thoughts you aren't ready to speak out loud yet.

"Sorry for storming in on you," you offer gently, backing toward the door.

"It's fine," he says, a tiny, genuine smile finally tugging at the corner of his lips.

You offer him a small smile back and slip out of his room, closing the door softly behind you. As you walk back to the kitchen to grab your food, you feel a massive wave of relief wash over you. You didn't do anything wrong. You didn't ruin your friendship.

But as you sit down on the living room couch, Riki’s words seem to echo in the quiet apartment.

Some weird feelings.

What kind of feelings was he having? Did it have anything to do with Saturday night? With you?

The thoughts linger for a fleeting, dangerous second, making your heart do a sudden, erratic flutter. But you quickly shake your head, forcing the thoughts away. You didn't want to start overanalyzing everything again. You just needed to let him figure it out.

But as you eat your dinner in the quiet room, you can't help but feel like the space between your two has never felt so small.

Another week slid by, and to your immense relief, the easy, comfortable rhythm of your shared apartment finally returned.

The tense silence was gone, replaced once again by casual late night conversations in the kitchen, shared glances over bad TV shows, and the familiar, grounding presence of Riki just a room away.

He seemed to have worked through whatever "weird feelings" he was having, and you did your absolute best to keep your own new, fragile emotions tucked safely out of sight. You were back to being friends. Normal. Safe.

At least, until Friday night.

You and Mei were sprawled out in the living room, completely taking over the space. Sweatpants on, hair thrown into messy buns, and an absolute graveyard of takeout containers and snacks scattered across the coffee table. You were in the middle of laughing at a ridiculously dramatic reality show when the front door unlocked.

Riki walked in, looking effortlessly good in a soft, oversized cream knit sweater and dark jeans, his dance bag slung over one shoulder.

"Hey," he murmured, a soft, tired smile instantly gracing his lips as he saw the chaotic setup in the living room.

"Hey!” you smiled up at him, feeling that familiar, warm flutter in your chest.

"Hi, Riki," Mei chimed in, offering a casual wave from her spot on the floor.

"Hey, Mei," he replied, kicking off his shoes.

He walked into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water, leaning against the counter for a brief moment. Everything felt completely normal, light, and easy. He didn't linger too long, knowing you and Mei were having a girls night.

“I'm gonna go shower and crash. Don't be too loud please."

"We won't. Goodnight, Riki," you said.

He gave you one last, lingering look before heading down the hall to his room and closing the door.

The second the click of his door echoed down the hallway, Mei slowly turned her head toward you. The lazy, relaxed expression she’d had a moment ago was completely gone, replaced by a razor-sharp, deeply knowing look.

"Okay, so... anything new?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

You kept your eyes glued to the TV, reaching for a handful of popcorn. "With what?"

"Come on, Y/N, don’t act dumb," Mei groaned, throwing a small pillow at your legs. "What’s been going on between you two?"

"Mei... it’s nothing. We’re friends," you insisted, finally looking at her and trying to keep your voice as flat and convincing as possible.

Mei let out a dry, theatrical scoff. "Yeah, sure. I can definitely tell both of you are way different from before."

"Nothing is different," you muttered, though you could feel the heat starting to prickle at the back of your neck. You took a slow sip of your drink, desperately hoping she’d just drop it.

"Even you don’t believe that," Mei countered, her tone dropping into something softer, more earnest. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees.

"Y/N, the way he looks at you when he walks into a room? The way you practically light up the second his shoes hit the entryway? It’s not the same as it was a month ago. You both have this... energy now."

You stared at your glass, the defenses you’d spent the last week carefully building suddenly starting to crumble under her scrutiny. You let out a quiet, defeated sigh, shoulders slumping.

"Okay... maybe I might be feeling different about him," you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. "But it doesn’t matter. Me and Riki are friends, nothing more. And he does not see me like that."

Mei tilted her head, her eyes locking onto yours with a challenging spark. "How do you know?"

You opened your mouth to answer, to give her a list of logical reasons why Riki would never think of you that way. But as you searched your brain, nothing came out. You thought about the tender way he had wiped your face after you were sick. You thought about his hand lingering on your wrist in the dark of your bedroom, and the soft, hopeful look in his eyes when he asked if you remembered Saturday night. You couldn't find a single solid piece of proof to back up your claim. You sat there, completely silent, unable to even answer.

"Exactly," Mei said, a soft, triumphant smile playing on her lips. "Why don’t you just tell him how you’ve been feeling?"

Your heart did a violent, panicked stutter. "I don’t..."

"You gotta try something, y/n, or you’ll never know if something could’ve happened between you two," Mei pressed gently.

You shot her a flat, "be serious" expression, but deep down, her words were hitting you like a physical weight. You wrapped your arms tightly around your chest, staring down at the carpet as the reality of her advice sank in.

For the rest of the night, Mei’s words clung to you like a second skin. Even as the two of you went back to laughing at the TV, drinking, and talking trash, the thought of Riki remained locked in the back of your mind. You managed to push it down eventually, forcing yourself to live in the moment and enjoy the rest of your night with your best friend, but the seed had been planted.

You knew Mei was right. The comfortable, purely platonic boundary you had relied on for so long had already been crossed, whether you wanted to admit it or not.

Maybe you should say something to him.

But as you glanced down the dark hallway toward his closed bedroom door, a cold, familiar knot of anxiety tightened in your throat. Riki was your roommate, your confidant, one of the closest people in your life. The thought of losing the precious bond you already had—of making things so weird that you couldn't even look each other in the eye anymore—was terrifying. And right now, that fear was the only thing holding you back.

The soft, golden warmth of Saturday morning filtered through the sheer curtains of the living room, painting quiet blocks of light across the hardwood floor.

After the whirlwind of the past few weeks—the accidental bathroom incident, the drunken night out, and the heavy conversations that followed—the apartment finally felt like a sanctuary again. The thick, suffocating layers of tension had peeled away, leaving behind a comfortable, familiar space.

You sat at the kitchen island, slowly sipping a freshly brewed cup of coffee. The hum of the refrigerator and the distant chirp of birds outside were the only sounds filling the quiet morning. It was the kind of peaceful weekend start you had desperately missed.

The soft creak of Riki’s bedroom door opening broke the quiet. You didn't stiffen or freeze this time, instead, you felt a warm, easy anticipation settle in your chest.

Riki padded into the kitchen, his hair delightfully messy from sleep, sticking up in random directions. He blinked sleepily against the morning light, rubbing the back of his neck as he made his way to the coffee pot.

"Morning," he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep, a low rumble that vibrated pleasantly in the quiet kitchen.

"Morning, sleepyhead," you smiled, leaning your chin on your palm as you watched him pour himself a mug.

Riki let out a soft, amused huff, taking a slow sip of his black coffee. He leaned against the counter opposite you, his eyes focusing on your face. A tiny, lingering glance passed between you—one of those quiet, loaded seconds where you both remembered everything but chose to let it rest—before he offered a lazy, handsome grin.

"I have a busy week ahead at the studio," he explained, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I had to store up my energy. What are your plans for today?"

"Honestly? Absolutely nothing," you admitted, swirling the remaining coffee in your mug. "I was just going to rot on the couch, maybe run a few boring errands later."

Riki set his mug down on the counter, his gaze brightening with a sudden, playful spark. "Don't run errands. Let's do something today. Just the two of us."

"Oh? And what did you have in mind."

"We could get food. Walk around the park. Just get out of the apartment," he shrugged, though the hopeful look in his eyes was hard to miss. "It’s nice out today. It’d be a waste to just stay inside."

"Alright, fine," you laughed, sliding off the barstool. "Give me thirty minutes to get ready."

"Take your time," Riki chuckled, his eyes trailing you with a soft, lingering warmth as you walked down the hallway to your bedroom. "I’ll be waiting."

True to his word, Riki was ready and waiting by the front door when you emerged from your room. He had changed into a clean, well fitted black t-shirt and baggy denim jeans, a simple outfit that somehow made him look incredibly striking.

Your mind briefly threatened to flash back to the image of him without the shirt, but you firmly shook the thought away, offering him a bright smile instead.

"Look at you, actually putting effort in," you teased, grabbing your keys and purse.

"I always put effort in," Riki countered, reaching past you to open the front door. As he did, his chest brushed lightly against your shoulder, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake.

“You're just finally noticing."

You laughed, stepping out into the warm afternoon air.

The drive to the local park was filled with the easy, comfortable noise of your favorite playlist humming through the car speakers.

This time, there was no drunken shouting or frantic radio switching. Instead, Riki drove with one hand casually on the steering wheel, occasionally tapping his fingers to the beat, while you pointed out random things along the road, laughing at his dry, sarcastic commentary.

When you arrived at the park, the weather was absolutely perfect. A gentle breeze rustled through the green trees, keeping the summer heat at bay as the two of you began a slow walk along the paved path.

"So," you started, hands tucked into your pockets as you walked side by side. "How has the new choreography been going? You said last week was brutal.”

"It is," Riki sighed, though there was a passionate, dedicated spark in his eyes. "The details are really sharp this time. My shoulders have been killing me from the constant repetitions."

Without thinking, your eyes dropped to his shoulders, tracing the strong, solid lines beneath his black shirt. "Well... you do work really hard. Just don't overdo it."

Riki paused his walking, turning his head to look down at you. A slow, deeply teasing smirk began to crawl onto his face. "Are you worrying about me, y/n?"

"I am a highly responsible roommate," you shot back, feeling a faint warmth rising to your cheeks. "If you throw your back out, I'm the one who has to drag you around the apartment. I'm just looking out for my own physical labor."

"Right. Purely self serving," Riki chuckled, nudging his shoulder playfully against yours as you resumed walking. "I'll try to keep myself intact for your sake."

By mid afternoon, the walk had worked up an appetite, and Riki insisted on going to a small, cozy diner tucked away in a quiet corner of the city. The diner was wonderfully retro, smelling of grilled burgers, sweet syrup, and fresh coffee.

You slid into a red vinyl booth, and Riki sat directly across from you. The table between you was small, meaning his long legs easily brushed against yours beneath the wooden partition. Neither of you pulled away, the subtle, warm contact feeling incredibly natural.

"I'm getting a chocolate milkshake, and no, you cannot have a sip," you declared, pointing a warning finger at him as you scanned the menu.

Riki let out a dramatic sigh, crossing his arms over his chest. "Wow. Cold hearted. After I drove you all the way here?"

"You can order your own, rich boy," you giggled, looking up from your menu to meet his gaze.

His eyes were locked onto yours, soft and intensely focused. The playful banter faded for a brief, quiet second, replaced by a profound, comfortable closeness.

The fear that Mei had planted in your head the night before—the terrifying thought of losing him if you ever confessed—suddenly felt incredibly distant. Sitting here with him, laughing and sharing space, made you realize how deeply woven he was into your life.

"I'll just steal yours when you aren't looking," Riki teased softly, breaking the quiet moment with a wink that made your heart skip a beat.

"Just try it, and see what happens," you warned, though your smile was wide and happy.

When the food arrived, the comfortable chatter continued. Riki listened intently as you rambled about a project you were working on, nodding along and offering genuine, thoughtful advice. He was a great listener, always paying attention to the little details you mentioned, a quality you had always deeply appreciated about him.

By the time you made it back to the apartment, the sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in beautiful hues of dusty pink and warm orange. You felt pleasantly tired, your stomach full and your mind incredibly relaxed.

As you unlocked the front door, Riki followed you inside, tossing his keys onto the entryway table. The apartment was cool and quiet, a peaceful contrast to the bustling energy of the city.

"Thanks for today, Riki," you said, turning around to face him as you kicked off your shoes. "I really needed a distraction."

"Anytime," Riki murmured, taking a step closer to you. He looked down at you, the fading evening light catching the soft contours of his face. "I had fun, too. It’s nice just spending time with you like this."

You looked up at him, your breath hitching slightly at the sincerity in his voice. The teasing, playful roommate persona was gone, replaced by the raw, gentle warmth he had shown you on Saturday night in your room.

"Yeah," you whispered, your heart beating a little faster. "Me too."

Riki reached out, his long fingers gently brushing against your arm for a fleeting second, a warm, reassuring touch that made your skin tingle. "I'm gonna go change. Movie night?"

"Definitely," you smiled, watching him walk down the hallway.

As you went to your room to change into your night clothes, you couldn't help but think about Mei’s words from the night before. You gotta try something, Y/N, or you’ll never know.

Today had been perfect. It was comfortable, safe, and filled with the easy love of a deep friendship. But beneath the surface, the current was changing. The lingering glances, the gentle touches, and the quiet warmth between you were growing stronger with every passing day.

And as you walked back into the living room to join Riki on the couch, you realized that maybe the fear of losing what you had was finally being outweighed by the exciting, terrifying possibility of what you could become.

The soft, blueish glow of the television screen was the only source of light in the dark living room as the movie played on.

You and Riki were sitting next to each other on the couch, sharing a large, heavy knit blanket draped over both of your laps. But you weren’t sitting super close. There was a careful space between your shoulders—just enough room for the large bowl of popcorn sitting directly between you on the middle cushion.

It was a comfortable setup, but the unspoken awareness of his proximity was humming just beneath the surface.

Every time Riki reached into the bowl at the same time as you, his knuckles would briefly brush against yours, sending a sharp, electric jolt straight up your arm. You’d both quietly pull your hands back, offer a muttered "sorry," and go back to staring at the screen.

As the movie progressed into its second hour, the comfortable atmosphere began to shift, growing heavier.

Maybe it was the exhausting emotional roller coaster of the past two weeks, or maybe it was the lingering weight of Mei’s words echoing in your head. You found yourself completely unable to focus on the plot. Your chest felt tight, your mind spinning with a sudden, frustrating wave of impatience.

Riki, too, seemed restless. He kept shifting his weight, his eyes darting to you in the shadows of the room, his jaw slightly tense.

"You're not even watching," Riki murmured suddenly, his low voice cutting through the quiet dialogue of the TV. He reached for the remote and paused the film, plunging the room into a still, heavy silence.

You blinked, caught off guard. "What? Yes, I am."

"You've been sighing every five minutes, y/n," Riki interrupted softly, turning his body on the cushions to face you. "And you’re aggressively tearing a piece of popcorn apart. What’s going on?"

Your fingers froze, indeed holding a completely shredded piece of popcorn. You let out a breath, suddenly feeling a spike of irritation. You were tired of the dancing around, tired of the careful boundaries, and tired of pretending you weren't losing your mind.

"Nothing is going on, Riki. I'm just tired," you said, your tone coming out a bit sharper than you intended.

Riki’s eyebrows pulled together, a flicker of defensiveness crossing his face. "Okay, clearly you're not 'just tired.' Did I do something again? Because I thought we solved the weirdness on Monday."

"We did solve it," you said, sitting up straighter and letting the blanket slip off your shoulders. "But then you go and act completely distant, and then you tell me you're having 'weird feelings' that you can't talk to me about."

"Because they're my feelings to deal with," Riki shot back, his voice rising just a fraction, a rare edge of frustration in his tone. He ran a hand through his hair, looking genuinely stressed. "I was trying to protect our dynamic. I didn't want to make things weird for you."

"Protecting our dynamic?" you repeated, a bitter, disbelieving laugh slipping from your throat. "Riki, things have been weird since the moment I walked in on you. And I've been sitting here trying to navigate whatever this is, wondering if I ruined our friendship, while you just shut down!"

"I didn't shut down because of you!" Riki stepped in, his eyes snapping to yours, intense and burning in the dim light.

"Then why?!" you demanded, the built up emotion finally boiling over. "Why are you keeping secrets? Why are you acting like I’m some fragile glass doll you’re gonna break? If you're annoyed with me, or if you're disgusted by whatever happened, just say it!"

"Disgusted?!" Riki let out a harsh, frustrated breath, leaning forward so quickly the space between you evaporated. "Are you kidding me right now? Is that really what you think?"

"I don't know what to think!" you yelled back, your chest heaving, tears of sheer frustration prickling at the corners of your eyes. "You don't talk to me! You touch my face in the car when you think I'm asleep, you stay in my room until I fall asleep, and then you act like I'm a stranger the next day! It's driving me insane because... because I can't stop thinking about you, Riki!"

The confession tore out of you, loud, raw, and completely unfiltered.

The silence that followed was deafening. Your own breath hitched in your throat, your eyes widening in horror as the weight of your slip up crashed down on you. You had said it. You had literally just admitted it.

Riki froze, his entire body locking up as he stared at you. The anger drained from his face in an instant, replaced by a stunned, breathless shock. "What...?"

"I..." You scrambled backward, trying to untangle your legs from the blanket, desperate to escape to your room. "Nothing. Forget I said that. I'm going to bed."

"No, wait—"

Riki reached out, his hand wrapping firmly around your wrist, stopping you from moving away. His grip was warm, solid, and completely unyielding. He pulled you back toward him, his eyes searching your panicked face with a sudden, desperate intensity.

"Say it again," he whispered, his voice trembling slightly.

"Riki, please let go," you pleaded, your voice cracking as the fear of rejection tightened in your chest. "I made a mistake. I shouldn't have said that."

"It wasn't a mistake," Riki said, his voice dropping into a deep, raw rumble. He let go of your wrist, only to cup the side of your face with his warm palm, forcing you to look at him. "You think you're the only one losing your mind? You think I shut down because I was annoyed?"

You stared at him, your heart hammering so loudly you were certain he could hear it.

"I shut down because being around you... having you touch me, having you look at me... it made me realize things I was trying to ignore," Riki admitted, his thumb gently tracing your cheekbone.

His breath was warm against your skin, his gaze dropping to your lips before locking back onto your eyes. "I couldn't stop thinking about you. Every time I looked at you this week, all I wanted to do was this."

Before you could even process his words, Riki leaned in.

The kiss was sudden, a collision of built up frustration, longing, and relief. His lips pressed against yours, warm and firm, catching you entirely off guard.

For a second, you both froze. The shock of the contact made you both pull back, just an inch, staring at each other in the dark with wide, breathless eyes. The reality of what was happening hung suspended in the air, unsure and terrifying.

But then, Riki’s gaze darkened with pure, unfiltered desire. He didn't give you time to overthink. He leaned back in, and this time, the hesitation was entirely gone.

He captured your mouth again, but this time, it was deeper, more heated, and desperate. A soft gasp escaped your lips, which Riki immediately drank in, his hand sliding from your cheek to wrap firmly around the back of your neck, tangling in your hair to pull you closer.

The space between you completely vanished. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to you as you kissed him back with the exact same frantic, built up hunger.

Riki let out a low growl against your lips, his free hand wrapping securely around your waist, lifting you easily until you were practically draped across his lap.

The world outside the apartment completely ceased to exist. There was only the heat of his body, the firm grip of his hands on your skin, and the intoxicating, dizzying taste of him. Every touch was electric, erasing the weeks of agonizing tension in a matter of seconds.

Riki broke the kiss for a split second, his breath hitching as he pressed his forehead against yours, both of you panting. His chest was expanding rapidly against yours, his hands griping your hips with a heavy, possessive force.

He slid his arms under your thighs and back, lifting you effortlessly off the couch in one smooth motion. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, burying your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the intoxicating scent of clean soap and warm skin as he carried you down the short hallway.

He kicked his bedroom door open, stepping into the dark, quiet sanctuary of his room, before shutting the door behind him.

The door clicks shut, sealing out the rest of the world and plunging you both into the dim, shadow draped quiet of Riki’s bedroom. The moment his back hits the closed wood, he doesn't let you down. Instead, his grip around your thighs tightens, pinning you against him as his mouth crashes back onto yours with a fierce, demanding hunger.

There is no room for doubts now, no space for the careful hesitation that defined the last two weeks.

The makeout is raw, fast, and intensely heated. You tangle your fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, whimpering into the kiss as his tongue slides against yours, tasting of mint and desperate, bottled up want.

Riki lets out a low, vibration of a groan, his hands sliding up your back, bunching the fabric of your shirt as he presses you flush against the solid plane of his chest.

He shifts, his lips breaking away from yours only to trail a burning path down the sensitive skin of your jaw.

A breathy gasp escapes you as his mouth finds the sweet spot right where your neck meets your shoulder. Riki sucks firmly against the soft skin, his teeth grazing over the flesh in a slow, possessive drag.

The sharp, dizzying sting of a hickey forming makes your toes curl. You grip his shoulders, your nails digging lightly into the fabric of his shirt as he marks you in the dark.

Almost no words pass between you, only the heavy, frantic sound of your joined breathing and the wet, quiet friction of his lips devouring your skin.

Slowly, Riki lets you slide down his body until your feet touch the cool floor, though he doesn't let you go for a single second. He guides you backward toward the edge of his bed, his hands warm and steady on your hips until you sink onto the mattress.

Before you can even catch your breath, Riki drops to his knees on the floor between your thighs. His hands slide to the waistband of your shorts, his fingers brushing against your skin as he gently but deliberately slides them down your legs, taking your undies with them in one smooth, fluid motion. He tosses them aside, leaving you completely exposed under his gaze.

Your breath hitches as he looks up at you through his dark, messy fringe, his eyes burning with an intense, focused heat. He doesn't hesitate. His hands slide up your bare legs, parting them gently, and then he leans forward to kiss you, his lips meeting yours with a fierce, demanding passion that leaves you completely breathless.

Your breath hitches as he looks up at you through his dark, messy fringe, his eyes burning with an intense, focused heat. He doesn't hesitate. His hands slide up your legs, parting them gently, and then he leans forward to taste you.

The first touch of his tongue makes your whole body shudder. Riki is incredibly, agonizingly good at what he’s doing. Every stroke is deliberate, heavy, and wet, finding your sweetest spots with a terrifying accuracy that leaves you completely defenseless.

Within minutes, you are a trembling, unraveled mess. Clutching the bedsheets on either side of you, your hips lifting involuntarily as you try to press yourself closer to his mouth. Your breathing turns into shallow, rapid gasps, and your chest heaves as the pleasure builds into something entirely overwhelming.

"Riki—ah, please," you cry out, his name slipping from your lips in a breathless, needy shout that echoes softly in the quiet room.

He doesn't stop. He only grips your thighs tighter, anchoring you to him as his mouth moves faster, driving you completely over the edge. A low, muffled praise vibrates against your skin. "You taste so good," he mutters against you, his voice thick. "So sweet for me."

He continues the relentless pace, pulling every single gasp and twitch out of you until you finally break, your body locking up as you cum all over his mouth.

As the waves of your release slowly begin to settle, Riki crawls up the bed, his dark eyes fixed on your flushed, dazed face. He leans over you, kissing you gently, letting you taste yourself on his lips.

Slowly, without breaking his gaze, his hands slide to the hem of your shirt. He slips it over your head and tosses it onto the floor, his eyes tracking the rise and fall of your bare chest. Then, his hands move to his own shirt, pulling it off. In the dim light, the sight of his bare, broad chest and defined abs makes your throat go dry.

But before he goes any further, Riki pauses. He props himself up on his elbows, hovering over you, his expression suddenly very serious, very tender.

"Are you okay?" he whispers, his thumb lightly brushing your lip. "You're sure about this?"

"Yes," you breathe, reaching up to cup his jaw. "More than sure."

Riki lets out a soft breath, a relieved smile brushing his lips. He turns to his nightstand, his long arm reaching out to grab a condom from the drawer. You watch the quiet, focused movement of his shoulders as he prepares, your heart hammering in anticipation.

Once ready, he settles between your thighs, guiding your legs over his shoulders to open you up completely. He aligns himself at your entrance, pausing for a second to look into your eyes before he slowly slides inside you.

The fullness of him stretching you, makes your head fling back against the pillows as a needy, breathless groan slips from your throat. Your fingers instantly tangle in his messy hair, holding him close as your body adjusts to his size. Riki waits, letting you get used to him, before he begins to move.

He starts with agonizingly slow, deep thrusts, testing your limits. Every time he slides all the way out, only to sink back in even deeper, you let out a ragged gasp. The friction is immediate and electric, sending waves of heat straight to your core. Your hips instinctively lift to meet him, begging for a faster pace, but Riki keeps the rhythm steady and punishingly slow.

The heat between you builds with every slow slide of his body against yours. You can feel the slick friction of him driving you closer and closer to the edge, the familiar, tight coil of another release starting to tension deep in your lower stomach. Your breath comes in short, shallow pants, and your grip on his shoulders tightens as you feel yourself hovering right on the precipice of a peak—

But just as you’re about to fall over the edge, Riki suddenly stops. He pulls completely out of you.

"Riki!" you groan, the sudden coldness leaving you empty. Your eyes snap open in pure frustration as you stare up at him, your hands desperately trying to claw him back down.

Riki lets out a low chuckle, his chest vibrating against yours. He leans down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your pouting lips, tasting your desperation. "Be patient," he murmurs against your mouth, his thumb stroking your hip in a slow, soothing circle that only drives you crazier. "I don't want to rush this. I wanna take my time with you."

Before you can even protest, Riki grips your hips and gently but firmly rolls you over onto your stomach.

You press your face into his pillows, your breath coming in short, needy pants as you feel him settle behind you. The shift in angle is sharp and immediate. He grabs your hips, pulling you flush against him, and begins to fuck you from behind.

The sound of his skin slapping against yours fills the quiet bedroom, matching the frantic rhythm of your racing pulse. You arch your back, burying your face in the sheets to muffle your loud cries as he drives you closer and closer to the edge.

But just as you feel yourself reaching the absolute peak, your body trembling on the verge of breaking—

He pulls out again.

You let out a sharp, genuinely angry whine, twisting your head to glare at him over your shoulder. Your face is flushed, your hair wild, and you are completely fed up with his control.

Riki just looks down at you, a devilish, intensely satisfied smirk playing on his lips as he shrugs. "Just wait," he whispers, his voice dripping with playful torment.

You’ve had entirely enough of his little games.

Fueled by a sudden, defiant rush of adrenaline, you don't wait for his permission. You push yourself up off your stomach, turning around to face him.

Before he can react or pull away again, you crawl forward, straddling his lap as he sits back against the headboard. You lock your eyes onto his, letting him see the stubborn determination in your gaze.

"No more waiting," you whisper.

You don't let him pull you back. Instead, you align yourself over him, looking down into his burning eyes, and slowly, completely slide down, impaling yourself onto him. A deep, ragged sigh escapes you both as you finally capture the fullness of what he kept taking away from you.

You don't wait for him to set the pace. You grip his broad shoulders for balance and begin to move, chasing the release you've been denied. Riki’s hands grip your waist with a bruising, heavy force, guiding your hips as he thrusts upward to meet you, his entire body rigid with restraint.

The friction is overwhelming, the heat between you building to a fever pitch. You move faster, your head tilted back, crying out his name as the pleasure crashes over you like a tidal wave. You break first, your body shuddering violently as you clench around him, your internal muscles clamping down tight.

Even as your body trembles with the aftershocks, you don't stop. You keep moving, riding through the sensitivity, determined to bring him with you.

Riki lets out a loud, raw shout, his head snapping back against the wall as he loses his grip on his control. He thrusts up hard, one last time, and cums deeply inside the condom.

You ride out the final, pulsing friction of his release for a few more slow, heavy seconds before your strength finally gives out. You collapse forward, burying your face in the crook of his warm, sweat damp neck.

Riki’s arms immediately wrap around you, pulling you tight against his chest. Both of you lie there, chests expanding rapidly against each other as you slowly, quietly come down from the dizzying high of the night.

The silence of the room slowly returns, save for the quiet hum of the AC and your fading, heavy breaths.

As you lie there, listening to the steady, rapid beat of his heart beneath your ear, the reality of what just happened slowly settles over you. You look down at your hand resting on his chest, his fingers loosely tangled with yours.

There is no going back to the way things were. The careful, polite boundaries of the last month have been completely shattered, melted away by the heat of the night. But as Riki presses a soft, lingering kiss to the crown of your head, holding you just a little bit closer, you realize you don't want to go back anyway.

Everything was different now—and it was only going to go up from here.

[ikeuzito]

SUGARCOATED

(박종성) ✶ fem!reader

synopsis: you're moving into your college apartment when a handsome guy helps you with your heavy boxes on the stairs. He turns out to be Jay, your older neighbor — a lawyer who quickly becomes part of your new life. He listens to you ramble for hours but never offers much about himself, and you tell yourself it's fine, that everyone has boundaries. Being with him feels too right to question, so you let yourself fall anyway, completely lost in him and blind to what's right in front of you until it's too late.

includes: student!reader x lawyer!jay, age gap (not specified), neighbors to lovers (?), lots of domestic fluff mixed with rough sex, slow-burn buildup before the smut, explicit sexual content (mdni), big dick jay, size kink (emphasis on thickness, length, belly bulge, stretching, etc.), cockwarning, unprotected sex, creampie, breeding kink, praise kink, multiple orgasms, spitting in mouth, overstimulation, oral (f. & m. receiving), fingering, riding, missionary, spooning sex, car sex, doggy, spanking (punishment), manhandling, dirty talk, nipple play, soft dom!jay, brief mean dom jay, aftercare, pet names (princess & baby).

wc: 19.2k ─ a/n: ngl i'm so insecure about this... it took me forever to finish because i was running out of creativity and kept giving up, but i finally did it! really hope you guys like it anyways. i'd really appreciate any feedback! happy reading <33

comment here to join the tag list! .𝜗𝜚 ݁˖

You have been waiting for this moment for months, even years. You are finally moving out. It is because of college, but still, it is a new beginning far from home — a brand-new chapter in your own space. A mix of excitement and nervousness settles in your chest, because living alone requires a lot of responsibility, and you are not sure if you are ready to handle it all.

For the past five minutes, you have been staring at the mountain of boxes crammed into the trunk and backseat of your car like a game of Tetris. You are wondering how you are going to carry so many boxes up to the third floor where your apartment is. With a deep breath, you finally grab one of the boxes, and immediately stagger under its weight.

"Maintenance. Sorry for the inconvenience" reads the sign taped to the elevator doors.

Drops of sweat form on your temples, down the back of your neck, and pool on your spine, making your shirt stick to your skin. Of course it would be hot as hell on the day of your move, and of course the elevator wouldn't be working — talk about lucky.

You take another deep breath, hug the box against your chest, and begin climbing the stairs slowly, careful not to lose your balance.

Your arms are trembling and your breathing is almost as heavy as the box by the time you finally reach the first floor, forcing you to set it down for a moment to rest. But just as you pick it up again, mentally preparing for the next flight of stairs, the sound of footsteps coming down from above catches you off guard.

A man is coming down the stairs. He’s tall, wearing a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the prominent veins on his forearms. His jaw is sharp — probably sharper than any knife you’ve ever seen. He looks so put-together that you suddenly feel embarrassed by your sweaty face and disheveled state.

Seeing you, he stops immediately, his eyebrows furrowing with mild concern. "Whoa. Let me help you with that." His voice is low and smooth, the kind of voice that sends a shiver down your spine before you can stop it.

You blush, heat rising from your neck to your cheeks. "Oh, you don’t have to. I can manage—"

"I insist," he replies gently, waiting with his hands hovering, giving you the choice. You let him take the box, and the relief is immediate — your arms practically sing in gratitude. He lifts it as if it weighs nothing, cradling it against his chest with just one arm — the same box you were struggling to carry with both. "I’m Jay, by the way."

You quickly wipe the sweat from your forehead and try to fix your hair because you want to look at least a little presentable for the incredibly good-looking man helping you. "Thank you so much. I’m y/n. I’m moving in today, to apartment 3B."

Jay’s expression softens, and a warm smile spreads across his face. "3B? That’s interesting. I live right next door, in 3A." He nods toward the stairs. "Looks like we’re neighbors." He gestures ahead. "After you."

You both climb the remaining stairs together and your heart still pounding. You can’t tell if it’s from the physical effort earlier or from his company. Because of the nerves, the words start tumbling out before you can stop them.

"I’m starting college this week. I got accepted and everything, and I was so excited when I found this apartment. It’s the first time I’ve ever lived away from home, so I’m really thrilled… but also kind of terrified? Like, what if I get lost on campus? What if my classes are way harder than I expected? I brought way too much stuff, I’m kind of attached to my things, you know?" You let out a breathless laugh. "Sorry, I’m probably talking too much. I get really chatty when I’m nervous."

Jay glances at you as you walk, the box still balanced effortlessly in his arms. He doesn’t look annoyed — in fact, he seems amused, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You’re not talking too much. It’s a big change, but you’re doing great."

You bite your lower lip, watching him as you climb. There is something intriguing about him that sparks your curiosity. "And you? Are you a student too, or…?"

He chuckles softly, shaking his head. "No, I’ve already graduated. I work at a company downtown." He says it casually, offering no further details — which only makes you even more curious.

You reach the landing of the second floor and have to stop to catch your breath, while Jay doesn’t even seem slightly winded — it’s honestly impressive. "My parents helped me pack my bags, but they’re hours away now. It’s exciting, though. New city, new people. I just hope I don’t ruin everything."

"You won’t," Jay says gently. "Everyone feels like that at the beginning. The nervousness is normal. Besides, you seem like you have a good head on your shoulders. You’ll find your rhythm." He sets the box down carefully in front of your door. "Ready for another round?"

The words hit you like a spark. "Ready for another round." And before you can help it, your mind immediately drifts, imagining Jay on top of you, his strong body pressing you into the mattress, that same low voice murmuring the question against your neck while his hands pinned your wrists above your head. Heat flooded your face and settled lower in your belly.

You quickly shake your head, trying to push the thought away, desperately hoping your blush isn't too obvious. "Yes, let's do it."

He carries the rest of the boxes for you, going up and down the stairs multiple times. Meanwhile, you keep rambling nonstop about what you are studying, where you are from, and how you are feeling about this new phase of your life. He listens as if he genuinely cares, and even though you can’t quite place the age difference between you two, you feel surprisingly comfortable with him.

When the last box finally makes it through the door, you stand in the hallway with a grateful smile. "Thank you so much, Jay. Honestly. I don’t know what I would have done without you."

"Glad I could help. Moving is a big step. If you need anything else, I’m right next door." With that, he returns to his own apartment, leaving you surrounded by a sea of boxes that will clearly take hours to unpack.

A few days pass. You unpack — not everything, just the most important things. Your first classes are overwhelming. You get lost twice, accidentally walk into the wrong lecture hall, and sit through an entire lecture on quantum physics before realizing your mistake. But as embarrassing as it was, that mistake ended up leading you to a guy named Jake, who turned out to be incredibly nice and cute.

Now you are standing outside Jay’s door with a plate of cupcakes in your hands, ready to properly thank him for helping you with the move. The thing is, you can’t really bake; you tried making the cupcakes yourself but ended up burning the batch, so you had to go to the bakery on the corner to buy a box of them instead. They look a bit too professional, but since he doesn't know about your complete lack of kitchen skills, you're confident he won't suspect a thing — especially since you took them out of the box and arranged them nicely on a plate just to be extra safe.

You knock on his door, your heart pounding hard in your chest. He opens it a moment later, and his face lights up when he sees you. "Hey, neighbor," he says, leaning against the doorframe. "How are classes going?"

"Good," you reply, pushing the plate forward with a little too much force. "Great, actually. I only got lost twice today, which is an improvement." Your smile widens. "I brought these for you. For helping me with the move. I made them myself."

He looks at the cupcakes, then back at you, this time raising an eyebrow. "You made these?"

"Yes," you say, nodding firmly with your chin held high, trying to look confident. "From scratch. All by myself. I’m pretty good at baking."

He picks up one of the cupcakes and examines it, narrowing his eyes as he brings it closer to his face. You feel your determination starting to crumble.

"Really?" he asks with a smile, clearly testing how long you will keep up the lie. "From scratch?"

You hold his gaze for three whole seconds before you look away in embarrassment. Your shoulders drop and your face turns as red as a tomato. "Okay, fine. I bought them at the bakery on the corner. I took them out of the box so you would think I’m a functional adult who knows how to bake." You laugh at yourself. "I tried making them the other day, Jay. I set off the smoke alarm. I’m a danger to this entire building."

He throws his head back and laughs — not mocking you, but with a genuine, warm laugh that makes you feel less embarrassed about pretending you had baked the cupcakes. "Oh my God, you actually burned them?"

"I once burned noodles. I’m a total disaster in the kitchen."

He steps aside, still smiling, and gestures for you to come in. "Alright, come in. I’ll split one of these ‘homemade’ cupcakes with you. It’s the least I can do for someone who put so much effort into the task."

Your mom’s voice whispers in the back of your mind: "Don’t talk to strangers and definitely don’t go into their apartments, sweetheart." But is he really a stranger? He is your neighbor who carried all your boxes without complaining, and the way he stands there holding the plate of cupcakes with that smile makes you not hesitate at all.

You follow him inside. He leads you to the kitchen, grabs two small plates, and carefully unwraps a vanilla cupcake, splitting it in half before sliding one piece toward you.

"Have a seat," he says, pointing to the stool by the kitchen island.

"So, you mentioned you work downtown? What exactly do you do?" you ask as you sit down.

"I’m a lawyer," he replies, taking a bite of his half and nodding in approval. "Good choice of bakery, by the way."

You laugh, biting into yours. "A lawyer. That makes a lot of sense. You have this… I don’t know how to say it without sounding weird, but you have this organized vibe. Like you’re really good at arguing without even raising your voice."

His smile widens. "People have definitely told me that before that I have a ‘courtroom voice.’ It’s just my normal voice, only lower and slower. People tend to listen when you don’t yell."

"You’ll have to show me someday. If I ever get in legal trouble, I’ll know exactly who to call."

"Please don’t get in legal trouble. But if you do, I’m your guy."

The conversation flows just as easily as it did on moving day, and before you know it, you’re venting about your annoying professor, how massive the campus is, and all the times you’ve already managed to get lost. Between all the talking, the cupcakes completely disappear, leaving the coffee he made to sit cold and barely touched in your mug. There’s just something about him that instantly puts you at ease.

Despite the age gap, he never talks down to you or makes you feel small, which makes talking to him completely effortless. It’s just so comforting to have someone around who listens to you with that much care and attention — especially when he happens to be incredibly good-looking, leaving you totally hooked since the very first day.

As he walks you to the door when you finally get up to leave, he snatches a pen and a post-it note to scribble something down. Before you know it, he’s pressing the paper into your palm, his fingers brushing lightly against yours and sending a sudden warmth to your cheeks as he says, "Here’s my number, in case you ever need anything."

"Thank you," you say, smiling a little too wide.

He nods. "Anytime. Seriously. Don’t be a stranger."

────────

The grocery bags dig painfully into your fingers as you stand in the lobby, staring at the elevator doors that are still under maintenance. You look at them as if a miracle might happen — maybe if you stare for one more second, God will take pity and finally fix it. Nothing happens, of course, which makes you let out a long sigh of frustration. It has been days since you moved in and the elevator is still not working.

Your arms already hurt from carrying way too many bags. You definitely should have made two trips, but stubbornness won.

Reaching the second floor is pure torture; your arms are burning, those plastic handles are digging right into your palms, and the bags keep swinging awkwardly against your legs. Trying to stop and adjust your grip only makes things worse, to the point where you're seriously considering just sitting right there on the stairs and crying.

You finally collapse against the wall at the third-floor landing, letting the bags slide to the floor just to catch your breath. Right then, the door to 3A clicks open and Jay steps out — perfectly dressed for work with that annoyingly handsome lawyer look that instantly makes your stomach do a little flip.

He sees you immediately. For a second, his eyes take in the whole scene — your flushed face, the many overloaded bags, and the way you are leaning against the wall breathing heavily. A light, amused laugh escapes him. It is not mocking, just genuinely entertained, as if he expected nothing less from you.

"Carrying heavy stuff again?" he asks, walking toward you. "You really don’t learn, do you?"

Before you can even open your mouth to protest, he is already reaching for the bags, picking them all up at once as if they weigh absolutely nothing. His strong arms support the weight so effortlessly that his biceps press against the fabric of his dress shirt, making it completely impossible for you not to stare.

He turns and walks toward your door, carrying everything like it is nothing.

At your doorstep, Jay sets all the bags down carefully against the wall and turns to face you. His expression is calm, almost unreadable, but there is something more in it. You understand it the moment he starts speaking in a gently scolding tone. "You really shouldn’t carry so much at once," he says, crossing his arms. "It’s not safe and it’s clearly too heavy for you. Make two or three trips next time. Look at your hands, they’re all red. You were hurting yourself. Why? Because you’re way too stubborn, huh?"

You glance down at your palms, and they are red where the plastic handles dug in. "I was fine," you say, though even you do not believe it. "I almost made it."

"Don’t be stubborn."

"You sound exactly like my dad," you reply, crossing your arms to mimic him. "He’s always telling me I’m too stubborn for my own good."

Jay’s lips curve into a small smile. "Because you really are," he says with so much certainty that you cannot even argue back. "I’m serious. Next time, make multiple trips or just text me. I’d rather help than watch you struggle like that."

There is a protective tone in his voice that makes your cheeks warm with a mix of embarrassment and something else stirring low in your stomach. He is lecturing you like a child, but somehow it sounds kind of hot coming from him.

Then he glances at the grocery bags again. Now that the scolding is over, he seems to actually pay attention to what is inside them. He picks one up and looks inside — it is full of frozen meals, instant noodles, ultra-processed food, and canned goods. "Look, I know you’re in college now, but that doesn’t mean you have to live on processed food. It’s quick, sure, but you need real fresh stuff, not just things that come out of a can. Eating like this long-term isn’t good for you. You could get sick."

You blink, caught off guard by the extra lecture. He is fully in dad-mode now, and there is something strangely attractive about how seriously he takes it, like he is genuinely worried about you. "Okay, okay. I get it… I already told you I’m a disaster in the kitchen, so I just grabbed whatever is easiest so I don’t starve."

Jay’s expression softens a little. "I’m not trying to scold you. I just know how easy it is to fall into bad habits when you’re living on your own for the first time." He pauses and adds in a gentler voice, "If you ever need help in the kitchen, you know where to find me. I’m not exactly a chef, but I know how to make real meals."

Your mind wanders again because you can’t help it — you picture him in your kitchen, standing right behind you while teaching you how to cook, his hands guiding yours, the warmth of his body against your back…

"I’ll try to do better, I swear. Thanks for helping again. I think I owe you something now. How about brownies as a thank you this time?"

Jay shakes his head, chuckling softly. "You don’t owe me anything. Just be more careful next time." He glances at the heavy bags one more time. "Need help carrying these inside?"

You shake your head quickly. "I can handle it from here. I bet you’re busy, you look like you’re heading to work."

He checks the watch on his wrist. "Yeah, I have a meeting soon, but the offer stands anytime." Before turning to leave, he gives you one last firm look. "Take care of yourself."

After he leaves, you drag the bags inside, one half first and then the other, just like Jay suggested.

That night, you are sprawled on the couch, scrolling through your phone, when you open your contacts. You saved Jay’s number, of course, but you have been telling yourself you don’t need to text him. It is an emergency-only number, but then you think about him carrying your groceries, the effortless way he took them from you, and the gentle scolding in his voice. Before you can overthink it, you are already typing a message to him.

────────

It is already past midnight and you have been staring at the same page of your textbook long enough for your vision to blur. Your brain has officially given up — it is impossible to absorb a single word more after hours of studying.

You are about to slam the book shut to take out your stress on it and drag yourself to bed when a soft knock sounds at the door. Your heart jumps slightly because you were not expecting anyone, especially not at this hour.

Another knock.

You get up slowly, stretching your sore muscles, and walk to the door. When you open it, Jay is standing there, looking different tonight without his formal work clothes and lawyer posture. He is wearing a simple white t-shirt, gray sweatpants, and is barefoot. He looks relaxed, holding a bottle of red wine — as if he made the sudden decision to knock on your door and came straight over without even putting shoes on.

"Hey," he says, his low voice making your stomach flip. His eyes scan over you, taking in your tired face, messy hair, and pajamas. Something in his expression softens.

"Hey," you reply softly, matching his tone.

"Hey," he repeats, then laughs when he realizes what he just did.

"Hey," you answer again, this time with a small smile. "You already said that."

"I know." He laughs again, shaking his head. "I just… it’s late."

"Very late."

"I know." He lifts the bottle slightly. "I bought this earlier today but… it’s no fun drinking alone."

You look at the wine, then back at him. The way he is standing there — messy hair, ridiculously handsome, and a little too soft — makes going back to bed suddenly seem like a very stupid choice. "Are you inviting me to drink with you?"

"I’m asking if you want to take a break. From everything."

The way he looks at you with those inviting eyes makes the decision easy, but you decide to tease him first. "I don’t usually drink with strangers."

"We’re not strangers," he says, his voice soft. Your teasing does not seem to faze him.

"We’re not exactly friends either," you reply, tilting your head and studying his reaction.

The corner of his mouth lifts into a small, almost lazy smile. "Then let’s change that."

You pretend to consider it for a moment, even though you were already fully committed the second you saw him at your door. "Mmm, okay. But let’s do it at your apartment. Mine is a mess."

His smile widens, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Alright, whatever you want."

You grab your keys and follow him, also barefoot, to the door next to yours. His apartment is clean and organized as always, which makes the space feel strangely comforting. In the kitchen, he pours two glasses of wine and hands you one, his fingers brushing against yours for half a second and sending a spark through your body.

"Cheers," he says, raising his glass.

"Cheers," you repeat, gently clinking your glass against his.

You take a sip and let out a small, involuntary hum of appreciation — it is much better than you expected, probably the most expensive wine you have ever tasted. He gestures toward the living room. "Come on, let’s sit," he says, leading the way to the couch. You follow and settle onto his couch, trying to look more relaxed than you actually feel.

"This is nice," you say, taking another sip.

He sits on the other end of the couch — close enough to talk comfortably, but far enough to be polite. "It’s just wine." He takes a sip, watching you over the rim of his glass.

"I mean relaxing… not thinking about classes for the first time."

He nods, understanding. "You think about classes a lot."

"It’s pretty much my entire life right now," you admit with an awkward little laugh, taking another sip.

"I remember going through that too. Everything revolving around exams, assignments, and exhausting responsibilities."

You tilt your head, studying him. "You make it sound like ancient history."

"Sometimes it feels like it." He takes a sip, not breaking eye contact. "I still remember when I was in college. I used to think a bad grade would ruin everything." A dry laugh escapes him as he shakes his head. "There’s so much pressure."

Suddenly you find yourself wanting to know more about him, drawn by the experienced tone in his voice and posture. The wine is already loosening your tongue, so you ask. "How old are you, anyway?"

A small, playful smile appears on his lips. "I’m old enough."

You narrow your eyes, trying to hold back a smile. "That’s not an answer."

"It’s the only one you’re getting." He takes another sip.

"That’s annoying," you say, leaning forward slightly and resting your elbows on your knees.

"Maybe I am annoying." He shrugs, but there is a sparkle in his eyes that tells you he is enjoying this.

"You’re avoiding the question," you accuse, pointing a finger at him.

"I’m protecting my privacy."

"From what? Your neighbor?" You laugh, raising an eyebrow.

"Especially from my neighbor."

You pout, pretending to be hurt. "Fine. Keep your secrets."

"Everyone has secrets," he says, his voice dropping to a lower, more intimate tone.

"I don’t." You are not even sure why you say it. Maybe it is the wine, or the way he is looking at you right now.

"Everyone does." He holds his ground. "You have secrets too."

Your pulse quickens. "I don’t."

"Yes, you do."

You swallow hard. The air between you feels thicker now, charged with something you can’t quite name. You shift slightly on the sofa and notice how easy it would be to reach out and touch him. "So you have a lot of secrets, huh?" you ask, curious.

"Yes. Quite a few."

"Like what?" you press, wanting to see what he will give you.

"If I told you, they wouldn’t be secrets anymore." His lips curve into a slow, almost predatory smile.

"Touché." You raise your glass in an ironic toast, making him laugh.

A comfortable but heavy silence settles between you for a moment, thick with tension as you exchange glances and take slow sips. The wine is definitely doing its job — making your words come out slower, your laughter easier, and your body warmer.

"How old are you?" he asks, breaking the silence.

You blink, caught off guard. "Me?"

"Yes, you." He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. "You asked me, so I’m asking you back."

You smile, deciding to play his game. "I’m old enough."

A low, surprised laugh escapes him — rich and genuine. "That’s my line."

"I know." You take another sip to hide your smile.

"You stole my line."

You just shrug. "I borrowed it."

"That’s not how borrowing works."

"Yes, it is."

He laughs again. "You’re impossible."

"Am I? What else?" You raise an eyebrow, challenging him.

"You’re something," he says, his voice dropping again.

"What?" You are not sure what he means by that.

"I don’t know yet." He keeps his eyes fixed on you. "But I’m figuring it out."

You feel your cheeks heat up and take another sip of wine to try to hide your reaction. Jay, however, keeps watching you, and you can tell he noticed.

"You know what I’ve noticed?" By now your voice is a little slurred, so you have to be careful with the words that come out of your mouth.

"What?" His wine glass is almost empty. He sets it on the coffee table and turns all of his attention to you.

You lean back on the couch, turning to face him more directly. Your knee brushes against his thigh, but neither of you pulls away. "You don’t talk much about yourself."

He tilts his head, frowning slightly. "Don’t I?"

"No. You listen, but you don’t share. Like, you’re dodging right now. You give answers, but you don’t really answer."

"Well, I’m trying to protect myself," he says simply.

"Protect yourself from what?" You lean forward, genuinely curious now.

"From getting too attached." The words are honest, and you definitely were not expecting them.

You stare at him, your hand frozen halfway to taking another sip. "From what?"

"To you." His voice is almost a whisper, making your pulse race and your skin flush.

"Why would you get too attached to me?"

He stays silent for a moment, his eyes tracing over you as if he wants to memorize every detail. "Because it’s easy to get attached to you."

"No, it's not," you say, shaking your head as a small, incredulous laugh escapes you.

"It is." His voice is gentle but firm, leaving no room for argument. "You just don’t see it."

You look away, feeling your entire body grow warmer. "You’re dodging again."

"I’m being honest." He leans forward slightly, and you can smell him now — a masculine scent mixed with the light sweetness of the wine.

You set your glass on the coffee table and turn to face him completely, the wine making you bolder. "You’re giving me half-answers. You’re telling me just enough to make me curious, but not enough."

He stays quiet for a moment, thinking. "What do you want to know?"

You hold his gaze. "Something real. Truly honest."

Silence stretches between you, thick with something heavy and suffocating that you can't quite name. Then he whispers, "I think you’re beautiful."

Your breath catches, and for a second you are not sure you heard him correctly. "That’s not—" you begin, but he interrupts you.

"It’s honest."

"You can’t just say that," your voice barely comes out as a whisper.

"I just did." His gaze doesn’t leave yours for even half a second.

"It’s too… direct."

"You asked for it." He says it simply, like it is the most natural thing in the world.

"You’re a tease," you say, not sure if you are complaining or not.

"Wait until you find out what else I am. You want to know me? Then make sure you’re ready."

You do not know what to say or what to do, so you look away, your face burning.

When he finally walks you to your door, you are a little unsteady on your feet. He steadies you with a gentle hand on your waist, and the touch is enough to send shivers through your body. "I’m fine," you murmur, even though you are swaying slightly.

"You’re drunk," he says, smiling at your messy state.

"I’m a little tipsy," you reply, giving him a blurry-eyed look.

"You’re drunk."

"It’s the same thing," you mutter dismissively.

"No, it’s not." He is looking at you with that warm, steady gaze that makes your knees feel weak.

You smile, light and tipsy. "Yes, it is."

At your door, you miss the lock twice. He laughs softly before helping you. "Thank you," you whisper. "For this, for the wine, the company, and everything."

His lips curve into a small, warm smile. "Good night, old enough.:

You smile again — you seem to always be smiling when he is around. "Good night, old man."

You step inside, close the door, and lean against it with your heart racing and your whole body warm from the wine and his words — still smiling like an idiot.

A few minutes later, you are curled up in bed when your phone buzz on the nightstand.

────────

You have been tossing and turning on the mattress for what feels like hours — shifting positions, turning to the other side, but nothing helps. You can’t fall asleep — you mind refuses to stop, racing with thoughts about exams, deadlines, and the weight of all your responsibilities pressing down on your shoulders. You need air, you need to feel like you are not suffocating in that apartment, surrounded by boxes you haven't even had the time to unpack yet. There are several unfinished notes on your desk that constantly remind you that you are not doing enough, no matter how hard you try.

So you go up to the rooftop. The cool night air hits your face and lets you breathe again.

The city is an endless sea of lights — countless tiny glowing points in the darkness that remind you how small you really are. You sit on the old bench near the edge of the roof, pulling your knees up to your chest and wrapping your arms around them like a shield.

Your thoughts slowly begin to calm as the minutes pass, and the knot in your chest loosens just a little.

Then the door creaks open behind you.

You turn quickly, your body instantly on alert and your heart racing. And there he is — Jay. He is wearing sweatpants and a black shirt, something about this casual, almost domestic look makes your heart skip a beat. He sees you immediately and stops. Surprise flashes across his face for a second before it turns into that familiar half-smile.

"Can’t sleep either?" His voice is low, almost intimate in a way that makes you shiver.

You shake your head. "I have too much on my mind right now…"

He nods as if he completely understands — and he really does. Walking toward you, he stops at a respectful distance before sitting on the bench beside you — close enough for you to feel the warmth of his body, but not so close that he invades your personal space. "Mind if I join you?"

"Not at all." You shift over a little even though there is already enough space.

He leans back, looking up at the sky, which is beautiful tonight with a full moon and stars shining brightly. The silence stretches between you. He doesn’t force conversation; he simply sits there observing the sky and the city with you. The silence is not awkward — it is actually comforting, especially when you are with him.

"I can’t sleep," you admit, breaking the silence with words that slip out before you can stop them. "I try, but my brain just won’t stop. Every time I close my eyes, I start thinking about all the things I have to do, all the things I haven’t done, and all the ways I’m probably going to mess everything up."

"What’s on your mind?" His voice is gentle and patient as always, showing that he is ready to listen.

"Everything." You let out a shaky sigh. "College, exams, being away from my family for the first time… It’s a lot. I thought I was ready, that I could handle it. But sometimes it feels like I’m drowning and I don’t know how to swim. Literally."

"I know how that feels," he says after a long moment of silence. His eyes stay fixed on yours, and there is something raw in them — something honest. "I remember feeling exactly like that. Like everything was too much and I was too small to handle it."

"You’re talking about yourself. That’s new," you say softly. "You always ask about me, but you never—"

"You already have enough on your plate," he cuts in gently.

You blink, caught off guard. "What?"

"You’re stressed about college, adjusting to a new city, and far from your family," he keeps his gaze steady on you, his expression sincere. "You don’t need to hear about my problems too."

"That’s not how it works." You shake your head as something warm and confusing blooms in your chest. "We’re supposed to share things. That’s what—" You pause, searching for the right word. "That’s what friends do."

"I don’t want to burden you when you’re already dealing with so much, and I certainly don’t want to make it worse."

You stay quiet for a moment, his words stirring something you cannot quite name — but it feels good. "That’s really… kind," you finally say.

"I try." He shrugs, a small smile playing on his lips.

The silence settles again, and you sit together quietly for a while longer. Then, out of nowhere, he tilts his head and asks, "How’s your succulent doing?"

You laugh at the unexpected question. "You’re asking about my plant?"

"I remember you mentioned it." He turns toward you — fully turning his body — with a small playful smile on his lips. "I bet you gave it a name."

You shake your head, still smiling. "I haven’t named it yet… but it’s still alive, which is honestly impressive."

"You’re supposed to water it," he says in a gently scolding tone.

"I know." You look away, feeling a little guilty about slowly killing a plant.

"But you forget." There is no judgment in his voice, only warm amusement.

"I forget." You laugh — something you always do when you are with him. "I have a lot on my mind, okay?"

"You’re a plant killer." He smiles, making you grin even wider.

"I’m not a plant killer! I’m just… forgetful. It is surviving, which is more than I can say about myself sometimes."

Something in your words changes his expression. It is still gentle, but now there is a hint of concern. "You’re doing better than you think."

You don’t know what to say, so you just look at him, with the words stuck in your throat.

"Does the succulent at least have company?" he asks after a moment, his voice light as always.

You blink, confused by the sudden question. "What?"

"Other plants, maybe some flowers, something to keep it company. Plants get lonely too."

You laugh, shaking your head. "I don’t think it gets lonely. It’s just a plant, after all."

"All living things have feelings. It definitely feels lonely," he says with so much conviction that you almost believe him.

"That’s not scientifically accurate," you reply, not entirely sure if what you are saying is accurate either.

"I never said it was." He shrugs. "I’m a lawyer. I deal with arguments, not facts."

"They’re the same thing."

"Not at all." He shifts closer to you on the bench, making sure you are listening. "Facts are objective. Arguments are subjective. I make a living turning subjective arguments into something that sounds like objective facts."

"That’s… something. And you’re so weird."

"I’m just concerned about your plant’s loneliness." His voice is incredibly serious, showing that he is taking this very seriously.

"You’re worried about my plant," you say, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, just like I worry about you."

You don’t know what to say again — Jay has a way of leaving you speechless. Your cheeks flush and you look away. "I’ve never received flowers before, anyway…" you say softly, the secret slipping from your lips.

Jay is not sure he heard you correctly. "What did you say?"

Even though you hesitate, you repeat it, louder this time. "I’ve never received flowers." You look down at your hands, fidgeting with your fingers. "I had a boyfriend before, but he was an idiot. He never did anything romantic like giving me flowers or taking me for dates."

He stays silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on you while your heart pounds loudly in your ears. He is thinking about something — you can tell by the way his jaw tightens. "Would you want to go on one? With me."

You stop breathing the moment you hear his words and everything around you seems to freeze. "What?"

"A date. A real date where I pick you up, open doors for you, and take you somewhere nice. It doesn’t have to be romantic if you don’t want it to be. It can just be two people spending time together. Whatever makes you feel comfortable."

Your heart is beating so hard you are sure he can hear it, your mouth is dry, your palms are sweaty, and the words feel stuck in your throat again. Jay is asking you out on a date — a real date. The age gap has been on your mind since the day you met — he is a lawyer and you are still trying to figure out how to live on your own, but every interaction with him feels safe, like he truly sees you.

"Jay, I—" You stop, taking a shaky breath.

"You don’t have to answer right now," he says gently, giving you time to think.

"No, I—" You take another deep breath, and this time the words come out steady. "Yes. Yes, I want that."

His face transforms — a slow, warm smile spreads across his lips and reaches his eyes, making your stomach flip and your heart race just like always.

"Great," he says softly. "I’ll plan something."

A shy laugh escapes you as the reality of it sinks in. "What do you like to do on dates? I’m sure you’ve been on plenty."

He leans forward a little, resting his elbow on his knee. "I want to know what you like. That’s what matters right now, tell me your preferences so I can plan something good for you."

As you think for a moment, you suddenly feel embarrassed by how limited your preferences are. "I’m kind of picky, honestly. I like pasta, I hate anything too spicy, and I don’t like overly sweet desserts. Oh, and I’m not a big fan of seafood unless it’s fried. Is that too much?"

Jay listens attentively, nodding as if he is absorbing every detail. "Not at all. Being picky isn’t a problem, it actually makes it easier to get it right." He pauses, a playful glint appearing in his eyes. "You know, for someone who’s a disaster in the kitchen, you have very specific opinions, princess."

The nickname lands softly between you — affectionate and teasing, with a hint of warmth. Your breath catches, your face flushes instantly, and you lower your head to hide the redness in your cheeks and the smile forming on your lips.

"I… You can’t just say that," you murmur, looking at him through your lashes.

"Why not?" He is smiling even more now, clearly enjoying your reaction. "It suits you. You have high standards and you know exactly what you want, even if you pretend you don’t."

You cover your face with both hands for a second, peeking through your fingers. "You’re going to make me regret saying yes."

"Too late," he murmurs, his voice low and affectionate. "You already said yes."

You lower your hands and meet his gaze, your heart racing in the best possible way. Jay stands up suddenly and offers you his hand. "Come on, it’s getting late and you have class tomorrow. Let’s get you back inside before you freeze."

You take his hand — which is so much bigger than yours — and let him help you up. He doesn’t let go afterward, his fingers stay intertwined with yours as you walk together toward your floor. The elevator is no longer broken, but you both take the stairs anyway, wanting to prolong the moment a little longer.

Stopping at your door, he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear with his free hand. “I'll text you about the date,” he says softly. "We’ll pick a night that works."

You nod, still feeling a little shy about everything. "Okay… Good night, Jay."

"Good night, princess."

────────

The next day, you are more nervous than you have ever been. Every notification on your phone makes your heart skip a beat, terrified that it is Jay confirming the date. Your stomach is in knots with a mix of panic and hope, even though you want to go on this date, you are still incredibly nervous about it.

Your phone buzzes while you are in the library trying to study. "Friday at seven? I’ll take care of everything. Just be ready for a proper night out."

The words "proper night out" send a shiver through you. He is taking this seriously, treating it as something special, even though he said it didn’t have to be romantic. Still, it means something. Smiling so wide that your cheeks hurt, you text back agreeing.

When Friday finally arrives, the butterflies in your stomach refuse to calm down. In fact, they become even more restless as the time of the date gets closer. Hours before, you start getting ready — taking your time as you choose an outfit that makes you feel confident and beautiful. You spend extra time on your makeup, keeping it natural but enhancing your eyes and lips, making sure everything is perfect.

Exactly at seven, you take the elevator down. Jay had insisted on waiting outside the building instead of knocking on your door. "I want you to have the full experience," he had texted earlier, and the gesture made you smile despite your nerves. The moment you step out onto the sidewalk, you see him leaning against his sleek black car parked at the curb. He looks unfairly handsome in a tailored dark shirt and pants.

For a moment, he simply looks at you — slowly scanning from your face to your dress and back up again as his smile widens. "You look beautiful," he says, taking a step closer. "Really, truly beautiful."

Your cheeks flush quickly and a smile forms on your lips. "Thank you. You look really handsome too."

Before you can say anything else, he reaches inside the car and pulls out a beautiful bouquet of flowers. "I remembered what you said on the rooftop…"

The bouquet is perfect, wrapped so beautifully that it makes your chest tighten. "Jay…" you whisper as you reach out to take the flowers. "They’re beautiful. I don’t even know what to say."

Without thinking, you give him a grateful hug. His arms wrap around you immediately, one hand resting on your lower back while the other gently caresses the nape of your neck. "You don’t have to say anything. Just enjoy tonight. That’s all I want."

When you pull away, still smiling widely, he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear and asks, "Ready to go, princess?"

You nod, holding the flowers like a lifeline. He opens the car door for you, waiting until you are settled before closing it gently. When he slides into the driver’s seat, he looks at you with a playful smile. "Seatbelt, please. Safety first."

You laugh and buckle up. "Such a gentleman."

"Only for you."

The drive starts peacefully, soft music playing in the background as you talk. He asks about your day and teases you lightly when you admit that you spent half of your class daydreaming about tonight and that it took you forever to choose what to wear.

You can’t stop stealing glances at him — the way his hands rest easily on the steering wheel, those large hands with long fingers, and the way he looks at you at red lights as if making sure you are still real.

After a few minutes, you notice the city lights fading and buildings giving way to trees. "Where are we going?" you ask curiously, realizing he has been driving for a while — much farther than you expected. "This is pretty far from our building. Are you taking me somewhere to kill me?"

Jay laughs, keeping his eyes on the road. "I’m not going to kill you. I’m just taking you to a place I love, and I think you’ll love it too."

The drive takes about thirty minutes, but when you finally arrive, the restaurant leaves you breathless. You immediately understand why he chose it — it is cozy and elegant, with a stunning view of the city. He reserved a intimate corner table with the perfect view.

He pulls out the chair for you, and as soon as you sit down, he leans in slightly to whisper in your ear, "Relax, okay?"

The dinner unfolds perfectly. You order pasta — creamy, exactly the way you like it — and he chooses a steak dish, offering you a bite from his fork with a raised eyebrow that feels far more intimate than it should. You talk a lot, and he listens as always, head tilted and eyes focused only on you.

You tell him about the friendships you are making in college, about the strange noise your AC is making, and absentmindedly mention the doorman. "He’s nice, I think… but sometimes he looks at me like he knows something I don’t."

Jay’s expression shifts with something unreadable for half a second, but he quickly covers it with a soft chuckle. "He’s probably just in a bad mood. Or maybe he sees how much you’re distracting your poor neighbor."

You laugh. "Poor neighbor? You seem to be handling it pretty well."

His foot brushes against yours under the table. "Barely."

In the middle of the conversation, Jay’s phone buzzes on the table. He glances at it, frowns, and silences it, slipping it into his pocket.

But a few minutes later, it buzzed again. Jay sighs. "I need to take this. It’s probably an emergency with a client. I won’t be long. I’m really sorry."

"Go ahead. I’ll be here judging the dessert menu."

He leans in and gives you a quick kiss on your temple before standing up. "I’ll be right back, princess."

The casual display of affection makes your heart race as you watch him walk away. While he is gone, you take a sip of your wine, observe the people around you, and study the dessert menu.

He returns after about five minutes, sliding back into his seat with an apologetic smile. "All sorted. Where were we?"

When the check arrives, Jay pays without hesitation, even though you offered to split it. Outside, the night air is cold, so he drapes his jacket over your shoulders when he notices you shivering. Then he pulls you closer for a moment, wrapping his arms around you. "Thank you for saying yes," he murmurs against your hair.

You look up at him, smiling. "That was the best decision I’ve made in a long time."

The drive back feels shorter than the trip there, unfortunately — you wish this moment could last forever. Jay keeps one hand on the wheel and the other holding yours, his thumb tracing lazy circles that send shivers down your spine. You arrive at the building sooner than you would like, but instead of stopping at the curb, Jay drives into the underground garage.

You unbuckle your seatbelt. "Thank you, Jay. For everything, the flowers, the dinner, the evening… I had a really great time."

He turns to you, that slow smile playing on his lips. "I’m glad, princess."

You reach for the door handle, but his hand moves quickly, wrapping around your wrist and stopping you. Your breath catches at the unexpected contact. "Wait, aren’t you going to thank me properly?"

You blink, confused. "I just did? The hug outside the restaurant and just now."

Jay chuckles, and his gaze shifts into something hungrier. "That was sweet, but I was thinking of something a little more fitting for the end of a perfect night."

Without overthinking it, you lean across the console and give him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Thank you," you whisper again, pulling back to see his reaction.

His smile widens. "Still not enough, princess. Come here."

He cups the back of your neck and pulls you closer. The kiss starts soft, his lips meeting yours hesitantly, and you quickly melt into it, which makes him deepen the kiss while still keeping a slow, deliberate pace. His tongue traces your lower lip, and you part for him with a small sigh.

What begins as one kiss turns into many, you lose count as they grow more intense, hungry, and urgent.

Somehow, you end up climbing over the console. His hands guide your hips until you are straddling his lap in the driver’s seat. The space is tight and the steering wheel presses against your back, but you couldn't care less right now. His hands roam along your sides, sliding up your dress until they rest on your thighs, his thumbs drawing circles that make you whimper against his mouth.

You kiss him again and again, tangling your fingers in his hair and tugging gently, which draws a low groan from him. That only encourages you — hips start moving on their own, pressing against the growing hardness beneath you. The friction makes you gasp, and Jay clearly loves the sight — he squeezes your thighs, encouraging your movements.

"God, you’re incredible," he whispers against your mouth between kisses. "So responsive… so perfect."

Jay pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, breathing hard. "You deserve better than this, princess. Our first time shouldn’t be in a car like a couple of impatient teenagers."

You kiss him again, more intensely, nipping at his lower lip. "I don’t care, I want you right here."

He groans, sliding his hand into your hair to pull you into another hungry kiss. "You’re so eager, princess… and so perfect grinding against me like this."

His mouth moves down to your neck, sucking lightly and drawing more whimpers from you. Your movements become restless, rubbing harder, chasing friction. "Jay…" you whisper between kisses. "I need you, please."

His hands find the hem of your dress, slowly pulling it up inch by inch with clear appreciation until he discards it onto the passenger seat. "Beautiful," he murmurs reverently as he stares at your tits. "So beautiful." He leans down, pressing hot, wet kisses along the soft skin, then his tongue circles one nipple before sucking it deeply into his mouth.

You arch your back, a moan escaping your lips. He gives the same attention to the other tit, licking, sucking, and grazing the sensitive skin with his teeth while his hand massages and caresses the first. “You taste so good,” he praises, his voice muffled. "These perfect tits in my mouth… you’re already trembling. So sensitive for me."

He kisses lower, along your sternum and ribs, then back up — worshipping every inch of you while you keep grinding against him. Your panties are soaked, and the friction against his hardness only turns you on more.

He waits until you’re trembling in his lap before he finally moves. Reaching between you, he lowers his pants and boxers just enough to free himself, and when he does, your eyes widen. He is big — thick and hard. The sight makes your mouth water and heat pool low in your belly.

Jay reaches into the glove compartment, fumbling for a condom. He tears it open and rolls it down his length with surprising skill while you watch, hypnotized and a little intimidated by his size and thickness. "You’re… really big," you say softly.

Jay notices your nervousness and caresses your cheek, trying to soothe you. "We’ll go slow, princess. I’ve got you. My good girl can take it."

He helps you shift your panties to the side, guiding you as you sink down onto him. The stretch is intense but delicious — you take him inch by inch, breathing deeply as he fills you completely, murmuring praises nonstop. "That’s it, princess… so tight, so good for me… so fucking perfect around me."

You bury your face in his neck as you sink all the way down, taking him completely until your ass is pressed firmly against his lap. "Oh God… you’re so, so big," you moan, still adjusting to the intense stretch.

The age difference flashes through your mind — he is older, more experienced, probably used to women who knew exactly what they were doing. You want to be good for him, so once you feel ready, you start moving — bouncing with almost frantic energy, desperate to please him. Your hips move and grind fast, determined.

"Easy, princess," Jay groans, gripping your hips to slow you down. "Slow… just like that. You feel incredible, but there’s no rush. I’m not going anywhere."

You moan, your cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and arousal. "I just… you’ve probably been with so many others who were better at this. I want to make it good for you. I want to be the best—"

He cuts you off with a deep kiss, then pulls back to look into your eyes while still guiding your movements into a slower, deeper rhythm. "Hey, none of that. It’s just you right now, and you’re already the best, baby. Look at how perfectly you take me." He thrusts up gently to emphasize his words, drawing a moan from you. "You’re my princess."

You relax into his words and the rhythm he sets, moving your hips in deep, grinding motions instead of frantic bouncing. It feels even better this way — his thickness brushing against every sensitive spot inside you. "Like this?" you ask breathlessly, your voice shy but needy.

"Just like that," he praises, his voice rough. "So good for me. So wet… so tight. You’re perfect, listen to those pretty sounds you make."

You keep whispering to him the whole time — shy confessions and soft, breathless questions. "You feel so good, Jay… I feel so full. Does it feel good for you? Tell me if you’re enjoying it."

He groans, his hands roaming over your back, squeezing your ass, then returning to your tits so he can lick and suck them while you ride him. "I love it. I love everything you do. The way you squeeze me… the way you say my name. You’re ruining me, princess."

The pleasure builds uncontrollably, intense and overwhelming, leaving both of you sweaty and breathless. He slides a hand between you to your clit, circling it with his thumb in time with your movements. You tremble hard, moaning and gasping, telling him how close you are, how good he feels, and how much you have wanted this since the day you moved in.

When you come, your walls pulse tightly around his thickness and your body shakes as you cry out his name. Jay follows right after, holding you firmly against him as he finishes into the condom with a deep groan, murmuring endless praises. "That’s it, come for me… so beautiful giving yourself to me completely… my perfect girl."

You collapse against his chest, both of you breathing hard. He wraps his arms around you tightly, kissing your temple while his hands gently caress your back. "You okay?" he whispers after a while. "Was it too much?"

"It was perfect," you murmur, nuzzling into his neck. "Better than I imagined. Thank you for slowing me down when I got too excited. I probably embarrassed myself, right?"

He shakes his head lightly and laughs, then he gives you one last kiss on your temple and helps you climb back into the passenger seat, watching as you slip your dress back on. "Don’t forget these," he says, reaching for the bouquet.

You take it with a happy smile. "I wouldn’t dare."

He walks around the car to open your door and intertwines his fingers with yours as you walk toward the elevator. Once inside, he pulls you close and kisses you the entire way up to your floor.

"Your place tonight?" you ask against his lips.

Jay’s hand slides to your lower back, pulling you even closer. "Yes, because I’m not done with you yet. I need you in my bed. The thought of you in my sheets, smelling like me when you wake up… it drives me crazy."

The elevator doors open and he pulls you down the hallway toward his door, unlocking it effortlessly. The moment you are both inside, he takes the flowers from your hand, sets them on the counter, and turns to you with hungry eyes. "Come here," he growls, pulling you into a deep, desperate kiss. His hands cup your face first, then slide down your body. "Let me take care of you properly this time."

He leads you to the bedroom and there, he undresses you slowly, admiring and kissing every inch of exposed skin. When you are completely naked, he steps back and looks at you with pure admiration and desire. "Fuck, look at you… so perfect. Every curve, every inch… all mine tonight."

He removes his own clothes and guides you onto the bed, settling between your spread thighs. His warm palms caress them, spreading you open even more. His mouth is on you immediately, licking a broad stripe from your entrance to your clit before circling the sensitive bud with the tip of his tongue, savoring you. "Mmm, already so wet," the vibration of his voice makes you gasp. "You taste so sweet, princess. Like you were made for my mouth."

You let out a shaky moan, your fingers tangling in his hair and pulling him closer. "Jay… that feels incredible. Oh God—"

He slides a finger inside you, curling it against that sweet spot while his mouth continues sucking and licking. The suction around your clit, the rhythm of his finger stroking that perfect spot deep inside — it all turns the pleasure into something deliciously overwhelming. He adds a second finger, then a third, carefully stretching you as he pumps them in and out.

Your hips move against his face as the pleasure intensifies. "Don’t stop… please, Jay, just like that," you moan, your voice breathless and desperate. He eats you out like a starving man — licking, sucking, and thrusting his fingers into you until your thighs shake around his head and you fall apart with a long, loud cry. You clench and pulse around his fingers as the orgasm crashes through you.

Jay doesn’t stop right away, he keeps licking and fingering you through it, prolonging every sensation until you are limp and panting. Only then he drags his mouth up your body, leaving a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses along your stomach, between your breasts, and up your neck. "You taste like heaven," he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. "I could do this all night, make you come on my tongue until you go stupid."

He grabs a condom from the nightstand and rolls it on quickly over his hard, leaking cock. You reach down, wrapping your hand around his thick, hard length — stroking him slowly, feeling the weight, the pulsing heat, tracing the veins with curiosity. "I want it raw, Jay… I need to feel you, please."

He groans deeply, his hips pushing forward into your fist. "Baby… protection first, remember? I’ll still make you feel good even with the latex between us, I promise." After kissing your forehead, he positions himself at your entrance and pushes in inch by inch, his eyes locked on yours the entire time. You feel a burning stretch as your walls slowly give way to him, every thick pulsing vein dragging against your sensitive insides. When he’s halfway in, you look down between your bodies and see the clear bulge pressing out against your lower belly.

He notices it right after and quickly slides a hand down to press against the bulge, feeling it move under his palm as he sinks deeper. "Fuck, look at that. You see how deep I am? My cock is rearranging your insides, princess. Stretching this tight pussy so you can see it from the outside."

Your hand joins his, pressing against the visible outline, feeling him move inside you from both the inside and the outside. He teases you mercilessly, thrusting slow and deep so the bulge shifts under your combined touch. "You’re taking me so well, like this pussy was made for my cock. So greedy, swallowing every inch."

He sinks the rest of the way in with a guttural groan, bottoming out completely. "Shit… so tight, so hot. You’re already milking me."

His thick cock fills you so completely that every movement presses against sensitive spots that steal the breath from your lungs. His thrusts start controlled and incredibly gentle instead of brutal force. One hand stays intertwined with yours above your head, while the other caresses your cheek, squeezes your breast, and lightly pinches your nipple before soothing it with his thumb. "You look like pure sin wrapped around me… My beautiful princess, creaming all over my cock, taking every inch like a good girl. I’m going to ruin you for anyone else."

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Jay… it feels so good. You’re so deep, I can feel you everywhere." He leans down, capturing your lips in a messy kiss as his hips move faster in a devastating rhythm that pushes you closer and closer to the edge.

You come hard around him, your walls fluttering and clenching tightly as you cry out. He does not stop, thrusting deep and steady, prolonging your orgasm until you are shaking. "Fuck, that’s it, come on my cock, baby."

Jay follows right after, burying himself as deep as possible with a long, broken groan of your name as he cums, pulsing inside you. He stays buried deep for long moments afterwards, holding you close and covering your face, neck, and shoulders with soft kisses until both of your breathing steadies.

Eventually, he pulls out carefully, discards the condom, and returns from the bathroom with a warm, damp cloth. He cleans you both gently, murmuring more praises the entire time. "You were perfect, princess. So responsive, so beautiful when you come for me." He pulls the sheets over both of you and wraps you in his arms.

Your head rests on Jay’s chest while his fingers trace a lazy path along your spine, down to the curve of your waist. Without a word, you shift, turning onto your side. Jay follows naturally, molding his body against yours from behind in a perfect spoon. His chest presses against your back as he slides an arm around your waist, pulling you even closer. You can already feel him half-hard again against the curve of your ass, sending a fresh wave of heat through your body.

He nuzzles into the back of your neck, placing soft kisses there. "You okay?" he murmurs, his voice low and rough in the quiet room.

"More than okay," you whisper back, pressing lightly against him. "I like feeling you close like this."

Jay reaches for another condom from the nightstand. You hear the faint rustle as he puts it on, then his hand returns to your body, tenderly caressing your side and hip. He lifts your top leg slightly, hooking it over his, opening you up for him. The thick head of his cock brushes against your entrance before he pushes in slowly, inch by inch, until he is buried completely inside you.

"So good," he whispers against your neck, sliding a hand up to caress your breast. His fingers massage gently, his thumb circling your nipple until it hardens under his touch.

He starts moving — slow, deep rolls of his hips, thrusting unhurriedly so you can feel every inch of his thick cock dragging against your walls. While he fucks you, his hand on your breast never stops worshipping it — squeezing, rolling your nipple between his fingers, occasionally pinching lightly before soothing it with gentle caresses. And his mouth keeps placing open-mouthed kisses along the back of your neck, back, and shoulder.

You reach behind you, running your fingers through his hair as you move with him. "Jay… deeper like that feels so good."

His thrusts become a little deeper, but still controlled. "You take me so well every single time. Look at how perfectly you fit around me. I could stay inside you forever." His mouth finds the sensitive spot on your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark while he continues playing with your breasts — pinching, rolling, and caressing until your nipples are deliciously sore. Only then he slid his hand down to your clit, circling it in time with his thrusts. The combination of sensations is overwhelming and pushes you closer and closer to the edge. "You’re so close… I can feel you squeezing me. Come for me again, princess."

And you do. Your walls contract rhythmically around his thickness as you moan his name, your body trembling in his arms. Jay follows right after you, burying his face in your neck with a deep groan as he comes, filling the condom.

You turn your head slightly to capture his lips in a lazy kiss. "I feel so safe with you," you whisper. "And so wanted."

He stays inside you until the aftershocks fade, then carefully pulls out, discards the condom, and cleans you both once again with gentle care. He pulls the sheets up around you both and draws you back into his arms, spooning you again.

Jay’s hand rests tenderly on your stomach, tracing small circles there. You feel deeply in love and completely at peace as you start to drift off to sleep, safe in his arms.

Sunlight is already filtering through the curtains by the time you slowly wake up the next morning —.only to realize the space beside you is empty, even though the warmth of Jay’s body and the faint scent of his cologne still linger around. You stretch and sit up to look around the room, noticing one of his shirts draped over the back of a chair. Slipping it on, you pad barefoot out of the bedroom toward the kitchen, drawn by the rich aroma of coffee and food already filling the air.

Jay is at the stove, flipping eggs while a plate of toast and cut fruit waits for you on the counter. You walk up to him and wrap your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek against his back. "Good morning."

He turns off the stove and turns around, settling his hands on your hips. His gaze softens instantly when he sees you wearing his shirt. "Good morning, princess. You look way too good in my clothes."

You laugh softly and tilt your face up, expecting a kiss. He leans in but pauses with a playful look. "Ah, but you haven’t brushed your teeth yet. No good-morning kisses until after breakfast."

You pout and dramatically pull away. "Not even a kiss on the cheek? You’re so cruel."

With a sigh, he gives in — pressing a long kiss to your cheek, then another to your forehead. Before you can say anything, he effortlessly lifts you and sits you on the edge of the kitchen counter, standing between your knees. "There. Now I can look at you properly while I finish this."

As he moves around the kitchen, your eyes wander until they stop on the refrigerator. Something catches your attention — photos are held up by magnets, but one in particular stands out: a Polaroid of Jay smiling with his arm around a woman’s shoulders. You hadn't noticed it on your previous visits to the kitchen — you had been too focused on him. "Who is that?" you ask curiously, nodding toward the fridge. "The woman in the photo with you?"

Jay glances over while sliding a plate toward you. "That’s my sister. We don’t look much alike, I know. We’re actually half-siblings."

You tilt your head, studying the photo for another second. They really do not look very similar, but that is not unusual for half-siblings. "She looks nice," you say lightly, accepting the plate he offers. "Breakfast looks delicious, by the way. You really didn’t have to."

"I wanted to," he replies, stepping between your knees and stealing a quick peck. "After last night, it feels right to take care of you this morning… and maybe every other morning too."

You smile shyly. "Speaking of last night… it was incredible. You made everything feel so good, so right. I keep replaying every part of it in my head."

He reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb gently caressing your cheek. "You were perfect, baby. I loved every second of it." He leans in and kisses the corner of your mouth. "You’re so beautiful when you let go for me."

"You’re going to make it really hard for me to focus in class today." You take a bite of the toast, savoring it. "Oh, by the way, I’m going out with some new friends from college tonight. They invited me to a party, it’s a chance to get to know each other better outside of class."

Jay nods, resting a hand on your thigh and stroking it lightly. "Sounds fun. Just be careful, okay? Text me when you get there and when you’re heading back."

"I will," you say, stealing another quick kiss from him. "I won’t stay out too late anyway. I have an early class tomorrow."

He picks up a piece of fruit from the plate and brings it to your mouth, brushing his fingers teasingly against your lips. "You deserve to have fun… I’ll be here if you need anything when you get back."

You stumble out of your friend’s car a little after 1 a.m., waving goodbye as you sway on your feet. You make your way toward the building entrance and suddenly remember that you promised to text Jay — which you didn’t. So you call him to let him know you arrived and are heading up. In response, he says he is waiting for you.

When you reach the third floor, Jay’s door is already open and he is waiting for you. "Heyyy," you say cheerfully, immediately wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your face against his chest. "I’m back. Just like I promised."

Laughing Jay’s arms wrap around you automatically as he looks at you more closely. "You’re pretty drunk, princess. How was the party?"

"So much fun," you ramble, clinging to him tighter as he guides you inside and closes the door. "We danced, there was a shot game, and my new friends are so funny. I laughed so hard my stomach hurt." You tilt your head up, puckering your lips. "Kiss?"

Instead of a proper kiss, he gives you a quick one on your forehead. "You smell like a distillery and your shirt is soaked, what happened?"

You look down at the sticky stain on your shirt and pout. "Someone spilled on me. It’s gross. But I still want kisses, real kisses." You try to pull his face down, standing on your tiptoes. "I missed you all night. I kept thinking about you during the party… about how nice you were last night. We should do that again right now."

Jay gently holds your wrists to stop you. "Not tonight, princess. You’re drunk."

"But I want you," you beg, pressing closer, but he doesn’t give in at all. "You’re so hot, so gentle, and… big. Please?"

He shakes his head and guides you toward the bathroom. "No. Only when you’re sober and can remember everything clearly. Right now, I’m just taking care of you, okay?"

"Let’s get you cleaned up," he says gently once you reach the bathroom. Reaching for the hem of your wet shirt he carefully pulls it off, followed by the rest of your clothes.

"You’re always so gentle with me," you murmur, watching him adjust the shower temperature. "No one has ever been this gentle. I really, really like you, Jay."

He smiles softly and helps you into the shower, joining you still fully dressed so he can take care of you. Jay keeps one hand on your waist to steady you while the other runs soapy over your shoulders and arms.

The alcohol in your system makes your emotions spill out easily before you can stop them. "I think… I think I’m falling for you," you confess, your tongue loose, making your cheeks flush. "Is that crazy? It feels too fast. I know I’m younger and still figuring everything out, but being with you just feels right. You make me feel safe, wanted, and special."

Jay pauses for half a second, processing what he just heard, but then continues washing you carefully — lathering the floral-scented body wash over your skin. "This smells like… girl stuff," you say, a little curious. "Is it yours?"

He looks away for a moment before answering. "It’s my mom’s. She left some things here the last time she came to visit."

"Ah," You rest your forehead against his chest as the water runs over both of you. "I meant it, though. About falling for you. Even if it’s too soon… I can’t help it."

Jay wraps his arms fully around you under the spray of water, holding you close — voice is full of affection when he finally replies. "Hey… look at me, princess." He gently lifts your chin. "What you’re feeling… I feel it too." Softly, he kisses your forehead, then the tip of your nose. "We don’t need to rush or label anything right now. Just know that I’m here and I care about you a lot."

Even in your alcohol-fueled haze, his words calm the part of you that was worried you were moving too fast. "Really? You feel it too?"

"I do." He continues washing you carefully — your arms, your back, your sides — just taking care of you. "Being with you is easy. Natural. So let’s just enjoy it, okay? One day at a time."

Jay finishes rinsing you off and helps you out of the shower. Wrapping you in a towel he dries you gently before dressing you in one of his shirts. By the time he guides you to bed, you are already sleepy. He helps you lie down and you snuggle into the sheets, murmuring one last "I really like you" before falling asleep.

────────

The following days feel almost too good to be real.

You wake up in Jay’s bed, wrapped in his arms and wearing one of his shirts. He always wakes up before you to make breakfast and greet you with a good morning kiss and that smile that still makes your heart flutter. But on some mornings, you pull him back into bed to cuddle before classes and work, and without any argument, he makes time to make you feel loved.

When you get home from class, tired, Jay is already there to greet you cheerfully despite his own exhaustion. He texts you during the day, asking how your classes are going and reminding you to eat. When you are together, he pulls you in for slow, affectionate kisses — the kind that make your legs weak. Some nights you cook together as he tries to teach you how to make proper meals. Other nights he orders takeout and you eat on the couch while you tell him every detail of your day. He still doesn’t share much about himself, always dodging the subject, but you do not push — you don’t want to be invasive.

The sex is frequent — sometimes slow and worshipful, his mouth and hands adoring every inch of you until you are trembling and coming apart. Other times it is faster and more urgent — against the kitchen counter, in the shower, on the couch, in his home office. One night you try baking cookies together, ending up covered in flour and laughing as he kisses the mess off your cheek. Another night you start watching a movie cuddled together, but the movie is forgotten halfway through when clothes come off and he fucks you right there on the couch.

Suddenly everything feels so domestic — he now keeps an extra toothbrush for you, your notebooks are on his coffee table, and some of your clothes are scattered around his apartment. It is undeniable that you are falling deeper and deeper in love.

On a Sunday afternoon, you are studying on his couch while Jay is in his home office, working on a complicated case that demands his full attention. After hours buried in books and notes, concentrating is almost impossible. At this point, your mind keeps wandering to him without permission. When your brain finally gives up, you close the book with a dramatic sigh.

You walk down the hallway and peek into his office. Jay is sitting at his desk with his sleeves rolled up, looking unfairly attractive as he concentrates on reviewing some papers. "Jay?" you call, walking in without waiting for an answer.

He looks up, and the moment his eyes meet yours, the tension in his shoulders softens. "Hey, princess. How are the studies going?"

Boring." You take a few steps closer and don’t ask for permission — you simply climb into his lap, settling on his thighs and wrapping your arms around his neck. You leave a trail of kisses along his jaw, then his cheek and lips. "I missed you. Pay attention to me? Just for a little while?"

One of his hands rests on your waist while the other continues organizing the documents. "I’d love to, baby, but this case is a nightmare. There are documents everywhere. I’m going crazy with these."

You nuzzle into the curve of his neck and kiss him there. "You’ve been in here for hours… you deserve a break." Your hips move subtly against him, restless, the friction sending a spark through both of you. You feel him twitch beneath you, already starting to respond to your movements.

Jay’s grip on your waist tightens. "Princess…" There is a warning tone in his voice, bordering on frustration. But as you grind against him, you can feel him beginning to harden, and that gives you hope — you think he might give in.

"You’re really testing me today." He pulls you into a kiss, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck. When he pulls away, it is with a frustrated sigh.

"That's the point," you whisper, smiling proudly against his lips as you continue grinding, slower this time, feeling him get even harder.

Jay curses under his breath, gripping your hips more firmly. No matter how hard he tries to hold back, he can’t, the desire is uncontrollable. He reaches between you and unzips his pants. "Fine, but you’re going to behave." He frees his hard, throbbing cock and pulls your panties and shorts to the side. This time there is nothing between you — no latex barrier, just him.

You sink down onto him slowly, and the new sensation hits you immediately — it’s different, hotter, more intimate. Every ridge and vein is raw against your walls, the skin-to-skin contact sends a shiver through your entire body and makes you moan as you settle fully onto him. The stretch feels deeper and more overwhelming than ever.

For a moment, it feels perfect — connected, raw.

But then his hands close firmly on your hips, holding you completely still. "Don’t move," he commands, his voice noticeably deeper and rougher. "Stay just like this. No grinding, no whimpering. I’m serious."

His cock pulses hot and heavy inside you, and you can barely focus on what he said. "Jay… oh my God, you feel—"

"I said don’t move," he interrupts, repeating it more harshly this time. His free hand returns to the stack of papers while the other arm stays wrapped around your waist, keeping you in place.

At first, you try to obey — resting your head on his shoulder and breathing deeply every time his cock twitches inside you, but the longer you sit there, the harder it becomes. You let out a soft moan as your hips twitch involuntarily. "Jay… please, just let me move a little bit."

"I told you not to move. Jesus, you’re really pushing it today." The irritation is clear in every word now, and his grip on your waist tightens even more. "I have a deadline. I can’t afford to get distracted like this."

Again, you try to stay still — you really do, until frustrated tears prick at your eyes — but your body betrays you with small, involuntary movements of your hips. "I’m sorry… I can’t help it. This is driving me crazy. I need you to move, please."

Jay’s jaw is tense and his breathing comes in heavy bursts — clearly fighting the urge to thrust up into you. "You think I don’t want to? You’re so tight and wet around me right now, but I can’t. I have work to do and you’re not letting me focus." His tone grows even harsher. "Stop squirming. Be a good girl for me and just sit there.”

But you do not listen — you roll your hips again, letting out a moan as he rubs against that sensitive spot inside you. "Jesus Christ. I told you I have work and this is fucking important."

"But I missed you and this is torture. Please, please just fu-"

He cuts you off sharply. "You always miss me, always need something. Kisses, hugs, my cock, my fucking attention. You practically live here now, your things are all over my apartment, you sleep in my bed like it’s yours. Isn’t that enough attention? You know what? I need you to get off so I can actually finish this case."

The words hurt, making your chest tighten — tears of frustration turn into something heavier and spill down your cheeks. "I didn’t mean to be annoying… I just wanted to be close to you."

"Yeah, well, wanting to be close to me doesn’t magically make my deadline disappear. I’m already behind because of distractions like this." His hand on your hip tightens even more, holding you completely still, the pressure bordering on uncomfortable. "You have your own apartment right next door. Just give me a few hours alone, for once."

You stare at him in disbelief at what you just heard. Suddenly the intimate position feels humiliating — the way you are still stretched around him while he looks at you like you are nothing but am annoyance. "You want me to leave? Like this… right now"

"I’m telling you to give me some space." With no patience left, he lifts you off him, leaving you empty and trembling. "Go to your place, take a nap, study, whatever. Just let me work."

You stand there with shaky legs, wiping away your tears, feeling small, vulnerable, and unwanted. With a quiet, trembling breath, you whisper, "…Okay."

It's past 9 PM when Jay finally steps out of his office, having finished dealing with that pile of papers. The silence hangs heavy now, normally you would be humming, curled up on the couch waiting for him, or laughing at something silly on your phone. Without you, the space feels too empty. He had been rude — way too rude — and he sees that now. He owes you an apology, so he walks over to your door, but just as he is about to knock, he notices the door is not fully closed — it’s slightly ajar, allowing him to hear low murmurs of voices.

Frowning, he pushes the door open a little more and steps inside, finding a guy standing right at the entrance to your living room, putting on a jacket. The guy turns at the sound of the door, his expression quickly shifting to surprise. "Ah, hi. You must be Jay. She talks about you a lot."

He looks over the other guy’s shoulder toward the couch where you are sitting with your knees pulled up. The guy cleans his throat, sensing the tension between the two of you. "I was just leaving… It was really nice talking to you." He gives you a small wave. "Text me if you need anything else, okay?"

You smile and wave back. "Yeah. Thanks, Jake. Drive safe."

As Jake heads for the door, Jay blocks his path. "Wait. What exactly were you doing here?"

Jake blinks, surprised by the sudden question. "She seemed pretty down when we texted, so I decided to stop by and check if she was okay. Anyway, I’m heading out. Nice to meet you, man."

He steps aside, letting Jake pass. The door closes behind him, leaving just the two of you in the suddenly too-quiet apartment.

You stand up, hugging yourself. "Jay… what are you doing here?"

The regret he felt for being so harsh with you is quickly replaced by jealousy and irritation. "I came because my place was too quiet without you. I started thinking maybe I was too hard on you earlier, but clearly you didn’t waste any time finding company."

You frown, confused by what he means. "He’s just a friend. I told you about him before, we met during my first week on campus when I accidentally walked into the wrong lecture hall. I was upset after you basically kicked me out, so I texted him. We weren’t doing anything, just talking."

Jay lets out a short, bitter laugh and steps closer. "Talking late at night like it’s a casual visit. You mentioned him before, of course, but I didn’t know you two were close enough for house calls."

The hurt from earlier mixes with frustration now. "You were so rude, Jay. You made me feel like I was an annoying pest who can’t function without your attention. I understand you’re stressed with work, but you didn’t have to push me away and kick me out like that. I felt embarrassed."

He closes even more of the distance between you, standing close enough that you can feel the jealousy radiating off him. "You’re the one who can’t sit still for five minutes without demanding something, climbing into my lap while I’m trying to meet a deadline, whimpering and squirming like a spoiled brat because you ‘missed me’."

You take a step back, but the couch hits the back of your legs. "I just wanted to be close to you."

"But the world doesn’t revolve around your need for attention. I love having you around, but today? You made it impossible for me to concentrate, and the second I ask for a few hours to actually get things done, you run straight to this Jake guy?" Jay doesn’t care that nothing happened — the image of another guy in your space, late at night, while you were upset, makes his blood boil.

"I didn’t run to him! I was crying when he got here and he just listened. Unlike you, who basically told me to leave because I’m too much."

Jay’s laugh is harsh this time, completely humorless. "Too much. Yeah, that’s one way of saying you’re a spoiled brat who demands attention every second, and the moment things get difficult, you replace me with whoever is most convenient."

Neither of you speaks for a long moment. You look away, Jay’s jaw clenches, and soon his gaze drifts from your face to the way you are hugging yourself, then lower, lingering on your bare legs. The jealousy is still burning in his chest, mixed with the memory of you sitting on his cock earlier, demanding attention, all needy.

"Come here," he says, nodding toward the couch.

You hesitate, biting your lip, which makes Jay exhale sharply and close the distance. His hand wraps around your wrist, guiding you toward the couch. "We’re not done talking about this."

He sits on the couch and pulls you closer until you are lying across his lap, your stomach pressed against his thighs. Your shirt has ridden up naturally, but he is not satisfied. "This is in the way." His fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts and panties, pulling them down and tossing them aside — leaving your ass completely bare for him.

Jay’s palm rests on one of your cheeks, squeezing the flesh possessively. "You’ve been pushing all day… needing attention, teasing me, and then Jake shows up at your place, and I’m supposed to just swallow that?" His fingers dig harder into the flesh. "You’re mine, and it’s time you learn what happens when you piss me off this much."

His hand makes slow circles over your skin, almost soothing. "How many spanks do you think you deserve for acting like this?"

Your heart races as you try to process his words — head turning slightly to look at him. "What? Are you serious?"

He meets your eyes with a firm, dark expression — one you have never seen from him before. "Very serious. You’ve been spoiled all day, teasing me on purpose. So tell me, how many do you think you deserve?"

You swallow hard, your cheeks burning with embarrassment. "I don’t know… Five? Maybe?"

Jay lets out a mocking laugh. "Five? That’s way too low, baby. You’re going to take twenty, and you’re going to count each one out loud. If you lose count or mess up, we start over. Understood?"

You hesitate but eventually whisper, "Yes… okay."

"Good girl." His hand lifts and the first spank comes without warning — firm and sharp, the sound echoing through the silence. You jolt, a surprised moan escaping you — heat spreads instantly across your bare skin, the sting stronger than you expected.

"One," you gasp.

He immediately rubs the spot in slow, soothing circles, calming the hot skin where he struck.

"Two," you say after the next spank lands on the other cheek.

Jay keeps a steady rhythm — delivering hard spanks followed by almost tender caresses. Then his fingers slide lower, tracing your wet folds, spreading them teasingly, brushing against your entrance, lightly circling your clit before pulling away.

"What a spoiled little brat," he murmurs during one of the pauses, rubbing your reddened cheeks while two fingers tease your slit again. "You’re already getting so wet… You like this, don’t you?"

You moan instead of answering, which earns you another sharp spank. "Five."

He continues, the spanks leaving marks and building heat across your ass. Now his fingers are dip inside you, moving with slow, shallow thrusts, curling just enough to brush that sensitive spot and make you clench around him desperately. But he always pulls back before you can get close to the edge.

"Six… seven… ah!"

By ten, tears prick your eyes, your thighs trembling as the sting turns into a pulsing heat.

Jay pauses longer this time, massaging your sore ass and spreading your cheeks so he can tease your entrance again. "You’re mine. When you need attention that badly, you come to me, even if I’m stressed, even if I tell you to leave." A finger pushes deep inside you, staying there while his thumb brushes your clit.

You lose track amid the overwhelming sensations and he makes you start over, just as he warned. "Back to one." During the restart, two more fingers slide inside you, moving in a torturous rhythm. "You feel how wet you are? This is what happens when you forget who you belong to."

"You’re mine. Your time, your attention, this body. I don’t share it." Spank. Soothe. Tease. "Say it."

"I’m yours," you moan.

"Louder." Another spank.

"I’m yours, Jay!"

When he finally reaches twenty, you are a trembling mess with tears streaming down your face. Jay finally pulls you up and turns you so you are sitting in his lap. His hands stay on your ass, carefully massaging the sore flesh and you press yourself against the hard bulge in his pants, burying your face in his shoulder. "You did so well, my good girl."

Jay lifts your chin, meeting your eyes. For a moment, he just looks at you — really looks at you — taking in your flushed cheeks and tear-streaked face. Then he leans in and kisses you. One hand remains on your sore ass, squeezing gently, while the other slides into your hair. He kisses you like he needs to claim every part of you — hungry, insistent, his tongue tracing your lower lip before sliding inside. You melt into him, moaning against his mouth as you start slowly grinding your hips.

He pulls back just enough to trail his mouth along your jaw, nipping at the sensitive spot below your ear. "Still so needy… even after all that." Then he kisses you again, deeper and hungrier, tongues sliding together with fervor. The hand on your ass slips between your bodies to tease your wet folds with light circles and shallow dips — keeping you right on the edge.

When he pulls away, a thin string of saliva connects you for a second before breaking. "On your knees, princess."

Obediently, you slide off his lap and kneel between his spread thighs. Jay looks down at you, one hand lazily stroking your hair as he frees himself from his pants — his cock springs out, thick, heavy, and already leaking at the tip.

"Open. Tongue out," he says, tapping your lower lip with two fingers. You open your mouth and obediently stick your tongue out. He leans forward and spits directly into your mouth. The warm, viscous saliva lands on your tongue, degrading in a way that makes you shiver. "Swallow that first," he instructs. You swallow while keeping your eyes locked on his. He nods with a satisfied hum. "Now show me how sorry you are for pushing me today."

You start with kisses along his length before dragging your tongue from base to tip. Jay groans, his fingers tightening in your hair, but he doesn't force you — not yet. His thickness stretches your lips as you finally take him into your mouth. He is big enough that you can only take about half before he hits the back of your throat. Your hand wraps around the base, stroking what does not fit in a steady rhythm.

"Fuck… that’s it," he murmurs, tilting his head back for a moment before his gaze returns to you. He doesn't want to miss a single second of this. "Look at me while you suck it."

You do, looking up at him with teary eyes, and the sight makes his cock twitch in your mouth. When you pull back to catch your breath, he slaps his cock against your tongue a few times, leaving strings of saliva connecting you, before guiding you back down. "Yeah, just like that… good girl."

Between bobs, when you pull back to breathe, you say breathlessly, "I’m sorry for distracting you and for Jake being here." Then he guides you down again.

Jay’s hips start moving, pushing a little deeper and testing your limits. Tears continue to prick your eyes from the stretch, but you keep going, hollowing your cheeks and moaning around him.

When he finally gets close, Jay’s grip tightens, his thighs tense, and his breathing becomes ragged. "I’m going to come. Don’t waste it, swallow everything." You nod around him, doubling your efforts and with a deep groan, he comes down your throat — thick, hot pulses that you swallow eagerly, not letting a single drop escape.

He pulls out slowly, a string of saliva and cum connecting your lips to the tip before it breaks. "Open your mouth. Show me."

You open your mouth, sticking your tongue out to prove you swallowed everything. “That’s my good girl.”

He helps you up, pulls you back into his lap, and kisses you, tasting himself on your tongue. Your hips start moving on their own, pressing against the growing hardness beneath you that makes Jay groan into your mouth, one hand sliding down to grab your bare ass and guide your movements.

"Still not satisfied? Such a greedy little thing." Even though he just came, his cock is already stirring again, hardening beneath you as your wet pussy slides along his length.

You gasp against his mouth, your hands gripping his shoulders. "Jay… I need you so bad."

He answers by kissing you again, but soon pulls back to meet your eyes. "Then take what you want."

You don’t hesitate, not even for a second. Rising on shaky knees, you reach down and align the thick head of his cock against your entrance, and slowly you sink down, gasping at the stretch and every inch that fills you. The lack of a barrier makes him feel impossibly thicker than the last time in his office — hotter, more intimate. The spanked skin of your ass burns as you settle fully against his thighs.

"Fuck," Jay hisses, his head falling back against the couch for a moment as his hands grip your hips hard enough to leave bruises, holding you fully impaled on him. "So wet… so fucking tight like this."

You start moving, rolling your hips in a slow, deep rhythm, the angle letting you feel every ridge and vein raw inside you, pulling broken moans from your throat. One of his hands slips under your shirt to caress one tit while the other stays on your ass, squeezing the soft flesh in time with your movements. The mix of pleasure and stinging burn makes everything more intense.

"That’s right," he growls, thrusting up to meet you. "This is what you wanted all day, isn’t it? My attention. My cock." You lean forward, kissing him messily while you bounce, moving your hips faster.

With a low curse, he wraps his arms around you and suddenly flips you, laying you down on the couch cushions, driving him even deeper which pulls a sharp cry from you.

Now he is on top, pinning you beneath him — one of your legs hooked over his shoulder as he starts thrusting into you with deep, powerful strokes — hips snapping forward, burying himself to the hilt each time and the lack of a condom lets you feel every raw inch.

Clinging to his back, your nails dig in as the pleasure borders on overwhelming. Jay’s face hovers above yours, his hair damp with sweat falling into his eyes. Rhythm falters for a second as he looks at you, something darker flashing across his face, the jealousy from earlier — the image of Jake leaving your apartment — has not disappeared. "Are you on the pill?"

You shake your head, breathless, barely able to form words between moans. "No, I’m not."

He thrusts harder, hitting deep against your cervix as if to emphasize the point. "Good," he growls, eyes locked on yours. "Actually, fucking perfect. Maybe I’ll knock you up tonight, put a baby in you so you won’t even think about another guy like Jake. You’ll stay right here with me, we’ll have a beautiful family, me, you, and our kids. No more distractions."

The words should have shocked you, but in the heat of the moment — with him fucking you raw, his body claiming yours completely — they only send a fresh wave of arousal through you. Moaning loudly, your legs tightening around his waist. "Jay… fuck—"

He groans at your reaction, his hips moving harder. "You like that idea, don’t you? My cum deep inside you, getting you pregnant so everyone knows you’re claimed." One of his hands slides down to press lightly against your stomach, as if he can already imagine it.

The couch creaks beneath you both, the sound of skin slapping against skin and the wet noises of him fucking you filling the room. Jay’s earlier irritation fuels every deep thrust, but so does possessiveness — the need to claim you completely after the stressful day. He presses you deeper into the cushions, his hips moving in a way that grinds against your clit with every stroke.

When you finally come, it is intense — your walls contracting tightly around his cock as you scream his name. Jay follows right after, burying himself as deep as possible, and you feel the hot pulses of his cum filling you, thick and warm.

For long minutes, Jay simply holds you — kissing your neck, your jaw, your swollen lips — his cock softening slowly inside you, but as the minutes stretch on, you feel him coming back to life, pulsing against your sensitive walls. "Already?" There is a playful tone in your voice.

"I can’t help it." He moves, pressing one last kiss to your mouth before slowly pulling out. You moan at the loss, feeling his cum start to leak out of you, but his hand quickly reaches down to push it back inside you with two fingers. "Don’t waste it."

He leans back on the couch, stroking himself until he is fully hard again. "Turn around. Hands on the backrest."

You obey, your body trembling as you shift position, kneeling on the cushions, gripping the top of the backrest and arching your back slightly while Jay moves behind you, his gaze fixed on the evidence of the earlier spanking — your cheeks still red with visible handprints — as one of his palms smooths reverently over the heated skin before squeezing firmly.

"Fuck, look at this… Still so red from your lesson." His cock brushes against your entrance before he thrusts deep inside you in one powerful stroke, the new position letting him sink even deeper as the head of his cock presses against spots that make your toes curl drawing a loud moan from you while you grip the backrest tighter as he bottoms out.

Jay starts fucking you with firm, powerful thrusts — deep and deliberate, the couch creaking beneath you both — as every thrust makes your sore ass bounce and the red marks darken even more with the impact, his eyes unable to leave them while his thumbs press into the soft flesh, pulling you back onto his cock repeatedly.

"These marks… they look so good on you." Without warning, he lands a hard, stinging spank on your right cheek, the already sensitive skin making you cry out and clench hard around his cock as Jay groans at the sensation, his hips stuttering for a moment before he resumes his deep rhythm.

He gives your left cheek another spank, making you writhe and moan again as you push back against him desperately despite the burn — or maybe because of it — the mix of pain and pleasure making you even wetter, the previous creampie turning everything obscenely wet and messy.

"That’s it," he praises, smoothing his hands over the fresh marks he just added. "Squirm for me. I love how sensitive you are right here." He gives you one more spank, lighter this time but still enough to make you shudder, and immediately soothes the area with his hands, massaging the sore flesh while he continues thrusting deep and hard from behind.

Jay leans over you, bracing one hand on the back of the couch beside yours while the other reaches down to rub tight circles on your clit. His chest presses against your back, his lips brushing your ear as he speaks between thrusts. "You’re going to take every drop again, princess. I’m going to give you my babies, keep you so full you won’t even think about anyone else."

When you come again — hard, your vision blurring from the overwhelming sensations — Jay follows right behind, burying himself deep with a groan and flooding you with another load of hot cum. He stays inside you for a long time afterward, thrusting slowly through the aftershocks.

Finally, he pulls out carefully and pulls you into his arms, stroking your back in slow, gentle movements. "You’re a mess, princess. Come on, let me take care of you."

He stands up with you in his arms and carries you to the bathroom. Once inside, he turns on the shower, adjusts the temperature, and removes the rest of both your clothes before guiding you under the hot spray with him where the water cascades over you both. Jay takes his body wash, lathers it between his hands, and runs them over your skin — being extra careful around your sensitive ass, massaging the foam in light circles that ease some of the sting.

"Maybe I was a little too rough tonight," he says, his hands moving along your thighs, cleaning away the evidence of the many rounds. "Work stress got to me, and then seeing Jake… I took it out on you more than I should have. You handled it really well, but I’m sorry if it was too much."

You lean back against his chest, letting the water rinse off the soap as you tilt your head to look at him. "It hurt… but it also felt good. In a weird way. I just hated feeling like I was bothering you earlier. I didn’t want to annoy you while you were working. I just… missed you a lot."

After rinsing you, he turns off the shower, wraps you in a towel first, then himself and dries you carefully, paying extra attention to your ass and rubbing some soothing lotion he finds in the cabinet. "There. Better?"

"Much better," you admit, reaching up to touch his face. "Thank you for taking care of me like this."

He leans down and kisses your forehead. "You make it easy to want to take care of you." Pulling you closer, his voice shifting to something even calmer and more sincere. "I don’t know what I’d do without you around. I can’t imagine coming home and not having you here like this. You just… fit. Right here with me."

You hug him tightly, burying your face in his chest. "I feel the same. I always want to be close to you because you make everything feel better."

Smiling against your hair, Jay guides you to the bed and pulls the covers back, lying down beside you to pull you close against his chest. One arm wraps around you securely, his hand rests gently on your ass — not squeezing, just warm and protective over the sensitive skin.

You snuggle even closer, your leg draped over his as exhaustion finally takes over completely. "Stay the night?" you ask sleepily.

"Wouldn’t dream of leaving," His fingers trace lazy circles on your back until your breathing evens out and you fall asleep.

Next morning you stir slowly, feeling the pleasant ache in your muscles and Jay’s heavy arm draped over your waist, his body curled protectively against your back. He feels you waking up and trails lazy kisses along your shoulder before moving up the side of your neck. "Good morning, baby," he murmurs, his voice still rough with sleep as his hand slides to your stomach. "Sleep well?"

You turn in his arms, smiling despite the slight soreness when you move, and reach up to brush the messy hair from his forehead. "Yes… thanks to you."

He leans in and kisses you properly — slow and sweet, the kind of kiss that makes you melt. At this point, he couldn't care less that neither of you had brushed your teeth yet. "You were incredible last night. Let me make it up to you a little more with breakfast."

Jay borrows a pair of your sweatpants that look comically tight on his incredibly nice ass, making you laugh as he models them. In the kitchen, you work side by side like so many mornings before — he cracks eggs for scrambled eggs while you toast bread and slice fruit. Small touches are stolen throughout: a hand on your lower back as he reaches past you, a quick kiss on your temple when you hand him the salt shaker, a playful bump of his hip against yours.

"You’re in a good mood today," you tease, leaning against the counter while he plates the food.

"I can’t help it when I wake up next to you." He sets the plates on the table and pulls you in for another kiss before you both sit down.

After eating, you start getting ready for college and he for the office. Jay kisses you one more time before heading back to his apartment next door to get ready for work. You take a long shower and, once dressed in jeans and a comfortable blouse, you step out into the hallway at the same time he does, looking impeccable in his work clothes.

He quickly pulls you in for a proper goodbye, hands gently cradling your face as he kiss your forehead, lingering there for a long moment. "Have a good day at class. Text me when you’re done." With one last soft kiss on your lips, he pulls away with a smile. "See you later, princess."

College passes in a whirlwind of classes and notes, but your mind keeps drifting back to Jay — the way he holds you, the sweet words, the kisses. He has not sent many messages during the day, which is a little unusual, but you figure he must be busy at work.

When you finally get home in the early evening, you step into the elevator and press the button for the third floor. Just before the doors close, a woman you have never seen in the building before enters, but something about her face seems vaguely familiar.

The woman smiles politely as the elevator starts moving. Curiosity gets the better of you and before you can stop yourself, you ask, "Hi… do you live here? I’ve been in the building for about two months and I don’t think I’ve seen you around."

She nods, laughing lightly. "Yes, I do, but I’ve been away on a work trip. I’m a lawyer and a complicated case kept me out of town longer than expected. I actually got back this morning."

"Wow. That sounds intense… By the way, my name is y/n. Nice to meet you."

The woman’s smile widens. "Nice to meet you too. Jay has already told me about you. He’s mentioned his sweet neighbor a few times."

Your heart flutters with joy — Jay talked about you to the neighbors. It feels special, like proof that you are really becoming a bigger part of his life. "He did? That’s nice to hear."

The elevator dings on the third floor and you both step out together. A small flicker of confusion crosses your mind — she is going the same way — but you don’t think much of it. Maybe she lives farther down the hall.

Then you see Jay standing there and your face lights up immediately. He hadn't texted you all day, and seeing him now makes excitement bubble up inside you. You walk toward him with a radiant smile.

At the same moment, the woman also walks straight up to him. When she reaches him, she wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him — a deep, familiar, affectionate kiss. Jay’s hands settle on her waist automatically as he eagerly kisses her back.

The world stops.

Your feet freeze mid-step and everything inside you turns cold and numb. It takes a moment for your brain to process what you are seeing, but then the pieces fall into place with painful clarity. That was Jay’s wife. The woman in the Polaroid photo he casually said was his "sister." The late-night calls he claimed were from the office. The feminine body wash he said belonged to his mom. The distant restaurant he took you to on your first date, probably so no one nearby would recognize him. The way the doorman sometimes looked at you with that judgmental expression, like he knew something — he did. All the small inconsistencies you had ignored because you were so blinded by how gentle and attentive he seemed.

Every sweet word, every touch, every promise of "you’re mine" had been built on lies. He was married. His heart already belonged to someone else, and you had been nothing but a convenient distraction from the apartment next door — blind, eager, and so in love with the version of him he showed you that you never saw the truth.

Jay’s eyes meet yours over his wife’s shoulder, and for a fraction of a second, something like panic or guilt flashes across his face. The shock turns into pure pain, making you practically run to your door as you fumble for your keys while hot tears blur your vision.

You lean against the door, sliding down to the floor as sobs begin to escape you. Your chest hurts as if someone had ripped a hole in it. All the cute moments — the kisses, the touches, the date, the bouquet — turn ugly and humiliating in your memory.

You cry hard, knees pulled up to your chest, as disappointment turns into shame for having fallen so completely for the man who made you feel special, desired, and loved… and it was all a lie.

The thin walls allow you to hear muffled voices — his wife asking about his day, the normalcy of their conversation only making everything worse. You press your hands over your ears, trying to block out the sound, but the damage is already done. Your heart is shattered.

The man you had grown so attached to — the one who held you so tenderly after sex, who made you breakfast and promised more comfortable days like that — was someone else’s husband, and you had been the other woman without even knowing it.

thank you for reading.

[jongst4r]

practice makes perfect — park jongseong

in which jay gives you lessons on how to get (and fuck) jake sim.

synopsis: when your crush on jake sim turns into full-blown panic about your complete lack of experience, your best friend suggests the one person on campus who can help: jay park — the dangerously attractive, notoriously skilled senior with a reputation for being an incredible teacher.

what starts as innocent lessons in flirting, kissing, and confidence quickly spirals into something much hotter… and much more complicated. because the more jay teaches you how to drive jake crazy, the more you realize you only want him touching you.

pairing: jay x fem!reader (x jake)

wc: 34.6k

warnings: smut! light fluff and angst

cw: college au, love triangle, mutual pining, slow burn. themes of virginity, virginity loss, sexual inexperience, anxiety about intimacy. mentions of alcohol. explicit sexual content (kissing, making out, dry humping, handjob, blowjob, p in v, unprotected sex.) heavy flirting and sexual tension, playful teasing, use of petnames, strong language.

a/n: even though today is my birthday, i wanted to be the one giving you a gift. so... yeah, here you go, the longest fic i've ever written. i hope you enjoy it as much as i did while writing! <3

the bass hums low through the crowded living room, a warm pulse that vibrates under your skin as you lean against the kitchen counter, half-hidden behind a cluster of red plastic cups.

the party is the usual saturday chaos — too many people crammed into this frat house off campus, bodies swaying and bumping into each other under the dim string lights someone messily hung on the ceiling. laughter spills over the music, loud, while the faint smell of cheap beer, cheap vodka, and even cheaper perfume hangs thick in the air, mixing with the occasional scent of cigarette smoke drifting in from the backyard. red cups litter every surface, and the floor already feels sticky under your sneakers from whatever got spilled earlier.

but your eyes stay fixed across the room, unable to look anywhere else, like some invisible string keeps pulling your gaze back no matter how much you tell yourself to stop.

jake sim stands near the sliding glass doors that lead to the backyard, where the night air probably feels cooler and less suffocating than in here.

one hand is casually tucked into the pocket of his dark jeans, the fabric hugging his legs just right, while the other gestures animatedly as he talks to a girl you vaguely recognize from your literature class — maybe her name is karina or something close. she’s laughing at something he said, head tilted back in that carefree way, exposing the line of her throat, her fingers brushing his arm every few seconds like she can’t help touching him. the way she leans into his space screams interest, flirtiness, and he doesn’t pull away. if anything, he seems to welcome it, that charm radiating off him.

and jake — good god, jake looks perfect. the kind of perfect that makes your chest ache with a sharp, longing twist.

he’s wearing a simple black button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing those toned forearms that flex subtly every time he moves his hand for emphasis. his hair falls softly over his forehead in that effortless, slightly tousled way, like he ran his fingers through it once and left it alone, knowing it would look devastating. the dim lighting catches on the sharp line of his jaw, the warm brown of his eyes, and when he smiles at her, it’s the same warm, dimpled smile he’s given you a dozen times in the hallway or during group project meetings. the kind of smile that feels like sunlight breaking through clouds, crinkling the corners of his eyes and making his whole face light up.

he leans in closer to hear her better over the music, nodding along with genuine interest, his full attention on her like she’s the only person in this entire crowded house.

that’s the thing about jake. when he focuses on someone, it feels like the rest of the world fades into background noise — no distractions, no half-measures. just him, fully present, making you feel seen in a way that’s dangerously addictive.

you swallow hard, fingers tightening around your barely-touched drink until the plastic creaks under your grip. the soda has gone warm and gass-less, but you don’t care. you haven’t taken more than a sip in the last twenty minutes anyway, too busy nursing this quiet ache while pretending to scroll on your phone every few seconds so no one notices you staring.

you’ve been crushing on him for four months now.

four long, torturous months of stolen glances across lecture halls, light flirting in the library where his knee would accidentally brush yours under the table, and random texts about class notes that somehow turned into conversations about favorite movies and late-night snacks and that one time he admitted he secretly loves cheesy romance dramas even though his friends would tease him endlessly for it.

and, the thing is, everybody knows jake doesn’t flirt casually. if he gives a girl that kind of attention — the lingering eye contact, the playful teasing texts at midnight, the way he remembers small details like how you take your coffee — it means he’s interested in something real. dating, commitment, the whole boyfriend package with hand-holding walks across campus and good morning messages that make your heart race.

he’s had two serious girlfriends in the past three years, one lasting several months where you’d see them together looking so effortlessly in sync, the other stretching a whole year where rumors said they were practically inseparable until things eventually ended on good terms. each one looking blissfully happy in his presence, glowing like they’d unlocked some secret level of connection and pleasure that you can only imagine.

and that’s exactly why your stomach twists into tight, anxious knots right now.

you’re a virgin. painfully, embarrassingly inexperienced.

you’ve kissed a couple guys before, sure — awkward fumbling in the dark during high school parties, all sloppy lips and unsure hands that never quite knew where to go or how to make it feel good. but nothing more. no one has ever touched you the way you know jake has touched his exes. you’ve overheard enough whispered conversations in the girls’ bathroom or seen the way those exes still look at him sometimes with fond, satisfied smiles.

jake is the type who probably knows exactly what he’s doing — patient, attentive, skilled in ways that leave girls breathless and glowing, satisfied down to their bones. the kind of guy who takes his time, learns what makes someone moan and shiver, who makes sex feel like an art form instead of a clumsy rush. and the thought of him finding out how clueless you are makes your cheeks burn even in the middle of this loud, overheated party, a flush creeping up your neck that has nothing to do with the alcohol you’re barely drinking.

what if you freeze up when things finally get intimate? what if your hands shake too much to touch him the right way, or you don’t know how to kiss him properly with that slow, deep confidence he probably expects? what if you can’t make him feel good, can’t match the energy of his past girlfriends who clearly knew how to please him back? what if he realizes you’re not on the same level — not experienced, not sexy, not adventurous enough — and the interest in his eyes dims? the flirting would stop. the texts would fade. he’d move on to someone who doesn’t need to google basic techniques in secret or lie awake at night worrying about being a disappointment in bed.

you bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste the faint metallic taste, forcing your gaze away just as the girl leans up to whisper something in jake’s ear. her lips brush close, too close, and he laughs softly — that low, charming sound carrying across the room like a sweet melody cut through the bass. it’s warm and genuine, the kind that makes butterflies erupt in your stomach even from this distance.

you turn toward the counter instead, pretending to refill your cup from the half-empty punch bowl, the liquid sloshing messily as your hand trembles slightly. the ice cubes clink loudly in your cup, a small distraction from the way your heart pounds against your ribs.

around you, the party pulses on without pause. someone bumps your shoulder accidentally, muttering a quick sorry before disappearing back into the crowd. a group of girls nearby bursts into giggles over some inside joke, their voices high and tipsy. the music shifts to a slower track, something with heavy bass and breathy vocals that only makes the atmosphere feel more charged, more intimate despite the chaos. you glance back once more, unable to resist, and catch jake’s eyes flicking in your direction for the briefest second. does he see you? does that dimpled smile flicker with recognition? your breath catches, but then he’s turning back to the girl, saying something that makes her touch his arm again, and the moment slips away like smoke.

you set the cup down untouched, wiping your damp palms on the sides of your jeans. the insecurity sits heavy in your chest, a constant whisper reminding you that jake sim deserves someone who can keep up. someone confident. someone who knows how to flirt without second-guessing every word, how to touch without hesitation, how to make a guy like him lose control in the best ways.

and right now, that someone feels impossibly far from who you are — standing here in the corner, heart racing over nothing more than a smile across a crowded room.

the party swirls around you, alive and indifferent, but your mind stays trapped in that loop of what-ifs and quiet longing, the bass still humming low like a reminder that time is moving forward whether you’re ready or not.

“you’re doing that thing again,” a familiar voice says beside you.

yunjin appears like magic, sliding an arm around your waist and resting her chin on your shoulder. her long hair tickles your neck, smelling like coconut shampoo and the strawberry lip gloss she always wears. she’s been your best friend since freshman orientation — loud where you’re quiet, confident where you overthink everything.

“what thing?” you mumble, even though you already know.

“the ‘staring at jake like he hung the moon but also might destroy my entire soul’ thing.” she steals a sip from your cup and grimaces. “ugh, you’re drinking the watered-down shit again. come on, let’s get you something stronger.”

you let her drag you toward the other end of the kitchen, but your mind stays stuck on jake. even through the hazy, crowded warmth of the party, your eyes keep drifting back to where he’s laughing with some guys from the club soccer team. yunjin notices, of course. she always does, her grip tightening on your arm in a silent show of support while she pours something sweet and dangerously strong into a fresh red cup for you.

later that night, after the party finally winds down and the bass stops rattling your teeth, you’re both back in your shared off-campus apartment. the contrast is jarring, the heavy silence of the night settling over everything. the real conversation happens when the rest of the world is asleep. you’re sprawled on your bed in oversized pajamas, hair still slightly damp and curling from a quick shower, while yunjin sits cross-legged on the floor painting her nails a deep, glossy burgundy. the lamp on your nightstand casts a soft, amber glow across the room, and the distant city hums faintly outside the window.

“okay, spill,” she says without looking up, carefully dragging the tiny brush over her thumbnail. “you’ve been weird about jake for weeks. what’s the hold-up? he literally flirted with you for twenty minutes last tuesday in the café. he doesn’t do that unless he’s serious. he was giving you that puppy-dog look the whole time.”

you pull your knees tightly to your chest, hugging them until your knuckles turn white. the weight of the secret has been crushing you for days, and the words finally tumble out before you can stop them.

“i’m scared, yunjin. really scared.”

she glances up instantly, the brush hovering inches above her index finger. the playful tease drops from her face. “scared of what? jake’s a sweetheart. he’s not some asshole who’s going to play games with you.”

“it’s not him. it’s… me.” your voice drops to a pathetic whisper, your cheeks instantly heating up with a fierce, burning blush. you bury your chin in your knees. “i’m a virgin. completely. i’ve barely even done anything beyond clumsy high school kissing. and jake’s had actual girlfriends. serious ones. he knows what he’s doing, yunjin. what if i’m bad at it? what if i disappoint him? he’ll realize i’m not… enough. not experienced enough. not sexy enough. not whatever his exes were.”

yunjin sets the nail polish bottle down on a stray magazine slowly, giving you her full, undivided attention. her expression softens, the fierce protectiveness she always has for you melting into something tender, though there’s still a sharp spark of determination in her eyes.

“babe… first of all, that’s so normal. lots of people are virgins in college, even if they don't advertise it. second, if jake likes you — and he clearly does — he’s not going to expect you to be some kind of porn star on day one. he'd probably think it was sweet, honestly.” she pauses, watching your miserable expression. “but i get it. you want to feel confident. you don't want to be overthinking every single touch when you're finally alone with him. you want to blow his mind when it happens.”

you nod miserably, burying your face completely in your knees for a second, your voice muffled. “i just want to feel like I know what I'm doing. just a little bit.”

yunjin taps her freshly painted fingers on the carpet, her mind visibly whirring. then she smiles — that mischievous, slightly dangerous, scheming smile you know all too well. it’s the smile that usually precedes a terrible, brilliant idea.

“if you really want to impress him… there’s someone who can help.”

you peek at her over the tops of your knees, skeptical. “what do you mean? like a book? a podcast?”

“sunghoon’s friend. jay. jay park.” she says it like the name should mean something immediately, dropping it into the quiet room like a bombshell. “he’s discreet as hell. experienced — like, really experienced. girls talk about him in hushed tones in the sorority houses, trust me. apparently he’s an incredible teacher. no strings attached, just pure skill-building. he’s actually done this before for a couple of people who were in your exact shoes. helps them get confident, learn what they need to know. everything from flirting, body language, touching, all the way down to… you know.”

your eyes widen to the size of saucers. “you’re joking. you want me to ask a random guy to tutor me in sex?”

“dead serious. he’s not a fuckboy in the messy, heartbroken-trail way. more like… selective. efficient.” yunjin leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees, her tone shifting into something more serious. “and look, here's the thing. jay is known for fucking the girls he hangs out with, yeah. he has that reputation for a reason. but… you don't have to do that. he's not some caveman. jay is actually the best one on this entire campus to go to for advice, even if you never lay a finger on him.”

she waves a hand to emphasize her point, careful not to smudge her polish. “he might make an exception for you. you can literally just have the option of not sleeping with him. you can just go to him, tell him the situation, and let him give you advice. he knows how guys think, he knows what jake’s vibe is since they run in similar circles, and he can literally just talk you through it. teach you how to read the room, how to touch without being awkward. but if you do decide you want hands-on practice? he's the guy. if you approach him the right way and you’re honest, he’ll probably say yes to whatever level you’re comfortable with. he’s good at keeping secrets too. sunghoon swears he's the most trustworthy guy he knows.”

you stare at her, your heart hammering a rapid rhythm against your ribs. jay. you’ve seen him around campus, of course. everyone has. he’s impossible to miss — tall, with that sharp jawline, dark hair usually styled flawlessly, always dressed like he just stepped out of a high-end fashion magazine. he has this quiet, heavy confidence mixed with a sharp, teasing look that makes people nervous to look him in the eye for too long. the mere idea of walking up to him and asking him for… lessons felt completely insane. humiliating. but beneath the embarrassment, a tiny, buried part of you felt a thrill that was absolutely terrifying.

“i couldn’t,” you whisper, your voice shaking slightly. “yunjin, that’s crazy. 'hey jay, can you teach me how to be good in bed so i can go sleep with your acquaintance?' he’ll laugh in my face.”

“is it crazier than stressing yourself sick over whether you’ll be good enough for jake? you're practically giving yourself an ulcer over a guy who hasn't even kissed you yet.” yunjin raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “look, you deserve to feel prepared. empowered. jay’s the guy for that, whether he's just talking to you over a drink or showing you what to do. no emotions, no drama, just practice and advice. think about it. just promise me you'll think about it.”

the conversation lingers long after yunjin finally packs up her nail polish and leaves your room, kissing your forehead goodnight and telling you to text her if you need to spiral more. you lie awake in the dark, staring at the ceiling, the name jay repeating in your head like a dare.

you lie there in the dark, the harsh blue glow of your phone illuminating your face in the otherwise pitch-black room. your thumb hovers precariously over the message bar, trembling slightly.

you had found jay’s contact info through a mutual friend's group chat earlier that night, your heart racing so fast you could hear it in your ears the entire time you were saving his number. now, at exactly 2:17 a.m., the sheer absurdity of the hour matches the sheer absurdity of what you're about to do. you type a sentence, delete it. type another, delete that too. you rewrite the message five times, your palms sweating against the glass screen, before you finally force your thumb to stay still and craft something that sounds at least semi-coherent.

you: hi… this is awkward but um. yunjin mentioned you might be able to help with some… lessons? about confidence and stuff. with guys. i’m really new to all of it and there’s this guy i like and i don’t want to mess it up. if you’re not interested that’s totally fine, sorry for bothering you this late.

you hit send.

the instant the little outgoing chime sounds, a wave of pure, instant regret crashes over you. you toss the phone away like it’s physically burning you, letting it land somewhere in the tangled blankets at the foot of your bed. you cover your face with both hands, groaning softly into the quiet room. this is ridiculous. it's humiliating. who even asks for something like this? jay park is going to think you're an absolute freak, or worse, he's going to screenshot it and show sunghoon.

a minute passes. then two. the silence in your room feels heavy, suffocating. you're just about to reach down and turn the phone completely off to save yourself further agony when the mattress vibrates.

buzz.

your heart leaps into your throat. you scramble through the covers, fishing for the device and unlocking it with shaking fingers.

jay: well this is a new way to get my attention. lessons, huh? for a specific guy? bold.

before you can even process the dry, teasing tone of his text, another message bubbles up right underneath it.

jay: meet me tomorrow at the café near the east library. 4pm. we can talk details. don’t overthink it too much, newbie.

your stomach flips hard, dropping into a dizzying freefall. he said yes. kind of. it’s incredibly teasing, dripping with the exact kind of effortless confidence that usually intimidates you, but it’s still a yes. he didn't laugh you off. he didn't tell you to lose his number.

you roll onto your back, dropping the phone onto your chest and staring up at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above you. the shadows from the blades cut rhythmic patterns across the ceiling, but they do nothing to soothe your mind, which is currently racing at a thousand miles an hour.

what the hell are you actually doing?

asking jay park — the campus mystery, the guy who walks through hallways like he owns them, the one with that intense, piercing stare that makes people look away first — to teach you how to flirt, how to touch, how to… god, how to do everything. and you're doing it all just so you can feel like you're enough for jake sim. the contrast between the two boys couldn't be wider: jake, with his warm, sweet, golden-retriever energy and easy smiles, and jay, who feels like a sharp knife, dark leather jackets, and expensive cologne.

but underneath the suffocating layers of panic and embarrassment, a tiny, unfamiliar spark begins to take hold. it’s a spark of excitement. of real hope. yunjin was right; you've been putting yourself through misery over your lack of experience. maybe this is exactly what you need to break out of your own head. maybe jay really can turn you into someone confident, someone desirable — someone who won’t freeze up or panic when jake finally makes a real move.

you pull the heavy blanket higher up over your shoulders, curling onto your side as your phone screen finally times out and dims, plunging the room back into total darkness.

tomorrow at 4 p.m. there's no backing out now. you're really doing this.

and as exhaustion finally starts to get to you, a nervous, slightly hysterical laugh escapes your lips into the quiet apartment.

what have you gotten yourself into?

-------

the next afternoon, 4:00 p.m. arrives far too quickly.

the café near the east library is tucked away in a quieter corner of the campus, mostly populated by grad students typing furiously on laptops and the heavy smell of roasted coffee beans. you change your outfit three times before leaving the apartment, finally settling on something casual but not too casual, your hands sweating the entire walk over.

when you push the glass door open, the little bell chiming above you feels like a death threat. you look around the dimly lit space, and there he is.

jay is sitting at a small corner table near the back window, looking entirely too calm and entirely too hot for a thursday afternoon. he’s wearing a simple black sweater, the sleeves pushed up to reveal his forearms, and his dark hair is perfectly styled, just like always. he has a half-empty iced americano in front of him, his thumb casually scrolling through his phone. there’s a quiet, effortless aura of arrogance around him, but as he catches movement and looks up, his sharp features soften into a playful, lazy smirk.

“you’re exactly on time,” he says, his voice a low, smooth rumble that instantly makes your stomach do a flip. he slides the empty chair opposite him out with his foot. “sit. you look like you’re about to faint.”

you sink into the chair, gripping your tote bag tightly against your chest like a shield. “hi. thank you for coming.”

“relax, newbie. i don’t bite,” he teases, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. he studies your burning, red face for a second before a soft chuckle escapes him. “you know, you could have just told me the whole story in the text. saved yourself some typing.”

you blink, confused. “what do you mean?”

jay leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a dangerous amount of amusement. “yunjin told sunghoon. sunghoon told me. so, i already know the full context.” his smirk widens, making him look devastatingly handsome. “so you want to learn how to fuck properly for jake sim? bold.”

your entire face explodes in a fierce, blinding heat. you literally feel the blood rushing to your cheeks, and for a terrifying, very long second, you consider hiding under the table or running away as fast as you can. you bury your face in your hands, your voice muffled and laced with pure mortification. “oh my god. i am going to kill yunjin. i am actually going to murder her.”

jay lets out a genuine, low laugh at your reaction, the sound rich and surprisingly warm. “don’t kill her yet. she’s just looking out for you. and honestly? it’s refreshing. most girls try a lot harder to play it cool around me.”

you slowly drop your hands, your cheeks still burning a bright pink. “i don't even know what i'm doing here. this is insane.”

“it’s only insane if you make it insane,” jay says calmly, his playful tone softening just a fraction into something a bit more business-like. he pushes a clean napkin and a pen toward you, though he keeps his eyes on your face. “let’s treat this like an introduction. an assessment. before we can fix anything, i need to know what we’re working with. list all the things you think you’re bad at. everything you're worried about. so i know what to focus on.”

you stare at the blank napkin, swallowing hard. the vulnerability of it feels immense, but you’re already here, and you’re already completely humiliated. you take a deep breath and start listing them off, your voice dropping to a quiet whisper so the barista won’t hear.

“flirting,” you start, counting on your fingers instead of writing it down. “i freeze up. and… kissing. i’ve only ever done clumsy high school kissing, nothing serious. touching… like, knowing where to put my hands without being awkward. sex, obviously, since i’ve never done it. and… just confidence in general. i overthink everything until i ruin the mood.”

jay listens quietly, his sharp eyes tracking the movement of your fingers. he doesn't laugh, and he doesn't tease you this time. he just nods slowly, absorbing the information.

“okay. that’s a solid list,” he says. then, his gaze drops to how tightly you’re still clutching your bag, your knuckles white, your shoulders tense and pulled high. his eyes lift back to yours, perceptive and sharp. “you’re terrified i’m going to try to jump you, aren’t you?”

your breath hitches. you open your mouth to deny it, but the words catch in your throat. you are skeptical about getting physical with him. the idea of practicing on jay park feels like playing with fire, and you’re fully aware you might get burned.

jay sighs softly, leaning back again, his posture completely relaxed to contrast your tension. “look at me.”

you look up, meeting his intense stare.

“yunjin told you i have a reputation, and she’s right. i’m not going to sit here and pretend i’m a saint,” jay says, his tone completely direct, peer-to-peer, without a shred of judgment. “but i don’t do anything without absolute consent. i can see you’re stressed out of your mind right now. so, let’s take the pressure off. we are not getting physical. the ‘lessons’ will be entirely theoretical. just talking, advice, breaking down how guys think, and giving you the blueprint. unless you explicitly ask to change that later down the line, we keep our hands to ourselves. deal?”

the relief that washes over you is so sudden and heavy that your shoulders visibly drop. “deal. thank you. seriously.”

“don’t thank me yet, newbie. you’re still going to have to work on that confidence,” jay says, that familiar, teasing grin creeping back onto his face. he stands up, grabbing his iced coffee and sliding his phone into his pocket. “we’re done for today. meet me at my dorm tomorrow afternoon. third floor of the west quad, room 314. we’ll start the actual work then.”

he gives you one last, lingering look — a mix of amusement and something else you can’t quite read — before turning and walking out of the café, leaving you alone at the table with a racing heart and the sudden realization that you’re actually going through with this.

-------

the next afternoon, you find yourself standing outside room 314 in the west quad, your heart doing gymnastics against your ribs. you take three deep, stabilizing breaths before finally raising a shaking hand to knock.

the door swings open almost immediately, and jay stands there looking effortlessly put-together in a gray hoodie and sweatpants. his hair is slightly messy today, falling over his forehead, which somehow makes him look even more intimidatingly handsome.

“you’re on time again. i like that,” he says, stepping back to let you in.

his dorm is surprisingly clean and smells faintly of sandalwood and expensive laundry detergent. there’s a vinyl player in the corner, a desk stacked with textbooks, and a neatly made bed. jay walks over to his desk chair, spins it around to face the bed, and motions for you to sit on the mattress.

“alright, newbie. welcome to lesson one,” jay says, his tone shifting into something surprisingly focused. he sits down, crossing his legs and resting his elbows on his knees. “today is all about the fundamentals. eye contact, body language, and light teasing. if you can't master the tension before you even touch a guy, everything else falls flat. so, we start here.”

you nod, swallowing hard, trying to look like a good student. “okay. what do i do?”

“first thing: eye contact,” jay says, leaning forward slightly. his dark eyes lock onto yours, intense and unblinking. “when you’re talking to jake, you have a habit of looking down at your shoes or glancing away every three seconds. it makes you look like you’re guilty of a crime. i want you to hold my gaze. don’t look away until i do.”

you brace yourself and look straight into his eyes. one second passes. then two. the sheer intensity of his stare feels like a physical weight in the room. by second four, your heart is pounding, your throat feels dry, and your eyes instinctively dart toward the window.

jay lets out a soft, amused scoff. “four seconds. tragic. again.”

you lock eyes with him again, biting the inside of your cheek. this time, you manage to hold it, but you can feel your face flushing a bright, furious pink.

jay watches the blush spread across your cheeks, a slow, lazy half-smile spreading across his face. he’s clearly enjoying how easily he can fluster you, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. “you’re cute when you’re panicking, you know that? but you need to relax your shoulders. you look like a statue.”

“it’s hard,” you complain, your voice a little high. “you’re staring at me like a hawk.”

“jake is going to stare at you too, newbie. you need to get used to it,” jay teases, leaning back in his chair with a playful grin. “alright, let’s move on to flirting and light teasing. pretend i’m jake. we’re at a party, i just walked up to you, and i say, ‘hey, i like your outfit.’ how do you respond?”

you clear your throat, trying to channel every romantic comedy you’ve ever watched. you try to mimic the slow, confident smirk jay always uses, but your lips twitch awkwardly.

“oh, this old thing?” you say, your voice dripping with a completely unnatural, overly dramatic theatricality. you even throw in a bizarre little hair flip that feels entirely forced. “thanks. i guess you don’t look too bad yourself.”

the room goes completely silent.

jay just stares at you for three long seconds, his expression an unbelievable mix of utter disbelief and pure, unadulterated amusement. then, he buries his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking as a deep, breathless laugh escapes him.

“oh my god,” jay groans, looking up at you with tears of laughter in his eyes. “that was… easily the worst thing i have ever heard in my entire life.”

“hey!” you yell, grabbing a stray pillow from his bed and throwing it at his chest. your face is practically purple with embarrassment. “i told you i was bad at this!”

jay catches the pillow effortlessly, still laughing. “bad? newbie, that wasn’t just bad. that was completely goofy. you sounded like a cartoon villain trying to seduce a detective. and what was that hair flip? did you have a muscle spasm?”

“stop laughing at me!” you hide your face in your hands, completely mortified. “this was a mistake. i’m leaving.”

“no, stay, sit down,” jay says, his laughter finally dying down into a wide, bright grin. he tosses the pillow back onto the bed and leans in closer, his voice dropping into a softer, playful murmur. “i'm sorry, i shouldn't laugh. it was honestly kind of endearing. but we definitely have our work cut out for us.”

you peek through your fingers at him, pouty and defensive. “fine. how am i supposed to say it, mr. expert?”

jay shifts in his chair, his entire demeanor changing in a split second. the laughter vanishes, replaced by a smooth, magnetic confidence that makes your breath hitch. he looks at you, his eyes dropping to your lips for a microsecond before rising back to your eyes. a small, knowing grin plays at the corner of his mouth.

“if i say ‘i like your outfit,’ you don’t act like a theater kid,” jay says softly, his voice a low, teasing purr that makes goosebumps break out on your arms. “you look him right in the eye, hold it for a second, smile just a little bit, and say… ‘thanks. i wore it hoping you’d notice.’”

you stare at him, your mouth slightly open, completely paralyzed by how smoothly he delivered the line. the air in the dorm suddenly feels incredibly thick, the playful atmosphere from a second ago completely evaporating into something heavy and charged.

jay holds your gaze for a beat longer, making sure the lesson lands, before breaking the tension with a quiet chuckle. he taps his fingers against his knee, leaning back in his chair. “see the difference? subtle. playful. now, let’s try it again. and this time, keep your hair exactly where it is.”

you swallow the lump in your throat, trying desperately to shake off the weird shiver that just ran down your spine. he’s just demonstrating, you remind yourself. he does this for fun.

“okay,” you mutter, pulling your knees up to your chest on his bed and trying to center yourself. “subtle. no theater-kid energy. got it.”

“alright. take two,” jay says, his expression shifting back into that smooth, predatory calm. he locks his eyes onto yours. “hey. i like your outfit.”

you force yourself not to look away. you look at his dark eyes, then let your gaze drop slightly to his lips — just like he did — before looking back up. you attempt a small, knowing smile, though your heart is hammering against your ribs.

“thanks,” you say, your voice a little softer than usual, a little more genuine. “i wore it hoping you’d notice.”

jay doesn't laugh this time. he stays perfectly still, his eyes tracking the slight tremor in your bottom lip. for a second, his grin falters, replaced by a sharp, intense curiosity that makes your stomach do a violent flip. then, the lazy crooked smile creeps back onto his face, and he nods approvingly.

“better,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble. “way better. see? you don’t need to put on a performance. guys like jake — and guys like me — we can tell when a girl is trying too hard. authenticity is hotter than any script you could write. you just have to let yourself feel the tension instead of running away from it.”

the rest of the hour goes by in a blur of intense eye contact and brutal, playful critiques. jay puts you through a dozen different scenarios. he teaches you how to respond to a compliment without deflecting it, how to use a quiet pause in conversation to your advantage, and how a simple change in posture can make you look completely magnetic.

he doesn't miss a single chance to tease you, though. every time you stumble over your words or give a goofy response, he boops your nose with his pen or groans dramatically into his hands. but by the time the alarm on his phone buzzes to signal the end of the hour, you realize something shocking: you aren’t so uncomfortable anymore. you’re actually laughing with him.

“alright, session one complete,” jay says, standing up and stretching his arms over his head, pulling his hoodie up just enough for you to catch a glimpse of his toned stomach. you quickly look away, your face heating up again. he catches you, of course, and just smirks. “homework for tonight: practice looking people in the eye. the cashier at the dining hall, your professors, yunjin. don’t look down.”

“fine, professor park,” you roll your eyes, sliding off his bed and grabbing your bag. “thanks. for not totally giving up on me.”

“i don't give up on my projects, newbie,” he says, walking you to the door. he opens it, leaning against the frame and looking down at you with a soft, surprisingly warm expression. “see you in two days. don't overthink it.”

“i'll try,” you murmur, giving him a small wave before turning and walking down the hallway.

the walk back to your apartment is a long one, and the cool evening air does nothing to calm the frantic state of your brain. you wrap your cardigan tighter around yourself, your sneakers clicking rhythmically against the pavement as you re-read every single moment of the last hour in your head.

your mind is a chaotic mess of conflicting thoughts.

first of all, jay was right. the theoretical approach did help. just understanding the mechanics of how to hold a gaze and how to drop your voice made you feel like a secret weapon was being built inside you. you find yourself imagining using those exact tricks on jake next tuesday at the café. you imagine looking jake in the eye, holding his gaze, and saying something subtle and confident. the thought makes your stomach flutter with a nervous, happy anticipation. it’s exactly what you wanted.

but as you cross the street near the campus green, another thought creeps in, unbidden and entirely unwelcome.

jay.

you pull a breath into your lungs, a strange, tight feeling in your chest. you had gone into that room completely terrified of him, expecting a cold, arrogant guy who would judge your total lack of experience. instead, he had been… patient. incredibly observant. and so frustratingly attractive that it felt like a safety hazard.

when he had delivered that line — i wore it hoping you’d notice — the look in his eyes hadn't felt like a lesson at all. it had felt entirely too real. the way his voice had dropped, the way he had effortlessly controlled the energy in the room… it was terrifying how easily he could manipulate your feelings with just a shift in his posture.

he’s a professional, you remind yourself sternly, walking up the steps to your apartment building. he has a reputation for a reason. he’s doing this to help you with jake. do not confuse the lines.

yet, as you unlock your front door and hear yunjin yelling something from the kitchen, you can’t shake the memory of jay’s lazy, knowing smirk from your mind. you had spent weeks stressing yourself sick over jake sim, but as you step into your apartment, you realize with a sudden wave of panic that learning how to play the game with jay park might be a hundred times more dangerous.

-------

two days later, you find yourself back outside room 314. you don't even need to take three deep breaths this time — only two.

when jay opens the door, he’s wearing a faded vintage band tee and dark jeans, looking like he just rolled out of bed but somehow still managed to look effortlessly attractive. he takes one look at your face, steps back to let you in, and closes the door with a quiet click.

“welcome back, newbie,” he says, a lazy grin already spreading across his face. “did you do your homework? did you look the dining hall lady in the eye, or did you stare at your tater tots again?”

“i looked her straight in the eye,” you say proudly, tossing your tote bag onto his desk chair. “she looked confused, but i didn’t look down once.”

“proud of you,” jay chuckles, walking over to his mini-fridge to grab a bottle of water. he takes a sip before turning his full attention to you, his eyes sweeping over your outfit before locking onto yours. “alright, today is lesson two. we’re graduating from eye contact. today is all about compliments, voice tone, and what i like to call ‘innocent’ touching. leaning in, brushing an arm, breaking the physical barrier without making it a big deal. ready?”

you nod, though your stomach does a familiar little nervous flip. “ready.”

“good. sit on the bed,” jay commands smoothly, pulling his desk chair over so he’s sitting directly across from you again, only this time, he hitches the chair closer. his knees are barely a few inches from yours. the proximity alone makes the air feel instantly thick. “let’s start with compliments and tone. a lot of girls think giving a compliment means squealing and saying ‘oh my god your hair looks so good today!’ that’s friend-zone energy. jake doesn't need another cheerleader. he needs to know you see him as a man. understand?”

“yeah,” you murmur, swallowing hard.

“so, voice tone is everything. drop your volume. speak from your chest, not your throat. make him lean in to hear you,” jay instructs, his own voice dropping into that low, gravelly pitch that makes your ears tingle. “let’s try it. i walk up to you. i’m jake. i’m wearing a nice cologne. compliment me.”

you take a second to clear your throat, trying to channel your inner siren. you lean forward slightly, look him in the eye, and speak in what you think is a sultry whisper. “wow, jay. you smell really… nice. like a tree.”

jay blinks. the room is dead silent for three seconds.

then, he lets out a sharp, breathless laugh, burying his face in his hands. “like a tree? like a tree? oh my god, newbie, please tell me you’re joking.”

“it’s sandalwood!” you protest, your face instantly turning a furious shade of crimson as you grab his pillow again, though this time he anticipates it and firmly plants a hand on it before you can throw it. “you literally smell like sandalwood and cedar! that’s a tree!”

“you sound like a park ranger,” jay groans, his shoulders shaking with laughter as he pulls the pillow out of your hands. “and your voice went all breathy and weird at the end, like you were running out of oxygen. i said drop your pitch, not sound like you have asthma.”

“i told you i’m bad at this!” you whine, burying your burning face in your hands. “this is why i’m a virgin, jay. i have negative game.”

“hey, look at me,” jay says, his voice softening, though the vibrant amusement is still dancing in his dark eyes. he gently reaches out and taps your wrist until you drop your hands from your face. “it’s fine. that’s why you’re here. let’s try it again, but don’t think about the specific words. don’t describe the scent. just focus on how it makes you feel. and keep the voice steady. smooth. try it.”

you take a deep breath, looking into his eyes. you wait a beat, letting the silence stretch just like he taught you in lesson one. then, keeping your voice low and stable, you say, “you smell really good today. it’s distracting.”

jay pauses. his smirk falters for a fraction of a second, his eyes darkening just a tiny bit as he processes the delivery. a slow, appreciative smile replaces his laughter. “there we go. that’s the tone. smooth, grounded, a little bit dangerous. jake would literally lose his mind if you said that to him.”

a rush of pride swells in your chest. you actually did it.

“alright, now let’s add the physical element,” jay says, leaning back slightly but keeping his eyes locked onto yours. “innocent touching is all about making it look accidental. it has to look accidental, but feel intentional. a brush of the shoulder when you laugh, a lingering touch on the arm when you’re emphasizing a point. it makes the moments stick, you know? let’s combine them. give me that same compliment, but this time, i want you to break the physical barrier.”

your heart restarts its frantic rhythm. touching him wasn’t part of the original plan, but this is entirely safe — just an arm, just a shoulder. theoretical practice in action.

“okay,” you whisper.

you look at him. you focus on your breathing, trying to get rid of the tension in your shoulders. you lean in slightly, your eyes dropping to his lips before rising back to his eyes. you reach your hand out, your fingers trembling just a fraction, and gently brush your fingertips against his forearm, letting them linger on the soft fabric of his sleeve.

“you smell really good today,” you say softly, your voice perfectly steady this time. “it’s distracting.”

you expect jay to pull back, or to laugh, or to give you another critique. instead, jay doesn't even flinch. he doesn't get nervous at all; if anything, the touch seems to ground him. his eyes track your hand on his arm, and then slowly, deliberately, he tilts his head, a devastatingly handsome, wicked grin pulling at his lips.

he doesn't break your touch. instead, he leans forward, bringing his face so close to yours that you can feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek.

“is it?” jay murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, completely turning the tables on you. “if you think my cologne is distracting, newbie… you’re never going to survive the rest of these lessons.”

your breath hitches completely. your heart thumps so hard against your ribs you’re certain he can hear it. he’s completely unbothered, completely in control, flirting back with an effortless grace that leaves you completely breathless.

“you… you cheated,” you squeak out, frantically pulling your hand back and sitting straight up, your face hot enough to fry an egg. “you’re not supposed to flirt back! you’re supposed to be jake!”

jay lets out a low, rich chuckle, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms, looking immensely pleased with himself. “jake is going to flirt back, newbie. if a girl touched him like that and gave him that compliment, he wouldn't just sit there like a log. he’s going to lean in. you need to learn how to handle the counter-attack.”

you pout, crossing your arms defensively. “you’re just showing off.”

“maybe a little,” he admits, his eyes crinkling with that playful, arrogant charm. “but you did great. seriously. the touch was perfect — light, lingering, just enough to make a guy notice. let’s try another one. this time, let’s practice the ‘laugh and lean.’ when i say something funny, you lean in, laugh naturally, and let your shoulder brush mine. let’s see if you can handle it without panicking.”

for the next hour, the room feels like a battlefield of tension and laughter. you practice over and over again. you try leaning in to whisper something “secretive” in his ear, your breath brushing against his neck, which makes jay’s jaw tighten for a brief second before he recovers with a smooth, teasing remark. you practice brushing a stray piece of lint off his shoulder, letting your fingers drag slowly down his chest.

every time you do it well, jay praises you, his voice warm and encouraging, but he never lets you get too comfortable. he always pushes back — catching your wrist gently, leaning into your space, or dropping a low, dangerous compliment right back to test your boundaries. he doesn't get flustered, but you notice that as the lesson goes on, his jokes get a little quieter, his smirks a little softer, and his dark eyes stay locked onto yours with an intensity that makes it harder and harder to remember that this is just a game.

“alright,” jay finally says, his voice a bit rough as he checks his phone. “that’s enough torturing you for one day.”

you sink back against his pillows, completely exhausted but tingling with a weird, electric energy. “i think i actually did okay today.”

“you did better than okay,” jay says, standing up and looking down at you. he reaches out, and for a second, you think he’s going to tease you again, but instead, he gently runs his thumb over the side of your cheek, a surprisingly tender gesture that makes your heart stop. “you’re a quick learner, newbie. jake won’t know what hit him.”

he pulls his hand back smoothly, leaving your skin tingling where his thumb had just been. he walks to the door, opening it with that signature, lazy smirk.

“go home, get some rest. next lesson, we’re talking about kissing mechanics. try not to lose sleep over it.”

you scramble off the bed, grabbing your bag and practically running past him into the hallway, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm as his quiet laughter follows you down the corridor.

the next monday, you’re sitting in the back row of your lecture hall, pretending to take notes on a PowerPoint about microeconomics. in reality, you’ve just been drawing mindless spirals in the margin of your notebook, your brain completely occupied by the memory of jay’s thumb brushing against your cheek.

“next lesson, we’re talking about kissing mechanics.”

the memory of his low, rough voice echoes in your head, making you shiver despite the aggressive air conditioning in the auditorium.

suddenly, a sharp elbow digs into your ribs.

“you’re doing a new thing,” yunjin whispers loudly, leaning over the shared desk. she has her laptop open, but instead of notes, she has a blank word document filled with a massive, stylized question mark. “the ‘staring into the abyss like you’re trying to decode the matrix’ thing. spill. now.”

“shh,” you hiss, keeping your eyes glued to the professor. “we’re in the middle of class.”

“the professor is seventy-five and doesn’t have his hearing aids turned up, babe. talk,” yunjin demands, sliding her chair a microscopic inch closer to yours. her eyes narrow, her strawberry lip gloss catching the fluorescent lights as she tilts her head. “it’s been days. you’ve been acting weirdly quiet, you didn’t spiral once this weekend, and you’ve been practicing weirdly intense eye contact with the barista at the campus cafe. which means… the lessons started. how is jay park?”

your face immediately flares up, the heat rising rapidly from your neck to your cheeks. you grab your highlighter and aggressively color over a random definition on your paper. “it’s fine. it’s going fine.”

“‘it’s fine’ does not make a girl turn the color of a fire hydrant,” yunjin points out, a massive, predatory grin spreading across her face. she leans in so close her coconut-scented hair brushes your shoulder. “oh my god. did you guys do it? did he break his rule? did you break the no-fucking clause already? details, give me details!”

“no! oh my god, no!” you whisper-yell, frantically looking around to see if any of the athletes in the row ahead of you heard. luckily, they’re all asleep. you drop your voice to a desperate, tiny whisper. “we didn’t do anything. i told you, it’s completely theoretical. he promised.”

“okay, okay, keeping it professional. i respect it,” yunjin says, waving a dismissive hand, though her eyes are still dancing with intense curiosity. “so what exactly happens in a ‘theoretical’ sex lesson with jay park? does he use a whiteboard? powerpoint slides?”

“no,” you mumble, hiding the lower half of your face behind your hand. “he… we just sit in his dorm. he makes me practice scenarios. the first lesson was just eye contact and light teasing. he basically told me i have the flirting skills of a cartoon villain.”

yunjin bursts out into a short, choked laugh, quickly covering her mouth with her sleeve when the professor coughs. “i mean, he’s not wrong, babe. remember freshman year when you tried to wink at that guy on the club team and looked like you were having a neurological event?”

“i’m better now!” you defend yourself, your voice tight. “jay fixed it. well, he’s fixing it. we had lesson two a couple days ago.”

yunjin leans in even closer, her notebook completely forgotten. “and? what was lesson two?”

“compliments. voice tone. and… innocent touching,” you whisper, your chest tightening just thinking about it. “like, leaning in and brushing his arm. or laughing and letting our shoulders touch.”

yunjin’s jaw literally drops. she stares at you, her eyes wide. “wait. you touched jay park? the guy who usually looks like he’ll have you legally removed from his presence if you breathe his oxygen? how did he react? did he flinch?”

“no, that’s the thing,” you groan, burying your face in your notebook for a second before looking back at her miserably. “he didn't flinch at all. yunjin, he’s completely immune to me. when i gave him the compliment and touched his arm, i thought i did a really good job. i dropped my voice, i held his gaze, all of it. but then he just… he didn't even blink. he just leaned all the way into my face and flirted back. he said something like, ‘if you think my cologne is distracting, newbie, you’re never going to survive the rest of these lessons.’”

yunjin lets out a low, silent gasp, her hands flying to her mouth. “oh my god. newbie? he calls you newbie? that is so disgustingly hot, i think i’m going to throw up.”

“it’s not hot, it’s terrifying!” you whined, chewing on the cap of your pen. “he is so effortlessly in control of the room. every time i think i’m getting the hang of it, he just raises the stakes to test if i’ll panic. he spent the whole hour praising me when i did it right, but then he'd immediately counter-attack to show me how a guy would react. by the end of it, my heart was beating so hard i thought i was going to pass out.”

yunjin studies your face, her playful demeanor shifting into something a bit more analytical, a small, knowing grin tugging at the corner of her lips. “and what about jake? are you thinking about jake when you’re doing all this?”

the question catches you completely off guard. you pause, your pen hovering over the paper.

“i… yeah,” you say, though the answer feels a little delayed, a little less certain than it should be. “of course i am. the whole point of this is so i don’t ruin things with jake. i keep imagining using the tricks on him.”

“right. of course,” yunjin says softly, though the look she gives you is incredibly perceptive. she taps her chin. “so, what’s next on the syllabus, student of the year?”

you swallow hard, the bell suddenly ringing to signal the end of the lecture. you pack your laptop into your bag with slightly trembling hands, refusing to look yunjin in the eye as you mutter the final detail.

“kissing mechanics. we’re doing kissing next.”

yunjin pauses mid-stride as you both walk out into the crowded hallway, a massive, thrilled grin spreading across her face. “oh, babe. you are playing with actual fireworks. good luck surviving that one.”

-------

the next afternoon, you find yourself walking back up the stairs of the west quad. your nerves are completely fried, mostly because yunjin’s warning about "playing with fireworks" has been looping in your brain for the last twenty-four hours. kissing mechanics. the words alone make your pulse skyrocket.

when jay opens the door to room 314, he’s wearing a fitted black t-shirt and charcoal grey cargo pants. he looks you up and down, a faint, amused smile lingering on his lips. "come on in, newbie."

you step into the familiar, sandalwood-scented space and immediately drop your bag by his desk, hopping onto the edge of his bed. before he can even sit down in his usual chair, the words start spilling out of your mouth in an anxious rush.

"okay, so something happened," you blurts out, waving your hands around. "jake came up to me yesterday at the student union. he was wearing his soccer jersey and he literally leaned against my locker and told me my hair looked pretty."

jay pauses, capping his water bottle and looking at you with a raised eyebrow. "and? did you use the eye contact?"

"yes! i held his gaze for like, five whole seconds," you say proudly, leaning forward. "and then i tried to do the subtle, playful voice thing you taught me. i looked at his jersey and said, 'thanks, you don't look too bad yourself.' but jay, the second the words left my mouth, i panicked. i got so incredibly awkward. i think my shoulders went up to my ears, and i literally backed into the locker door so hard it made a loud clanging sound."

jay stares at you for a beat, and then he breaks. he covers his mouth with his hand, his shoulders shaking as a deep, breathless laugh escapes him. "you backed into a locker? newbie, please tell me you didn't."

"i did!" you groan, burying your face in his pillows. "it was terrible. but… the weird part is, it might not have ruined everything? he’s been texting me literally all day today. look."

you scramble to pull out your phone, unlocking it and flashing the screen at him. there’s a string of text messages from jake, filled with emojis and casual questions about your week.

jay steps closer, leaning down slightly to look at the screen. his eyes scan the notifications, and a low, thoughtful hum hums in his throat. he straightens back up, crossing his arms over his chest, his playful smirk turning into a highly analytical expression.

"okay, first of all, the text volume is good. he's definitely hooked," jay says, tilting his head. "but based on your little locker incident, i'm officially changing the syllabus for today."

you peek up from the pillow. "wait, what? aren't we doing kissing mechanics today?"

"absolutely not," jay says smoothly, a wicked, completely teasing grin spreading across his sharp features. "no offense, newbie, but if you're still crashing into structural steel because a guy complimented your hair, you are legally not ready for the kissing lesson. you'd probably faint on him."

"hey!" you protest, sitting straight up and kicking your legs out, though you can't help the blush spreading across your face. "i was just caught off guard!"

"exactly. which is why we need to build your confidence up through texts and pictures first," jay says, walking over to his closet and leaning his shoulder against the frame. "given how much he's texting you right now, it’s the perfect opportunity. so, lesson three: how to dress sexier, body language upkeep, and sending suggestive texts and photos."

your jaw drops. "photos? like… selfies?"

"relax, i don't mean nudes," jay scoffs playfully, rolling his eyes. "i mean the kind of photos that make a guy stare at his phone for ten minutes straight. subtle hints. showing off your collarbone, an arched back, a casual half-smile. the kind of stuff that says 'i'm not trying,' even though you absolutely are."

he walks over to your bag and picks it up, tossing it onto the bed next to you. "dump it out. let’s see what clothes you brought today, and then we're going to fix your text game."

for the next hour, jay takes his role entirely too seriously. he makes you stand up to practice your posture — forcing your shoulders down, teaching you how to subtly arch your back when you're sitting so your silhouette looks sharper, and showing you how to cross your legs to elongate your frame.

then comes the text interrogation. he sits right next to you on the bed, his shoulder pressing against yours, looking over your screen as you type.

"no, delete that exclamation point. it makes you sound too eager," jay commands, his thumb reaching over to tap your screen. "type this instead: 'busy right now, but i might have time for you later.' it creates mystery. it makes him want to compete for your attention."

"isn't that a little mean?" you ask, looking up at him.

"it's not mean, it's a hook," jay murmurs, his dark eyes fixed on yours from mere inches away. "trust me. watch how fast he replies."

you hit send. less than thirty seconds later, jake replies: 'what are you up to? let me know when you're free x'.

you stare at the screen in absolute shock. "oh my god. you're a wizard."

"i'm a guy. i know how our brains work," jay smirks, entirely pleased with himself. "now, let's seal the deal. we're sending a photo. stand up."

you get up, your heart doing a nervous dance as jay picks up your phone. he walks you over to the full-length mirror hanging on the back of his door, positioning you just right where the warm afternoon light hits your face.

"your sweater is too high. pull it slightly off one shoulder," jay instructs, his voice dropping into that focused, professional tone.

you hesitantly tug the knit fabric down, exposing your collarbone. jay steps behind you, looking at your reflection in the mirror. he frowns slightly, stepping closer until his chest is almost pressed against your back. he reaches out, his warm, large hands gently gripping your waist to adjust your posture, tilting your hips just a fraction.

"don't look directly at the camera like a deer in headlights," jay murmurs near your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "look slightly down, tilt your chin up. think about something that makes you feel good."

your whole body feels like it's on fire from his touch. your reflection in the mirror shows your cheeks flushed a deep pink, your eyes dark and wide. jay raises your phone, snapping a few photos. he pulls away smoothly, scrolling through the gallery before handing the phone back to you.

you look at the screen and literally gasp. the photo doesn't even look like you. it looks incredibly soft, effortless, and undeniably sexy. your collarbone stands out, your lips are slightly parted, and the flush on your cheeks looks intentional.

"send him that one," jay says, leaning back against his desk and crossing his arms, watching your reaction with an intensely satisfied smirk. "and don't add a caption. just let him suffer."

you hit send, your hands shaking. almost instantly, the typing bubbles appear from jake's contact.

they bounce up and down, then disappear, then start up again. jake is clearly panicking on the other end, deleting and rewriting his response just like you had done nights ago.

jay steps closer, leaning over your shoulder to look down at the screen. his chest gently brushes your back, the warm, clean scent of his sandalwood cologne enveloping you completely. “look at that,” he murmurs, his voice a low, vibrating rumble right next to your ear. “he’s losing his mind. i told you.”

finally, the text comes through.

jake: oh wow. you look really pretty. where are you?

you automatically start typing a reply, your fingers flying across the keyboard. i’m just hanging out at a friend’s dorm.

“stop, stop, stop,” jay says, his hand suddenly coming down over yours to physically halt your thumbs. his palms are warm and broad, completely wrapping around your hands. a jolt of electricity zaps straight up your arms. he doesn't pull away immediately; instead, he slowly guides your hands down, forcing you to lower the phone. “what did i say about theater-kid energy? you’re giving away too much information, newbie. you’re killing the mystery.”

“but he asked where i am!” you protest, looking up at him over your shoulder. your faces are incredibly close, so close you can count the dark lashes framing his piercing eyes.

jay just smiles, that slow, devastatingly confident grin that makes him look entirely too in control. he reaches out and smoothly takes the phone right out of your fingers. “he doesn’t get to know where you are. he didn't earn that yet. right now, he’s sitting in his room staring at a photo of your bare shoulder. we need to lean into that.”

he taps the screen, typing out a message with one hand while keeping his eyes locked on yours. “if he asks where you are, you don’t give him a location. you give him a tease.”

he turns the phone around to show you what he wrote.

you: somewhere you’re not. 😉

your jaw drops. “jay! that is so forward! i can't say that!”

“you didn't say it, i did. now watch,” he says, tapping send before you can grab the device back.

you watch the screen in an agony of suspense. the response from jake is almost instantaneous this time.

jake: that’s not fair. maybe i want to be there.

your breath hitches. jake has never talked to you like this before. usually, his texts are sweet, casual, and safe. jay’s little formula is completely shifting the dynamic, turning a simple crush into a high-stakes game of cat and mouse.

“see?” jay says, his tone dripping with playful smugness as he slides the phone back into your hands. he leans his hip against the edge of his desk, crossing his arms and looking down at you. “he’s chasing now. when a guy says ‘maybe i want to be there,’ he’s testing the waters. he wants to see if the door is open. so, what do you do?”

“i… i tell him he can come over?” you guess, completely out of your depth.

jay groans, tossing his head back dramatically. “no! god, newbie, you’re trying to speed-run this. if you invite him over now, you’re giving up all your power. you have to make him work for it. keep him on his toes.”

he steps back into your personal space, the playful arrogance in his eyes shifting into something focused and instructional. he grabs your chin gently between his thumb and forefinger, tilting your face up so you’re forced to look directly into his dark eyes.

“this is the suggestive texting masterclass,” jay explains softly, his thumb lightly brushing the sensitive skin of your jawline. “you always want to imply a double meaning. you want him to read your texts and wonder if you’re being totally innocent or incredibly dirty. it keeps his mind completely occupied with thoughts of you.”

he lets go of your chin, but the ghost of his touch leaves a burning trail on your skin. he points at your phone. “type this: ‘i don’t know, jake. i’m kind of a handful. not sure you could handle it.’”

your fingers are practically sweating as you type out the words exactly as he dictated. you hit send.

the typing bubbles appear immediately.

jake: try me. i’m pretty good at handling things.

you let out a soft, choked gasp, completely floored by the sheer boldness of jake's reply. your face is burning hot, your heart hammering against your ribs. you look up at jay, wide-eyed and completely breathless. “oh my god. it worked. it actually worked.”

jay doesn't look surprised at all. if anything, he’s studying your reaction with an intense, quiet curiosity. his eyes drop to your flushed cheeks, then down to your parted lips, before slowly rising back to meet your gaze. the playful, teasing smirk slowly fades from his face, replaced by a heavy, unreadable expression.

“of course it worked,” jay murmurs, his voice suddenly dropping into a low, gravelly register that vibrates straight through your chest. he steps a fraction closer, completely erasing the distance between you until your clothes are almost brushing. “you’re a beautiful girl, newbie. when you actually give a guy a green light, he’s going to run straight through it.”

the air in the dorm room becomes completely stagnant, thick with a sudden, suffocating wave of tension. jay is looking at you with an intensity that has absolutely nothing to do with jake sim. his gaze feels heavy, physical, like a hand tracing the curve of your neck. for a terrifying, thrilling second, you forget all about your phone, all about jake’s texts, and all about the rules of these lessons.

you stare up at him, your heart in your throat, completely paralyzed by how easily he can shift the gravity in the room.

jay holds your gaze for one more lingering, breathless second. then, just as quickly as it appeared, the heavy tension snaps. a lazy, familiar smirk creeps back onto his sharp features, and he steps back, breaking the spell.

“alright, lock your phone,” jay says, tapping the top of your head playfully. “that’s enough digital damage for today. leave him on read for a few hours. let him stew in his own thoughts while he waits for you to reply.”

you quickly lock your screen, nodding dumbly as you try to force your lungs to remember how to breathe normally.

“lesson three concluded,” jay says, walking over to the door and swinging it open, looking entirely unbothered by the emotional hurricane he just caused in your chest. he gives you a sharp, teasing wink. “next time, newbie… we’re finally doing kissing mechanics. don’t forget to practice your posture before then.”

-------

four days pass, and your life feels like it has been completely split into two entirely different realities.

on one side of the screen, there’s the jake sim reality. and to your absolute shock, jay’s blueprint is working flawlessly. jake has been pursuing you with a fervor that leaves you dizzy. when you see him on campus now, he doesn't just give you a sweet, friendly wave from across the quad. he actively detours to walk with you to class. when you talk, his eyes don't wander; they stay locked onto your face, and he looks at you with this intense, focused hunger that makes your stomach do backflips.

last night, he texted you out of nowhere at 11:00 p.m. just to say he saw a sweater in a store window that reminded him of the photo you sent, adding a little tongue-in-cheek comment about how he's still waiting to find out where "somewhere you're not" is.

it's everything you wanted. you're finally getting the boy you’ve been pining over since freshman orientation. you should be ecstatic. you should be texting yunjin in a flurry of capital letters and celebratory emojis.

but instead, you find yourself staring at your bedroom ceiling in the dead of night, feeling completely untethered.

the truth is a terrifying, heavy weight in your chest, and admitting it to yourself feels like standing on the edge of a cliff. because every time jake texts you, a tiny, dark voice in the back of your mind whispers that it isn’t actually your game he’s falling for. it’s jay’s. you’re just the actress reciting lines written by a boy who understands the mechanics of desire like the back of his hand.

and then there's the next lesson.

kissing mechanics.

your stomach drops into a cold abyss every time you think about it. you’re terrified. actual, physical kissing is a universe away from just holding eye contact or letting your shoulders brush during a laugh. it means jay’s hands on you. it means his face inches from yours, his lips touching yours, his sharp jawline, his heavy, low breathing. even if it’s entirely "theoretical" — even if he's just using his fingers to map out where to press or demonstrating the pacing on a pillow or explaining the biology of how a guy reacts — the mere thought of being that close to him makes your chest tighten until it hurts.

but beneath the suffocating layers of panic, there is an even darker, more humiliating truth that you barely have the courage to acknowledge in the privacy of your own head.

you were disappointed.

when you walked into room 314 a few days ago, fully braced for the kissing lesson, your heart had been pounding because you thought you were finally going to cross that terrifying physical threshold with him. and when jay had laughed, called you a newbie, and casually pushed the lesson back because you "weren't ready," a sudden, sharp pang of rejection had sliced right through you.

you had spent the rest of that afternoon acting annoyed and pouty, but deep down, your skin had been practically begging for the exact thing you claimed to be afraid of. you had wanted him to look at you and decide you were ready. you had wanted to know what his lips felt like, even if it was just a clinical demonstration.

it's a dangerous, toxic thought. jay is your tutor. he’s sunghoon’s best friend, a guy known for his selective, zero-strings-attached reputation, and he is actively helping you construct a trap to catch jake. confusing your feelings now would be absolute social suicide. it would ruin everything.

you roll onto your side, pulling your blanket tightly around your shoulders as you look at your phone. tomorrow afternoon is the day. there are no more text modules left to practice. no more posture corrections or wardrobe updates.

tomorrow, you have to look jay park in the eye and let him teach you how to kiss.

and as you close your eyes, trying to force yourself to sleep, you realize with a jolt of pure panic that you aren't sure which reality you're more afraid of anymore: the one where you finally kiss jake sim, or the one where you have to watch jay pull away from you when the lesson is over.

-------

the rain is drumming a steady rhythm against the glass of room 314 when you walk in. the afternoon light is weak, casting the dorm in a hazy, intimate shadow that immediately makes your throat feel dry. jay is sitting on the edge of his bed, his legs spread, hands loosely clasped between his knees. he’s wearing a soft, oversized gray crewneck sweater, looking entirely relaxed, while your nerves are stretched so tight they’re practically screaming.

“welcome back, newbie,” jay says, his voice softer than usual, matching the quiet hum of the rain. he tracks your movement as you set your bag down, his eyes lingering on your tense shoulders. “you look like you’re walking to the gallows.”

“i’m just… anticipating,” you mumble, sitting on the opposite end of the bed, pulling your knees to your chest.

jay watches you for a beat, a faint, understanding smile touching his lips. “right. lesson four. kissing mechanics.” he shifts, leaning back against his headboard, his expression turning professional, though his dark eyes retain that sharp, observant glint. “before we start, a reminder of the rules. we agreed on a strict blueprint. entirely theoretical. no physical interaction. i’m here to give you the breakdown so you can take it to jake. clear?”

“clear,” you say. you try to sound relieved. you try to make your voice bright and cooperative. but a small, involuntary drop in your tone betrays you, a tiny hesitation that doesn’t escape his notice. a sudden, heavy wave of disappointment washes through you, sharp and humiliating, and you hate yourself for feeling it. you should be grateful for the boundary, but your skin feels suddenly cold.

jay’s eyes narrow slightly, analyzing the split-second change in your expression, but he doesn't comment on it. instead, he clears his throat and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“alright. let’s break down the mechanics,” jay begins, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that always makes your pulse spike. “kissing isn’t just about the lips, newbie. if you just dive in, it’s clumsy. it starts with the pacing. when jake leans in, you don’t rush to meet him halfway. you let him do the work. you tilt your chin up, keep your lips slightly parted — just a fraction — and breathe out softly. it signals invitation.”

you nod, trying to memorize the words, but your brain is panicking because jay is demonstrating the head tilt himself, his sharp jawline defining itself in the dim amber light of his desk lamp.

“when the actual contact happens, you start slow,” jay continues, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that feels almost physical. “it’s a gentle pressure. one lip tucked between his. you hold it for a beat, let the warmth build, and then you shift. it’s a rhythm. you use your hands — remember lesson two? — you let your fingers rest right on the side of his neck, just below the jaw. your thumb rests on his cheekstone. it stabilizes the movement, and it drives a guy absolutely crazy because it feels grounding.”

as he speaks, jay mimics the hand placement in the air, his long, elegant fingers moving with a slow grace that makes you track them like a hawk. the air in the room is growing increasingly thick, the space between you on the mattress suddenly feeling incredibly small.

“now,” jay murmurs, his gaze dropping to your lips for a heavy, unhurried second before rising back to your eyes. “let’s practice the approach. the build-up of tension right before the lips touch is fifty percent of the kiss. if you panic there, the whole thing is ruined.”

he slides down the mattress, closing the distance between you until he’s sitting cross-legged directly in front of you. your knees are practically brushing.

“i’m going to act as if i’m going to kiss you,” jay instructs softly, his playful arrogance completely gone, replaced by a quiet, suffocating gravity. “i’m going to get close. your job is to hold eye contact, keep your breathing steady, and do not pull away. understand?”

“yes,” you whisper, your heart hammering so loudly against your ribs you’re certain he can hear it.

“look at me,” he commands gently.

you look up. jay leans in slowly.

the world outside the window completely ceases to exist. his movements are deliberate, agonizingly drawn out, giving your brain time to register every single detail. you see the dark depth of his eyes, the slight curve of his nose, the perfect, soft shape of his lips. he tilts his head to the side, a fraction of an inch, mapping out the angle perfectly.

closer. you can smell the rich, intoxicating scent of his sandalwood cologne mixed with the clean scent of his skin.

closer. his chest is almost touching yours, the warmth radiating off his body enveloping you in a heat wave. your breath catches in your throat, your lips parting automatically, exactly the way he taught you. your eyes flutter, desperately wanting to close, but you force them to stay open, locked onto his.

he stops.

his lips are barely half an inch from yours. you can feel the literal heat of his breath brushing against your skin, hovering right over your mouth. the tension in the microscopic space between you is a physical, electric current, pulling at you, begging you to lean forward just a millimeter to erase the agony of the distance. your heart is in your throat. you are completely paralyzed, drowning in the proximity of him.

jay stays perfectly still for three agonizing, breathless seconds, his gaze raking over your eyes, your nose, your trembling mouth. his jaw tightens, a sudden, fierce flash of hunger crossing his features before he forces it down.

slowly, deliberately, jay pulls back. the sudden rush of cool air between you feels like a physical shock. he sits straight up, clearing his throat, though his breathing is visibly shallower than it was five minutes ago.

“just like that,” jay says, his voice a little rough, a little strained. “you held the gaze. you didn't panic. do that with jake, and he’ll—”

the mention of jake’s name feels like a bucket of ice water, snapping something inside you. you look at jay — at his parted lips, his flushed neck, the sheer, unbothered control he’s trying to fake — and a sudden, reckless wave of desperation overrides every single rule, every single boundary, and every shred of your common sense.

and then something you would've never expected comes out of your mouth:

“jay, can you give me a practical example?”

the words hang in the air. jay freezes, his usual smirk vanishing. and for the first time since you walked into room 314, jay park looks completely caught off guard. his dark eyes widen just a fraction, his posture locking up as he stares at you in absolute silence. he stares at your face like he’s waiting for you to say you’re joking. the only sound in the room is the sound of the rain against the windowpane.

“what?” he asks, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. he tilts his head, blinking down at you like he’s entirely convinced his ears are playing tricks on him. “what did you just say, newbie?”

the sudden realization of what just tumbled out of your mouth hits you like a physical blow. your stomach plummets, and a fierce, blinding heat instantly erupts across your cheeks, burning all the way down to your neck. you instinctively try to pull your knees tighter to your chest, wanting nothing more than to shrink into a microscopic atom and disappear into the mattress.

“i… um,” you squeak out, your voice dropping to a mortified, breathless whisper. you look down at your hands, your fingers frantically twisting the fabric of your pajama pants. “i said… can you give me a practical example? like… a real one.”

jay doesn't move. he just stays cross-legged in front of you, absorbing your words. then, slowly, the shock on his face melts away. a brilliant, wicked, and entirely amused grin spreads across his sharp features. he lets out a low, rich chuckle that vibrates deep in his chest, leaning back slightly on his hands as he studies your purple face.

“wow,” jay murmurs, his tone dripping with pure, unadulterated amusement. “the quiet girl strikes again. you really are full of surprises, aren't you?”

“stop laughing at me!” you whine, hiding your face in your hands. your heart is beating so hard you can feel it in your teeth. “i’m being serious! i’m trying to be logical about this!”

“logical?” jay teases, his voice filled with a quiet, shaking laughter. he reaches out and gently, but firmly, tugs your wrists away from your face so you’re forced to look at him. he doesn't let go of your hands, keeping his fingers loosely looped around your wrists. “okay, professor. please, explain the logic to me. i’m dying to hear this.”

you swallow hard, your eyes darting everywhere but his lips. you try to summon every ounce of justification your panicked brain can manufacture.

“well… because!” you stammer, your voice incredibly shy, filled with an embarrassed pitch. “you said it yourself! you said kissing is all about the rhythm and the pacing. and— and you said if i panic during the approach, the whole thing is ruined! how am i supposed to know if i’m going to panic with jake if i haven't actually practiced the real thing? what if my timing is completely off? what if i accidentally bump teeth with him, jay? that would be traumatizing!”

jay listens to your anxious, stuttering speech, his eyes crinkling warmly at the corners. he looks incredibly smug, entirely enjoying how completely flustered you are.

“so,” jay says slowly, a lazy, teasing purr in his voice as he lightly squeezes your wrists. “let me get this straight. purely for educational purposes… for my duties as your instructor… you think we should break the non-physical clause. for the sake of science.”

“yes!” you whisper-yell, your face burning hotter, if that was even physically possible. “it’s just… a hands-on lab! like chemistry class! it makes perfect sense!”

“chemistry, huh?” jay echoes, his voice dropping an octave, the vibrant laughter in his eyes shifting into something much darker, much more intense.

he slowly releases your wrists, but he doesn't move back. instead, he slides even closer on the mattress, completely invading your personal space until the heat radiating from his body wraps around you like a blanket. the playful, mocking expression of his face softens into something dangerous.

“you’re a terrible liar, newbie,” jay murmurs, his eyes dropping to your parted lips, staring at them for a long, unhurried second before rising back to yours. “you’re not thinking about jake sim’s teeth right now. and you’re definitely not thinking about science.”

your breath hitches completely, your voice trapped in your throat.

“but…” jay whispers, his hand slowly rising to cup the side of your face, his broad palm warm against your burning cheek, his thumb gently resting right on your cheekbone — exactly where he had just described a minute ago. “if you’re really that worried about failing your practical exam… i guess your teacher is just going to have to show you how it’s done.”

jay doesn't give you a chance to think, to backtrack, or to let the embarrassment completely swallow you whole.

his fingers anchor themselves gently behind your neck, his thumb still resting right on your cheekbone, stabilizing you exactly the way he had mapped out verbally just moments before. he leans in, but there is no hesitation this time. the agonizing half-inch of space between your lips vanishes in a split second.

when his lips first touch yours, a gasp catches in your throat, and jay uses that exact fraction of a second to deepen the pressure. his lips are incredibly soft but firm, moving against yours with a practiced, devastating slow rhythm. a full-body shiver ripples through you, your hands automatically reaching out to clutch at the fabric of his soft gray sweater just to keep yourself grounded.

“breathe, newbie,” jay whispers against your mouth, his voice a low, rough vibration that sends a jolt of pure electricity straight down your spine. “don't hold your breath. follow me, don't overthink it.”

he pulls back just a millimeter, letting the cool air hit your wet lips before tilting his head to a slightly different angle and sliding right back in. it's a gentle, heavy pressure. he tucks your lower lip between his, sucking on it so softly it makes a quiet, embarrassing sound echo in the quiet dorm room. you try to copy the movement, your lips parting a little more as you attempt to match his pace.

“there you go,” jay murmurs, his hot breath fanning across your skin as he praises you mid-kiss. his hand slides from your neck down to your shoulder, his broad palm squeezing gently through your clothes. “keep your hands right there. stay relaxed. you’re doing perfect.”

he leads you flawlessly, controlling the entire gravity of the moment. every time you feel like you're about to lose your mind from the sheer intensity of it, jay slows things down, lingering in a soft, pressing rhythm that lets you catch up. your eyes have completely fluttered shut now, the darkness making the sensation of his lips, his warm hands, and the intoxicating scent of his sandalwood cologne a thousand times more overwhelming. you lose all track of time, completely drowning in the heat of his mouth, forgetting about the rain outside, forgetting about the syllabus, forgetting about everything.

when jay finally draws back, he does it slowly, his lips brushing against yours one last time before he fully breaks the contact.

the sudden loss of warmth leaves you feeling completely dazed. you slowly blink your eyes open, your chest heaving as you try to force air back into your lungs. jay is still hovering inches away from your face. his dark hair is slightly messy, his own breathing is visibly shallower, and his usually perfectly composed lips are a dark, flushed red. he’s staring down at you with a heavy, unreadable gaze that is entirely devoid of his usual playful arrogance.

for three long seconds, neither of you says a word.

then, reality comes crashing back down on you with the force of a tidal wave.

oh my god. you just kissed jay park. you practically begged him to do it. you used a fake excuse about "science" and "chemistry class" just to get him to put his hands on you.

a massive, blinding wave of mortification slaps you across the face. your cheeks explode into a furious, bright purple flush. you instantly let go of his sweater as if it had turned into white-hot iron, scrambling backward on the mattress until your back hits his headboard. you pull your knees all the way to your chest, burying your face completely in your arms, a small, choked groan escaping your throat.

“hey,” jay’s smooth voice breaks the silence, a soft, familiar chuckle bubbling up in his chest. you hear the mattress shift as he slides closer to you. “what are you hiding for? you’re the one who demanded a practical exam, professor.”

“please don’t look at me,” you whine into your knees, your voice incredibly muffled and strained with pure embarrassment. “i am going to jump out of that window. i am actually going to die right here on your bed.”

“don’t die yet, we still have to grade you,” jay teases, his tone dropping into that lazy, effortless purr. you feel his long fingers gently tap the top of your head. “come on, look up. i promise i won’t tease you too bad.”

you slowly, hesitantly lift your chin just enough to peek at him through the gap in your arms. jay is sitting right there, leaning his elbow on his knee with his chin resting in his palm, watching you with an incredibly amused, knowing grin.

“so,” jay murmurs, his dark eyes locking onto your wide, panicked ones. “how was the lesson? did it help clarify the mechanics for you?”

“i… yes,” you squeak out, your face still burning hot.

you pull your arms tighter around your legs, your heart still hammering a rushed rhythm against your ribs. you are completely, thoroughly embarrassed — more humiliated than you have ever been in your entire life. but beneath the suffocating layers of shyness, as you look at jay's slightly curved lips, you feel a terrifyingly honest truth settling deep in your chest.

you liked it. you liked it a lot. in fact, you liked it so much that the mere thought of taking these newly learned "mechanics" and using them on jake sim suddenly felt entirely, completely impossible.

-------

you keep your mouth shut. you don’t tell yunjin. in fact, you don’t tell a single living soul.

when you get back to your shared apartment that evening, yunjin is sitting on the kitchen counter eating dry cereal straight from the box, her eyes instantly narrowing into little laser beams the second the front door clicks shut. you quickly mutter something about having a massive headache from the library lights, sprint into your bedroom, and lock the door behind you. if you open your mouth, even just to breathe, you’re terrified the taste of jay’s strawberry-and-mint lip balm will somehow manifest in the air and give you away.

you spend the next two days in a state of absolute, localized hysteria.

the embarrassment is a physical weight, pressing down on your chest until you feel lightheaded. you can't stop replaying the feeling of his broad palm cradling your jaw, the specific, gravelly pitch of his voice when he whispered “breathe, newbie,” and the agonizingly soft, rhythmic pull of his lips against yours. you had loved it. you had loved it so much that just thinking about it while sitting in a Tuesday morning lecture makes your stomach do a violent, hot flip.

and that’s not even the worst part. the worst part — the thing that is currently keeping you awake at 3:00 a.m. staring at your ceiling fan — is how the lesson had actually ended.

right before you had practically bolted out of his dorm room, your face still a catastrophic shade of purple, jay had stood by the door with his hands shoved casually into his cargo pants. he had looked down at you, that slow, devastatingly handsome smirk firmly back in place, and murmured: “since you passed your practical exam with such high marks, newbie… i’ll let you call the shots for lesson five. it can be anything you want. think about it.”

anything you want.

how are you supposed to walk back into room 314 on thursday afternoon, look jay park in his incredibly symmetrical, aristocratic face, and say: 'oh, yeah, hi, remember how i said i wanted to learn for science? well, the science was great, can we please just make out for another hour?'

you can’t. you literally cannot do that. it would destroy the flimsy, pathetic shield of "educational purposes" you’ve been hiding behind. it would mean admitting that you aren't a student trying to impress jake sim anymore; it would mean admitting that jay has completely, effortlessly rewired your brain in the span of three weeks.

speaking of jake, his reality is becoming increasingly harder to navigate. he texts you a picture of a coffee cup on Wednesday morning: 'at the café near the library. wish you were somewhere i am today.'

you stare at the screen, your thumb hovering over the keyboard. a week ago, a text like that would have made you scream into your pillow. it’s exactly what you wanted. it’s a direct reference to the tease jay helped you send him. but now, looking at the letters, all you can think about is jay’s chest pressed against your back, his warm hands adjusting your waist in front of the mirror, and his low voice telling you to let him suffer.

when you reply with a simple, sweet 'awkward timing, i'm stuck in a study group! next time x', it feels like you’re writing a script for a play you’ve completely lost interest in starring in.

by thursday afternoon, your anxiety has reached a fever pitch. you change your sweater twice, eventually settling on a high-necked, oversized crewneck that offers absolutely zero skin-to-air vulnerability. you walk up the stairs of the west quad like a prisoner marching to the electric chair, your knees feeling strangely hollow.

when you reach room 314, you stand outside the heavy wooden door for a full sixty seconds, your hand raised to knock, your heart hammering a rushed rhythm against your ribs.

just be normal, you tell yourself, closing your eyes tightly. ask him to practice advanced flirting. ask him to break down how to read body language across a crowded room. do not look at his mouth. do not think about his hands.

you take one final, deep breath, brace your shoulders, and knock.

the door swings open, and jay is standing there looking entirely too comfortable in a soft cream-colored knit sweater and dark trousers. his eyes immediately lock onto yours, his gaze dropping to your high-necked crewneck before rising back to your face with a slow, knowing amusement.

“well, look who it is,” jay says, stepping back to let you into the room. the door closes behind you with a quiet, solid click that feels incredibly final. “come on in, newbie. i was starting to think you’d skipped town.”

“i wouldn’t skip town,” you mumble, keeping your eyes trained firmly on his desk as you walk past him. you sit on the very edge of his bed, your posture rigid and stiff, your hands tightly clasped in your lap.

jay doesn't sit in his desk chair this time. instead, he walks over and leans his hip against the edge of the mattress, just a couple of feet away from you. he crosses his arms, tilting his head as his sharp, observant eyes trace the tense line of your shoulders, the frantic way your fingers are twitching, and the obvious blush already coloring your cheeks.

“alright,” jay murmurs, his voice low and conversational. “lesson five. you’re calling the shots today. what’s on the agenda, professor? more chemistry labs, or are we pivoting?”

you clear your throat aggressively, trying to sound as clinical and professional as possible. “i think… i think we should practice advanced flirting. like, body language across a crowded room, or how to subtly command attention in a group conversation. i think that’s a really logical next step for jake.”

jay doesn't say anything for a long, agonizing beat. he just stands there, watching you stumble over your words. then, a slow, dangerous smile spreads across his lips, his eyes glinting with pure, unadulterated mischief. he knows you're lying. he can see right through your pathetic little shield, and he is clearly planning on playing dirty.

“advanced flirting in a crowd,” jay repeats smoothly, nodding his head as if he’s taking you completely seriously. “okay. sure. let’s practice that. but you know, advanced flirting isn’t just about looking across a room, newbie. it’s about what you do when you finally get close to someone in a crowded, loud space. when the music is too loud and you have to make them listen to only you.”

before you can even process his words, jay moves.

he slides onto the bed, shifting his weight until he is sitting directly beside you. his thigh presses flush against yours, the heavy, intoxicating warmth of his body immediately enveloping you. your breath hitches, your entire body going completely rigid as you stare straight ahead, terrified to look at him.

“let’s set the scene,” jay whispers, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register that vibrates straight through the mattress. he leans in closer, his chest brushing against your arm. “we’re at a busy bar. the music is throwing heavy bass. jake is standing right next to you, but there are people everywhere, pushing into your space. if you just talk normally, he won't hear you. you have to close the distance.”

he leans over, his face entering your peripheral vision. you bite your lip, staring straight ahead at his closet door, your heart hammering so violently against your ribs it feels painful.

then, jay eliminates the space entirely.

he leans over your shoulder, his chest pressing firmly against your back. he tilts his head, burying his face right in the crook of your neck, just an inch away from your sensitive skin. his hot, heavy breath fans out across your jawline and the side of your neck, sending a violent, electric shiver straight down your spine. you let out a soft, helpless gasp, your fingers tightly gripping the fabric of your own sweater.

“if you want him to notice you,” jay murmurs, his lips brushing against the tiny hairs on your neck as he speaks, his voice a devastatingly hot, quiet rumble right against your ear, “you don’t shout over the noise. you lean in. right here. where it’s quiet.”

you can feel the warmth of his lips moving, the heat of his skin radiating into yours. the air in the room is completely gone, replaced by the suffocating, heavy scent of his sandalwood cologne. your mind is a chaotic, blurred mess; you can’t think about jake, you can’t think about advanced flirting, you can’t think about anything other than the agonizing friction of jay’s body pressed against yours.

“and then,” jay continues softly, his hand slowly rising to rest on the curve of your waist, his large palm squeezing gently through your thick sweater, anchoring you to him, “you tell him something confidential. something that makes him forget the entire room exists.”

he lingers there for an agonizing, breathless three seconds, his breath hot against your ear, letting the agonizing tension build until you’re practically trembling under his touch. you’re completely paralyzed, your lips parted, waiting, secretly begging for him to just turn your face and kiss you again.

instead, jay slowly draws his head back just a fraction. he doesn't move his body away, keeping his chest pressed to your back and his hand firmly on your waist, but he tilts his head so he can look at the side of your face. his eyes are dark, intense.

“but we aren't at a crowded bar, newbie,” jay whispers, his voice dropping even lower, turning into something raw and fiercely honest. his thumb rubs a slow circle into your waist. “it’s just you and me in a quiet room. and your shoulders are up to your ears because you’re lying to me.”

you swallow hard, a shaky breath escaping your lips.

jay leans in just a millimeter closer, his lips almost brushing your earlobe. “so stop playing games with me. look at me and tell me what you really want to do for lesson five.”

you swallow hard, the feel of his thumb rubbing slow, deliberate circles through the fabric of your sweater making it completely impossible to form a coherent thought. your gaze is frozen on the wrinkled blankets of his bed, your pulse hammering a rapid rhythm in your ears. jay doesn't move. he stays right there, his chest warm against your back, his breath a steady, intoxicating heat against the side of your neck, patiently waiting you out.

"i'm waiting, newbie," he murmurs, his voice a low, teasing purr that completely undoes the last shred of your resolve.

"i... i want to practice kissing again," you blurts out, the words rushing out of you in a desperate, breathless squeak.

the hand on your waist pauses for a fraction of a second. jay doesn't immediately pull back, but you can feel the slight shift in his posture, the way his jaw tightens against your hair. you quickly scramble to cover your track, the sheer embarrassment forcing your brain into overdrive as you try to construct a pathetic safety net of logic.

"because— because of the mechanics!" you stammer quickly, your voice dropping to a mortified whisper as you twist your fingers together. "the last time... i was entirely caught off guard, jay. and i felt like i was completely awful at it. i didn't know where to put my hands, and my timing was definitely off, and... and if i'm going to be ready for jake, i need to actually make sure i can do the rhythm properly without freezing up. it’s just for the lesson. for practice."

the silence that follows is thick enough to cut with a knife. for three agonizing seconds, you’re entirely convinced you’ve gone too far, that he’s going to laugh at your transparent excuse and tell you the lesson is over.

then, slowly, jay draws back.

you force yourself to turn your head, your cheeks burning a bright, furious pink as you look at him. jay is studying your face, his dark eyes incredibly heavy and focused. the playful, arrogant smirk you expected isn't there; instead, his lips are parted slightly, his gaze dropping to your mouth before rising back to meet your eyes with an intensity that makes your breath catch.

"for practice," he echoes, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrates straight to your core.

"yes," you whisper.

"alright," jay murmurs, his tone shifting into something thick and serious. he slides closer, crossing his legs so he’s sitting directly in front of you, completely erasing the distance. "if we’re going to fix your rhythm, we need to do it right. look at me."

you lift your chin, your eyes locking onto his. jay doesn't hesitate this time. his large, warm hand rises, his long fingers sliding effortlessly into the hair at the back of your neck, his thumb anchoring right on your jawline to tilt your face up. he leans in, and before your brain can even register the proximity, his lips are pressing firmly against yours.

the contact is an immediate shock of heat. unlike the brief practical exam from days ago, jay doesn't start with a gentle question. he slides his lips over yours with a slow, heavy confidence, guiding your mouth to open slightly with a soft, persistent pressure.

"put your hands on my shoulders," jay whispers directly against your mouth, his breath hot and ragged as he pulls back just a millimeter to give the instruction. "don't just let them hang there. hold onto me."

your hands shake as you lift them, your fingers clutching tightly at the soft cream fabric of his knit sweater. the moment your palms make contact with his broad shoulders, jay lets out a low, approving hum deep in his throat. he tilts his head to the opposite angle, his lips sealing over yours again, deepening the kiss with a slow, agonizingly deliberate pace.

he teaches you through the movement itself. when your movements get too rushed or frantic from the sheer panic of how good it feels, jay uses the firm grip on the back of your neck to slow you down, lingering in a heavy, pressing rhythm that forces you to match his breath. his tongue lightly brushes against your bottom lip, a subtle, electrifying hint that makes a quiet, helpless sound escape your throat. jay catches the sound, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin of your jawline, pulling you closer until your chest is completely pressed against his.

the "practice kiss" begins to stretch, the boundaries of the lesson blurring until the air in the dorm room feels thick and heavy with a sudden, suffocating wave of genuine friction. it isn't just a clinical demonstration anymore. his lips are moving against yours with a raw, unhurried hunger, his breathing turning shallow and rough against your cheek. your fingers tangle deeper into the knit of his sweater, your body leaning entirely into his warmth, completely lost in the intoxicating taste of him. it’s a full-on makeout, a lingering, breathless collision that has absolutely nothing to do with jake sim.

suddenly, as if realizing exactly how far the line has been crossed, jay stiffens.

he pulls away, his hand sliding out of your hair as he abruptly breaks the contact.

the sudden loss of his warmth leaves you gasping for air, your lips tingling and flushed a deep red. you scramble back a few inches, your heart thumping violently against your ribs as reality comes crashing down on you like ice water.

the silence in the room is deafening, save for the sound of your ragged breathing. jay is sitting right in front of you, his dark hair completely messy from your fingers, his chest heaving under his sweater. he looks completely ungrounded, his eyes staring down at his own hands for a long, heavy beat before he finally forces himself to look up at you.

the atmosphere is thick with a sharp, suffocating awkwardness. both of you are completely aware that that wasn't on the syllabus.

jay clears his throat, his hand rising to rub the back of his neck as he shifts slightly on the mattress, trying desperately to summon his usual composed, unbothered demeanor.

“that was… good,” jay says, his voice rough, strained, and completely lacking its usual playful smugness. he avoids looking directly at your lips, his dark eyes focusing on your forehead instead as he slides off the bed and stands up. “your timing is… it’s fine. we’ll work on it.”

the minute those words leave jay’s mouth, the spell breaks entirely. you don't even wait for him to officially dismiss you. you practically scramble off the edge of his bed, your sneakers skidding slightly on the hardwood floor of his dorm as you snatch your tote bag from his desk chair with trembling hands.

“i— i have to go,” you stammer, your voice a high, frantic squeak that you barely recognize. you can't even look him in the eye; your gaze is glued to the door handle as you sprint toward it. “i have… a study group. and a paper. thank you for the lesson!”

you yank the door open and fling yourself out into the hallway, slamming it shut behind you before jay can even utter a response.

the walk — or rather, the hyperventilating run — back to your apartment is a blur of pure, unadulterated panic. your chest feels incredibly tight, your lungs burning as the cool evening air hits your face, but it does absolutely nothing to cool the raging fire still burning on your lips. your lips are tingling, slightly swollen, and heavy with the undeniable taste of him.

it’s for jake, you tell yourself, your fingers gripping the straps of your tote bag so tightly your knuckles turn a stark, ghostly white. it’s entirely for jake.

you turn the corner past the campus library, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps as you mentally repeat the words like a sacred mantra. the only reason i asked him to do that is because jake is going to kiss me soon. yunjin said jay is the best teacher. i just needed hands-on experience so i don’t humiliate myself when jake finally makes a move. it’s an educational baseline. that’s all it is.

but the anxious pacing of your thoughts only gets faster, louder, and more desperate.

if i didn't practice with jay, i would have frozen up with jake. jay was just correcting my rhythm. he said my timing was fine. so now, when jake kisses me, it’s going to be perfect. i’m doing this to save my future with jake. jay is just an instrument. a tutor. a textbook.

you push open the heavy glass door to your apartment building, practically taking the stairs two at a time because the elevator feels too slow, too claustrophobic for the storm currently raging inside your head.

it doesn't matter that my heart felt like it was going to explode out of my chest. it doesn't matter that i forgot how to breathe. it doesn't matter that i wanted him to keep going. you reach your front door, fumbling blindly with your keys, your hands shaking so violently that the metal clicks loudly against the lock. it’s for jake. it’s all for jake sim. it has to be.

you unlock the door and burst inside, instantly slamming it behind you and leaning your back against the wood, letting out a long, shaky exhale. the apartment is dark and quiet — yunjin isn't home yet — which is a blessing, because if she took one look at your wild eyes and bitten lips, she would know instantly that you didn't just practice advanced flirting.

you drop your bag on the floor and walk straight into the bathroom, flicking on the harsh overhead light. you lean over the sink and stare at your reflection in the mirror.

your cheeks are still flushed a deep, telltale crimson. your hair is slightly unruly where jay's fingers had tangled into it, and your lips are undeniably darker, stung red from the heavy, lingering pressure of his mouth. you look completely undone. you look like a girl who just got thoroughly made out with by jay park.

your phone suddenly buzzes in your pocket, the sharp vibration making you jump.

with a racing heart, you pull it out. a notification blocks the screen.

jake: hey! just finished soccer practice. totally random, but are you free to grab dinner tomorrow night? just the two of us? 😊

you stare at the glowing text, the emojis, the sweet, easy invitation from the boy you’ve been dreaming about for months. it’s the exact moment you’ve been working toward. the ultimate goal. the reason you embarrassed yourself, the reason you sent the photos, the reason you walked into room 314 in the first place.

you lift your eyes back to your reflection in the mirror, your thumb hovering over the screen to type out a reply.

see? you think, your mind screaming at you to believe the lie as a cold sweat breaks out across your palms. it worked. the lessons worked. everything i did today… it was all just so i could be ready for tomorrow night. with jake.

but as you finally press your thumb to the glass to type 'i'd love to', your eyes automatically drift down to your own lips, and the phantom sensation of jay's heavy, rough breathing against your skin returns with a fierce, suffocating intensity that leaves you completely breathless.

-------

the afternoon sun is hitting the windows of room 314 when you walk in, casting long, warm bars of light across the hardwood floor. it’s a sharp contrast to the stormy darkness of your last lesson, but the familiar scent of sandalwood and clean laundry still hits you the second the door opens.

jay is sitting at his desk, casually typing something on his laptop, but he looks up the moment you step inside. his dark eyes immediately track your movement as you set your tote bag down by the door. he looks entirely composed, the previous lesson's awkwardness seemingly evaporated from his demeanor, replaced by his usual calm, lazy aura.

“welcome back, newbie,” jay says smoothly, closing his laptop with a quiet click. he stands up, stretching his arms slightly before walking over to his mini-fridge. “how was the big date?”

you sit down on the edge of his mattress, pulling your knees up to your chest and wrapping your arms around them. just the mention of yesterday makes a strange swirl of emotions tighten in your stomach.

“it was… really nice,” you say softly, staring down at the pattern of his blanket. “jake was amazing. he took me to that little Italian place downtown, the one with the string lights. he paid for everything, even when i tried to argue with him. and he was just so sweet, jay. he listened to me talk about my classes, he laughed at my jokes, and he walked me all the way back to my apartment building.”

jay leans against the edge of his desk, taking a sip of water, his eyes locked onto your face. “sounds like a textbook perfect date. so why do you look like someone just kicked your puppy?”

you swallow the lump in your throat, your voice dropping to a shy, embarrassed whisper. “because… he didn't kiss me.”

jay pauses, his water bottle halfway down from his lips. a sudden, sharp curiosity flashes in his eyes. “he didn't?”

“no,” you groan, burying your face in your knees for a second before looking back up at him, completely miserable. “we stood on the porch of my building for like three whole minutes. i did the eye contact. i did the posture thing you taught me. i held his gaze, my lips were parted, i did everything right! but he just… he smiled, ruffled my hair, told me he had an amazing time, and said goodnight. i don’t get it. did i do something wrong? did he see right through me?”

jay stares at you for a beat, and then, a slow, incredibly wicked smirk begins to crawl onto his face. the intense seriousness from the end of your last lesson is gone, replaced by a wave of pure, triumphant amusement. he sets his water bottle down on the desk and steps closer to the bed.

“newbie, you didn't do anything wrong,” jay says, his voice a low, deeply satisfied rumble. “you’re just dealing with jake sim. the guy is a traditionalist. he’s old-school. he’s not going to lunges at a girl on the very first dinner date, especially not a girl he actually respects and likes as much as he clearly likes you.”

he hitches his usual desk chair over, spinning it around to sit directly in front of you, his knees inches from yours. “honestly? this is perfect for us. it means we’re officially two steps ahead of him.”

you blink, confused. “two steps ahead? what do you mean?”

“i mean,” jay says, leaning forward, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a suffocating amount of focus, “by the time he finally gets the nerve to make a real move on you, you’re not just going to know how to handle a basic kiss. you’re going to be a master. which brings us to today's actual syllabus.”

he rests his elbows on his knees, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that instantly sets your pulse racing. “today, we’re moving past the initial contact. we’re talking about a full-on makeout. the pacing, the breathing, how to build the physical escalation without getting overwhelmed. how to take control of the rhythm so he’s the one losing his mind, not you.”

your breath hitches completely. the memory of how your last "practice kiss" had spiraled into a lingering, breathless fog flashes through your brain, making your lips tingle instantly.

jay studies the sudden, bright pink flush spreading across your cheeks. his smile softens just a fraction, a quiet, intense gravity taking over his features. he leans in a microscopic inch closer, his eyes dropping to your mouth before rising back to yours.

“so,” jay murmurs, his voice a heavy, dangerous purr. “do you want today's lesson to be purely theoretical… or do you want a practical example, newbie?”

your heart is thumping so hard against your ribs you’re certain he can hear it. you know you should say theoretical. you know you should protect your sanity, preserve the lie that this is all just an educational game for jake. but as you look at jay — at his sharp jawline, his messy dark hair, his perfect, parted lips — the desperation from days ago takes over completely.

you don’t say a word. you just look him straight in the eye and nod your head, a tiny, submissive gesture.

“good girl,” jay whispers, the words vibrating straight down your spine.

he doesn't waste a single second. jay slides out of the chair and onto the mattress, crossing his legs right in front of you. his large, warm hand rises instantly, his long fingers sliding effortlessly into the hair at the back of your neck, his thumb anchoring firmly against your jawline to tilt your face up.

“remember the pacing,” jay murmurs right before his lips touch yours. “let me lead first.”

the instant his mouth seals over yours, the entire world outside room 314 completely vanishes. his lips are incredibly soft but heavy with a firm, demanding pressure that immediately makes a soft, helpless sigh escape your throat. jay catches the sound, his thumb gently stroking the sensitive skin of your jaw, guiding your mouth to open just a fraction more.

“breathe through your nose, newbie,” he whispers against your lips, his hot breath fanning across your skin as he shifts the angle of his head, deepening the kiss with a slow, agonizingly deliberate rhythm. “don’t rush it. follow my pace.”

you lift your hands, your fingers shaking as you clutch tightly at the soft fabric of his knit sweater, pulling yourself closer until your chest is flush against his. jay lets out a low, rough hum of approval deep in his throat at the touch, his grip on the back of your neck tightening just enough to anchor you completely.

the kiss quickly deepens, the boundaries of a simple "lesson" shattering instantly into a heavy, intoxicating fog. jay shows you how to escalate the tension; his lips move against yours with a raw, unhurried hunger, his tongue lightly tracing your bottom lip before pulling it between his teeth in a soft, agonizing tug that leaves you completely breathless.

“when the energy shifts,” jay murmurs, his voice raspy as he briefly parts from your lips to trace a line of burning kisses along your jawline, his lips hovering right over the sensitive skin beneath your ear, “you use your hands to change the dynamic. don’t just hold my sweater. slide your hands up. touch his neck.”

as if under a spell, you follow his whispered instructions. you let your hands slide up his broad chest, your fingers wrapping around the warm skin of his neck, your thumbs resting just below his sharp jawline. the physical contact makes jay let out a sharp, ragged exhale against your skin.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes clouded with a fierce, heavy intensity that has absolutely nothing to do with jake sim. his chest is heaving under his sweater, his lips dark and swollen.

“just like that,” jay whispers, his large hand sliding down from your neck to firmly grip your waist, pulling your hips a fraction closer to his on the mattress. “you control the distance. if he gets too frantic, you hold him right there. if you want more… you pull him back in.”

he doesn't wait for you to pull him. jay leans back down, his mouth crashing back onto yours with a sudden, overwhelming wave of passion that makes your head spin. it’s a full-on, breathless makeout, his lips parting yours completely, his thumb rubbing a slow, heavy circle into your waist through your shirt. you lose all track of time, completely drowning in the intoxicating taste of him, your fingers tangling into his dark hair as you match his pace, completely forgetting who this lesson was supposed to be for.

when jay finally draws back, it is agonizingly slow, his lips lingering against yours in three short, pressing kisses before he completely breaks the contact.

the sudden loss of his warmth leaves you shivering, your chest heaving as you desperately try to force air back into your lungs. jay stays hovering inches away, his forehead resting lightly against yours for a brief, breathless second before he slowly straightens up. his breathing is completely ungrounded, his eyes dark as he stares down at your thoroughly kissed, flushed face.

the silence in the room is suffocating, heavy with the weight of what just happened.

jay clears his throat, his hand rising to rub the back of his neck as he shifts back on the mattress, trying to force his usual lazy, unbothered smirk back onto his face — though his trembling fingers completely give him away.

“that was… the baseline,” jay says, his voice rough, strained, and entirely devoid of his usual arrogance. he looks away from your lips, his gaze tracking a stray shadow on the wall instead. “we’ll… we’ll stop there for today. your pacing is fine, newbie. jake won’t know what hit him.”

he stands up quickly, walking over to the door to open it for you, but as you scramble off the bed with a racing heart, you realize with a sudden wave of absolute panic that you don't care about jake sim's reaction at all anymore.

-------

you would be lying to yourself if you had said you hadn't been eager for more after that. you were. in fact, you started meeting jay almost every day so you could "practice" making out.

it became an unspoken, addictive routine. you didn't even wait for a scheduled thursday afternoon anymore. a quick, vague text from jay — ‘my room’s free if you want to study’ — and you would find yourself walking toward room 314 with your heart already doing double-flips inside your chest. you didn't even bring your notebooks anymore. what was the point of pretending?

with every single day that passed, the lessons started escalating little by little, the boundaries of "basic mechanics" crumbling into dust.

one afternoon, the air in his dorm room felt so suffocatingly hot that your hands grew bold. jay was guiding you through a deeper rhythm, his lips heavy and possessive against yours, when your fingers strayed from the hem of his sweater and slid up, slipping underneath the fabric. your bare palms pressed flat against the warm, solid skin of his lower back. you remember the exact way his entire body had rigidified for a split second, a low, ragged growl catching in his throat before he completely lost his composure, his lips turning frantic against yours.

another day, the lesson wasn't about the mouth at all. jay had backed you up against his closed closet door, his large hands anchoring your wrists gently against the wood above your head. “advanced escalation,” he had whispered against your skin, his voice a dangerous, gravelly rasp right before he buried his face in your neck. he had kissed his way down your jawline, his lips warm and demanding as he sucked softly on the sensitive skin right above your collarbone, leaving a faint, stinging heat that made your knees turn to literal water.

but the most shocking shift — the one that still makes your face burn a furious purple when you think about it during lectures — happened just two days ago.

jay had been sitting in the middle of his unmade bed, watching you pace around his room as you anxiously rambled on about your nerves. without a word, he had reached out, grabbed your wrist, and pulled you down. before your brain could even process the movement, jay's hands were on your waist, lifting you up and guiding you until you were completely straddling his lap, your knees resting on either side of his thighs.

your whole body had gone into a state of absolute shock, your face inches from his. but jay hadn't teased you. he had just looked up at you with those dark, fiercely intense eyes, his thumbs rubbing slow, heavy circles into your hips. “this is how you handle the proximity,” he had murmured. and then he had pulled you down by your neck.

you had kissed for a whole hour. a full, breathless, uninterrupted sixty minutes where your hands were tangled in his hair, his broad chest was crushed against yours, and his mouth was relentlessly teaching you a rhythm that made your entire soul ache. your body had fit perfectly against his, the heat between you completely consuming the small room. and you had enjoyed every single, agonizing second of it.

still, despite the bare skin, the bruised lips, and the sheer intimacy of sitting on his lap, you kept trying to convince yourself it was all because of jake.

every night, when you lay awake in your own bed staring at the ceiling, you forced yourself to repeat the old script. it’s not because of jay. jay park has absolutely nothing to do with it. he’s just an instructor. he’s just incredibly good at what he does because he’s experienced, and i am just a good student taking advantage of a resource.

you told yourself that the violent butterflies in your stomach, the way your hands shook whenever you touched his skin, and the desperate hunger you felt every time he leaned in were all just a biological reaction. you were just enjoying the physical sensation of making out because, in the back of your mind, you were projecting. you were simply thinking about doing all of these things with jake sim. jay was just the proxy, the placeholder, the mannequin you were using to perfect your technique so that when the time finally came, you would drive jake absolutely crazy.

or at least… that’s what you said to yourself.

-------

you keep your mouth shut, maintaining the absolute lockdown on your secret. whenever yunjin asks how the lessons are going, you look her straight in the eye and lie through your teeth, insisting it’s all strictly theoretical. you tell her jay is just drawing diagrams and explaining body language, all while your lips are still practically stinging from being thoroughly devoured by him just an hour prior.

in the meantime, you keep hanging out with jake. he takes you to get ice cream, he walks you to class, and he remains the perfect, sweet gentleman. but whenever he holds your hand or leans in to give you a polite, fleeting peck on the cheek, a bizarre, hollow sensation settles in your chest. you keep expecting the earth to move, expecting to feel that white-hot, electric current that roars through your veins every time you walk into room 314. but it never comes. you’re just building up to it, you tell yourself desperately. the real spark will happen later. jay is just priming you.

and then comes today's lesson.

the afternoon sun is completely blocked out by the heavy curtains jay drew across his window, plunging the dorm room into a dark, suffocatingly intimate haze. you’re sitting directly on his lap, your legs straddling his thighs. the friction between your bodies is a living, breathing thing. you've grown bold over the past week; your hands are slipped entirely beneath his oversized tee, your palms pressed flat against the hot, defined muscles of his chest. your hips shift instinctively, a slow, heavy grind against his lap as you chase the friction, your mouth moving against his in a deep, wet rhythm that leaves you both completely breathledd.

jay lets out a sharp, ragged groan directly into your mouth. his hands, which had been anchoring your hips, suddenly tighten with a bruising force. he abruptly pulls his head back, his breathing incredibly shallow and heavy as he forces you to stop moving.

his dark hair is completely unruly, his lips a dark, swollen crimson. he looks up at you, his eyes clouded with a raw, fierce hunger that makes your stomach do a violent flip.

“jesus, newbie,” jay rasps, his chest heaving under his shirt as his hands steady your trembling waist. he takes a long, ragged breath, his voice dropping into an incredibly low, gravelly register. “hold on. stop moving for a second.”

you blink down at him, dazed, your heart hammering against your ribs. “what? did i… did i do it wrong?”

jay lets out a low, breathless chuckle, though his jaw remains incredibly tight. “no. you didn't do it wrong. that’s the problem. the way you move…” he pauses, his intense gaze raking over your flushed face, tracking the absolute innocence in your wide eyes. a sudden, heavy curiosity settles over his features. “have you actually ever done anything sexual before this? like, at all?”

the question hits you like a bucket of ice water. a fierce, blinding wave of mortification instantly erupts across your cheeks. you instinctively try to shift off his lap, but his grip on your waist tightens, keeping you anchored right there against his heat.

“no,” you squeak out, your voice dropping to an incredibly shy, embarrassed whisper. you look down at his collarbone, unable to hold his gaze. “i haven't. i’ve never… i’ve never done anything. i told you, i'm a total newbie.”

jay stares at you, a complex flash of emotion crossing his face — surprise, a sudden wave of protectiveness, and a trace of possessiveness that he quickly tries to mask. he clears his throat, his thumb rubbing a slow, grounding circle into your hip.

“right,” jay murmurs, his voice softening just a fraction. “okay. well. you’re doing great for a beginner.”

you swallow hard, the frantic script in your head screaming at you to take control, to justify why you're enjoying this so much, why you’re pushing the boundaries. you look at his perfectly parted lips, then back up to his dark eyes, and a reckless, desperate thought tumbles right out of your mouth.

“jay… can you teach me about the rest of it?”

jay freezes, his hand instantly stopping its movement on your hip. “the rest of it?”

“yes,” you stammer, your voice incredibly small but filled with a panicked, stubborn determination. you force the lie out, hiding behind your golden shield. “i mean… for jake! what if things escalate on our next date? what if he wants to go further? i don’t want to be completely clueless. i want to know how to make him feel good. i need to learn how sex works. the mechanics.”

jay studies your face for a long, agonizingly silent beat. the air in the room feels impossibly thick. you can feel the sudden, intense heat radiating from his lap, a physical reminder of exactly what your grinding had done to him. but jay is a professional, and more than that, he refuses to pressure you or take advantage of the ridiculous web of lies you've spun.

slowly, deliberately, jay lifts his hands and gently guides you off his lap. the sudden loss of his warmth makes you shiver. he sits back against his headboard, pulling one knee up to his chest, his expression shifting into something clinical, serious, and entirely focused.

“alright, newbie,” jay says, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that commands your absolute attention. “if you want to talk about how to make a guy feel good, we’re keeping this strictly theoretical. understand? no hands-on for this part.”

you nod quickly, sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed, your hands tightly clasped in your lap as your face burns hot.

“good. then let’s start with manual stimulation. handjobs,” jay begins, his tone conversational but his words dripping with a raw, explicit honesty that makes your jaw drop. “it’s not just about gripping and sliding. the anatomy is sensitive. a guy's nerves are concentrated right at the head, especially underneath, on the frenulum. if you just pull the skin up and down dry, it’s uncomfortable. you need friction control. you use lubrication, or even just saliva, and you start with a firm but gentle grip at the base.”

you feel your eyes widening, your brain frantically trying to take mental notes as he speaks. jay doesn't break eye contact; he looks straight at you, using clinical but undeniably dirty language that makes your heart thump in your throat.

“the rhythm is everything,” jay continues smoothly, his voice dropping an octave, turning into a heavy, suffocating purr. “you match his breathing. a slow, steady stroke all the way from the base to the top, and when you reach the head, you twist your thumb gently over the top. it builds the pressure. you don’t speed up until his breath catches. you pay attention to his sounds.”

“o-oh,” you squeak, your hands twisting together. “i… okay. slow rhythm. twist at the top.”

“exactly,” jay says, a faint, amused half-smile touching his lips at your absolute mortification, though his eyes remain heavy and intense. “now, if things go further… oral. blowjobs. this is where most girls panic because they think about their teeth. your teeth should never touch his skin, newbie. you keep your lips curled completely over them. like an anchor.”

you feel like you’re going to spontaneously combust. your cheeks are a catastrophic shade of purple, but you are hanging on every single syllable.

“the technique isn’t just about depth,” jay murmurs, his gaze dropping to your mouth for a heavy, unhurried second before rising back to your eyes. “it’s about suction and warmth. you use the roof of your mouth and your tongue to create a vacuum. you start slow, swirling your tongue around the head before taking him in. and the most important part? the pacing. you don’t just stay at the top; you move down to the base, using one hand to stroke the shaft while your mouth handles the rest. dual stimulation.”

he pauses, leaning forward just a fraction, his voice dropping into a whisper that sends a violent shiver straight down your spine.

“and you never, ever break eye contact,” jay whispers, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a terrifying amount of gravity. “when you’re down there, you look up at him. through your lashes. you let him see exactly what you’re doing to him. it drives a guy absolutely insane, newbie. it completely breaks his control.”

you sit there, completely paralyzed, your chest heaving as you absorb the intense, explicit breakdown. you are utterly mortified, entirely overwhelmed, and your brain is screaming at you that you are supposed to be picturing jake sim during this entire lecture.

but as you look at jay — at the way his jaw tightens, the way his low, gravelly voice sounds saying those explicit words, and the dark, possessive heat hidden deep in his eyes — you realize with a sudden wave of pure terror that jake’s face hasn't crossed your mind even once.

you sit there at the foot of his bed, your heart hammering against your ribs so violently you can hear it in your ears. the explicit details of his words are still hanging heavy in the dim, warm air of the dorm room. your hands are knotted tightly in the fabric of your sweater, your palms slick with a nervous sweat.

you look down at his lap, then back up to his dark, unhurried eyes. the golden shield of your excuse — the lie that this is all a clinical preparation for a future with jake sim — feels incredibly heavy, but it’s the only armor you have left.

"jay," you whisper, your voice cracking slightly. you swallow hard, your face burning a catastrophic shade of crimson as you force the words out. "if... if the rhythm and the grip are that specific... what if i mess it up? what if i'm too rough, or too loose? can you... can you give me another practical example?"

jay’s entire body tenses. the casual, leaning posture against his headboard locks up instantly. his eyes widen just a fraction, his gaze dropping to your trembling hands before snapping back up to look at your face. the heavy, silent tension in room 314 returns with the force of a physical blow.

"newbie," jay rasps, his voice rougher and deeper than before. he clears his throat, his knuckles whitening as his hands grip the mattress. "we said strictly theoretical for this. i'm not trying to rush you into anything."

"i'm not rushed," you lie desperately, leaning forward just a fraction, your heart in your throat. "i just... i need to know if i'm doing it right. for the baseline. please, jay."

jay stares at you for three agonizing, breathless seconds. his jaw tightens so hard you can see the muscle tick under his sharp skin. he lets out a long, slow, ragged exhale through his teeth, the restraint he’s been maintaining for weeks visibly fracturing.

"alright," jay murmurs, his tone shifting into a low, gravelly register that vibrates straight through your chest. "come here."

you move on your knees, sliding across the mattress until you're sitting right beside his thigh. your knees are trembling. jay reaches down, his fingers hooking under the hem of his dark trousers, and with a low rustle of fabric, he frees himself.

your breath catches completely. he is already thick, fully erect, and a dark, heavy flush is painting his skin. the pure, raw reality of it makes your mind go entirely blank.

"don't look away," jay commands softly, his voice remarkably steady despite the shallow rise and fall of his chest. "wrap your fingers like this."

he reaches out, his broad, warm hand wrapping around yours to guide it. he positions your fingers at the very base of his shaft, curling them in a firm, even cylinder. his skin feels smooth, white-hot, and pulsing beneath your touch.

"now, look at me," jay whispers, his face inches from yours. "stroke up. slow. all the way to the top."

you slowly move your hand upward, the physical friction sending a jolt of pure electricity straight up your arm. your heart is beating in an erratic rhythm against your ribs.

"good. just like that, newbie," jay praises you, a low, breathy rumble in his throat. his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners, a soft, encouraging look melting his usual sharp features. "now, when you hit the head... slower at the top. twist your thumb over the frenulum. exactly like i explained."

you follow his instructions perfectly, slowing the motion, your thumb dragging gently over the ultra-sensitive rim.

"oh— fuck," jay lets out a sudden, ragged groan, his eyes instantly fluttering shut as his head thumps back against the headboard. the sound is deep, unvarnished, and completely intoxicating. "yes. right there. that's perfect, sweetheart. keep that exact pace."

hearing the pet name slip past his lips makes your stomach do a violent, hot flip. you keep going, your movements becoming smoother, more confident as you fall into the heavy, dragging rhythm. you watch his face, completely fascinated by the raw power you suddenly hold over him.

but as the seconds tick by, the clinical baseline completely disintegrates. the touch is too hot, the friction too intense, and jay’s carefully constructed control begins to dangerously slip.

his breathing turns shallow and frantic, his chest heaving under his shirt. his sharp, dark brows furrow in a look that almost resembles pain. he lets out another heavy, broken groan, a sudden, involuntary jerk rippling through his lower half as his hips instinctively thrust upward against the firm pressure of your hand.

"jay," you whisper, completely captivated by the sight of him losing his mind beneath your touch.

"keep going... shit, don't stop," he swears under his breath, his voice rough and completely ungrounded. his hand flies to your wrist, not to pull you away, but to physically lock your hand in place, his fingers squeezing tightly as he takes over the pace, forcing your hand to move faster, harder against him. another ragged, breathy moan escapes his lips, his jaw clenching so tightly his veins stand out against his neck. "you're too good at this... fuck, newbie..."

the sheer, overwhelming heat of the moment fills the quiet room, the sound of his ragged breathing and the soft, slick friction of your hand filling the space between you. you are utterly drowning in him, your thumb tracing the wetness at the tip, your own breathing turning heavy as you lean into his space.

you look up through your lashes, his dark eyes snapping open to look down at you, clouded with a fierce, possessive hunger. and that’s when the old, desperate script in your head panics, trying one last time to pull you back to safety.

"is this… how i should do it for jake?" you whisper, the question slipping out before you can stop it.

jay freezes.

the pleasure on his face vanishes instantly. his hand snaps down, gripping your wrist hard enough to still you completely. his eyes open, sharp and raw.

jay stares down at you, his chest heaving, his lips parted as he absorbs the name. for a second, something painful flashes across his face — hurt, anger, and something deeper. he exhales shakily, then gently but firmly removes your hand from him. the silence that crashes into the room is suffocating.

he reaches down, gently but firmly removing your hand from his skin, and quietly covers himself back up, shifting his weight to sit back against the wall.

the sudden loss of contact leaves your hand feeling cold, your fingers tingling. the blinding wave of embarrassment returns, your cheeks exploding into a furious red flush as you realize what you just said.

“newbie…” he says quietly, voice rough. “don’t do that.”

you feel sick with embarrassment. “i’m sorry, i didn’t mean—”

but jay doesn't lash out. he doesn't tease you, and he doesn't bring up the name. instead, he just looks down at your flustered, wide-eyed face, a soft, incredibly gentle expression taking over his sharp features.

"hey," jay murmurs, his voice still low and beautifully rough from the aftereffects of the pleasure. he reaches out, his large, warm hand gently patting the top of your head, his fingers lightly smoothing down your messy hair. "don't look at me like that. you didn't do anything wrong."

you look up at him through your bangs, your heart still thumping softly. "i'm sorry. i shouldn't have..."

"it's fine," jay interrupts softly, a faint, tired but genuinely warm smile touching his lips. his hand slides down from your head to rest gently on your shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "you're a fast learner, newbie. really fast. you passed the lesson."

he sits there, his hand warm and heavy on your shoulder, his thumb rubbing a slow, comforting circle into your shirt. it’s a soft, lingering moment of aftercare that feels entirely too domestic, entirely too real for a simple tutoring session. and as you look at his gentle smile, your hand still warm from his skin, the lie about jake feels smaller and more pathetic than it ever has before.

-------

when thursday afternoon rolls around, the tension inside your chest is so thick you can barely swallow. the walk to the west quad feels different today; the golden armor of your excuses is getting heavier, cracking, but the raw curiosity burning in your veins is too loud to ignore.

when you knock on the door to room 314, jay opens it almost instantly. he’s wearing a loose, dark gray t-shirt and light gray sweatpants, his dark hair falling messy across his forehead. his eyes immediately lock onto yours, a quiet, intense gravity in his gaze that lets you know he hasn't forgotten a single second of tuesday's handjob lesson either.

"come in, newbie," jay murmurs, stepping aside.

you walk in and immediately sit cross-legged in the center of his unmade bed, your hands tucked between your knees to hide how much they’re shaking. jay closes the door, the heavy click sealing the two of you in the quiet, sandalwood-scented dimness of his room.

he doesn't sit in his desk chair. he walks straight to the edge of the mattress, standing right in front of you, looking down with his hands shoved casually into his sweatpants pockets. "alright. lesson seven. what are we breaking down today?"

you look up at him, your cheeks instantly exploding into a fierce, burning crimson. you swallow hard, your fingers twisting together as you force the words out. "i... i want to learn how to give a blowjob. you explained the theory on tuesday, but... i’ve always been curious about how the actual tongue work and depth feel. i want the practical example, jay."

jay’s entire posture locks up. his eyes darken significantly, a sudden, heavy wave of heat rolling off his body as he stares down at your flushed, determined face. he takes a slow, ragged breath through his nose, his jaw clenching tightly.

"newbie," jay rasps, his voice incredibly deep and rough. "are you absolutely sure about this? once we cross this line, there’s no turning back."

"i'm sure," you whisper, looking him straight in the eye.

jay doesn't say another word. he slowly pulls his hands out of his pockets and sits down on the edge of the bed, right in front of you. with a low, deliberate rustle of fabric, he pushes his sweatpants down, freeing his thick, fully erect length. he is already pulsing, a heavy, dark flush painting his white-hot skin.

"get down on your knees between my legs," jay commands softly, his voice remarkably patient, completely ridden of his usual mocking tone

you slide off the mattress, sinking onto your knees on the hardwood floor right between his thighs. your face is level with his lap, the raw heat of his arousal radiating against your cheeks.

"now, look at me," jay whispers, his large, warm hand rising to gently cup the back of your head, his long fingers tangling into your hair to steady you. "remember what i said. keep your lips curled completely over your teeth. let me feel your tongue first. swirl it right around the head."

you lean in, your hands hesitantly resting on the top of his firm thighs for balance. you slowly extend your tongue, dragging the wet, warm tip in a slow circle around the sensitive rim of his crown.

"oh— fuck," jay lets out a sharp, ragged gasp, his head immediately tossing back, his eyes fluttering shut as a deep shiver ripples through his lower half. his fingers tighten gently in your hair. "yes. just like that, baby. you're so warm, you feel so good."

"now, open up a little more," jay murmurs, his dark eyes snapping open to look down at you, clouded with an intense, suffocating pleasure. "take the top half in. use the roof of your mouth to create a gentle suction. don't rush the depth yet."

you part your lips, curling them firmly over your teeth as he instructed, and slowly slide your mouth over the thick, smooth head of his shaft. the sudden warmth and tightness of your mouth makes jay let out a low, broken moan deep in his chest. you pull back slightly, then slide forward again, your tongue swirling against him with every movement.

"you're doing so good, newbie," jay praises you, his voice a low, breathy rumble right above your head. his hand in your hair is incredibly sweet, gently guiding your rhythm, pacing your movements so you don’t choke. "you're so pretty looking up at me like that. god, you're perfect."

hearing him call you pretty makes a violent, hot flash of adrenaline surge through you. you grow bolder, sliding your mouth a little further down, letting your throat adapt to the thickness. you manage your breathing, taking steady, short inhales through your nose as your mouth works rhythmically against him.

the clinical nature of the lesson completely shatters. jay’s control begins to dangerously fracture under the wet, tight heat of your mouth. his breathing turns shallow and frantic, his chest heaving under his t-shirt as his hips instinctively lift, thrusting a fraction deeper into your mouth with a heavy, unvarnished desperation.

"shit, look at you," jay groans out, a ragged, completely ungrounded swear escaping his lips as his grip on your hair tightens just enough to hold you in place. his eyes are locked onto yours, blazing with a raw, possessive hunger as you look up at him through your lashes. "look at you, sucking me off so good... fuck, sweetheart, you're driving me insane."

the explicit praise sends a jolt of pure electricity straight down your spine. you wrap your right hand around the base of his shaft, sliding it up and down in sync with the heavy suction of your mouth, creating a flawless, dual stimulation that completely breaks his remaining restraint.

jay let out a deep, guttural cry, his jaw clenching so hard the veins stand out against his neck, his hips moving faster, more rapidly against your mouth as he inches closer and closer to the edge.

"hold on— hold on, baby, stop," jay suddenly rasps, his breathing completely shattered. he gently but firmly pulls your head back by your hair, his chest heaving as he draws a long, shaky breath.

you blink up at him, your lips wet and flushed a deep red, your heart thumping violently. jay stares down at your face, his eyes incredibly heavy, full of a fierce, protective softness that completely melts his sharp features.

slowly, he reaches down, his thumb gently wiping away a drop of moisture from the corner of your mouth. a faint, breathless, and incredibly tender smile on his lips.

"you're a genius, newbie," jay whispers, his voice beautifully rough as he lightly taps your cheek. "lesson concluded. you're officially too good for this campus."

-------

when you arrive for the next lesson, the atmospheric pressure inside room 314 feels entirely different. the standard conversational buffer — the casual banter about classes, the lingering ghost of a mention of jake — is completely gone. when jay opens the door, he doesn’t say his usual witty greeting. he just looks at you, his dark eyes heavy and remarkably soft, and reaches down to gently take your bag from your hand, setting it by the desk.

"hey," he murmurs, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly timbre that instantly makes your pulse flutter.

"hey," you whisper back.

he closes the door with a quiet, deliberate click, locking it before turning back to you. he’s wearing a simple black t-shirt that clings to his broad shoulders, and his hair is a little messy, falling perfectly over his forehead. he doesn't wait for you to sit on the edge of the mattress; instead, he takes your hand, his long, warm fingers sliding effortlessly between yours, and guides you to the middle of the bed.

"we've spent a lot of time breaking down what makes a guy lose his mind," jay says softly, sitting down right in front of you, his knees brushing against your thighs. his free hand reaches up, his thumb gently tracing the line of your jaw, tilting your face up so you're forced to look directly into his eyes. "but that's only half the mechanics, newbie. you need to know what feels good for you, too. you need to know how your body reacts when someone is completely focused on you."

your breath catches, a fierce, sudden heat blooming across your chest. "jay..."

"i'm going to go slow, okay?" he interrupts gently, his eyes crinkling warmly at the corners with a reassuring, incredibly tender smile. "no rushing. i'm going to teach you exactly how you're supposed to be touched."

he leans forward, his lips pressing softly against your forehead, then your temple, before trailing down to the sensitive column of your neck. a violent, delicious shiver ripples through your entire body as he kisses his way back up to your jawline, his lips warm and unhurried.

"lay down for me, sweetheart," jay whispers against your skin, his hands moving to your waist to gently guide you back onto the pillows.

you slide down, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs as jay shifts, hovering over you, supported by his elbows on either side of your head. his gaze rakes over your flushed face, his expression so fiercely loving and sweet it makes your chest ache. he reaches down, his large, warm hand sliding under the hem of your top, his palm resting flat against the bare skin of your stomach. you let out a soft, sharp inhale at the sudden friction.

"just breathe," jay praises you, his voice a soft, comforting rumble as his fingers trail lower, gently nudging the waistband of your shorts. "let me do the work."

slowly, deliberately, he eases your clothes down, exposing the smooth skin of your thighs to the dim, warm air of the room. you instinctively try to pull your knees together, a sudden wave of shyness hitting you, but jay gently presses them apart, sliding his body between your legs to anchor you. he doesn't look away; his eyes stay locked onto yours as his fingers softly brush against the inner skin of your thigh, moving upward with agonizingly slow, light strokes.

"you are so beautiful, newbie," he murmurs, leaning down to press a deep, lingering kiss to your lips, tasting you fully before trailing his mouth down to your collarbone. "so pretty for me."

when his hand finally reaches the center of your heat, you let out a breathless, broken gasp, your fingers instantly clutching at the fabric of his t-shirt. his fingers are warm, incredibly gentle as they find the small, sensitive bundle of nerves. he starts with light, circular motions, his thumb sliding over the slick skin with a practiced, effortless rhythm.

"there you go," jay whispers against your neck, his hot breath fanning across your skin as he tracks the sudden, erratic hitch in your breathing. "feel that? that's the baseline. you just stay relaxed, let the heat build."

he introduces a single finger, sliding it slowly into your tight, wet heat. a soft, helpless moan escapes your throat, your hips instinctively lifting against his hand. jay lets out a low, rough hum of absolute approval deep in his chest, his finger moving in a slow, curling motion that targets a deep, heavy ache you didn't even know was there.

"look at me, sweetheart," he commands softly. you blink your eyes open, your vision slightly blurry from the sheer intensity of it, to find him staring down at you with an unvarnished, consuming intensity. "you're doing so good. you're so wet for me."

he continues the rhythm, his fingers moving inside you with a steady, heavy pace while his thumb keeps a relentless, agonizingly perfect pressure on your core. you feel the tension building rapidly, a hot, tight knot coiling tightly in your lower stomach. your hands tangle deep into his dark hair, pulling him closer as your breathing turns shallow and desperate.

"jay... jay," you whimpered, completely ungrounded by the overwhelming sensation.

"i've got you," he murmurs sweetly, kissing away the tears gathering at the corners of your eyes. he pulls his hand away for just a fraction of a second, making you let out a needy whine, before he shifts his body lower on the mattress.

he presses your knees open wider, his hands firmly gripping the undersides of your thighs to steady you. you look down through your lashes, your face burning a furious purple as jay leans his head down, his mouth replacing his fingers.

the first touch of his wet, warm tongue against your sensitive core makes your entire body arch off the mattress, a loud, unvarnished cry echoing through the quiet room. jay's hands tighten on your thighs, anchoring you completely as his tongue sweeps upward in long, firm strokes, applying a heavy, steady suction that sends a violent, electric current straight down your spine.

"oh my god," you sob out, your fingers desperately clutching at the bedsheets as the coiling tension inside you completely snaps.

jay doesn't stop. he works through your release, his tongue moving in a relentless, beautifully deep rhythm, drinking you in as your body trembles and shakes beneath him. he holds you steady through the intense waves, his mouth warm and unbelievably patient against your sensitive skin until the final tremors slowly begin to fade.

when he finally slides back up the mattress, his face is flushed, his dark eyes shining with a deep, triumphant softness. he pulls the blankets up over your shivering shoulders, immediately wrapping his broad arms around you and pulling your back flush against his chest in a tight, protective embrace.

he leans down, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the back of your warm neck.

"you did so perfect, newbie," jay whispers into your hair, his voice rough and beautifully thick as his large hand rests over your heart, feeling it hammer a frantic pace against his palm. "absolutely perfect."

the cool night air hits your face the moment you step out of the west quad, but it does absolutely nothing to cool the raging, white-hot fire burning beneath your skin. your limbs feel heavy, almost liquid, and every step you take on the concrete sidewalk feels strangely disconnected from reality.

the guilt catches up to you by the time you reach the campus quad. it settles into your stomach like a block of lead, heavy and suffocating.

you just had sex with jay park.

well, not full intercourse, but it was sexual. it was intimate. he touched you, he put his mouth on you, he held you through the most intense physical release of your life, and he wrapped his arms around you like you belonged to him. the raw, unvarnished memory of his wet tongue, his whispers of "sweetheart," and the protective warmth of his chest pressed against your back makes a violent shudder get to your core.

it's for jake, your brain screams, a frantic, high-pitched panic echoing in your head as you grip the straps of your tote bag until your knuckles turn white. the reason why you're doing this is for improving for jake. you're a newbie. you needed to know what a release felt like so you don't panic or freeze up when jake finally takes you to his bed. jay is just the instructor. he's a textbook. he has nothing to do with this.

but deep inside, in a dark, quiet corner of your soul that you are desperately trying to block out, you know it's a lie. you know text modules and posture corrections don't involve a guy worshiping your body until you're sobbing his name into his pillows.

still, you really try to convince yourself. you force the golden shield back into place, cementing the lie with sheer, stubborn willpower as you unlock the door to your apartment. yunjin's bedroom door is closed, the apartment blissfully dark. you tip-toe straight into your room, lock the door behind you, and collapse onto your bed without even changing out of your clothes.

the bed feels too big, too cold, and your skin is still tingling, practically begging for the touch that was just stripped away from it.

fine, you think desperately, staring up at the shadows on your ceiling. if it's for jake, prove it. fantasize about him.

your hands shake as you slide them down the denim of your shorts, slipping past the waistband to touch the lingering, hypersensitive heat between your thighs. you close your eyes tightly, forcing jake's face into your mind's eye. you picture the sweet way he ruffles your hair, the little Italian restaurant with the string lights, the gentle way he holds your hand across the table.

you start to move your fingers, replicating the exact circular rhythm jay had used on you just an hour ago. a soft, needy gasp escapes your lips into the quiet room. the heat builds rapidly, your body already primed and ready to boil over.

it's jake, you tell yourself, your breathing turning hurried as you pick up the pace. imagine jake doing this to you. imagine jake hovering over you in the dark.

you lean into the fantasy, letting the tight, coiling knot in your stomach take over. you bite your lip hard, letting your brain go insane — imagining the pretty sounds he’d make, mouth open in a slight “o” as his brows furrow, hair falling down, almost reaching that pretty nose adorned with the scar you love to feel between your—

wait.

jake doesn’t have a nose scar.

that’s jay.

your fingers freeze.

the world inside your bedroom completely grinds to a halt. you stare blankly at the dark ceiling, your hand slipping out from your shorts as if your skin had suddenly turned to ice. your heart is hammering, but it’s not from the pleasure anymore; it’s from pure, unadulterated terror.

you just pictured jay.

you were touching yourself, trying to build a future with the boy you’ve liked for months, and your brain completely bypassed him to conjure the exact, devastating image of jay park’s sharp jaw, his furrowed brows, and that tiny, pale scar cutting right across the bridge of his aristocratic nose.

a suffocating wave of reality hits you. it isn't jake. it has never been jake. not since you walked into room 314.

the next morning, the guilt is a physical sickness in your throat. you can’t look at your phone. when jake texts you a picture of a golden retriever he saw on his walk, you reply with a short, polite emoji, your stomach twisting into knots. you are entirely, completely compromised.

by monday afternoon, you know what you have to do. you can't keep going to room 314. if you walk back into that room, if you let him put his hands on your waist one more time, you will never be able to look jake sim in the eye again. you will lose the entire script.

with shaking thumbs, you open your chat with jay.

you: hey jay. i think we should stop the lessons. i think i have everything i need now. thank you for everything.

you hit send and immediately flip your phone face-down on your duvet, burying your face in your hands. you expect him to reply with his usual lazy, arrogant ‘sure thing, newbie’. you expect him to be relieved that his tutoring duties are officially over.

but three minutes later, your phone buzzes. then it buzzes again. and again.

jay: what do you mean? jay: did something happen? jay: newbie answer your phone. if i did something on thursday to make you uncomfortable you need to tell me. i told you we could go at your pace. did i pressure you?

the sheer, frantic panic in his messages makes your throat tighten. the cool, unbothered, perfectly composed jay park is completely gone, replaced by someone who sounds genuinely, deeply terrified that he hurt you.

you bite your lip, a stray tear slipping down your cheek as you type back.

you: no! no, jay, you didn't do anything wrong at all. you were perfect. it's just... things are getting serious with jake. he asked me out again this weekend. and since jake was the original purpose of the whole thing... i need to focus on him now. i have to be fair to him.

you watch the screen. the three little typing dots appear almost instantly. then they disappear. then they appear again. the silence stretching between your apartments feels agonizing.

finally, the phone buzzes one last time.

jay: right. the original purpose. jay: i get it. good luck this weekend, newbie. drive him crazy.

the text is so clinical, so brief, it feels like a physical slap. he doesn't fight it. he doesn't tease you. he just steps back into the box of the "instructor," closing the lid firmly behind him.

-------

the rest of the week passes in a gray, heavy blur. you don't go to the west quad. you take the long way around the library just so you don't have to risk seeing his tall silhouette walking past the glass windows.

friday night arrives, and you're sitting at the vanity in your bedroom, curling your hair for your second official date with jake. yunjin is leaning against your doorframe, watching you with a slight, curious frown.

"you're quiet today," yunjin notes, crossing her arms. "usually before a jake date you're bouncing off the walls. didn't your theoretical lessons with jay give you a confidence boost?"

"they did," you lie softly, your eyes fixed on your reflection. "i'm just... focused."

"well, jay's been acting weird too," yunjin shrugs, turning back toward the living room. "saw him at the student union yesterday. he looked like he hadn't slept in four days. completely tuned out."

your grip on the curling iron tightens so hard your palm aches. he's fine, you tell yourself desperately. he's jay park. he's glad to have his bed back to himself.

an hour later, you're sitting across from jake at a trendy, low-lit taco place downtown. the restaurant is loud, music bouncing off the brick walls. jake is looking at you with that sweet, boyish grin, talking animatedly about his soccer coach's ridiculous training schedule.

he's perfect. he's everything you wanted.

but as the noise of the restaurant swells, jake leans across the small wooden table, his face closing the distance to say something over the music. your brain immediately fires a memory — the heavy weight of jay's chest pressed against your back, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his low voice whispering 'we're in a quiet room, stop playing games with me.'

"hey," jake says, his hand reaching out to lightly tap your wrist. "you there? you looked like you were a million miles away."

"i'm here," you say, forcing a bright, sweet smile onto your face. "sorry, just listening."

when the date ends, jake walks you all the way back to your apartment building. the air on the porch is cool, the dim amber light of the streetlamp casting long shadows over the brick steps. it's the exact setup from a week ago. the final act.

jake stands close, his dark eyes looking down at you with a soft, undeniable affection. he reaches out, his fingers gently tucking a stray curl behind your ear. his hand is nice. it's sweet.

"i had a really great time tonight," jake whispers, leaning in slowly.

your heart spikes, your body automatically going rigid as you realize it’s happening. this is it. the practical application. jake tilts his head, his eyes dropping to your mouth before closing as he bridges the final inch.

his lips press against yours.

it is a perfectly nice kiss. it's gentle, polite, and safe. but as jake's mouth moves against yours, your brain does absolutely nothing. there is no white-hot rush of electricity. there is no heavy, suffocating gravity pulling at your soul. your hands stay flat against your sides, entirely lacking the desperate urge to slide beneath his shirt, to grip his broad shoulders, to tangle into his hair.

jake pulls back after a few seconds, a sweet, satisfied smile on his face. "goodnight," he murmurs, ruffling your hair gently before turning to walk down the steps.

you stand on the porch in the quiet night air, staring at his retreating back. your lips feel completely cold. your skin feels entirely empty. and as you turn the key in your apartment lock, a crushing, definitive truth finally breaks through the last of your defenses.

the lessons didn't prepare you for jake sim. they ruined you for anyone who isn't jay park.

-------

you keep trying.

you really, truly do. you go on a third date with jake to an indie movie theater, and a fourth date where he cooks dinner for you at his apartment. he is everything a boyfriend should be — attentive, sweet, incredibly handsome, and completely respectful. but every time he holds your hand, your fingers feel numb. every time he leans down to kiss you goodnight on your porch, your mind is a completely flat, silent room.

there are no shivers. there is no gravelly voice whispering “breathe, newbie” against your skin. there is no heavy, intoxicating scent of sandalwood.

you are physically with jake sim, but you are entirely haunted by jay park.

you miss him. you miss him so much it feels like a physical ache in the center of your chest. you miss the arrogant, lazy smirks that you eventually learned how to kiss right off his face. you miss the way his large, warm hands felt sliding underneath your sweater. you miss the breathless, quiet aftercare where he would just stroke your hair and tell you you did perfect.

you haven't received a single text from him in two weeks. your chat history sits at the bottom of your messages, a cold, clinical reminder of "the original purpose."

then comes tuesday afternoon.

you’re sitting on the living room rug of your apartment, your knees pulled to your chest as you stare blankly at a textbook you haven't actually read a page of in thirty minutes. yunjin is sitting on the couch right behind you, painting her toenails a vibrant shade of cherry red.

the apartment is completely quiet except for the rhythmic swipe, swipe of her nail brush.

"hey," yunjin speaks up suddenly, not looking up from her pinky toe. "so, i ran into jake at the gym earlier today."

your shoulders instantly tighten. "oh. yeah?"

"yeah. he was glowing, honestly," yunjin says, finally capping the nail polish and leaning back against the cushions. she looks down at the top of your head, her sharp eyes narrowing in a familiar, hyper-observant squint. "he said things are going amazingly with you. he literally told me you're the most perfect, sweet girl he’s ever met."

you let out a tiny, hollow sound that is supposed to be a laugh, but it sounds incredibly sad. "that's... nice."

"so..." yunjin trails off, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her knees. her voice drops into a lighter, teasing tone. "come on. spill. how are the advanced lessons going? did jay's theoretical tutoring actually work? did he give you the magic playbook or what?"

at the mention of his name, something inside you completely snaps.

the two weeks of suffocating guilt, the crushing weight of the lies, the phantom feeling of jay's mouth on yours, and the sheer, exhausting misery of pretending to be happy with jake all come crashing down at once. your eyes suddenly sting with hot, angry tears, and a shaky, broken sob escapes your throat before you can even think to mask it.

yunjin freezes. her jaw practically drops to the floor as she watches your shoulders violently shake, your face burying themselves into your knees.

"wait— oh my god, hey," yunjin stammers, instantly sliding off the couch and dropping to the rug beside you. she wraps a panicked arm around your shoulders, pulling you close. "what's wrong? did jake do something? did he hurt you? i will literally fight him right now—"

"no!" you sob out, your voice muffled and thick with tears as you shake your head against your knees. "no, jake didn't do anything! jake is perfect! he's so sweet!"

"then why are you crying like someone died?" yunjin asks, completely bewildered, her hand rubbing your back in a comforting motion. "if jake is perfect, what's wrong?"

you lift your head, your face a catastrophic, tear-stained shade of purple, your chest heaving as you look at your best friend.

"it's jay," you choke out, the truth finally tearing its way out of your chest.

yunjin blinks, her eyebrows furrowing in deep confusion. "jay? jay park? what does he have to do with you crying about jake?"

"the lessons," you whisper, a fresh wave of tears spilling over your lashes. "they... they weren't theoretical, yunjin. i lied to you. i lied to everyone."

yunjin’s entire body goes completely still. her grip on your shoulder tightens as she stares at you, the dots in her highly perceptive brain suddenly trying to connect a picture she never expected to see. "what do you mean they weren't theoretical?"

"we... we did a practical lesson, a lot of them, actually," you confess, your voice cracking with pure, unadulterated embarrassment, but the relief of finally saying it out loud is a physical weight lifting off your lungs. "the first few weeks were just talking, but then... when he was telling me how to kiss someone correctly, i panicked because i thought i'd be bad at kissing jake. so i asked jay for a real example. and he kissed me."

yunjin’s eyes widen to the size of literal dinner saucers. "jay kissed you?"

"yes," you whine, covering your face with your hands. "and then it happened again. and again. and then we started meeting almost every single day. we weren't even studying anymore, yunjin. i would sit on his lap for a whole hour and we just made out on and on. and then last week... we... we did some more things, and he showed me what felt good for me, too. with his hands, and his— his mouth."

yunjin lets out a sharp, breathless gasp, her hand flying over her mouth. she looks completely, utterly flabbergasted, her jaw practically unhinged. "oh my god. oh my god. you and jay... you guys were sleeping together?"

"not all the way! but yes!" you cry out, pulling your hands away from your face, looking at her desperately. "and the whole time, i kept telling myself it was for jake. i kept saying 'oh, i'm just a newbie getting hands-on experience so i can be good for jake'. i even tried to touch myself thinking about jake afterwards, but yunjin... when i closed my eyes, all i could see was jay. i saw his face, and his hair, and his nose scar."

yunjin is staring at you like you’ve just spoken to her in a foreign language. she is completely speechless, processing the absolute bombshell you just dropped into her living room.

"so... so i stopped the lessons, everything," you whisper, your voice dropping to a broken, miserable murmur as you look down at your lap. "i texted him and told him i had to focus on jake. and he just said okay. and now i'm going on these dates with jake, and he's so nice, yunjin, he really is... but i… don't feel anything. when jake kisses me, it's just... cold. i don't want jake to touch me. i just want jay. i miss him so much it hurts, and i'm a horrible person because i used him as a textbook and now i've completely ruined everything."

you bury your face back in your hands, your shoulders shaking as you let the final wave of tears take over, waiting for yunjin to lecture you, to tell you how reckless you were, or to tell you how completely messy this entire situation is.

instead, yunjin lets out a long, slow, and incredibly deep exhale. she reaches out, gently pulling your hands away from your face, forcing you to look at her. the initial shock on her face has melted away, replaced by a look of sheer, unbelievable realization.

"my love," yunjin says slowly, her voice completely serious. "are you actually an idiot?"

you blink through your tears, sniffing. "what?"

"you think you used jay park?" yunjin asks, letting out a wild, disbelieving laugh. "are we talking about the same jay park? the guy who has half the girls on the humanities campus begging for a text back? the guy who doesn't let anyone into his personal space, let alone his dorm room?"

you wipe your eyes with the back of your sleeve, confused. "but... it was a casual thing. he was just being a good instructor..."

"oh my god, you are a literal child," yunjin groans, throwing her hands up in the air. "listen to me. jay fucking park did not give you a 'practical lesson' because he cares about your future with jake sim. he did not spend an hour letting you straddle his lap and eat his face because he’s a dedicated tutor. he did those things because he is completely, utterly obsessed with you, you absolute moron!"

the conversation with yunjin stays ringing in your ears for the rest of the week, a loud, echoing truth that makes your chest feel completely hollow. he is completely, utterly obsessed with you. you want to believe it. god, you want to believe it so bad, but the memory of his final text — ‘good luck this weekend, newbie. drive him crazy.’ — stands like a massive brick wall between you and room 314.

and then, jake texts you.

it’s not a casual, low-effort ‘grab coffee?’ or a late-night invite to watch him play soccer. he sends a long, beautifully constructed message, asking you on a proper, official date to a high-end jazz lounge downtown that requires a reservation weeks in advance. he tells you he’s been noticing your new confidence lately — the way you hold yourself, the lingering eye contact, the ease in your posture — and that he likes you. a lot. he wants to make things official.

a month ago, a text like that would have made you collapse onto your bedroom floor in pure, unadulterated ecstasy. it was the ultimate finish line. the exact gold medal you had been sweating and crying for under jay's brutal, meticulous guidance.

so, you say yes. you force yourself to put on your prettiest dress, you spend an hour doing your makeup, and you walk down the steps of your building to meet jake’s car.

the jazz lounge is beautiful. the dim, amber lighting reflects off the polished mahogany tables, the music is soft and smooth, and jake looks incredibly handsome in a dark blazer. he handles the evening perfectly. he pulls out your chair, he orders the best wine on the menu, and he looks at you with a heavy, sweet admiration that makes your cheeks warm.

"you look absolutely stunning tonight," jake murmurs, reaching across the white tablecloth to gently squeeze your fingers. "honestly, i feel like a different girl walked down the steps today. you've always been gorgeous, but lately... there's just something about you. you're so captivating."

you force a soft smile, nodding your head. "thank you, jake. that's... really sweet."

but as his fingers linger on yours, the crushing reality of the evening finally settles over you.

it’s nice. it’s objectively perfect. but it feels completely, utterly empty.

you sit there, listening to the saxophone player on the stage, and you find yourself looking at the way jake laughs. it’s a nice laugh, but it doesn't make your stomach do a violent, hot flip. you look at his hands, and you realize you don't have the slightest urge to slip your fingers beneath his cuffs. you look at his lips, and the thought of his mouth on yours doesn't make your breath catch.

and in that exact, agonizing moment, the grand illusion you've been clinging to for weeks finally shatters into a million jagged pieces.

you aren't projecting. you aren't using jay as a proxy.

you are deeply, completely, and irrevocably in love with park jay.

the realization hits you with the force of a physical blow, making your breath leave your lungs in a sharp, silent gasp. it isn't just about the mechanics or the white-hot heat of his mattress. it’s the way his dark eyes soften into a fierce, protective warmth whenever you look up at him through your lashes. it’s the patient, steady way he guides you when you panic, never pushing, always making sure you feel safe. it’s the quiet, breathless aftercare where he brushes the hair from your forehead, calling you sweetheart in a voice so thick and honest it makes your soul ache. it’s the easy, effortless way you laugh together between the heavy tension, the real, undeniable connection that you built brick by brick in that small, sandalwood-scented dorm room.

jay didn't teach you how to love jake sim. jay taught you how to love him.

"hey," jake's voice breaks through your thoughts, his brow furrowing with genuine concern as he leans in closer. "are you okay? you're really pale suddenly."

you look at jake — at his kind, sweet face — and you realize that staying here, pretending to be the girl he wants, is the cruelest thing you could possibly do to him. you can't live a lie anymore. the script is over.

"jake," you whisper, your voice trembling as you gently pull your hand back from his grip. "i'm... i'm so sorry. i can't do this."

jake blinks, completely caught off guard. "what? did i say something wrong?"

"no, you're perfect," you say, a tear finally spilling over your lashes as you grab your purse from the back of the chair. "you are absolutely wonderful, jake, i swear. but... my heart is somewhere else. it’s been somewhere else for a long time, and it’s not fair to keep dragging you into it. i’m so, so sorry."

before he can even process the words, you stand up from the table and walk — almost run — straight out of the jazz lounge, leaving the music behind you.

the moment you hit the cool night air of the sidewalk, you don't call a cab. you don't go back to your apartment to cry to yunjin. you sprint.

your heels click loudly against the concrete as you rush toward the west quad, your lungs burning, your heart hammering a desperate, terrifying rhythm against your ribs. the wind completely ruins your curled hair, and your breath comes in short, ragged gasps, but you don't care. the only thing that matters is the distance between you and room 314, and you need to eliminate it right now.

you burst through the heavy glass doors of his building, practically flying up the stairs three at a time because the elevator is too slow, too claustrophobic for the sudden, desperate panic roaring through your veins.

you reach the third floor, your chest heaving as you run down the carpeted hallway until you're standing directly in front of his heavy wooden door.

you don't wait to compose yourself. you don't brace your shoulders or try to be normal. you lift your shaking hand and knock against the wood, loudly, your whole body trembling in the quiet corridor.

the heavy wooden door swings open almost immediately, the sudden movement revealing jay standing in the entryway. he’s wearing an oversized black hoodie and matching sweatpants, his dark hair messy as if he’d been running his fingers through it repeatedly.

the second his dark eyes lock onto you, he freezes. his gaze sweeps over your ruined curls, the formal dress you’re wearing, the rapid rise and fall of your chest, and the fresh tears spilling over your cheeks.

"newbie?" jay rasps, his voice completely stripping of its usual calm, unbothered composure. he steps forward, his hands instantly coming up to hover near your shoulders, completely shocked. "what— what are you doing here? why are you crying? did something happen with jake? did he hurt you? i swear to god i'll kill—"

"i'm in love with you," you blurts out, the words tearing out of your throat in a shaky, breathless sob before he can even finish his sentence.

jay stops dead in his tracks. his hands freeze in mid-air, his jaw dropping open just a fraction as his entire body goes completely rigid. the quiet corridor feels extremely silent, the heavy weight of your words hanging in the space between you.

"i'm in love with you," you repeat, a fresh wave of hot tears blurring your vision as you look up at his face. you feel incredibly shy, completely stripped of your armor, your voice dropping to a small, trembling whisper. "i went on the date with jake. he was perfect, jay. he took me to that jazz lounge, and he held my hand, and he told me i was beautiful... but it felt completely empty. i didn't want him to touch me. i didn't want him to kiss me. because the whole time, the only person i could think about was you. i thought about how you look at me, and how safe i feel when you hold me, and... and i realized i've been lying to myself for weeks. i don't want jake. i want you. i've always wanted you."

jay stares down at you, his expression completely blank for three long, agonizing seconds. you feel a sudden, terrifying wave of panic hit your stomach, convinced you’ve just made the biggest mistake of your life.

then, jay’s shoulders start to shake.

he drops his head back, a sudden, sharp bark of laughter escaping his lips. he keeps laughing, a breathless, rough sound that makes your heart sink into your shoes. he’s laughing at me, you think completely mortified, stepping back a fraction. yunjin was wrong, he thinks i'm pathetic—

before you can even take a full step away, jay moves.

his large hands shoot forward, wrapping securely around your waist, and with one heavy, desperate pull, he yanks you forward into his dorm room. the door slams shut behind you with a loud, final click, and suddenly, you are crushed completely against his broad chest.

jay wraps his strong arms around you, burying his face deep into the crook of your neck, holding you so tight it’s almost bruising. you can feel the heavy, erratic thumping of his heart against your ribs, his whole body trembling slightly as he holds you like you’re about to disappear.

"jay?" you squeak out, your hands hesitantly coming up to clutch at the thick fabric of his black hoodie.

"i'm not laughing at you, newbie," jay murmurs against your skin, his voice thick, ragged, and completely devoid of his usual arrogance. he lets out another low, disbelieving chuckle right into your hair, his grip tightening. "i'm just... i'm in complete disbelief. i can't believe you're actually standing here saying this to me."

he slowly draws his head back, keeping his large hands firmly anchored on your waist so you can't move away. his dark eyes are incredibly heavy, looking down at your tear-stained face with a raw, consuming tenderness that completely melts your heart.

"you are such a moron," jay whispers, a soft, beautiful smile finally breaking across his sharp features. "you really thought this was all just a clinical lesson for me? you think i let you straddle my lap for a whole hour because i'm a dedicated tutor?"

you sniff, looking up at him through your lashes. "yunjin said..."

"yunjin was right," jay interrupts softly, his thumb rising to gently wipe away a stray tear from your cheek, his touch unbelievably sweet. "i’ve liked you for weeks, sweetheart. even a month, probably. do you have any idea what it was like for me to sit in that chair and listen to you ramble on about jake sim every single week? i hated it. i hated every single time his name left your mouth. i wanted to throw him across the campus every time you showed me a text from him."

you blink, your heart spiking. "then why didn't you say anything?"

"because i was terrified," jay admits honestly, his jaw clenching slightly as his dark eyes lock onto yours. "you came to me so innocent, so focused on this dream you had of being with him. i was so scared that if i told you how i felt, i would pressure you. i was scared i'd ruin your confidence, or make you feel trapped in the lessons. i didn't want to hurt your feelings. so when you texted me on monday saying you were done..."

he pauses, his breathing turning shallow as he leans his forehead lightly against yours, his hot breath fanning across your lips.

"i was resigned," he whispers, his voice dropping to a gravelly, vulnerable register. "i decided to just let you go to him. i thought, if jake makes her happy, i'll just step back and let her have her perfect boyfriend. it almost killed me, newbie. i haven't slept a full hour since monday."

hearing his confession makes your chest ache with a sudden, overwhelming wave of love. you lift your hands, your fingers tangling deep into the soft, dark hair at the back of his neck, pulling him that final, microscopic inch closer.

"you don't have to let me go," you whisper directly against his lips. "i'm right here."

"yeah," jay murmurs, his dark eyes flashing with that familiar, possessive heat right before his mouth crashes onto yours. "you're right here."

the weight of his confession still hangs in the air of his room, but the heavy emotional armor you’ve both been wearing for weeks has completely shattered. your fingers are knotted so tightly in the dark hair at the back of his neck that your knuckles ache, your body pulling flush against his broad chest until there is absolutely no space left between you.

jay doesn't give you a single second to breathe. the moment your lips touch, the familiar, intoxicating taste of him rushes over you, but this time, the desperate restraint he had been clinging to during the "lessons" is completely gone. his mouth crashes into yours with a raw, possessive hunger that makes your knees instantly turn to water. it isn't a demonstration. it isn't a baseline. it is a fierce, consuming claim that leaves you both dizzy.

"jay," you gasp against his lips, a soft, helpless sound escaping your throat as his mouth slides hungrily down your jawline, his teeth gently nipping at the sensitive skin right beneath your ear.

"i've got you," jay rasps, his voice an incredibly deep, gravelly vibration against your neck. "i've got you, sweetheart. you're not going anywhere."

his large hands slide down from your waist, his broad palms gripping the undersides of your thighs with a sudden, bruising force. with one effortless, powerful lift, jay hoists you completely off the ground. you let out a sharp gasp, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carries you the three short steps over to his bed, collapsing both of you onto the unmade blankets.

the impact is soft, but the physical heat between you is instantly blinding. jay hovers directly over you, his heavy frame anchoring you to the mattress, his dark hair falling messy across his forehead as he looks down at your flushed, breathless face. his eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them, blazing with a fierce, protective intensity that makes your heart thump wildly against your ribs.

"look at you," jay whispers, his chest heaving under his black hoodie as his thumb traces the swollen, red curve of your bottom lip. "you're actually here. in my bed. telling me you want me."

"i do," you breathe out, your hands sliding beneath the hem of his hoodie to press your bare palms flat against the warm, defined muscles of his lower back. "i want you so bad, jay."

a low, ragged growl catches in his throat at the touch of your bare skin. he leans back down, his mouth devouring yours in a deep, wet, frantic rhythm that completely shatters the last of your control. his tongue slides possessively over yours, guiding your mouth to open wider, drinking in every single soft, broken moan you make.

the physical friction escalates instantly. jay shifts his weight, his heavy hips settling right between your thighs, the thick, rigid length of his arousal pressing hard through his sweatpants directly against your core. your dress is hiked up around your waist, leaving only the thin fabric of your underwear between your bodies. instinctively, a desperate, white-hot hunger takes over your body, and your hips tilt upward, a slow, heavy grind against his lap as you chase the unbearable pressure.

"fuck," jay groans directly into your mouth, his eyes flying shut as his entire body goes completely rigid at the sudden friction. his hands move to your hips, his long fingers digging into your skin to hold you still, but the desperate, needy roll of your pelvis makes a rough, unvarnished swear escape his lips. "newbie... shit, hold on. you're going to break me."

"no," you whine, your hands slipping out from his hoodie to clutch tightly at his broad shoulders, your eyes fluttering open to look up at him through your lashes. "don't stop, jay. please. i've been thinking about this for weeks."

the admission completely breaks his remaining restraint. jay lets out a sharp, ragged exhale and lets his hips move, matching your upward tilts with a heavy, rhythmic grind of his own. the dry humping is agonizingly perfect, the thick, hard pressure of his length rubbing relentlessly against your hyper-sensitive core through the fabric of his clothes. every single slide makes your head spin, your fingers digging deep into the soft cotton of his hoodie as you arch your back off the mattress, a loud, unvarnished cry echoing through the quiet room.

"yes, just like that," jay murmurs, his voice a ragged, breathless rasp as he buries his face back in your neck, his lips pressing a trail of burning, wet kisses along your collarbone. "let me feel you. god, you're so hot, sweetheart. you feel so fucking good."

he shifts the angle of his hips, grinding harder, deeper, targeting the exact spot that makes your whole body tremble. you lose all track of time, completely drowning in the suffocating heat of his body, the rough friction between your thighs, and the intoxicating, raw intimacy of hearing him lose his mind beneath your touch. his chest is heaving violently against yours, his breathing shallow and rough as his hips thrust down in a fast, desperate rhythm that brings you both dangerously close to the edge.

"jay," you sob out, your head tossing back against the pillows, your core weeping with a desperate, heavy ache that dry humping can no longer satisfy. "jay, please. i don't want the clothes anymore. i want to feel you. really feel you."

jay stops his movement instantly. he draws back, his chest rising and falling in deep, ragged gasps as he looks down at you. his face is flushed, his eyes clouded with a fierce, overwhelming hunger, but beneath the passion, that deep, protective tenderness returns with a beautiful clarity.

"newbie," he whispers, his hands gently framing your face, his thumbs wiping away the tears from your cheeks. "are you sure? your first time... i want it to be perfect for you. i don't want to rush this."

"i'm sure," you say, your voice remarkably steady despite the anxious beating of your heart. you look straight into his dark eyes, your fingers rising to gently trace the tiny pale scar on his nose that had given the lie away. "i love you, jay. i want it to be you. teach me the rest."

a profound, heavy silence settles over the room, the raw emotion of your words melting away the last remnants of the old "lessons." this isn't an educational baseline anymore. this is a confession, a complete surrender, and jay handles it with a reverence that makes your eyes sting with happy tears.

"okay," jay whispers, his voice dropping into a soft, beautifully thick register. "okay, sweetheart."

slowly, deliberately, he sits back on his heels. his large, warm hands move to the hem of your dress, gently and carefully sliding the fabric up over your hips, your waist, and over your head, tossing it onto the floor. his eyes track the movement, his gaze raking over your exposed skin with an unvarnished, breathless admiration that makes you feel completely worshiped. he reaches down, his long fingers hooking into the sides of your underwear, easing them down your legs until you are completely bare beneath him.

"you are so beautiful," jay murmurs, his voice shaking slightly as he leans down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your bare stomach. "absolutely perfect."

he stands up briefly, pulling the black hoodie over his head and kicking his sweatpants away, revealing his broad, heavily defined chest and the thick, white-hot length of his arousal. when he slides back onto the mattress, the sheer, raw heat of his naked skin making contact with yours sends a violent shock of adrenaline through your veins.

he hovers over you again, but this time, he doesn't immediately move to progress things. he takes his time. his large, warm hand slides down your side, his palm resting flat against your hip as he gently coaxes your knees apart, sliding his body between your thighs. he leans down, his mouth sealing over yours in a slow, agonizingly sweet kiss that tastes of absolute devotion. his fingers slide down, finding the slick, dripping heat between your legs, and he uses two fingers to slowly stroke your core, priming you, making sure you are completely prepared for him.

"relax for me," jay whispers against your lips, his thumb applying a steady, heavy pressure that makes your hips instinctively lift. "i'm going to go so slow, sweetheart. if it hurts, you tell me to stop. understand?"

"i understand," you whimper, your fingers tangling into his dark hair, pulling his face down so you can kiss him again.

jay pulls his hand away, the sudden loss of contact making you let out a needy whine, but then you feel the heavy, smooth head of his shaft aligning directly against your tight, wet opening. the sheer thickness of him makes your breath hitch, your hands instantly clutching at the firm muscles of his shoulders.

"look at me," jay commands softly, his voice a low, gravelly purr.

you blink your eyes open, your vision slightly blurry from the sheer intensity of the moment, to find him staring down at you with a consuming, fierce possessiveness. his dark eyes are entirely focused on yours, locking you in place.

slowly, with an agonizingly careful, steady pressure, jay sinks his hips down.

the initial stretch is tight, a sharp, white-hot pinch of discomfort making your eyes widen as a soft, broken gasp escapes your parted lips. your body automatically tenses beneath him, your fingers digging deep into the skin of his shoulders.

instantly, jay stops. he freezes in place, only a fraction of his length inside you, his jaw clenching hard as he battles his own primal urge to thrust. a thin layer of sweat glistening on his skin, but his entire focus remains totally on your comfort.

"i know, i know," jay murmurs sweetly, his face dipping down to press a series of soft, comforting kisses to your eyelids, your burning cheeks, and the tip of your nose. "breathe through your nose, newbie. just like i taught you. let your body adapt to me."

he reaches down, his large hand finding your core again, his thumb rubbing slow, heavy circles against your sensitive skin while he stays perfectly still inside you. the steady, masterful friction slowly melts away the sharp pinch, replacing the discomfort with a deep, heavy wave of slick, throbbing heat. your muscles slowly relax, opening up around him, practically begging for the rest of his weight.

"jay," you whisper, your hips giving a tiny, tentative upward nudge. "more. please."

"good girl," jay rasps, a low, broken hum of absolute approval escaping his chest.

he shifts his hands, wrapping his long fingers securely around your waist, anchoring you to the mattress. slowly, smoothly, he pushes his hips down the rest of the way, burying his entire length deep inside your tight, wet heat. a loud, unvarnished cry tears out of your throat, your legs instinctively wrapping tightly around his waist to pull him even closer as the sheer, overwhelming fullness of him completely consumes your senses.

jay lets out a deep, guttural groan, his head burying themselves into the crook of your neck as he stays completely buried inside you for three long, breathless seconds, letting you adjust to the magnificent weight of him.

"you're so tight, sweetheart," jay whispers, his voice completely ungrounded, shaking with a raw emotion that has absolutely nothing to do with a lesson. "you feel so perfect around me. fuck. you're mine. you know that, right? you're completely mine now."

"i'm yours," you sob out, your hands sliding up his back, feeling the unsteady rhythm of his heart beneath your fingers. "i'm yours, jay."

when he finally begins to move, it is the furthest thing from the clinical, calculated pacing of before. it is slow, incredibly deep, and heavy with a fierce, possessive passion. jay draws his hips back until he is almost entirely out, making you let out a needy, panicked gasp, before sliding back in with a long, smooth stroke that drives straight to the center of your ache.

“ah— jay!” you cry out, your head tossing back against the pillows as the relentless, deep rhythm takes over the small room.

he guides you through every single movement. when your breathing gets too frantic, jay uses his grip on your waist to lift your hips slightly, slowing the pace down, lingering deep inside you until your breath catches in sync with his. his mouth is everywhere — kissing your lips, your jaw, biting softly on your neck, leaving dark, faint marks on your skin that say louder than words exactly who you belong to.

"you're doing so good for me, baby," jay praises you, his voice a heavy rumble right against your ear. his breathing is completely shattered, his chest slick with sweat as it crushes against yours with every single deep, driving thrust. "look at you. you're taking all of me so perfectly. so pretty for me, sweetheart."

the explicit, loving praises send jolts of pure electricity straight down your spine. you grow bolder, your fingers digging into his hips as you match his pace, lifting your pelvis to meet his downward thrusts, creating a flawless, sharp friction that completely breaks his remaining restraint.

the pacing quickly turns heated, the slow tenderness fracturing beneath a sudden, overwhelming wave of raw, unadulterated passion. jay's dark brows furrow in a look of pure agony, swears escaping his lips with every single heavy, pounding thrust. he moves faster, deeper, his hips crashing against yours with a bruising, desperate force that makes the entire bed shake.

"jay... jay, i'm close," you sob out, the tight, hot knot in your lower stomach coiling so tightly you can barely breathe. your fingers tangle desperately into his damp hair, pulling him down, needing his mouth on yours as your climax approaches.

jay snaps his eyes open, his dark gaze locking onto yours with a terrifying, beautiful amount of gravity. "look at me," he rasps, his hips thrusting deep, holding you completely still beneath him. "look at me when you break, sweetheart. let me see you."

you look up through your lashes, staring straight into his cloudless, fierce eyes as he delivers three fast, incredibly deep thrusts. the coiling tension inside you completely snaps, a blinding wave of pure, white-hot release crashing over your entire body. you let out a loud, broken cry, your inner muscles clamping tightly around his length in violent, pulsing spasms.

the sudden, tight friction completely breaks jay's remaining control. he lets out a deep, guttural cry against your mouth, his jaw clenching so hard the veins stand out against his neck as his hips give one final, breathless thrust, burying himself as deep as physically possible inside you as his own release hits him.

jay stays buried deep inside you for a long moment, his chest pressed flush against your back as both of you come down from the high. his lips brush lazy, open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder, like he can’t stop touching you even now.

“are you okay, pretty?” he murmurs, voice rough and low against your skin.

you nod, still catching your breath, a shy smile tugging at your lips. “more than okay.”

he hums in satisfaction and carefully pulls out, immediately rolling you over so you’re facing him. his large hand slides up your side, gentle and possessive at the same time, as he tucks you against his chest. for a while, neither of you speaks. the only sounds are your slowing heartbeats and the distant hum of campus life outside his window.

jay’s fingers trace slow circles on your bare back.

“so,” he says after a long beat, that familiar lazy grin creeping into his voice, “how do you feel now that you’ve graduated from my lessons?”

you let out a soft laugh, hiding your burning face in the crook of his neck. “i feel like an idiot.”

“yeah?” he chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest. “took you long enough to figure it out.”

you pull back just enough to look at him, your fingers brushing the tiny scar on his nose. “why didn’t you say anything sooner? all those weeks… you just kept teaching me like it didn’t kill you every time i mentioned jake.”

jay’s expression softens. he cups your cheek, thumb stroking your skin with surprising tenderness.

“because you came to me wanting help to get another guy,” he says quietly. “i wasn’t going to be the asshole who messed with your head while you were vulnerable. even if it sucked. even if i wanted to throw my laptop across the room every time you showed me his texts.”

he leans in and kisses you slowly, deeply — nothing like the heated frenzy from earlier. this one feels like a promise.

when he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

“for the record,” he murmurs, smiling again, “you were never going to end up with jake. not after the first time you asked me for a ‘practical example.’ i knew it then. you were already mine.”

you groan, embarrassed but smiling. “you’re so cocky.”

“and you love it.”

you do.

jay pulls the blanket higher over your shoulders and wraps both arms around you, holding you like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go. his lips brush your temple.

“no more lessons,” he whispers. “no more pretending. just this. just us.”

you press a soft kiss to his collarbone, already drifting off in the warmth of his embrace.

“just us,” you echo.

as sleep starts to pull you under, you feel jay smile against your hair.

“goodnight, newbie.”

you smile sleepily.

“goodnight, professor park.”

© jongst4r, 2026

taglist: @solonenova, @neabrownn, @drowsypanther, @redessertired, @pinkdazed, @enhypenlvrsstuff, @strwberrylhs, @insignificantlillady, @vanillakirstein, @jaeynslutt, @d2iose, @gchirpy, @k13endall, @phjayyy, @unnatrual, @kookiesnkim, @kpopishgirlie, @kaejua, @ineedjaeyun, @moonchild-31, @cortised, @borderdaytwo, @wonrlls, @heartsski, @dollhoonki, @kristynaaah, @d1m-cataclysm, @bitemhoon, @wh0re4deonnu, @cutehoons02, @missoxy, @ahgasedaddz, @hoonie-luvr, @fixonfairy, @letwiiparkjay, @celeyy7

[icupsaki]

may you never forget me

synopsis: in which heeseung spots you in the crowd and realises that his past lover has been reincarnated once again. however this time around, he definitely isn't letting you go.

pairing: idol!lee heeseung x f!reader

genre: historical (joseon era) au, modern au, romance, past lovers, red string theory (sort of), bittersweet, reincarnation, dual timeline, vampire!heeseung

cw: angst, major character death, blood/violence, attempted suicide, implied that reader has depression, age gap relationship, fluff, yearning from both sides, porn with plot, unprotected sex, power dynamics, unestablished relationships, dubcon (heeseung uses vampire hypnosis once), dom/sub, oral (m receiving), fingering, choking, rough sex, manhandling but it’s consensual, possessive!heeseung, slight breathplay, overstimulation, biting, spanking, brat tamer(?)!heeseung, implied multiple rounds, sort of emotional manipulation on heeseung's side, reader is also hinted to have social anxiety, heeseung takes advantage of this, no use of y/n, semi proofread (sorry for any mistakes)

word count: around 19k (i don't even know how this happened)

MDNI

the stadium pulsed with noise.

lights flashed across thousands of raised phones, white and silver beams sweeping over the crowd like waves. somewhere to your right, a girl was crying so hard she could barely scream his name out anymore.

but that was understandable, in your eyes at least.

it was lee heeseung, after all.

on the massive screen above the stage, his face appeared again alongside his members, sweat-damp hair falling into dark eyes, breath uneven from dancing all night.

you were so close to the stage, standing in the pit. your throat burned from screaming too, though your voice had long disappeared many songs ago.

heeseung drew you in so much, but it almost didn't feel voluntary. not in the way that you were being forced to like him, but in the way that you felt as if you were bound to love him. your chest ached so violently watching him smile that you had to press a hand against it.

heeseung steps forward, microphone lifted effortlessly as the opening notes of the final chorus rang through the stadium. the cameras follow him with ease. for a moment, he tilts his head slightly, eyes skimming over the crowd out of habit.

that's when his eyes land on you.

you think it's just a lucky glance, him simply sparing his gaze across the sea of people like usual. he never pulls away.

for a second, his expression falters, and that's when you can confirm that his eyes are on you. it's subtle enough for nobody else to notice, as he pulls away shortly after.

your breath catches in your throat from the way he looked at you like he knew you somehow, which would be impossible. maybe you reminded him of somebody?

heeseung avoids your side of the stage for a remainder of the night, only returning toward the end. every time he drifts near that side again, his gaze stays deliberately elsewhere, toward the upper sections, the cameras, his members, anywhere but you.

idols are trained to look everywhere. to make every fan feel seen, but he avoids your eyes so carefully it almost feels intentional.

by the final song, you’ve nearly convinced yourself you imagined the entire thing. maybe he wasn't looking at you at all.

confetti spills from the ceiling in silver streams, disappearing beneath flashing lights and deafening screams. the members bow beside him, smiling breathlessly as they thank the crowd.

after he bows too, he looks up, straight at you.

you blink, your heart pounding extra hard. this time, the hurt in his expression is unmistakeable. he looks like he's in some sort of pain.

the concert is basically over after that, and enhypen say good bye to all of their fans. you go home, tired after the commute home. you can't stop thinking of the way heeseung looked at you tonight, even if it was just you being delusional.

you don't fall asleep like you usually do. at first, you lie on your back staring at the ceiling, phone face-down beside you, unable to get anywhere after shutting your eyes.

every time you try to think about something else, your mind slips back to him, despite being exhausted. you turn onto your side, pulling the blanket up even though you’re not even cold. the concert noise fades in your memory.

your thoughts slow down, one by one, finally. the room around you gets softer at the edges. eventually, your grip on the blanket loosens without you noticing.

right before you fully drift off, there’s one last strange, quiet image that slips through your mind.

it's similar to falling snow behind your eyes.

snow falls quietly onto dark stone next to you.

"is it really that time of the year already, joo-mi?" you ask, reaching your hand out to let more snow fall onto the palm of your hand.

your servant, joo-mi, stands next to you, nodding her head. "i believe so, my lady."

"it's colder than i remember. compared to last year, at least." you mumble, watching how the flakes of snow dissolve on your skin.

you curl your fingers slightly, as if you might be able to hold onto the winter itself. the courtyard is empty at this late hour apart from you and joo-mi. oh, and the singular guard standing at the entrance.

shifting beside you, joo-mi lowers her gaze respectfully. "winter has arrived earlier, my lady. the elders mentioned that it would be a long one."

you hum softly in response, though your attention is already elsewhere. the mountains beyond the perimeters of the estate.

you stare at them for a moment longer than you mean to.

there is something about them tonight. something that draws you in. anywhere away from this place would do you justice, honestly. you were extremely bored.

and unfortunately expected to be wed to a noble boy by the end of this year. gross.

a gust of wind moves through the courtyard, brushing cold against your cheeks.

joo-mi shifts closer instinctively. “my lady, shall we return inside? the wind is growing harsher. i don't want you to grow ill."

you don’t answer her question, gaze drifting across the courtyard. specifically, back to the guard at the front gate, half-shadowed beneath the light.

"joo-mi, why is there only one tonight?" you look up at her, eyebrows furrowed in curiosity. the guard doesn't look familiar anyway. he was young, you could tell by his stature. it wasn't the usual older guard that took the night shift, and there was meant to be two.

joo-mi follows your gaze again, hesitating for only a moment before answering. “i believe one of the guards fell ill earlier today, my lady. the replacement was assigned on short notice.”

you turn your head back, uncaring. "i want to go back inside now."

joo-mi bows her head immediately. “of course, my lady.”

she steps forward at once, adjusting her pace to yours as you begin to turn away from the courtyard.

the cold bites at your skin for one last moment before the warmth of the estate corridors begins to surround you instead. joo-mi follows behind closely, blowing out the candle she was previously using when the two of you were outside.

joo-mi escorts you to your room, opening the door for you. you thank her.

"my lady, you have a long day tomorrow. you should rest well tonight."

you step into your room, the door sliding shut behind you with a soft thud that echoes through the hallways. the warmth inside your room is immediate.

“of course,” you reply quietly, voice muffled. you walk in further, slipping out of your outer layer. "you should rest as well, joo-mi."

"yes, my lady. good night." her footsteps slowly retreat down the slim hallway, footsteps pattering against the wood.

you sit at the edge of your bed for a moment, hands resting loosely in your lap. you weren't tired at all, unfortunately. but, you required an escort everywhere in this estate - per your father's requests.

you had no choice but to fall asleep. there was nothing else to do, after all. every single novel sitting on the shelf beside you had been read, along with every puzzle. you truly were bored.

eventually, you lie back, pulling the blanket over you. the fabric is warm, making you feel sleepier.

the lantern light from earlier has long since dimmed, leaving the room in a soft, peaceful ambience. apart from the sound of the harsh wind from outside.

your breathing slows without you noticing.

your eyes drift toward the ceiling, before shutting on reflex and falling asleep.

the next morning you awake to soft knocks on your door, tapping once.

then again, a little more carefully. “my lady?” joo-mi’s voice filters through the wood, familiar and steady.

light spills faintly through the edges of your curtains, revealing the morning sun before you can even open your eyes properly.

"you can come in," you say, mid yawn, stretching your arms up into the air.

there's a brief pause before your door slides open, but when it does, joo-mi is on the other side. joo-mi steps in quietly, already composed, her hands folded in front of her as she keeps her gaze respectfully lowered.

"did you sleep well, my lady?" she smiles softly at you, which reminds you of her age. she was only a few years your senior.

you’re still half-lost in sleep as you sit up, hair slightly disheveled, blinking at the brightness leaking through the curtains. you cling to the warmth of the blankets.

"i think so." you mumble, stretching your arms again before letting them drop lazily into your lap.

joo-mi moves further into the room, already beginning her routine without needing instruction, picking up your garments from yesterday and folding them. she folds out each crease with care, before replacing those garments with new ones for you today.

"are you excited for today, my lady?" joo-mi asks from behind you, tone cheerful. "you'll be going out town."

you were excited at first when you heard the news, but when you found out your father was practically sending an entire army to supervise you, your feelings on it dulled.

but now, the word feels slightly dull on your tongue as you speak them. "sure."

joo-mi continues folding your garments with calm efficiency, laying out today’s clothing with care before turning back toward you.

“you seemed pleased when you were told,” she adds, glancing at you over her shoulder. “it is the market district, is it not? there will be many new sights.”

market district? there wasn't much you were interested in, to be honest. you weren't the most outgoing.

"yes.." you say slowly, coming out quieter than initially intended. your fingers tug slightly at the edge of the blanket, resisting the urge to pull them back over yourself.

it should be exciting.

it is exciting.

but you can barely bring yourself to care. you look at joo-mi, "do you think father would let me skip this today?"

joo-mi looks at you, not expecting the question as her hands pausing mid-fold.

“my lady…” she begins carefully, as if choosing each word to avoid sounding like a reprimand. “your father has been preparing for this trip for some time. i don't think he would be happy...if it were to be postponed.

but you already knew that.

joo-mi he sets your garments down neatly before stepping closer, her tone softening again. “is something troubling you this morning?”

the question lingers in the air.

you open your mouth to answer, but nothing comes out immediately. because there isn’t a clear reason, nothing you can point to and name properly.

"no, there isn't, joo-mi." you reassure, "i'll go. can i change now?" you ask her, standing up, shuffling the bedsheets off your lower half.

joo-mi relaxes slightly at your response, the tension in her expression smoothing back into its usual calm composure. “of course, my lady,” she says gently. “i'll start preparing your bath."

she bows her head and steps toward the door, pausing only long enough to glance back once more, before slipping out and closing it softly behind her.

you stand, stretching once more as the last remnants of sleep finally leave your body. the bed creaks softly as you move away from it, the warmth of the blankets already fading behind you.

then there’s a soft knock.

“come in,” you say.

the door slides open, and joo-mi appears once more, her hands neatly folded in front of her.

“my lady,” she says gently, “your bath is ready for you.” you nod once at her words, still lost in the lingering haze of sleep.

you follow her down the cold hallway, a familiar path to your private bathroom. joo-mi opens the door for you, revealing a steaming hot bath. the warmth spills out into the hallway the moment the door opens, contrasting the air behind you.

steam curls lazily into the corridor. the bath inside has been prepared as you like it.

joo-mi steps aside respectfully, keeping her gaze lowered. “my lady, I will be just outside if you need anything.” she bows, before stepping out of the room and leaving.

the sound of the latch clicks softly, and you are alone. you move closer to the bath slowly.

you take off your garments, before taking a step into the water, sinking your entire body in shortly after. the warm water ripples around you, surrounding your entire body - practically easing your muscles after only a minute of being submerged.

you sink in a little deeper as the steam around you rises, relaxing your body without your permission. you stay in that bath for around twenty minutes, simply basking in the warm water.

stepping out, you wrap a towel around yourself, calling for joo-mi. "joo-mi, can i have my clothes?"

she pushes the door to the side gently, draping you in something that resembles an overcoat, temporarily shielding you from the cold. nobody was allowed to enter your chambers anyway, so she escorts you back to your room.

upon entering, she reaches for your clothing that she had previously laid out, before coming behind you and helping you change into them.

joo-mi moves behind you with quiet efficiency, her hands careful as she helps you out of the bath wrap and into the layers she had prepared earlier.

you stand still, letting her work.

it's a smooth and easy process, as always. both you and joo-mi had gotten used to this already, it was a daily routine after all.

she takes a step back after she finishes, admiring you and her work. all your sleeves were aligned properly, as well as your folds being smoothed down. "my lady," she gasps quietly, "you look so beautiful, especially today."

her words bring a small smile to your lips, "thank you, joo-mi. you're the reason for that."

a light pink dusts her cheeks, "thank you, my lady - but i only played a small role. i only ensure what is already there is brought out properly,” she adds more softly, smoothing the front of her sleeves out of habit. “you have always been beautiful, my lady.”

joo-mi steps back slightly, then reaches for the last piece of your outer layer, holding it up for you to slip into. you do exactly that, and she smooths out the final layer.

joo-mi gently tugs at the fabric, ensuring that it's fitted perfectly as you outstretch your arms. "i'm done, my lady. are you ready to step out? the carriage should be ready for us."

you let your arms fall back to your sides, nodding as you slip your shoes on. "if i must. let's go."

joo-mi opens the door for you, sliding it once again. the rhythm of your footsteps blends softly with Joo-mi’s as you move through the corridor.

joo-mi walks just half a step behind you, as always, careful not to overtake or fall too far back.

“the carriage is waiting at the front gate,” she says gently. “your father has already left instructions for your escort.”

you hum faintly in response, gaze forward, "you are coming with me today, right?" you ask her, double checking.

"yes, my lady. i should be accompanying you today. i wasn't made aware of any change of plans." joo-mi says, walking down onto the footpath with you.

servants pass in the opposite direction occasionally, bowing quickly as you go by.

as you near the entrance hall, you slow slightly without meaning to, you can see the carriage from here now.

joo-mi notices immediately. “my lady?”

you blink once, then continue walking. “It’s nothing.” but the hesitance in your step tells her everything. your eyes linger ahead for just a moment longer than necessary, you see a lot of people you don't know surrounding the gate.

behind you, joo-mi’s steps remain steady, but her voice softens slightly when she speaks again.

“it will be a busy day,” she says. “but I will be with you.” she reassures. you continue walking forwards, catching the attention of the servants preparing the carriage.

there’s a brief shift in movement as they straighten, bowing as you approach.

the air outside brushes against your skin, a servant lowers his head. “my lady.” you acknowledge it lightly.

one of them quickly moves to open the carriage door properly, while another steps aside to clear your path. you thank him quietly, taking the hand he offered to you to step into the carriage.

you don't recognise any of the guards accompanying you today, unfortunately. joo-mi steps in afterwards, sitting across from you.

outside, the courtyard continues with it's movement, guards taking their positions, as well as double checking the horses.

a few minutes pass, and you finally feel the carriage moving. you peer slightly outside, seeing the front gates to the estate opening.

as the carriage begins to move, joo-mi continues speaking, pointing out small things about your journey, like the scenery. you nod, engaging in conversation with her.

the market should be around an hours drive on a carriage, so around ten minutes you decide to just take a small nap. you were pretty tired anyway, despite only having woken up a short while ago.'

after it feels like you've only shut your eyes for five minutes when joo-mi calls out for you. "my lady?" she asks softly, "we're nearly there."

you wink an eye open, sitting up as you smooth yourself over. "thank you," you mumble, covering your mouth with your palm as you yawn.

you sit in silence, your arm sitting atop your stomach as you lean into the chair behind you. pushing the curtain back with your other hand, you look around, seeing the bustling markets.

the sound hits you first, plenty of voice overlapping, as well as vendors calling out to customers. an uncomfortable feeling sits at the bottom of your topic.

your chest tightens faintly, though you don’t understand why. the carriage rolls forward again before the thought can settle properly.

you swallow once more, as your gaze tracks across it all without really landing anywhere for too long. too many faces, too many directions, too many things happening at once to properly follow.

you feel very aware of your body all of the sudden. joo-mi speaks softly across from you, but you only catch part of it, she's saying something about the market being way busier than expected.

you sit back slightly, letting the curtain fall a little more into place as you nod, like you're on auto-pilot. the carriage comes to a stop, and around thirty seconds after the door opens.

your fingernails dig into your palms unknowingly, making you bleed. joo-mi looks at you, not noticing the injury but just the tense expression on your face. "are you alright, my lady?"

snapping your head back to her, "i'm fine, yes. you can go out first." joo-mi looks at you like you're insane. you were a higher status, that meant you were meant to exit the carriage first.

"are you sure, my lady? it's against the rules-" joo-mi asks, unsure. you cut her off, "i insist."

joo-mi hesitates for only a second longer, then bows her head and steps down carefully from the carriage.

you take a deep breath. you remain seated for a moment longer, your hand is still curled tightly in your lap, though you don’t register the sting properly until the air shifts again.

a shadow falls near the carriage step. it isn't large enough to beg for attention, but it defiinitely catches yours.

a guard stands there. he's young and composed.

his uniform is simple, outer guard markings visible but unadorned. he doesn’t speak at first.

he’s looking at you, offering a small smile as he bows in your direction. he extends a hand, “allow me, my lady,” he says.

you stare at his hand, which stays steady, palm open, waiting without pressure. you stand up after contemplating for a few seconds, placing your hand in his.

his grip is careful, firm enough to support you, light enough not to feel so restrictive. he helps you step down from the carriage.

when your feet meet the ground, he releases you immediately, stepping back into proper distance as if nothing more than protocol has occurred. “thank you, my lady,” he says, lowering his gaze respectfully.

he bows again, making you nod in acknowledgement. "..thank you." you speak quietly, walking over to joo-mi.

you can feel eyes on you from everywhere. it wasn't everyday that a member of a noble family attended a marketplace. you felt bashful under all their gazes.

people glance as you pass, some quick, some lingering just a little too long before they remember themselves and look away. it makes your shoulders tighten without permission, your posture subtly shifting as you try to make yourself feel smaller.

joo-mi notices, stepping half a pace closer so she can speak without anyone else hearing.

“this way, my lady,” she guides gently. “the main stalls are just ahead. It will be less crowded there

joo-mi offers you a smile, you return it partially. "what was that guard's name?" you ask, referring to the one that had helped you down from the carriage.

joo-mi blinks slightly at the question, as if she hadn’t expected your attention to linger there. “the guard?” she repeats softly, glancing over her shoulder in the direction you came from.

the young man is already stepping back into position near the carriage. you turn your head, and he's already looking - flashing you a smile. you turn back.

“i believe he is one of the newer outer guards assigned to the rotation,” she says thoughtfully. “he was brought in recently, so i haven't heard his name often. but," she trails off, "i think his name is lee heeseung."

you nod in acknowledgement, before walking off in the direction of a stall you deem as interesting enough.

the stall is crowded with fabric and jewellery, you think some of it looks pretty. joo-mi follows close behind as you stop in front of it, the merchant immediately straightening up at the sight of your clothing.

"my lady," he greets, bowing in front of you. "please, take your time looking."

you nod politely, already shifting your gaze down toward the display in front of you. there are strings of beads, along with other accessories such as embroidered scarves and such.

joo-mi points to one of the scarves of your favourite colour, “my lady, this would look beautiful on you.” she reaches over, lifting a ribbon between her fingers.

glancing at the ribbon briefly, you hum in agreement. "do you think i should take it?"

joo-mi nods, looking down in respect. "if you wish to, my lady."

you wave your hand, turning back to the merchant. "i would like one of these." you gesture to the ribbon in joo-mi's hands, and he nods immediately.

the merchant bows quickly, almost relieved at your decision. “of course, my lady. i will wrap it immediately.”

he reaches under the counter, retrieving another ribbon of the same colour. he lays it neatly on a small cloth before beginning to fold it with practiced precision.

you turn your head away, disinterested in the process. unfortunately for you, your father had asked you to stay out the whole day - besides nightfall, of course.

joo-mi pays for the ribbon using the money pouch given to her by your father. "my lady, would you like me to have these added to your belongings in the carriage?"

you look at her, nodding. "yes."

the merchant ties the ribbon carefully, placing it into a small paper wrapping before sliding it forward. “thank you for your purchase, my lady.”

joo-mi takes it first, holding it securely before turning back to you. she steps closer to you, "we should continue, my lady. the market will only start to get busier."

with a defeated sigh, you nod. "if we must. when will we be able to go back?" you ask her, glancing back at the carriage.

"i'm sure we can leave when you would like, my lady." joo-mi responds softly.

you glance back toward the carriage again. it sits a little further down the street now, partially visible between moving bodies and stalls. the guards remain stationed around.

the idea of already returning feels like a waste.

you begin walking, joo-mi trails after you. she notices your hesitation without commenting on it. instead, she adjusts her pace to match yours as you start walking again.

“we do not need to stay long,” she adds softly. “just enough for you to see what you wish. your father only asked that you are properly escorted and return before evening."

you nod, humming.

"joo-mi, do you want anything from these stalls?" you ask, turning to her. the question catches her off guard.

she blinks once, clearly not expecting the question at all.

for a moment, she actually hesitates, before quickly lowering her gaze.

“my lady…i am not here to purchase anything,” she says gently, as if reminding both you and herself of her position.

you keep walking, watching her for a reaction.

joo-mi adjusts her sleeves slightly, composing herself again. “if you are asking out of kindness, then i am grateful."

she pauses again, "but i do not need anything."

eyes forward, you hum. "that isn't what i asked, joo-mi.

“my lady,” she says carefully, “your visit is for you. It is not necessary for me to-"

the look that you give her makes her pause, cheeks heating up. "i suppose i could look around, if you truly wish that."

you nod, "please do. none of this interests me, and i would rather rest at the carriage."

joo-mi nods, "i understand. i'll escort you back, my lady." she guides you through the crowd, subtly choosing paths where you'll avoid the densest parts of the market.

soon, the carriage comes back into view, waiting exactly where you left it. the guards are still stationed in their positions.

"thank you." you look at her once you're standing next to the carriage. she hesitates for a brief moment, as if still unsure whether she’s truly allowed to separate from you in a place like this.

“if you are certain,” she adds softly, “i will not be long.”

one of the guards bows to you, opening the door and allowing you entry to the carriage. "welcome back, my lady."

looking back at joo-mi, you give a small, dismissive wave of your hand. “go.”

that seems to reassure her.

joo-mi straightens, composing herself again into her usual calm composure. “i will remain within sight. if you need anything, call for me immediately.”

you nod once in response. she bows, then steps away into the market.

the guard shuts the door, and you sit in there peacefully. the outside noise dulls immediately, and you sigh in relief.

there's a knock on the door, soft. as if whoever is outside is waiting for permission rather than demanding attention.

a masculine voice follows, lowered slightly just loud enough for you to hear. “my lady.”

you don't recognise it immediately, but you sit up.

"you can open the door." a few seconds after, the door is slid open softly.

you blink when you realise it's the same guard from before, lee heeseung.

you take in his face properly this time. his face is gentle in structure, and you would consider him to be handsome. he seems to be somewhere around your age too.

when he speaks again, his voice is steady, but softer than you expect. “my lady,” he says, carefully. “i apologise if i disturbed you. i only wished to ensure you were well.”

you look at him, tilting your head in confusion slightly at his concern, "no, you didn't disturb me."

you pause in thought. joo-mi was going to be a while at the market's, right? you use your chin, gesturing to the seat before you. "come in. i'm bored."

there’s a brief pause outside the carriage. his face contorts into one of confusion, as if he’s double checking whether or not he heard you correctly.

"my lady?" his voice rings again, making you glance back at him. "inside the...carriage?"

"yes," you say simply. "unless that’s a problem."

"no, of course not, my lady." he steps onto the upper platform. once inside, he lowers himself into the space opposite you.

for a moment, neither of you speak.

"close the door, please." you ask softly, leaning back into your seat. he reaches over, shutting the door. the carriage feels smaller with him inside, but not uncomfortable.

he glances briefly toward you, then quickly lowers his gaze again, as if remembering himself.

"i apologise if this is improper," he says quietly. "i'm still on duty."

you look at him, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. "i am the one that asked you to come inside, no?"

a faint pause, "yes, my lady."

that makes you exhale, almost amused.

"then talk to me." you say. "joo-mi’s not here, and i’m not doing anything."

he blinks once at that, before locking eyes with you. it's like he's locked your gaze onto his own, because you're unable to pull away.

heat crawls slowly through your body, it starts low in your chest, feeling strange. you sit up, re-adjusting your body.

"talk?" he repeats, like he’s making sure he understood the request correctly.

"yes," you confirm. "anything. i don’t care."

he shifts in his seat, thinking. "most of my days are unevenful, my lady. i'm not sure what you'd like to hear."

you tilt your head. "then tell me uneventful things."

when he doesn't respond, flustered, you scoff. you lean forward, pointing to his hand - where there is clear injury. it looks like the palm of his hand was sliced open by something.

"tell me what happened to your hand. i want to know." his attention drops instantly to where you’re pointing. then he reacts subtly, almost too late. he curls his fingers slightly as if to hide it, but stopping before he fully closes his hand. the injury is still visible. a clean, uneven cut across his palm, recently dressed but already faintly stained through the edge of the wrapping.

"it's nothing serious, my lady." he starts, voice careful and even. "just apart of my duties."

"what part of your duties requires you to have bleeding hands?" you look at him, raising an eyebrow.

"my duties involve assisting wherever needed," he says after a moment, voice steady. “not all tasks will be predictable. the crate was heavier than expected. i misjudged it when securing the corner."

"you mean to tell me that a crate cut you open like a fish?" you blink, seeing through his lie.

you hold out your hand, "give me your hand." he hesitates for only a fraction of a second, just enough to register that you’re actually serious, before carefully shifting his injured hand forward.

he places it in your open palm.

up close, the cut is clearer. not deep enough to be life-threatening, but enough to sting sharply. the dressing around it is already slightly worn at the edges, clearly not tended to properly.

"this was clearly done by a knife." you look at him, running a finger gently over the wound. he flinches, and you notice.

you press down harder, and a small whimper leaves his lips. his shoulders stiffen, his jaw clenches tightly.

"my lady," he says quietly, "it hurts when you do that.."

you hum, smoothing your finger up and down the bandage. "but," you look up at him, "you like that, don't you?"

he doesn’t pull away, but his fingers tense in your hold, like he’s forcing himself not to react more.

"i asked you a question." you say, catching his attention once again.

he looks up at you, and that same fire burns through your lower abdomen now. "i am not sure how to respond to that, my lady." he admits bashfully.

"with honesty," you say, dropping his hand from your grasp.

"then yes. it felt nice, coming from you my lady." there’s no playfulness in his tone.

you blink in surprise that he was actually honest. you hum softly, leaning back in your seat.

the heat in your body is bothering you now. it's too strong to ignore, like someone struck a match beneath your ribs and let the flame burn.

"..are you permanently assigned to me?" you ask, turning back to him.

the question seems to catch him slightly off guard. he straightens a little, as if adjusting back into duty.

“i am assigned to the outer escort rotation for your household,” he answers carefully. “so, not permanently, my lady. i rotate between posts. but while you are outside the estate, i am your escort."

"who gave you those orders?" you ask him, a small pout forming on your face.

his gaze flickers up for a moment. “…is there a concern, my lady?”

"answer my question first." you nudge his calf with your foot gently.

"…the head of the estate guard rotation," he replies carefully. "the order came through your household steward, under your father’s direction."

"ignore them." you wave your hand dismissively. "i want you on my rotation. you are staying with me."

it looks like he genuinely doesn’t process the words properly.

he nearly chokes, "pardon me, my lady?" he doesn't believe he heard you correctly.

his gaze flickers up briefly, then away again. "do you mean… during today’s escort duty?"

"i want you to escort me everywhere, anytime i want." you speak softly, resting your chin on your hand. “not random guards i don’t know.”

"…that is not a simple request," he says carefully. his posture straightens slightly.

"escort assignments are rotated to prevent overexposure and maintain security protocol."

you barely process his words, "i don't care. you're on my team from now on."

"..my lady," he says carefully, "that is not something I can decide." for a second, he looks genuinely uncertain how to respond without overstepping or possibly offending you.

glancing back at him, you notice the fear on his face. "oh, relax. if it makes you feel any better, i'll ask my father about it."

"…if your father approves a reassignment," he says slowly, "then I will follow the order given."

his eyes lift briefly to yours. "however, escort rotations are handled for security reasons. consistency with a single guard is not usually recommended."

he hesitates, before speaking softly again, "that said… I will not refuse a direct instruction if it is officially issued."

"it's officially issued by me that you are with me from now on." you reply quickly, sitting up.

"may I ask what makes you certain about this decision, my lady?" he asks.

"you entertain me." you admit honestly. "what's your name?" you weren't one hundred percent sure if joo-mi even had the correct name.

"lee heeseung, my lady." he bows his head in respect.

your gaze drifts back to his face again, and reluctantly, you have to admit it probably influenced your decision a little too.

because unfortunately for you, heeseung is extremely attractive.

but for some reason, you can't stop this insatiable feeling that you got when you first looked heeseung in the eyes. and no, it wasn't just because of his pretty face.

you sigh softly, and heeseung notices the agitation.

"my lady, are you feeling alright?" he asks softly, leaning closer.

you shake your head, "it feels so hot in here," you say, leaning back. you start to fan yourself, "..i feel so hot."

"would you like me to call somebody, my lady?" he asks softly, leaning a bit closer. as soon as he does that, you feel your lower region ache.

"..no." you sit-up, shaking your head. would it be shameful of you to ask a guard to relieve you? it’s definitely a breach of contract somehow, but that was for your father to worry about, not you.

"..come here." you ultimately decide, making space for him next to you.

heeseung obliges, blinking innocently. you almost feel bad for taking advantage of your position.

your cheeks heat up, and they’re about to burn brighter at the request you’re about to make. lowering your voice to a whisper, you speak. "..i want you to touch me."

heeseung’s eyes widen. "did i hear you correctly, my lady? you want me to touch-"

you cut him off immediately, clamping a hand over his big mouth. when you trust him to be silent again, you remove your hand.

"keep it down, will you?" you hiss, sighing. "..you know what, never mind."

you begin to fan yourself again, ignoring him out of embarrassment. after a few seconds, heeseung speaks up again.

"my lady," he starts, but you don’t turn toward him. heeseung calls out for you again, which finally makes you turn your head.

"what?" you glare at him, a soft frown on your lips.

"if you were asking me to relieve you,” he whispers this time, leaning closer. “i’d be willing to oblige you.”

you stare at him for a second, trying not to shy away from his gaze. taking a deep breath, you nod. “..please.”

“do i have permission to touch you, my lady?” you nod instantly, feeling the ache between your legs grow even more.

heeseung’s hands are immediately on yours. one hand slides under your robes to your front, spreading your thighs apart. he cups your pussy possessively.

his fingers are gentle at first, pushing your underwear to the side as he rubs at your folds with feather-light touches. he teases your entrance, circling but not penetrating.

you groan in annoyance at this, making him apologise swiftly, “sorry, my lady.” an apology leaves his lips, yes, but you don't miss the stupid grin on his face as he says it.

your wetness coats his fingers as he continues exploring your folds. “you’re so wet already,” he whispers softly, almost in admiration. it’s embarrassing - the way he's just gawking at the slick connecting his fingers to your cunt.

“can you keep it down?” you whisper back, turning your head away shyly.

“of course, my lady.” he agrees, shuffling closer to you. he lifts your thigh, granting him easier access to your slit. heeseung slip a single finger into you, letting out a quiet groan at the tightness wrapped around his finger.

you bring your hand to your own mouth to conceal your noises. heeseung pumps his finger slowly, revelling in your soft gasps and whimpers despite you attempting to muffle the noises.

a second finger joins the first, stretching you deliciously as he curls them just right - hitting that spongy spot. your toes curl, a louder whimper slipping from your lips.

when his thumb finds your clit, rubbing firm circles, your hand grips onto his wrist, nails digging into his skin.

that doesn’t stop his ministrations, though. heeseung continues to pump his fingers in and out of your sopping heat steadily.

“w-wait,” you whimper out, making him glance up at you. you use your hand to tug at his uniform, pressing your lips against his.

heeseung kisses you back hungrily, tongue delving into your mouth to taste you. he continues to move his fingers in you, redoubling his efforts even.

his thumb flicks over your clit rapidly, making you squeeze your thighs around his wrist. he can’t really move his fingers in and out if you do that, so he opts to curl his fingers inside you, finding that special spot that makes your toes curl.

he swallows a loud moan that definitely would’ve left your lips. when he finally pulls back, you’re both panting hard.

“my lady,” heeseung breathes out, “i can’t pleasure you if you keep shutting me out like this.” he breathes out, referring to the leg lock you currently have his wrist in.

you apologise softly, “i-i’m sorry,” you sputter, “it was just..a lot.” a smirk appears on heeseung’s lips at your words.

“my lady,” he speaks, and you look at him. “may i be granted permission to make you feel as good as you possibly can?”

you stare at him, confused at first. “you want permission to do anything?” heeseung nods at your words.

you’re hesitant, but he seems to know what he’s been doing this whole time. “..fine - i grant you permission."

he withdraws his fingers. heeseung grabs both of your wrists with one hand, holding them against your chest. he backs you further up into the seat, spreading your thighs with his knee.

now that you’re spread out for him, he plunges his fingers back in - making you gasp.

his pace is brutal now, practically fingerblasting you. the way his fingers piston in and out of your dripping pussy create obscene squelches that fill the usual silence of the carriage.

you squirm, thighs shaking the slighest. as a result of trying to silence yourself, you bite your lip so hard it actually starts bleeding. heeseung’s eyes lighten up at that.

heeseung leans in, “keep it down, my lady. otherwise the both of us will get into trouble.” he whispers, lips grazing the side of your ear.

you nod, whimpering softly. “i-i’m, ah- sorry.”

his thumb makes it’s way back to your clit, rubbing harder and firmer circles now. you can’t hold it back, your pussy fluttering around his digits. your stomach tightens, and after a few seconds - the coil releases, and you gush all over his fingers.

heeseung slowly pulls his fingers out as you pant softly, he also releases your wrists.

“did that satisfy you, my lady?” heeseung asks, and you can’t help but notice the cocky tone in his voice. you're still catching your breath though, so you don't care to humble him.

you hum softly, nodding in agreement. “..satisfied? yes, very.”

heeseung pats your robes back down, fixing your clothing for you. you also comb your fingers through your hair, trying to make it look like it did previously.

the atmosphere definitely probably smells like sex, it’s a confined space after all. you sit back, trying to catch your breath.

a knock breaks the moment. the both of you pause.

heeseung straightens immediately, posture resetting into something more formal.

"yes?" you ask softly, a little worried whoever it was at the door could tell what just went down.

"my lady, may i come in?" it was joo-mi.

"you may." you respond sitting back properly.

the latch clicks, and the door opens just enough for her to step inside. she pauses for half a second when she notices heeseung already seated opposite you, then quickly smooths her expression back into composure.

whatever thought flickers across her face is gone almost immediately, replaced with her usual expression.

“my lady,” she greets, bowing her head slightly.

"did you find what you were looking for, joo-mi?"

“yes, my lady,” she answers softly, a smile creeping up onto her face. “the stalls were as expected. i did not require much time. thank you for letting me do that." she bows her head again in appreciation.

her eyes flick briefly toward the space opposite you, just for a moment, not lingering.

“i also ensured your purchase was added safely to the carriage,” she adds, referring to the ribbon.

heeseung begins to move as if to stand, but joo-mi lightly raises a hand.

“stay seated,” she says politely, not unkindly. “there is no need to adjust for me."

"no, joo-mi, you can have your seat back." you correct. you look at heeseung, "you may leave. thank you for your time."

“understood, my lady,” he says at once. he stands, bowing his head. careful not to bump anything in the confined space of the carriage, his posture resets as he steps out of the carriage.

joo-mi glances toward you, a small teasing smirk on her face. it’s very subtle.

you notice it though. “what?” you ask immediately, eyes narrowing slightly.

“nothing, my lady.” she replies quickly, patting down the fabric of her sleeves in an attempt to smooth it out.

you stare at her, meanwhile she avoids your gaze. that lasts for around two seconds before she eventually loses composure, and ultimately makes eye contact with you.

“you seemed rather interested in that guard.” she says lightly.

you blink once. “i was just speaking with him.”

“yes,” joo-mi agrees, nodding her head. “for some amount of time.”

“there was nothing else for me to do while waiting.”

she hums, straightening her lips. the sound itself is enough to make your expression flatten.

joo-mi lowers her gaze politely again, though her small grin never disappears.

“he is very handsome,” she adds after a moment.

you immediately look away toward the carriage curtains, out the window. “that had nothing to do with it.”

“..of course, my lady.” joo-mi agrees out of respect, despite seeing through your lie.

outside, the faint sound of guards shifting into position can be heard.

“we will be departing shortly, my lady,” she says gently, and you nod.

“are we going back to the estate?” you ask, unsure of what you’re even doing next.

“we can go wherever you’d like, my lady.” joo-mi says, reaching for the handle of the door. “would you like me to ask the guards to take us elsewhere?”

"no." you shake your head, "i want to go back home, please."

joo-mi pauses for a split second, but nods anyway. "of course, my lady." there’s no disappointment in her voice or an attempt to persuade you otherwise.

she slides the carriage door open slightly and relays the instruction to the guards outside.

“we will return to the estate.” voices from outside respond to her in acknowledgment.

movement outside the carriage begins. through the small opening of the carriage window, you briefly catch sight of heeseung again near the escort line. snow catches faintly in his dark hair before melting almost immediately.

joo-mi reaches for the carriage door, closing it once more. inside, warmth settles around you again, quieter now than before.

joo-mi sits across from you, studying your expression carefully before speaking.

“was the market too much today?” she asks gently.

you stare at your hands for a second before answering. "a little, yes."

she nods like she already knew. “then going home is the right choice.”

outside, the carriage finally begins moving again. you sit back in your chair, shutting your eyes. your breathing gradually slows with the movement of the carriage.

the next moment, or it feels as though, you awaken. joo-mi is calling out for you, “my lady,” joo-mi says gently. “we’re back.”

your eyes open slowly. for a second, everything feels blurred together, but you blink, once, twice - and it's clearer.

you straighten slightly in your seat, rubbing at one eye tiredly.

“…already?” your voice comes out softer than intended, still heavy with sleep.

“you slept through most of the journey home, my lady.”

you glance briefly toward the curtained window beside you. it’s darker outside now than before, evening fully settled over the estate grounds.

"how is it already evening? we left early morning, no?" for some reason, your chest feels oddly light. you take another look, genuinely perplexed.

joo-mi pauses at that. “…we did.”

you pull the curtain aside slightly, staring out at the estate grounds again. lanterns have already been lit along the pathways, their warm glow reflects against the snow.

your confusion deepens. the market trip hadn’t felt long enough for this and neither had the ride home. you glance back toward joo-mi. “how long was i asleep?”

she blinks, then slowly looks toward the carriage window herself, as though only now properly registering the darkness outside. “…i’m not certain,” she admits quietly.

you kind of just stare at her, before letting your shoulders loosen in carelessness. whatever.

the thing is, joo-mi is always certain. always aware of time, schedules, routes. but now even she looks unsettled, gaze lingering toward the evening sky outside the carriage. “it should not be this late,” she says after a moment, mumbling to herself more than to you.

the carriage door opens, a different guard stands outside this time, one you vaguely recognize from the estate grounds but not by name. "my lady," he says respectfully, extending a hand out to you. "we have arrived back at the estate."

you take his hand, stepping down from the platform. "tell me, how is it night already?" you ask the guard, making him furrow his eyebrows in confusion.

"you have been out of the estate the whole day, my lady." he responds casually. that makes you pause mid-step, your grip loosens slightly as you look up at him, perplexed.

you glance around once instinctively, everything feels strangely quiet. all of the guards that had originally come with you were surrounding the carriage, preparing for it to be put away, but heeseung was nowhere to be seen.

"hm." you hum, letting go of the guard's hand. "thank you."

“of course, my lady,” he replies, dipping his head in acknowledgement.

but your memory doesn’t feel like a full day, it feels put together, like it was fake or something, maybe.

joo-mi steps closer behind you, noticing your expression immediately. “my lady?” she asks softly. “are you feeling unwell again?”

the guard shifts his stance slightly, attentive now but not alarmed.

you blink once, then slowly shake your head. "no,” you say, though it comes out uncertain even to your own ears. "i'm fine. i would like to return to my quarters, please."

this was strange. there was no way it would've cost you the entire day to ride to the market, spend some time there, and return. you should've had the entire afternoon and more left, so why was nobody questioning it?

behind you, joo-mi steps closer, falling naturally into pace as you begin walking toward the estate doors.

“shall I prepare warm water for you again?” she asks gently, as if nothing about the day was unusual at all.

as the doors of the estate open ahead of you, you shake your head. "yes, please."

joo-mi nods her head in acknowledgment, walking down the empty hallway with you. she escorts you to your room, she pauses, bowing her head slightly. “i will return shortly with your bath,” she says.

you nod, already half distracted, fingers intertwining with each other as if to calm yourself. “thank you.”

joo-mi walks off, and you take a seat on one of the chairs near the window, letting your hands rest in your lap.

you sort of daze off until she comes back.

being a noblewoman was boring in a way that never really changed. always waiting, always being prepared for something that never quite felt like it belonged to you.

there was nothing for you to do except sit, behave, and eventually be married off into another household that would decide your next set of rules for you. there was nothing you were allowed to do alone, either.

your father had noticed. he tried to entertain you in your own way, but you assumed it was hard considering there was nobody around your age within the estate aside from joo-mi. your father wouldn't allow for it. it was a surprise that he was agreeing to marry you off this year, but he probably deemed you as old enough.

she was kind and familiar, but still part of the structure of your life, not outside it. there wasn’t really anyone who felt like they existed in your world without purpose or permission. joo-mi wasn't there because she enjoyed your company, she was there because she had to be.

you barely saw your father either, and your mother was dead. it didn't hurt much to think about now, it was many years ago.

your father never moved on, though. he never really let you drift too far from his grasp. after the death of your mother, something in him must have tightened

you let out a small breath, leaning back slightly in your chair. boring wasn’t even the right word anymore. it honestly felt like you were already dead, but unluckily in hell. your punishment was eternal boredom.

a soft knock catches your attention, and you turn toward the door.

"my lady?" joo-mi calls quietly, "your bath is ready. may i come in?"

you blink once, "come in."

the door opens almost immediately.

joo-mi steps inside, “i’ve prepared it at the temperature you prefer,” she says gently.

you nod, standing up from where you're sat.

joo-mi hesitates for just a moment before speaking again, her voice softer now. "you seem tired, my lady. would you like me to stay nearby you while you bathe?"

"no, thank you, joo-mi." you politely decline as she closes the door to your room behind you. "i'd prefer if i was alone."

joo-mi nods, escorting you to the bathroom, she opens the door for you. "It's ready for you, my lady."

joo-mi remains behind you, hands folded. “i will be just outside if you need anything,” she adds softly.

you nod at her words, before walking in and shutting the door behind you.

you exhale slowly, slipping off the outer material of your gown. you're about to take off the next layer of clothing as well, but you pause.

your mind backtracks to what you thought about earlier, and you didn't want to marry some random man.

your left foot touches the water, then your right follows, sinking in slowly until you’re ankle deep in the bath.

the idea of marriage lingers again at the back of your mind. it's not like getting married would make you any happier. if anything, it would make you feel worse. it makes your gut feel weird. like the concept of a life like that belongs to another version of you that isn’t standing here right now.

the water rises as you lower yourself into the bath, still fully clothed. the fabric clings to your skin as it absorbs the hot water. you settle in until you’re fully seated.

if you disappeared, then you wouldn't be obligated to do anything your father asked you of.

plus, it's not like he'd even notice if his daughter was gone or not. despite living within the same estate, massive or not, you only saw him once a few months.

and even then, the conversations between the two of you are brief, structured, and formal. like a meeting arranged between obligations rather than a father and daughter talking.

you sink further in, water up to your collarbones now.

you thought of joo-mi. maybe she would be sad if you were to leave her, but she would get over it ultimately. the two of you weren't friends, she was an employee to your father.

the bath remains still around you, only small ripples forming when you shift slightly. your thoughts don’t feel loud anymore.

they feel… flat.

there's no substance behind them, they don't feel real. you don't even notice yourself sinking further into the water, the hot steam coming from it applying warm pressure onto your face.

it reaches your jaw, then your lips, which you clamp shut. then your nose, and you stop inhaling.

you shut your eyes too when the water comes up high enough. before you know it, you're fully submerged in it, drowning peacefully.

you think it's peaceful at least, till it's not.

your lungs start to burn, hurting your insides like an uncontrolled fire. on instinct, you straighten quickly, pulling yourself more upright in the bath and lifting your face fully above the water, coughing and sputtering.

your hands press lightly against the edge of the tub for stability.

joo-mi's voice rings from outside, alarmed. "my lady, are you alright in there?"

you don't look up, eyes forward on the water before you. tears start to leak from those same eyes. "..i'm fine, thank you." your voice comes out steadier than you thought it would, to be honest.

on the other side of the door, you hear her shift closer. “are you sure?” she asks again, more carefully this time. she isn't pressuring you into answering, but she doesn't sound convinced.

"yes, i'm fine." you feel more tears streaming down your cheeks. "please leave. i want to be completely alone."

joo-mi speaks again, quieter than before. “..as you wish, my lady.” you hear her foot steps retreating down the hallway, echoing.

your eyes sting before you even fully register it, and it isn't because of the bath water entering them. you shut your eyes, trying to force it away. you stay still, hands remaining braced against the bath’s edge until your breathing begins to settle again, hiccuping softly.

there's footsteps approaching, but you don't register it, even though it sounds like they're already in the same room as you.

then, a light brush of fingers moving the hair stuck to your face. that makes you blink wide open, meeting familiar eyes.

it's heeseung, the guard from earlier, crouching before you. he wasn't supposed to or allowed to be here. you flinch back instinctively.

he pulls his fingers back too, his expression blank. but he doesn't look the same, something about his face is off.

"why are you crying, pretty girl?" he speaks, tone way more mature than when you had previously spoken to him. your throat tightens before you can answer.

heeseung tilts his head slightly, studying you when you don't answer. "is it your father again?" he reaches forward again, hand cupping the side of your face, thumb stroking your cheekbones gently.

"what..? what are you talking about?" you don't bother moving back this time, simply letting him touch you. you didn't care enough at this point. it all felt like a dream, anyway.

"you know what i'm talking about." he says your name after, whispering it softly. he drops his hand from your face. his hand lowers to his side, fingers flexing once like he’s resisting the urge to reach for you again.

"do you want me to kill him?"

the words don’t even settle properly before your face twists in disbelief.

your eyebrows furrow, and you look up at him like he's insane, which he must be for threatening to kill a nobleman.

"have you gone insane?" it comes out sharper than you meant it to, but it fits the way your chest is suddenly tight again. this time not from crying, but from the genuine shock you felt from his words.

heeseung doesn’t react the way you expect. there is no denial, or embarrassment, or any hint of backtracking his words. instead, his gaze is steady on you, face unreadable.

"no. what makes you think that?" his words make you lean back further into the bath away from him. suddenly you regret sending joo-mi off.

heeseung sighs, still crouched before you. "don't look at me like that, god." he clenches his teeth, and that's when you see the sharp fang.

he isn't normal, he isn't a human.

for a second, everything goes too still. even the water feels like it’s stopped moving around you.

heeseung notices immediately. he exhales through his nose, slower this time. his jaw loosens, but the damage is already done

your breath catches so hard it hurts. your eyes widen, and you try pull yourself out of the water. you've barely made it anywhere before your slammed onto the floor chest first with supernatural strength, upper body out of the water but your lower half is not.

a pained whimper leaves your lips, cold tile presses against your cheek, wet hair sticking to your skin. it was painful and overstimulating.

“hey.” his voice is different now, deeper. he sounds annoyed, almost. "stop moving."

you stop, stilling your body. the grip he had on your back relents, and he let's go entirely. "why are you doing this to me?" you mumble out, tired.

in the small amount of time he had you pinned down, it felt like you were about to die, and you already concluded you wouldn't have even minded at this point.

"i'm not doing this to you." his gaze drops to your body, clothes tightly clung to your frame. "you panicked. i just didn't want you to hurt yourself."

you deem it safe enough to turn, sitting up on your rear. "i meant, why are you here, doing this to me?" you use your hands to gesture to everything.

he ignores your question, leaning in again. his fingers touch the damage done to your face from him slamming you down so hard. it was cut slightly, and would definitely bruise.

"don't cry." his thumb wipes at a tear you didn't even know you had. "does it hurt?"

you shake your head, surprising yourself as to why you're so relaxed about this. heeseung shuts his eyes, almost as if he's savouring something.

"i'm sorry, i didn't want to do this so soon." you're about to question him on whatever that means, but he's on you before you can open your mouth.

he leans in, jaw angled to fit your neck. you feel his lips graze, tongue licking a spot on your neck and it tickles. the ticklish feeling is soon over after you feel something sharp sink into your neck, hard and fast.

you nearly scream, but he quickly covers your mouth with the palm of his hand. tears stream down your face from the pain, but he doesn't stop.

he continues sucking, your blood, you presume. the pretty man you wanted as a guard wasn't as innocent as you deemed he was. he was a blood-sucking vampire.

the moment his fangs pierced through your skin, a wave of euphoria is sent right through his body. his throat bobs with each swallow, the sound of him sucking echoing through the quiet room, aside from your pained gasps. the hunger that had been clawing at his insides for centuries started to subside.

heeseung could feel your heartbeat fluttering rapidly. he could hear it too.

your limbs feel weak, especially your hands. they're on his chest and shoulder, trying to push him away but it doesn't work. he grabs one of your wrists, then the other, holding them with his fingers.

your head doesn't feel any better, completely dizzy. you feel as if you're about to pass out, but he pulls away. blood leaks from his perfect lips, he licks at it before it can drip onto the floor. heeseung's hand catches the back of your head before it can fall to the floor.

"you taste so sweet," he reminisces, resisting the urge to go back for seconds. using his hand on the back of your head, he brings you closer to him - licking a stripe up on your open wounds slowly, not letting any go to waste.

"that was payback for earlier in the carriage." you can barely hold eye contact, feeling drained. heeseung notices you about to pass out, but he shakes your head, jolting you back. "no, you can't pass out on me now, baby."

you almost don't catch the pet name, not that you could bring yourself to care anyway. eyes landing on him, they focus.

"who are you..?" you gasp out weakly, slowly regaining your strength.

that small smile appears again, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. if anything, it looks like it hurts him to make it at all.

“hmm,” he exhales softly, almost disappointed, but not in you. more so in the situation.

he looks away for a second, jaw tightening as if he’s frustrated. “it's okay, you’re not supposed to remember everything at once anyway,” he adds, softer. “it doesn’t work like that.”

you have zero clue on what he could be talking about, but before you can even ask him, he sighs again.

his face looks like he's contemplating something, chewing his lip before finally settling. he leans in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "i'll be back for you, don't worry." the way he says your name feels so intimate in the moment, despite it coming from a random man. or well, you thought he was a random man.

heeseung lowers you onto the cold tiles gently, before purposefully knocking a vase to the floor. it echoes through the bathroom, and it's safe to assume it echoes through the hallway enough to be heard from outside.

panicked footsteps come toward the bathroom, and heeseung winks at you, before disappearing in thin air. you gawk.

what the hell just happened?

you barely have anytime to think before joo-mi's voice comes from the other side of the door. "my lady! are you alright in there?"

you don't reply, hoping she'll get the hint to come in and help you, in which she does. "my apologises, my lady, but i have to prioritises your safety." she pushes open the door.

when she sees you laying on the floor, joo-mi immediately rushes over. "my lady!" her hands hover for half a second, before she carefully touches your shoulder, checking you over with precision.

“are you hurt?” she asks quickly, voice controlled but clearly shaken. “can you breathe properly?” her hands push your hair away, in attempt to keep it neat but then her eyes widen.

she sees the two holes in your neck, bite marks.

"oh my god." her hand freezes mid motion in your hair.

then she pulls back slightly, eyes locking onto your neck properly now. the bite marks are unmistakable. joo-mi's expression shifts fast, shock going to alarmed.

"my lady,” she says quickly, helping you upright gently. "don't move. i'll be back soon. you're safe now." she stands.

the door shuts behind her with a decisive click, leaving the bathroom in silence.

the awful sting and dull ache at your neck, pulsing was a simple reminder that what happened wasn’t a dream or panic or confusion.

it was actually real.

your body feels heavy in a different way now. it wasn't just weakness, but exhaustion catching up all at once. the kind that makes even sitting upright feel like effort.

you wanted to go to sleep.

joo-mi returns quickly with your estate's apothecary, as well as your father's steward.

joo-mi returns first, and behind her is the estate’s apothecary. your father’s steward follows close after, his expression immediately hardening the moment he sees the state of you.

“move aside,” the apothecary says quickly, dropping to his knees beside you without hesitation. he looks at your neck, then your face, then your pulse point.

"what happened here?" the steward asks, to which nobody responds.

“bite marks,” the apothecary says simply, already reaching for bandages and a small vial. “they are recent. not deep enough to be fatal, but she’s lost blood.”

“i found her like this,” she says, voice clearly on edge. “someone was in the room.”

the steward’s expression hardens immediately. “no one enters this wing without being cleared, and the guards would have seen them.

the apothecary gently tilts your chin, taking in the severity of your wounding.

suddenly, you feel a harsh pang on the side of your temples. it's sudden enough that your breath catches slightly before you can stop it. you hear voices around you speaking, and a pair of arms catching you before you fall.

shutting your eyes, you feel everything around you blur.

you wake up in your office cubicle, hair sprawled all over. a thin layer of sweat sticks to your neck and forehead, and when you try to move, your head throbs sharply, a dull, lingering ache right behind your temples.

what a weird dream.

the girl in it seemed so familiar though. like her face and the feeling of her presence felt so real.

and not to mention heeseung being in your dream, as some weird, freaked out vampire.

the dream version of him had felt familiar though. familiar in a way that got under your skin. even thinking of him in that concept made your chest tighten.

had you gotten way too deep into the enhypen loophole? should you go get some therapy..? maybe this was the aftermath of going to a concert, or something.

you stare at the black screen of your computer a while longer, trying to recount everything that happened.

“…what the hell,” you mutter under your breath.

it felt so real.

you exhale through your nose, letting it go as you always do when a dream doesn’t make sense to you.

your hand reaches for your neck, where the bite happened. you aren't expecting much, just skin. maybe some sweat from sleeping awkwardly at your desk.

but the moment your fingertips press beneath your jaw, pain flares sharply. you blink, sitting up properly. pulling out your phone, you open up the front camera, angling it toward your neck.

there's nothing. no bite marks, or bruising. it's just your skin.

a breath leaves your lungs shakily, somewhere between relief and embarrassment. “right,” you mutter quietly to yourself. “obviously.”

shrugging it off, you pat your hair down. you stand, stretching your arms. the weirdest part of all of this was that the headache you just had is practically gone. as if it were never there in the first place.

another thing you noticed was that it wasn't typical of you to have dreams midday. it was typically only when you were sleeping through the night.

it was pretty late at night now, and nobody else was at the office aside from a few of your co-workers. the building felt different at this hour.

picking up your items and putting them into your bag, sliding notebooks and loose items into your bag one by one. your mind keeps circling back to the dream.

a voice calling you “my lady." you pause briefly, then zip your bag shut.

no point overthinking it. you stand, shoulders rolling back as you sling the bag over one arm and glance around the office one last time.

you start walking toward the exit, your footsteps echo softly down the corridor, footsteps echoing in the near empty building.

and for a brief second, just as you pass the glass reflection of the hallway windows, it almost feels like you’re not entirely alone like you assumed.

but when you turn your head, there’s nothing there, just your reflection. was your mind playing tricks on you?

okay, you felt weird now. that weird headache was back too, but it was way worse this time.

a sharp pulse comes from behind your temples so suddenly that your vision blurs for a second. you stop walking immediately, one hand catching the edge of the hallway wall before your knees can fully give out beneath you.

that doesn't really help though, because they do give out and the next thing you know, you hit the floor once again. your knees hit first, then your shoulder catches awkwardly against the carpeted floor of the corridor hard enough to force the air from your lungs.

the pain sparks throughout your body, but it’s overtaken immediately by the pounding in your head. what was happening? this was honestly starting to annoy you, all the constant deliriousness and sudden passing out.

another pulse of pain blooms behind your eyes. the tension eases from your body, and your eyes slip shut. the last thing you register before consciousness leaves you entirely is the feeling of someone kneeling beside you.

when you wake up, you're in the infirmary. the first thing you take in is the smell. herbs. the scent is strong enough to sting your nose slightly.

you open your eyes, vision immediately being filled with the sight of a wooden ceiling. your gaze travels downwards, and you notice the heavy blankets laid out on top of you.

you push yourself up too quickly and instantly regret it when dizziness washes through your body. a hand reaches out, steadying you.

“my lady.” it's joo-mi. relief floods her face so fast. "you’re awake,” she breathes out.

she’s kneeling beside the bedding laid out in the infirmary room, hair slightly disheveled, which gives you the impression that she hasn't rested since you passed out. there are dark circles beneath her eyes now you don’t remember being there before.

joo-mi's here but even your own father isn't. typical.

"joo-mi," you sit up, slower this time. "what happened..?" your throat feels dry when you speak. "how long have i been out for?"

“you've been out for three days after you collapsed,” she says gently. “the apothecary said the blood loss and shock caused you to pass out."

your fingers reach up, ghosting over where the bite would've been. this time, your fingers come in contact with bandages, making you wince.

joo-mi notices immediately. “my lady,” she says softly, leaning closer. “be careful. the apothecary said not to touch the dressing.”

your hand instinctively flies down, "my apologies."

giving you a reassuring look, joo-mi shakes your head. "it's alright, my lady." she leans down, sitting back down on her knees. "the estate has been secured, so don't worry about anything."

"thank you, joo-mi." you say, genuinely grateful for her concern."

joo-mi’s expression softens immediately at your thanks. “it is my duty to care for you, my lady,” she says quietly. "though, if it is alright with you, may i ask what happened? do you remember your attacker, my lady?"

your eyes snap back to her, "my attacker..?" memories flash back. yeah, you were attacked by a vampire, and he put you into danger but your curiosity took over.

"that wasn’t enough to bring your memory back?"

yes, he hurt you. the bandages around your neck were proof of that.

why had he spoken to you like he already knew you? why did he sound disappointed instead of surprised when you didn’t remember him?

and the worst of all, why did part of you feel like you should?

joo-mi notices your distant expression immediately. “my lady?” she asks softly, concern creeping back into her voice.

you blink, "i don't remember." you admit, looking down at your lap. "how am

her expression softens as she watches you lower your gaze to your lap, "that's alright my lady. are you feeling hungry? your food is ready, i just have to go and get it."

when she mentions it, there is a faint emptiness in your stomach. you nod, "a little."

joo-mi rises from her knees, patting her skirt down, her expression filled with relief. "that's good. the apothecary said you should eat as soon as possible."

then she slides the door open quietly and disappears into the corridor. "i'll be back soon, my lady."

the infirmary falls silent again.

you're sat in bed, staring at the wall in front of you. your body still feels heavy from exhaustion, so you finally exhale and lean back slightly against the bedding. then the candle beside the far wall flickers, and the temperature in the room drops.

a quiet voice breaks the silence from somewhere behind you. "why didn't you tell her the truth?"

your pulse jumps instantly.

when you turn your head, heeseung's standing in the darkened corner as if he's been standing there since forever. his expression is calm as he steps closer toward you.

“how did you—”

“you think the guards can stop me?" heeseung says quietly, his gaze drifts briefly toward the bandages around your neck.

your lips form a small pout, annoyed at heeseung's ego. "fine. why are you here?"

"i wanted to see you." his honesty confuses you. had he not tried to kill you just a few days ago?

it's almost like he read your thoughts. "i know how that sounds," he says quietly, looking back at your neck. "but if I intended to kill you, you wouldn’t be alive right now."

instead, your curiosity returns. “why did you bite me?” you ask, voice flat out of annoyance. heeseung's been avoiding telling you the truth this whole time, and it's irritating.

"i thought that it would help you remember me. it did last time."

your brows knit together immediately, "last time?" you repeat, sharper now. heeseung's expression shifts, hurt washes over his features.

"..you’re not supposed to be remembering it in pieces," he says quietly. "it’s supposed to come back all at once."

he exhales softly, before speaking again.

"and I was trying to make sure you didn’t forget me again." heeseung comes closer to you, but you don't flinch away this time. you believed him when he said he would've killed you if he actually wanted to.

the space between you feels different this time, not dangerous or threatening. heeseung reaches out, cupping your cheek. his touch is surprisingly gentle this time.

'please don't snap my neck.'

that's all you're thinking of at this current moment. heeseung's face contorts into something similar of hurt, even though you never said it out loud. it's like he read your mind or something.

you know, he probably can read your mind. he's a vampire, why wouldn't you think of that? that explains it all, to be honest - how he's been able to recognise how you're feeling constantly.

vampires were controversial anyway.

half the court didn’t even believe they existed anymore, despite their being clear evidence of it such as old records sealed away in restricted archives or unexplained deaths. you always believed they were real, anyway.

your father hated them. a vampire is what took your mother away, after all. the details were never fully explained to you, anyway.

so you grew up with the idea already carved into your mind - that they were real, and they were dangerous, and they were the reason something important in your life had already been taken away. in theory, you should hate him and you should be terrified.

you should've been calling for guards the second he appeared inside this room.

your father would be horrified. the mere idea of you willingly sitting this close to a vampire would probably send him into a fit of rage severe enough for the entire estate to hear.

the thought comes bitterly this time.

because where even was he? you nearly died. your focus snaps back to heeseung, and suddenly the closeness feels too noticeable again. he drops his hand from your face, instead, he shifts and sits down beside you on the edge of the bed.

"so, you really don’t remember me." heeseung says quietly.

you frown immediately. “why do you keep saying that? that isn't giving me much insight."

"because it’s true."

your brows knit together. "i told you already, i don’t know what you’re talking about."

his gaze is unreadable for a second, but then he looks back, locking eyes with you. "in your past life,” he says quietly, "you were mine." your eyes widen.

heeseung's words settle in your stomach, it feels weird. "..yours?" you almost didn't believe it. a presumably centuries old vampire was claiming that you were his wife in your past life, how crazy did that sound? you stare at him, blankly. "you don't actually expect me to believe you, right?"

heeseung scoffs softly and straightens up from where he’d been leaning closer to you.

"i mean," he says dryly, "not really. you were a lot easier to convince last time."

his words make you pause instantly. "last time?" you repeat slowly. then your expression changes. "..how many times has this happened?"

for the first time since entering the infirmary, heeseung goes completely silent. as if he’s debating whether answering honestly is a good idea.

"heeseung, answer me."

his gaze lowers briefly before lifting back to yours again. "..three."

your eyes widen immediately. "three?!" you whisper harshly, breaking composure for the first time. "you’re telling me i've died three times?"

"you've reincarnated three times." he corrects softly.

"that isn't any better."

a faint flicker of amusement almost appears on his face before disappearing just as quickly.

"i mean, you remembered faster the second time," he murmurs, almost to himself.

you stare at him in disbelief. he continues, "but that time, you did throw a vase at my head."

your face scrunches up slightly, ignoring his dig at you. "how have i died three times? have you killed me all three?" you scoff.

heeseung is taken aback by your question, maybe even offended that you'd even assume that. "why would i kill my lover?"

before you can respond, he reaches over. his fingers settle against your forehead. you tense slightly on instinct, but all he does is flick it gently. "silly girl. you really do think the worst of me, hm?"

you feel a little disrespected that he thought he could just do that and get away with it. you were a noblewoman, after all.

something in you reacts immediately, you swat his hand away. "don’t do that." you snap, more offended than frightened now. you straighten slightly in bed, "i'm a noblewoman, you can't just touch me like that."

that earns a slight tilt of his head. "but you let me touch you back in the carriage, hm?" he says teasingly, making your face burn red.

"you still react the same way," heeseung mumbles. it feels weird that he's comparing you to yourself, yet you don't remember being her.

"how did you even manage to find out it was me?" you ask, curious about the whole reincarnation thing. heeseung looks a little surprised at your question. "does that mean you knew the whole time in the carriage? were you the one that manipulated with the time of day?" you continue spouting, making him press a finger to your lips, shutting you up effectively.

your words come faster as you think through it, the questions stacking on top of each other until you barely pause for breath.

"oh, so you noticed the time was off?" heeseung smiles, pulling his finger away.

"how could i not? and answer my other question - how did you know it was me?"

"..you always reincarnate into the same body." he begins quietly. "of course it changes with circumstances - like age, but i can always tell that it's you." heeseung sighs softly, a small smirk creeping up onto his face. "and you always smell the same."

if you were stupid, you definitely would've missed the seductive tone in his voice, making you flinch back slightly. "..that is inappropriate."

"you're my wife, why would it be?" the words land flatly, like it's the easiest thing for him to say.

a small blush covers the apple of your cheeks, making you look away in retaliation. "not in this life," you scoff.

"that can be easily arranged, baby." heeseung says, leaning over, picking your chin up between his fingers - making you look at him.

you wrap your fingers around his wrist, attempting to pull him away but he doesn't relent, making you give up pretty easily. "..there isn't a chance that i would've willingly married a pervert like you."

heeseung smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. instead of responding, he leans in, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck, you freeze.

"relax, pretty." heeseung reassures gently, punctuating his words with a slow, deliberate lick along your jugular. the bandages are thin, and you can feel his fangs grazing the sensitive skin without breaking it. your face is beet red at this point, and you're sweating nervously.

he nuzzles further into the crook of your neck, body nearly on top of yours. you're tensed up, but heeseung doesn't care. after all, you're still the same woman he's loved all this time. "you'll let me have another taste, right? i've missed you. you took ages to come back this time around."

heeseung's fingers lightly push at the bandages around your neck when you don't respond, continuing to speak, "i didn't mean for last time to be so rough," he admits, pressing a soft kiss to the side of your neck. "i was just caught up in the moment."

he lifts his head from your neck, making eye contact with you. from this angle, he looked harmless - you had trusted that face once, or at least, something in you reacts like you had.

you take a deep breath, overwhelmed. "will you leave me alone if i let you..?"

"no." heeseung replies back simply, "you're mine again. why would i let you go once more?" his answer makes you scoff.

he leans back in once more, one hand slides down the side of you and rests at your hip, fingers squeezing gently.

"why would you even bother asking if you were just gonna do it anyway?" you mumble in annoyance. heeseung doesn't respond verbally. you can feel his fangs graze across your pulse again, marking exactly where it's gonna hurt. his empty hand grabs the back of your head gently, fingers tangling in your hair.

in one swift motion, he sinks his sharp teeth into the soft flesh of your neck. a soft whimper leaves your lips as you shut your eyes, trying to bear with the pain. you can almost exactly how much blood is leaving your body with each second. his fingers dig into your hip, pulling you closer to him, you shuffle forward with no surrender.

footsteps cut through the corridor outside, fast and urgent. the door slide open sharply.

"my lady!" joo-mi rushes in first, breath caught, eyes instantly locking onto you. relief flashes across her face for half a second before it tightens into panic when she sees heeseung beside you.

right behind her walks in the estate apothecary follows quickly, already holding a prepared medical kit, a guard following closely behind.

and then your father. he stops at the threshold.

for a moment, the entire room is silent. his eyes take in everything at once. you're sitting weakly in bed as heeseung drains the life essence out of you.

heeseung finally pulls away, caring enough to turn back at the audience watching the two of you. you slump back onto the pillows, exhausted.

the air in the room shifts immediately. "..step away from her," your father says, voice low.

joo-mi moves forward quickly, but the guard pulls her back by the arm protectively. the apothecary doesn’t speak, but his grip tightens around his kit in fear.

heeseung, however, doesn’t rush to defend himself, he simply looks at your father, blood dripping out of his mouth, down his chin. a small grin forms onto his face, "i was waiting for you to arrive." heeseung says quietly.

the guard shifts forward half a step, hand near his weapon. "i said to step away." your father speaks again, making heeseung stand, hands up in mock surrender.

your father's eyes narrow at the movement like it still isn’t enough. "..a vampire," he says quietly, like the word itself is offensive.

heeseung doesn't even react, just taking a slow step back from your bed. that only seems to confirm everything in your father's mind.

"you dare stand in my daughter’s room," your father continues, voice tightening with restrained rage, "after what your kind has done to this family?"

heeseung sighs as if talking to these people were a chore.

your father doesn’t look away from heeseung for even a second. "i should have you executed where you stand." he says coldly.

"you could try." heeseung says, tone full of arrogance, which seems to upset your father further. you shut your eyes, barely able to remain conscious at this point.

"you think immortality makes you untouchable?" your father asks, "you're a lowly creature."

heeseung tilts his head slightly, ignoring his insult. "no," he says simply, "but experience does."

heeseung’s eyes drift briefly toward you again, the expression on his face changes. his eyes soften slightly.

before the guard can even draw his weapon, heeseung's gone - just like that.

your father's expression hardens immediately. "search the estate," he orders sharply.

the guard bows, "yes sir." he leaves the room immediately.

joo-mi finally rushes fully to your bedside the second heeseung is gone, kneeling beside you quickly. "my lady, are you hurt?" she asks in a rush, eyes searching over you anxiously.

you barely respond, a small hum leaving your lips.

the apothecary steps forward, examining your form, "please remain still," he says carefully, though his voice sounds slightly shaken.

your father stays where he is, still staring at the empty spot heeseung disappeared from. his gaze shifts over to you, jaw clenched.

"has she been bitten?" your father asks, not bothering to come any closer.

the apothecary hesitates but nods, "yes, she has, my lord."

your father doesn't speak for a moment, but after around thirty seconds he speaks. "call the executioner, now." you barely register his words, but did he really think he had the power to kill heeseung?

both the apothecary and joo-mi snap their heads toward your father. "what? my lord, you don't mean to-"

your father finally looks at you properly now, and something about his expression makes unease crawl beneath your skin. but it isn't grief, or is it relief that you survived.

it's calculation.

"yes, i do." your father interrupts the apothecary. "she's a risk." he finishes coldly.

for a second, you genuinely think you misheard him.

joo-mi looks horrified. "my lord," she says quickly, voice shaking slightly, "the lady was attacked, she is not at fault-"

"you think I don’t know what vampires do?" your father snaps.

silence fills the room immediately afterward. the apothecary's face is as pale as a ghost's.

your father's gaze remains fixed on you now, unwavering. "if he fed from her," he says, each word clipped and controlled, "then we do not know what he could have left behind."

joo-mi instinctively moves closer to your bedside.

"my lord, respectfully, there has been no sign of corruption," the apothecary says carefully. "her pulse is stable, her condition-"

"that creature stood beside her bed like he belonged there," your father says angrily. "and she let him."

that accusation stings you more than you expected. probably because it was actually true. weakly, you find your voice. "father.."

he doesn't even look at you.

"i want her gone by tonight." he says coldly, "make it quick."

"my lord, please, she is your daughter." joo-mi pleads, but he doesn't even listen to that. he walks out of the room after that.

the apothecary gives you a sympathetic look, and joo-mi already has tears falling down her cheeks.

they continue to stream freely down her face as she rushes closer to your bedside, grabbing your hands carefully like she’s terrified you’ll disappear if she lets go. "my lady.." her voice cracks badly. "i'm sorry, i should've been here with you."

you can barely process what just happened. your father had just ordered your execution.

"joo-mi, please." the apothecary pulls her away gently. he leans closer to you. "my lady, please forgive me." your throat tightens at his words.

fear suddenly floods your chest, sharp enough to cut through the exhaustion. the apothecary’s hands tremble as he uncaps a small vial.

a vial is pressed to your lips, before you are made to drink it.

"please," the apothecary says quietly, and somehow the grief in his voice is worse than if he sounded cold. "drink."

your body feels way too weak to fight properly. the liquid pours into your mouth bitter and burning, sliding down your throat before you can try turn away.

you can hear joo-mi's sobs. the apothecary shuts his eyes, as if he himself doesn't want to watch it.

"i added something to make you sleep first," he murmurs. "you should not feel much pain."

the edges of your vision darken slowly as the medicine settles deeper into your system. one thought repeats quietly in your mind.

'heeseung said he wouldn’t let you go again.'

those are the last words you ever think in that life time before your eyes shut for the last time.

there's low humming somewhere nearby. you assume it's air conditioning.

when you wake up again, you're in an unfamiliar room. your eyes open slowly. then you sit up abruptly, and almost immediately regret it. pain throbs behind your temples hard enough to make you wince.

"fuck.." you mutter, voice hoarse. the word sounds foreign after hearing nothing but formal speech for what felt like days. that was definitely the longest dream you'd had in ages. it was so strange.

you couldn't control yourself at all. it was like a series of events all played out for you. plus, you don't think you've ever died in a dream before - assuming that's what happened in the end.

your breathing quickens slightly as you look around properly now. this room wasn't the infirmary, it was a bedroom. modern-style, and completely unfamiliar.

you glance over. a dark hoodie hangs over the back of the chair nearby. from the looks of it, it belonged to a male. you sit up now, alarmed. the worst possibilities come to mind - did you get assaulted after you passed out..?

pushing the blanket draped over you off, you notice all of your clothes are still on and intact. your hand flies immediately to your neck, no andages this time. but the skin there still feels sensitive beneath your fingertips.

you sigh in relief, standing up. you take hesitant steps toward the bedroom door, pressing an ear to it. your legs still feel slightly weak beneath you, but at least they hold your weight this time.

surprisingly, there was no noise on the other side of it.

leaning back, your hand reaches for the handle, turning softly, not wanting to make any noise. the door opens with only the faintest click.

you peek out cautiously first, it's just an empty hallway.

your gaze flicks toward the front door instinctively, which you can barely see from here. it's locked.

three separate locks, actually.

"..okay," you whisper under your breath. that's mildly concerning.

you step out further anyway, bare feet silent against the floor. you gawk, actually - staring at your bare feet, because you definitely weren't the one to remove your shoes or socks.

a voice suddenly comes from somewhere behind you, "most people wait until they fully recover before they try to escape, you know?"

you nearly jump out of your skin.

spinning around sharply, you're met with lee heeseung - except this time, his hair isn't black. it's burgundy, definitely not natural like the last time you saw him.

well, that was in a dream to be fair.

your heart races, feeling heavy.

it's him.

the heeseung plastered across billboards, album photocards shoved into your drawers, performances you’d replayed at two in the morning when you couldn’t sleep.

your actual, real-life idol. your brain feels like it short-circuits.

"did all that work?" heeseung speaks again, leaning closer. this time, he doesn't hesitate to grab you by the waist, smashing his lips against yours in a bruising kiss. his tongue forces it's way past your teeth, kissing you like he's trying to devour you whole and begging for forgiveness all at the same time.

you're dizzy, and confused. did he get the wrong girl? you kiss him back either way. one hand fists your hair gently, angling your head to deepen the kiss further. the other roams on your lower back, before finally resting on your hips.

when heeseung finally breaks away, you're both panting. he rests his forehead against yours, eyes heavy-lidded with clear desire. "i'm sorry for doing that to you." his jaw clenches in anger, like he's remembering a bad memory. "i never forgave myself after that day."

you blink, "..what?" you pant, out of breath. "doing what to me?"

heeseung tilts his head, pulling his head away but his hands are still on you, as if he's scared that if he lets go you'll disappear again. "hm." he inhales, "your dream. it was real. it was your memories in your past life."

for a second, your brain refuses to accept the sentence. real?

you stare at him, searching his face for any sign of joking. there isn't any. "what, you're actually a vampire and i've been reincarnated multiple times?" you joke, but heeseung's face is dead serious.

after a few seconds, he parts his lips, flashing his fangs.

your throat tightens at the sight.

"that doesn’t make sense," you whisper. "tell me something that happened in the dream, then."

"you let me get you off in the carriage." he says, a smug grin on his face as the words leave his mouth. your face heats up at the embarrassing memory.

"okay," you fold almost immediately. "i believe you." heeseung looks relieved at your words, but a little surprised too. to be honest though, you sort of believed in the whole red-string theory. if he's found you multiple times in each life time, then maybe it was meant to be.

that same teasing smirk you saw in your dream re-appears on his face.

"i think that's the shortest amount of time it's ever taken me to convince you." he says. "you're getting better at it."

you think about his words. you were a huge fan of him, at least in this life time, there wouldn't be a reason for you to deny him. he was the bias in your favourite group, after all. his voice interrupts your thoughts.

"oh, so you're a fan of my work?" heeseung asks coyly, leaning in closer. you lean back instinctively, face feeling hot.

"..you can't use your mind-reading thing against me." memories of your dream flash-back to you. mainly when heeseung left you to die, kind of.

heeseung opens his mouth to speak, but you cut him off. "mind you, you're basically the reason i died, and you bit me twice without my permission."

the teasing in heeseung’s face doesn’t disappear, but it softens. "i'm sorry." he wraps his arms around you, bringing you closer to him. you indulge in his touch, but then he opens his mouth again. "plus, i asked you the second time."

you scoff, pulling away. "if my memory serves me correctly, i said no and you bit me anyway."

a guilty expression washes over his face. "you're right. i'm sorry, baby." the pet-name catches you off guard. especially since it's coming from lee heeseung of all people. maybe this was a dream too, and you were going to wake up disappointed.

"it isn't a dream." heeseung says, sounding a little frustrated. his fingers graze your jaw, before grabbing your face, squishing your cheeks together firmly, but gently. "do i have to prove that to you?"

you're taken aback, eyes widening slightly. his lips are on yours before you can even fully register the meaning of his words. his kiss isn't as gentle as it was previously though. his fangs graze your bottom lip, barely, but still cutting the muscle open. his tongue swipes, licking up any blood that seeps out of the cut. heeseung's hands slide into your hair, angling your head to deepen the kiss as he presses your back against the wall.

when he finally breaks away, saliva connecting your slick lips, you're both left panting. his eyes are half lidded, looking at you with clear desire.

“let me make it up to you,” heeseung murmurs, voice low. “let me show you how sorry i am for letting you go. for how much i need you.”

one of his hand trails down your side, resting on your waist. that same cold hand of his slides underneath your shirt, making you flinch as his palms skim over the soft skin of your stomach and ribs. he tugs at the fabric, silently demanding more access to you.

this time, he actually waits for an answer.

you blink in surprise at first, but nod when you see his pleading eyes.

“fuck, you taste so good," he rasps, ducking his head to press hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and down your neck. “i’ve wanted this for so long..."

he nips at your pulse point, before soothing the sting with his tongue. heeseung makes no move to bite you this time, simply just sucking hickeys onto your neck as his hands explore your body.

he grabs your hand, dragging you to his living room. heeseung guides you backwards until the back of your legs hit the couch, causing you to sit down.

he follows, settling between your parted thighs. “tell me what you want, baby.” heeseung coaxes, looking up at you through his lashes. “i’ll give you anything."

this was all happening so quickly, you felt dizzy. you snap back into reality. clearing your throat, you realised you were in control here clearly, so you might as well take advantage of it.

when you don't respond, heeseung sighs - before grabbing your wrists, pinning them above your head. "i was trying to be gentle, since i haven't fucked you for centuries, but you make it so hard to resist."

heeseung leans closer, pressing his body against yours. his cock throbbed painfully in his sweat pants, slowly losing self-control with each second. you can't ignore the feeling of his hard-on eagerly touching you, still separated with the layers of both of your clothing.

"i had to wait hundreds of years for this," he whispers lowly, "for you to be under me once again."

heeseung misses your past lives together. he misses the way you used to writhe underneath him, hearing you moan his name over and over again. he learnt exactly what made you whimper, learnt exactly where your g-spot was, and how to make your legs shake. how else did you get off so quickly back in the carriage?

heeseung's hand snakes down past the band of your skirt. you were still dressed in your office uniform, after all. he can feel the heat radiating from your pussy, even your arousal was evident through the thin fabric. "i don't want to upset you again," he begins, he mumbles against your neck, "so, i'll ask this time. will you let me fuck you?"

you make eye contact with him, and all the blood in your body goes straight to your heart, pumping furiously. folding, you nod. "..okay."

heeseung grins, releasing your wrists. you're confused, but then before you can react, you're manhandled onto your stomach.

"what-" you start to speak, but heeseung cuts you off. "shh, just relax." he murmurs, hands gripping your hips firmly, thumbs digging into the soft flesh. one of his hands slides around to the front, going underneath the waistband of your skirt.

his fingers rub against your panties, thumb specifically going for your clit. heeseung lets out a soft groan when he feels how damp you are. "you're so wet for me, yet you act like you don't want this, hm?"

"can you just fuck me?" you hiss, embarrassed. you lift your hips slightly, trying to feel more than just teasing touches, but his fingers don't move.

he calls your name, voice low. "i don't appreciate you talking to me like that." you feel his fingers tangle into your hair, before tugging you backward. "i was going to be gentle with you, considering you haven't taken me in years."

heeseung's hand pushes your skirt up, making it bunch around at your waist. his palm comes down, spanking your ass. "but i guess you're still an eager slut, same as all of those years ago." a soft whimper leaves your lips.

"..why would you even say that?" you grumble, annoyed at the fact that he was not only degrading you, but also comparing you to another version of yourself again. it didn't exactly turn you off though.

his fingers hook in the waistband of your panties, practically ripping them off you. "why would i say that? because it's true." his hand comes back down. "spread your legs." his tone leaves no room for argument.

hesitantly, you spread your legs. heeseung wastes no time, his hand delivering another sharp spank, this time to your aching cunt. he groans at the sound of your startled gasp as a result of it, the noise sending a jolt of arousal straight to his dick.

a shaky sigh leaves his lips, and you can feel his presence step back. "on your knees." he says calmly, making your eyebrows knit in confusion. you look back at him, but he looks dead serious - it's kind of scary even.

you blink, but retreat, climbing off the couch, settling onto your knees. looking up, he's already looking down at you, expression impassive as he tugs at the waistband of his sweats.

your bare knees are already digging into the hardwood floor, making you shift slightly. heeseung reaches inside, freeing his dick - and making your eyes widen at the impressive size.

it was pretty though, in a weird way. his tip was a pretty pink, and a prominent vein went along the side of it.

"..you don't actually expect me to give you a blowjob, right?" you say, dumbfounded. it wasn't outrageously thick in girth, but the actual length of it looks like it could kill you maybe.

heeseung's hand reaches for the top of your scalp, he curls his fingers in your silky hair, gripping firmly but not painfully as he makes you look up at him. "does it look like i'm kidding?"

you gulp, the look on his face told you he definitely wasn't. with a slight tug of his hand, he guides you closer until the swollen head of his dick brushes against your bottom lip. "open your mouth, pretty."

the pet-name kind of eases your hesitance in a way. you part your lips, revealing the pink wetness of your tongue. heeseung applies steady pressure, slowly pushing past your lips and onto your tongue. the taste of his pre-cum floods your senses as he starts feeding you more of his dick, inch by inch.

"that's it.." heeseung groans, throwing his head back, holding you in place as he starts shallow thrusts. the hand in your hair tightens, forming a pony-tail with whatever hair is in grasp of his fingers.

you pull off, gagging when he starts to thrust. you aren't used to this, and his dick is way too big - hurting your jaw. heeseung allows you to compose yourself, reaching down with his other hand to wipe at a stray tear. "too big?" he snorts teasingly, making you glare up at him.

"shut up." you hiss, wrapping your fingers around his shaft again, taking him back into your mouth. heeseung hums approvingly at that.

"that's better.." he praises, moving the hair out of your face. he pants softly, starting to move his hips forward into your mouth. each thrust pushes him further past your stretched lips, the thick head of his dick nudging the back of your throat.

one of his hands remains tangled in your hair, setting the pace, while the other one traces along your jawline gently. that same hand drops lower, grazing over your neck as he feels it bulge slightly around his dick. drool escapes the corners of your mouth, coating your chin and dripping down onto your heaving chest, staining your blouse.

"you're taking me so well." heeseung whimpers softly, hand on your neck moving to your cheek as he strokes it gently. "guess your body still knows who it belongs to even after all this time."

you feel yourself getting light-headed from the lack of oxygen, and so you pull off. heeseung hesitantly lets you, watching the string of saliva that connects your lips to the swollen head of his cock.

"was that too much for you, baby?" heeseung strokes your hair gently, but his tone is nothing but condescending. ironic because the entire time he was trying not to cum as soon as you wrapped your lips around his tip.

his hand reaches back down underneath your skirt as you willingly part your legs for him. heeseung's fingers finding your most intimate area, spreading your slick folds open. "you're even wetter than before," he observes, almost snickering. "did sucking my dick really excite you that much?"

without waiting for a response, he pushes two thick fingers knuckle-deep into your sopping heat, pumping steadily as he stretches you open for him. you gasp, hands immediately gripping onto his forearm in an attempt to stabilise yourself. that makes him grin, leaning in to whisper into your ear. "i'm the only one who can make you feel like this, right?"

you weren't a virgin in this timeline, but he didn't need to know that. you nod at his words, "...yeah, of course." his eyebrows furrow, and at that you remember he can read minds. shit.

heeseung's thumb finds your clit, rubbing firm circles which coaxes more of your essence to coat his digits. his other hand has a bruising grip on your hip. heeseung's gaze is locked onto your face, taking in every micro-expression and breathy whimper that leaves your lips. "maybe i wasn't your first, but you'd be stupid to think i'd let someone else touch you ever again."

the pressure in your stomach increases, but he pulls his fingers out before you can even consider cumming. you open your mouth in protest, but he stuffs his fingers in, silencing you effectively.

he pulls his fingers out of your mouth. heeseung pulls you up and bends you back over the couch, stomach flat against it as he tugs your hips up with his hands. "you're so annoying," you whine, turning your head back to glare at him. "i was going to cum."

"you're about to cum soon, stop being impatient. you're not the one who's waited years." he snaps back, annoyed. heeseung's hand forces your head down into the pillows of the cushion, and that's when you feel his swollen tip press against your wet folds.

heeseung pushes in without any warning, bottoming out immediately, making you jolt as you moan into the pillows. your cunt immediately tries to push out the large intrusion by fluttering dramatically around his length as heeseung stills, letting you adjust.

he pulls your head up by your hair, letting you breathe. it kind of hurts in your lower region, making you exhale. "am i bleeding..?" you whimper out, internally hoping he'll say no.

"a bit, yeah." his fingers reach to your inner thigh, scooping up what you presume to be the blood, and you can hear him lick his fingers - ew. heeseung pushes your head back into the pillows, before withdrawing his hips, only to slam back harder. you choke.

heeseung says something to you, but you can barely register his words with his dick so far in you that you can basically feel it in your throat. he leans forward, pulling you up so your back is against his chest, his hand snaking around to press against the lower part of your tummy.

"nothing to say?" he whispers into your ear, moving his hips up again in a particularly hard thrust, making a loud cry leave your swollen lips. his hand drops further down, cupping your cunt as he rubs your clit.

you can barely stand, resting the back of your head against his shoulder. "..what? i-i didn't hear you." you mumble, tears welling up into your eyes.

heeseung leans forward, kissing the side of your neck. his fangs graze the skin again, but you can't lean away due to his arm on your collarbone keeping you pressed against him. "i said, you wouldn't mind if i take a sip now, right?"

you turn your head in rejection, unknowingly realising that it just gives him easier access to your neck. in turn heeseung takes that opportunity., sinking his fangs into your neck. he doesn't stop moving his dick in and out of you either.

you can't form thoughts as your vision starts to blur, unable to stop choked moans and whimpers from leaving your throat. it just feels way too good, even if this is his way of punishing you - using you like a personal fleshlight of sorts.

heeseung continues sucking on your neck, hand back on your lower stomach, pressing down as he feels himself in there. he pulls away, panting softly in your ear. "are you going to cum soon, pretty?"

you nod, completely putting all of your weight onto him and the couch as you can barely keep yourself up right. heeseung lets you lean onto him, increasing the fervour of his thrusts. your eyes roll into the back of your head as you feel him lick onto the wound he made on your neck.

"..t-that tickles, stop." you mumble out, gummy walls clenching down onto his cock at the feeling of him licking you.

heeseung pushes you back onto your stomach, following you as he pushes his weight onto you. he moves your hair from the side of your neck, kissing your jaw. "but baby, you just tightened up the second i did that." the pace of his thrusts increase, hips meeting against your ass each time. heeseung sucks a hickey onto your neck, licking over it once he deems it as perfect.

you feel lightheaded at this point, and you're on the brink of cumming. heeseung's hand wraps around your throat, applying light pressure there. his mouth moves down, biting your shoulder now. that's your breaking point, making you cum over his cock. "you taste even better like this.." he whines softly into your ear, pulling away from your shoulder.

your thighs shake underneath him, sobbing as you shut your eyes completely. heeseung doesn't stop though, whimpering softly into your ear as he re-doubles his efforts, trying to make himself cum.

"f-fuck," he whines, burying his face into the crook of your neck. every flutter of your tight walls contracting around him made his eyes roll back. your body twitches as heeseung continues, chasing his own release. you could basically feel every vein and ridge of his dick now, feeling extra sensitive because you just came.

heeseung's cock twitched inside you, before you feel him empty himself deep inside of you. he fills you completely, a loud moan leaving his lips at the same time, "i love you...you're mine." he pants out, mumbling against your neck, "you're mine only, nobody else gets to have you but me."

you honestly feel like you're about to pass out, slumping back into the couch. the combination of his rough treatment plus the blood sucking was enough to make you want to sleep. heeseung notices this.

he kisses the side of your cheek, "one more time?" the glare you shoot him afterwards gives him your answer, but heeseung doesn't relent, flipping you onto your back. "don't look at me like that. i'm just excited to finally have you back."

"hey, heeseung.." you call out tiredly, looking up at him. "why haven't you just turned me into a vampire already?" maybe it wasn't possible? who knows.

heeseung stares down at you, his pupils becoming bigger at your words. "..you never wanted me to turn you into one, even though i wanted to." he mumbles quietly, making your eyes widen.

before you can even process it properly, heeseung speaks again, too fast this time, like the words slipped out before he could stop them.

"..do you want me to?"

you blink.

the question hangs between you immediately. you? a vampire? the thought feels strange, almost unreal. you imagine the fangs, the immortality, oh and the blood. but somehow, your brain circles back to heeseung.

to staying beside him. to not dying while he remains exactly the same, waiting for your next return. "..i'm okay with it," you admit slowly. "if you want to, of course."

heeseung stares at you. his hand lifts instinctively, fingertips brushing lightly beneath your jaw before stopping himself halfway.

"you have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear you say that."

this literally took me ages and i literally was just gonna keep this in the drafts bc i couldn't stick w a consistent plot line so if there are any loopholes try ur best to ignore them 😭😭 i tried my best to proofread and make sure there wasn't any tho 🫶🫶

i wanted to have a try but im lowkey never writing smut again bc that shit was WAY too hard like there is just sm going on omfg, lowkey the reason this even took so long to write bc i just kept procrastinating it lol😭🤦‍♀️

🤏 was this close to just deactivating during and after writing the smut..

[m-hypen]

Package Deal

Package Deal Ship: Best Friend!Heeseung x Reader x Enemy!Sunghoon Description: For as long as you were going to be Heeseung’s best friend, you’d have to put up with his other best friend, Sunghoon, who absolutely despises you. Things only get more complicated after an incident that leads people to think you took the package deal. Warnings: Threesome, Eiffel Tower, MxM action, Dom/BratTamer!Heeseung, Switch!Sunghoon, Oral (m&f receiving), Unproteced Sex, Squirting, Impact Play, Dacryphilia, Creampie, Cum Play, Edging, Overstimulation, Humiliation/Degradation, Fingering, Dirty Talk, Praise, Pussy Slapping, Multiple Orgasms, Sadomasochism, Dry Humping literally this is 90% smut barely any plot, terrible attempts at humor Wordcount: 15k A/N: Ahh sorry I keep making the reader not get along with Sunghoon lol. I just love best friends and enemies tropes, what can I say. I hope everyone enjoys this. I started writing it before March and found finishing it cathartic. I still plan to write Heeseung fics in the future and have him be included as a character in future Enhypen fics. You can find the BTS Jungkook & Taehyung version on my blog @littlemisskookie as Group Bonding!

When you first met Heeseung it was for your debate program in University. He was the only one who could match you with for wit, point for point, all within the allotted time and with brevity and well spoken analysis that you were in awe of. Surprisingly the two of you did not become rivals, the way high school you would've fantasized, having read way too much enemies to lovers fanfiction. No, instead you two actually became very good friends, building a friendship based on mutual respect, sticking together even after graduation. 

Heeseung was practically perfect in every way except with one minute (major) flaw: his other best friend.

You and Park Sunghoon never really saw eye-to-eye; the moment you crossed paths with his childhood best friend, his original debate partner back in high school, you knew you had entered a battlefield.

It was a never ending fight between the two of you, always vying for Heeseung's affections. Sunghoon had always accused you of being a leech, just another sycophant who would reveal her true colors and nefarious intentions towards his best friend. Apparently they had known each other since childhood, and he had seen a million girls like you come and go. You, on the other hand, found Sunghoon to be an entitled, pompous brat whose rich family provided so much for him he had never been told the word no. He was so used to Heeseung being his and his alone that you had trouble picturing him sharing anything in his life. That was probably the real reason why girls didn't last long around Heeseung. 

It didn't help that Heeseung was constantly trying to facilitate things between the two of you, arranging for the three of you to hang out despite both parties' protest.

"If you guys only got to know each other better, I'm sure you'd get along!"

"Won't you guys try, for me? C'mon, I've always pictured what things would be like, the three of us."

"You're both my best friends. Why would anyone choose just one?"

More times than you could count you were invited to hang out with Heeseung, only to find Sunghoon already be there. You tried to get along with the man, really, but it was nearly impossible. He was so possessive of Hee, constantly glaring at the two of you when Heeseung showed you any affection. He always had some snide comment to make about it afterwards, like just seeing you two so close made him want to throw up. You were positively sure at this point that the younger was in love with his best friend, but it was a working theory.

Regardless, anything you showed up to with Heeseung, you'd have to be ok with Sunghoon tagging along as well. Tonight's party was no exception, though you had lost track of the duo when you went to find a drink to drown your sorrows, and then had to do it again after seeing said sorrow to drink over.

You stumbled up the stairs with a heavy heart, downing most of your cup to replace one bitter taste in your mouth with another. To your surprise you see your best friend waiting in the hallway, no Sunghoon in sight, looking just as drunk as you based on the way he was slumped against the wall.

You walked up to him, back pressing against the wall as well, leaning your arm against his for support and also needing the comfort of his body heat against yours right now. 

"Hey, where've ya been? I've been looking for you for the past ten minutes I feel," you pouted, taking another sip of the fruity concoction in your cup, the vodka starting to become less noticeable.

The moment Heeseung registered you he glowed, beaming with a goofy, drunk, genuine smile that made you feel safe.

"Hey, sorry! Hoon broke the seal, and I didn't want to lose more than one person in a single night," Heeseung chuckled, grabbing you arm and tucking it against his, pulling you in closer to his side. "How're you enjoying the party?"

You shrugged, unsure if you wanted to mention the sight downstairs you were currently running from. "It's fine, I guess."

"Yeah, I was thinking about the three of us ditching to go to that party on Brunswick, but none of us seem quite capable of driving just yet."

That put a damper on your hopes of Heeseung whisking you away from this place.

"I just remembered, I forgot to show you earlier today the new watch I got from Etsy!" Heeseung's glazed eyes lit up. "Look, it's called a serpent's watch." 

Heeseung flashed the fancy accessory on his wrist, the nontraditional wristband being coils of metal that wrapped down his wrist, the clock shaped closer to an oval or diamond than a circle. It really was shaped liked a serpent.

You absentmindedly nodded, fingers brushing over the way the watch wrapped around Heeseung's wrist. Your mind kept drifting from Heeseung's forearms, however, and without sobriety to keep your mind where it should be, tears were soon falling from your eyes.

Hee noticed immediately.

"Hey hey, what's wrong?" Heeseung cupped your face in his hands, thumbs swiping under your eyes to wipe away at the tears. "It's a party, you should be happy-drunk, not sad-drunk."

Your lip trembled as you melted into Heeseung's touch. "It's Jake," you explained, a pout on your lips as you said the name. "Just saw him downstairs with some girl. I just wasn't expecting it to hit so hard, y'know?"

"Aw, baby, I'm so sorry." Heeseung wasn't the biggest fan of your ex, secretly (not so secretly) elated when the two of you broke up. You didn't share the same sentiments, very clearly heartbroken when Jake dumped you to have sex with other girls. Go figure. "It's natural to be upset."

"I just—" You sucked in a breath. "I want to be over it already, y'know? I'm so sick of being pathetic and still crying about it."

"It was only two months ago. I don't blame you."

"You should. You should be sick of me at this point, crying to you about this. God knows Sunghoon is." You blinked away the tears, slowly coming back down to Earth as you grounded yourself further against Heeseung. "I'm sick of me."

"I could never be sick of you, trust me. Jake doesn't know what he's missing out on. Any sane man would be on his knees for you if you so much as asked."

That earned a laugh out of you, effectively brightening your spirit a tiny bit. You sniffled, resting your forehead against Heeseung's shoulder, sighing as you composed yourself. "Thanks, Hee. I appreciate it. God, why can't more guys be like you? There's too many assholes like Jake and Sunghoon around."

Heeseung chuckled at that. "Hey, Hoon's not that bad."

"He is to me."

"You guys just need to work on getting closer, that's all. Find some shared interest or hobby or something. Anything you might like to do together."

You rolled your eyes a bit. "I don't think there's anything like that that doesn't involve violence."

"He likes you more than you think. He just doesn't realize it yet," Heeseung assured.

You heard a knock from inside the bathroom, Sunghoon's voice calling out. "Heeseung?"

"Speak of the devil," Heeseung grinned. He turned toward the door. "What is it?"

"Can you come in here real quick?"

Both you and Heeseung exchanged puzzled glances.

"Are you guys about to get up to some gay shit?" You whispered quietly. "I mean, it's hot, I guess. Am I supposed to keep watch?"

"Dunno yet. Let me see what he needs," Heeseung said, not even bothering to deny the homosexual allegations as he stepped inside the bathroom. Sunghoon was turned away from Heeseung, looking down and fidgeting with something. "Everything ok man?"

"Yes— I mean no— I mean... shit." Sunghoon turned around, letting Heeseung see his situation. Unfortunately for him, the zipper of his pants had gotten stuck onto his boxers and was refusing to budge. "It's stuck," Sunghoon stated the obvious. "I've been trying to get it loose for like, five minutes now."

"Whoo boy, let's see what we're dealing with." Heeseung gave the zipper an experimental tug upwards. Sunghoon wasn't used to having Heeseung's hands so close to his genitalia, but he supposed it was a testimony to how close they were.

Sunghoon leaned against the sink, ears tinged pink with embarrassment as Heeseung yanked at the zipper with reasonable force.

"Hey, watch it man! I don't need you zipping up my balls, too," Sunghoon freaked.

"Relax, it's not— Jesus Christ, this thing really isn't budging," Heeseung hissed, hands starting to become sweaty with his efforts.

Sunghoon's eyes widened. He buried his face in his hands, feeling how hot his cheeks were already getting "Fuck. Fuck, man, what am I gonna do? I can't go out there with my fly like this!"

"I'd be more worried about the fact you spent, like, 500 bucks on these pants." If Heeseung used too much force on this he was at risk of breaking it beyond repair, and he really couldn't afford repairs for Prada the way Sunghoon could.

"Dude, I literally want to die right now." Sunghoon prayed everybody would be drunker than he was, at least enough where he could make a speedy exit without anyone noticing his problem.

"Wait!" Heeseung's head shot up, as though a brilliant idea came to him. "I know someone who's great with zippers!"

Sunghoon's thick brows furrowed, and all he could think about was lightning somehow shooting into the house and striking him down mercifully. "What? Wait—"

"Y/N! Get in here, we need your help!" Heeseung swung open the bathroom door, dragging you inside without preamble or Sunghoon's approval.

You grumbled, eyes narrowed with confusion. "Do I need to aim for you guys or...?"

"No! Hoon's got a bit of a..." Heeseung's eyes flicked down towards his friend's crotch. "...situation."

Your eyebrows jumped this time. "He has a boner?"

"No!" Now it was Sunghoon's turn to interject. He felt like he could die of embarrassment then and there, having to humiliate himself in front of you of all people. "My zipper is stuck."

"Aw, guess that Prada label doesn't guarantee quality after all, does it?" You jutted your lip out in a fake pout, taking your opportunity to jab at him. You were still suffering from the sting of seeing your ex, and Sunghoon was the best target you could ask for tonight. This was just too perfect.

"Hey, be nice," Heeseung scolded. "Will you help?"

"Maybe..." You tapped your cup against your chin, pondering. "If he begs."

"What?!" Sunghoon was shocked by your sheer audacity.

You shrugged, fighting (and failing) to keep the corner of your mouth from quirking up into a smirk. "If you want me to help, you have to say please. It's only polite."

"Oh my god, you're such a bitch—"

"That's not very nice."

"Nice? I can—"

"Guys, stop!" Heeseung interrupted the both of your squabbling, not wanting to be cramped in a bathroom with the two of you shouting in his ear. "Just say please, Hoon."

Sunghoon's eyes practically bulged out of his sockets when he heard Heeseung taking your side. You stuck your tongue out at him like a child, triumphant. 

He gritted his teeth, clenching his jaw as he muttered the words. "Will you please help me with my zipper? Please?"

You looked so cheeky and smug, putting your cup down on the sink. Sunghoon suddenly had the urge to bite you. "Well, since you sound so pathetic."

You reached for the zipper, and Sunghoon hissed to resist the urge of slapping your hands away out of annoyance. "I'm gonna get you back for this, I swear..."

"That's not how you say thank you to a favor, Hoonie," you teased, your fingers twiddling with the metal as you tried to yank it up.

"We both know you aren't doing this as a favor." Fuck, you were so close to him. He could smell both the perfume you wore and the alcohol you drank. Now he had to worry about the friction your jerky little tugs were causing. 

"Aw, look at you guys getting along," Heeseung smiled, reaching up to pat your head. "I told ya, you just needed to bond a little."

"We are not bonding— ow!" You tried to turn your head to face him, but something caught in your hair. You tried to move again, only realizing that Heeseung's fancy watch was now tangled in it.

"Sorry!" Heeseung apologized, trying to move his hand back but tugging your head along with it, making you howl. "Oh, sorry again!"

"Stop moving!" You reached one hand back to reach for his wrist, trying to pull a few strands away to get loose.

"Can you get lower? It's hard for me to untangle myself at this angle."

"Fuck!" The hand still on Sunghoon's zipper yanked on it in frustration, the tug doing nothing to free it.

"My hand's getting tired up here, it'll be quicker!" Heeseung whined petulantly.

You rolled your eyes and reluctantly sank onto your knees, the cold tile biting against your skin. You were now staring up at Sunghoon, who found the view a lot hotter than he cared to admit.

But he did say he was going to get back at you.

A small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. "Look at you. Can't believe you're on your knees in a bathroom for me."

You scowled. "It's not for you."

"Right. You're on a dirty bathroom floor for me and Heeseung." Sunghoon snickered at your glare, soaking in your scowl.

You reached up for his zipper with both hands, tugging it back down in another attempt, your other hand gripping onto fabric to pull it out. "You really shouldn't piss off the one with a zipper to your balls."

"That's if you can do your job correctly down there."

"Oh, you can fuck right off— Oh fuck, Hee!" Your head jerked back again slightly, and your eyes scrunched as you winced in pain.

"Sorry!" Heeseung apologized again, patting your head with the unadorned hand. "It's almost out, just a little longer."

"Fuck!" You gripped onto Sunghoon's pants tighter, pulling him closer to you as you jerked the zipper more, feeling some leeway.

Sunghoon grappled onto the sink counter, trying not to fall against you or get hard, his footing unsteady as you tugged his pants closer to your face. If he wasn't careful you were going to end up with his dick print against your cheek. The sound of your little whine made popping a boner nearly impossible. It was difficult too with the sight of you frustrated and on your knees between the two of them, tiny hands scrambling with his zipper, and his mind was going to places they really shouldn't.

Your hand was moving the zipper up and down, desperately trying to get it loose, the tiny bit of fabric bunched beneath slowly giving way. You fisted at the fabric next to it, trying to pull it in the opposite direction so it would give.

"Fuck, I think I'm close," you muttered quietly to yourself, not even realizing how you sounded.

Fuck. Fuck Sunghoon needed to get his zipper fixed now because any second now he was going to get obviously hard, and there'd be absolutely no way of hiding it from you or Heeseung.

"I-I think I might—"

"Shut up, I'm almost there!" Of course you'd be fucking stubborn when you put your mind to something.

"Me too!" His best friend innocently commented, eyes glued on his watch. Heeseung seemed oblivious to Sunghoon's panic, just as focused as you when it came to the task at hand.

You tugged one more time, the slide finally becoming easier and the zipper making its way successfully to the very bottom, no fabric stuck. "Finally!"

Heeseung managed to free his watch with your hair still intact, though it was a mess from the tangles and pulling from prior. "Yes!" He rolled his wrist with satisfaction, his other, unadorned hand now combing through your mess of hair in attempt to smoothe it. "See, that wasn't too bad."

Sunghoon felt entirely too suffocated, and for the first time in his life he was desperately wanting a woman off her knees. "For you," he huffed, feeling hotter by the minute.

It was just then that the bathroom door, which you neglected to lock behind you, swung open.

The three of you must've been a sight: your hands up near Sunghoon's crotch while you were on your knees, Sunghoon's pants unzipped, your hair a tangled mess and makeup slightly smudged from crying. Sunghoon and Heeseung were also incriminating, both sweating a little from their frustration, breathing heavy from their intense focus on very different missions. 

Heeseung looked like a deer in headlights as he turned back toward the people in the doorway, the appearance of the situation seemingly dawning on him.

"Um... I know this is super cliché but... this isn't what it looks like."

—

So everybody thinks you had a threesome in the bathroom with the two hottest guys on campus. 

That's just great.

It's not like anyone's dick was even out or anything. Sure, you could see how it'd look like you guys were about to have a threesome, but that's a huge difference! Instead, you were getting bombarded left and right with people you've never even met, asking you what happened, what they were like, who was better, who was bigger. They heard some of the things that were being said, you couldn't fool them. The dialogue alone was incriminating. When you told them the truth they never believed you, some giving you a cheeky smile saying, Fine, keep your secrets.

You were starting to think you might as well have with how many people were convinced.

The mere idea of it was crazy. You, having a threesome with your best friend... and his best friend. Who you hated.

Still, your mind kept drifting back to the image of him looking down at you, so pissed, so on edge. You were lucky he seemed so panicked about the zipper that he didn't notice you pressing your thighs together.

You were a horny drunk, you could admit that much. You just didn't imagine you'd be getting horny for Sunghoon of all people.

Or Heeseung.

You thought of the way Hee's fingers carded through your hair, the assuring pat on your head and the way he cradled your face when you were crying. You thought about how he looked from above as well that night, brows furrowed in concentration, biting down on his lip.

Fuck. You can't be thinking of this. It was just a drunken misunderstanding.

You need to stop thinking about fucking your best friend and his best friend. End of story.

There was no way that was ever happening. Sunghoon hated your guts the same way you hated his, and Heeseung was always oblivious to everything. 

You just had to pretend that none of it was bothering you.

That's why you were loud as hell as you barged your way into Heeseung's apartment, holding your copy of his key between your fingers.

"Hee! I'm here!" you called, just in case Sunghoon was inside and you were unwittingly put into a trap with him. You stumbled your way into the living room, where Heeseung sat on his huge ass sofa, solo. "No Hoon today?"

"Nah, he's not going to be out of class for another hour at least. I'm all yours 'til then." He was so cocky with it, crossing his fingers behind his head and leaning back, giving a mischievous grin.

"Lucky me," you chuckled, kicking off your shoes to join him.

With an early start to wine and enough time to get you tipsy, your conversation with Heeseung had delved into the topic no one, you especially now, could take off their minds: threesomes.

At first it started with the two of you laughing over how ridiculous the rumor spreading about the three of you was.

"So, I'm guessing you heard the rumors too?"

"Which one? The one about the dean having the same dealer as us, or the one that Sigma Ki has a cuck hazing ritual?"

You lightly shoved at your friend, rolling your eyes. "You know the one."

Heeseung laughed at your annoyance, positively beaming. "Oh, you mean the one about you, me, and Hoon fucking each other in the bathroom? I may have heard about it."

How crazy that'd be. How stupid everyone was for automatically believing it. Then it continued, getting a bit deeper. You were currently ranting about how the concept of it in the general public, and what was deemed as more "acceptable" was two girls with one guy. It had only become a recent phenomenon of a girl getting to have two guys at the same time, the riskiest it was willing to go before still forcing her to choose one of the two. Meanwhile men's fantasies included harems and two women and expectations for girls that had been ingrained in the misogynistic society you were subjected to today.

"I mean, let's be soooo for real," you droned, the alcohol in your system making you bolder with your opinions. "Threesomes with two guys and one girl don't happen in real life. It's just a porn fantasy, and not one that gets delivered enough anyways because visual porn is much more catered to the male gaze. God forbid a woman's the center of attention."

"I'm sure those threesomes happen more often than you think, you know."

"Think about all the threesomes you know of, with real people you know, and measure out how many of those were two girls and how many were two guys. Those specific pairings. Go."

Heeseung pondered for a moment, giving it some thought. "So it's a bit... imbalanced."

"Guys have it so easy!" You whined, sinking into the couch cushions, crossing your arms with a huff. "Girls are constantly expected to be gay with their girl friends. If a girl isn't down to have a threesome with another girl, she's seen as boring. That's why so many of those Tinder couples are looking for a girl. And it's all catered towards the guy. Hell, if I were with another naked chick, the guy definitely wouldn't be getting all the attention. It's like rowboating with a heavy ass robot in the middle. Sure, hypothetically you can get the job done, but overall it'd just be best if the useless piece of junk were out of the picture."

Heeseung cackled at your comment, shaking his head. "You have the strangest way of describing things."

"I'm pretty sure I heard it from some comedian." You waved aside the thought. "Meanwhile, if you ask a guy to have a threesome with his bestie, he'd look at you like you have two heads! It only exists in porn, not real life," you rambled on.

"I'm still sure it happens in real life more often than you'd think."

"No, I doubt that. That's why it's so silly that everyone's so gullible. Guys are always going on about how it'd be gay to have a threesome with another man, but it's just as hot for the girl as it is for the guy in the switched scenarios," you pointed out. "Why else would girls be reading yaoi or reading gay fanfiction when they themselves are not gay men? Get turned on when they kiss?"

"I don't know. Some guys aren't as insecure in their masculinity as you think."

"Oh yeah? Like who?"

"Me."

You scoffed. "You? Yeah right."

"I don't think I'd mind," he shrugged, as though it were the most casual thing in the world.

"Oh really? So if a woman asked if you and your best friend— if you and Sunghoon, were down to fuck her, you'd do it?" Surely Heeseung was just blowing smoke out of his ass. Your sweet Hee? No way. The mere concept of him and Sunghoon actually sharing a girl was enough to give anyone a nosebleed. Like Sunghoon would be capable of sharing in general. 

Heeseung stared at the ceiling, as though thinking about it. "Depends on the woman."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I wouldn't sleep with just any woman, first of all, my best friend included or not."

"Fair point." You thought about it for a moment. "Imagine, like, the hottest girl you've ever seen, then. You'd be down to fuck her no matter what."

Heeseung looked at you with a half-lidded gaze, his tongue running along the inside of his cheek. "Is she as hot as you?"

You rolled your eyes at his typical sleazy compliments, brushing it off with ease. He sometimes unintentionally flirted with you like this, riled you up, reminded you of what you couldn't have. At least, definitely not with Sunghoon in the way. It was always innocent banter, some light teasing, like he doesn't know what it does to you. You wonder if he was truly oblivious or if he was just really good at pretending as a way to watch you squirm. "I forget, this whole thing's easy to you. You forget the rest of us plebeians have trouble even getting one person to want us, let alone two. You could probably pick three for one night, easy." You ruffled his hair, pushing his head to the side. "Not all of us look like we could be on the cover of Vogue, you know."

Heeseung pulled you in closer, arm looping around your waist until your thighs were pressing against one another's. "You're hot and you know it."

"Yeah, but I'm not on like, you or Sunghoon's level," you snorted. Hate Sunghoon all you want, you couldn't deny the man creeped into the edges of your mind when you were getting off to the thought of his doe-eyed best friend. How you got to know two such gorgeous men, even in this sense, was beyond you.

"You're prettier than both of us. Sunghoon would agree." Heeseung leaned in and nosed your neck affectionately, and half of you expected Sunghoon to walk in any minute and scold you two for defiling the couch, even though the gesture was surely done with the purest of intentions.

"Doubt that," you chuckled. "I know I'm sorta pretty—"

"Definitely pretty."

"Definitely pretty," you corrected yourself. "But I have no doubt that I get weird stares when the three of us are in public, and people who don't know us wonder how I was able to pull that off."

Heeseung cocked his head to the side, studying your reaction, assessing your words and narrowing his eyes as though he wanted to argue. Slowly, his gaze drifted further down your face, lingering on your lips. "Ask me the question again."

"What question?" You forgot it already. 

"Ask if me and my best friend would be down to fuck you."

Immediately your heart jumped. Your cheeks burned at his clarification, and you squirmed in your seat. "I don't think I phrased it like that!" You couldn't help but feel exposed, even though he misread your question entirely.

"It is now." He leaned in closer, invading your space. You instinctively tried to sink further into the couch. Heeseung stopped his face a few inches from yours, arm hooking over the back of the couch behind you, impossible to ignore, waiting on your answer. He nudged at your chin with his fingers to get you to look at him properly, the way his eyes glittered being far too mischevious for your comfort. "Ask it."

You wanted to tell him to fuck off and quit playing with you, but you were also determined to hide how affected you were. This was so unlike him. Typically he was a clueless dolt, adoring, sweet, not this. The last thing you wanted Heeseung to know was how accurately he was now seeing you now. Did he always? Was he just pretending like he didn't know all this time? You didn't want him to see how excited you were getting by some hypoethical question that could never happen for two very big, very handsome reasons.

But this is Heeseung you're talking about. There was a very real possibility he was just bluffing to get a reaction out of you. You were used to him pulling shit out of his ass to make some contrived point.

"Fine." You squared your shoulders, looking Heeseung in the eye. "Would you want to fuck me with Sunghoon?"

There's something that seemed to go dark inside his eyes, his face serious. "Yes."

You couldn't prevent the immediate small exhale of your nose, shaking your head and breaking eye contact. "You're so full of shit. Anything to prove your point and win an argument, huh?" He was exactly the same back in debate, go figure.

You were about to push him aside when you felt a hand on your knee. You stared up at him in surprise, his face still deadly serious.

"I mean it."

His thumb did a small brush against the side of your leg, and it was enough to make your knee jump beneath his palm. Your heartbeat raced, and you're suddenly left shy, as though this weren't your best friend Heeseung.

"I... That still doesn't prove my point!" Your brain was now melting away, and you're scrambling for whatever solid parts were left to form words. Heeseung was saying he wanted to fuck you. With Sunghoon. What kind of sick joke was the universe playing with you? "The likelihood of one guy agreeing to that in the first place is super low, much less two."

"Sunghoon would say yes, too."

You looked at Heeseung as though he were crazy. "Are we talking about the same Sunghoon?"

"Yes."

"Bullshit." You couldn't help but relax a little, reminding yourself of the impossibility, especially where Sunghoon was involved. "He hates me."

"He doesn't hate you," Heeseung insisted.

"He does, too." Your confidence was slowly returning, and for a moment you pay no mind to Heeseung's hand on your knee, your mind now tuning back into debate-mode. "And I know for a fact he'd think you're crazy for even asking and say no."

"He wouldn't. I saw how he was looking at you in the bathroom."

You swore your heart stopped then and there. "You're bluffing."

Heeseung grinned, and you could practically see the devil horns starting to grow. Perhaps the angel act really was a disguise. "Wanna bet?"

"What on?"

His smile deepened. "If he says no, we forget this whole thing happened. Hell, I'll take you out to that trendy little coffee place you love so much. You win."

The unasked questioned stands in the air before you take the plunge. "And if I lose?"

His eyes flicker down to your lips for just a moment, barely long enough for you to catch. "Guess."

You sucked in a breath at that. The thing about Heeseung was that he could never truly be trusted for when he was bluffing and making shit up or when he was saying fact. It was one of those things that made beating him in the moment, with all his deceit and bravado, even more special.

So that's why you found the courage to say: "Call him."

Heeseung didn't even break eye contact with you, whipping out his phone from his back pocket and ringing up Sunghoon, turning it on speaker so it was loud enough for both of you to hear.

When the first dial rang you started to have second thoughts.

When the second dial rang you started to think about how Sunghoon would believe you were a total freak for wanting this, for wanting to be shared by Heeseung and him of all people, and you'd be ready to die on the spot when you next saw him.

When the third dial rang, you started to believe you were being overdramatic, and that it'd go to voicemail and you and Heeseung could have a big laugh and forget the whole thing ever happened. Maybe make it an inside joke between the two of you. What if he had picked up?

And then he picked up.

You were ready to scream when his deep voice came out of the speaker. "Yo."

"Yo, man, what you up to?" Heeseung sounded so casual, and he only smiled when he saw your look of worry and shock as you mouthed at him to hang up. 

Heeseung was so close to you that you could hear everything on Sunghoon's end without the phone even being on speaker. "Just got out of class. What's up?"

"Wanted to know if you're free to come over."

"Sure dude. What're you wanting to do?"

Heeseung's eyes locked with yours, his mouth twitching into a smirk. "Y/N."

There's a moment of silence on the line, and you wondered for a moment if Sunghoon hung up at the mere mention of your name.

Finally, he spoke.

"Tonight?" He didn't ask any further questions about what Heeseung means by that. He didn't sound shocked, only mildly curious. Amused. Not even repulsed the way you were anticipating.

"More like now." Heeseung was clearly loving watching you squirm, seeing you panic at the audacity he had to go through with the stupid bet. "How soon can you get here?"

He said it. He actually said it.

There's some noise on the receiver, but Sunghoon sounded calm. "She asked for this?"

"Directly," Heeseung confirmed. "Explicitly, in fact."

Your cheeks burned further with humiliation. There was silence again. "Is she there?"

Heeseung held out the phone, turning down the volume a bit, tilting his head as though with mock pity. Now whatever answer Sunghoon had to give would be right against your ear. "He wants to talk to you."

Your mouth is suddenly dry as he passed you the phone, and you licked your lips as though that'll do any good. "I'm— I'm here."

"Did you really ask for me and Heeseung to fuck you?"

The words almost felt like a caress in your ear, but you're sure you're mistaking a disgusted scowl as a purr of lust. Your mind clearly couldn't be trusted tonight.

You looked back at Heeseung, still close enough for him to pick up on what's being said. You realized you have a chance to deny it all, pretend it was a joke gone too far, a prank. Heeseung would be true to his word, pretend it never happened.

And then your mind raced with everything that could happen.

God, this could be such a bad idea...

"I did."

There was a pause on Sunghoon's end, and it felt as though everyone in the room was soaking in your small confession, like you were in a booth with a priest at church all over again.

"I'll be there in 30."

Sunghoon hung up, the line going dead.

Your head felt as though it were filled with static, absorbing what had just happened.

Heeseung, however, wasted no time, immediately throwing his phone away and focusing all of his attention on you.

You could barely wrap your head around the situation, still trying to comprehend multiple facts at once. Heeseung wanted to fuck you. Sunghoon wanted to fuck you. Heeseung and Sunghoon were both going to fuck you. Now. At the same time.

You rapidly blinked, not even noticing the fact that Heeseung was drawing in closer, crowding your space more than ever.

"Is this—ha, I mean, well— is this for real? This can't be real." You absentmindedly shook your head, as though trying to wake yourself up from a dream.

"It's real." Heeseung's eyes were intense, staring at you in a whole new light now, one you couldn't help but tremble under. "It's happening."

"But— This can't—"

"Yes, it can."

"No, you're just fucking with me with another one of your silly pranks. Was this planned?" You laughed, knowing the idea would be so Heeseung. If they were secretly recording this there's no doubt the look on your face is priceless. You'd kill him if he posted it. "Funny. Fun one. You got me."

"Y/N." He grabbed your wrists, pulling you in so your chest was against his, staring you in the eye. "Sunghoon's going to be here in half an hour."

You stilled in his hold, gulping at his words as you slowly comprehended the truth of them.

"So you're all mine until he gets here."

That made your heart stop.

You were barely able to make out words.

"I... you don't..."

"I do." Heeseung emphasized. "Do you?"

Your mind felt as though it fully shut down, the only thought in your brain being how Heeseung's lips are closer than ever. "What?"

Heeseung didn't get impatient with you, instead being very understanding of the fact that he already turned you brainless without even really touching you. He moved a centimeter closer, his lips barely brushing against yours, like the particles that made up both of you were just passing by. "Do you want this?"

Your mind was in static mode again as Heeseung pulled one of your hands up to his chest, letting you feel his heartbeat against your palm. 

"You want me and Hoonie?" Heeseung questioned further, clarifying. "I think we both made it very clear we want you."

Never in your life had you guessed your best friend would say that. You slowly came to terms that this very much wasn't a dream, and that Heeseung was actually saying this to you. "You want me?"

"I'll want you any way I can have you," Heeseung emphasized, a soft smile on his face. "Even with Hoon."

"I... I can't believe you'd both..."

"Hoon understands," he said, moving his lips closer to your pulse point below your ear. "He's wanted this longer than you'd think." His breath tickled your neck, and you shivered. "I'm more curious about how long you've wanted this."

You shuddered and found yourself pulling him closer, wanting to feel more than just his lips lightly brushing against you, teasing you when Sunghoon could be here in less than half an hour. How long had he known? Had he always been observant, and you just projected some oblivious facade onto him?

"You mean longer than the bathroom?"

Heeseung's gaze drifted down to your lips. "Did you?"

"I... maybe." You wanted to be flirtier, more enticing, but you were still somewhat in shock due to recent revelations. You were too stunned to even try to act sexy right now. "I feel like I'm suddenly discovering new things about you."

"There's a lot of things you're about to figure out. Just ask."

"How is it you know what I want?"

"Because, I know exactly how you feel about me," he purred in your ear, moving a lock of hair behind it. You held your breath when you felt the tip of his nose along your neck, so close, raising goosebumps. "I always have..." He dipped his head lower, pressing a small, soft kiss at the center of your neck. "I know how you feel about Sunghoon, too."

You knew there was no way he could miss the way you gulped at that.

"Constantly fighting with him, building up so much frustration... you wanna know he'd take it out on you, don't you?" He pressed his lips again at the base of your throat, sucking softly, whispering the dirty secret into your skin. "Wanna know how I'd tell him to do it?"

"Fuck." You couldn't deny the wave of heat that flooded to your core with his words.

He chuckled, watching you fight back against the urge of curling in on yourself with how aroused you were. His hands gripped your waist tighter as he slowly got off the couch to move in front of you, lips ghosting over the center of your ribcage as he traveled down your body. "Want me to show you?"

"Where's all t-this coming from?" You breathlessly smiled, still trying to grasp the fact that this was all real, and not a serious maladaptive daydreaming episode. Heeseung was always so sweet, so respectful. How were you supposed to predict this side of him?

"From you telling me you want my best friend and I to fuck you," he hissed, giving a small nip now just to have you feel the sting of his teeth on your skin instead.

"You m-made me say it!"

"Yeah? I'll make you beg for it too." He rose up to your face, brushing your hair out of the way so he could look into your eyes properly. "Tell me what you want, pretty girl."

His hand slid up to your neck, not tight, but present, like he wanted to measure your heartbeat himself to make sure you wouldn't lie to him.

You licked your lips, trying to swallow down your doubts of courage. The feeling of being so vulnerable to him in this context was baffling.

"I want for both you and Sunghoon to fuck me. Happy?" You managed to spit out the words, cheeks burning with embarrassment.

Heeseung let out a wicked grin, whistling at your attitude. "Oh? Talk back, don't we? Yeah, Hoonie will fucking love you."

He finally pressed his lips against yours, hand sliding up to the base of your head , fingers tangling into your roots and keeping you locked in place as he devoured you, making sure your head wouldn't hurt from being pressed against the back of the couch. He wasn't tender or sweet, the way you probably would've predicted and fantasized about when you first met him, and the small budding crush you had on his cute features hadn't warped into something darker, more lustful. No, he was sure of his movements, kissing you with purpose, actions deliberate as he moved with noticeable skill that could only come from practice. His tongue slid against yours with an ease that made your knees weak. 

Heeseung was infuriatingly good at kissing you. You supposed it was to be expected, with how much action he probably saw, face like that and all, but still. He had this way of kissing you that made the rest of the world disappear, with only his hands on your face and his lips on yours to ground you. 

You eyes were fluttering shut, and soon you were both moving in tandem, finding a tune that only you two knew. The soft sounds of his lips smacking against yours filled the room, and the grip he had on your roots, pulling your hair properly this time, was driving you crazy.

"Please," you gasped the word into his mouth. He groaned and kissed you some more, his hand tightening as he pressed you further against him. You gripped onto his shirt, the taste of him so irresistible you forgot completely that he was your best friend, and you shouldn't be doing what you're about to with his best friend too.

You subconsciously spread your legs, drawing Heeseung in so you could grind your core against his.

He chuckled into your mouth, one hand moving down to your hip to pin you down and deny you. "Needy little thing, aren't you? We're just getting started. Let me take my time with you."

You wanted to scream at him that you two didn't exactly have time, but found your brain back to mush the moment he began kissing you again, lowering his hips to yours to slowly press his heat against you. His hand stayed on your hip, halting movement from you so that he could control the gradual pace, teasing and torturous as you felt the warmth of his body against yours. It felt so good to be pinned beneath him already, in his arms, like you two were made to fit together.

You moaned against his lips when the fabric of his jeans hit your clit in a particularly delicious fashion. He growled in response, hand cupping your chin better to angle your face a little more to the side, deepening the kiss as he slid his tongue in, letting it coax your lips along with his. He licked his way into your mouth, greedily swallowing more of your moans as the hand on your hip drifted down to your thigh, hitching it over his own hip to grind more securely against you. 

He rolled his hips, pressing you further against the couch as you felt him get harder against you, his hand tightening against your thigh as he tried to pull you impossibly closer to him.

"So fucking good," he rasped against your lips, mind spinning at all the soft, weak little sounds that escaped you. "Can't believe I finally get to have you like this."

You kissed him harder, hands pressed against his face, wanting to memorize the feeling of his cheekbones against your fingertips. You gripped onto his hair, his shirt, anywhere you could reach, try to rock back against his hips and fully feel the bulge pressed against your pussy.

"Fuck, Heeseung..."

"Mmf, say that again." He bit your lip before pulling back.

He pressed up at an angle that hit the sweet spot against your clit, and you had no choice but to obey. "Heeseung!"

"Shit, you sound so whiny." He buried his head into the crook of your neck, sinking his teeth into the skin just to hear another pathetic sound leave your mouth. He sucked hard, and you knew it'd leave a mark. "Hoon's gonna lose his mind," he groaned into you.

You threw your head back, your hips quickening against him. "Hee, please, do something."

He snarled at your impatience, nipping at your neck again in punishment before smacking your thigh. "Be patient," he grit, blunt nails raking over where he slapped you. "You're mine right now, remember?"

You nodded, a shiver running up your spine as his fingers trailed further down your leg before going back up higher and higher, ghosting over the fabric of your underwear.

His thumb brushed over the lace of your panties, and he bit his lip in anticipation. "Shit, I don't think you even know what's coming."

You canted your hips to receive more of his touch. "M-Meaning?"

"Meaning I need to start getting you ready for when Hoon arrives," Hee said. He pulled on the waistband, dragging them down your legs and discarding them to the floor. "I need to make sure you're wet enough for both of us."

Hearing your best friend talk so dirty was enough to send your mind into a tizzy. You grabbed his hand and pressed him right against your sex, eager to not waste time and see how much he can offer you in twenty minutes. Heeseung took the hint, fingers sliding up and down, getting a feel for the glide and slick you've already produced.

"Shit, you're so wet already," Heeseung said in awe, lips parted as he admired the shine on his fingers from you. "Are you excited?"

"O-Obviously." You were barely able to contain the whine when he slides a digit inside, curling it up to search for your g-spot. "It's not every day a girl gets propositioned by a hot guy, let alone two."

He quirked a brow. "Oh? You think we're hot?"

Your cheeks shouldn't burn this much from stating the obvious. "I mean... you're not bad to look at. Don't let it get to your head."

Heeseung's grin only widened. "And Sunghoon?"

You glanced away, squirming a bit as you felt him find the sweet spot inside of you. "He's f-fine I guess."

"Look at you, getting so flustered," Heeseung cooed, bending down to peck at the flush in your cheeks. "You can admit you want him, baby. It's ok."

Hearing your best friend call you "baby" in this context was something else entirely. Before it always felt so casual, something you couldn't read into. Now he was saying it like you were his. Suddenly your hips were bucking against his hand more, your body beginning to take control of your mind.

He was speeding up, and your mind was steadily beginning to melt. "I-I—"

You felt more pressure build up as Heeseung slid in another finger, the wet squelching sounds of your pussy starting to get louder.

"You can tell him when he gets here," Heeseung whispered against your lips, wanting a front row seat to all of your pathetic whimpers and moans while they were still just for him. "He'll be thrilled."

Another whine escaped your lips from Heeseung's ministrations.

"Fuck, why are you so good at this?" You muttered half to yourself, in disbelief that Heeseung was already making you feel better within five minutes than your ex did in five months.

He sucked against your neck, purposefully marking you, humming against the skin as he sloppily thrust his fingers inside. "Mm, you're just easy to ruin. You can't even hide how turned on you are."

You felt heat pool down into your abdomen, your tells showing. "Hee, I'm getting close."

To your dismay he pulled his fingers out of you, giving the side of your neck sweet kisses in apology. "Not yet. You'll need to wait."

He swallowed your whine of frustration, cradling your face in his hands and kissing you, the glide of his tongue against yours somewhat distracting you from the ache left between your legs. His kiss was wet, using just enough tongue for it to feel filthy, making sure you memorized the way he tasted.

Once your orgasm had surely died down he kissed his way down your jaw and your chest, getting on his knees, face all the way down to your now neglected pussy. He sighed with content when he saw how needy and wound up you already were, your body begging him to break it in properly. He couldn't help himself, giving your sex a sweet kiss as well, mouth trapping your clit and giving it the attention it was so desperate for.

Your back arched off the couch as Heeseung began eating you out, the wet muscle traveling between your folds and lapping at all you had to offer, his jaw widening so he could feel more of you. He moaned, and the vibrations made you buck against his mouth. He pinned you down firmly, throwing an arm over your hips, sucking on your clit reverently. Burying your hand in his hair, you let yourself get lost in the pleasure, his tongue dragging along you.

You looked down at him, his lashes long, kissing the apples of his cheeks as he focused on your taste, your breathy whimpers, the way your thighs twitched next to his head when he focused his tongue on the spot right beneath your clit.

"Fu-uck," you moaned, your nails scratching against his scalp as he got you close to the edge again. "Feels so good, Hee."

He moaned into you again in response, making you dig your heels into his back.

Pleasure pooled down to your abdomen, and you felt your abs begin to tighten. Before you could even think about hiding your orgasm from Heeseung, he's pulling away, making you shiver with the cold air against your hitting your bare cunt.

"No!" You whined, losing your grip on his hair as he rose up, rubbing your thighs in apology as he planted his lips to yours, replacing your complaints with the taste of yourself. His hand came up to your throat, not tight, but enough pressure for you to want to lean into it.

Heeseung didn't stop kissing you until your protests died and your muscles relaxed again, and you were just a desperate, breathless mess beneath him. 

When he finally let you have air, your eyes were glossy with the second lost orgasm. You slumped over and laid on the couch, panting with tear-brimmed eyes, frustrated beyond belief.

Heeseung gave an apologetic look, like if it were up to him, you'd be cumming your brains out by now.

"Poor baby." He pouted along with you, hand traveling down to gently caress at your folds, spreading them between his fingers and feeling how wet and denied you were. "Bet it hurts so bad, doesn't it?"

You nodded, squirming under his touch, wanting so badly to cum against his fingers.

He didn't give you hope yet, though, sliding his hand up to your lower belly. "It'll feel better soon," he promised, slowly pushing down and applying more pressure. "It'll feel really good once me and Hoon are right here."

You gasped, biting your lip at the thought of them that deep inside you.

As if on cue, the front door opened, revealing a panting Park Sunghoon.

"That couldn't have been thirty minutes," Heeseung laughed, rolling off you as Sunghoon strolled closer to you two, his eyes devouring the sight of you teary eyed, cunt exposed and swollen, ready to be taken. His chest rose and fell as he breathed heavily, nostrils flaring as he stared at you with hooded eyes. The lust was palpable, every muscle in his body appearing tight, tense at seeing you so vulnerable already. Heeseung moved behind you, propping you up so your back was against his chest, adding to Sunghoon's view.

"I may have sped a little," Sunghoon admitted, biting his lower lip. His eyes never left you, as though he were transfixed. "And used the stairs instead of the elevator."

Heeseung squeezed your face, grinning down at you, like he understood Sunghoon's obsession unquestionably. "Hear that baby? You're not the only desperate one."

Your eyes locked with Sunghoon, whose gaze was intense and made it impossible for you to look away.

Sunghoon cautiously raised a hand to your knee, slowly tracing upward as you shivered under his touch. "Has she cum yet?"

"Not yet. I've been edging her. Figured you wouldn't want to miss it." Heeseung moved your hair to the side to kiss your neck, pulling one of your thighs to the side to open you up more for Sunghoon. "She does this cute little whine whenever she's close."

Your cheeks flushed, and your thighs twitched in response. "J-Just hurry up and fucking touch me already."

Sunghoon bit the inside of his cheek, and before you knew it he landed a sharp slap right against your cunt.

"Fuck!" Your back arched, your hips bucking until Sunghoon roughly slammed them back down, planting another smack against your swollen folds.

"Is that how we ask for things?"

"It's how I—fuck!" You couldn't hold back the pornographic moan that tumbled out of your lips as Sunghoon did it again, though this time rubbing your clit after, as though to blur the pain into pleasure.

"Such a mouth on you still." Sunghoon clicked his tongue, as though disappointed. "Heeseung didn't teach you manners while I was on my way?"

"We didn't have much time for our lesson," Heeseung excused, pulling your shirt further up your torso to run his hand over your exposed skin, his touch gentle in contrast to Sunghoon's. "She's still learning."

"How many times did you edge her?" Sunghoon trapped your clit between two of his fingers, applying pressure on the tiny bud to watch you gasp.

"Twice." Heeseung raised the shirt over your tits now, trapping a nipple between his digits similar to Sunghoon.

"Wanna go for a third, princess?" Hoon slapped your cunt again, making you cry out and shake your head, desperate just the way Heeseung described. Still, your reaction every time he strikes your pussy was noticeable.

Sunghoon wasn't going to let you live it down.

"You like when I slap your little pussy don't you? Don't tell me we've got a painslut on our hands."

Your cheeks burned at the term, and your breath caught with embarrassment. Both could see it all over your face that you were getting hot and bothered by how he treated you.

Sunghoon chuckled a bit at that. "Then be a good girl for us, and maybe, just maybe, we'll let you cum."

Your eyes watered even more, but even then, you nodded in agreement, now under the mercy of two men.

Sunghoon smirked, victorious. "Atta girl."

"You should feel how tight she is," Heeseung suggested, giving a reassuring squeeze.

Sunghoon finally sank two fingers into you, making your breath hitch. Sunghoon's gaze darkened, already imagining how your walls would squeeze his cock. "Fuck, what a tight little slut."

Your thighs twitched at the name, and both men took a mental note your reaction to being degraded. 

Sunghoon started curling his fingers inside of you,  pressing against your g-spot, having the heel of his palm press deep against your clit. He licked his lips, eyes flickering between your pussy and your face, examining your open mouth and your small mewls as he started to work up what Heeseung started, the wet sounds of his digits inside of you filling the room.

"Fuck, you're so fucking wet. Hee must've really worked you up, huh?" Sunghoon purred, sliding in a third digit easily, not missing how your eyes started to roll back as he stretched you out. "Bet you've been dreaming of this since the party."

"S-Shut up," you stammered out. "Says the one who was forming a boner."

"Yeah?" Sunghoon started increasing the power of his thrusts, veins starting to pop out of his forearm as he did so. "Why don't you just shut up and let out more of those pretty moans?"

"Why don't you—" 

Your words were cut off by Heeseung pressing his two middle digits against your tongue, rendering you silent.

"Now now, play nice you two," Hee chastised, shaking his head. "I thought my baby agreed to be good, no?"

He slipped his fingers out of your mouth, earning a glare.

"Come here." Heeseung pulled your jaw to face him, kissing you and muffling any insults you had to throw at Sunghoon. His tongue glided against yours, quelling your anger and making you buck up needily against the younger man's hand.

When you broke apart, you weren't even given a second to breathe, Sunghoon's large hand being the one holding your face now, focusing your attention back onto him.

"What? No kiss for Hoonie?" He grinned at your scowl. "Or is Hee's baby too good for it?"

"Give him a kiss, baby," Heeseung encouraged. "Let me watch."

You licked your lips, only allowing for a moment of trepidation before leaning into Sunghoon. His lips met yours readily, hungry as he kissed you, the pace of his fingers quickening with every stroke. He growled when you moaned against his mouth, grinding his palm firmer against your clit in reward. He pressed his mouth against you like he was trying to brand you with his kiss, make you feel it even after he was gone.

He slipped his tongue inside your mouth, demanding, his other hand sliding into the roots at the back of your head, angling your face just how he liked so he could kiss you deeper. He groaned as you whimpered against him, trying to keep up a good fight. He made it look too easy, the effortless way his mouth dominated yours bringing you to shame. He sucked on your tongue a bit, the helpless sound you made in response only making him harder.

When he broke away you were both left staring at one another, gathering breath, analyzing the blown out pupils of one another.

This was Park Sunghoon. The man you were constantly fighting for Heeseung's attention. The one you couldn't spend five minutes with without starting an argument.

You weren't sure which one of you leaned in first, but suddenly you were both slamming your mouths against each other again, but this time hungrier. More desperate. There was a carnal desire in how Sunghoon kissed you now, like he wanted to eat you and make you cry for every bullshit fight you put up against him.

Heeseung was mesmerized, his eyes never leaving you and Sunghoon as you clung onto the younger, trying to bring him closer to you, clawing at his clothes as you expressed your pent up sexual frustration through the kiss. Heeseung's hand slid down between you and Sunghoon's, his digits playing with your clit. You whined against Sunghoon's mouth, your orgasm starting to approach.

You broke away from the kiss, whining just like promised. "Please let me cum this time, please!"

Sunghoon chuckled at how easy you were to break this time, purposefully slamming his fingers against the sweet spot inside of you repeatedly. "Aw, should I? But you were being such a brat earlier."

"Let her cum," Heeseung crooned, sympathizing with you. "She's got a lot ahead of her."

Sunghoon always did have a habit of going along with Heeseung's desires.

But he wasn't going to be nice about it.

"You hear that?" Sunghoon scoffed, grabbing your face and bringing you close to his, his eye contact intense as he studied your pitiful expression. "Congratulations, sweetheart. You get to cum until your brain fucking melts."

You arched against Heeseung as Sunghoon jackhammered his fingers into your cunt, right behind the spot where Heeseung was still toying with your clit. Hee doubled his efforts, pressing down harder, making sure to give attention to the spot right underneath that had your toes curling. Your thighs began to shake as your orgasm overtook you, and suddenly clear liquid was gushing all over both of their fingers.

Sunghoon's jaw dropped open, watching you squirt against both of their hands. He was completely enraptured, mouth dropping open in awe as he watched you shake like a leaf.

"Fuck, that's it, make a mess for me. Make a mess all over Hoonie's fingers," he muttered to himself.

You couldn't stop it, the pleasure coming over you like a tidal wave. You gripped onto both of them to steady yourself, droplets flying out of you as you shook. Neither man stopped, both continuing until you were drained of every last drop, eventually slumping over against Heeseung, the aftershocks of your orgasm riding it's course along your thighs until it was no more. 

Both men pulled their hands away, your legs giving residual twitches at the sensation.

"I... I think I ruined the couch.." Your voice had that breathless, cute little whine that made it impossible for anyone to be mad.

Not they would be in the first place.

"You did perfect baby." Heeseung kissed the corner of your mouth. "It's about to get a lot messier anyways."

You were limp and complaint as they both maneuvered you onto all fours, the dark stain forming on the couch mocking from beneath you. Heeseung yanked off his clothes behind you, shedding each article one by one.

The tip of Hee's cock nudged along your entrance, sliding up and down your folds and catching at your clit every time he wanted to watch you cringe from sensitivity. Soon the small shocks would stop, and when you stopped tensing he focused more on your hole, slowly breaching it. It gave way, letting him push inside the first inch.

You held your breath as he started to get the entire tip inside, your walls stretching despite Hoon's thick fingers. Sunghoon cradled your face in his hands, observing your struggle.

"Poor thing. You look like you're about to cry any second."

He leaned in, kissing you when Heeseung got past the tip, now slipping another inch inside you. Hoon's lips were a good distraction, letting you focus on the natural instinct to follow his flow instead of the overwhelming sensation of Heeseung filling you up. Sunghoon slipped a hand down your body, gently twirling his fingers around your clit, coaxing you to let more of Hee in.

"That's it. Let him in. Let him stretch you out so I can have my turn. I'm not allowed to fuck you until after. "

You moaned against his lips. "Mmf— who says?"

You could feel him smile, like you had been let in on a shared secret.

 "We made a deal after the party." Heeseung hissed from behind as he sank further into you. "But we had been thinking about it for a while." 

You furrowed your brows, trying to form a coherent sentence and not focus on how good Heeseung was stretching you out right now. "W-What deal?"

Heeseung smirked at the expression you wore as he pushed in more, now over halfway inside. "That if we did this..." Both of you let out a strangled noise of pleasure when he bottomed out inside you, his balls now flush against your cunt. "I get first dibs."

Sunghoon laughed, patting your cheek condescendingly. "Bro code."

That's when it dawned on you that you had fallen into Hee's trap, just as he planned. The moment you asked the question, it was game over for you.

Heeseung pulled back some, giving a few experimental, shallow thrusts, letting you get used to the feeling of him. Eventually you stopped tensing up, loosening as you became accustomed to the sensation, your nerves coming alight as he started to go deeper.

"How's that dick feel, baby?" Sunghoon mocked you with the pet name, combing his fingers through your hair in faux comfort, keeping your face angled up so he could drink in every expression you couldn't hide. "Is it just like you've always imagined?"

"Fu-uck you." Your jab lacked it's usual venom, instead becoming breathy at the end as Heeseung hit a sweet spot.

"Ask nicely," Sunghoon bit back.

You were about to respond when Heeseung's hand jotted out in front of you, grabbing Sunghoon by the nape and pressing his mouth against yours, forcing the two of you to kiss to stop your bickering.

"Behave, both of you," Heeseung scolded, gritting it out as he started using longer strokes, letting you feel how long and deep he was every time he pulled out to the tip to thrust back in to the hilt. 

Sunghoon seemed to melt against your mouth, not even arguing with Heeseung as he moved his lips against yours. Every moan that escaped your mouth and into his he took greedily, tilting his head to the right to kiss you thoroughly as each of Heeseung's thrusts pressed you closer together.

Heeseung really was such a good mediator.

You broke away for a breath of air, glaring at Sunghoon and his swollen, pouty lips. He glared back, though it seemed to be because you pulled away when he didn't get his fill of kissing you.

"I still hate you," you said, though the words have no bite. Not when each one comes out breathless and weak along with Heeseung's strokes. Not when you give Sunghoon that stare that lets him know that even if you did hate him, you wanted him in equal measure.

"C'mere. You don't need to talk anymore." Sunghoon grabbed your face, making you arch your back further as he started kissing you again, unashamed with the wet, sloppy sounds of your lips smacking together or the low growls that emanated from his chest.

You two stayed making out for a moment, your lips repeatedly crashing against his as Heeseung rocked you back and forth on his cock. Neither of you seemed to mind, though, both breathless and panting into each other's mouths in a mess of tongue and teeth, and you desperately grasped onto Hoon for stability. Hoon sucked on your tongue, moaning when he felt you melt in his arms.

He finally let you go, pulling off his shirt, hands moving to his pants and pulling his flushed, aching cock out with little finesse. He's about the same size as Heeseung, and your jaw already began to ache as you examined the challenging girth.

Sunghoon tapped the tip of his cock against your pouty lips. "C'mon, open that bratty mouth. There's a good girl."

You gave a gentle kiss to the head, and then another, opening your mouth more with each one as you started using your tongue, slowly making out with it the way you would either of them. You closed your eyes, suckling on it a bit, the same way he did on the tip of your tongue earlier.

Sunghoon seemed to be enamored with the sight, jaw dropping open as you slowly progressed to kitten licks, peering up with them with the faux innocent look that only got him harder.

He muttered under his breath, curling his fingers into the roots of your hair and slowly pressing you down further.

You complied as he pushed your head down, opening your mouth greater as the full head was suctioned by your lips. 

Sunghoon hissed when you flicked your tongue on the underside of his cock where the head met the shaft, and he slowly sank you down further, the gradual slide of your throat down on him making his toes curl.

Sunghoon tossed his head back, feeling your throat suction around him as he start to fuck it properly. "Oh shit. Don't stop, just like that baby. Fuck, you're so good at this. Your mouth feels so fucking good."

He was decent enough to give a slow pace, following along with Heeseung who did the same in order for you to get used to being filled from both ends. Sunghoon did his best not to buck into your mouth or push too far into the back of your throat. It started to get harder when Heeseung started fucking you faster, though, your body naturally being pushed forward again and again, making you gag further and further down Sunghoon's cock until his eyes were rolling to the back of his throat.

"Holy shit," Heeseung moaned, slapping your ass thrice in quick succession. "My baby's being such a good whore for us, isn't she? Fuck, yes, take it. Suck that dick baby, c'mon."

Fuck, hearing Hee of all people start moaning that you're a whore was spurring Sunghoon on. Slowly his concerns and restraint of getting you used to two cocks melted away. You seemed to be a natural already, and Hoon was always the type to tease and bully what he was secretly fond of. Heeseung was well aware. How else do you break in a toy?

"Look at me. You want both of us? You want to be a greedy little slut for one night?" Sunghoon moaned, hand cradling your throat to feel how he moved inside of it. "'Course you do."

Heeseung slapped your ass again, your yelp muffled around Sunghoon's cock. Heeseung's hooded gaze stayed glued on how your ass would ripple against his hips with every snap. Every time he looked up he'd see Sunghoon's bottom lip trapped between his teeth, the beads of sweat forming on his forehead, the way his eyes never left your face as he tangled his digits into roots.

His grip tightened on your hair as he bobbed your head up and down, Heeseung's thrusts pushing you further down on both of them from either end.

"Fuck, you're both so fucking hot," Heeseung growled. "Such a good slut, taking our cocks like this. You're such a good girl."

 Sunghoon grinned, looking down at your pathetic form, forced to take everything they had to offer. Your face was so flushed, your eyes trying to look up at Sunghoon's without rolling back. When he looked up at his best friend he saw his his hands digging into your waist to pull you closer, how his dark stare devoured the view, how his eyes kept meeting Sunghoon's to see if he was also losing his mind. He was. "How does his dick feel? Is he hitting the spot you need?"

You moaned in response, unable to give a clearer answer due to how thoroughly he was using your mouth.

Sunghoon pulled you off for a moment, letting you moan out loud now in tune with Heeseung's thrusts. He tightened the fist in your roots, angling your head to look up at his cocky grin from above.

"You want me to hit it too?"

You bit your lower lip and grinned in confirmation, finally smiling along with him for once. It melted away though into a face of pleasure as Heeseung's hand came around to your front, toying with your clit as his staccato thrusts picked up rhythm.

"Fuck, I'm fucking close," he moaned. "Need to feel you cum around me. Need to feel everything. Need—"

Heeseung's words were cut off by Sunghoon's free hand grabbing his nape and pulling him in, slamming their lips above you. Sunghoon slipped his tongue inside, eyes closed as he angled his head to deepen the kiss, swallowing Heeseung's moans.

Heeseung grunted in Sunghoon's mouth, panting as his thrusts got sloppier and his digits rubbed harder against your clit. Sunghoon's hold on your roots was firm, keeping your neck craned, forcing you to watch how their tongues tangled together and listen to their lips smack, Heeseung's groans turning into whines as he got closer to the edge, all being devoured by Sunghoon. 

It was too much, and before you knew it your cunt was spasming around Heeseung's cock, cries muffled around Sunghoon's. 

Heeseung couldn't last much longer, hips stuttering as he felt you cum around him, his whimper against Sunghoon's tongue delicious as he buried himself as deep as he could, cumming inside you.

The two men finally broke apart, a spit of string still connecting them before snapping, leaving both breathless with parted, swollen lips.

Heeseung tried to recollect himself, garner his breath, try to regain some semblance of self. Slowly he pulled out of you, both of you winching at the sensation. You collapsed down onto the couch, a boneless heap. Slowly, white appeared at your entrance, Heeseung's cum beginning to slowly trickle out of you.

"Fuck... look at that." Sunghoon reached over and spread your folds, more cum dribbling out. He put a finger in, coating it in Heeseung and you, pumping it in and out, watching you shiver with sensitivity. "Can you take more?"

"Mmfuck," you whined in response, hips wiggling. Whether you were chasing Sunghoon's digit or running from it, you couldn't tell.

"C'mon, baby. Let Hoonie fuck you good. It's about time you both start getting along," Heeseung cooed, running a comforting hand up and down your thigh to ground you.

Sunghoon added another digit again, watching your face contort in pleasure as you squeezed your eyes shut. "Don't you want to make it up to me? All those times you were an annoying brat?"

Heeseung smiled, hand going up to comb your hair out of your face, his deceiptively sweet face reassuring you. "It's time for you two to fuck it out."

You nodded, and soon Sunghoon was repositioning you onto your back, spreading your legs wider, pushing one of your legs up and over his arm, positioning the head of his cock at your entrance. Slowly, he pushed in, with both of you sucking in a deep breath. You grabbed onto the arm holding up your leg, biting your lip as he buried in hilt deep. Despite how open Heeseung fucked you, you still felt tight as ever around Sunghoon, and you could feel him right up in your guts the way Heeseung promised.

Sunghoon bit his lip hard, trying (and failing) to contain his grunt as he sank into your heat. 

"Holy shit. You feel better than I dreamed."

He gave a small, experimental thrust of his hips, examining how your breath hitched and your thighs clenched. Here you were, fucking the man who annoyed you most, who you were always fighting for Hee's attention. You supposed this was a good way for both of you to get it at the same time, Heeseung utterly entranced as he watched Sunghoon's first few strokes inside of you.

More of Heeseung's cum spilled out of you as Sunghoon pushed further in, the first slide going much smoother due to how much Heeseung filled you up.

Sunghoon's pumps were shallow at first, noticing your small winces from overstimulation and possible soreness. Judging by the slight rasp in your voice that's already started to appear, you were going to need a bit of a recovery period after tonight.

Heeseung was growing impatient, however, believing Sunghoon should've came in you closer to yesterday. He was eager to see you filled to the brim with both him and Sunghoon, to see Sunghoon's cock limp and drained because of you. And here the two of you were, wasting time like always when you could be fucking each other's brains out.

"What, don't tell me you're scared of her now Hoon? After all that talk?" Heeseung laughed, clapping Sunghoon on the back of his nape, pulling him close. "Thought you wanted to fuck her?"

That got Sunghoon going a bit, his next thrust sharper than the sloppy, slow rolls he was giving before. Your breath hitched, the sensitive spot inside you slowly drawing in heat. 

"Just—" Sunghoon bit his lip, trying to control himself despite the devil at his shoulder. "Don't want it to hurt."

The laugh Heeseung barked out made him feel silly.

The grin Hee gave you bordered on menacing, like he was reaching his wits end. "Did you forget already?" The sharp smack he delivered to your swollen folds had you curl into on yourself, clamping down on Sunghoon and causing him to rut harder into you, trying to sink deeper in. "She likes it."

Hee's words woke Sunghoon up from his worrisome daze, and he drinks in your expression from Heeseung's action. The way your eyes watered and your lower lip trembled, but also the way you opened your legs further, as though asking for more.

The word pops up in Sunghoon's head again.

"Painslut," he growled.

Heeseung grinned wickedly as Sunghoon began to properly pull his hips back, no longer restraining himself and delivering sharp, heavy thrusts that had his balls clapping against your cheeks. The plap plap plap accompanied by the wet gush of your pussy repeatedly swallowing his cock, as well as the pornographic noises you were both omitting, was music to Hee's hears.

Both of you were staring at each other with such intensity, eyes never leaving one another's as Sunghoon drilled into you, mouth dropping open with yours as you both experienced mind-numbing pleasure with each other for the first time when you were supposed to hate each other.

Heeseung could practically taste the mixed emotions from both of you in the air, and he lived off of it.

"Fuck her open." Heeseung bit his lip, watching Sunghoon pull back and roughly slam into you again. "Harder. Make sure she feels it."

Sunghoon furrowed his brows, delivering a harder thrust, savoring the moan that escaped you as he reached in deeper, tip hitting right against the spot that had you feeling weak.

Heeseung sucked in a breath. "That's it. Now you're doing it. Just look how wet she is for you."

You felt Sunghoon twitch inside you at that. Heeseung's commentary was doing wonders for both you and Sunghoon, both of you getting seemingly more flushed. Hoon's thrusts quickened, his enthusiasm showing as he repeatedly hit that spot that had you gasping again and again and again.

"Fuck." Sunghoon grunted, his grip on your waist tightening as he pumped inside. "Feel that? Feel how deep I am?"

He emphasized his question with a brutal thrust that had you scrambling for purchase, grabbing onto Heeseung as your body began to move with Sunghoon's. "Yes, H-Hoon!"

"Fuck yeah you do. You love this, don't you? Love letting me use you like a little slut." Sunghoon groaned, watching the bulge protruding from your lower abdomen. "Still hate me?"

"Yes," you spat out bitterly, your pride still clinging on in some semblance as Hoon started pounding into you.

Both Heeseung and Sunghoon laughed, and it only made your cheeks burn hotter.

"No you don't." Sunghoon landed a smack against your pussy, feeling you clench around him in response. "Holy shit, you got so tight. C'mon, squeeze me baby. Show me how much this pussy loves me."

The cry you let out was pathetic, unwittingly obeying his command as your walls contracted around him.

"There we go. That's a good girl. So you can listen."

Heeseung hummed, enjoying the sight before him, watching both of you slowly unravel in each other. He saw it coming a mile away. He was just glad he got to see it finally happen first hand.

"I'm just so glad to see my best friends finally getting along." He pressed a kiss against your cheek, the action surprisingly tender given the filth of the situation. He pulled back, moving behind Sunghoon so he could watch the view from his friend's perspective.

Both men watched how coated Sunghoon's cock was in Hee's cum, the white glistening along his shaft every time he pulled back. Heeseung's cum helped make the glide easier, extra lubricant added on top of your already dripping wet pussy. You could feel the wetness coating your inner thighs, and wouldn't be surprised if the surface area only grew as Sunghoon continued using you like this.

"Fuck, that's so hot," Sunghoon moaned, tossing his head back and drilling into you with more fervor, veins popping along his forearms as he slammed his hips against yours. "You're so hot. 'Course a pretty girl like you likes being fucked like a slut."

"So pretty," Heeseung agreed, biting his lip, eyes glued to where both of you were joined. "You're both so fucking hot."

He tilted Sunghoon's chin, turning him to face him as he planted his lips against the younger. Sunghoon was responsive to say the least, pressing against Heeseung harder, his hips stuttering for a moment as his brain tried to keep up. Heeseung's other hand slid down Sunghoon's abs, raking his nails along them to make Sunghoon shiver and open his mouth wider.

Sunghoon panted, his thrusts getting sloppier as he moaned into Heeseung's mouth. You could see glimpses of their tongues dancing together with every part of their lips, the whimpers that Heeseung swallowed only driving you closer to the edge. Hearing Hoon's soft pants and moans, muffled against Hee's lips as he held his face tight in his hand, not letting him free for even a second even as he grew breathless and his whines turned needy, was enough masturbation material for a lifetime.

"Fuck fuck fuck, I'm close," Sunghoon moaned against Heeseung's mouth, the words barely decipherable with how Heeseung was devouring him. He whimpered, the sounds getting cut off or replaced with the sound of smacking lips, Heeseung’s grip firm and unrelenting.

Heeseung finally let Sunghoon go, letting the younger man moan and suck in deep, greedy breaths of air. Heeseung's lips were shiny and swollen, and he stared down at where Sunghoon was absolutely destroying you, his thrusts starting to get sloppier with every pump. "Cum inside."

Sunghoon's eyes nearly rolled to the back of his head. "Fuck fuck fuck fuck—"

Heeseung looked down at you, where your eyes nearly crossed with Sunghoon abusing your g-spot, the prospect of being filled up by your biggest annoyance making your back arch against the cushions.

"You want it, right?" Heeseung reached up and pressed his hand down on your lower abdomen, feeling his best friend through the barrier. "I can feel how deep Hoon is inside you. You want it right here, right? Right where I'm pressing."

He pushed harder, making both you and Sunghoon cry out. "Yes! Please, please Hoon. Cum in me. I'm so close."

Sunghoon's hand moved down to your clit, pressing demanding circles against it to drive you to insanity. "Cum for me then. Make your pussy beg for it."

Before you knew it you were doing exactly that.

"Fuck, that's it," Heeseung hissed. He leaned more of his weight on the hand pressing down on you, his grin mischievous and wicked. "Good girl."

The combined stimulation from both of them had you spasming around Hoon, your walls involuntarily quaking and squeezing his girth as promised. Sunghoon let out a guttural groan, your orgasm triggering his own as he hunched over you, his hips stuttering as he began to coat your insides.

You felt the warmth as he starts to fill you up, some gushing out of you already and between your cheeks. Heeseung stopped pressing down on your stomach and grabbed Sunghoon's ass, having him gasp and rut deeper, cockhead firmly pressed against the deepest spot inside of you.

"Keep fucking her," Hee commanded, his tone leaving no room for question.

Sunghoon did as he was told, continuing to pump into you as you started to cringe from the overstimulation. Sunghoon was too, his groans morphing into weak little whines as he let out every drop into you, fucking you still. You could see the mix of pain and pleasure in his face, his thrusts slowing down as his cock began to soften.

Heeseung squeezed. "Don't stop," he ordered. "Keep fucking her. Don't you dare stop."

Hoon, the loyal, pathetic friend he was, obeyed. His weak, stuttering thrusts continued, overstimulating you both as his pelvis rocked against your clit. His pumps were shallower now, lacking the power from before, as though every thrust now took something out of him. Both of you were left breathless, staring into each other's eyes, tears brimming them as you both broke further under Heeseung's command. The man watched with a shit eating grin, clearly pleased watching your glassy gazes.

Sunghoon's head dipped down, and it took every ounce of strength not to collapse on top of you, humping you slightly with what he had left to give, his hips stuttering and sloppy. You felt a tear fall on your collarbone as he whined, not stopping his movements until Heeseung gently pushed him back. 

Both you and Sunghoon cringed as he finally pulled out, the white appearing immediately and trickling down on the sheets. Sunghoon slumped over you, breathing heavily, burying his face in the crook of your neck as both of you finally got to come down from your highs.

It turned out, however, that Heeseung was the hardest to satisfy.

He sneered, pulling Sunghoon off of you and scoffing at how he broke before you. 

"What are you doing? Clean her up since she's been so nice to you."

Heeseung gripped Sunghoon by the roots, lifting his head and planting him face first into your used pussy.

Sunghoon obeyed, squeezing his eyes shut as he opened his jaw wider, letting you melt in his mouth. He lapped up Hee's and his own cum readily, humming with satisfaction, his ministrations becoming greedy. You cringed from the sensitivity, but Heeseung didn’t let you run from it, using a hand to pin you down as he leaned over you and kissed the pain away. You tried to focus on how his lips moved against yours, but still found yourself bucking against Hoon's mouth and whining into Heeseung’s.

Heeseung smiled, tightening his grip against Sunghoon's scalp as he pushed him harder against you, chuckling at the tears in your eyes.

"See baby? I'm having him make up for being so mean to you," Heeseung cooed. "What do we say?"

"T-thank you," you weakly stammered out, feeling the coil tighten for the last time.

"There we go. I'll even help."

He shoved your legs further apart to make room for himself, pushing Sunghoon's head lower so he could slide his tongue inside. You gasped when Heeseung's mouth joined, the dual sensation of two tongues against you bringing you closer to an orgasm no matter how much your body screamed.

Sunghoon rose his head up higher, tongue meshing against Heeseungs as both slid over your clit, trapping it beneath the pressure of the two muscles. Neither man seemed to shy away from each other, and you could hear the wet smack of their lips against each other as they made out, your cunt acting as a third.

Your thighs trembled, the feeling of both of them at the same time, and the visual stimulus of their eyes peaking up at you from between your legs, made the final orgasm of the night especially satisfying. You gave what was left of yourself, seeing white and feeling as though you were floating for a moment. Slowly, you came back down, feeling their hands rub soothingly along your legs and waist.

Both were panting just as hard as you, their pink, swollen lips an enviable shade, glossed with orgasm who-even-knows. Heeseung had a smug, calm smile on his face, whereas Hoon had heavy lids, exhaustion starting to set in his bones with how spent he now was.

Heeseung patted your head gently, a stark juxtaposition to his rough demeanor prior. "Back to Earth?" He quipped.

You nodded, post-millionth-nut clarity settling in as you realized your best friend and his just gave you the best sex of your life.

"I guess now I have a better answer for all of those people asking if we've fucked," you joked.

That earned a laugh from Heeseung, and even a grin from Sunghoon, who was usually impervious to your quips.

"You're so cute." Whether or not Sunghoon meant to say that out loud was unclear, and you weren't given enough time to think about it because soon he was having you taste yourself on his lips. And him. And Heeseung.

Heeseung was absolutely thrilled watching his two best friends make out, fucking pervert that he is. Everything went just according to plan, even better than predicted, and now he could finally reap the rewards of all his hard work.

"See? I knew group bonding would be beneficial."

[0210sjy]

࣪ ˖ 𖦹°⋆ nishimura riki “this is so fucked."

━━ HOMEWRECKER

𑣲⋆ ⌗ (🚬) You’re the kind of girl who gets peonies for breakfast, so Riki Nishimura would really like to know why you’re buying weed from him.

西村 力 riki nishimura x cheer captain! reader ˗ˏˋ riki as a plug, i promise its not as bad as it sounds, romcom, fluff, crack, profanity, homewrecking but not really, cheating (not really) but not on riki dw, explicit content, smut, oral sex, m receiving, porn with plot, unprotected sex, dom ni-ki, size kink lowk, weed, toxic, mdni ! wc: 20 766 p: d.a.m. - fetty wap ; homewrecker - sombr ; i get lonely - drake ; lowkey - niki (fcking hilarious)

Riki Nishimura was a conformist by all means possible, and even prides himself as a law-abiding citizen to the normalized standards. 

He does think some fractions of the government system can totally be tweaked, but he isn’t some reformist that would go out of his way — he actually really likes the stability of society and how it’s structured. He’s comfortable with the status quo.

That includes knowing who to follow on Instagram, who not to approach in the hallway, who to invite in group projects, and who to sit with in lunch. He goes by what makes sense and knows who the hell doesn’t belong in his circle, who rightfully has his phone number, and who can comment on his Instagram posts. 

Except when it comes to substances. He’s not a drug addict but he does enjoy good weed. 

He did listen during chemistry lectures, which basically means he knows a thing or two about pharmaceutics — at least the important parts like which produce larger surges of dopamine and intense euphoria. So while they get drug orientations every start of the school year and the addition of the entrepreneurial mindset of a businessman his father has passed down to him; Riki’s a fucking a jackpot. He simply believed every structure had blind spots, and if someone was smart enough to notice them, then maybe they deserved to profit a little. 

Maybe that made him a hypocrite. He knew that. Sometimes, in the middle of his own judgment, the thought would occur to him that he was not exactly living inside the moral boundaries he pretended to respect.

So with all of these in mind — weed-seller and social scale follower — imagine his surprise seeing a text from you.

You, an A-tier cheer captain with perfect grades and perfect friends and a perfect boyfriend and someone he doubts even has ever touched weed within a 10 feet radius because of how goody-two-shoes and slightly more socially-conformed you are, texted him: 

you: hi you sell right

The kind of surprise a priest might feel if the Virgin Mary asked to borrow a dildo.

Riki stared at his phone for a full thirty seconds. Not because he was shocked by the question itself — he’d gotten worse, far more incriminating messages from people with nothing to lose – but because of who it was from. Your name sat there, attached to a profile picture he never thought would sit on his chat log. Someone who followed the rules so well she barely seemed to touch the ground and practically flew up the school field with the school banner.

This was not how the structure worked. Nope.

He knew you didn’t look at people like him unless it was to borrow a pen or unwillingly get assigned to a lab partner. You definitely weren’t supposed to be asking him this. 

Riki leaned back in his chair and rethought the logistics. He wasn’t paranoid – paranoia implied irrationality. This was risk assessment, you’re high visibility, you’re a liability, you’re a cop in disguise, you’re a prig who’ll ruin his cloak and dagger, you’re holier-than-thou. You’re interesting.

riki: ???? is this a test loll

you: ? its a question

riki: u fr????

you: js tell me if its a no i have money

riki: 3pm behind the science building

you: ok thanks

But more than whatever you are, he knows this was stupid. This was the kind of deviation that got people caught and into the most flouting position he’ll ever be, therefore ruining his very wish to stay within a lawful system. It was, unequivocally, a very bad idea.

And yet he finds himself at the back of the building while he reevaluates the measures of bad-ness in the idea. If math really has been on his side along with his really athletic stature, he can run when you pull out as witness to his little dissenter mood. It halts when he sees you rounding the corner in your cheer uniform — ponytail perfect, knee tape slightly crooked, eyes darting like you weren’t sure you belonged back here — he realizes something his knees will give out before he can even try to walk away.

You stop a few feet away from him, awkward, out of place, glowing like a wrong answer circled in red. You stare at him with your arms crossed, hyperaware when his eyes follow the silhouette of your frame like he’s finding a covert surveillance device underneath your pleated skirt.

Riki talks calmly, like this wasn’t insane at all, like he hasn’t been in his head for the past hours: “So,” he starts, hands slipping into the pockets of his hoodie. “What do you need?”

The question should’ve been easy. You’d rehearsed it in your head on the walk here, timed it with your steps, told yourself not to sound like an idiot. But standing this near — near enough to notice the faint, clean smell of cologne and something green and earthy — you blank.

You shift your weight, arms tightening across your chest. “Um. Weed.”

Riki blinks once, and immediately he knows what this is. He studies you the way he did with lab results that didn’t line up with the predictions — or maybe it did exactly, and he can’t believe it was that easy.

“…Okay,” he said. “What kind?”

Your mouth opens. Then closes.

“What kind.” he repeats.

You felt heat crawl up your neck. “Just… normal?” you say, immediately hating yourself. “Like. The kind people use?”

A corner of his mouth twitches before he can stop it. Then he licks the inside of his cheek, shaking his head when he realizes that yeah, his guess is right. “You don’t know what you’re doing.” he says. 

You bristle. “So?”

“You don’t even know dosage. Or strain. Or why you want it.” His eyes flick up to yours. “Do you?”

Your confidence wobbles, the polished composure you wore so easily in hallways cracking just a little now. He pulls out a small, neatly labeled bag and holds it between his fingers instead of handing it to you. “This is low THC,” he explains. “Won’t make you freak out. But I need to know what you specifically need so you don’t… panic.”

This was supposed to be transactional, quick, something you could tuck away and forget about. Yet every risky glance you take, he doesn’t look like someone who’d hold anything against you.

Riki sighs, about to put the bag away. “Look, let’s just forget —“

“I just,” you start, then sigh because there’s no cool way to say it. “I don’t know. I had a bad week. I wanted to try something.”

When you finally look up, he’s watching you differently. Not like you’re stupid or embarrassing, though you feel plenty of that on your own. His brows have lifted slightly, the faint amusement in his mouth fading into something quieter as he takes you in properly: your tight grip on your own arms, the way your eyes keep darting away.

And it makes it worse.

You meet his eyes for half a second before looking away with a small huff, embarrassed by the sudden attention. 

He puckers his lips slightly, staring at the thing in his hand like he’s thinking. At first, you think he might be deciding if you’re worth the trouble, but then he nods once. “Okay,” he says. “So you’re not becoming a stoner. You’re just trying a new cuisine.”

You blink at him, then laugh under your breath before you can stop yourself.

His mouth twitches, but hides it. He steps closer, just enough that you can see the smoothness of his skin, like he owns expensive skincare. He’s very tall, in a way that surprises you maybe because you’d just never stood this close before.

Really, you never spent time looking at Riki Nishimura. You’ve known the name, because who can ever look past the opulent sound of it, but to know the man behind it didn’t matter. After texting him, you don’t know what you expected either, maybe someone grubbier and smelled like smoke, someone with dry lips from all the ash. You thought he’d smell like one of those hippie guys who sold sketchy shit while wearing the same beanie for three years. 

But no, he smells like a familiar perfume your father owns in his fragrance wardrobe.

And his clothes are annoyingly nice, like the hoodie is probably more expensive than it looks and the loose pants are intentional, not lazy. 

Also, he’s 6’1.

“This,” he taps the bag lightly, “will help you relax. Body high, mostly. You’ll still be functional. But since it’s your first time, better not fuck around too much.” 

He’s still standing in front of you, close enough for you to notice the way his lashes lower when he looks at the bag in his hand, and you feel deeply, horribly stupid for only realizing now that he looks like that. 

Your gaze lingers, and he catches it. Riki clears his throat, spine straightening a little. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you say too fast.

He only hums. You tighten your arms across your chest. “Just give me the thing.”

He finally hands you the bag, and you eye it once you feel its weight in your palm; leafy and green and brown and not you — but it doesn’t look so bad right now. It looks enticing, even, which you won’t try to admit out loud.

“Twenty,” he says, not planning to converse himself with the sudden discount. 

You dig into your bag, finding for the vintage pink wallet that screams the contrast of cannabis in your palm right now. “You know,” you say, hesitant but honest, “I don’t know. It’s weird how we’ve never talked before.”

That gets him. He chuckles even if there’s nothing funny about what you said, but there is something humorous about the fact he remembers shit you obviously forgot. He’s quick to question the lack of indifference, because he remembers it well that this is definitely not the first time you two talked.

“We were partners in freshman year,” Riki says.

He watches your face blank in real time, and something about it makes his mouth lift again, but not kindly enough to be mean. More like he expected it and still finds it a little funny that you are proving him right.

“English lit,” he adds. “The mythology presentation.”

For a second, he looks at you like someone who’s always known you, and you look at him like you’re seeing him for the first time. He sees it flash in your eyes, that maybe you remember him more than just some guy who sells weed to irresponsible decision-makers.

“Oh,” you say.

Riki nods once, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Oh.”

Until your phone buzzes to drag you back from this little bubble you’re in – your boyfriend’s name lights up the screen and Riki notices it too.

“Oh,” you say again, clearly out of your own head. “I — sorry.”

Something shifts, like the structure rebuilds and reasserts itself back into proper footing. You pull the bills from your wallet and press them into his hand. “Thanks,” you say. “For, um. The stuff.”

He closes his fist around the money, nods once. “Yeah.”

You hesitate like you might say something else, so you just tuck the bag away and step back. “I’ll go,” you say.

You turn the corner first. Riki exhales only when you’re out of sight, and chews on his bottom lip before hitting the side of his fist against the wall without real effort. He turns the other corner, parting from the rendezvous kept between eng lit and discounts.

The thing is, Riki knows you before whatever you are now. Miss Perfect who buys weed from Mister Lowkey Weed Seller — it’s a whole tangle in his brain in which he can’t exactly comprehend, but while he smokes a joint and music blasts through the speakers from the house party he’s dragged into, your picture’s pinned with red strings. 

He’s known you since third grade. You’ve been part of the cheer team before puberty, and since then you’ve accumulated likable girls your age into your circle, then the guys from the football team after. It becomes a whole coupling session when the age came right, which Riki is convinced is just some orgy labeled friendship goals in curated Instagram. He thought you were mean mostly because that’s what someone like you would be — but he does know a thing or two about you, other than the assumption of character. You’ve been in the same group projects against your will, sometimes you’d stand next to each other by the queue lines in the cafeteria, sometimes you’d bump against him in the hallway when you’re chasing time.

Is it weird he kept tabs? Maybe.

He always noticed, obviously, why wouldn’t he? You are not exactly unnoticeable. You’re nicer than your friends, you say sorry when you accidentally bump into someone, you say thanks to the staff, you say good morning to strangers, you’re pretty, you’re talented, you’re smart, you laugh at his jokes, you bought weed from him, you’re pretty, you’re perfect, you’re funny, you’re ridiculously pretty —

Riki takes another puff, too fast and too harsh, earning a rough cough from his throat. Heeseung chuckles, giving him an aggressive pat on the back when he leans his elbows against his knees. “Geez, first time?”

Riki shoves his arm away with a laugh, unsure where this is coming from. Because on top of every other noticeable trait you have, you have a boyfriend. So. Yeah. He knows better than to think about you.

He sinks deeper into someone else’s couch — leather, cracked at the seams — while the bass rattles the walls and bodies blur together in the dim lights. Smoke hangs thick in the air, clinging to his clothes, his hair, his thoughts. He takes another drag, slower this time, lets it sit in his lungs until the noise dulls around the edges.

Across from him, someone’s laughing too loud, then a couple is making out like it’s an Olympic sport. Heeseung steals the joint from his fingers and flicks the ash into an empty cup.

“You look fucked,” Heeseung says.

“I’m not,” Riki replies automatically.

“Mhm.”

Riki pushes himself up from the couch, suddenly restless. He just wants a drink — something cold, something that doesn’t make his head spiral because even the thought of weed pulls him back to this cheerleader. So he goes to the kitchen, instinctively saying half-assed sorry’s to strangers without meaning them. 

Until he bumps into someone.

For half a second, he genuinely wonders if the side effects are finally catching up to him, because his head feels several feet away from his eyes and the kitchen lights look more hazy than they should.

But it’s you, he knows that because your kind voice apologizes; the way you always do, the way your friends don’t. Your shoulder knocks into his chest and you’re already stepping back, eyes wide a fraction of a second when you look up. Riki freezes too, unsure what to do with his hands or his feet or where to look without threading too close to the sternum your lowcut top exposes. Up close, under dim kitchen lights instead of school hallways, you look unreal — hair loose, lips parted like you’ve been laughing. 

“Riki,” you say, breathless, like his name slipped out before your brain could catch it.

His name on your mouth does something stupid to him. 

“Hey,” he says, too softly. He’s just thankful you don’t notice the slight roughness of it.

You smile, small and polite — but there’s something else underneath it now. Recognition that shouldn’t exist, not in the structure where you’re meant to forget that you know; one where he looks up at you from beneath your echelon, now he’s standing close enough that you have to tilt your chin to look up at him.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” you say.

He huffs a quiet laugh. “I didn’t either.”

You glance past him, toward the other room, toward where your friends probably are — or your boyfriend. Then back at him, polite in a way he’s sure is because you’re you and not because he’s him.

“I don’t usually see you in… parties,” you say. 

He puts both hands in his pant pockets, shoulders loose, eyes on yours like the noise around you doesn’t have enough authority to interrupt.

“You don’t usually look,” he says.

It’s not said rudely, just calm, like he’s stating something obvious enough that both of you should stop pretending around it.

Your fingers tighten around your cup. “That’s not true.”

Riki tilts his head, eyes moving over your face. “Yeah?”

You hate how it sounds coming from him, low and slow and almost amused, like he knows you’re lying before you do. You scoff a quiet laugh, eyes looking away because you can’t keep looking at him. 

“I mean, I know you exist.” You look back up at him when you say it, bottom lip catching between your teeth before you can stop yourself.

His eyes drop for half a second, then he smirks and looks away, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek like he’s trying not to say something.

When he looks back, his face is calmer. “Where’s your boyfriend?”

The question is casual enough that it almost sounds harmless. You glance elsewhere instinctively, like you’re going to find him close. “Somewhere.”

“Specific.”

“He’s with his friends.”

Riki just nods, doesn’t wanna push, even though he’s pretty sure you don’t actually know where he is. Leaving is the smarter and normal thing to do. The thing a girl with a boyfriend and a reputation and a phone full of unread messages from her friends would do.

Instead, you stay there. And Riki’s got that tabbed already.

You hesitate, fingers worrying at the rim of your cup. “I, um. I haven’t — used it yet.”

Riki blinks. “The stuff?”

You nod, cheeks warming. “I just… don’t really know how.” It’s weird being this honest with someone you barely know, yet your bones don’t buzz with the prompt demand to pause. It must be the slight slosh, it’s the only real thing to excuse why you’re not pulling away.

For a second, he just looks at you. Then his mouth curves, slow and amused. “You bought weed without knowing how to use it?”

Your face warms, but you try not to look embarrassed. “Okay, well.” You lift your cup a little, like that somehow helps your argument. “You can teach me.”

Riki grimaces immediately, playful but clear. “Sounds like a bad idea.”

You blink. “Wow. Rude." You huff, looking away, but you’re smiling a little because he doesn’t sound scared of you. Or impressed by you. Or desperate to keep you there. He just sounds like he already knows better and hates that he has to be the one saying it.

He sighs, looking away for a second. “Fuck, fine.” his jaw clenches. “But not here.”

You try not to smile and fail almost immediately. You take one step back, still looking at him. “I’ll text you. Maybe later?”

Someone calls your name from the other room and you exhale, dragging back through the fracture. The music spikes and someone bumps into you again, closer this time, and Riki’s hand lifts instinctively, hovering over your waist without touching. 

Your eyes flick down, then back up to his. “Nice seeing you,” you say finally, voice softer now. 

“Yeah,” he says. “You too.”

You step around him, brushing past just close enough that he catches your scent — which is bad, because now he’ll have to remember that too. When you disappear back into the crowd, Riki stays rooted in place for a beat too long.

He exhales, rubs a hand over his face, and laughs quietly to himself.

He really, really knows better.

Which somehow makes it worse.

Riki glances back to see you’re sitting on the couch now, legs tucked in, your boyfriend’s arm slung easily around your shoulders. He leans in and presses a quick kiss to your cheek, which makes you smile and ease back into him. Riki turns away to open the fridge and grabs the coldest beer he can find. He lifts it and downs it in one go, throat burning at the coldness and bitter taste.

He shouldn’t do this. He really shouldn’t.

Later, in that strange lull when the party has gotten worse and louder — you text him.

You: bathroom upstairs

The bathroom is cramped and clean but gross in concept: flickering light, foggy mirror, the smell of cheap air freshener. You’re perched on the edge of the sink when he slips inside and locks the door behind him, eyes bright, a little nervous, because being in a bathroom with you feels worse than any sketchy deal he’s made.

“Okay,” you whisper, like you’re conspiring. “So. Teach me.”

He winces, glancing around. “This is… not ideal.”

You just grin. He laughs despite himself and sets the weed down on the closed toilet lid, grimacing when he starts rolling paper against it. Once he’s done, he holds the roll up to your mouth and he tells you to lick it. You follow through, leaning down and sticking your tongue out to lick the side. He clears his throat, trying not to think about the way you looked doing that, trying not to imagine anything else.

He’s careful, not clinical or a lecture when he instructs, just calm and reassuring like he’s trying to keep you comfortable more than correct. When he hands the final roll to you, your fingers shake a little as you take it.

“Like this?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Slow.”

You cough immediately after trying, sharp and sudden, bending forward with a surprised laugh. “Oh my god — why does it — ”

“Hey,” he says, too fast, stepping closer, hand hovering at your back. “You okay?”

You wave him off, still laughing, eyes watering. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”

He watches you like you might disappear if he looks away. You’re laughing, which isn’t comforting Riki even in the slightest because the last thing he needs is to not be a conformist and end up in jail for accidentally supporting your homicide.

You try again, better this time. You still cough, laugh, cough again, but way more manageable as time goes by.

“Sorry,” you say, breathless.

“Don’t apologize,” he says. “You’re doing fine.”

You keep at it, stubborn in that way of yours, until the coughing eases and something in your shoulders loosens. You lean back against the wall, head tipping gently, eyes half-lidded.

“Oh,” you murmur. “That’s… actually really nice.”

Riki lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, a nervous laugh slipping out. He leans back against the wall, hand through his bangs, exposing the skin of his forehead. “Jesus fucking Christ,”

You nod slowly, smiling to yourself. “My brain’s quiet.”

He watches you for a moment: relaxed, unguarded, glowing in this tiny bathroom because you don’t belong here at all, holding a joint Riki himself rolled for you. Really, you never belonged anywhere that tried to put you in a box, and he wasn’t going to make himself an exception to that opening.

He tries thinking about who you really are, beyond what most people would take you as. Though he knows not to fantasize a tale where he saves the damsel from her golden label. He takes you with memory and not assumption: cheer girl, disciplined afternoon drills, academically smart, socially competent, good. But tonight, while you lean against the cracked sink and stand diagonally across him, he sees a side he never thought he’d secretly behold.

Your eyes flick to him. “You’re a good teacher.”

He swallows. “You’re an easy student.”

Riki rolls another one for himself, hands steadier now that you’re settled, and lights it with a quiet flick. The bathroom fills with a softer haze this time, the kind that wraps instead of hits like a downer high school series. He takes a drag, exhales toward the ceiling, letting the room reek with shouldn’ts and endorphine boosters.

You smoke more confidently now, less harsh and rough when you let the smoke run down your throat. Your eyes are a little red, lashes heavier, the sharp edges of you blurred into something warmer and looser, less polished and picture perfect the way your boyfriend would like. Riki thinks — stupidly — that he’s never seen you look better.

You lean your head back against the wall again, staring at the ceiling like it’s just told you a secret. He doesn’t stare, actually. He keeps his eyes narrowed to the broken tile in front of him like he’ll discern the reason it’s cracked (maybe someone opened the door too hard, maybe someone once stood there trying to look normal while his heart acted stupid over a girl, which was especially humiliating when the whole point of being high was to feel less insane). Sometimes he’ll permit himself to glance, but even the very glimpse of your smudged lipstick makes him look away and inhale the fuck outta that weed.

Then, suddenly, with eyes still trained to the dim bathroom light — “I thought you were,” you start, then laugh, a little too loud before clapping a hand over your mouth. “Sorry. I thought you were, like… this weirdo.”

He snorts, shaking his head. “Wow. Honesty hour already?”

“No — ” you groan, waving the joint like you’re conducting an orchestra. “I mean it nicely. You always stayed away from everyone. I figured you were judging us.”

“Us?” he repeats, amused, cocking a brow when he glances at you.

“You know. People like me.” You squint at him, trying to focus. You gesture at yourself ineptly, clearly out of the ordinary intellectual capacity you clench tight, not when rickety makes up for your feet.

He quickly looks away, trying not to smile. 

“Loud. Annoying.” you clarify, hand gesturing around.

He tilts his head, considering. “Was I supposed to be friends with people like you?”

You blink, like you’re thinking about what he said and calculating the rationale behind his causes. It was a hit, one that steadies a thought in your brain.

“Is that so bad?”

The question knocks the breath out of him, especially when you look up at him like that, eyes bright and wide. He blinks, and then he laughs, coming out quieter this time, looking away because he can’t keep eye contact with you. “I didn’t think you’d want that.”

“Why not?”

Because there’s a system. Because there’s levels to this shit. Because you have a boyfriend. Because you’re untouchable. Because you’re perfect and he’s whatever this was. Because people like him didn’t get pulled into your orbit unless it was transactional. Like weed exchanges and favors on the toilet. 

For now, he shrugs. “Seemed like you already had your people.” 

You hum, nodding slowly, then smile. You tap the joint, watching some ash fall to the tiles. “They’re loud.”

He smiles back despite himself. “Yeah. They are.”

The bathroom feels like it’s floating away from the music that pumps loud through the pipes, a constant reminder that there’s more than the stinky bathroom you two share as a secret. It’s risky because it’s merely wood that separates the crypticity of Mary Jane from the Average Joe you two function in individually.

You glance at the joint, then at him. “You’re not weird, by the way.”

“Oh?” he says, eyebrow lifting. He even scoffs, because he (un-admittedly) finds you adorable. 

“You’re just… quiet. You keep to yourself, but that doesn’t make you… eccentric.” You grin lopsided, cheeks warm but you ignore that. “You’re nice.”

That one gets him, more than he’d ever admit to anyone. Riki looks over, and for half a second, his gaze slips lower before he forces it back to your face. You’re already looking at him, all soft eyes and honest mouth, like you have no idea what you’re doing to him.

He looks away first, rubbing the side of his jaw like that might help. “You’re high,” he says.

“Maybe,” you confess. “But I mean it.”

He’s been called quiet and nice all his life, but that was never the full truth. He just knew who deserved access to the rest of him, and most people didn’t. It wasn’t personal. He could talk when he wanted to, laugh when something was actually funny, keep a conversation going if he cared enough. He just didn’t feel the need to prove he had thoughts by saying all of them out loud.

Riki takes a drag, exhales slowly, looking over the tiles of the bathroom while he rethinks the decision he’s about to drop. He clears his throat before speaking, “You’re not mean either.”

Your eyes widen a little, gaze recklessly steady at his side profile. “You thought I was?”

“Everyone did,” he says honestly, smiling a little.

You make a face, frowning at him even though he refuses to look at you. “That’s rude.”

He laughs, really laughs this time, head tipping back. When he looks at you again, you’re smiling up at him like you’ve discovered something new and decided to keep it. For a moment, it feels like maybe there was always a version of this where you talked in bathrooms and shared smoke and didn’t belong where people expected you to.

You take another small drag, then suddenly straighten when you decide to take him in. He’s wearing a jacket over his hoodie, simple sweats loose around his hips. Only a few strands of his dark blonde hair graze over his forehead, leading down to the sharp features you only really notice now.

You never thought Riki Nishimura was ugly. Now, you can’t help but think that he’s… kinda hot.

You’re high, you’re just gone. That’s why. It also explains why you nudge closer than you have been before, letting your skirt brush slightly against his pants, thighs grazing slightly against his.

You’re both still smoking — slow now, like the room itself has decided to breathe with you. The bathroom feels even smaller than before, shrinking with every second the music downstairs gets louder but muffled through the wooden door keeping you a secret. Your head feels light, buoyant, like you’re floating a few inches above your body. Maybe it’s the weed. Maybe it’s the half-drinks you’d taken before this. Maybe it’s neither.

He stares at the tile beneath his boot like it holds the secrets of the universe, or like it had the equations for him to understand gravity’s intentions and how it led to him feeling your softness against him.

“Is there something on the floor?” you laugh.

He just huffs, shaking his head because that’s all he can do right now. You’re still leaning back and he’s still standing just a little too close. Your knee brushes his again, accidental but not corrected.

He looks down at you then. The red in your eyes, the crooked smile, the way you’re leaning just a little toward him like gravity’s doing something new. You lean closer because you’re completely zooted and smart-Riki who knows better, leans away and only lets his chest tighten. His eyes drop traitorously down to your lips, and he’s not fast enough to look back up. You notice, of course, which makes you both look away and straighten back on your feet instead of the wall. 

Riki clears his throat, smoking the last of his before he rids of it against the sink. “You gotta go?” he asks out of the blue, which makes you frown a little. It wasn’t exactly a statement, but you know when things are implied and telling, so you shove back the nerves and remember that he’s different from you.

You’re not his type of person. He probably likes more chill people who actually know how to roll this shit — not the sheltered ones who’s clueless with THC or terms alike it.

“Yeah. I guess.” you smooth out your clothes even though nothing’s wrong with them.

He realizes what he just did, especially now that you’re not even looking back at him. He tries correcting himself, to backtrack, but the moment you glance back up, he’s silenced. You put your unfinished joint in his hand. “See you.” You say just before unlocking the door, slipping through it, and accidentally slamming it too hard.

Riki reels in from the solitude of the silence, like he’s now just realizing the ruins he broke himself. He sighs in resignation, head falling forward in defeat. “Shit.”

He stares at the thing in his hand, unfinished and yours, half-burnt and still warm.

“Idiot,” he mutters to himself, dragging a hand down his face. He can still feel the ghost of your skirt brushing his leg, the way you didn’t look back because he gave you a reason not to.

But the bathroom still smells like you — sweet perfume tangled with smoke — and the joint is there, remaining as an accusation wrapped in paper. He turns it between his fingers, thumb brushing the spot where your lipstick smudged faintly against the edge.

Riki exhales, then lifts it.

He wraps his lips around it carefully, stupidly aware of the fact that yours were there first. The thought alone makes his chest tighten, heat creeping up his neck and pelvis as he takes a slow drag.

He closes his eyes as he exhales, leaning his head back against the wall, heart thudding too loud for a room this small. For a split second, he imagines you still there — tilted smile, red-rimmed eyes, saying his name like it belongs to you, all while your boyfriend waits in the living room.

He laughs shakily under his breath. It’s so wrong.

After that, you two haven’t really talked for weeks. 

That part isn’t weird. You both have lived the majority of your lives settling with the insouciance despite recognition, and one night in a bathroom, smoke and secrets and red eyes, isn’t enough to reroute that kind of muscle memory. Riki tells himself that over and over, like it’s a theorem he’s already proven.

He hasn’t been worried. He still goes to class, still shows up on time, still hands in assignments with some effort. The only difference — although barely worth mentioning — is that he’s been dipping into his stash more often than usual. A little before bed. A little after. 

Riki exhales slowly, staring at the ceiling, telling himself — again — that this doesn’t mean anything and it doesn’t have anything to do with the cheer girl he kinda had a moment with in the bathroom.

It’s so fucked, even if you don’t think being his friend is bad, because you’re not meant to be a part of this. He was simply curious that Miss Cheerleader bought weed from him and kinda trusted him way too fast and that wasn’t just some everyday occurrence — that’s the only best psychological explanation why you’re here even when you’re not.

You have a boyfriend. He’s not about to be a homewrecker. Yet it’s not helping.

No talking for weeks, reaching a month even. That says enough. He has to stop.

“Probably about Little Miss Perfect.”

Riki flinches like someone just snapped a rubber band against the back of his neck. He sits up, glaring at Heeseung. “What the fuck,” he blurts. “How do you know that?”

Jake slowly looks up from his laptop, eyes lighting up like he just unlocked a bonus level.

“Oh my god.” Sunghoon’s grin spreads and Heeseung laughs, clapping like he’s won because technically he did, at the mental betting at what keeps Riki Nishimura downing his marijuana greenhouse.

“Ohhh,” Heeseung says, taunting and annoying. “So it is about her.”

Riki blinks. “No.”

“That was the weakest no I’ve ever heard,” Jake says immediately, pointing a finger at Riki. “You’re a guilty man, aren’t you?”

Riki scoffs, scrambling, fingers rubbing against his temple in attempts to cool. “You’re literally insane. Why would it be about her?”

Heeseung shrugs, casual. “I saw you two talking at that party.”

Riki’s stomach drops. “You — what?”

“Relax,” Heeseung says, laughing. “I wasn’t spying. You two just kinda had a freeze frame by the kitchen. Wasn’t so hard to notice.”

Riki opens his mouth, just to close it. Then he runs a hand through his hair with the irritated slant of said illegality stamped in your name. “We were just talking. Nothing happened.” Riki snaps, defensive again, hands up like he’s caught. 

Jake squints at him. “Then why are you acting like that?”

Riki looks away. Usually, it’s enough answer to more teasing and mocking, but maybe not this time. Because now, it raises actual questions that regard his very bearing at this monumental association with you — a damn unicorn of a scene snatched out a comedy fantasy movie.

Heeseung asks carefully, “Are you, like, her boy toy or something?”

Riki whips around with the flush of unpredictability and utter shock. “What? No!”

Heeseung grins again, gentler this time. “Okay, not her boy toy. What now?”

Riki exhales, long and slow, falling back supine against the floor with the decency of a man with boundaries and the understanding of someone brilliant to keep himself away. “Nothing. She has a boyfriend. She lives in a different world.”

It’s realistic. He thinks he’ll drag the shit out of his stash to get his mind off this, because Riki Nishimura was a conformist by all means.

You’re where you’re supposed to be.

You laugh at the jokes while dawdling down the hallway with girls you actually consider your friends, your boyfriend’s arm heavy around your shoulders like it belongs there. You learned how to roll your own joints now, practiced with irritated little shrieks until it stopped being embarrassing, until they came out neat and perfect between your fingers. You don’t need him. You don’t need anyone, actually. Independence always looked good and natural on you.

Then Riki walks past with Heeseung and Jay.

Backpacks slung low, shoes dragging lazily against the floor, laughing about something stupid like someone’s terrible quiz score. Riki’s eyes stay forward like always, keeping his business private from everyone. Especially from you.

You don’t acknowledge each other beyond the bare minimum of peripheral awareness of two classmates that happen to be in the same class and two planets in the same orbit. Your boyfriend tightens his arm around you, leaning down to murmur something about lunch plans. You nod, glossed lips wrapped around a lollipop, sugar sweet and cherry-flavored on your tongue. You should be listening, you’re sure you are, until he passes.

Your eyes follow Riki — not openly, just enough to catch the back of his neck, the familiar slope of his shoulders, the same boy who leaned against a bathroom wall while you were high and laughing too much, knees brushing his because the room was small and neither of you moved away.

The lollipop slides down your tongue: all artificial sugar because the substance stays at home in the back of your secret drawer, while some of it just passed you down the hallway.

“I’ll catch up,” you say lightly, lifting your boyfriend’s arm off your shoulders. “I forgot something.”

You slip away before anyone can think too hard about it, weaving through the hallway with your lollipop still between your lips. You keep enough distance to make it look accidental, watching as Heeseung and Jay split off with quick fist bumps and loud voices. Riki keeps walking and pushes open the door to an empty lecture hall before disappearing inside.

You stop outside, remembering that this is probably the part where you’re supposed to turn around. Where the perfect, reasonable version of you remembers her boyfriend, her friends, her place in the hallway. Where the status quo reaches for your wrist and pulls you back into line.

Well, you push the door open.

Riki is near the front row, one hand still on the strap of his bag when he looks up from his seat, legs spread wide, thumbs midway to scroll through his phone. His eyes widen slightly, posture going still like he did not think you’d actually follow him.

For some reason, it thrills you. Because now he’s looking at you.

You pull the lollipop from your mouth, twirling the stick between your fingers as the door clicks shut behind you. “Hey.”

His eyes flick briefly to the door behind you. “You lost?”

This isn’t a bathroom of some random houseparty. There’s no smoke, no music, no excuse, just you, Riki, and an empty lecture hall in the middle of the school day — which means you came here on purpose.

“You should roll a joint for me again,” you say, like it’s so simple. “One of these nights.”

Riki blinks once. Then he huffs out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “What, you haven’t learned since last time?”

You step closer anyway, slow and unhurried, allowed to exist wherever you want. He leans back against his seat, still careful and invisibly (but truly) restless. “I did.” you answer, then you smile small and lazy. “You’re just better at it.”

That gets him (because you’ve been knowing what to say to get him). His eyes lift to you, amused now, something low and unreadable settling there which sets you on fire because you have no idea what he’s thinking, not even a little hint. 

“Flattery,” he says, then scoffs.

You hum and step closer, close enough that his knee is almost in front of your thigh. Riki leans back in his seat, one arm loose over the desk beside him, phone forgotten in his lap. 

“There’s another party this weekend,” you say. “At McKay’s. You and your friends should go.”

He tilts his head. “Should we?”

“I think so.” You shrug. “Good music, large pad, beer games.” 

He chuckles, eyes dropping briefly to the floor before meeting yours again. “And you’ll be there.”

“Probably.”

“And you’ll want me to roll one for you.”

You pull the lollipop from your mouth, tapping it lightly against your lower lip as you think. “If you’re offering.”

“I’m not,” he says, but his mouth twitches.

You lean back against the edge of the desk beside him, copying his ease like you have any right to be comfortable around him. From far away, it would look casual, just two classmates talking before class. Except there’s only you standing between him and the empty rows, him sitting back in his seat, looking up at you with that unreadable expression while you try not to smile too much.

He should probably feel insulted that you only do this when nobody can see — maybe he does, if he still believes in self-respect. It’s just hard to stay offended when you’re looking at him like that.

Riki nods once. “I’ll think about it.”

Satisfied, you push off the table and head for the door. “Cool.”

When the door shuts behind you, he thinks about red eyes and smoke, about how your usual crowd will be there, your boyfriend’s arm around you just before you sneak away to Riki’s. 

You’re trouble, which makes Riki smile. ‘Cause he knows damn well he’s going to that party.

-

McKay’s house is already vibrating when Riki gets there with Heeseung, Jake, and Sunghoon — bass rattling the windows, someone yelling about cups, someone else yelling back about something incomprehensible. Riki isn’t a frat boy at all, and he doesn’t really go to parties, but the perfume layered on top of alcohol is basically familiar territory.

“This place is a fire hazard,” Jake mutters, stepping over a discarded heel.

Riki scans the room pretending he doesn’t mean to, observing layouts and people, when really he’s actually looking for one specific designer wardrobe of a person.

He doesn’t see you, but he sees your usual crowd scattered around the room, posing with red cups they barely drink from and laughing a little too loud whenever someone points a camera at them. You’re not there, nor is your boyfriend, and that usually speaks for itself already.

Heeseung nudges him, already mischievous with the smile Riki can’t see. “Little Miss Perfect?”

“Fuck off,” Riki replies, flat.

Jake’s halfway to disbelief when he narrows his eyes at Riki. “You’re already staring.”

“She’s not even here,” the former hisses.

“Looking for her, though.” Sunghoon teases, practically grinning widely.

Riki pushes past them. “I’m getting a drink.”

He doesn’t get a drink. He goes through hallways and in between bodies that nudge abruptly into him, half-assed apologies going through one ear and out the other while he properly finds footing again and again. When he gets to the bathroom and finds it locked, he groans and leans back against the wall. For now, he flicks the light on his own joint and smokes away while he waits — for you, for the bathroom, for anything to make him think going here was worth it at all. 

Too many girls brush against him, too many of them apologizing with tilted heads and lashes batting. He has no interest in rewarding the performance, not tonight, not when the party is already crawling under his skin, all bass-heavy music, sticky floors, smoke in the air, perfume clinging to his throat, and people packed so tightly he can’t move without touching someone. It’s too much at once; too loud, too hot, too bright, too dark. Then he sees it, and everything in him goes still.

Your boyfriend has another girl pushed against the bedroom wall. 

Riki sees this through the crack of the door, just slightly opened enough for him to see how he moves his hand underneath her skirt really fucking aggressively. They’re kissing too, and it’s not at all sweet or even arousing; it’s just straight out gross. He chokes, coughing so rough and loud and forward he has to lunge himself off the wall and straight through the crowd because his first instinct is you.

Your boyfriend is cheating on you.

What the fuck is happening? Why’s your boyfriend fucking a girl like someone who knows nothing about clits? Now, Riki isn’t an expert about pleasing women but he’s watched porn enough to know that Exhibit A over there was straight-up persecution. 

He finally spots you near the kitchen, talking to one of your friends with a cup in your hand. He starts toward you, but someone shoves past from behind, and he bumps lightly into your shoulder. You turn, already halfway to apologizing until you see him, your face already changing before you can stop it.

“You came,” you say, eyes flicking around before coming back to him.

He’s kinda out of breath, from the smoke and from hurrying, but he smiles too. “Yeah.”

While you’re still smiling, Riki clears his throat. It’s casual like he’s asking for a lighter, not like he’s abput to derail your night, ‘cause truth be told, he’s not sure he knows how you’ll react to the information. To be honest, he thinks about how it’s only fair — maybe — because he doubts your boyfriend knows you sneak into bathrooms with another guy. And sure, his hand isn’t performing DJ on your pussy, but the shared secrecy of eye contact with loaded tension is much more intimate than whatever the hell that was.

“Uh,” he says, hand rubbing on his jeans. “Can we talk? Like. Somewhere quieter.”

You blink. Then you nod, already stepping closer so he has to lean down to hear you.

“Bathroom or outside?” you ask, half-teasing.

“Outside,” he says easily.

The night is cold enough to make everything feel quieter, like it’s only the two of you standing under someone’s porch light while music leaks through the walls behind you. It’s strange, because you’re not even friends, not really, but the little space between you feels private in a way Riki doesn’t know what to do with. He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath since the second he walked into the house, then leans back against the railing and looks at you standing across from him.

He tries finding the words first, but the way you’re looking at him tightens his chest faster than his brain can work out. Is this karma for your cheating boyfriend? Is he the instrument God has given you to slam notes back to the guy you’re practically cheating on too? 

Then Riki clears his throat, casual as hell. “I saw something inside,” he continues, tone still chill but eyes a little sharper now. “Your boyfriend.”

Your smile falters. “What about him?”

“He’s, uh.” Riki taps ash off the joint. “He was fucking a girl. On a wall.”

You stare at him for a while, and he’s half-expecting you to lash out, on him, on the crowd, on your boyfriend, on something. 

Instead, you laugh this small, amused breath that slips out of you before you shrug, like he told you your boyfriend spilled punch on his shirt and not that he had just seen him with another girl.

What the fuck is happening?

It feels a lot like you don’t care and that surprises Riki leading him down a rabbit hole of introspection. He was already expecting you to cry and sob or scream in the party about how much of a dick he is, how you trusted him and gave him everything — all things they do when they find out their boyfriends are cheaters.

No, you just, “Wow.” then huff a laugh. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”

He blinks once, watching you carefully while you regather your thoughts as a woman who’s been said something paltry rather than an admission of an affair. To be honest, Riki doesn’t understand, so now he just stands there and looks stunned. And confused. Very confused, actually.

Riki squints at you like he’s trying to solve a trick question. “That’s it?” he asks. “That’s your reaction?”

You shrug, lifting your cup to your lips for a sip. “I mean. It’s been happening. “We’re just sorta together for our parents. They’re friends so… but that’s a story for another night.”

Oh. He never thought fake relationships were a thing.

That makes sense. How come Riki didn’t know? Was he so out of touch from school gossips hat he genuinely didn’t know that you’re actually not the perfect couple he thought you two were? Is that why Heeseung and Jake and Sunghoon didn’t react so badly? Has this been a thing? Oh my God, Riki’s ecstatic and he hasn’t even finished a joint yet.

He lets out a quick, unguarded sound. “Jesus.”

You lean back against the railing across from him, far too relaxed for a revelation that should have ruined someone’s eyeliner. Riki watches you for a second, waiting for the anger, the hurt, the sharp inhale before you turn and storm back inside. But you just stand there, cup in hand, looking more inconvenienced than heartbroken.

That’s when it hits him, slow and weirdly humiliating, that you might not care about the relationship at all.

“But,” you say lightly, “thanks for telling me.”

He blinks, then shakes his head a little. “Yeah.” His voice comes out slower than usual. “No worries.”

You glance at the joint between his fingers, your eyes lingering a second too long on the veins along his hand. “You always this heroic when you’re high?”

“No,” he says, deadpan. “It’s just who I am.”

You laugh, and despite everything, his mouth twitches. He looks back toward the door, half-expecting your boyfriend to come out and make the night complicated. When no one does, he relaxes, shoulders easing, but not completely.

Because this is new information.

Someone inside screams the chorus to a song, and the night’s way too cold for the silence that buzzes. Riki offers the joint without looking at you, just holds it out between two fingers like it’s nothing.

You hesitate for half a second. But you take it.

“You have a car?” you suddenly ask while you take a puff.

Riki blinks once, then lets out a quiet laugh, dragging his thumb along the bridge of his nose. Right, so this is his life now. He sells you weed one time, and somehow he’s standing outside a party while your boyfriend (?)  cheats inside and you look mildly bored about it.

It’s stupid. It’s also the most interesting thing that’s happened to him in months.

So he just sighs and slumps back a little. “Yeah. I do.”

“Let’s go,” you say, completely not a question, flicking the finished joint on the pavement and trampling it beneath your heel. “I wanna smoke.”

He lets you trail after him through the side yard like this is already something you do, like he isn’t silently praying no one sees you following him away from the party. Gravel crunches under your shoes, the bass growing duller behind you as you cross the street toward his Supra, parked sleek and dark under the streetlamp. Riki unlocks it without looking back, rounds the hood, and opens the passenger door for you like it’s nothing.

You notice. You just don’t say anything.

Inside, the car actually smells clean and like coffee, for someone you’ve assumed is mad about marijuana and sorts alike (well, again, he’s proven how neat he is just for smelling so fucking good). He slides into the driver’s seat and just sits there for a second before turning the engine on, heater clicking low. 

The silence settles, but it doesn’t feel awkward, which Riki finds suspicious. Maybe it’s because you’re not acting like the version of you he’s used to, all neat edges and perfect timing. Now your heels are on the floor of his car, your hair is loose around your face, and you’re curled into the passenger seat of a Supra you’ve never sat in before like your body decided to trust him before your brain could argue. He clears his throat, trying to get rid of the warmth at the back of his neck, but you only glance at him like you don’t notice. The hem of your skirt rides up consequently, and he tries his hardest not to look.

“Thanks. For caring.”

He shrugs, one hand resting loose on the steering wheel. “Didn’t feel right not to tell you.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”

The radio flicks on — some pop song bleeding through the speakers. He then pulls out pre-rolled joints from his pockets, which he sheepishly apologizes for hygiene and, well, it’s a bit delated, although you just smile and take one. He lights yours up and you two stay there, settled in his warm seats, dissolving the chill with cannabis down your system like two people who doesn’t give a shit about the system and fucking power dynamics and popularity status.

Again, weird. Hanging out in his car like you’re old buddies who smoke in free time on the usual. 

If he told himself a month ago that he would be smoking weed with the team cheer captain, he would have laughed his ass off about inhaling too much narcotics that totally screwed mental frameworks. Yet now, he’s stealing a few glances at you beside him, getting high off his greens, and he doesn’t feel completely off-center about it. It’s the weed obviously, but he feels steady. It’s charged because you’re not talking but your thoughts are everywhere, and even if you protrude the profile of indifference — he knows you care. Then again, what does he know about you, right? You are the odd in the equation, the alternative hypothesis that proves the difference in variables, and talks about the impact on the situation.

Now, conformist Riki Nishimura, who has spent his whole life respecting the ladder, is starting to wonder what happens if he climbs high enough to stand beside someone like you.

He stares through the windshield the second before he speaks. “You’re not what people think you are.”

You blink, caught off guard as you turn to him. “Is that good or bad?”

He huffs. “Depends who’s thinking it.”

You smile a little, your eyes moving over him before you can pretend they didn’t. Riki isn’t brawny in that loud, gym-mirror way, but he’s taller than he should be, broader than he looks from a distance, and unfairly very put together. His throat moves when he breathes in, and you catch yourself watching it for one embarrassing second too long.

You chew on your bottom lip. “And what do you think?”

Riki shifts in his seat, hand fidgeting against the wheel like he’s weighing how honest he’s allowed to be. “I think you’re quieter than your reputation.” 

You study him now — the calm posture, the way he never overdoes anything, the way his voice stays even like he’s learned not to tip his hand. 

He glances at you, then back ahead. “Makes it easier.”

You look at him for a second too long. “Easier for who?”

“You tell me.”

The car feels smaller and the windows are fogged enough that the streetlamp outside is just a blur of light now, like you’ve been sealed off from everything else. Away from the reality that boxes you two into something that makes sense rather than accepts. 

You laugh once, but it comes out softer than planned. “You always psychoanalyze girls in your car?”

“No.”

“Just me?”

His mouth twitches. “You asked.”

You turn your head toward the window, trying to keep your face normal. “You don’t know me that well.”

“I know.”

Riki finally turns to you, one hand still resting loose on the steering wheel. His eyes are a little low, a little unreadable, but not careless — that might be the problem.

“I’m not saying I do,” he says. “I’m saying people don’t either.”

Your fingers fidget with the joint, rolling it carefully between them even though you’re barely paying attention to it anymore. The tip glows faintly, forgotten for a second, and Riki reaches over without thinking to tap the ash into the tray before it can fall on your skirt.

You look down at his hand, then back at him when he hands it to you.

“Don’t you think that’s weird?” you ask. “Like, what kind of girl is cheer captain and smokes weed? Who gets into a fake relationship because of her parents? Doesn’t that sound kind of fucked?”

He looks at you for a moment.

Then he leans back, eyes returning to the windshield. “I sell weed.”

He says it from the driver’s seat of a spotless car that smells like coffee and cologne. It’s stupidly funny, actually, the whole contrast of him that kinda looks like you.

You laugh before you can stop yourself. “That’s different.”

“How?” he snickers.

You open your mouth, then close it again because you don’t actually have a good answer. “I don’t know,” you admit, laughing a little. “It just is.”

He hums like he expected that. Then he glances at you before back through the windshield. “I don’t think you’re weird,” His eyes flick over your face. “I think you’re bored.”

Obviously, that makes you furrow your brows. Obviously, you let him continue speaking.

“Of your boyfriend. Your friends. Your parents already knowing what you’re going to do.” His mouth twitches faintly. “Probably bored at being good at the same shit every day.”

You should probably deny it. It surprises you that you don’t, even though you’ve sworn hatred towards men that think they can assume your personality because of one little circumstance.

“That’s why you’re here, right?” Riki’s eyes drop to your hand, then back to your face. 

Your throat tightens.

“With me,” he adds.

He doesn’t smile like he won, he just sits there with one hand loose on the wheel, like he already knows the answer and is kind enough not to make you say it.

The air between you feels worse, like the moment before a storm cracks open into his car, and electrocutes you with a spark you’ve never experienced in your life. Which is eccentric considering you’re not the type of girl who’d be in Riki’s car instead of a party dominated by your friends, getting high off shit that would make your parents pass out. 

You scoff and look away, shaking your head like the whole thing is ridiculous. “You talk like you know everything.”

“I just guessed one fucking thing.”

You roll the joint between your fingers again, slower now. “Maybe I just wanted to try something.”

“With me?”

Your eyes cut to him, and you see there’s a slight curve to his mouth, like he heard the shape of your answer before you even made it. 

You huff. “You’re so annoying.”

Neither of you moves. Just suspended there, breathing the same warm air, the song on the radio dissolving into background noise, the world narrowed down to inches and intent and maybe weak will and strong urges. The tension’s palpable, solid enough that you could feel it grow between your thighs.

You’re probably one more joint away from being zooted, and Riki knows this of course, which is why he keeps his eyes narrowed across him and not the woman who’s audibly shifting in her seat. 

He’s high too — faster than usual — and it makes the moment stretch in this you know kind because he’s thinking bad. He keeps his gaze trained somewhere between the fogged windshield and the blur of your reflection in it, like it’s the only thing keeping him at bay.

For the record — you’re both twenty, obviously adults, even if the world still insists on calling you kids. Which is also the very age people let you experience the paradox of being too grown and too immature for anything consistent, so the underestimation you endure as an adult, smart woman, cheerleader, and a kinda-child — wow you’re in deep detestation for that system.

So you take control of things you can handle.

You’re a conformist, no doubt. Except in areas you loathe men’s freedom in yet expect restraint for women. So… in diminutive ways, you indulge. Like weed. Like running council. Like wearing short skirts. Like Riki Nishimura.

You glance at him sideways, voice light, almost bored. Almost. “So,” you say, like you’re asking about his major or what song’s playing on the radio. “I will ask you something kind of personal.”

Riki exhales a quiet laugh. “You’re already in my car smoking my weed. I think the line’s gone.”

You smile, satisfied, then tilt your head back against the seat. 

“Are you a virgin?”

The question hangs there. Unembellished and very dangerous in its simplicity. Also, of course, bold, which makes Riki actually freeze — a half-second pause where even his breathing stutters. Then he scoffs, shaking his head like he can’t believe you just dropped that between the heater hum and the low bass leaking from the house.

He blames the weed, though part of him wishes it isn’t from that.

“You always ask things like that?”

“I’m curious,” you say easily. “And a little high.” you gesture with your thumb and forefinger.

He rubs the back of his neck, eyes flicking to you now despite himself. “Why?” he asks. “Does it change your opinion of me?”

You meet his gaze, unblinking. “I don’t know yet. That’s why I asked.”

He huffs a soft laugh. He admits to embarrassment, even if it doesn’t cover his entire skin with flush and heat, he’s never found himself in this position. But honestly, nothing from the past few weeks has ever been something he prepared for — which he has you to blame, of course.

“Yeah.” he licks the corner of his lips, refusing to meet your eyes while he taps the steering wheel. “I am.”

Your eyebrows lift, impressed but not shocked. “Huh.”

Riki looks over. “Huh?” he mocks.

You bite back a smile and turn toward the window, but the reflection gives you away. “I just didn’t expect that.”

He scoffs, looking back at the windshield. “Why?”

“I don’t know.” You shrug, still smiling a little. “You sell weed. And you drive this car.”

“And?”

“And you look like that.”

For one second, Riki’s fingers still on the steering wheel, and he learns to shut up. He lets out a quiet laugh after, but it sounds different this time, lower and almost embarrassed. “You’re so fucking high,”

That makes him quiet, makes him adjust on his seat. He’s touched a woman before, but no one’s ever sat on his dick, nor has he ever been in anyone. So maybe he’s half a virgin, maybe he’s just a sore loser. He watches you as you move, as you turn in the seat, knees pressing into the leather, facing him fully now. The space changes instantly, the air recalibrating around your movement and maybe even pushing you further toward him.

Riki stiffens — just suddenly very aware, and perhaps a little scared. “Uh,” he says, brows knitting. “What are you doing?”

You tilt your head, resting your hands casually on the seat, perfectly balanced. “Bored, like you said,” you say. “And my boyfriend’s cheating on me. Again.”

He swallows. His gaze drops, then snaps back up to your face, like he’s trying very hard to stay respectful and failing in slow motion because you’re especially gorgeous tonight. “That’s… not a great combo,” he says.

“Not really,” you agree.

You lean in just enough for him to feel it — not touch, not yet. Just close enough that he can smell your gloss, the faint sweetness still clinging to you, and the cannabis that if he warrants himself the scary concept, is his mark on you.

“At least you don’t think I’m boring.”

Riki exhales, a real one this time, like he’s surrendering to the moment instead of fighting it because what can a simple guy like him do, right? His eyes flick to your mouth again — longer now — and when he looks back up, there’s a decision there, from someone who’s tired of conforming.

You close the distance then, slow enough that he could pull away if he wanted to. When he doesn’t, your lips meet in a kiss that’s brief and soft at first. Riki’s hand lifts instinctively, stopping just short of your waist, hovering there like he’s giving you the choice.

When you kiss again, you’re pressing harder, with the very intent to steal the air from his lungs. So that is what happens, you inhale and climb over the console and close your knees around his waist and he’s breathing shakily against your mouth, fighting for the oxygen he’s willingly giving away. 

Your cunt presses against the zipper of his jeans, and when you roll, he pulls away like he’s burnt. 

“W-wait — this isn’t — we can’t do this.” He shakes his head insistently, looking down your joined thighs while he regains composure.

You frown. “Why not?”

He looks back up at you, eyes wide and glossy from the taste of your cherry gloss and his greens in your mouth. He looks like he can’t handle this. You’re high, he’s high, this isn’t a good idea. You’re perfect, he’s not, this isn’t a good idea. You’re pretty and he sells weed, this isn’t a good idea.

“Because you have a boyfriend.” he says weakly.

You smile, fingers brushing into the hair at his nape. “Not really.”

He stares at you before he laughs, quiet and disbelieving, like the whole situation is so stupid he has no choice but to let it be funny for half a second. You’re in his lap, his car is fogged, your party is across the street, and apparently your boyfriend is more of a family arrangement than an actual person you care about. 

“This is so fucked,” he mutters.

Still, he kisses you anyway. His hand finally settles at your waist, firm enough to make your breath catch. His fingers press into your flesh just before he pulls you closer and his hips thrusts up underneath you.

His bulge presses hard against your clothed cunt, and a small whimper slips out his mouth. Your thighs practically clench around him, your core tightening as you rub yourself on him. Beneath the jeans secured around his hips, the start of his v-line peeks, in which you softly graze with your thumb.

“F-fuck,” he whispers, resigned while he lets his head fall back against the headrest.

When you kiss him again this time, it’s slow and languid and licking into his mouth, and your hips start rolling against his while he unconsciously bucks into you. You gasp at the feeling of his growing erection despite the jeans, and you can’t help but feel rushed because it’s been way too long. 

His body’s hot and he doesn’t understand why he can’t even talk properly. “Are you okay?” you ask, kissing his cheek. He just nods.

“This is so wrong,” Riki says softly and raspy.

You just smile and kiss him again, feeling how sloppy he’s starting to become when your tongues meet. You set the pace, careful with how you bite and suck, more of a learning curve with what you like best rather than devouring. Riki realizes this and slows down too, relaxing underneath your thighs while his cock remains bulging against you. Your soft fingers slither at the back of his hair, tugging and caressing, while he finds the courage to sneak his tongue into your mouth.

When you pull to breathe, he’s practically panting. “You can touch me.” you whisper.

His gaze practically flicks up to look up at you, silently asking for clarification. You don’t use words, you instead take his wrists and start dragging his hands from your waist to underneath your shirt. His breath hitches at the feeling of your soft skin against his, watching intently as you guide his hands further beneath your cotton top, until his fingers slightly grazes the soft swell of the underside of your breasts.

“Shit.” Riki mutters, his breath unstable when you let go. He looks for your eyes, asking for instructions, except you just smile and lean in to kiss him again with your hands on his jaw. 

So he takes it upon himself to move by his own. His fingers grazes the soft skin, careful and learning, testing the underside swell by gently squeezing. After that, he gains confidence, hands going further up until they touch your nipples. 

You gasp, pulling away to breathe when he starts gently pinching them, rolling them against the pads of his fingertips. He plays with them for a little while, watching your reactions when you sigh heavy, when your eyes close, when you lean further against his touch. It’s so good, he doesn’t even notice how painfully hard he is when he can feel just how sensitive your nipples are, when he can feel the weight of your breast as he cups them.

After a while, he finally stops, hands gliding down your ribs instead, thumbs still grazing slightly at the curve. Your kissing eases, reduced to pecks and softness. At rest and caress, you giggle and he chuckles, finally reeling in from the moment at how high he feels.

From your taste, your softness, your clothed pussy still pressing against his hard-on.

“You’re good for a virgin.” you say.

At that, Riki huffs and leans his head back against the rest, caressing your waist while he watches your face. You’re very pretty, even when your lipsticks smudged and you’re clearly teasing him, not touching him at all. 

He doesn’t mind. He doesn’t think he’ll mind for a long time. “I’m trying to make decent decisions.”

You tilt your head. “And kissing me is one?”

His jaw tightens a little, but he smiles. “It’s a very bad decision.”

“Mm.” You lean closer, but you don’t kiss him this time. “You stopped.”

“Because I don’t want to be your rebound,” 

The teasing fades just a little. Your fingers, which had been lazily tracing the back of his neck, slow, and now you look at him too, at the way he’s looking at you like something cliche is about to happen now that he’s tasted something better than marijuana.

“You think I’d use you?” you ask.

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

You study him for a moment. His nose and ears are still pink, which admittedly does something to you. It makes him look shyer somehow, less untouchable, like all that quiet control has slipped just enough for you to see he’s not as unaffected as he wants to seem.

He looks back at you, thumb moving once at your waist. “Let me take you out.”

You stare at him. “You’re asking me on a date right now? While I’m sitting on you?”

His mouth twitches despite himself. “Not my best timing.”

You laugh, soft and surprised, but he doesn’t laugh with you right away. You lean in again, slower and softer, just lips meeting and staying there, but his breath still hitches. You lets it last for a few seconds before you pull back, still close enough that your noses nearly brush.

“Ask me when we’re not high.”

Then he laughs once, quiet and disbelieving, his hand flexing at your waist. “Fine.”

Riki drives you home that night and you arrive at around 3 am, friends completely unaware of where you are or who you’re with — but you don’t care, even when your phone’s blown out of weird proportion. You laugh when he insists on walking you to your front porch, just to make sure you don’t slip and fall and he wouldn’t lose his favorite weed customer. 

“You’re ridiculous, Riki Nishimura.” you shove at his arm weakly.

“And you,” he leans down enough that his nose nudges yours. “are so pretty.”

You laugh harder, admittedly a little flustered the way you never have been before. He tells you to eat something real when you head in, and you mock him for it but he just smiles and nods,  agrees with the idea he is so, very stupid and funny for you.

Riki thinks the universe is testing him. Because ever since last night, every single thing reminds him of you. 

The cherry gloss taste still ghosting his mouth when he wakes up, the faint perfume lingering on his hoodie, even the stupid heater smell in the car feels different now, like the seats remember the way you climbed over the console and kissed him until his dick ached for you.

“Dude,” Jake says, throwing his duffel bag. “You look like shit.”

Riki drags a hand through his hair. “Thanks.”

Jake doesn’t push it, which Riki appreciates for about three seconds before he sees where the cheer team is practicing. On the other side of the gym court, you’re standing with your friends, ponytail tied high, hands on your hips while you go over counts as the captain. You’re not doing anything special, occasionally laughing at something one of the girls beside you says, but Riki still feels his attention pull toward you like it has no discipline left.

He looks away first.

PE is already starting by the time he reaches their side of the court. He pulls his sleeveless shirt down properly and rolls his shoulders once, mostly because he needs something to do with his body. His hair keeps falling near his eyes, and he can feel sweat gathering at the back of his neck before class has even properly started.

He tells himself not to look. But then he looks.

You’re already looking too.

It only lasts a second. Your eyes meet his, then drop briefly to his arms before you turn back to your friends like nothing happened. Riki presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek and looks at the ball in his hands, suddenly way too aware of himself.

Jake notices, but all he does is glance between the two of you. “Since when do you know her like that?”

Riki bounces the ball once. “I don’t.”

Jake gives him a look. Riki doesn’t look back. “Not like that.”

“Okay.”

The drill starts, and for a while, it’s just run, catch, dribble, pass, move. Riki focuses on the court, on the PE teacher’s whistle, on the ball against his palms. It works for half the time, until your voice cuts across the space, counting with the rest of the cheer team, and he misses a pass by half a second.

“Pay attention,” Jake says, not even laughing.

“I am.”

“You’re really not.”

Later, when the class breaks for water, Riki walks toward the drinking fountain and finds you there already, refilling your bottle. Your friends are a few steps away, talking among themselves, close enough to notice if either of you makes it obvious, far enough that neither of you has to pretend not to see each other.

He stands behind you to wait for his turn, and from afar, it doesn't look scandalous. You take your time refilling your bottle, eyes forward, one hand steadying the plastic under the stream. He keeps his gaze on the wall in front of you, jaw working once, because he knows exactly what you're doing when you lean a little farther than necessary and let the silence stretch.

Your skirt shifts when you bend, showing the backside of your thighs and the slight swell of your ass, and he sighs through his nose like he's deeply disappointed in both of you. Then he looks away completely.

You bite back a smile.

When the bottle finally fills, you straighten and cap it slowly, still not moving right away. He doesn't meet your eyes when you step aside, he just moves in, bends toward the fountain, and presses one hand against the edge for balance.

Then it's your turn to look away. But you don't, not even shamelessly. Because you’re the girl who got things her way and never got scared of the repercussions.

His sleeveless shirt pulls against his shoulders when he leans down, arm tense from holding himself there, the veins along his bicep showing under the gym lights. Water hits his mouth, and you watch the way his hair falls near his eyes, the way his throat moves when he swallows. It's stupid, actually, how normal he's being and how much worse that makes it.

Riki finishes drinking, straightens, and wipes the water from his chin with the back of his hand. Only then does he look at you.

You're still staring. And for a second, neither of you says anything.

His expression barely changes, but something in his eyes does, like he caught you and decided not to make it easy. "What?"

You blink, then lift your bottle a little. "You took forever."

He looks at you, calm, unreadable, except for the faint color rising at the tips of his ears and the slight lift on the corner of his mouth. "You're one to talk."

Your friends laugh at something behind you, and the sound snaps the moment thinner, not enough to break it, but enough to remind you both where you are. You glance over your shoulder, then back at him, only to find he's still watching you. Not obviously, just enough to show that he knows exactly what that night did to you, and worse, exactly what this day is doing too.

And that he’s enjoying the view.

You tuck your bottle against your chest and step back. "Try not to miss another pass."

His mouth curves. "Then don't distract me."

The second he says it, your smile gets bigger, like a shared inside joke between you two now. Then you turn back to your team, and he stays by the fountain for one extra second, pretending the afternoon heat is the reason he can't stop feeling warm. In the locker room, he pretends it’s celibacy that’s making his cock hard again, and not the picture of you bending in front of him, the fat of your ass presenting itself to him so adorably.

In the cafeteria, while pages turn and keyboards clack for an upcoming test for biology, you try your best to stay focused the way you can on the usual. Riki was right about you — you were smarter than what people thought, and the merit beside your name is shocking to a whole lot when it’s pasted on the board. 

You think you’re no longer smart. Not when you’re staring at the open reviewer in front of you, color coded with little sticky tabs but you’re still distracted.

You grab your coffee and drink, just to try if that could help with your lost concentration. Something about protein synthesis and cell division. Something about how Riki’s hands looked wrapped around the steering wheel that one night while he called you weird and interesting in the same breath.

This is so inconvenient.

“Babe.”

Your boyfriend slides into the empty chair beside you like he owns the furniture, sunglasses pushed up on his head even though the cafeteria lighting could barely offend a bitch. His hand settles automatically on your thigh beneath the table, casual and familiar, and you almost flinch.

“You disappeared last night,” he says casually.

You lean back in your chair. “I told you I left.”

“Yeah, but where?”

You think briefly about Riki’s car parked under the streetlamp — fogged windows, heated air, cherry gloss smeared on his mouth, plump lips smirking in restraint, hands squeezing you in the right place, keeping you in place.

“I just went home,” you reply smoothly.

Your boyfriend hums, clearly unconvinced, but also has about three seconds of emotional stamina left for the topic, so he lets it go and steals one of your fries instead. “My parents want dinner with you this weekend.” he says instead.

He continues talking about it but you’re staring at the flashcards and reviewers in front of you, imagining what your parents would say if Riki would’ve showed up to a family dinner instead. Maybe he’d appear in different clothes, a white button-up just to sit there and attempt to look polite in ways he isn’t with you — which makes your heart jump a little. 

Dinner drags on for three excruciating hours.

Three whole hours of crystal glasses and polished silverware and your boyfriend’s parents discussing investment portfolios. The restaurant is one of those stupidly expensive places where portions are microscopic and every waiter looks vaguely judgmental — you don’t complain, you’re rather very grateful for his parents (sometimes).

You sat there in a pretty dress your mother picked out. Your boyfriend talks over you twice when you try contributing to the conversation, his mother asks about your grades before asking how cheerleading is going, like academics and aesthetics are the only two things remotely interesting about you. At some point, your boyfriend likes another girl’s Instagram story right beside you at the table and everything about the night is just bad.

You just feel tired, especially on the way home. 

Tired in the way performances always leave you feeling like you’ve spent hours acting inside a role you got stuck with years ago — because it mostly worked in your favor, until that one time you decided to jump out of your comfort zone and try weed. It’s the worst thing you have done, but it’s the only thing that made you feel good.

Your heels click quietly against the marble floors when you enter your house and you make it halfway upstairs before the pressure behind your eyes finally cracks. Obviously, you don’t sob out of sadness, just frustrated tears slipping down your cheeks while you struggle with the zipper of your dress. “Fuck,” you mutter.

Your makeup’s ruined now; mascara faintly smudged beneath your eyes, lipstick mostly gone except for traces still staining your mouth. 

Before you can think too hard about it — which is kind of bad — you open Riki’s contact, and your fingers move faster than your dignity can intervene.

you: he actually sucks so bad like genuinely i think talking to drywall has more nuance

You exhale through your nose and laugh weakly at yourself because obviously Riki probably has better things to do than babysit you after 9PM, not when you’re just another weed customer and smoking buddy he had. You toss your phone onto the bed and sit in silence for a second, still in your dress, earrings discarded somewhere.

You try not to think about anything for the minutes you’ve spent staring at the ceiling: not about Riki, or your dumb boyfriend, or your (im)perfect life, or the way Riki kissed you, or the way he looked at you, or the way he thought about you. 

Because that's the part that bothers you most. Not the kiss itself, not even the fact that you wanted it, but the way he seemed to actually think about you before touching you. Like you weren't just pretty or convenient or someone people liked because you made sense beside them. Riki looked at you like he was trying to understand you, and somehow that felt more intimate than anything you've ever had.

And maybe that makes you painfully average.

Maybe you’re not special at all, maybe you’re just another girl in the long, embarrassing history of girls who developed feelings for the first boy who looked at them like they were a person. Congratulations, really. Very original and groundbreaking, for being part of the emotionally confused teenage girls.

You turn onto your side and press your face into your pillow, immediately hating yourself for how dramatic that feels.

Until something taps three times against your window.

Your brows furrow immediately because your bedroom is on the second floor and nobody normally knocks on windows like some suburban horror movie, you don’t even try to look because of what could be there. For a second, you genuinely think you’re hallucinating from emotional exhaustion and expensive restaurant food and maybe (you did not do prior research) the possibility of the long term hallucinations of marijuana.

Then it happens again. Three deliberate taps.

You sit up slowly from the edge of your bed, the strap of your dress slipping off one shoulder while your heels remain abandoned somewhere near the door. When you turn to the window, your heart practically falls from your chest when you see Riki standing outside like a fucking delinquent moron. He’s standing on the roof of the first floor near your window, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, while one hand steadies himself against the frame. 

You burst out laughing while fumbling with the lock of your window. Riki’s entire expression softens the second he hears you laugh and that does something unhealthy to him.

Because he drove for twenty minutes thinking about you crying over some guy who doesn’t even look at you properly, wondering if climbing a house at this hour officially qualifies as insanity (he’s never done that before, and it doesn’t sound so conformist right now either). Riki’s usually good at self-restraint, at risk assessment, at understanding what makes sense and what doesn’t.

For the record, this doesn’t make sense. Yet here he is anyway.

 “Hi.”

You stare at him in disbelief once you finally open your window. “What the fuck are you doing?” you whisper-yell.

“You sounded sad.”

“Is that supposed to be an answer?”

“What?” he says defensively while climbing inside carefully. “You said your boyfriend sucks. That sounded shitty.”

The second he lands properly inside your room, he looks at you before anything else. He’s used to seeing you fixed with perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect posture, like you just stepped out of a university brochure about good conduct and that the school cheer spirit is something one definitely needs for personal development.

This version of you feels familiar, and traitorously and selfishly, he thinks it’s for him.

Your dress is wrinkled now, your jewelry sits slightly crooked against your skin, your makeup’s smudged enough to expose the eyebags underneath, and your hair’s started falling from whatever expensive style you wore to dinner.

Riki swallows once before he can stop himself. “You were crying?”

Immediately, you look away, a bit embarrassed when you realize what you look like. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not making it weird,” he says quickly, hands lifting instinctively. “I just.”

He cuts himself off because he suddenly realizes he has no idea how to navigate this. Girls usually don’t text him while being miserable and summon him to their bedroom windows like some modern romance movie directed by a bad romcom enthusiast. Nothing is romcom-y about this.

So instead, awkwardly, he holds the backyard vegetation toward you.

“I got you these.”

Flowers. They aren’t roses and lilies, especially not the peonies your boyfriend orders because it looks better in pictures. They’re not anything arranged like the bouquets your boyfriend’s family sends during competitions and birthdays and events where impression matters. They usually screamed ‘I have money’ so I had my manager fix these for you.

Riki brought you wildflowers, which are tiny white, yellow, and purple ones bundled unevenly together like he picked them himself on the side of the road and decided, yeah, these ones are perfect. They’re crooked and asymmetrical and a little pathetic, and it weirdly looks a lot like you.

You take them carefully, looking down at the tiny flowers bundled together with what suspiciously resembles a broccoli rubber band.

“Oh my God,” you laugh quietly. “These are so ugly.”

He looks offended immediately. “Okay, first of all, fuck you.”

You laugh, open and loud. “They’re literally weeds.”

“I mean. Matches us, no?” he argues.

You’re still smiling when you bring them closer to inspect, and he notices your eyes when you admire them because he notices everything when it comes to you now, apparently.

“He made you cry?” he asks quieter this time.

You look up at him, flowers resting against your chest while you slump a little. “Not exactly.”

He raises his brows. “That means yes.”

You sigh, gaze dropping to the petals between your fingers. “He’s just…” You shake your head slowly. “I don’t know. I guess I’m really sick of it.”

Riki stays quiet — not because he doesn’t have thoughts, but because he has too many.

The thing is, he understands that social hierarchy is basically one giant theater production and he’s spent his entire life studying how to survive inside it correctly — he’s admitted to live in it quite comfortably. Which people to talk to, which ones to avoid, what behavior keeps life stable and uncomplicated, who not to sell weed to.

You were supposed to be part of that stable world, the part that he shouldn’t have had any associations with. Instead, you’re now standing barefoot in front of him holding ugly flowers with watery eyes while confiding in him like he’s become something safe. Now he’s giving a girl weeds for flowers, while his own cannabis has become untouched for quite a while now.

You narrow your eyes up at him suddenly, a teasing smile on your lips. “You could’ve used the front door.”

“And say what?” he snorts. “‘Good evening, your daughter texted me so I’m here to comfort her?”

You laugh again and Jesus Christ, he thinks he’d probably climb ten more roofs if it meant hearing that sound a second time.

Which is not good at all.

He looks around your room now, and he finds that is not in the dramatic movie sense where he’s overwhelmed by femininity and candles or whatever bullshit directors think teenage girls do in bedrooms. It’s just your space and that feels undeniably you in a way he’s never gotten access to before — never thought he would, actually. There’s a stack of annotated reviewers on your desk beside skincare products, then a half-folded cheer uniform hangs over your chair. Your bookshelf is organized by color at first glance, but he notices that some books are stuffed sideways and doubled-up like gave up halfway through organizing.

You’re contradiction after contradiction. Which feels fitting considering Riki’s currently inside the bedroom of a girl he once categorized under absolutely not my problem.

This is exactly why social structures exist. To prevent situations like this where a guy who sells weed ends up standing in the bedroom of a girl who looks expensive enough to kill him.

You set the flowers carefully on your vanity like they’re not random plants held together by produce rubber. Riki watches how gentle your hands are, watches the way your dress slips slightly higher on your thigh when you move.

You step closer to him after, eyes peeking through your lashes, and he starts to feel drunk from your perfume.  “You really came all the way here because I was sad?” you ask softly.

Riki opens his mouth automatically with something sarcastic prepared because that’s safer, because joking is easier than admitting the truth. But then he looks at you looking at him like he’s become something important frighteningly fast.

Honesty slips out before he can stop it. “Yeah.”

Your eyes soften in a way that completely wrecks him, because nobody’s ever looked at him like this before — like he did something meaningful instead of useful.

You step even closer now until there’s barely space between you. “You’re really bad at being casual,” you murmur.

He huffs a laugh. “You climbed into my lap the first time we kissed.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“I was high.”

“And what’s your excuse now?”

Your lips twitch and his gaze drops there instinctively.

Big mistake, because now he’s thinking about kissing you again and suddenly being in your bedroom at midnight feels significantly more dangerous than it did when he drove here. Riki clears his throat and looks away first. Usually he’s good at eye contact, good at keeping composure, good at staying levelheaded even when situations become complicated, because he knows emotional regulation keeps things orderly, predictable, and safe.

You are none of those things anymore.

Standing this close to you feels like someone slowly dismantling every sensible thought process he’s ever had and replacing it with bad decisions and pretty girls in wrinkled dresses. 

Riki swallows, eyes still not fully on yours. “Do you know what you’re gonna do?”

You sigh, shoulders dropping a little as you look away. “I don’t know.”

Riki nods, though he doesn’t look surprised. “Well,” he says quietly, “you aren’t happy.”

The honesty in his voice catches you off guard, because it isn’t dramatic or possessive or demanding — it’s actually the complete opposite. He says things carefully. Your boyfriend never talks to you carefully. 

You study Riki for a second — the slight flush across his cheeks, the hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, the fact he literally climbed your house because you sounded sad over text. 

Clearly, he’s lost the plot somewhere. He might find it in your room, but why would it be there?

You look at the boy who notices everything about you, who reads you better than anyone ever did. And maybe that’s pathetic, but after a long time of performance and image, you can’t quite find irrationality when something finally sees you so clearly. 

You don’t even realize you’re crying again until his expression changes. The tears just spill over quietly, slipping down your cheeks before you can catch them, and for a second, you don’t understand why his eyes drop there with so much concern because you aren’t sad, nor overwhelmingly happy.

His hand lifts and his fingers touch your cheek lightly and carefully. His thumb brushes beneath your eye, catching the tear before it reaches your jaw. Then the other hand comes up too, steadying your face with a gentleness that makes your throat tighten worse than the crying did. You stare up at him while he wipes your face like it’s something important, his hands warm, his touch steady even though his breathing isn’t. He just keeps his palms against your cheeks, thumbs soft under your eyes, focused on you.

Riki’s thumb slows beneath your eye, his gaze moving over your face with something almost pained. “You’re too pretty to cry over him,” he says quietly.

Your hand lifts before you can think better of it, fingers wrapping gently around his wrist to keep him there. His skin is warm beneath your palm, and for a second, his whole body seems to still when you touch him. You look up at him because he’s so tall this close, broad enough to block out half your room, and he’s holding your face like you might bruise if he moves wrong.

“I’m not crying over him,” you say, and your voice comes out quieter, “I think I’m crying because I want someone else.”

His hand stays against your cheek, but his thumb stops moving entirely. He has no immediate answer right now, no dry comment waiting in the back of his throat, no clever way to make the moment smaller than it feels. He just looks at you, like he heard you perfectly and still needs another second for it to reach the rest of him.

He shifts closer, but only slightly, careful enough that you notice the restraint. “Are you sure?”

You let out a tiny, breathless laugh. “Yes.” 

Then your gaze drops from his eyes, not because you’re embarrassed exactly, but because looking at him straight on feels like standing too close to something bright. Your eyes settle on his chest instead, on the front of his hoodie rising and falling with a breath he’s clearly trying to control. His hands move from your cheeks, careful and slow, until his palms settle just beneath your jaw while his fingers slip behind your ears, curling gently at the back of your neck. 

For a second, you think he’s going to kiss you.

Actually, you know he is. You can feel it in the way his breathing changes, in the way his eyes drop to your mouth and stay there this time, no pretending it was an accident. He’s close enough that you can smell his cologne and whatever terrible decision-making brought him to your window.

Then something in you panics — not because you don’t want him to.

That’s the problem. You want him so much it feels insulting to every sensible part of your life (even though you’ve made many irrational choices that have shamed them anyway). You want him in your room, in your space, in the middle of all the pretty, curated pieces of yourself nobody else gets to see messy. You want him, and it would be so easy to lean up and let that be the answer. But there is still one stupid, technical, irritating thing standing between you and that, so you pull back a little.

He freezes immediately, hands dropping like he thinks he did something wrong. “What?”

“I need to do something.”

His brows pull together. “Right now?”

You turn away before you can lose your nerve, moving toward your bed where your phone is half-buried in the sheets. Your hands are unsteady when you pick it up, which is annoying because you are not the kind of girl who fumbles — you are the kind of girl who answers essay questions with proper structure, corrects formations instinctively, and pretends she’s fine so convincingly that people believe it until it becomes inconvenient not to.

Calling your boyfriend while Riki Nishimura stands in your bedroom after midnight is, admittedly, not your most elegant moment, but there’s a kind of clarity to it too.

He stays behind you, quiet, watching as you scroll to the contact you have ignored for most of the night. His name on your screen looks strange now.

The call rings twice.

Riki moves closer, though not touching you yet, just behind your shoulder, close enough that you can feel the heat of him. It makes focusing much harder, which is extremely inconsiderate for someone who climbed into your room to be supportive.

Your boyfriend answers with your name, voice already irritated. “It’s late. I’m busy.”

You close your eyes for half a second. “I’m just letting you know. We’re done.”

There is a pause. “What?”

You swallow, your grip tightening around the phone. “I’m breaking up with you.”

Behind you, Riki goes very still. Your boyfriend lets out a humorless laugh. “Are you serious right now?”

“Yes.”

“After everything? After tonight, you’re just gonna call me and say that?”

You stare at the wall in front of you. It’s absurd, actually, how little the anger reaches you. Maybe you should be shaking or crying harder or preparing a speech that starts with all the ways he hurt you — instead, you feel strangely calm.

He starts talking again, louder this time, something about your parents, his parents, how you’re overreacting, how you both agreed, how you don’t get to act innocent either. Until Riki’s hand appears beside you, and he takes the phone from your hand.

Your eyes widen. “Riki.”

He looks at the screen, hears your boyfriend still talking, then tosses the phone onto the bed, where it lands face-up against the sheets, the call still running, your boyfriend’s voice now small and furious through the speaker.

“What are you doing?” you whisper.

His eyes stay on yours. “You already broke up with him.”

On the bed, your ex says your name again, sharp and confused, but neither of you are looking at the phone. 

Riki lifts one hand, not touching your face yet, just brushing his knuckles lightly near your jaw like he’s giving you one last chance to move away.

That is all he needs before he kisses you. It is not rushed, not messy from panic, just a little harsh from jealousy. But it’s slow enough to make your knees feel unreliable, steady enough that your whole body seems to understand before your brain does. You grab the front of his hoodie and he exhales against your mouth, the sound going straight through you. His hand settles at the side of your neck, thumb brushing under your jaw while his other hand finds your waist, careful but sure. 

The phone is still there, your boyfriend is still talking. It should ruin the moment, but it doesn’t. If anything, it makes the whole thing feel worse in the way your heart is pounding too hard, in the way Riki keeps kissing you like he’s trying not to prove a point and failing anyway, in the way you know this is a terrible way to end a relationship and still cannot bring yourself to care.

Riki pulls back just enough to breathe, forehead almost touching yours. “He talks a lot,” he says quietly.

You laugh before you can stop yourself, and he kisses you before you can even finish a thought he physically cannot hear another word about your boyfriend tonight, earning a gasp from your mouth. It’s soft at first, his mouth catching yours that makes you go still for half a second, surprised, and then your hand tightens around his wrist as you kiss him back. He exhales through his nose, quiet and shaky, and his fingers press a little more firmly into your nape, not pulling you in too hard, just holding you.

You make this soft startled sound against his lips and he swears it nearly kills him on impact. When he pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead bumps lightly against yours. 

“I don’t wanna talk about him anymore,” he says quietly.

His voice comes out rougher than before. You stare at him for a second, and your lips twitch.

“Okay,” you whisper.

He kisses you again almost immediately, and this time you kiss him back just as fast, your chests pressing against one another until you can feel the rapid beat of his heart through his hoodie. His hands find your waist, the weight of them warm and steady through the thin fabric of your dress, like he’s grounding you and keeping himself grounded too.

You tilt your head up to meet him properly, rising slightly onto your toes without meaning to, and he bends down into you like the movement pulls something out of him. His fingers press carefully at your sides, thumbs shifting once against your waist. The kiss deepens then, your hand sliding up the front of his hoodie until you’re holding onto him too.

Riki exhales against your mouth, almost shaky, and his grip tightens for one second before he loosens it again, like he’s reminding himself to be careful.

Without so much as a few words, your gaze meets his. But that’s not enough for him, not when he needs to hear that you want this too. The zipper you struggled with earlier starts undoing when his hand finds the back, before he leans in just enough for his voice to drop between you. 

"Words, baby," he whispers.

He isn't teasing now. His voice is low, but careful, like he needs to hear you say it before he lets himself want anything more.

You swallow, fingers tightening lightly in his hoodie. "I want you."

Riki watches your face for a second, and when he sees the true genuineness and want in your eyes, he lets himself have it. He dips down to your height, capturing your lips in a kiss again, before fully pulling the zipper down to the small of your back. With barely any effort, the dress slides off your body and pools around your feet on the floor. 

Too busy getting drunk on his plump lips, you don’t even notice his hands roaming over your skin, his fingertips memorizing the arch of your spine, before gliding up to the curve of your ribcage. You don’t notice how close he really is until his fingers find the underside part of your breasts. You pull away with a gasp, seeing him smile coyly when you finally realize you’re naked in front of him, and how he’s massaging your mounds in his hands.

He lets his thumbs brush your hardened nipples, watching your face scrunch and melt with fluster. He holds you so well, heat rushing all over your skin with the way he studies your body, eyes carefully taking in every detail about you. He continues stroking your nipples and massaging your breasts when he bends down again, kissing the corner of your lips before trailing over to your jaw. He presses open mouthed kisses on your pulse next, sucking and biting to leave love bites there.

You moan, all breathy and heavy, and his cock twitches in his sweats. For a man that’s been so cautious with you, he can’t help but fight the urge to pound into you recklessly right now.

“On the bed,” he prompts softly, taking a step forward. 

You obey with no fight, pathetically stepping backward until you sit back on the soft mattress. You adjust a little to get on your knees, eyes finding his through your lashes again. He’s looking at you with half-open lids, hand already reaching up to the back of your head, fingers tangling with your hair. He likes you like this, on your knees and your face so fucking close to his bulge, he can practically see it.

And because he has been so kind to you, you want to recompense for all of it. Your fingers hook at the hem of his sweatpants, keeping your gaze steady on his face to watch the way he reacts when he realizes what you’re about to do. You drag his pants down, enough for it to slip down his legs. 

His cock bulges in his briefs, begging to be set free. You cup it gently and he lets out a low moan, deeper than his usual, and when you look up, he’s just watching you. You lean in, only to lick a stripe from the bottom to top — his grip on your hair tightens, and you feel him pull you closer. Since you both don’t hold any godly kind of willpower, you waste no time lowering the fabric.

Riki’s stupidly long cock springs forward once you remove his briefs, and everything about it just makes sense. It isn’t excessively thick in girth, but it’s length makes you wonder if it can even fit at all. It’s pale at the base and turns pink towards the tip, the slit lathered with pre all over the head, all for you.

You bite your lip, not being able to help the thrilled grin on your face, eyes bright at the sight of it. He clears his throat, caressing the back of your head gently. “You good?”

You snicker, reaching up to wrap your hand around the base. He chokes out a gasp, stilling completely yet his hips buck forward. He watches you handle him so delicately, even the way you start pumping his dick, watching the way pre-cum leaks out the tip. You lean forward, tongue flat against the head, tasting him. 

“O-oh, s-shit —” his breathing becomes heavy, arm flexing involuntarily as he keeps rubbing the back of your head.

You giggle, tilting your head a little to press soft pecks all over his length. “Watch me, sweet boy. Okay?” 

You’re a fucking tease. That’s all he manages to come up with before his brain completely blanks out when you tilt forward and let your mouth close around the head of his dick. You start to suckle on it, tongue playing with the slit a little. Then you push forward, enough the tip touches the back of your throat and your cheeks hollow around his length.

And he’s still too fucking long. 

You start choking a little, tears touching your waterline. You stroke the part you can’t reach, and he can’t help but smirk arrogantly.

Heavy breaths turns into deep groans, trying to keep his sounds to himself but the way you look as your head bobs on his dick, practically choking as you suck on it, and his hand flexing a tight grip on your hair — this has got to be better than any fucking narcotic ever. He bets morphine won’t ever feel this good. “Y-you’re fucking sublime, baby,”

You retract your mouth, going back to suckle on the tip, before taking him all back down your throat. His hips jerk forward, you can tell just how gentle he’s trying to be even when he’s losing all control. 

And it’s too good, because twenty years of chastity has started to reach him faster than the way you rub him. He feels his abdomen tighten, and fuck does his balls feel tense. So as any illogical, preposterous, unsound idiot ever, he pulls you away from his cock. He holds you by your hair, slowing you down as you stare up at him, eyes wide and confused, lips wet from your saliva and his fluids.

“What the fuck?” you mutter, catching your breaths. 

Riki licks his bottom lip, and you can see every restraint holding him back from breaking you. The tips of his ears are red, and his eyes, once so tender and meticulous, looks down at you like he just can’t wait to fuck you senseless. They’re sharper than they ever have been, and once since this night began, you’re scared.

“Easy,” he drawls, hand withdrawing from you completely. He takes a step back, just enough to admire the way you look, panting and on your knees, breasts exposed and perky. Then with a small smirk, he pinches the edge of his hoodie. “You always this impatient?”

He slides the hoodie over his arms, the cloth revealing flesh that practically glow from your vanity lights. His chest and shoulder width is broad and wide, flat in that boyish way you love, expanding to the chiseled arms. You can feel yourself salivating at the muscles, at his taut abs, delicate grooves that trace down to a sharp v-line. Even his obliques and traps are so defined.

“Get on your back.” he rasps, and you don’t let yourself react before lying down, head against your soft pillows. He kneels in between your legs, eyes trailing over your body. He hooks his fingers over the elastic of your panties, just before he slowly pulls them off you, slow enough to make you embarrassed.

“Riki,” you murmur sheepishly, but he ignores you, keeping his eyes narrowed to the way your cunt glistens, your own fluids leaking out of you. She’s perfect, and his already frustrated cock twitches. 

Blonde hair sticks to his forehead, and his eyes are dark when your gaze meets again. He hovers over you, caging you against the bed before he leans in, kissing you again. Your lips part for him, breaths mingling, getting hot and heavy as his hand finds your ass. He squeezes the fat there, fingers digging into your skin. “You’re making it hard to think, pretty girl.”

You manage a giggle, though it quickly turns to soft moans when he kisses your jaw and presses his cock against your cunt. 

“Riki, please,” you can see how swollen his cock has gotten.

“I don’t know if I can be gentle,” he breathes, his arms tensing as he keeps himself up. He strokes himself a bit, just before he aligns the tip with your aching hole.

Your brain has gone hazy, not being able to process anything other than the way he kisses your neck when the head of his cock pushes through your folds, and immediately your arms come to his back, nails digging into his muscles. He tenses too, giving a sharp exhale when his length slides past the tight muscle and rubs against your gummy walls.

“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face against your neck while your teeth bite down your bottom lip. “G-god, that’s so good,” 

His hips closes against your pelvis, while his tip brushes against your cervix so good he’s pretty sure you’re sucking him in. And you feel stuffed, more than you ever have been, by Riki’s long cock. “Good fucking pussy, shit —”

Your legs are open wide for him, pressing flat against the mattress. And that’s enough for him, just to see you so spread beneath him, cunt squeezing him so tight; enough for him to pull back and watch the way your fluids wrap slick around his cock. Your hips wiggle for him, and that’s all he takes before slamming his hips back into you.

Riki’s jaw hangs open, a low moan gushing out him, strained and heavy into your ears. 

“R-Riki — f-f-fuck —”

The sounds of squelching pussy and skin slapping echoes throughout your entire room, walls so tight around his cock as you gasp. The pace is set already, quick and fucking drilling into you even though you’ve known him for his care and caution — yet he pounds into you like he doesn’t give a fuck about anything but his pleasure.

“S-s-so good — ugh, Riki — fuck,” you scratch his back muscles, tensing underneath your nails. His pelvis and abs are tight, slamming himself so hard against your cunt like he can’t keep himself apart from you.

He continues groaning, his eyebrows furrowed, eyes half-lidded watching you, completely fucked out while he admires the way your tits bounce every time he rocks his dick deep into your cunt. His lips part to moan your name, and you love how he almost whimpers when you squeeze around him. 

Then he stills, though only fast enough before he slides an arm beneath your waist and gathers you closer, like he’s scooping you into him without fully lifting you. 

“W-what are you —” 

“On your stomach.” 

You can only blink and nod, before turning around, suddenly feeling empty when his dick slips from inside you. You settle on your hands and knees, then lie on your chest, face pressed to the soft pillow. “Fuck, my good girl.”

You can’t see him anymore, and you’re not sure with how you feel about it — not until you feel his warm body press against your back, his chest hovering slightly over you. He presses a hand on the back of your thigh, gently adjusting your knee higher, the position immediately spreading your folds more than you would have thought. 

“Lift your hips for me, baby,” he breathes, voice low and strained.

You obey, pussy clenching around nothing when he whispers quiet praises as your ass perks up and your folds glisten for him again, slick oozing out from you. You get on your hands a little, just enough to lift yourself and look over your shoulder. Without much of a warning, he pushes his cock back deep inside you again, walls welcoming him with a dirty squelch, your breath catches, then escapes in a quiet gasp.

“There, just like that —” Riki moans, his v-line pressed tight against your ass.

Then he continues, retracting his hips only to slap back inside you. The new positions doing fucking wonders to you, stretching you a whole lot more, his dick fucking you so raw that you can’t help the screams you let out. He presses his hands against your waist, fingers ingrained to lift your ass up and pound into you right after, grip so tight it’s already bruising.

You fuck yourself against him too, slapping back against his hips, cock choking in your tight walls. His eyes are almost rolling back, if not for how obsessed he is watching your ass shake and tits bounce every sloppy stroke, his hand sliding under you to grope your mound. He fondles with it, pinching your nipple and loving the weight of it against his palm. 

Sweat’s getting hot and the air’s smells too much of sex, he can feel it when his balls clench and how desperate he’s starting to get.

You look over your shoulder and he meets you halfway, leaning over to capture your lips in a passionate kiss. It’s full of saliva and it’s warm, messy in a way that tells how close you both are.

Then with so little strength (can’t compare to Riki Nishimura, really), your weight falls back to the pillow, face and chest pressed against the softness while your ass stays up. If not for his large hands keeping you up and still, you would’ve fallen over completely. 

Your abdomen clenches and pressure builds in there, and he continues rutting into you while you become a puddle of sweat and moans. “R-right there — fuck, Riki — !”

“I-I’m gonna fucking cum, s-shit – I’ll blow a fucking load in you —” his hips drive into your pussy with a new kind of intensity, faster and deeper somehow, his tip hitting your cervix that has you throbbing around him.

“Cum all over me, baby, please —” he whines, face pressed against your shoulder. 

You feel hot spurts of him fill you the same time your cunt clenches around him one final time, legs twitching while his hips come to a stutter. Cum settles in your hole, warm and full and sticky and practically seeping out of you. He collapses on top of you, unconsciously maybe, his heavier weight pressing over your body.

Your vision goes white for a bit, then it comes back, only for you to see hair all over your face, stuck with sweat and saliva. He’s still on top of you, but you can feel him carry himself a little, making sure not to crush you right after cumming in you.

Quiet beats stretch out the moment, and you don’t even notice his arm tucking underneath you to massage your tit, a tired laugh leaving your mouth when you do. When you both muster enough strength, he straightens just enough to lift himself off of you, while you manage to get on your hands. By the time you look over your shoulder, he’s already leaning in, his mouth finding yours again, a hand still fondling with your breast.

“Riki,” a small sheepish smile curves on your lips, all while he presses soft pecks against your mouth and jaw. 

“Hm?” he hums, tired and spent, clearly having nothing else to do but to kiss you. His breaths are still shallow, eyelids heavy before shutting completely.

You giggle, putting your hand over his on your breast. “Get off me,” you say with a playful grin. “You’re so heavy!”

WIth a quiet groan, he listens. He slides out of you, unplugging you to let your fluids out. Then he lies down, and he hasn’t realized how strained his muscles are until he sinks into the softness of your bed. He relaxes inevitably, while you stay up just to admire him for a bit.

Riki Nishimura is never going to be insecure about his looks, but the way you stare at him with dilated pupils that match his, especially post-sex, he can’t help but grow a bit bashful. 

He huffs out a laugh, one hand reaching out to squeeze your waist because you feel so far. "So do you have a no-cuddle policy, or," he murmurs.

You laugh before you can stop yourself because he's so stupidly funny for someone trying to sound serious. Instead of answering, you shake your head and lean more of your weight against one hand, the other resting against his chest as your fingers trace lazy, thoughtless shapes.

He watches you do it for a second, his expression going quiet in that way that makes your stomach turn. Then you glance up at him. "Can you roll one for me?"

He sighs so heavily it almost sounds personal. Before you can even react, his arm hooks around your waist and pulls you down against his chest, firm and immediate, like the idea alone offended him. Your hand lands against his abs to catch yourself, your cheek nearly brushing his shoulder as he keeps you there.

“Throw that shit away,” he says, voice low near your ear. “I swear to God.”

You blink, caught against him. “What?” His arm stays around you, warm and unmoving. “Why?”

Riki looks at you with half-lidded eyes, sleepy and a little strained, like even answering takes effort. “Because,” he murmurs, his grip softening at your waist, “after tonight, I think I found something better.”

Your jaw actually falls open. For one second, all you can do is stare at him, because there’s no way Riki Nishimura just said that to you while looking half-asleep and impossibly calm, like he didn’t just say something that made your entire stomach turn over and tighten all over again.

Then you smack his chest lightly. “Riki.”

He chuckles, low and tired, the sound vibrating against your palm. His arm stays around your waist, keeping you close even when you try to lean back enough to glare at him properly.

“What?” he murmurs, eyes barely opening more. “Use my dick instead, I won’t get mad.”

You smack his chest harder, earning a yelp from him. “Riki!”

He laughs under his breath, but before you can pull your hand back, his fingers wrap around your wrist. His eyes open a little more as he looks at you, still tired, still amused, and then he tugs you. 

You land over him, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips as his arm settles around your waist to steady you. For a second, neither of you moves. Your hand stays pressed to his chest, his heartbeat is faster than he's pretending. "Careful," he murmurs, like he wasn't the one who pulled you.

"You're so annoying," you whisper again, but it comes out softer this time, a quiet breath as you lean down to him. You're close enough now that your noses brush, close enough to feel his smile fade against your mouth.

Riki's gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes. Your fingers stay flat against the broad hardness of his chest while his hand stays warm at your waist, slowly smoothing over the curve of your ass.

“Ride me?” he whispers against your lips.

You sigh, rolling your eyes while your mouth curves to a grin, back straightening. You act like you think about it, only for your exposed cunt to start grinding against his cock — which, obviously, because he is a very simple man, erects again.

A simple man such as he, all he knows is that he is yours.

tl: @wobblymug @s1mp4jaeyun @gyuguys @woninlove

[en-ternity]

At the luxurious resort of Marriotte, the staff lived by a single unofficial rule: don’t get involved with the guests. Not the gilded men, not the wives, and certainly not the daughters. One slip meant losing everything. But then you stepped too close, and Sunghoon couldn’t bring himself to care (not anymore)

a summer romance divided into two parts

PAIRING: lifeguard!Sunghoon x fem!reader

WARNINGS (for this part): poor!boy x rich!girl tropé, kinda forbidden love, Sunghoon is rude to you at the beginning, but we love a man who comes back and yearns, right? right?! slow-burnish, mentions of cuts and blood, alcohol consumption, cigarettes usage, reader almost drowns once, and Sunghoon has to save her

PART ONE｜21.6K｜STORY MASTERLIST

Park Sunghoon wouldn’t really describe himself as a waiter.

After all, when he had been hired at the luxurious resort of Marriotte, he had been hired as a lifeguard.

Mr. Hwang — or Mr. Grumpy, as Sunghoon came to know the staff members not so affectionately called their head manager — had been clear about Sunghoon’s part at the resort: for forty hours a week, he had to monitor the pool area, enforce rules, and respond to emergencies, ensuring the guests’ safety as if their lives were made of spun gold.

“Because they are,” Mr. Hwang said, his tone coming with a certainty so untroubled that Sunghoon had to clench his jaw to prevent the honest reply from rolling out of his mouth.

In another universe, he would’ve rolled his eyes and declined. In another universe, he wouldn’t have been born to a poor family on a small island in Jeju, and a job at eighteen wouldn’t have felt like a life raft you grabbed with both hands or drowned.

But this was not another universe.

In this one, he saw the contract with ten thousand won per hour in bold letters, and signed it as he had learned to sign his father’s hospital forms — fast, and without questions for which he couldn’t afford.

But not once — not even once — Mr. Hwang had mentioned that Sunghoon had to learn about French champagne and fill in for waiters, turning fragile crystal into another kind of hazard.

Yet — here he was.

Tray in hand, and wearing a shirt he had borrowed so many times that Jongseong had already stopped accepting it back.

In the few hours he had been given off his lifeguard duty, the deck had been completely altered. The beach chairs that usually angled toward the water were gone, replaced by long tables laid out with linen so white and crisp, they looked ironed — probably Mrs. Kye being ordered to do them along with the suite’s linens — only for the children to ruin everything, clutching it on their chubby hands as they kept on what Sunghoon suspected to be a game of tag.

On any other night, he would’ve told them not to run — not so close to the pool — but luxury was nimble and so was everything in Marriotte, and the pool was just another part of the grand decoration, and such warning was unnecessary. So Sunghoon walked past them instead, weaving between guests, and letting fragments of conversation brush against him like perfume: mergers, villa renovations, summers that lasted forever because this was what Marriotte guests sounded like — people perched so high on the social ladder they spoke as if they could negotiate with the sun.

Somewhere in there, a woman gestured for him to trade her empty glass for another one, her eyes never moving toward him — not even when she groaned a finally at him, and Sunghoon mumbled an excuse as if he had in fact been late for an appointment with her.

He moved away with his pulse tight, catching a blur of bare legs and pastel silk weaving between the chairs’ backs, but as he tried to move out of the way, another child darted through the narrow gap between two tables and bumped right into his thigh.

There was a gasp. A tiny oh no and Sunghoon was falling sideways, bringing the tray with him.

Crystal flutes exploded against the porcelain floor, and shards and golden champagne burst out, soaking through his clothes in a cold rush, instantly sour-sweet and expensive in a way his tongue didn’t understand. And for one terrible and infinite moment, everything seemed to halt.

The string quartet faltered, and conversations dissipated in the middle of a sentence — all the furor of the party suddenly replaced by a silence so complete that Sunghoon could hear his own ragged breathing and the tinkling sound of the crystal still settling against the floor.

He felt the weight of eyes on him, dozens of them, and his face burned with a shame so intense that he felt it like a physical force.

But worse than that was the immediate calculation.

How many glasses had he been carrying? Twelve? No. It surely was more than that, and the last time a staff member broke this amount of flutes, he had not only lost all his monthly salary, but owed the resort the subsequent one. And it wasn’t even filled with Krug Clos d’Ambonnay or any French shit that had been demanding that the staff members handle it with white gloves in the kitchen throughout the whole night.

Sunghoon would be lucky if he was going to manage to buy an ice pop by the end of the summer.

“Oh, my God!” He heard your voice cutting through the panic already spiraling in his mind, and it was enough to make Sunghoon gather himself, pushing up on his elbows. Crystal crunched beneath him with a sound that made him wince before he found himself staring up at you.

“I am so sorry, my cousin—” you began, but Sunghoon wasn’t really listening.

You were beautiful, and he hated that it was his first thought — he hated the way his breath caught despite the fury flooding through his veins like acid. Your hair was swept up in a twist that had probably required an hour and a professional to bring on the exact tendrils that now framed your face in that kind of perfection. Diamond earrings dangled from your ears, each one probably worth more than the whole set of flutes your cousin had just cost him, and catching all the fairy lights overhead, sending sparkles across your exposed collarbones as you knelt by his side. The skirts of your dress sank into the champagne, darkening at where it touched the floor, but you did not even look at it. Your face stayed on him — as if you couldn’t come to care about anything but him at this exact moment.

But Sunghoon wasn’t naive — not anymore — after years of serving people like you, he knew exactly how this would go.

People like you didn’t have to hold onto anything for long. Not objects. Not consequences. Not people.

The moment he left your sight, he would vanish from your life.

“Are you hurt?” you asked. “Oh no, you are.”

Sunghoon glanced down at his left hand, catching a glimpse of where a slice had opened across his palm, and allowed blood to gather too quickly, bright and shocking against his champagne-soaked sleeve.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw you reaching out to him.

“Don’t!” He snapped, the word cutting through the air louder than he expected

He pushed air into his lungs and did the only thing he could think to do: assess, contain, fix.

Perhaps if he moved fast enough, the damage would look smaller — it would cost less.

“I only meant to—”

“I’m fine,” he bit out, the words nipping as badly as where the shard had bitten him as he pressed it against the floor to push himself up. “Completely fine.”

“I—” you began again, but Sunghoon had already stood up, bowing at you in something between an acknowledgement and a dismissal.

“I’ll get it cleaned,” he said, turning and walking away.

You didn’t say anything this time, but merely stood still.

As Sunghoon walked toward the main building entrance, he caught sight of a waiter approaching you. She said something about getting you dry, and getting you up from the floor, which was a terrible floor, by the way, very slippery, she hushed as an apology, although everything Sunghoon saw was some type of premium porcelain and couldn’t remember it being truly slippery until now.

What a disaster, he thought. What an absolute disaster.

⋆˚꩜｡

By the time Sunghoon walked back onto the pool deck, the party had already resumed its glittering momentum.

The string quartet played on, and guests chatted in that same wash of careless sound as they did previously, moving through their conversation, their glasses of champagne — their effortlessly perfect lives — and leaving Sunghoon to kneel beside the shattered glass alone, cleaning up a mess that would cost him more than he could afford.

He worked methodically, sweeping and mopping until the deck shone again, and the cut on his palm burned hotter than his own shame.

He would need a cigarette tonight.

When he was walking back to the main building, a staff member intercepted him, her expression pinched with barely concealed irritation.

“Mr. Hwang wants to see you,” she said. “Now.”

Something cracked deeper in Sunghoon’s chest, something that felt dangerously close to breaking completely.

This was it, then. The scorn — if not the possible firing — he had been expecting.

He followed the woman through the last steps into the lobby, and behind the desk to the administrative area, each step heavier than the last, as if gravity itself were conspiring to make this walk as painful as possible.

Mr. Hwang’s office door was open.

The older man already sat behind his striking table, but he didn’t look up as Sunghoon entered. He just continued to review something on his computer screen with the kind of deliberate patience that was clearly meant to make Sunghoon suffer.

And it worked. Something within his stomach tightened as he stood there.

“Sit,” Mr. Hwang said, still not looking at him.

Sunghoon did as he said, and Mr. Hwang finally turned away from his screen, leaning back in his chair as he wove his fingers on the table in front of him.

“That was quite a performance tonight, don’t you agree?” Mr. Hwang asked. “Entertaining our guests by shattering a few million won’s worth of crystal.”

Sunghoon’s jaw clenched. “It was an accident. A child—”

“I’m aware of what happened,” Mr. Hwang cut in. “The young lady came to see me personally. Paid for every single glass, and insisted — no, begged — for nothing happen to you. That you were just doing your job and she was at fault for being negligent with her cousin—”

Mr. Hwang kept talking, but Sunghoon had already stopped listening after the word beg. Something had twisted in his chest then — a complicated knot of emotions he couldn’t quite begin to untangle.

If you paid, it meant that he wouldn’t lose his salary. He wouldn’t go back to his parents’ house empty-handed and be unable to help.

He wouldn’t drown — not this month, at least.

But then the moment soured, suddenly and irreversibly, because the rope had been thrown by you.

Sunghoon’s mind moved back to the pool deck before he could even stop himself, retracing the way you had dropped to your knees, champagne darkening the skirts of your dress like it didn’t matter — as if he mattered more.

He had thought it was pity — perhaps a performance — a rich girl’s impulse to feel good about being kind.

But begging wasn’t performative. Not when you could have just walked away, gone to your glimmering suite, and left him to deal with all the mess.

“She—” Sunghoon started, more in surprise than defense — the idea of you sitting in that exact same chair changed the shape of you in his head, and it startled him, the thought that he might actually like you — but Mr. Hwang had interpreted his intervention wrongly, holding up a hand.

“I don’t want to hear your excuses,” he said. “I should fire you for your attitude tonight. You seem to have forgotten something fundamental about this job. Those guests down there?” He turned, vaguely gesturing toward the window and the party still sparkling under them. “They pay more in a stay than you and I will earn in our entire lives combined.”

“This resort, your salary, my salary,” he continued. “It all exists because of them. So when they ask you to jump, you don’t question it — you surely don’t get angry at it — you ask how high and you smile while doing so. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Sunghoon said, the word coming before he could catch himself weighing them — before his pride could ride up and demand something impossible like fairness — because yes meant he would still be here in the morning, allowed to exist in this building that smelled like money, lemon, and polish.

The same citrus scent of this exact office, but as Sunghoon inhaled he could swear he caught champagne instead and — coconuts?

“Good,” Mr. Hwang said. “You’re not fired. But you’re being punished. Tomorrow you’re on yacht duty.”

Sunghoon halted. “I’m scheduled poolside, Jaeyun and I—”

“You’re scheduled wherever I tell you — and I am telling you that you’re on yacht duty tomorrow,” Mr. Hwang said, the corner of his lips moving upwards as if he was suddenly bemused. “The overnight charter with the corporate group. Departure at nine. Back at sunrise. I know how much you all love that.”

Actually, everyone knew.

Yacht duty was punishment dressed as scheduling.

It ran late into the night until dawn, the guests getting drunker and more difficult as the hours wore on. It was exhausting, demeaning, and occasionally dangerous — especially for lifeguards — and that was why Jaeyun and he always threw a coin for it, the loser getting the duty with a lot of complaints.

“Consider it a learning experience,” Mr. Hwang said, his voice suddenly dripping with a false benevolence. “A reminder of what happens when you forget your place. Now get out of my office. And Sunghoon?” He paused, allowing Sunghoon to take his moment to look back at him. “If I hear about another attitude problem from you — I don’t care which guest provoked it. You’re gone. Are we clear?”

“Yes,” he said, forcing himself to add, “Sir.”

⋆˚꩜｡

Sunghoon hadn’t realized how haggard his breath felt until the elevator doors opened at the staff floor and he inhaled for what felt like the first time in ages. His lungs filled with the scent of bleach and damp walls in a way that only happened in this particular poorly ventilated hallway.

While the rest of the resort glimmered in gold and navy carpets that smelled like lemon and polish, here — so under the ground — everything was slightly shoddy, and messy.

And perhaps that was why his brain tried to refuse the fact that you were here — here — just a few steps down the hallway, hair undone and in a dress simpler than the one he had seen you earlier on, but surely still, not fit to be under these humming fluorescent tubes, and surrounded by stacked boxes and off-white walls that had been scuffed by decades of carts, shoulders and hurried bodies.

The elevator dinged behind him as someone else called for it, and Sunghoon’s first instinct was to turn back at it, check if he had been the one to step into the wrong floor, but not only the peeling paint gave way that he didn’t, but the small sign with STAFF ONLY in bold letters.

“Excuse me,” you tried.

Sunghoon spun back at you, trying his best to don a neutral aspect, but as you walked in his direction he felt as if he was losing control of his own body. He suddenly didn’t know how to stand — he had done it his whole life but suddenly he didn’t know how to be on his own feet.

The harsh fluorescent lights should have been unflattering, but they only made the small details about you impossible to ignore. A few strands of hair clung at the skin of your neck, taken by a thin thread of sweat in that way that Jeju summers always managed in their early days, and the edge of your lipstick was smudged at one corner, as though you had been biting on it and couldn’t come to find the time to check it on a mirror, and he felt delirious, his heart thudding harder the longer he looked — not because you were still beautiful despite it all, but because it were evidences that you had lived through the last hours too.

All together with him.

“I brought this,” you said out of silence, extending your hand to him, and only then did he notice you had been holding something: a simple and stupid roll of gauze in a plastic wrapping with the resort’s logo. “I asked at the front desk for a first aid kit, but they said they could not give it to me — if I had some type of injury they could contact a doctor — I tried explaining it was not for me, bu—”

You paused, taking in a breath as though you had rehearsed this whole speech before coming, curating every word carefully through your way down here but something had escaped you and now you didn’t know how to restart without losing the thin thread of courage you used to start.

“You shouldn’t be here.” He heard himself saying.

Your fingers tightened around the gauze, your neat, pale, and perfect nails crinkling the plastic and making it seem even smaller compared to the world you came from.

“Well, I know — I had to bribe a bellhop—”

The elevator dinged again, this time announcing someone’s arrival and Sunghoon’s composure snapped in half. He couldn’t take another scene — not tonight — not when Mr. Hwang had been clear that he was on his last chance.

His body acted before his mind could, reaching out for your free hand. His fingers closed around yours as he pulled you through the cluttered hallway, catching and opening the first knob he had found before he pushed you both inside — he first, and then you — pressing your body against his as he closed the door and engulfed you both in the darkness.

It wasn’t a real room, he realized, but the makeshift cabinet the room attendants used to stock supplies. The space so cluttered and small that when you gasped he felt it against his neck, warm and sweet smelling, coconuts, and the scent of the champagne still stuck on your skin as if you had changed, but didn’t wash yourself in the hurry of coming after him.

Outside, a cart squeaked as someone wheeled it out of the elevator, and he prayed it was one of the room attendant just ending their shift early and not coming for a supply.

“What—” you began, but Sunghoon raised a finger to his lips, earning himself a wince as he did so. He had forgotten about the cut in his palm, and he suddenly wished he could forget again. But as his finger hovered by his lips for another moment, the throbbing only increased as if the cut itself had remembered its existence and couldn’t cease now.

“Your hand,” you whispered.

Sunghoon shook his head at your worry, but you were already reaching out for him, the tip of your fingers brushing against his fevered pulse.

Someone laughed outside — the sound being so close — it felt dangerous, and if anyone opened this door and found you here it would be the end for him.

It wouldn’t matter what you had to say to Mr. Hwang this time. You wouldn’t be able to save him.

Not that he wanted to be saved by you. One time had been more than he could owe you.

Your fingertips moved through him, finding the cut.

“Don’t—” he hissed, his voice coming louder than the cabinet could hold and it didn’t just land on you — but in the air within — breaking something he didn’t realize that even existed until now.

Your hand dropped back to your own chest as your eyes flickered to his name tag and then, around, your breathing shallower as though you were suddenly trying to become smaller. And in the silence that followed, Sunghoon felt the moment when you came to realize something too.

“I am sorry. I did not realize it could get you in trouble,” you said, and the softness of it made him sick with himself. “I—”

But whatever the rest of your phrase was supposed to be, Sunghoon would never know because you were shaking your head then, reaching for the knob behind you.

The door opened with the smallest complaint of its hinges, and the fluorescent hallway light cut across your shoulder, the pale line of your collarbone, the gleam of your diamond earring.

And then you were gone, taking your warmth back with you.

⋆˚꩜｡

Sunghoon wasn’t sure how long he stayed in that small cabinet, but by the time he stepped out of it, he had grown so accustomed to the darkness that the humming fluorescent tubes had acquired a brightness so intense that his eyes hurt the whole way to the locker room.

As he walked to his locker, he felt as if he wasn’t fully inside of his own skin — as if his mind was somewhere else apart from his whole body — hovering on every single second of this unending night, replaying them as if repetition could change the way he made you leave.

He took off the borrowed shirt and shoved it into his bag in an attempt to let go of everything, but the champagne scent rose anyway, sweet, sharp, and expensive in a way that made his stomach turn. And he was suddenly back at the pool deck, your dress soaking on that same disgusting thing — he was back at that small cabinet you both so close up together, he felt all of your reactions.

Sunghoon pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead and stood like that for a second — breathing and telling himself that if he just stayed still long enough his body would remember how to be normal again — one breath, then another, counting them the way he was used to count drags as he was trying not to think, the way smoke used to give his hands something to do other than shake, and for one humiliating moment, he wished he had a cigarette more than he wished he had a clean shirt.

Somewhere behind him, a locker door clanged.

“You look like you fought a chandelier.” Sunghoon heard, and he didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

Jaeyun had been raised in Australia, which gave him a peculiar accent that most girls called cute, but it only made Sunghoon certain that he could pick his best friend’s voice out from the whole island — perhaps the world.

“Wrong,” Sunghoon replied, finally looking at him. “The chandelier fought me.”

“Are you alright?”

“I have been worse.”

Jaeyun leaned against his open locker, his hair damp, and a towel curled around his neck as though he had just come in from a late dip — which he probably had. As Sunghoon had been unfortunate enough to be scheduled for the unusable pool tonight, Jaeyun had taken the small portion of the beach the resort claimed as theirs, and annually opened a debate online about whether they could.

“I’m fine,” Sunghoon confirmed.

“What happened?” Jaeyun asked, but Sunghoon only shrugged at the question.

“Champagne.”

“That is not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have,” Sunghoon replied, reaching out for his clean t-shirt, tugging it over his head. He winced as he did so, the cut reopening for the second time of the night as the fabric caught.

“Hoon—”

“I’m fine.”

“You said that already,” Jaeyun shot back. “And it was a lie.”

“A child ran into me,” Sunghoon said then. “Crystal flutes went everywhere, and then—”

“And then?” Jaeyun pressed.

And then there was you — you asking if he was hurt. You at Mr. Hwang’s office begging for nothing to happen to him. You down here with gauze in your hands, and lipstick smudged and all he did was shove you in a cabinet and be rude again.

Where had you even left the gauze? Sunghoon wondered. Had you dropped it in the cabinet? Somewhere in the hallways as he pushed you through?

He suddenly felt like checking.

Inside the locker room, Jaeyun exhaled at Sunghoon’s sayings, reaching out for his own first aid kit and extending it to Sunghoon, but when Sunghoon didn’t reach back to it, Jaeyun recoiled and opened it himself.

Sunghoon watched as his friend walked toward him, taking his hand, and cleaning the cut with the kind of methodical calm that only made him feel worse at everything.

“You panicked because you’re scared.”

“What?”

Jaeyun tilted his head, but he didn’t look up. He continued with his doings — now, pressing in a gauze against it. “You shoved a rich guest into a closet because someone might see you standing close to them. That’s fear, Sunghoon.”

“Congratulations. You just discovered that I’m employed.” Sunghoon let out a humorless laugh. “It’s not fear, Jae — it’s common sense—”

“Alright, let’s say it’s both then,” Jaeyun said. “Common sense because Mr. Grumpy’s an asshole and those policies are bullshit, and fear because you keep thinking if you breathe wrong, your whole life is going to collapse above you.”

The world seemed to halt then and there, the air suddenly too still and allowing Sunghoon to notice how he ached at these words, a sharp twinge that started at his chest and spread to his throat, tightening there and making him breathless because Jaeyun had said it too cleanly — too accurately — and naming it made it now undeniable.

“Find her,” Jaeyun said. “Talk to her.”

“No”

“Why?”

“Because if Mr. Hwang finds out, he’ll fire me,” Sunghoon said, his voice harsher than he intended. “Because if the other staff see me talking to her, they’ll talk. Because if people start talking, it will become a rumor, and rumors become problems.” He swallowed. “And I can’t afford problems.”

“I expected more from you, Sunghoon,” Jaeyun said, but Sunghoon could tell that his heart wasn’t in it — not really.

“No doubt that was your first mistake.”

“So can you afford being the kind of person who makes someone feel like they’re hated merely for trying to help?” Jaeyun asked, and it felt like a slap.

Sunghoon couldn’t, and that was what had been eating him since you left.

They finished changing in silence, Sunghoon shoving his things into his bag with more force than necessary while Jaeyun remained calm on the other side, closing his locker so carefully, Sunghoon hadn’t realized he did, until he was standing by his side, completely changed and his bag hanging on one of his shoulders.

“Motorcycle still broken?” Jaeyun asked.

“Yeah.”

Jaeyun’s expression softened, his lips curling into the type of smile that only appeared when Sunghoon made it sound like he didn’t care.

“So you are still stuck with me.”

⋆˚꩜｡

The service exit opened onto the staff lot, and immediately, Jeju’s night shrouded him. The humming fluorescent tubes of the interior were taken by the dimmer yellowish lights of the parking lot, and the smell of bleach was replaced by the sea wind cutting through the heat, carrying salt, tangerine, and earthy cedar forest.

Somewhere above, the party was still going on — laughter and music carried faintly across the breeze — but here it was all Jeju, rough and wild.

The parking lot was mostly empty, only a few staff cars lined up, including Jaeyun’s old Jeep at the far end, its paint sun-faded and stubbornly alive.

Sunghoon stopped for a second — just before they reached it.

“Do you mind if I have a smoke?”

“Of course, I do,” Jaeyun snapped. “This thing will kill you.”

Sunghoon pulled the pack of cigarettes out of his bag anyway, selecting a single one out and lighting it up.

The first drag hit him all at once. The ember brightened in the dark as he inhaled, a small orange circle reflecting faintly on his knuckles, and the taste of cheap tobacco bloomed bitter on his tongue before settling in his lungs.

He exhaled, watching the stream unravel and vanish into Jeju’s air, and for a moment he let himself believe that if he kept drawing in smoke and letting it go, he could empty his chest out of this night too.

Out of you.

“You lost the coin toss,” Jaeyun said then.

“What?”

“The yacht duty.” Jaeyun slid to him. “You didn’t mention it. Which means you’re trying to pretend it isn’t happening.”

Sunghoon dropped his hand out of his mouth, his fingers tightening. He wasn’t sure if he was intentionally pretending, but he surely didn’t want to bring this up.

“It’s happening.”

“Mr. Hwang is such a—” Jaeyun began, but he cut himself off, sighing deeply and dramatically as he pushed his hair out of his forehead. For a moment, Sunghoon was confused about whether Jaeyun understood that he was the one not going to the yacht tomorrow night. But he quickly realized that Jaeyun did understand — it was just that he felt everything too deeply, and he cared for Sunghoon too much to allow such an unfairness to go on as nothing. “Okay. You’ll survive — I’ll bring you food. I’ll bring you even this stupid pack of cigarettes if necessary. And I’ll come rescue you if some executive tries to throw you into the sea.”

The scenario made Sunghoon want to laugh and what a strange feeling it was because it had been months since Sunghoon wanted to laugh — perhaps years.

“See?” Jaeyun asked, his lips curling into a smile once again. “Park Sunghoon is still a human.”

Sunghoon rolled his eyes and dragged in again.

“So what are you going to do about it?” Jaeyun asked.

“About the yacht?”

“About her, Sunghoon.”

“What can I do? I don’t even know her name — and I’ll probably never see her again.”

“You work at a luxury resort where she’s not only staying, but attending events,” Jaeyun said. “I’m guessing if you actually tried to find her, you could,”

His voice dropped.

“Jongseong is only leaving for Seoul at the end of summer, he could—” Jaeyun raised his hand, typing on an invisible keyboard. “The question is whether you want to try.”

Did he? Sunghoon wasn’t sure. The thought of facing you again made him want to sink to the ground. But the idea of never seeing you again also sits as an open wound in his chest.

“Find her,” Jaeyun said out of silence. “Your angel in the form of a heiress.”

Sunghoon wanted to see you again. Thank you, at least, and say sorry for the closet situation. And Jaeyun grinned as though he had read it through Sunghoon’s mind.

“Come on,” Jaeyun said, unlocking the car with a single jingle of keys. “Let’s get out of here before Mr. Grumpy finds something else to punish you for — like breathing too loudly or existing in his general vicinity.”

Sunghoon pulled the passenger door open and climbed in, sinking into the familiar worn seat. The car smelled like salt water, suncream, and the cheap air freshener Jaeyun had hung on the front mirror which was supposed to smell like fresh pine, but mostly just smelled like chemicals.

As Jaeyun tried the engine — letting it catch and taking on three times before it finally started — Sunghoon found himself staring at his reflection in the side mirror. He was exhausted, in need of a shower and long hours of sleep, but surely, he was not drowning in debt and not fired.

All because of you.

“By the way,” Jaeyun said, glancing at him across the gearstick. “Your motorcycle is dead-dead, or is it just being dramatic?”

“Dramatic, I hope,” Sunghoon said. “Jihoon’s brother is still checking on it.”

Jaeyun hummed, his right hand reaching for the gearstick and putting it in the fourth, racing the car just enough to allow the breeze to brush in — the perfect blend of salty sea air, tangerine, and earthy cedar forest taking over the small vehicle — it was undeniable Jeju’s summer.

And for some reason, it made Sunghoon’s skin creep a little.

The summer of his twenty-two years had begun, although Sunghoon didn’t know what it truly meant.

Yet.

The next night came with the scent of sea air, salt, and teak wood floors.

The yacht sailed from the resort’s private dock at the sunset as Mr. Hwang had promised, its hull gleaming under the floodlights, and turning the water below into a black sheet of polished glass as the deck swarmed with men in tailored suits and women with hair pinned into effortless perfection, as if the wind itself had been instructed not to touch them too harshly — bribed, perhaps — something Sunghoon thought that rich people only did in movies, but then you came over and—

God.

He couldn’t stop thinking about you.

Sunghoon stood at the lifeguard’s designated spot, his eyes scanning the crowd for what felt like the millionth time.

He told himself he wasn’t looking for you — that it was only instinct — he was taking stock of guests, counting faces and risks as his job demanded, but his eyes kept hovering on silhouettes. On bare shoulders, and flash of jewelry. On the slope of necks, and twist of hairs that could have been yours until he stared for a moment too long and noticed that it wasn’t.

Perhaps you hadn’t come, he thought. Perhaps—

But then, he saw you.

Not full at first, but in pieces — as if his mind had somehow learned that he needed to recognize you in fragments because the whole was too much for him to handle at once — he saw the glint of an earring. The curve of your wrist as you lifted your hand to brush a stray strand of hair to the back of your ears.

Your dress was different tonight — simpler than the pool party’s silk, but cut in a way that felt almost deliberate. The thin fabric caught the yacht’s lights, and gave them back like it had been made for this exact setting, and your hair — God, your hair was down, spreading over the expanse of your shoulders, and moving only when the wind found it.

Sunghoon watched you for a second too long, hating himself for doing so because it gave you enough time to catch him on it.

Your gazes locked over, and for a brief moment — a moment so brief, he thought he had imagined it — you softened at him. Not a smile, but something in your eyes that recognized him, and remembered. Your hand rose halfway, fingers hovering in a hesitant greeting that seemed to have decided itself before you came to your senses and faltered, glancing down and lowering your hand to your side, folding into the fabric of your dress.

Sunghoon’s heart did something stupid and painful within his chest and he stood up without meaning to, giving a step toward you and then another, and another.

But before he could reach you, someone stepped into the space within.

A man around your age, tall in that clean and polished way that suggested that not only had he never been poor, but his father hadn’t, nor his grandfather, nor his grandfather’s father. His dyed hair was styled, but not stiff, his suit in perfect shape despite the hours within the yacht and he moved to your side as if he belonged there — as if your proximity was something granted to him by default.

And perhaps it had.

Perhaps the world was more unfair than Sunghoon had ever realized because as he felt unsure about stepping close to you, the man leaned in without a second thought, saying something into your ear, and earning a turn of your head toward him, altogether with a small smile appearing at the corner of your lips and causing something to flare in Sunghoon — hot, immediate, and humiliating.

It was ridiculous and Sunghoon knew that. He didn’t know your name. He had snapped at you twice and had shoved you into a closet like contraband when you were just trying to help. He had no right to want anything from you — not even your attention — yet his stomach tightened anyway, just as it had when Mr. Hwang said that you had begged for him to be spared because honestly, some part of him had decided that you were a story he knew he could not afford but he could not stop reading.

The man said something more, and you let out a breath that could have been a laugh if you allowed it to be. Your hand rose to brush his arm in a gesture so casual — it could have been even dismissal — but Sunghoon’s fingers closed on themselves until the cut from the night previous ached and he had to force his face into neutrality.

He was still trying to decide whether to approach you when the furor began.

It was not one single thing, but a chain of small ones that snapped too fast to catch: someone shouted near the bar, a glass tipped and bled its champagne in a thin gold spill across the teak, a laugh turned too sharp within the night air, and the music stuttered as if something had snagged the performers mid-song before he remembered they were being paid and forced the melody back into place.

Sunghoon’s head turned on instinct toward the commotion, his lifeguard training overriding and making his body already catalog risks, exits, water, the ways panic liked to masquerade as entertainment until it wasn’t.

In his periphery, Sunghoon caught you drifting closer to the railing, stepping away from a man drunkenly stumbling backwards, but it had been in vain. The man’s shoulder bumped into yours anyway and it was enough for your balance to break — enough for you to take one instinctive step to correct it, heel sliding back, searching for the deck to hold you the way it always had, but the teak beneath your heels betrayed you with a slickness you couldn’t have seen under the lights, and your foot slipped.

It wasn’t dramatic, but small, and almost quiet — the kind of slip that people recovered from all the time. You reached for the railing on reflex, fingers stretching out, a flash of jewelry, skin meeting metal. But your hand didn’t close right, didn’t clamp with the sure grip it needed; it caught and slid instead, palm skimming along polished steel like it had been oiled, and suddenly the correction became the fall, your weight tipping past the point where muscle could argue with gravity.

There was a pause that felt like the whole deck had held its breath before someone screamed what could have been your name and bodies surged toward the rail, leaning over as they peered down into the dark water that moved as if nothing had happened at all — as if it hadn’t just taken you — and Sunghoon ran, pushing through the guests with his shoulders, ignoring the outrage, the startled curses, the hands that grabbed at him as if he were the problem, until the railing came up in front of him, and the sea was just below, black and moving.

Sunghoon could not see you — not at first — the yacht’s lights did nothing to brighten up beyond its surface, and it was as dark as it was above, but then he did. A pale flickering shape, and he didn’t allow himself to consider anything before he vaulted the railing, diving into the water with a splash he didn’t hear.

It was late, and the night sea did not feel like summer, but winter — cold and heavy — dragging at Sunghoon’s uniform and pulling at him like it wanted to keep him for itself, too. Salt surged into his mouth as he broke the surface, and for a second his lungs stuttered, confused by the air that wasn’t clean.

Sunghoon had rescued drowning guests before. Of course, he had — Marriotte had a way of grinding the same disasters into repetition until one’s body learned them the way it learned to shape their names — but it always had been at the pool with its two meters of depth or the obedient edge of the resort’s stolen coast. But the sea was neither of them — it didn’t stay still — no matter how desperate someone was.

He heard shouting above, the deck erupting into chaos, but it faded fast, blurred by the rush of his own blood and the slap of waves against his face, and Sunghoon didn’t allow himself to think.

The water went colder as he went under, the world shrinking into nothing but darkness, pressure, and the frantic sweep of his hands through nothing again and again and again, until the tip of his fingers finally hit some fabric.

He grabbed hard, his fists tangling in what he hoped to be your dress, and yanked at it. You came to him limp and heavy, your hair floating around your face. And for one horrible second he couldn’t tell if you were conscious at all — if you were here with him — and he felt his heart weighing at the thought. It didn’t matter if you were one of those stupid rich guests. It didn’t matter if what you had been pulling at him was all an act — to lose you here felt like something he couldn’t handle.

Many hours later, Jaeyun was going to ask Sunghoon how it happened but he — under the aftermath of his panic — wouldn’t know how to.

He remembered how he hooked an arm under your shoulders and kicked upward, breaking the surface with a gasp for which you didn’t replicate, and how it broke the last threat of self-control on him.

He remembered keeping one arm around you and swimming with the other, fighting against the weight of your body, the drag of your dress, and the way the waves kept trying to pry you from him like greedy hands. He remembered how the yacht loomed above like a wall, all made of light, varnished wood, and people leaning over the edge with a mix of expressions. He remembered how his limbs were shaking by the time he reached the ladder and how he almost missed the first rung, having to force himself to jam his foot onto it, lifting you as best he could, bracing you against his chest. He remembered hauling, rung by rung, and getting you to the deck with the help of strangers’ hands, and then the world narrowed again into only you.

Only you and the way you lie on the wooden floor and soaked through. Your skin on a tone that seemed all wrong under the harsh yacht lights. But what horrified him the most was that your chest did not rise.

Someone shouted to call a doctor. Someone shouted to turn the yacht back — to do something — but no one seemed to be doing anything fast enough.

Sunghoon didn’t remember dropping himself onto his knees, but he remembered how his hands shook so badly he almost couldn’t place them. And once again, he had to force himself to take control — to press the heel of his palm to your sternum as the way he had been trained, and start the compressions, counting out loud because counting meant he would not fall apart.

“Come on,” he heard himself whispering between one compression and another. “Come on.”

The yacht rocked gently and the breeze brushed as if nothing was wrong, as if the night wasn’t holding a catastrophe on its teeth.

His hands began to hurt at some point and his arms burned. But he forced himself to keep the rhythm, to keep pressing. He forced himself to keep you here.

Sunghoon tilted your head back and pinched your nose, hesitating — just a fraction of a second — because you were you. And he didn’t know what it meant yet, only that it felt enormous within his chest already.

He bent close, mouth on yours, salt and fear thick in his throat, and strawberries on his lips.

“Breathe for me,” he whispered, the words spilling out like prayer, like command, like begging for which he didn’t have the right to, but did anyway. “Please, Angel. Please — breathe for me.”

You coughed.

Small at first. A weak shudder that made his heart lurch so hard it hurt. Water spilled from your mouth before you turned your head, choking, and dragging in air like it was something new you had to learn.

You were trembling and drenched, just as much as Sunghoon, but he couldn’t come to care about himself.

“It’s okay,” he said. “You’re alright.”

Your chin lifted at it, your gazes locking. It was only seconds that you studied each other, but it seemed a whole eternity to Sunghoon. His heart whipped against his ribs, and although he tried to, he couldn’t collect his thoughts. His lips parted as if he meant to tell you something, but he stopped, and by the time he tried again, the man from earlier was kneeling by your side.

He moved fast, shrugging off his suit with a practiced urgency. He didn’t look at Sunghoon — not really — not at all. His focus was on you, his hands already wrapping the piece around your shoulders, around your wet hair, and the parts of you exposed to the night wind before his hands molded against your arms with a steadiness that Sunghoon couldn’t feign even if he tried to.

“It is fine,” the man said to you. “It is fine. I have got you.”

I have got you.

The words rolled like theft in the air.

Sunghoon had hauled you out of the sea, he had breathed life into you, and still his mind went petty and sharp at a sentence that sounded like possession because the ocean had just tried to possess you first and Sunghoon was still in that wild part of himself that thought: mine to save, mine to keep safe, mine-

He swallowed.

You looked at the other man, dazed and lips parted as one of his arms slipped under your knees and the other rounded over your shoulders, bringing you into his arms before lifting you up.

“Give her some space,” he snapped at the people around and they did — tumbling into their own feet as they stepped back and opened space — because he sounded like someone who should be listened to.

Sunghoon rose as if to follow — as if his mind had once again forgotten that his role was done already — but a hand caught his elbow — someone steadying him, or stopping him. He wasn’t sure, and it didn’t matter.

The night was all shapes and noise.

Your head turned slightly as you were taken away, hair dripping onto the other’s sleeve. And for a heartbeat — a small, burning heartbeat — your eyes found Sunghoon’s. They were unfocused, but they found him anyway, and something in them softened — recognition again, the same thin thread from earlier on. And Sunghoon’s throat tightened with the raw realization that he didn’t want to let you go again.

But then you were gone anyway, taken into the yacht’s interior, and swallowed by light and warmth that wasn’t his, and his eyes merely remained at the place you disappeared in, hardly feeling part of his own body.

His hands were red and raw from compressions, the cut from the night previous all open and bleeding into his bandage. His chest heaved too fast and sea tasted permanent in his throat as if it had moved in and decided to live there.

Around him, the guests’ fear had already begun to convert into a story that sounded pretty — something they could repeat later with dramatic pauses and glittering eyes — using it to make their own hearts feel brave. But Sunghoon didn’t hear any of it.

He only heard your first cough.

He only felt the moment your lungs had chosen to come back.

“Young man,” someone called.

Sunghoon didn’t turn at first — he couldn’t — he couldn’t come to gather himself enough to face another person because although he wasn’t in the water anymore, there was something inside of him fighting still.

Perhaps there would always be a part of him fighting from now on.

“Young man,” the person repeated, stepping closer and the scent of expensive cologne cut through the salt, awakening Sunghoon before the touch at his shoulders did and he forced himself to turn. “What is your name?”

“Sunghoon,” he heard himself saying. “Park Sunghoon.”

The man nodded as he echoed it, his face drawn tight in that kind of controlled expression that suggested he had learned too early how to control his emotions from showing in public.

And Sunghoon caught himself opening his mouth, ready to apologize before he even knew what for — an old instinct, perhaps, sharpened by employment and hierarchy and the knowledge that rich people’s anger was its own kind of weather. But the man’s voice came out rough.

“Thank you,” he said, and for a brief moment Sunghoon felt confused, but the man continued, “my daughter,” and the two words changed the air. The whole deck seemed to tilt into a new shape. “You—”

His voice broke just slightly before he paused, tightening his jaw as he forced it back into place.

“You brought her back.” Sunghoon’s lungs seized again, but this time it wasn’t from the cold. It was from the sudden, horrible clarity that you weren’t a guest or a body or a problem.

You were someone’s daughter.

Someone’s world.

Sunghoon only nodded, because words felt too small then. Because if he spoke, his voice might crack open and reveal how close he had been to losing control.

Your father looked at him for another long second — memorizing his face, perhaps, or the uniform, or the fact that Sunghoon still looked like someone half-made out of seawater and shock.

“Thank you,” your father said again, quieter, as if the first time had been for pride and the second was for truth. “I will not forget it.”

Your father handed Sunghoon a business card and tapped his shoulder once — just once — a brief, human contact that felt almost unreal.

Sunghoon was shivering so violently that the bare push made him nearly drop the piece of paper on the yacht’s floor, but he forced himself to hold, his fingers closing so strongly that the cut from the night previous throbbed as a crease formed in the paper.

He didn’t think the card would come in use, yet — it felt soothing — because names were the first thing one reached for when they were trying to keep someone from vanishing, and he had your last name.

Sunghoon had your last name.

Sleep came so unwillingly to Sunghoon that it refused to last long.

Throughout the past three summers since he had been hired, he had been the one to get the yacht duty — not very lucky, yes — but it always gave him the best sleep of his life.

Sunghoon wasn’t an early bird. He didn’t request to be smoothed and tucked in bed at ten like Jaeyun, but he liked to sleep his nights away, so to be deprived of it always took something from him, but not today.

Sunghoon woke not even a full hour after he had laid himself on the bed, the shafts of light slipping through his curtainless windows and streaming over the place just as it had — yet, he couldn’t stay still anymore.

His body felt like it had been wound too tightly. His arms ached from the compressions. His throat tasted like the sea. And when he blinked, the deck lights flared behind his eyelids.

He swung his legs off the bed.

The small room was warm already, Jeju’s summer pressing through the thin walls with such insistence that the air clung on and the fan in the corner stuttered in vain. Somewhere outside, scooters whined down the road, and a bird shrieked the way birds did here — loud, territorial, unashamed.

Sunghoon washed his face with water that barely came cold, dragged a comb through his hair with more violence than care, and changed into the cleanest shirt he had, though clean didn’t mean much when his skin still remembered salt.

He looked at his hand. The cut had reopened under the bandage, a thin line of blood shimmering like a warning, but he only wrapped it again and left before his mind could catch up and tell him to be smart.

Because if Sunghoon paused long enough to think, he wouldn’t move at all.

⋆˚꩜｡

The resort sat above the road like it always did.

Marriotte didn’t belong to Jeju, but it pretended to, dressing itself in stone and dark wood and tasteful greenery, but it was too polished to be Jeju’s, and quiet in a way that didn’t come from the peace of the island, but from money making sure no one got loud unless paid to.

Sunghoon walked up the steps in the heat and felt the instant change the moment he crossed the threshold. Outside, it was Jeju’s summer, but inside it was Marriotte’s type of summer.

The lobby was not only large. It was layered.

It didn’t open itself like a normal room. It unfolded.

Walkways split from walkways. Corridors slipped away behind screens of dark wood and potted plants that looked so perfect it once led Jaeyun and Jongseong to bet if they were real. Stairs didn’t just lead upward — they led sideways, down, somewhere, dipping like secrets. Hallways branched from hallways, and then branched again, like the building had been designed by someone who enjoyed watching people get lost and pretend they weren’t.

There were walls of glass that gave the illusion of openness, but even those felt controlled because beyond them, the garden glimmered wet and green, water beading on leaves not only holding Jeju’s true nature, but turning it into decoration.

It was early, but the staff already moved through like ghosts in pressed uniforms and present only when summoned as the guests existed in the opposite. Guests floated as they made their check-ins, taking space without apologizing for it in the way only rich people could.

Sunghoon hated that he was here on his day off.

Sunghoon hated that he was here at all.

He walked past the concierge desk and felt eyes flick in his direction in recognition. Not only because they knew him, but because he looked like a staff. He moved like a staff. He carried himself like someone who had learned to keep his shoulders tight so the world couldn’t slip knives between his ribs.

He turned toward the reception.

Jongseong stood behind the desk, immaculate until he saw Sunghoon and something in his face cracked.

“What are you doing here?” Jongseong hissed through a smile that wasn’t meant for his friend, but the couple checking in beside him. His eyes didn’t leave Sunghoon’s face even as his hands moved through the motions of hospitality, tapping at the keyboard, sliding keycards over with practiced grace. “It’s your day off.”

The couple left, and before Jongseong could call the next guest to come, Sunghoon stepped in.

“I know — I need something.”

“No.”

Sunghoon blinked. “I didn’t even ask yet.”

“You don’t have to,” Jongseong murmured, his eyes flicking to the security camera in the corner, before it found Sunghoon again. “Whatever it is, the answer is no. Go home.”

Sunghoon’s throat tightened as he reached into the pocket of jeans, pulling out your father’s business card. The edges were damp-soft from having been clenched too long. He didn’t hand it over, not fully — he only let Jongseong read the last name.

And for a moment, Sunghoon saw it — the shift, the understanding snapping into place like a lock turning once Jongseong made sense of the letters.

Jongseong’s mouth parted, then closed. And when their eyes met again, He stared at Sunghoon as if he had just said he wanted to walk into fire because he missed the warmth.

“You can’t just—” Jongseong began, then stopped himself as guests walked by, their laughter trailing behind them like perfume. He lowered his voice further. “You can’t just ask for a suite. That’s not a thing.”

“I’m not asking you to tell her family’s suite,” Sunghoon lied.

He didn’t know what he was asking for.

“I’ll lose my job — we will lose our jobs,” Jongseong said, but despite the harshness with which his words came out, his expression didn’t match it for long.

“Are you okay?” Jongseong asked, but Sunghoon couldn’t come to answer.

Okay was a word for people who knew what they were, and he didn’t, or at least, he didn’t know anymore. Sunghoon had once believed that he had built himself into something durable and steady, yet you had come, and now, there was something different inside of him, something raw and unpracticed, and if he admitted it — even if just once — it would become real. Not an impulse. Not a passing stupidity. But something he was afraid that wouldn’t fit back inside his chest.

Jongseong exhaled slowly, looking down at his screen.

For one long second, Sunghoon thought he had silently been told to leave. But then, Jongseong’s shoulders sank — just slightly.

“Fine,” he breathed. “Fine, but if you ruin my life, I swear I’ll kill you myself.”

Sunghoon’s pulse jumped — not at the threat. He knew Jongseong would never — but at the view of his friend tapping at the keyboard, and then, tapping some more before he leaned forward, his voice turned into a whisper that scraped against the polished air.

“1512. Rooftop,” Jongseong said. “Go fast and I swear—”

“I know,” Sunghoon replied, already turning away.

He didn’t let himself thank him. He didn’t let himself hesitate. Gratitude was slow, and Sunghoon was running out of control.

His heart raced as he moved through the corridor, taking the elevator just as it was closing with an old couple that paid him no mind, and pressed the elevator’s buttons to the rooftop — rooftop, he had worked for years here and never once had he stepped there, and for a second he wondered if he truly could, if the elevator wouldn’t strangely stop operating and preventing him, but the doors slid shut, and the elevator began to rise. And with every floor it passed, Sunghoon felt like he was doing something he couldn’t undo. Like he was climbing toward a line he couldn’t uncross.

But still — he couldn’t stop.

⋆˚꩜｡

When the doors slid open for one last time, Sunghoon was surprised.

The rooftop had never been a place for the staff, but a rumor. A word whispered in the laundry room when the machines were loud enough to swallow the envy in their words. A direction pointed with a chin when a celebrity checked in and someone wanted to pretend they hadn’t looked because on the surface, they didn’t care. A level the elevator did not even list on the ordinary panel — but kept on a clean, discreet button because those who could afford the rooftop’s suites had lives that didn’t include asking.

Yet — it was exactly like the corridors below. 

The same thick carpets and light colored walls.

In every few steps, there were doors and he found himself staring at the details because the more familiar it seemed, the less anxious he felt. The brushed gold trim on the wall. The line of orchids arranged in vases that had to be replaced every morning. 

But then — absurdly — there was a vending machine.

It stood near the corner where the corridor split, sleek and silver, its glass front filled with neat rows of bottled water, imported teas, protein bars in minimalist packaging, tiny tins of nuts that probably cost more than the whole staff cafeteria’s lunch. But it was a vending machine — a vending machine up here.

Sunghoon slowed without meaning to stare at it.

He had grown up with vending machines that swallowed coins and didn’t always give anything back. Machines that smelled like dust and heat, that dispensed cheap coffee in paper cups, that sat near bus stops where men smoked and teenagers laughed too loudly because they had nothing else to do, but this one looked clean enough to eat off.

He imagined you for a moment — you, with your diamond earrings, your silk dresses and your life that seemed to exist beyond consequences — standing here, under that artificial light and pressing buttons for a bottle of water.

It didn’t fit.

He couldn’t imagine rich people needing something quick. And yet the machine existed, which meant someone up here had once been thirsty enough not to call room service.

The thought made him feel strangely dizzy, as if the world had tilted and revealed a seam that shouldn’t even exist. 

He forced himself to move.

His bandaged hand throbbed with each swing of his arm.

When Sunghoon stood in front of your family’s suite door, he hesitated, feeling a disconcerting flutter in his chest with the realization that he had no idea what he was doing.

He brushed a hand over his face, the bandage pulling at his skin, but before he could do anything else, the door opened, the morning’s sunlight racing out and making him blink a few times before he got used to it.

But it wasn’t you at the door, nor your father, nor anyone related to you — it was Mrs. Kye, the old maid that Jaeyun once joked had perhaps been there since the foundation of the hotel, but Sunghoon never laughed about it. Mrs. Kye was one of the nicest staff members.

“Sunghoon?” she called. “What are you doing here?”

“I—” he began, not sure how he was supposed to explain everything. His throat felt too tight for words that weren’t rehearsed. “I was looking for someone. She is a guest, her family is staying in this suite—”

“Sunghoon,” Mrs. Kye cut in, and there it was — the edge of the rules in her tone, the weight of them. “You know the rules.”

He swallowed.

“She almost drowned yesterday,” he said. “I just — I just want to check if she is alright. In the hurry, I couldn’t tell her what symptoms she should watch out for.”

The lie came so easily it almost felt true. But Sunghoon knew Mrs. Kye wasn’t buying it by the way she sighed, shaking her head, and for a moment he thought it was over — that she would close the door and he would need to go back down the elevator and pretend this impulse had never happened. But Mrs. Kye’s eyes lingered on him for a moment too long, traveling through the worn bandage, the frayed edge of his shirt and his washed jeans. She took the way he stood like someone trying to take up less space than he was allowed, and he knew without knowing it hurt her. She had seen boys like him come through this resort every summer; she had seen which ones laughed, and which ones counted. And Sunghoon had always been the kind who counted and she knew.

“Playground,” she said then, her voice coming so low that Sunghoon took a while to notice she had really spoken. “She was with her cousin,” Mrs. Kye continued, glancing over her shoulder into the suite as if making sure no one was listening too closely. “Asked if there was anything like that in the hotel.”

His breath caught.

“Go.”

Sunghoon didn’t trust himself to answer and so, he only bowed, quick and deep, and before his gratitude could trip him into being seen.

⋆˚꩜｡

The playground was not really a playground.

It was a corner of the resort’s garden that had been dressed up for children the way Marriotte dressed up everything: carefully, expensively, and with the kind of effort that pretended to be effortless. The ground was padded with soft, springy flooring that looked like it had never met a scraped knee. A small slide curved like a ribbon beside a miniature climbing frame made of polished wood, the grain of it so perfect it felt staged — as if the trees had been grown for the singular purpose of becoming décor. Even the air smelled curated: sunscreen and cut grass, the resort’s citrus polish ghosting over it all, as though even childhood had to be sanitized before it could be permitted to exist.

Sunghoon approached slowly. And at first, he didn’t see you, but the children.

They sat cross-legged in a loose semicircle on the padded ground, faces tilted upward, eyes wide with the bright, unfiltered devotion that only children could offer. Sunghoon was used to it; spring was a great time for Jeju, but not for Marriotte, and he had taught swimming lessons at public pools when Marriotte’s rooms weren’t so full and the pool not so required that he needed to complete full hours. He knew the way children trusted without thinking, how they listened with their whole bodies, how easily they could be soothed by a voice that sounded sure.

What unsettled him was who they were listening to.

Sunghoon recognized your voice with a physical certainty, as though his body had memorized it before his mind could refuse, but how could he not? He had replayed the night of the pool party like a punishment: your gasp, your apologies. He had heard you in the staff elevator, in the locker room, in the thin, cruel moment before sleep took him and the crueler one after it abandoned him.

You had been a ghost to him through the past days, but now it was real — sat on the edge of a bench that looked too clean to have ever hosted a tired body — your hair looser than it had been on the yacht, darker at the ends as if you had showered and simply didn’t care about drying it. And a book rested open in your hands, spine broken in the middle the way books only were when someone actually read them. 

Your cousin sat by your side, one fist balled in the fabric of your dress as though you were the only solid thing in the world, a plush toy trapped under her arm.

Sunghoon opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out, and for a heartbeat, he simply stood there, watching you. 

A child noticed him first — then another — heads turning in a soft disturbance that spread through the group until their attention broke from you and stumbled toward him.

And you noticed him too.

It was barely anything — just your chin lifting, a slow blink like you didn’t trust your eyes — but still, it hit him anyway, sharp as a hook under the ribs and Sunghoon’s body reacted before his brain could file it away as harmless. His shoulders tightened, and his breath caught, every instinct screaming be still, be professional, don’t be seen wanting. But the garden was shifting out of place anyway, as if the world had tilted and decided you were the only thing worth keeping upright because God — you were. 

You watched him for a moment — perhaps two — before you turned to the children, slipping a bookmark between the pages and excusing yourself with the seriousness of someone stepping out of a meeting — and stood up.

Your cousin clung harder for a second, startled by the motion, and you reached for her without even seeming to consider — one arm scooping her up against your side and letting her settle against you, cheek pressed to your shoulders, and fingers now locked in your hair — before you stepped forward, crossing the place toward him. 

And for the second time he caught himself trying his best to don a neutral aspect, but as you walked in his direction he felt as if he was losing control of his own body. Sunghoon didn’t know what to do with his hands. He let them hang uselessly at his sides, then shoved them into his pockets, then pulled them out again because it looked rude, because it looked like he was nervous, because it looked like he was waiting for you.

Which he was.

But the truth didn’t seem that easy to admit.

“Hi,” you said, your voice coming breathless in a way that didn’t match the short distance you had walked, and Sunghoon’s mind snagged on the inconsistency like it was a safety hazard because well, it made no sense — but then it did – and that small understanding warmed him in a way he didn’t want to allow. His fingers flexed at his side, bandage tugging, and grounding him back into his body before he made himself remember how to speak.

“Hi,” Sunghoon echoed.

Your cousin shifted at the sound of him, her arms tightening around your shoulders as she hid herself into the crook of your neck. You murmured something in her ear, softly, and too low for Sunghoon to make sense of what it had been, but whatever it was, it got her lifting her head and looking at Sunghoon again, round-eyed and shiny with embarrassment. 

“Sorry,” your cousin whispered. It had been so quiet that Sunghoon almost thought he had imagined it — but then, her lips continued shaped into the word, and his breath caught in surprise. 

Sunghoon bent down a little, lowering himself to your cousin’s eye level in the way he did with the children at the public pool, his instincts taking over where his pride usually lived whenever he breathed Marriotte’s air.

“It’s okay,” he said, hesitating for a moment before he lifted his bandaged hand and gave her a small thumbs up, the gesture making the healing skin pinch, but he didn’t allow it to show. “I will survive.”

Your cousin blinked at him before she tried to hide again, her fingers twisting on the locks of your hair in a manner that should have been painful. But if anything, you gently patted her back. 

And when Sunghoon straightened himself, he caught you smiling.

Not in that one polite and restrained way he had seen you wear the previous night, but something small and helpless at the edges, as if it had happened to you without your consent — as if your body had decided that because he had offered something of himself, you had to give something back.

And the fairness of it felt strange in his chest. Heat climbed up the back of his neck and into his ears. Sunghoon didn’t know what to do with the fact that you were looking at him like that, so he blinked, and glanced away, setting his mouth back into place as if it had betrayed him.

“Do you want to go back to the other children?” you asked your cousin, receiving a nod almost immediately. 

The moment her feet touched the padded ground, she retreated — not far, not truly — choosing the safety of the other children in a blunt instinct Sunghoon understood too well.

And with her gone, there was nothing left to hone the moment into harmlessness — no child, no movement, no noise to hide behind — just you and him, with the air between you tightening into something quiet and dangerous despite the bright morning.

Sunghoon should have stepped back — he knew — but his feet didn’t listen. Something in him held, stubbornly, as if staying was a risk he recognized but chose anyway.

“I—” you began, at the same time as him.

“You first.”

“I had asked for you,” you said quietly. “At the reception, however, they said it was your day off.”

“It is,” he heard himself answering, but when he didn’t put in any further information, you continued:

“I wanted to thank you — for saving me last night.”

“It’s my job.”

“I know.”

“Then don’t—” His throat scraped. “Don’t thank me.”

You halted, surprised by his words. And for a moment Sunghoon was afraid he had been once again too rude without thinking, but then, a shadow of humor softened your mouth subtly, almost careful. Not a smile, exactly. But something that said you weren’t afraid to meet him where he stood — not anymore.

“Alright,” you said. “I take my formal thanks back. Yet still — I am grateful.”

Sunghoon swallowed. The morning was too bright for how fragile he suddenly felt, the air too clean for the way his chest still tasted like fear. And his hands-bandaged too roughly for what he wanted.

“Your turn,” you remembered.

“I’m grateful too,” he admitted. “For what you did the other night. It saved my month.”

“It just didn’t feel right,” you replied, your brows drawing together — that small divot returning like an old habit, and Sunghoon couldn’t help but feel that familiar heat rising anyway, quick and instinctive. Of course it didn’t. Things never did, and somehow the rich always had a way of smoothing the edges down — paying until the world agreed to look away.

The thought sharpened on his tongue, ready to become something ugly.

But then, he caught himself, almost startled by his own reflex because you were standing right in front of him, smaller in the sunlight than you had been under the pool lights and yacht’s dazzle, and looking at him like you meant it.

Sunghoon swallowed, letting the anger fold back into his chest where it belonged.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. “After — all of it.”

“My throat hurts a bit,” you said. “And I am smelling water.”

“Smelling water?”

“Not like a wet breeze,” you clarified, almost apologetic for the strangeness of it. “Actual water. Like I am breathing it.”

“It’s normal,” he said. “But you should rest today. Be attentive. If you get a fever, if breathing gets worse, if you feel tired in a way that doesn’t make sense—”

“I know.”

Sunghoon halted then. Of course you did. Someone had already told you — a doctor, perhaps a private one, someone whose name you didn’t have to wait for. The thought put a sour edge on Sunghoon’s tongue, and he hated himself for it.

His gaze dropped instead to the book in your hands. 

“You shouldn’t be reading out loud,” he said before he could stop himself. “Not if your throat hurts.”

Your gaze dropped to the book as well, only for a fraction of a second before your gaze encountered him again, and when you did, you smiled. 

“Finish it for me, then.”

“What?”

“You said I shouldn’t be reading,” you countered, and he could hear the amusement threading your voice. “But the children will be disappointed if they don’t hear the end.”

You tilted the book toward him. “Finish it for me.”

Sunghoon glanced past you, catching the children still turned toward you both, eyes bright and hungry for gossip.

It was a trap, he knew it, perhaps your whole existence was a trap to him.

He had not come here to perform. He had not come here to sit in a garden playground and read to rich children while his heart tried to hammer itself out of his ribs. And yet — you looked at him as if you were trusting him with something small.

As if you weren’t afraid he would drop it.

He reached out. The bandage on his hand made the motion clumsy, and for the briefest second his fingers brushed against yours as he took the book — the touch more a delirium than a real thing — but it made his whole body go rigid for a moment too long before he walked to the children, sitting where you once did and cleared his throat.

The children stared.

You sat back, allowing your cousin to tumble into you once again, and watching him with the kind of patience that made him feel exposed.

Sunghoon began.

His voice came out awkward at first — too careful, too flat — and he hated the sound of himself in this setting. But soon he caught himself changing voices for the characters, letting a higher pitch slip for one, a rougher edge for another. A child giggled. Then another, a small sequence until your laugh broke through and something warm rose in Sunghoon’s chest, and it took him a long time to notice that it was pride — a foolish pride for making you laugh. 

When he finished the book, the children groaned in protest, and he handed it back to you as if it might burn him.

“Thank you,” you said again. And time he didn’t tell you not to, but just nodded, because some refusals felt pointless against you.

Somewhere behind you, a nanny called, and the children broke apart the way children always did — all devotion, and then none at all — feet pattering off across the soft flooring, laughter dissolving into the garden as if it had never been held.

But you stayed — still as a held breath, hands quiet at your sides, your gaze fixed on him like you were waiting for something he hadn’t learned how to give and Sunghoon didn’t know what to do with that.

“I should go,” he said, pushing himself to his feet. His fingers found his jeans on instinct, smoothing at a crease that wasn’t there because perhaps — perhaps he could press order back into his body if he tried hard enough.

You nodded at his saying but as he turned away, you called out his name and he stopped.

He didn’t mean to but his feet simply listened.

It was the first time you had ever said his name, and it landed wrong in the best way, catching him under the ribs. Not only because of your accent, all made in the knottiness of Seoul, but because coming from your mouth it sounded softened and slower, drawn out as if you had stolen it and made it all yours.

“Wait,” you said.

And he did.

“My father,” you continued. “He is in hope that you are going to call — he wanted to thank you properly. And—” You hesitated, the same kind of hesitation you had in the staff hallway: bravery gathering itself again. “He wanted to make sure you are taken care of.”

Sunghoon’s throat tightened at your words. He didn’t want to be taken care of. Not by you. Not by anyone who could turn care into debt.

“I’m fine,” he said automatically, and you looked at him like you already knew it was a lie.

“Dinner,” you said.

Sunghoon blinked. “What?”

“You should come to have dinner,” you repeated. “With us.”

With us.

You didn’t say it, but the meaning was explicit: you were inviting him to have dinner with your family — your family who occupied one of the suites on the rooftop corridor with its vending machine, and it made his reality tilt.

The whole world you belonged to was being offered to him, yet he knew — it was a treasure that was never meant to be touched by him.

“I—” Sunghoon started. “I’m not sure if I can — there’s a policy.”

You nodded at him, and it should’ve been the end of it. But instead, you stepped in — careful as if you knew exactly where too close began and chose to stop just short of it. And the air between you tightened, charged in that quiet way Sunghoon hated because it made him aware of everything at once: your breath, the warmth of skin, the soft, loose strand of hair the breeze had freed.

His hand almost moved on instinct — one simple lift of fingers as if to tuck it back where it belonged but he caught himself and you did it yourself.

“Can I see your phone?” you asked.

“My phone?” he echoed, but his hands were already reaching, unlocking it, placing it in yours like surrender.

He watched you type quickly. He watched the ease of your fingers, the certainty of you — or at least, the way you fake it, because your hands held it too tightly and you were biting at the corner of your lip, smudging on your lipstick and leaving it on the way you had on the night of your first encounter.

“We always have dinner at the resort’s restaurant, I will send you the time,” you said, giving him the phone back. “If you feel like — just come. My father will be more than happy to do something about the policy.”

He stared down at his phone, finding the message you sent to yourself and your name, sitting there as if it belonged.

He looked up, but you were already moving away, as if you knew the moment was too dangerous to linger in. 

“Goodbye,” you said, almost under your breath, and Sunghoon’s chest tightened at the sound. 

“Bye,” he managed.

You held his gaze for a heartbeat too long, almost as if you were trying to memorize him in daylight, storing the version of him that existed under the sun instead of under dim lights and bad decisions before you finally turned and walked back to where your cousin sat, giving him just a single glance back as if you wanted to check whether he was still there.

Sunghoon found it adorable in a way that terrified him.

It made him want to follow you back — tug at the thin thread you had left behind and see if it would truly hold.

But instead, he ran. Sunghoon found the staff access and took the stairs — two at a time — fleeing so quickly that the encounter began to feel weightless behind him, unreal in that particular way of dreams: gone the moment you wake, but still warm in your skin.

⋆˚꩜｡

Jaeyun had barely arrived for his shift when Sunghoon found him. The air smelled like salt and sunscreen and the faint metallic tang of old engineers.

“I talked to her,” Sunghoon said before even greeting, and the urgency in his tone startled even himself.

“Who?” Jaeyun asked — more reflex than curiosity — because the moment his gaze landed on Sunghoon, the question dissolved on its own, understanding settling without needing an explanation. “Angel.”

Sunghoon corrected him by saying your name before he could even feel self-conscious about the syllables because if he thought about it, he would notice how they were intimate — as if saying them out loud was an admission. It was ridiculous, but it was also true: it felt like the moment he spoke your name, the thread between your lives tightened.

“You lost me,” Jaeyun said. “How did we go from not even knowing her name to you being invited to have dinner with her and her parents tonight?”

Sunghoon explained — or at least, tried to explain — about the yacht, the rescue, the strange gravity of you, the way his body seemed to move toward you before his mind could decide. And although Jaeyun listened with the amusement of someone watching a friend walk willingly into danger everything he said was:

“What are you wearing?” 

Sunghoon looked down at himself.

“No,” Jaeyun cut him off immediately. “Tonight. What are you wearing to dinner?”

“I don’t even know if I should—” Sunghoon said. 

“You can’t be fucking serious, Park Sunghoon,” Jaeyun cut. “You’re going.”

⋆˚꩜｡

It was around three in the afternoon when Sunghoon received Mr. Hwang’s message approving his dinner with your family, a brief and cold string of words that didn’t even try to hide the warning: this wasn’t a permission, but a leash — Mr. Hwang knew where Sunghoon was — and if he slipped, even if barely, it would not be an accident anymore. It would be a choice. Sunghoon knew the rules — God, he knew it so damn well that even with the approval all written on his phone screen, he felt unsure about it, but then he received your message with a tiny please at the end, and he couldn’t come to care about being smart.

By evening, Sunghoon was freshly showered, hair damp at the nape of his neck, and Jongseong’s suit pressed and scented with Mrs. Kye’s laundry soap like a borrowed dignity.

The host didn’t know him, but a few waiters did, and as he stepped inside, he felt their glances like something material at the back of his neck.

He wasn’t a staff at the moment, nor a guest, and it somehow felt more troublesome than being either.

But then, he saw you — and you saw him too, your lips parting in that one smile you had given him at the playground, and something within him misfired.

The windows were thrown open at your back and the last gold of the day cut through the room, catching on crystal glasses and expensive cutlery until everything glittered underneath it. And you — you looked like you belonged there. Not because of the dress, the jewelry, or the easy curve of your mouth, but because the light itself knew your worth and reached for you as much.

Sunghoon took one steadying breath — yet lost it the moment you stood up, saying something to your parents before you walked toward him, and he had the strange, irrational thought that for as long as he lived, he would know the scent of you and the sound of you approaching him.

“You came,” you whispered, and Sunghoon felt his breath hitching once again. His fingers flexed once at his sides, grounding him back into his body, but he couldn’t find a sentence that didn’t give too much away, so he didn’t give you any.

You didn’t seem to mind it as you led him to your family’s table and introduced him, your finger steady on the cover of his suit.

Your mother was the first to move. Not a polite nod from her chair, nor a measured smile meant for strangers and for which Sunghoon had been prepared — but a real reaction — immediate and strangely human. She stood from where she was, reaching for his hands before Sunghoon could decide what to do with his own, holding him so warmly yet carefully that it surprised him.

“Sunghoon,” your mother called. “I do not feel like I can thank you enough.”

“It was — it was my job, ma’am.”

“No,” she said, and for a moment her warmth sharpened into something almost fierce. “It was more than that to me.”

The words came out darker than she seemed to intend — too honest for a table set in crystal and gold — and she seemed to realize it the moment they landed because her expression shifted then. Embarrassment, perhaps, for letting too much truth rise to the surface in front of people who measured vulnerability like weakness.

“And please,” she added, voice gentler again, “no ma’am.”

She glanced toward your father then. “We are family friends after all.”

“She is right,” your father agreed. He seemed to want to say more, but before he could do so, his phone chimed.

“Byeongseok,” he said, stepping away with a brief excuse and a plea for them to sit before him, and for one moment, Sunghoon could swear he felt you stiffening by his side, your shoulders drawing inward as your hands closed too tightly on the arms of your chair as you sat down, but he couldn’t come to ask the reason behind it.

Not even when your father hung up and the person he supposed to be Byeongseok appeared and greeted your parents like old acquaintances.

Not even when your mother smiled at him with clear familiarity or your father clapped a hand against the younger man’s shoulder with the ease of habit.

Sunghoon didn’t dare to ask — not even when Byeongseok turned to you with a fond smile and bright eyes — simply unable to hide the irrational happiness of seeing you.

You stood up again, allowing Byeongseok to hug you, and when his arms wrapped around your waist, it happened with the ease of someone who had never had to wonder if he was allowed to touch the world like this — like proximity was a language he had been fluent in ever since his childhood. Byeongseok pulled you in without any further question, the fabric of your dress creasing under his grip and his cologne turning into a private air between you, and when his lips chased your temple, something settled inside of Sunghoon. Not a thought, exactly, but not a feeling he could name in a way that could make sense. 

There was a sudden flare under his ribs, a reflex like pulling a hand away from the fire, except that there was nowhere to put it — nowhere to hide — and so, he only watched, understanding with a clarity so clean, it made him dizzy. It was what belonging looked like: not asked for, not earned, just assumed.

Byeongseok not only had the type of face women in this island would make lines for, but he knew how to wear his money well — Jongseong’s suit was great, honestly, the best people could find at Jeju’s malls, but anyone who said no one could tell the difference between a suit from the mall and a suit made by a clever designer had never seen the latter and Sunghoon was seeing one — not to mention that Byeongseok made a strange image near you, almost too fitting. Almost too perfect.

And Sunghoon hated the way that thought honed something in him.

The craving hit him suddenly then — sharp and familiar. Smoke at the back of his throat, something bitter enough to burn this feeling out before it rooted itself deeper. His fingers moved through his lips before he could even think about it, placing a cigarette that wasn’t even there.

“Byeongseok,” you said, drawing yourself back. “This is Sunghoon. You might remember him from last night — he was the one who saved me.”

Byeongseok frowned as his gaze fell on Sunghoon, confusion settling heavily over his features because he didn’t recall. But Sunghoon couldn’t blame him. He couldn’t have told this was the man who took you away until you mentioned it.

“Sunghoon — this is Byeongseok, son of my father’s business partner, and my classmate at the university. He was there last night as well.”

“Sunghoon has joined us per her request,” your father explained, nodding briefly toward you.

“Great,” Byeongseok replied immediately, but something about the brightness of his voice felt just half a beat too late, too polished to be entirely sincere.

Byeongseok sat down by your side, and soon enough, his parents arrived, quietly changing the shape of the evening.

Smiles settled into place as though rehearsed beforehand. Greetings were exchanged with the precise familiarity of people who had known each other long enough to stop performing enthusiasm and start performing balance instead. 

Byeongseok’s mother smiled often, but Sunghoon quickly realized it was the kind of warmth that could never truly reach the room. And his father looked at the table the way businessmen looked at properties — assessing, categorizing, deciding what belonged naturally and what had merely been allowed inside.

Still, the beginning remained civil.

Byeongseok’s mother asked about Sunghoon’s life in Jeju, and he answered the way he had been trained to answer guests: politely, briefly, and with nothing that couldn’t be more than entertaining — even when she pressed again, head tilted as if she were fishing for a story he could be made into, Sunghoon didn’t give her one. He kept his smile soft and his words cleaner, guiding the conversation along familiar paths without offering anything that could be held too tightly.

But then, the menus arrived.

“Always so many good options,” Byeongseok’s father commented lightly, leaning back in his chair. “What would you recommend, Sunghoon? If staff were allowed to eat those, of course.”

Heat crawled through Sunghoon’s neck before he could even stop it and he had to force his face to keep still. No flinch, no tell, no satisfaction given.

He understood the tactic: Say it smiling, say it soft, and if Sunghoon reacted, Sunghoon would be the problem. Not the man who had said it. That was how this worked.

Sunghoon’s jaw tightened with the unfairness, and the urge to answer with something that would cut back grew bigger — but then, you spoke.

“Sunghoon is here as our guest,” you said, your eyes never even leaving the menu. “Perhaps it would be better to ask the chef.”

The words were light enough that someone outside the table may not even notice them, but Sunghoon did.

Your parents did.

As well as Byeongseok’s. 

Byeongseok’s father gave a short laugh then, lifting his hands slightly in surrender.

“I was joking.”

“We know, however, my daughter is right,” your father cut. “Perhaps we should call the chef if we want recommendations — although Jeonbok is calling me tonight.”

He looked up through his menu to your mother.

“What do you think?”

Your mother hummed in agreement, visibly grateful for the shift.

“Would wine match?” she asked.

Sunghoon expected you to smile then, to claim victory, and let your eyes meet him with that one spark you had worn on the playground. Yet it never came. If anything, you turned even more still than before, shoulders drawn in as you had at the beginning of everything, and he understood then, that you were different near these people — quieter — if not non-existent. As if showing too much of yourself was something that could be used against you later, in a quieter room, with words that only sounded nice at the surface but sliced you open if listened to it more carefully.

And the realization settled in his chest like heat.

Protective wasn’t a word he had ever used for feelings. It sounded like something out of a movie, a pretty story for which he couldn’t afford. But whatever this was, it was real.

His knee bumped into yours, perhaps accidentally, or perhaps it was his body leading him to what he should do, but it caught your attention, and you looked at him.

It’s okay, he meant and you bumped him back as though you had understood.

⋆˚꩜｡

Nothing truly happened between the main course and dessert — or at least — nothing that Sunghoon could point to directly.

Every new plate earned a sound from Byeongseok’s mother — too loud for the room and too practiced to be true — but her husband hummed in agreement anyway, and by the time the dessert was served, the table’s volume had swelled because Byeongseok’s family didn’t just fill the room, but took it apart and rebuilt it around themselves, as if the air belonged to them by default.

Sunghoon kept his posture straight. His borrowed suit sat stiff across his shoulders, and his bandaged hand rested in his lap, where no one would ask questions. He nodded when addressed, and answered when appropriate, smiling cleanly and briefly — nothing that could be used later as proof that he had forgotten his place — but the exhaustion crept in anyway. 

Not the kind that came from a late shift, but the kind that came from holding yourself still while other people moved freely.

By his side, you had gone even quieter than before, your eyes trained on your plate as if digging at your chocolate sphere required your full concentration. 

Sunghoon watched you for a moment too long, his knee still angled toward yours under the table, close enough that he could feel the faintest shift when you moved. 

“You are supposed to break it,” Sunghoon said, quiet enough that it couldn’t interfere with the conversation going around the table, but direct enough that it couldn’t be mistaken for nothing. “Not dig.”  

“I beg your pardon?”  

“You break the layer above, not—” he paused, leaning in as if the rest of the table might steal the sentence.  

You leaned forward too, almost instinctively — meeting him in the small space he had made until your shoulders nearly brushed and the world narrowed to the dessert between you. 

Sunghoon reached out for you, his knuckles brushing yours as he took the spoon from your hand, and the contact short-circuited his brain for a fraction of a second because you were warm, soft, and close enough that he could catch your scent under the restaurant’s citrus polish and your mother’s selected wine — coconut and strawberries, just like the night you met.

His breath caught.  

He brought the spoon down and cracked the chocolate shell with one clean press — the surface split neatly, revealing the cake beneath, darker and softer, steam barely rising.

“I knew,” you whispered.  

Sunghoon halted then.

Of course you knew. Fancy desserts weren’t a novelty to you — you had probably broken a hundred chocolate shells in your life without thinking twice. You were digging not by ignorance, but because you were buying seconds — letting the chocolate shell and the soft cake beneath it become cover. Something small to hold onto, something to keep your hands moving so you didn’t have to lift your eyes to the furor of the table.

The realization made something in his chest hurt, sudden and sharp, like he had swallowed the wrong thing and it lodged in his throat.

His gaze flicked up to your face before he could stop himself.

You weren’t looking at the dessert anymore — not really — you were looking at him, eyes softened in a way that made the noise around the table feel suddenly far away. And Sunghoon knew he should lean back — put distance where it belonged, fold himself into his place again before anyone could notice.

But you were too close still and he didn’t want to be the one to let go.

He stayed as if staying could be harmless, as if the room couldn’t take this small thing and make it cost — even when your fingers brushed his again, taking in the spoon.

“Thank you regardless,” you said. “And I’m sorry.”  

I’m — not I am — and he caught the slip just as you did, your voice already smoothing itself back into I am, back into etiquette, but it was already too late.

Byeongseok’s mother waved her spoon again, mid-story. “And then I told her, I said, ‘You cannot possibly wear that to the chairman’s event.’ Can you imagine? The girl looked like she had been dressed by a toddler—”

The rest of the table chuckled, but not you.

“It’s loud,” he said, and you huffed at him.  

“Yes,” you agreed. “It is loud.”

The corner of Sunghoon’s mouth twitched in what could turn into a smile, but it was quickly taken by the way you went quiet again, folding inward until you were nothing but manners and stillness beside all that noise. 

He could pretend he didn’t see it — he could — but he didn’t.

Sunghoon let his knee stay angled toward yours under the table, a small act of defiance no one could call out, and felt the decision settle in him with a steadiness that scared him.

“Do you want to leave?” he asked. Your eyebrows furrowed at his sudden question, your surprise flickering across your features, and Sunghoon rushed on before he could talk himself out of it. “Not now, but after — after the dinner is finished — if you want to, we can go somewhere else.”

Your chin dipped once, so small it could have been nothing, yet, it wasn’t. 

His voice lowered. 

“If you leave by the resort’s main entrance and turn right, you’ll see a park full of red flowers and a black bench — I’ll be there waiting for you.” 

⋆˚꩜｡

The bench was colder than July should allow.

It sat at the edge of the small park like a leftover thought — the black paint worn thin by the number of sunsets. And above it, the red flowers flared under the streetlights, clustered and moving only when the wind picked up — Jeju’s sea air slipping in from somewhere beyond the resort’s polished boundaries and carrying salt, damp soil, and the faint sweetness of crushed petals.

Sunghoon sat with his hands clasped together so tight his knuckles ached with the pressure, and his cut pinched underneath the bandage, but even with such discomfort, he couldn’t come to release. 

Perhaps because the night air kept biting at his skin, and his body was struggling to keep heat in. Or maybe it was dinner and the way the restaurant’s light had made everything sparkle — it was normal to feel wound too tightly after standing inside wealth for too long, after all — money was a room with no windows, and it made the lungs forget how to expand. 

But his gaze kept flicking to the same stretch of road.

The resort’s main entrance was somewhere behind him, out of sight but too close still — and that was the problem. Every second that passed stretched longer, the way time did whenever someone stared at it too directly. And the idea of you not coming settled like a weight under his ribs, heavy enough to make his posture go stiller. 

He had spoken too boldly — too recklessly — he had asked a question for which he had no right to ask, offered a door he didn’t even know if you could open. But now that the words were out in the air, he couldn’t pull them back. 

Sunghoon couldn’t pretend they hadn’t existed. 

He glanced down at his suit — Jongseong’s suit, actually — although it was supposed to have become his the moment he had put it on, but the fabric sat wrong across his shoulders, sleeves a centimeter too small because Jongseong had always been shorter, and it was clear now that he looked like someone he wasn’t — like someone who could sit at your father’s table without feeling the world shift under him. 

The thought made his stomach twist. 

He dragged in a breath, tasting the air — flowers, damp earth, and the distant trace of cigarette smoke from somewhere down the road and he wondered if he should smoke, but his pack was still in the locker room, safely hidden with his clothes. 

And not to mention that he didn’t even know if you mind cigarettes. Perhaps you despite the smell of it as much as Jaeyun, and if you ever came—

God

Sunghoon leaned in, forehead resting against his clasped hands. 

But then, he saw a movement in his periphery. 

At first it was only a shape separating itself from the dark — a silhouette against the faint spill of light from the resort’s property, slow and hesitant as if the body itself wasn’t sure it was allowed to keep walking. And Sunghoon’s spine straightened before he could stop it, the motion too sudden for him to even have time to consider preventing it.

His heart didn’t leap, exactly — but shifted, like something inside him had been forgotten and finally remembered its existence.

Sunghoon rose. He didn’t mean to do it so quickly, but the bench seemed to push him up anyway, and by the time you reached the edge of the park, he was already standing there, hands useless at his sides, and the night suddenly too loud in his ears. 

For a second you only looked at him, chest rising and falling just a bit faster than it should have from such a short walk, and your eyes bright in a way that didn’t match the dim light. As if you had been running internally even when your feet hadn’t.

“I thought you wouldn’t come,” Sunghoon heard himself say, and hated the way the honesty slipped out before he could catch it.

“I almost didn’t,” you admitted. “My parents were taking forever to go to their room. My mother kept asking if I was tired. If I wanted tea. If I wanted to sleep early.”

“And?”

“And I said yes,” you said, and something small changed in your expression, a flicker of the mischievous he had seen at the playground. “To all of it.”

Sunghoon nodded at you, only once — only because he understood and he didn’t want you to explain further. Explanations could turn into an apology, and he didn’t want your apology — not tonight, not anymore — not when the corners of your lips were already curling into a smile. 

You glanced at the bench, and then, at him. “Is this—” you paused. “Is this where you always wait?”

“No,” he said. “Only tonight.”

The words sat between you — true enough to make the space feel thinner, but if anything, you stepped even closer — the red flowers behind you making your skin look warmer than it probably was. 

Sunghoon’s hand lifted without his permission — not to touch you, not really, just hovering near your elbow like a reflex, like his body decided to lead you away from danger before his mind had agreed it was allowed. But he caught himself at the last second and dropped it back.

“We should go,” he said then. “Before someone sees.”

“Where?”

“Where do you want to go?” 

You glanced toward the road first, watching the faint spill of the resort light that didn’t quite reach the park before you looked back — looked at him, the wind picking and shifting a strand of your hair across your cheek in the process, and he was thankful that you reached for it fastly, tucking it behind your own ear before his hand could mischief again.

“Somewhere,” you said. “Anywhere.”

⋆˚꩜｡

The resort disappeared behind you in trimmed hedges, stone paths, and the last spill of gold light thinning between the trees until it couldn’t reach. Even the air changed. Less citrus polish and more Jeju: salt threaded through the dark laced with tangerine, damp earth, cedar, and something sharp-green from the moss that climbed the trunks like it owned them. Even the sounds shifted as you kept walking, string music and fountain hush traded for insects, a burst of laughter somewhere down the road — the messy life of the island bleeding back in.

Sunghoon led you along a path that dipped and narrowed, the trees thinning until the sky opened. And then the beach was simply there — no staging, no chairs and parasols with Marriotte’s logo, but just the sea moving in slow, endless pulls toward the pale sand.

He stepped down first, shoes sinking just slightly, and you followed — until you didn’t.

You stopped at the line where pavement ended and sand began, staring at the sea for a quiet moment before your gaze dropped to your feet, to the heels that suddenly looked ridiculous here.

“I—” you started, already crouching to slip one off, but the sand shifted under you, breaking your balance.

It had been nothing more than a small slip, your ankle rolling in a way that could have passed unnoticed — but Sunghoon was watching, and before you could pretend it hadn’t happened, his hand had already closed around your forearm, firm and quick, saving you from a fall that would never really come.

Your skin was warm under his grip, summer still caught in you somewhere, and suddenly, you were so close and the night so still. All he could feel was the breeze on his cheeks, your breath feathering against his skin, and the sea hissing at the shore.

“Careful,” he whispered.

You steadied yourself, letting out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh — embarrassed and relieved all at once — before you slipped the heel off properly this time, then the other, holding them by the straps as you finally stepped further.

“Is this one of those beaches where you’re not allowed to go in the water at certain times?”

“Allowed,” he echoed. The word sounded strangely cute coming from you, but it was all wrong out here, too Marriotte, and he hated what that place had taught you to carry.

He bent down and unlaced his shoes, slipping them off before he stepped further, finding where the sea had already touched the sand and left it wet, but he stopped there then, looking over his shoulder at you, as if offering the path with his body.

“Come on,” he said. “This isn’t Marriotte. We can do what we like for a little while.”

You hesitated for a moment, lips parting as though you meant to say something else — but whatever it was, you let it go with a small shake of your head and followed.

Sunghoon kept his pace slower than normal, not looking back fully — just enough to confirm you were still there, a step behind him, heels hooked securely over your fingers — and matching your pace when it slowed, pretending he wasn’t listening to every change in your breathing like it could mean something.

The shoreline pulled in and out, foam thinning and retreating, leaving the sand dark and shining under the moonlight. A small wave slid up in a cold sheet and flattened at Sunghoon’s feet, soaking the hem of his trousers. 

“I am sorry,” you said. “I had no idea that my father had invited Byeongseok and his parents. If I had, I would have told you to come some other time. I know they are—” but you never finished. There wasn’t anything you could say that they hadn’t already proven to be, and so, you merely shook your head, your gaze dropping back at your feet. “I am genuinely sorry.”

Sunghoon halted then, not realizing he had done it until you halted too, turning to find him a step behind. He never thought he had any problem with speaking and talking, but now he realized that perhaps whenever he had something serious to say, he needed to go still first. 

“Byeongseok,” he began.

“What about him?”

“Are you both a — thing?” 

“What?” you laughed, less because you were amused than because you knew you were supposed to be. “He is a friend — kind of, I don’t know.”

You shuddered.

“Our parents have known each other since university and co-founded their first company together,” you explained. “When our mothers got pregnant around the same time, it was already decided that Byeongseok and I should be friends too — actually, when they figured out our genders, even — even marriage was in the talks.”

The world didn’t stop then. The wind kept blowing, tucking loose strands of your hair and sending them through the night in thin ribbons of moonlight. The sea kept hissing at the shore in its slow, indifferent rhythm, as if it had never learned the meaning of names. But Sunghoon went painfully still.

It shouldn’t have made him feel anything — this truth of yours — but it did, because it carried the sharpest fact with it: you could slip away without anyone even touching you. You could turn back toward Marriotte’s gold light and be absorbed by it like you’d never stood here at all. Like this beach was only a pause between rules. Like the night had borrowed you and would have to give you back.

And the thought spiked so suddenly that it made him angry.

Sunghoon worked his jaw once and swallowed hard, as if he could force the feeling down to wherever he kept everything else. But it didn’t go. It stayed lodged in his throat, cold, heavy, and growing harder with every second he didn’t say it out loud: don’t go.

And in the hush of the moment, you continued, your voice slipping into the space before his could, soft and quick, like you were trying to save you both from something.

“It is not so terrible,” you told him, and for a moment he couldn’t tell what you were referring to. “I mean, I am not the type of person who did much — ever since childhood — as you can notice. I did not have much experience with anything. I do not know how to swim, and I only know how to ride a bike because one of my babysitters thought it was absurd that I did not know how at the age of twelve.”

“Twelve?” Sunghoon echoed, his voice softer than he expected. He tried to picture a twelve-year-old you and someone finally deciding you should know how to balance yourself on two wheels. “What else have you never tried?” 

“Carnivals, arcades, street food,” you said, and it hurt Sunghoon to notice how you didn’t even seem to go very far into your mind before coming up with those, as if you had already listed all the things life had kept from you, holding it on a secret corner. “I’ve also never played in the rain.”

You didn’t look at him when you said it. You looked at the water instead, and the words hung there a moment — small and wrong against the sea.

“What else do children do?” you asked quietly.

“In Jeju?” Sunghoon echoed, and you shuddered a little because the problem wasn’t Jeju at all, but that you didn’t know what children did anywhere.

His gaze slid past you, down the shoreline, and toward where the harbor lights would be if you followed the coast far enough.

“Fishing boats,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

He glanced back at you. “Have you ever been on one?”

“No,” you laughed, and it sounded like surprise more than amusement. “Not even close.”

Sunghoon didn’t think. He just decided.

“Come.”

“Now?”

He nodded, already moving — already turning it into something inevitable before he could talk himself out of it. Sunghoon stepped into your space, reaching for you. His fingers closing around your wrist, as though he was afraid you’d vanish if he didn’t anchor you to the moment.

He didn’t look back as he led you along the shoreline. He only tightened his grip once — pulling you farther down the beach with the sound of the sea and his heart pounding against his ears. 

⋆˚꩜｡

Sunghoon didn’t stop walking until the sand gave way to wood and damp rope, until the harbor opened up in front of you and it was too late to turn back.

Boats rested low in the water, tied close to the dock as their hulls knocked softly in the tide’s slow pull. The air here was thick with things the resort would’ve scrubbed away: seaweed gone sweet at the rocks, gasoline that never fully left the planks, fish in a way that didn’t come plated, and rope that held the day’s work in its fibers.

He stepped onto the dock and led you between the boats without slowing until he found one smaller than the rest — paint chipped, name faded to something half-forgotten, but still rocking with a stubborn kind of life.

“Is it yours?” you asked.

Sunghoon shook his head, letting go of your hand only so he could climb down first, one hand on the rail, knees bending on instinct as the boat dipped beneath his weight and steadied again. 

“It was — is my father’s, but he doesn’t use it anymore,” Sunghoon answered, looking back up at you from the deck. 

“It moves,” he warned. “Just — just step where I tell you.”

“You know,” you whispered. “The last time I was on something like this, I slipped and caused chaos — what if I slip again?”

“I’ll jump after you again,” he replied, taking a moment too long to notice how silly he had sounded, but you laughed then — real, and soft — cheeks growing a shade darker beneath the lights, and Sunghoon decided that he didn’t care. He could be as silly as he needed to be to see you like this. 

“I am trusting you on this,” you said. 

Sunghoon reached up toward you, not offering his hand like something romantic, but lifting his arms like he was preparing to catch you before you could fall.

“Come,” he said, and when you stepped closer, he didn’t give either of you time to second-guess it. His hands found your waist, fingers curling and holding onto as he lifted you.

The boat shifted under him as he brought you down, the deck dipping at the exact wrong moment, and making Sunghoon’s balance break — just a fraction — but he stumbled anyway, the two of you jolting together.

Your lips parted on a gasp, and you were suddenly too close again. The air between you thinned enough that Sunghoon could not only hear but feel it against his mouth, sweet with the strawberry cocktail you had been nursing at dinner and chocolate from the dessert he almost stole from you.

He wasn’t sure what had come to your mind, but your gaze dropped to his lips, and for one stupid second, he thought the deck had tilted again, some tide moving the boat beneath your feet, because he caught himself moving toward you — toward whatever it was.

It was absurd, honestly, how quickly his body betrayed him. How instinct moved first: the pull forward, the half-formed reach, the mind going blank in the same way it did right before a dive.

But then, his mind snapped back in with the same brutal timing it always had, and Sunghoon halted.

He forced his hands to stay where they were. Forced his feet to hold, and his gaze to move up and off your mouth — off the sweet stain of chocolate and strawberries on the air — because if he kept looking, he didn’t trust himself not to finish what his body had started.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The only still point in the middle of a harbor that continued to creak as it always had: water brushing softly against wood, rope shifting overhead, and the hull answering the tide with a slow, patient pull for which Sunghoon couldn’t bring himself to match. But then, you stepped aside, your gaze already skittering away, and searching for anything to hold onto that wasn’t this.

“It is a nice boat,” you said. “Why does your father not use it anymore?” 

His fingers flexed once at his sides — a newfound habit to ground him back into his body — as he breathed in.

“He had a stroke a few years ago,” he said, and it came out with the same level of emotion the doctors had said back then, like a fact because well, it was what it was. “It interrupted the blood flow to his spinal cord for long enough — long enough for his legs to stop working.”

It made you turn back at him, your gaze settling on him with a softness Sunghoon didn’t know what to do with because it didn’t feel like pity, not really. It felt like you were staying. As if you’d reached for the ugly truth and, instead of handing it back to him, you were holding one corner of it with your bare hands, because you didn’t want to give it back to him, not when it weighed so much, and it made his breath catch.

He looked away on instinct, jaw tightening as if he could lock the reaction behind his teeth, but his throat still burned anyway, sudden and sharp. The harbor lights blurred for a second on the water’s surface, trembling lines turning softer as he blinked and forced his eyes to behave.

“I am so sorry, Sunghoon,” you said, quietly. “I cannot imagine how hard it must have been for you.”

Something in his chest shifted at the way you said it — for him, not just his father — and it left him unsteady in a way the boat never could. He pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth, swallowing once, and then again, as if he could force the feeling down into a place it wouldn’t show.

But he couldn’t — he never could, not with you.

“Yeah,” Sunghoon managed, rough around the edges. Then, after a beat, like the words had to be pried loose: “It was—”

“It was my last year in high school and suddenly I was having to get part-time jobs to help with the bills. University exams and everything that came with it became just a reality that couldn’t be mine,” he said, the words coming out in a rush, like now that he had started, he couldn’t stop. “I graduated by a miracle, I would say — and then I got the job at Marriotte, and it’s not like we are rich, but it gave us some breathing room. They pay well — I mean, not enough to cover a dozen of crystal glasses with one of the most expensive champagnes comfortably—”

“That is why you reacted that way,” you said.

“Desperate?” 

“I wasn’t going to use this word.”

Sunghoon’s lips twitched.

“You can be harsh with me, Angel,” he said, and regretted the nickname the second it left his mouth. It sounded too familiar — too owned — but if anything, you smiled at him, ending the distance you had previously created and reaching for him, your thumb brushing the space between his brows.

“You are frowning,” you whispered.

Sunghoon hadn’t noticed it — he couldn’t come to care, actually — all he could think about was the warmth of your thumb, the faint smell of coconuts at your skin, and the sudden, odd urgency in him to keep you there and not let you slip away again.

“Do you want me to take her out a bit?” he asked, his voice lower than he intended. “It’s better once the lights are behind us.”

“The boat?” you asked, and he was surprised by how excited you sounded. “Can you?”

He moved before he could overthink it, reaching past you to the console by the cabin, fingers finding switches and knobs with the muscle memory of a childhood he didn’t talk about much. 

The cabin itself crouched in the middle of the boat — small windows clouded with salt, paint chipped, a cheap string of bulbs hanging along a metal frame overhead from one decision he was too young to remember. Warm light spilled onto coiled rope and a cooler shoved against the cabin wall, onto a bucket with a cracked handle and nets bunched like shed skins.

The boat rocked in small answers as he worked, impatient, like it wanted to be out in the water too.

You stepped into the cabin’s shadow, close enough to watch without getting in the way. 

The engine coughed when he turned it over, and Sunghoon coaxed it gently — hand steady, voice low under his breath as if the boat could hear him. It sputtered again, then finally caught, a rough vibration running through the deck and up his legs, swallowing the harbor’s quieter noises.

Sunghoon guided the boat out, slow at first, easing past the tighter line of docked vessels. The harbor lights stayed bright behind you for a moment — gold smearing across the water — before they began to thin.

And then, gradually, the world changed. The air opened. The smell of gasoline softened into salt and night. The noises of the docks dissolved into nothing but the sea’s quiet insistence and the boat’s engine thudding like a heartbeat.

You leaned a little, peering past the cabin.

“It is — dark,” you said.

“You aren’t supposed to be looking down.”

“I—”

Sunghoon killed the engine, and the sudden silence landed heavy and solemn, although the boat continued to drift, tide and current doing what they always did, and the hull continued to knock against the water.

“Come,” he said.

Sunghoon stepped out and moved toward the side passage between the cabin and the rail. It was narrow — barely enough for one person to pass without turning sideways, and you seemed to notice it right away.

“Is it — safe?” you asked, and Sunghoon snorted at it.

“Define safe,” he said, because it wasn’t, but there was no other way, and so, he merely turned sideways, giving in a few steps into the narrow patch before he glanced back at you.

“Like this,” he instructed. “Sideways — you can use the cabin for support.”

You did as he said, following him into the gap.

The cabin wall pressed close as you both moved, and only when you reached the bow, the space widened by a few inches — not much, but enough to feel like freedom. The cabin lights were dimmer here, allowing the sky to be everything.

Sunghoon looked at you for a second, taking in the way you stared upward, your lips parting in a gasp you didn’t quite release.

Sunghoon didn’t wait for you to decide. He lowered himself first, back meeting the wood, one arm tucked under his head like he belonged to the boat in a way he didn’t belong anywhere else. 

You watched him as if you weren’t sure you were allowed to follow, but then you did anyway, lying down beside him.

Above, the stars were so bright they looked spilled — silver and white against a dark so deep, it swallowed the last memory of the harbor.

And it was so nice to just lie there with you — backs resting against the deck as you watched the stars — as if you both had shared something and were no longer alone with yourselves and your little secrets, because well, you had.

“You know,” you began. “You made me do two things I have never done in the span of a single hour — be in a fishing boat and watch the stars.”

“Have you never watched the stars?” he asked.

“Not really,” you said. “There are too many lights in Seoul, it’s almost impossible to see the stars.”

“That’s a waste.”

You laughed at that — so small and soft — as if the night had pulled it out of you without asking and Sunghoon’s mouth twitched at the sound. He kept his eyes on the sky, knowing it was safer than looking at you, but your laughter stayed in his chest anyway, warm, stubborn, and making something within him shift.

“We could do more,” he said, the words escaping before he could prevent them. “Not tonight, but while you are in Jeju — I could teach you how to swim — there is a public pool nearby, we could go there after my working hours at the resort.”

He was rambling at this point, trying to turn the thing he had just offered into something practical — something that could be scheduled and explained and, if necessary, defended. As if putting it into logistics could make it safer.

“I mean—”

“I would love to,” you cut in. “I genuinely would love to.”

“Tomorrow, if you can,” he said. “Let’s meet on the bench.”

“Tomorrow,” you said. “At our spot.”

“Our spot,” he heard himself agreeing. 

Sunghoon couldn’t tell how long you stayed there, the boat drifting and rocking beneath your backs, but it was enough for the air to shift, the night cooling as if the morning had already started to gather itself somewhere out of his sight. And Sunghoon understood, with a clarity that made something within his chest tighten, that soon the world would wake up, and he would have to take you back. Tomorrow was going to come no matter what, and yet still — he wanted it to. 

If it were to be with you, he wanted it to.

PART TWO｜STORY MASTERLIST

[luvpocket]

sympathetic resonance (park jongseong) 𝜗ৎ

pairing: guitarist!jay x waitress!reader

content: smut. porn with a bit of plot.

warnings: mdni! sexual content, teasing, sexual tension, teasing, edging, degradation, mocking, use of pet names, reader rides his guitar, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, p in v, unprotected sex (don’t do it), rough sex, reader is desperate, light choking, crying during sex, creampie.

wc: 16.2k

note: ngl i wrote this for myself (and kind of for this req too). i think i love writing about pathetic yearners because i myself have never fallen in love LMAOOO 😭 i stayed up a whole night just to finish this so i hope it's good...........

permanent taglist (you can comment!): @kristynaaah @hooniella @gentlestpour @heelvcr @heesvnqie @kazehee @rikigirr @cherishmoka @hoonieslove @sulkybunnysstuff @addictedtohobi @nyawon @sh33pg4rden @sinforsim @daysweetdreams @nonsochenomemettere0 @ronromiiws @jollypredatorscarab

enjoy !!

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

for a long time, you had thought you were just waiting for the right kind of soft.

you had tried, too. you had allowed yourself to be taken out to quiet dinners, had sat under warm porch lights, listening to men talk about their lives with gentle, earnest eyes. you had let them hold your hand across small wooden tables, feeling the steady warmth of their palms, and you had waited. you had waited for that sudden shift in the air, that secret hum in the gut that people spent their whole lives writing songs about.

but every time someone leaned in, every time warm lips pressed against yours in the cool night air, it had felt like nothing at all. dry skin against dry skin. a strange, mechanical stillness. it was like watching a match strike through a thick sheet of glass. you could see the heat, could acknowledge the flame, but not a single spark ever managed to reach your skin.

the panic had been quiet at first, a slow burning ache in the back of your throat, before it turned into something suffocating. it wasn't that you were picky. it wasn't that you were holding out for some cinematic ideal. it was the lonely realization that the mechanism inside you was simply broken. your chest was an empty room, dark and quiet, while everyone else seemed to be burning alive.

eventually, you had stopped trying to force a pulse out of stone. you had accepted the dull safety of your own mind.

working at the dive bar had made it easier to forget. the place was always loud enough to drown out the quiet inside your head — sticky floors, the sharp tang of spilt rye, and the dense humidity of too many bodies packed into a low-ceilinged room. you moved through the crowds with a tray tucked under your arm, brushing off clumsy jokes and easy smiles with a polite curve of your lips that never quite reached your eyes. you watched people fall apart over each other every weekend, tangling their fingers together in the dark corners, and you felt like a ghost observing a world you weren't allowed to touch.

watching them was a quiet kind of grief. there was something raw and messy — and violently alive — about the way strangers reached for each other under those flickering neon lights. a bruised knee knocking against another beneath a booth, teeth catching on a lower lip, two people leaning into each other’s space like the air everywhere else was unbreathable. they looked desperate. they looked reckless and stupid and completely undone.

and every time you wove through the narrow aisles with a tray of empty pint glasses, you felt the cold weight of your own detachment settle deeper into your marrow.

you wanted to hate them for it. you wanted to pretend you were above the embarrassing, chaotic urge to give yourself away to someone else. but you weren't above it. you were just locked out.

you had been entirely immune to it all, safe behind the glass, until thursdays started feeling different.

it hadn't happened all at once. it began with the heavy thud of sound equipment being dragged through the alley door, the sudden smell of rain and cheap tobacco cutting through the stale beer. you hadn't even looked at the stage the first night his band played. you had just been standing by the service well, wiping down a greasy counter, when a low, dirty frequency had bled out of the speakers. it was a vibration so deep it didn't just rattle the floorboards under your sneakers, it had settled directly into the hollow space behind your ribs, making your breath hitch in the dark.

you had looked up then. through the shifting haze of blue stage lights and the dull fog of the bar, your eyes caught on the guitarist.

he wasn't trying to pull the room's attention. he didn't have that loud need to be perceived that ruined most musicians who played there. he was just leaning over his instrument like it was the only thing in the room keeping him anchored, dark hair falling across his forehead, casting shadows over sharp features. he wasn't putting on a show. he just played.

when the song ended, he didn't bask in the scattered applause. he just turned his head, exchanged a low, private word with the drummer, and offered a fleeting curve of his mouth that vanished as quickly as it appeared.

and there, standing by the soda gun with a damp rag clutched in your fist, you felt it.

a crack.

it wasn't an explosion. it wasn't a roaring fire. it was just a tiny fracture in the thick glass that had kept you numb for years. a sudden rush of heat that bloomed at the base of your throat and travelled all the way down to your fingertips. you had swallowed hard, your pulse suddenly loud in your own ears, completely paralyzed by the sheer shock of simply feeling something.

you didn't know his name. you didn't know anything about him. but for the rest of your shift, you couldn't stop your eyes from drifting back to the stage.

it started like that. a silent, harmless curiosity.

but as the thursdays bled into each other, the curiosity hardened into something heavier. you learned his name was jay only because you overheard the bartender shouting it over the noise to hand him his tab. you learned that he drank his whiskey neat, that he had a habit of rolling his sleeves up just below the elbow, and that he existed inside a quiet, untouchable bubble.

he had a pull to him, a natural magnetism that drew people in, but he never seemed to entertain it for long. you watched people try their luck after sets — sliding up to the edge of the stage, offering glossy smiles and lingering touches. he wasn't cold, exactly. he would offer a polite nod, maybe a brief response that you couldn't hear over the music, but he never seemed to let anyone in. he always stepped neatly out of their gravity, turning back to pack up his pedals or heading out the back door to smoke with his bandmates. he was polite, but entirely walled off. a mystery that didn't want to be solved.

and slowly, you found yourself sinking into it.

it was a quiet kind of admiration. the kind that crept up on you in the dead spaces of your shift. you found yourself tracking him in your periphery, anticipating the exact moment he would walk through the front door with his guitar case. you memorized the way his hands moved over the frets, the way his jaw set when he was concentrating, the low, raspy pitch of his voice when he occasionally leaned into the microphone for backing vocals.

you made peace with the silence of it. you didn't need to be the person who walked up to him, you were content to stay behind the bar. it didn't matter that he barely looked your way, or that to him, you were probably just a passing blur in an apron clearing empty pint glasses from his table.

it was a one-sided devotion, completely hidden in the dark. but after years of feeling nothing at all, the sweet ache of simply wanting him was a relief. you finally had a pulse, and you guarded that secret bruise with everything you had.

it became a rhythm you lived by. the rest of your week felt like empty space, a dull stretch of days you just had to wade through until thursday rolled around. you started noticing intricate things. like how the faulty neon sign in the window cast a reddish glow over his leather jacket when he stood by the door. or how he tapped his boot against the base of the mic stand before the first song. the heavy silver rings on his right hand too, dull and scratched under the stage lights.

you felt hyper-aware whenever he was in the building, walking through the room like your skin was suddenly too thin. every time you had to walk past the stage to serve the front booths, your shoulders stiffened and your breath turned shallow. you wondered if everyone could see it — this glaring spotlight of a crush burning inside your chest. but no one noticed. especially not him.

the first time he actually spoke to you, it was entirely mundane.

it happened on a night when the heating in the bar had broken. the air was stifling, thick with humidity and the smell of warm beer. he had just finished his set, leaving his guitar on the stand, and instead of heading out to the alley, he walked straight toward the narrow stretch of the service well where you were refilling the garnish trays.

you didn't hear him approach over the sudden noise of the jukebox filling the silence. you just turned around with a plastic container of sliced limes, and he was suddenly there, leaning a casual arm against the dark wood of the bar.

up close, the sheer gravity of him was suffocating. you could smell the faint trace of tobacco clinging to his clothes, mixed with something clean and sharp beneath it. your heart gave a panicked lurch, hammering against your ribs so hard you thought he might hear it.

"hey." he said. his voice was raspy from singing, carrying that same effortless cadence he used with everyone. "could i just get some water?"

you froze. the container of limes suddenly felt heavy in your hands. out of all the desperate, ridiculous scenarios you had accidentally imagined, simply handing him water hadn't been one of them.

"yeah." you managed to say, but your voice came out thin, strained.

you felt the heat rush violently to your cheeks as you spun back around, fumbling for a clean glass. your fingers were suddenly clumsy, stupid, completely betraying you. you dropped an ice cube on the rubber mat and nearly missed the glass with the soda gun.

he didn't seem to notice your quiet spiral. or if he did, he didn't care. he just waited, looking past you, his dark eyes casually scanning the row of liquor bottles on the shelf, completely untethered, completely calm. to him, this was nothing. just a pit stop.

you set the glass down in front of him, a little too abruptly, water sloshing perilously close to the rim.

"sorry." you mumbled, wiping your trembling hands hastily on your apron, wanting nothing more than for the floorboards to open up and swallow you whole.

he didn't bat an eye. he just pulled the glass toward him, offering that same polite nod he gave everyone else, treating you exactly the way he treated the sound guy, the bouncer, the rest of the world.

"thanks." he murmured.

and then he turned around and walked back to his bandmates, taking all the air in the room with him.

he hadn't lingered. he hadn't really looked at you. the interaction had lasted less than thirty seconds. but as you stood there, gripping the edge of the service well with white knuckles, your chest was heaving like you had just run a marathon.

you felt pathetic. utterly ruined by a man who was just thirsty. but those thirty seconds sustained you for a month.

you hated yourself for it. you spent the following weeks dissecting the interaction until there was nothing left but the humiliating reality that you had practically trembled in front of him, and he hadn't even perceived you as a person. you were just a function. a pair of hands that delivered his glass.

but then, it became a routine.

the next thursday, after the first set, he didn't go to the alley. he didn't go to the wider, less crowded side of the bar where the other bartender was standing idly. he walked straight through the crowd and stopped at your cramped corner of the service well.

he didn't say hey this time. he just leaned his forearms against the sticky wood, his dark eyes fixed on the dirty mirror behind the liquor shelf, and tapped his silver-ringed fingers once against the rubber bar mat.

you didn't ask what he wanted. you just reached for a clean glass, your chest tightening painfully, and poured the water.

he took it, gave that same detached nod, and walked away.

it turned into a brutal, silent arrangement. every week, he would come to your exact corner. he never asked your name. he never asked how your shift was going. to you, it felt like you were entirely invisible, just a convenient fixture in the background of his night. he would stand there, chest heaving slightly from the performance, smelling of smoke and sweat, taking up all the oxygen in your immediate radius.

sometimes he would drink it right there, turning his back to you to lean against the bar and survey the room. you would stand inches behind him, trying to remember how to breathe, wiping the same spot on the stainless steel counter over and over just to have something to do with your hands.

it was toxic, this tiny sliver of proximity. you were starving, and he was dropping crumbs without even looking down to see what was eating them.

you rationalized it, of course. it was obviously just convenience. he was a creature of habit. he came to your well because he knew you wouldn't bother him, wouldn't try to touch his arm or shout over the music like the people who hovered near the stage. he came to you because you were practically a ghost. you offered no resistance, no annoying conversation. you were just a silent dispenser of whatever he needed.

but god, you started living for those quiet, devastating minutes.

you started making sure you were anchored at the well right before his set ended, ensuring you wouldn't be called away to a table. you started wearing a little more perfume on thursdays, putting on a darker shade of lip balm, hoping that maybe, just once, his dark eyes would snag on you for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.

they never did. his gaze always slid right past you, completely blank, completely untethered.

the worst part was the accidental touches. it didn't happen often — maybe three times over the course of two months. you would slide the cold glass across the wood, and his large fingers would reach out to take it, the rough pad of his thumb grazing your knuckles.

it was always an accident. it had to be. he would pull the glass away with that same maddening expression, completely unaffected, while the brief contact sent a violent shockwave straight up your arm. your skin would burn for hours where he had touched you for less than a second.

you would spend the rest of the night clutching your serving tray against your ribs, nursing the humiliating agony of knowing that you were completely consumed by a man who couldn't even pick you out of a lineup. you were letting him ruin you, and he didn't even know he was doing it.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

it was a rainy mid-november thursday, past two in the morning, and the bar had emptied out into the storm outside. the jukebox was off, leaving only the low hum of the beer fridges and the rhythmic patter of rain against the grimy back window. the other bartender had gone to the back office to count the drawer, leaving you alone to wipe down the sticky surfaces.

he hadn't left with his band. he was sitting on a high stool at the far edge of your well, his leather jacket damp from the rain, spinning a wooden match between his fingers.

you were trying to keep your hands busy, rinsing glasses in the sink, your pulse doing that familiar dance against your ribs just knowing he was sitting three feet away. you kept your head down, tucked behind the shield of your hair, praying your face wasn't as flushed as it felt.

when you finally moved to clear the counter in front of him, you reached out to take his empty glass.

his fingers were still loosely curled around the base of the heavy tumbler. you hesitated for a fraction of a second, your breath catching, before carefully reaching for the rim. but as you pulled it toward you, the back of your knuckles brushed against the side of his hand. a tiny, accidental touch.

you froze, expecting him to pull away like he usually did. but he didn't move. instead, he slowly lifted his head. for the first time in months, his heavy lidded eyes travelled up from the wood of the counter and locked directly onto yours.

the world narrowed down to the space between you. up close, in the dim red light of the neon sign, you could see the sharp line of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows, the intoxicating weight of his focus. it was like breathing in smoke.

he didn't look angry, or amused, or bored. he just looked at you, his gaze steady and quiet, taking you in while your lungs completely locked up.

"you got a light?" he asked. his voice was a low rasp, stripped of the stage's volume, vibrating softly in the empty room. it hit you right in the center of your chest.

"uh…" you stammered, your voice pathetically small. "yeah. yeah, under the register."

you turned around too fast, your hands trembling so violently you almost knocked over a bottle of bitters. you fumbled beneath the counter, your heart hammering against your collarbone like a trapped bird, before your fingers finally caught a small cardboard matchbook.

when you turned back, he was watching you. not with impatience, but with a slow quiet that made your skin prickle with heat.

you reached across the bar, extending the matches. instead of taking the book by the edge, his calloused hand closed around yours, his thumb brushing over the knuckles of your fingers to take it from your grip. the heat of his skin was shocking, a searing contrast to the cold glass you had been washing.

he didn't let go instantly. for two agonizing seconds, his fingers lingered against yours, holding the matchbook — and your hand — between you.

and then, he pulled back.

you stood there, gripping the edge of the sink behind you with white knuckles, unable to move, unable to think. you watched as he struck the match. the sharp tang of sulfur filled the space between you, the tiny orange flame illuminating the sharp planes of his face for a split second before he brought it to the tip of his cigarette.

he took a slow drag, blew a thin trail of smoke toward the ceiling, and tossed the matchbook back onto the wet wood of the bar.

"thanks." he murmured, his eyes lingering on yours for just one more endless beat.

he slid off the stool, pulling his jacket tighter around his shoulders, and walked toward the alley exit without another word. the heavy door clicked shut behind him, leaving you alone in the quiet bar with the smell of sweet tobacco and sulfur hanging thick in the air.

you sank against the counter, your knees weak, pressing your burning palm against your chest. you didn't know what it meant. you didn't know if he was just being polite, or if he even remembered your face now that he was out in the rain. but as you stood there in the dark, gasping for air, you knew one thing for certain — the quiet bruise of wanting him had just turned into a fire you had no idea how to put out.

you took the matchbook off the wet bar before you locked up that night. you tucked it into the breast pocket of your apron like a stolen secret, your thumb smoothing over the damp cardboard all the way home on the late night bus. in your small, quiet bedroom, you put it on your nightstand, next to your bed, staring at the charred tips of the few burned matches inside until your eyes burned. it was pathetic. it was the most humiliating thing you had ever done — practically building an altar out of a stranger’s trash.

but the next thursday, the air in the bar felt fundamentally altered.

the invisible line had been crossed, and even if you tried to convince yourself it was all in your head, you couldn’t help feeling hopeful. when his band took the stage, you couldn't even pretend to do your job properly. every muscle in your back was locked, your skin humming with a terrible awareness.

and then, halfway through their third song, it happened.

jay was leaning into a slow riff, his dark hair falling over his face in a beautiful way, when his head tilted. he didn't look at the drunks by the stage. he didn't look at his pedals. his dark, hooded eyes swept straight across the crowded room and locked onto you, standing frozen by the ice well.

it lasted two seconds. maybe three. just an unblinking hold through the blue stage smoke before he looked back down at his guitar.

your breath hitched so hard you choked on it. you backed into the stainless steel counter, hands gripping the edge, telling yourself you were delusional. he was just looking at the clock behind you. he was just scanning the room. he doesn't see you. but it all tasted bitter in your mouth, because the heat in your face was real, and your heart was hammering a desperate rhythm against your ribs.

when the set ended, he didn't wait for the bar to clear out.

he walked straight to your well while the room was still loud and chaotic. he stepped right up to the narrow gap in the counter where you were standing, taking up every inch of space, leaning his forearms over the wood until he was lingering directly in your personal bubble.

up close, the smell of him — stale rain, sweet tobacco, and warm skin — was an absolute sensory assault.

you didn't wait for him to speak. with trembling fingers, you quickly reached for a clean glass and filled it from the pitcher, sliding it toward him without meeting his eyes. "here." you whispered, your voice barely audible over the jukebox.

but he didn't take the glass.

instead, he just leaned in a fraction of an inch closer, his shoulder almost brushing yours across the narrow divider. he placed his silver-ringed hand flat on the bar mat, right beside your trembling wrist. close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his skin.

"didn't even have to ask." he murmured. his voice was a low rumble meant only for you, dropping beneath the noise of the bar. you looked up, trapped, your eyes flying to his.

he was watching you with a quiet intensity. it felt like he was invading your space completely, casually asserting himself over you, letting the quiet weight of his presence suffocate you while you stood there, utterly helpless.

"you always know what i want, y/n?"

the sound of your name on his lips sent a sickening thrill straight down your spine. you hadn't told him your name. you had never introduced yourself. he had simply taken it, learned it in the dark, and was now holding it against your throat like a blade.

"i-" you swallowed, your throat completely bone dry, your mind spinning into a panicked blur. "it's just... you always order water."

a faint, almost imperceptible tilt appeared at the corner of his mouth. not a smile, but something darker.

he finally reached out and grabbed the glass, taking a slow sip as his eyes never left your flushed face, just to set it back down right in front of you. as he turned and walked away into the crowd, you gripped the edge of the sink, gasping for air, completely shocked at the terrifying realization that maybe you weren't a ghost to him anymore.

you spent the next ten minutes in the back room, leaning your forehead against the cool painted cinderblock, violently dismantling every second of it.

you were actually delusional. your nametag was pinned right to the strap of your apron, faded white plastic with your name scratched into the corner. of course he had just read the tag while waiting for his drink, using it to be vaguely polite, and you had turned it into some profound revelation.

the humiliation was a heavy weight in your stomach, but as you picked up your tray to finish closing, you still couldn't stop the embarrassing flutter in your chest.

by three in the morning, the bar was nearly pitch black, saved only by the dim red glow of the exit sign and the streetlights bleeding through the front glass. the doors were locked, and you were clearing the last of the back booths near the stage, desperately trying to hurry so you could escape into the rain.

you didn't realize he was still there until you rounded the corner of the booth.

jay was sitting alone in the dark leather seat, a half empty glass of amber liquor in front of him, his long legs stretched out into the narrow aisle. his jacket was off, draped over the back of the seat, his dark sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal his beautiful skin. he was staring down at his phone, the blue light catching the sharp angle of his cheekbone.

you froze, the heavy tray clattering loudly against your thigh. right then, you tried to pull back, to turn around before he noticed you, but your sneakers squeaked against the slick tile.

he didn't jump. he just slowly raised his head, locking those heavy lidded eyes on you through the gloom.

"sorry." you blurted out, the word tumbling out of your mouth way too fast, way too high. "i-i thought everyone was gone. i'm just clearing tables. i mean, obviously you're here. i can come back later. when you're done." you sounded pathetic, babbling, and completely transparent.

jay didn't move. he just watched you scramble over your own words, his expression completely unreadable. he took a slow sip of his drink, the ice clinking softly against the glass, taking his sweet time while you stood there burning alive under his gaze.

"i'm done." he said softly. his voice sounded even lower in the empty bar, a lazy purr that seemed to coat the inside of your ears.

you nodded frantically, stepping forward to reach for the empty beer bottles on the far side of his table. but to reach them, you had to lean slightly into his space, your apron brushing against the wooden edge of his booth. you were so terrified of touching him that your hands were shaking again, your fingers fumbling uselessly around the neck of a glass.

"you always seem to be in a rush, y/n." he murmured. it wasn't a question, it was a slow statement.

"i'm- i just have a lot to clean." you stammered, your eyes fixed firmly on the sticky tabletop, refusing to look at him. "and the bus stops running at three thirty. so. yeah."

"is that why you're trembling?"

the question hit you like a drop of ice water down your spine. you snapped your head up, your mouth falling open slightly.

he was leaning back against the leather, his head tilted, watching you with quiet curiosity. he didn't look mean. he didn't look cold. he just looked like a man who had caught a small animal in a trap and was casually watching it squirm.

"i'm not-" you swallowed hard, your throat locking up. "it's just cold in here."

a dry breath slipped past his lips — not quite a laugh, but close enough to make your face burn with a sudden heat.

he reached out, his long fingers casually picking up the last empty glass on the far side of the table — the one you had been struggling to reach without leaning over him — and slid it across the wood, setting it directly onto your tray.

his fingertips brushed against yours as he let go. just a brief, heavy whisper of skin.

"there." he rasped, his dark eyes holding yours with a suffocating intensity. "now you won't miss your bus."

you couldn't even mutter a thanks. you just clutched the tray against your chest, offered a jerking nod, and practically ran toward the back kitchen, your heart hammering so violently against your ribs you thought it might burst right out of your chest.

you were an idiot. a complete, tragic idiot, mistaking a hot guy messing with his waitress for something else. but as you leaned against the sink in the back, listening to the quiet sound of his footsteps heading toward the exit, your skin was still screaming where his hand had brushed yours.

you stood there for five long minutes, pressing the cold water tap against your burning wrists, trying to force your pulse to slow down. it was actually embarrassing. you were an open wound, bleeding out in front of a man who was just bored, amused by how easy it was to throw you off balance. you told yourself to get a grip, to untie your apron, pack your bag, and leave before you made a bigger fool of yourself.

you put your coat on, shoved your hands deep into your pockets, and pushed through the heavy metal back door into the alleyway.

the rain was coming down hard now, slapping against the pavement and washing away the grime of the night. you ducked your head, pulling your collar up around your throat, preparing to sprint the three blocks to the bus stop.

you took two steps before you saw him.

jay was leaning against the damp brick wall right beneath the narrow tin awning, protected from the downpour. you stopped dead in your tracks, your heart dropping straight to the soles of your shoes.

"you missed it." he said softly. his voice didn't carry over the sound of the rain — it sat beneath it, low and raspy, vibrating in the narrow space between the brick walls.

"what?" you stammered, your voice catching in your dry throat.

he didn't answer with words. he just raised his left arm, tapping the face of his watch with his thumb. the faint red glow of the streetlight caught the hands.

three thirty four.

"oh." you breathed. the last bus was gone.

you stood there, exposed in the cold rain, water instantly soaking through the canvas of your sneakers, feeling small and completely stranded. you should have turned around. you should have walked back inside, called a cab, or walked the forty minutes home in the freezing wet. but your feet were glued to the pavement. you were starving, so pathetic and desperate for the heat radiating off him that you couldn't move a single inch away.

jay took a long drag of his cigarette, his dark eyes never leaving your wet face. he didn't offer a ride. he didn't offer an apology. he just watched you drown in the rain, taking up all the dry space beneath the awning like he owned it.

then, without taking his eyes off you, he stepped back an inch, dropping his shoulder slightly toward the brick wall. it was the smallest, most dismissive invitation in the world. a silent command.

your body moved before your brain could stop it. you stepped out of the pouring rain and under the narrow awning, sinking right into his space.

the sudden heat off him was staggering. you could smell his familiar scent, taking over your senses so violently you felt dizzy. you were standing mere inches from his chest, your soaked shoulder almost touching his arm, your breath coming in ragged puffs that misted in the cold night air.

"you're soaking wet." he murmured.

he lifted his hand — the same hand that played those dirty riffs on stage — and brought it to your face.

you flinched, your eyes wide, your lungs seizing up entirely. but he didn't pull back. his knuckles pressed gently against the side of your neck, his thumb deliberately wiping a drop of rain off your cheekbone. the touch was so hot it felt like a brand, sending a exquisite shiver straight down your spine.

"you're freezing too." he rasped, his thumb dragging down to the side of your jaw, pressing just hard enough to feel the frantic hammering of your pulse against his skin.

you wanted to tell him to stop. you wanted to push his hand away and call him cruel for playing with you like this, for holding you under his thumb when you meant absolutely nothing to him. but you couldn't speak. you were drowning in him, your body betraying you so completely that you tilted your head a fraction of an inch into his palm, desperate for a heat you knew you couldn’t have.

the moment you yielded, the moment your skin pressed just a fraction of an inch heavier into his palm, a terrifying heat rushed straight down to your core.

it was heavy and sudden, a warm pull in your lower belly that made your knees feel completely useless. you had never felt this before — this raw, desperate spike of arousal just from a thumb brushing your jawline. you were completely swallowed up by the sight of him. you took in the sharp line of his throat as he tilted his head, the rain-dampened strands of hair falling over his forehead, the beautiful shape of his mouth. he was a walking disaster. he smelled like dark tobacco and rain, and he felt like the one thing you had been starving for your entire life.

he held his hand there for three agonizing seconds. you could feel the rough calluses on his fingers holding you in place while your breath hitched erratically. he was studying your face, taking in the dilated state of your pupils and the pathetic parting of your lips.

a low hum vibrated in the back of his throat. and then, with agonizing slowness, he dropped his hand.

the absence of his touch was like a physical blow. the freezing alley air slammed back against your wet skin, and a quiet gasp slipped out of your mouth before you could bite it down. your body actually jerked forward a fraction of an inch, subconsciously chasing the heat of his palm, before you caught yourself and stiffened.

you prayed he hadn’t noticed. he probably hadn’t noticed.

jay lifted his cigarette back to his lips, taking a slow drag. he leaned his head back against the brick, watching you shiver under the awning. he looked entirely untouched by the rain, completely in control, while you were falling apart at the seams. it was intoxicating. the fact that he could reduce you to a trembling, aching mess without even trying made you want to press yourself directly against his chest and let him ruin you completely.

"so what's the plan, y/n?" he rasped, blowing a thick stream of smoke over your head. "you're just going to stand here and freeze?"

you wrapped your arms tightly around your own waist, hugging your damp coat against your body, trying to hide the way your chest was heaving. "i don't... i don't know. i'll figure it out."

"the buses are done." he stated, his tone flat. he wasn't looking at you with pity. he was just observing a fact, watching you squirm under the weight of it.

"i know." you swallowed hard, your voice shaking. "i can walk."

his dark eyes flicked down to your soaked canvas sneakers, then slowly dragged back up the length of your body, lingering for a fraction of a second on the frantic pulse at your throat. a faint scoff left his chest.

"you're not walking." he murmured.

he didn't ask. he didn't offer to be a gentleman. he just dropped his cigarette onto the wet concrete, crushing the orange ember beneath the heavy heel of his boot. he stepped away from the wall, his broad shoulders shifting as he adjusted his leather jacket.

"my car's parked on fourth." he said, his voice dropping into that authoritative cadence.

he turned his back to you and stepped out into the freezing rain. he didn't look over his shoulder to see if you were following. he didn't hold out a hand or wait for you to agree. he just walked into the dark, projecting a quiet gravity, seemingly knowing with absolute certainty that you had no willpower left.

and as the pulsing ache in your stomach twisted even tighter, you stepped out from under the awning and followed him into the rain without a second thought.

the walk to his car was a blur of cold rain and slick pavement. you kept your eyes fixed on the broad line of his shoulders, terrified that if you stopped for even a second, you would wake up and realize you were still alone in the alley. he stopped next to a dark sedan, unlocking it with a sharp click that cut through the sound of the storm.

you slipped into the passenger seat, the heavy door shutting behind you and instantly swallowing the noise of the rain.

the silence inside the car was deafening. the interior was pitch black, but it smelled exactly like him — worn leather, lingering stale smoke, and that sharp scent that made your head spin. a second later, the driver's side door opened, and he folded himself into the seat beside you, bringing a gust of cold air with him.

he didn't put the key in the ignition. he didn't start the engine. he just sat there in the dark, his large hands resting loosely on the steering wheel, staring out the rain-slicked windshield.

you sat rigidly, your damp coat clinging to your skin, your knees pressed tightly together as you tried to suppress a violent shiver. the proximity was suffocating. in the narrow space of the front seat, his physical presence felt massive, a heavy gravity pulling on every nerve ending in your body.

"you didn't even hesitate." he said suddenly. his voice was low, filling the enclosed space until there was no room left to breathe.

you swallowed hard, your fingers gripping the damp fabric of your jeans. "what?"

"i told you i was parked on fourth, and you just followed me into the dark." he turned his head slowly, the dim amber glow of a distant streetlight casting sharp shadows across his face. "you always this trusting, y/n?"

the word hit you directly in the stomach, a hot pull that made your thighs ache. "i was freezing. and you offered to drive me."

he didn't say anything to that. he just watched you for a quiet moment. then, he shifted in his seat, leaning across the center console.

your breath hitched. your body instantly braced for the heat of his touch, your chest tightening in desperate anticipation as his broad shoulder eclipsed your vision. but his hand just brushed past your trembling knee, his knuckles grazing your wet denim, to flick a dial on the dashboard.

the heater roared to life, blasting warm air over your freezing legs.

he leaned back into his own space, leaving you entirely bereft. you hated how badly you had wanted his hand to land on your thigh. you hated how obvious the sharp intake of your breath had been.

"you shouldn't get into cars with guys you don't know." he murmured, his voice a lazy drawl over the sound of the fan.

"i know you." you tried to sound steady, but your voice came out breathless and weak, betraying exactly how rattled you were.

jay let out a quiet sound — a rough exhale that vibrated deep in his chest. "you know my drink order, sweetheart. you don't know me."

the nickname made your stomach drop, somehow feeling more condescending than sweet. the words hung heavy in the warm air, because you couldn't argue with him. you didn't know his last name, didn't know where he lived or what he was like when he wasn't dragging those heavy riffs out of his guitar. you didn't know anything real about him at all.

but you knew the exact shape of his hands. you knew the way his throat moved when he swallowed. you knew that you were sitting in his passenger seat, soaking wet, practically vibrating with need just because his eyes were on you. it was a terrifying, blind obsession, and you were completely powerless to stop it.

he watched you fall silent, his dark eyes dropping slowly to the frantic pulse jumping beneath the wet collar of your shirt. he watched it beat for a long second, the silence stretching so tight you thought it might snap. he didn't mock you. he just observed you, taking in the absolute mess he had reduced you to with nothing more than his proximity.

he finally reached down and turned the key in the ignition. the engine rumbled to life, a deep vibration that rattled the floorboards and shot straight up your spine.

"so," he murmured, resting his arm casually on the back of your seat, his fingers brushing the wet ends of your hair. "where am i taking you?"

you rattled off an address that was fifteen minutes away across town, the name of the street barely making it past the nervous knot in your throat.

he didn't say a word. he just pulled the gearshift down, his knuckles brushing dangerously close to your knee, and eased the heavy car out into the empty streets.

the drive was excruciating. you pressed yourself as far into the passenger door as you could, staring out the window at the blurred city. but you couldn't escape him. the car was entirely his domain, saturated with his scent and the brooding quiet he carried everywhere. looking out the window didn't help either — the wet glass just acted like a mirror against the dark night, reflecting the sharp line of his jaw, the relaxed slump of his shoulders, the careless way he drove with one hand resting at the bottom of the steering wheel.

his other hand was still resting on the center console. right in the narrow space between your seats, mere inches from your thigh.

the hypnotic sweep of the windshield wipers was the only sound in the car besides the low roar of the heater. the warm air was slowly thawing your frozen skin, but the heat pooling low in your stomach had absolutely nothing to do with the temperature.

he stopped at a red light. the car idled with a deep purr that vibrated up through the floorboards.

jay shifted his hand on the console, his long fingers tapping a slow rhythm against the dark plastic. every time his hand moved, your eyes darted toward it, completely hypnotized by the heavy silver rings glinting in the dim amber light of the streetlamps.

he caught you looking. his eyes flicked from the windshield to you, catching your gaze in the reflection of the glass before you could tear it away.

"you pay a lot of attention." he murmured into the quiet.

you flinched, your fingers tightening around the damp canvas of your coat. you didn't look at him. you just stared straight ahead at the rain hitting the glass. "what?"

"on thursdays." he clarified softly, his voice a gravelly hum that seemed to wrap itself right around your throat. "you always stand in the exact same spot by the ice well. you don't talk to anyone, you just watch. right?"

your heart gave a sickening lurch, hammering against your ribs like it was trying to break out. he knew.

the panic seized your chest, but beneath it, a dark wave of arousal rushed straight down your body.

because he was right. you did watch. you had spent months completely consumed by the way he played, memorizing every microscopic detail. you knew how his large hands slid down the neck of the guitar, fingers pressing effortlessly into the frets. you knew the exact moment his eyes would slip shut during the bridge of that one slow song, lost in the dragging rhythm. you knew the way his hips moved when he leaned into the microphone, a slow sway that made your mouth go completely dry.

every thursday, you stood in the dark and let the deep bass of his guitar rattle around in your chest, imagining what those heavy hands would feel like mapping out the shape of your waist instead of the instrument. you had spent hours agonizing over what that kind of intense focus would feel like directed solely at you, letting the thought pool hot and heavy between your thighs until you could barely stand the friction of your own jeans.

but you couldn't just tell him that. "it's a small bar." you lied, your voice wavering pathetically. you swallowed hard, trying to sound indifferent, trying not to let him hear how badly you were shaking. "there's nowhere else to look."

jay didn't argue. he didn't call you a liar or push you to confess. he just let out a quiet exhale that sounded entirely too much like a laugh.

the light turned green. he looked back at the road and hit the gas, the sudden acceleration pressing you deep into the leather seat.

he didn't take his hand off the center console. instead, he shifted it just a fraction of an inch closer, his knuckles grazing the damp fabric of your coat where it spilled over your leg. he just left his hand there, hovering in the agonizing space right beside your thigh in absolute silence.

when the car finally rolled to a stop near your apartment building, the deep rumble of the engine stayed alive between you. you gripped your bag tightly, your knees pressed together under your wet coat, desperate to escape before your body gave you away completely.

"this is me." you murmured, your voice breathless. "thanks again. for the ride."

you reached for the handle, but before your fingers could pull it, his voice cut through the dark.

"you didn't ask why i was out there."

you froze, your hand hovering over the cold plastic latch. "what?"

jay shifted in the driver's seat, resting one wrist over the top of the steering wheel. the light from the streetlamp caught the sharp angle of his jaw, his heavy eyes fixed entirely on you.

"in the alley." he said, his voice a low rasp. "you just stepped under the awning like you were expecting me to be standing there."

your heart gave a sickening thud against your ribs. a sudden rush of heat pooled low in your stomach, heavy and aching.

"i- i wasn't expecting you." you answered, the words tripping helplessly over your tongue. "i thought you were just smoking."

"i finished my cigarette ten minutes before you walked out the back door." he murmured.

the air left your lungs in an instant. your mind raced into a dizzying tailspin. did he wait for you? why would he wait for you? you tried to convince yourself it was a coincidence, that he was just killing time, but the deliberate way he was watching you made your throat go completely bone dry.

"then... why were you waiting?" you whispered, the question slipping out before you could stop it, pathetic and fragile in the quiet car.

jay didn't answer right away. he slowly leaned across the center console, taking up all the air in the vehicle, bringing the suffocating heat of his body right into yours. you braced your back against the passenger door, your chest heaving, your pulse hammering violently in your ears.

he didn't touch you. he just rested his forearm against the top of your seat, his fingers trailing so close to your shoulder that you could feel the heat radiating off his leather jacket.

"why do you think, y/n?" he rasped softly.

the proximity was agonizing. up close, you could see his beautiful features and the dark intensity in his eyes. you wanted so desperately to say something — anything — to bridge the inch between you, to tilt your head up and sink into him. you were starving for it, completely undone by the mere possibility that he wanted you back.

but the fear was bigger. the humiliating certainty that you were just reading into things, that he was playing with a clearly anxious woman who didn't know how to handle him.

"i don't know." you stammered, your eyes dropping helplessly to his lips before darting back to his eyes.

jay stared at you for two endless beats, taking in the flushed heat on your face, the breathless parting of your lips, the absolute ruin he had made of your composure.

an imperceptible tilt appeared at the corner of his mouth. "liar." he murmured softly.

before you could process the word, his hand moved, his thumb casually reaching out to drag over the sharp line of your collarbone — just a fleeting stroke of skin that sent a shockwave directly down your spine — before he reached past you and clicked the door handle open.

the cold night air rushed into the car, snapping the suffocating heat between you like a twig.

jay pulled back into his seat, his large hands settling back onto the steering wheel, completely unbothered, his face a mask of calm composure.

"go inside." he said quietly, looking back out at the rain-soaked street. "you need some sleep."

you sat there, paralyzed, your body throbbing with an unfulfilled ache, your heart slamming against your chest. he had left you completely exposed, dangling on the edge, and pulled back without a second thought.

"goodnight, jay." you choked out.

you scrambled out of the car into the freezing rain, your knees so weak you practically stumbled up the steps to your building. as you fumbled with your keys in the dark doorway, your skin still burning where his thumb had touched you, the sound of his engine faded into the night — leaving you alone in the cold, utterly consumed.

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

the seven days between thursdays felt less like a week and more like a slow fever.

your sleep schedule was done for. every time you closed your eyes, you were back in the dark interior of his car, feeling the phantom heat of his thumb dragging over your collarbone, hearing that soft liar echoing in your ears. the humiliation of bracing for a kiss he never gave you burned like an open wound, but the sickening hunger it left behind was a thousand times worse.

by ten o'clock the following thursday, the bar was a suffocating wall of heat, noise, and smoke. you spent the entire set doing everything in your power to avoid looking toward the stage. you kept your head down, aggressively wiping down the wooden counters, restocking glasses, pretending you were entirely immune to his presence. but your body betrayed you at every turn. the heavy rumble of his guitar vibrated straight through the floorboards, shooting directly up your spine and settling in the pit of your stomach.

the second their last song ended, you grabbed an empty ice bucket and escaped down the dimly lit back hallway toward the heavy stainless steel ice machine.

the back hallway was quiet, smelling of damp concrete and cold metal. you shoved the bucket under the chute and hit the lever, the loud avalanche of crushing ice filling the silence. you leaned your forehead against the cold material, closing your eyes, taking a deep breath to force your pulse to slow down.

"you missed the solo." the voice came from the dark shadows behind you — low and entirely unhurried. you snapped your head up, your heart leaping straight into your throat.

jay was leaning his broad shoulder against the damp brick wall a few feet away, his arms folded loosely across his chest. he had just come off stage; his dark hair was damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead, and his usual black shirt was unfastened at the top, revealing the sharp line of his chest. he looked completely relaxed while you instantly unraveled.

"i was working." you stammered, your fingers tightening around the edge of the metal bucket until your knuckles turned white.

"you were working last week, too." he murmured, his voice a smooth rasp. "didn't stop you from staring then."

a hot wave of heat rushed up your neck, burning your cheeks. you tried to swallow, but your throat was bone dry. "i wasn't staring."

jay didn't argue. he just pushed off the brick wall with effortless grace, taking two slow steps toward you.

the space between you vanished in an instant. the sheer size of him in the narrow hallway was suffocating. he brought a staggering wall of heat with him — saturated in that intoxicating scent of distortion, fresh sweat, tobacco, and warm skin that made your head spin. it felt like your senses were made to betray you, every instinct sharpening and blurring at once until all you could register was him standing there, stealing the air from your lungs without saying a word.

you pressed your back flat against the cold metal of the ice machine, completely trapped.

"you're terrible at lying, y/n." he murmured softly.

he didn't touch you, but he reached past your waist, his long fingers resting casually on the edge of the ice machine right next to your hip. he leaned in slightly, his broad shoulders blocking out the hallway light, casting his sharp features in deep shadows.

"i'm not lying." you whispered, though your voice cracked pathetically on the last word. up close, the sight of him was overwhelming. you took in the dark fringe of his eyelashes, the faint sheen of moisture on his throat, the beautiful shape of his lips. you were practically vibrating, starving for him to bridge the inch between you, desperate to feel those heavy hands on your body.

jay tilted his head, his dark eyes slowly sweeping over your face. "why didn't you look at me tonight?" he asked softly, his tone completely neutral, as if he were asking about the weather.

"you told me i watch too much." you choked on the words, your eyes helplessly dropping to his mouth before darting back to his. it was becoming a bad habit at this point.

an almost imperceptible tilt appeared at the corner of his sharp mouth. "i said you pay attention." he corrected, his voice dropping an octave, slipping over your skin like velvet. "i didn't tell you to stop."

the words hit you directly in the stomach, a hot pull that made your inner thighs press tightly together beneath your apron. your mind completely short-circuited. you stood there, paralyzed, drowning in the absolute control he held over you.

he lifted his other hand — slowly, agonizingly slow — and let his knuckles lightly graze the side of your neck.

the touch sent a blinding shockwave straight down your spine. a soft gasp slipped out of your mouth before you could stop it. you tilted your head just a fraction of a millimeter into his hand, completely surrendered, silently begging him to take more, to press you against the cold metal and ruin you right there in the dark.

but he didn't pull you closer. instead, his thumb lightly dragged up over your jawline, holding you captive in the dark for one more breathless second.

"your ice is overflowing." he rasped softly, his breath fanning hot against your mouth.

and then, he stepped back.

the sudden absence of his touch was a physical blow. the cold hallway air slammed back against your skin, leaving you feeling entirely breathless and humiliated.

you looked down with wide, unspooling eyes. the ice machine was overflowing, cold cubes spilling over the rim of the bucket and clattering onto the concrete floor around your shoes.

jay stood there, entirely unbothered, his composure completely intact as if he hadn't just brought you to the absolute edge of sanity. he casually shoved his hands into the pockets of his dark jeans.

"see you around, y/n." he murmured indifferently. he turned his back to you and strolled down the hallway, disappearing back into the crowded bar without a single glance over his shoulder.

you slid down the front of the ice machine until your knees hit the cold floor, clutching your arms around your waist, shivering uncontrollably. your skin was still burning, your body throbbing with a desperate feeling you had never experienced before.

he was playing you like an instrument. the anger didn't arrive all at once, starting as a bitter burn in the pit of your stomach while you picked ice cubes off the floor, tossing them one by one into the drain.

he was doing it on purpose. the thought took root, cold and ugly, pulling you up off your knees. it wasn't an accident. it wasn't just a string of awkward coincidences or a series of moments where you happened to misread the room. the deliberate way he moved into your space, the exact second he chose to drop his touch — it was calculated. he pushed just far enough to watch you break, to feel your pulse go erratic against his skin, and then he pulled away the second you offered yourself up to him.

he was entertaining himself. you were just a pathetic waitress at a bar, practically begging a stupidly hot guitarist to notice her, giving him an ego boost on his walk out to the alley.

and yet, as you hoisted the heavy bucket back up to your hip, a sickening wave of doubt crashed over your anger, drowning it out.

what if he wasn't? what if you were completely insane? what if he was just an indifferent, naturally invasive man who stepped into people's personal space without thinking twice about it? what if every single drop of tension you felt was a pathetic fantasy you had constructed inside your own lonely head?

the thought made your face burn hotter than the humiliation. you were torn straight down the middle — half of you furious at him for being a sadistic bastard, the other half utterly disgusted with yourself for being delusional enough to think he gave a damn.

by two in the morning, the main floor had finally drained of people.

you were behind the counter, desperately praying you could just finish up and escape into the cold night air. right in that moment, jen, the server who was supposed to lock up with you, rushed out of the back hallway, clutching her coat.

"y/n, i am so, so sorry." she breathed, looking panicked. "my sister just called. her car overheated on the highway and she's stuck on the shoulder. can you please finish wiping down and lock the back door? the drawer is already counted."

"yeah... go ahead." you murmured, forcing a small smile despite the sudden drop in your stomach. "drive safe."

she thanked you three times and bolted out the front entrance, the heavy door clicking shut behind her.

you were alone. or at least, you should have been.

you couldn't set the alarm or lock the rear exit because jay was still inside. the rest of his band had picked up the heavy amps ten minutes ago, their voices long faded down the alley, but jay hadn't left.

he was sitting on a tall stool in the far, shadowy corner near the empty stage, a single overhead amber light allowing you to see him. he had his electric guitar resting against his hip — unplugged, raw, and quiet. his fingers were sliding over the frets, dragging out lazy riffs that vibrated through the empty room.

the sound was hypnotic. it echoed softly against the bare brick walls, that dragging rhythm that always shot straight down your spine.

you were supposed to be cleaning, but you were completely paralyzed. you stood behind the bar with the damp rag clutched in your hand, mesmerized by the effortless way his fingers moved over the dark instrument. you hated him for it. you hated how easily he held you captive without even looking at you, how a few lazy notes from his hands could make your knees feel hollow.

and then, the music stopped. a single string vibrated into silence. slowly, jay tilted his head back, his dark eyes locking onto yours across the empty room.

a lazy, mocking smirk spread across his lips. "still paying attention, sweetheart?" he rasped. his voice carried effortlessly through the quiet bar, laced with a condescending warmth. "thought you said there was nowhere else to look."

a stinging heat rushed up your neck, burning your cheeks. you gripped the rag tighter, your jaw setting in a rigid line. "i'm waiting for you to leave so i can lock up."

"are you?" he slowly unstrapped his guitar, resting it against the stool with agonizing slowness. he didn't look bothered. he didn't look tired. he looked like a predator who had just spent the last two hours watching you squirm in a cage he built for you.

he shoved his hands into the pockets of his dark jeans and began walking slowly toward the bar. every step he took sent your heart hammering violently against your ribs. you stood your ground behind the mahogany counter, trying desperately to look cold, distant, and unbothered. but as he drew closer, the sheer physical weight of his presence started stripping away your meager defenses.

he didn't stop on the other side of the counter. without taking his eyes off you, jay reached down, unlatched the small wooden gate at the side of the bar, and stepped straight into your space.

the sound of his heavy boots against the floorboards behind the counter was a shockwave. people weren't allowed back there. it was the one physical barrier that kept you safe from him, and he had just shattered it without a second thought.

"jay-" you stammered, your composure instantly fracturing as you backed up until your thighs slammed against the low liquor display behind you. "you can't be back here."

"make me leave, then." he murmured smoothly.

he didn't stop until he was towering directly over you in the narrow aisle, blocking out the amber light, trapping you between his broad chest and the glass bottles behind you. the sudden heat coming off his body was overwhelming.

he looked down at you, his eyes utterly ruthless as he took in your heaving chest and the pathetic way your breath was hitching in your throat.

"you look annoyed, y/n." he rasped, a mocking chuckle vibrating deep in his chest. "what's the matter?"

the words hit you like a slap, raw and humiliating, laying your most embarrassing secret completely bare. your mouth parted in a sharp gasp, your eyes wide with shock. "i- i’m not-"

"lying again? mmh?" he purred softly, cutting you off before you could even build a defense.

he reached out, his fingers taking the damp rag out of your trembling hand and tossing it carelessly over his shoulder onto the sink. your hands were left completely empty, completely exposed.

"you've been standing in the dark watching me for months, haven’t you?" he rasped, stepping half an inch closer until the front of his unbuttoned shirt pressed directly against your apron. "you practically shook out of your clothes when i put my hand near your leg in the car. and when i touched your neck by the ice machine, you tilted your head right into it. aren’t you such a desperate little thing?"

every single word was a cruel sentence, destroying any remaining delusion that it had all been in your head. he had known the entire time, and he was taking immense pleasure in watching you drown in it.

you felt a tear of overwhelming frustration sting the back of your eyes. "you're being an asshole, jay." you choked out, your voice trembling with a mixture of intense anger and something else you didn’t want to accept.

jay didn't flinch. his smile only widened, turning dark and entirely devoid of mercy. "maybe." he murmured softly.

he slowly raised his hand, his calloused palm sliding up your throat, his fingers wrapping firmly around the back of your neck. his grip was warm, heavy, and absolute, tilting your face up until your lips were mere millimeters from his. "but you're still shaking for me, from just playing a few notes." he rasped, his thumb pressing deliberately over your frantic pulse, feeling the absolute ruin he had reduced you to. "you hate it, but you want me so bad you can barely stand up. don't you?"

your mouth parted, but no sound came out. you wanted to deny it, to tear his hand away from your neck and spit some lie about how he was conceited, how you didn't care. but his thumb was pressing so firmly against your throat, feeling the chaotic rhythm of your heart betraying every single thought. you were completely exposed, pinned against the low display shelf, with his dark-clothed body trapping you in.

"i..." you choked out, your eyes darting helplessly to his lips before flying back to his mocking eyes.

"that's what i thought." he murmured, his voice a low purr of absolute victory. he slowly let his hand slide down your neck, his knuckles dragging over your collarbone with agonizing slowness before he stepped back, taking that heat with him. you felt a cold shiver run down your spine at the sudden loss of his touch.

he looked down at you, his gaze sweeping over your flushed face and your trembling hands, a slow smirk playing on his lips.

"you're a mess, y/n." he rasped softly, his tone laced with a teasing warmth. "i have my amp setup at my place." he murmured, leaning his hip against the bar, looking entirely relaxed while you were practically vibrating. "since you like watching so much, come back with me. i'll play for you. privately."

the condescending arrogance of his voice should have made you scream. he was being an absolute asshole, treating you like some easy toy he could wind up and watch spin. you knew you should say no. you knew that going to his apartment was walking straight into a trap where he would keep pulling the strings.

but the hunger inside you was a physical sickness. it had been building for seven long days, for months of thursdays in the dark, and you were too weak to fight it.

"okay." you whispered, your voice pathetically small.

jay's smirk widened, dark and possessive. "mmh. grab your coat."

the drive was a silent torture. the rain lashed against the windshield of his car, the steady scrape of the wipers doing nothing to ease the suffocating tension in the small space. jay drove with one hand, looking completely unbothered, while you sat frozen in the passenger seat, your hands knotted tightly in your lap, your mind spinning in a dizzying loop of anticipation and shame.

when he finally unlocked the door to his loft, the darkness of his space swallowed you whole. it smelled heavily of tobacco, old wood, and the warm scent of his skin.

he didn't take his leather jacket off. he just walked over to a low leather couch, leaving the lights off except for the dim streetlamp glow filtering through the wet windowpane. he picked up his electric guitar, plugging it into a small amp on the floor. the heavy hum of the electricity filled the room, making your pulse spike.

"sit." he commanded softly, gesturing to the edge of the low table right in front of him.

you slowly crossed the room, your knees shaking so badly you could barely keep your footing. you sat down on the edge of the wood, your knees practically touching his denim-clad thighs.

jay didn't wait. his fingers settled over the strings as he began to play.

it wasn't the loud music from the stage. it was a slow, dragging, incredibly dirty riff. the distorted notes vibrated right through the floor, straight up through the table, settling like liquid fire directly between your thighs. the sound was hypnotic, wrapping around your senses until you couldn't think, couldn't breathe, your eyes locked onto the effortless movement of his hands.

he looked up through the dark fringe of his hair, his dark eyes locking onto yours as he kept playing, his fingers sliding over the frets with agonizing precision.

"look at you." he rasped over the low hum of the guitar, a toxic smile curving his lips. "you're practically dripping just from the sound of it, aren't you?"

"jay, i..." you whispered, your chest heaving, the friction of your own jeans against your aching core becoming completely unbearable. the music was winding you so tight you felt like you were going to snap.

"what is it, sweetheart?" he teased, his fingers plucking a deep chord that sent a literal shiver straight down your spine. "you wanted me to play for you. you've been dreaming about this. watch my hands, y/n. tell me what you want them to do to you."

the agonizing teasing was too much. you leaned forward, your hands gripping his knees, your eyes wide and pleading in the dark. "put it down. please."

jay didn't put the guitar down. instead, he stopped playing, the last distorted note echoing into the dark corners of the room before dying out. he looked down at your hands clutching his knees, his dark eyes glinting with a slow amusement that made your stomach twist.

"put it down?" he murmured, his voice a gravelly rasp. "why would i do that when you're paying such close attention?"

he slowly raised his right hand. pinched between his long fingers was his guitar pick — a small, thin piece of black plastic, still warm from his grip.

you stared at it, your breath hitching as he brought it toward your face. he didn't touch you with his hand. instead, he used the flat edge of the pick to trace the line of your lower lip. he dragged it slowly, deliberately, pulling the sensitive skin down just enough to force a quiet gasp from your mouth.

"you want my hands so bad." he whispered, his eyes locked on your parted lips as he slid the pick down your chin, tracing the sensitive skin of your throat. "but you haven't earned them yet."

the sharp edge of the plastic felt like fire against your heated skin. you shivered, your eyes fluttering shut as he dragged the pick further down, slipping it past the collar of your shirt, tracing the valley between your breasts, and then down, down, until he pressed it firmly against the seam of your jeans.

an agonizing throb bloomed between your thighs. you whined, your hips instinctively twitching upward, begging for the pressure, but jay immediately pulled the pick away, letting out a soft chuckle.

"so impatient." he teased, his voice dropping into a velvet purr. "since you love my music so much, i think we should let the guitar do the work."

before you could process his words, jay reached out. his heavy hands gripped your waist, his fingers digging into your skin as he easily lifted you off the edge of the table.

you thought he was pulling you onto his lap. you thought you were finally going to get the friction you were starving for.

but as he sat you down, he didn't pull you against his thighs. instead, he guided you right over the solid body of his electric guitar.

your breath left your lungs in a violent shock. you were straddling the hard wood of the instrument, the cool finish pressing directly against your soaking wet center through the thin fabric of your jeans.

"jay-" you gasped, your hands flying to his broad shoulders to steady yourself.

"shhh." he murmured, his hands wrapping firmly around your hips, pinning you down so you couldn't pull away. "stay right there."

he reached around your body, his long fingers settling over the fretboard and the strings behind you. you were completely caged by his arms, trapped on top of the instrument, your face buried in the crook of his neck. you could smell the intoxicating scent of his warm skin, so close you could taste it.

and then, jay struck a low, heavy chord.

the electric guitar was plugged into the amp on the floor. the distorted sound didn't just fill the room — it vibrated violently through the solid wood of the guitar's body, shooting a physical shockwave of vibration directly into your pelvic bone, straight to your sensitive core.

your back arched off him, a helpless cry tearing from your throat as your head fell back. the unexpected intensity of the vibration sent a blinding wave of pleasure straight to your brain, making your inner thighs tremble uncontrollably.

"do you like that, sweetheart?" jay rasped in your ear, his voice laced with a cruel warmth.

he struck another chord, a slow, dragging rhythm. the vibration hummed continuously against your wet denim, winding you so tight you felt like you were going to snap. you began to move, your hips instinctively grinding down against the hard wood of the guitar, desperate to chase the friction.

but jay's hands tightened on your hips, holding you perfectly still.

"i didn't tell you to move." he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. "just take the music."

"please, jay, let me move." you sobbed softly, the denial of friction becoming a literal torture. your core was throbbing, practically weeping against the hard instrument, desperate for any release. "please, i want to slide, let me-"

"tell me what you want." he commanded, his fingers plucking a resonant note that made your entire body shudder against the wood. "say it, y/n. tell me what you're riding."

"your guitar." you cried out, your pride completely shattered, your face burning with a mixture of intense shame and overwhelming arousal. "i'm riding your guitar. please, jay..."

a dangerous chuckle vibrated against your chest. "good girl." he murmured, his grip on your hips finally loosening just a fraction, allowing you to slide. "now show me how desperate you are. ride it for me."

with his hands guiding your hips, you slowly began to shift, dragging your aching center over the vibrating wood of his guitar. every time you moved, he plucked another deep chord, the physical vibrations combining with the friction of your jeans to push you closer and closer to the absolute edge of sanity. you clutched his shoulders, your eyes rolled back, completely ruined, riding his instrument in the dark while he watched your undoing with a victorious smile.

you shifted against the smooth finish, your head thrown back as the continuous vibration of another low chord hummed straight through your pelvic bone. every friction-filled glide of your jeans against the wood was sweet torture, but you couldn't get close enough. you were chasing a release that remained agonizingly out of reach, completely trapped in the rhythm of his hands.

jay watched the desperate tilt of your hips, his eyes dark and dilated in the shadows. he let out a rough hum, the sound vibrating against your chest where your bodies brushed.

"look at you." he rasped, his voice dripping with that toxic satisfaction. "ruined for me. and i haven't even touched you yet."

he kept his left hand on the fretboard, casually holding down a rumbling note that kept the wood buzzing against your wet heat. but his right hand left the strings.

you opened your eyes, blinking past the tears of frustration, and saw him holding that thin, black guitar pick again.

your breath hitched, your hips freezing for a split second. "jay..."

"i didn't tell you to stop, y/n." he murmured, his tone a mocking warning. "keep moving."

you swallowed hard, forced to slowly drag your aching core over the vibrating wood again, your eyes locked onto his fingers.

jay slowly brought his hand down between your bodies, his fingers reaching the button of your jeans. with agonizing slowness, he popped it open. the sound of your zipper being dragged down felt incredibly loud in the quiet room.

he didn't slide his hand inside to cup you. he didn't give you the warm touch of his palm that you were begging for.

instead, his knuckles brushed your stomach as he slipped his hand just inside the parted denim, the cool edge of the plastic pick sliding past the damp lace of your underwear.

the second the thin plastic pressed directly against your swollen clit, you let out a broken sob. your back arched, your fingers digging violently into his shoulders as a blinding jolt of pleasure shot straight to your core.

"so wet." jay whispered, his voice a dark purr right against your ear.

he didn't move his hand away. as you instinctively tried to push your hips forward into the pressure, his fingers held the pick perfectly still, letting the flat edge of the plastic press firmly against your sensitive bud. at the same time, his other hand plucked another deep chord on the guitar.

the double assault was completely overwhelming. the wood vibrated violently against your pelvic bone while the thin plastic pick teased the most sensitive point of your core.

"slide for me, baby." he commanded softly, his grip on your hips tightening just enough to guide you. "rub yourself right against the pick, y/n. let me feel how much you actually want it."

you cried out, the humiliating filth of his words sending a fresh wave of heat down your thighs. but you couldn't stop. you were entirely unraveled, completely at his mercy. you slowly shifted your hips, dragging yourself over the vibrating guitar body while the hard edge of his pick scraped and teased over your dripping heat with every agonizing movement.

"please, jay." you wept, your forehead pressing into his neck as you frantically chased the edge, your inner thighs shaking so hard you could barely hold yourself up over the instrument. "please... it's too much."

"it's exactly what you wanted, sweetheart." he rasped, his eyes watching your face with possessive intensity. he dragged the flat edge of the pick slowly up and down, parting your sensitive folds, coating the plastic in your own slick moisture while the guitar kept humming beneath you. "show me how much you can take before you break."

he brought the slick guitar pick back down, but he didn't slide it. instead, he pressed the very tip of the plastic right against the swollen center of your pleasure. he began to vibrate his hand with the same rapid motion he used to shred on stage, turning the plastic pick into a dizzying blur against your clit.

the sensation was so sharp, so violently intense, that your vision literally went black at the edges. you screamed, your hips bucking frantically against his grip, trying to escape the overwhelming pleasure. but his hands on your hips were like iron bands, locking you down, forcing you to take every single agonizing vibration.

"jay! please, please- i'm going to-" you cried out, your fingers clawing desperately at the leather of his jacket, tears finally spilling over your hot cheeks.

"mmh? " he teased as he kept his hand vibrating against you, pushing you closer and closer to a messy peak.

in a fleeting second, he stopped his hand, holding the pick perfectly still, pressing it hard against your throbbing bud. you gasped, hovering on the very brink of your orgasm, your body trembling, completely suspended in mid-air.

"fuck, jay!" you wept, your voice breaking, completely ruined, any ounce of your dignity long gone, scattered on the floor of his dark loft. "please let me. please, jay."

jay stared up at you, his dark eyes flashing with a heavy hunger that finally burned away the mocking amusement. his chest was heaving now, his own breathing ragged as he took in the sight of you — completely stripped of your defenses, crying and begging for him, entirely his.

but he didn’t budge. he kept his hand absolutely still, holding you hostage on the very peak of the cliff, your body trembling so violently the guitar strings beneath you hummed a chaotic note.

he leaned forward, his face close enough that his warm, tobacco-scented breath brushed your wet cheek. the dark smirk on his lips was entirely devoid of pity.

"crying over a guitar pick. you’re so easy it’s almost boring, y/n." he whispered, a low chuckle scraping against your ear.

a sob caught in your throat, your fingers clenching the leather of his jacket. the sheer humiliation of his words burned, but the ache between your thighs was a screaming demand, drowning out every shred of your dignity. "jay... i can't... i need-"

"what do you need?" he interrupted smoothly, his silver-ringed fingers gently tapping the side of your neck, right over your throbbing pulse. "tell me exactly how pathetic you are right now. let me hear it."

you shook your head, trying to hide your face in his shoulder, but he caught your chin in a firm grip, forcing you to look into his ruthless eyes.

"say it." he commanded, his voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet purr. "tell me you're just a desperate slut begging for whatever crumbs i feel like giving you."

"i'm... i'm desperate. i’ve been waiting for so long, jay." you wept, the words tasting like ash and fire on your tongue. "please, please let me come..."

his dark eyes flared with a predatory satisfaction. "my patient girl. that’s it." he rasped, the praise dripping with toxic sweetness.

he didn't remove the pick. instead, he gripped your hips with bruising force, pinning you down, and struck one final chord on the guitar. at the very same instant, his hand holding the pick flicked sharply, dragging the flat edge hard against your overstimulated clit.

the dual explosion of the violent vibration and his sharp touch shattered you. a loud, broken moan tore from your throat as your body bucked wildly against his hands. a violent orgasm crashed over you, your inner thighs spasming uncontrollably as you flooded the hard wood of his instrument. you clutched him like a drowning person, your face buried in his neck, sobbing through the exhausting intensity of the release.

jay didn't move. he just held you tightly against him, letting you shiver and break, listening to your ragged gasps with a quiet hum.

when the worst of the tremors finally began to fade, leaving you hollow and completely spent, he slowly let go of your hips. he reached down, casually tossing the wet guitar pick onto the table, before sliding his hands under your thighs and lifting you off the instrument.

he set the guitar aside, letting it clatter carelessly against the floor, and pulled your limp body directly onto his lap. you slumped against his chest, too weak to even lift your head.

jay slowly ran his fingers through your hair, his touch surprisingly gentle, though his voice remained laced with that same mocking warmth.

"look at the mess you made of my guitar, sweetheart." he murmured, his breath hot against your ear as he pressed a possessive kiss to your temple. "i guess you're going to have to clean that up, too. but first..."

his hand slid down your back, his fingers digging into the bare skin of your hip, pulling you flush against the hard bulge of his jeans. "you're going to have to thank me."

you shivered against him, your forehead still pressed into his neck as your chest rose and fell in shallow gasps. below you, the thick ridge of his jeans pressed right against your freshly ruined core.

the contrast was absolute torture. every tiny twitch of his thighs sent a jolt of electricity straight to your overstimulated nerves, making your hips shudder helplessly on his lap.

"i'm waiting, y/n." jay murmured. his large hand slid up your thigh, his calloused thumb digging deliberately into the sensitive flesh of your inner leg, forcing them wider. "where is my thank you?"

you swallowed hard, your throat tight with a humiliating mixture of tears and burning lust. you wanted to fight him. you wanted to claw at his chest and scream at him for being so unbelievably cruel. but you were too far gone. he had stripped away every single defense you had, leaving you completely raw.

"thank you..." you whispered, your voice cracking pathetically. "thank you, jay."

a condescending chuckle vibrated against your chest. jay tilted his head, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a look of pure triumph. "is that it?" he rasped, his hand sliding further up, his fingers brushing the wet warmth between your thighs, making you gasp and arch into his hand. "sounds a little half-hearted. especially after you made such a disgusting mess of my gear."

"jay, please." you begged, your hands clenching the leather of his jacket as you desperately ground your hips down against his hand, trying to force his fingers inside you. "i can't... please, i need you. inside me. now."

"you're so greedy." he purred, his fingers teasing the very edge of your wetness but refusing to slide in, intentionally keeping you hovering on the edge of madness. "you spent months pretending you weren’t even looking at me, and now you’re begging like a dog on my lap. do you want to feel how big i am compared to that little plastic toy? is that it?"

"fuck, jay. please." you begged, completely abandoned to the filth of his words.

that did it. the last thread of jay's mocking restraint finally snapped. his dark eyes flared with a vicious hunger, his breathing turning incredibly heavy. in one swift, incredibly rough motion, he grabbed your waist and flipped you over, slamming your back flat against the leather couch. the impact knocked the wind out of your lungs, but before you could even inhale, jay was hovering over you, his heavy body pinning you down.

he didn't waste any time. he reached down and aggressively ripped his belt open, the metallic clinking of his buckle sounding incredibly loud in the dark room. he shoved his jeans down, exposing his pulsing cock, already slick and fully prepared to ruin you.

"you said you've been waiting for this for months, right?" jay rasped, his voice entirely stripped of its quiet playfulness. he grabbed both of your knees, brutally pushing them up toward your chest, exposing you completely beneath him. "let's see if you can actually handle it, or if you're just all talk."

"jay-"

you didn't even get to finish his name. jay leaned down, his large hand wrapping firmly around your throat to keep you still, and plunged himself straight into you in one deep, merciless thrust.

a choked cry tore from your throat as your eyes rolled back. he was massive, stretching you to your absolute limit, filling the aching void that had been torturing you for weeks. the friction was so intense, so violently good, that your hips immediately tried to rise to meet him.

but jay kept you pinned, his hand on your throat tightening just enough to command your absolute obedience. "don't move." he growled, a possessive sneer on his lips as he began to pull back and thrust into you again, harder this time. the slapping sound of his skin against yours filled the quiet loft, dirty and loud. "just lie there and take it."

he began to pace himself with a brutal rhythm, his thrusts heavy and deep, bottoming out against you with a force that made the entire couch shake. every time he slammed into you, his silver rings bit into the skin of your hips, leaving bruises that would remind you of this night for weeks.

"look at me." he commanded roughly, slamming into you so hard your head bounced against the leather cushion. "look at me while i finally fuck you, y/n."

you opened your tear-filled eyes, staring up at his beautiful face. he looked absolutely lethal in the dim light — his jaw clenched, sweat dripping down his neck, his dark eyes locked onto yours with a consuming intensity. he was mocking you, degrading you, treating you like nothing more than a place to release his own dirty urges, and yet you had never felt so utterly alive.

"you're so tight." jay growled, his pace turning fast and frantic, his control finally fracturing under the sheer heat of your wet walls crushing around him. he leaned down, his mouth catching yours in a bruising kiss, his tongue invading your mouth just as roughly as his lower half was splitting you open.

you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him in as deep as he could possibly go, a shattered moan muffling against his lips. he bit down hard on your bottom lip before pulling back just enough to look down at you, his breathing heavy and ragged, his hips never slowing down for a single second.

"you really thought you were subtle, didn't you?" he rasped, his voice dripping with that arrogant tone as he slammed back into you, making your entire body jolt against the leather. "every single thursday night. standing in the shadowy corner behind the bar, pretending to clean the same spot on the counter for twenty minutes straight."

your eyes widened slightly through your tears, a soft sob breaking out of your chest as his words laid you completely bare.

"i saw you every fucking time, y/n." he growled, a wicked smirk pulling at the corner of his lips as he thrust deeper, hitting that exact sensitive spot inside you until your toes curled. "watching my hands on the fretboard. biting your lip like a pathetic little stalker. wondering if i'd ever notice you."

"jay..." you choked out, your hands digging into his shoulders, trying to endure the agonizing perfection of his relentless rhythm.

"i knew exactly what you were doing." he purred, leaning down to drag his teeth over your sensitive pulse point while his lower half brutally worked you open. "i let you sit there and starve on purpose. and look at you now, so fucking desperate you're taking every inch of me on my couch."

he tightened his hand around your throat, not enough to cut off your air, but just enough to force your head back as his thrusts turned fast, brutal, and completely merciless. the sound of your wet center clinging to him mixed with the heavy creak of the couch frame echoed loudly through the dark loft.

"tell me i was worth the wait." he commanded roughly, his dark eyes burning into yours as he pounded into you with relentless force. "tell me how much better this is than your little fantasies."

"it's... fuck, jay, it's so much better." you sobbed, completely unraveled, your hips desperately lifting to meet every devastating strike of his body. "please... don't stop..."

"i'm not stopping until i completely ruin you." he growled against your skin.

he hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, opening you up even wider, and drove himself in so hard your vision blurred. the sudden angle sent a blinding spike of pure ecstasy straight to your core. your inner walls squeezed him violently, contracting in am uncontrollable spasm.

jay let out a guttural curse, his jaw clenching as your tightness threatened to snap his restraint. "yeah, just like that. squeeze me, sweetheart. show me how much you needed this."

the words were still vibrating against your skin when your vision completely shattered into white-hot sparks. you let out a broken scream, your fingers clawing violently at his shoulders, tearing at his shirt as the orgasm ripped through you. your inner walls clamped down on his thick length like a vice, pulsing in frantic waves that made him growl out loud, his neck straining as he fought his own release.

but jay didn't let you enjoy the finish. he didn't slow down, and he didn't give you a single second to breathe. instead, he kept driving himself into you, his heavy hips slamming against yours with a brutal force, mercilessly pounding straight into your freshly oversensitive core.

"f-fuck, jay! stop- please. too much!" you sobbed, your head thrashing against the leather cushion as the pleasure turned so sharp it was almost painful. every heavy thrust felt like electricity shooting straight to your brain.

"stop?" he mocked, a cruel laugh escaping his lips. he leaned down, his sweat dripping onto your chest, his dark eyes wide and completely feral in the shadows. "when you spent months begging for this?"

he hit that deep spot again, hard, as you let out a high whine, your thighs shaking so violently they were practically vibrating.

"look at you." he rasped, his voice dripping with absolute satisfaction. "so fucking pathetic. crying and shaking over my cock like it's the only thing keeping you alive. is it, y/n? is this the only thing you've been thinking about while you were serving my band?"

"jay…" you wept, completely stripped of any remaining self-respect, your hands clutching helplessly at his hair. "yes, jay, please..."

"such a dirty little thing." he purred, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips, leaving deep marks as he kept up the punishing pace. "you're making a fucking mess of my leather, fuck."

you couldn't even answer him. all you could do was let out useless whimpers as he mercilessly worked you over, his heavy body crushing you into the cushions. the relentless friction of your overstimulated clit against his pelvis was too much. another wave of heat started building immediately, tighter and even more desperate than the first.

"that's it." jay growled, his own breathing turning incredibly shallow, his chest heaving as he felt your inner walls starting to spasm tightly around him again. "come again for me. let me feel how easy you are."

he grabbed your other leg, shoving both of your knees practically to your chest, folding you completely in half as he delivered three final, devastatingly deep thrusts.

your voice broke completely, a shattered sob tearing from your throat as you crashed over the edge for a second time, your core clenching around him in a tight grip. the sheer intensity of your climax finally broke jay's remaining control. he let out a guttural roar, his body locking up as he gave one last, bruising thrust, burying himself to the hilt inside you as he flooded you with his hot release.

"fucking hell, y/n…" jay moaned as he finished inside you, completely breathless, locking his dark eyes onto yours with a terrifyingly intimate intensity.

the quiet that followed didn't feel like relief. it dropped over the dark loft like lead, drowning out the electric hum of the amp on the floor.

for a long moment, he didn't pull away. his weight stayed heavy against you, his forehead pressed into the crook of your neck, his chest heaving in ragged pulses that mirrored your own. the arrogant edge in his posture had fractured — just for a fraction of a second — leaving only the harsh heat of his skin and the violent rhythm of his pulse hammering against your jaw.

in the dark, you couldn't tell where the friction ended and the silence began. you lay there trapped beneath him, your heart thrashing against your ribs, desperately searching his face for any slip in his composure, any proof that he had lost himself to you as completely as you had lost yourself to him.

then, slowly, the dark closed back in.

jay lifted his head. the amber streetlamp light filtered through the rain-streaked windowpane, catching the sharp contour of his jaw and the damp fringe of hair clinging to his forehead. the feral hunger that had consumed him vanished as quickly as it had arrived, slipping smoothly back behind that unbothered calm.

he slid his hand slowly up your throat, his thumb dragging across the flushed heat of your cheek with gentle weight. he didn't say a word right away. he just stared down at you, taking in the absolute ruin of your posture, the lingering tremble in your legs, the quiet tears drying on your temples.

he had given you everything you had spent agonizing months starving for. he had pulled you into the dark and undone you piece by piece.

as he finally leaned down, his lips brushed the shell of your ear, his voice dropping into a teasing whisper that made your stomach twist.

"let's see if you can still look away next thursday, sweetheart."

⋆.˚˖࿔ ࣪

[bellaflippy]

where the scent settles

pairing✧˖°. riki x (f) reader

synopsis✧˖°. you've spent your whole life depending on a stuffed bear that smells like amber and musk to sleep, so when he vanishes from your jacket at a laundromat, you unravel into twelve sleepless nights, panic attacks, and a shame you can't explain. when you finally find him in the pocket of a stranger's jacket, you discover that the boy wearing your coat smells exactly like home, and maybe you've been looking for the wrong kind of comfort all along.

contains✧˖°. severe insomnia & sleep depravation ; vomiting ; hallucinations ; panic attacks ; anxiety ;  attachment/dependency issues ; reader cries ALOT ; emotional dysregulation & distress ; angst ; fluff ; wc: 11.9k

notes✧˖°. okay... here's my big one! im not exactly sure if i like this because it does get very angsty and serious at times, but i tried to make a long story! so.. the stuffed animal is lowk based on one i have (sue me) i did make it a little more dramatic for the plot line, but yeah! i'll say it in the authors note, but guys PLEASE send me some sort of asks i beg!! it helps me stay motivated!! i hope you guys enjoy!! also @ptolemaeiia u asked to be tagged so here! (I LOVE YOU SO MUCH YOUR STUFF IS SO BOMB BRO)

many people have 'a thing'.

something that helps them feel at ease when they're down, something that distracts them from the real world, or something that they just love.

your thing was your stuffed animal, as childish as it may sound.

bear. that's what his name was!

a winnie the pooh, rattle toy stuffed animal, with a white shirt from another animal, that has faded more and more yellow as time passed.

you've had this stuffed animal for years, and it was your favorite! so much to the point where you brought it everywhere when you were a kid.

doctors office? dentist? your sisters band concert? bear was there for all of it.

now, you had many stuffed animals, but none of them really ever clicked with you like how bear did.

bear was just different. it was something about his smell.

you would hold him up to your face and inhale and be brought immediate comfort.

it smelt like home.

lately, though, you had noticed you had to press your nose harder into his fur to find the smell. 

it was fading, slowly, like a photograph left in sunlight. you told yourself it was just because he was old, because you had washed him too many times, but the thought made your stomach tight. 

you couldn't remember when exactly the scent had started to thin, only that now you had to inhale twice as deep to get that same hit of comfort. 

you carried bear around all the time and kept him around all the time, all the way to your adulthood.

around your teenage years, you started to get embarrassed about bear.

it felt odd.. you felt immature.

everyone else around never had stuffed animals around 24/7. you'd go over to a friends house and the layout of their bed would be completely different. no stuffed animals anywhere.

it only got worse as you grew older.

people started caring less and less and less about their childhood toys, while you were still stuck.

you even tried to convince yourself at one point some random day in highschool.

"i don't need bear! i'm not even gonna sleep with him tonight" you thought to yourself.

you tried to sleep that night… keyword 'tried'

it was probably the worst sleep of your life. you couldn't sleep until 5 in the morning, and even when you did fall asleep, you'd stir yourself awake every 10 mins.

after that you gave up. 

you never bothered to tell anyone about bear, but it was just a little secret you had. you needed him in order to get any sort of comfort.

cut to now, you're an adult. living a full life, with lots of friends. bear still always by your side.

one day, it was laundry day.

living in the apartment you had, you didn't own a washer or dryer, you had to go to laundromat in order to wash anything.

you stand in front of your hamper and stare at it like it's a problem to be solved.

it's overflowing. socks are spilling over the side like they're trying to escape.

you've been putting this off for eleven days now, ever since you wore your last clean pair of jeans to that party at mayas and spilled wine on them.

you look down at your jacket, hanging on the hook by the door. bear is in there. he's always in there.

you grab the hamper with both hands and kick the door open with your foot, maneuvering down the narrow hallway of your building. 

the stairs creak under your weight. the third floor always feels higher when you're carrying three weeks of dirty clothes.

the laundromat is four blocks away. you walk there because the bus costs two fifty and you'd rather spend that on coffee. 

the autumn air is sharp enough to make your nose run, and you burrow deeper into your jacket, your hand finding the front pocket automatically.

bear is there. you can feel the soft bulk of him through the denim. your thumb traces the edge of his shirt, that faded yellow fabric that used to be bright white. 

you don't take him out. you never take him out in public anymore. but you know he's there.

the laundromat is called spin cycle, which you think is a stupid name but whatever. the bell above the door jingles when you push it open with your hip.

the smell hits you immediately. detergent and warm cotton and that particular steamy humidity that only exists in places where clothes are being dried. it smells like clean, which is different from how bear smells, but somehow related.

you set your hamper down in front of an empty washer near the back. 

number fourteen. you have a preference for the back machines. less chance of someone seeing you talk to your jacket pocket.

you sort your clothes with the efficiency of someone who's done this many times. darks in one pile, lights in another. you check pockets out of habit, even though you know exactly what's in yours.

your hand hesitates on the zipper of your jacket pocket.

you could take him out. just for a second. just to make sure he's okay before you put everything in the machine.

but the door opens behind you and an older woman comes in with a rolling cart, and you drop your hand like you've been caught.

you stuff your clothes into the machine instead. jeans first, then sweaters, then the delicates bag with your underwear because you're not brave enough to wash those in public view. 

you toss the detergent pod on top and shove four quarters into the slot.

the machine groans to life. water starts rushing in.

you stand there for a moment, watching your clothes disappear under the suds. 

your jacket is still on. you never take it off at the laundromat. the machines run hot and the room gets warm, but you keep it zipped up to your chin. bear stays close to your heart that way.

your phone buzzes in your actual pocket.

it's a text from your roommate, sarah. she needs you to pick up her prescription while you're out. she'll pay you back. she even adds three pleading emojis.

you sigh and look at the washer. it has thirty two minutes left on the cycle.

you could wait here. sit on the orange plastic chair and scroll through your phone and try not to think about how your jacket is starting to make you sweat.

or you could be productive.

you check the pocket one more time, patting the bulge that is bear. he's there. he's fine.

you walk out into the afternoon.

the pharmacy is two blocks north. you pass a coffee shop and smell espresso and almost stop, but sarah said urgent, so you keep walking. your hand stays in your jacket pocket the whole way, fingers wrapped around bears soft body.

the prescription pickup line is four people deep. you wait. you shift your weight from foot to foot. you think about your clothes spinning in circles back at the laundromat.

when it's your turn, you give sarahs name and date of birth. the pharmacist is slow. she types with one finger. you try not to tap your foot.

finally, you get the small white bag with sarahs name printed on it. you tuck it into your purse and head back out.

on the way back to the laundromat, you stop at the corner store for a bottle of water. the clerk knows you and waves. you wave back.

you're gone for twenty three minutes total.

when you push back through the door of spin cycle, the bell jingles again. the humidity hits your face.

your washer is still running. you can hear it churning, that wet slapping sound of clothes being beaten clean.

you sit down on the orange chair to wait. you pull out your phone. you scroll through instagram for four minutes. you watch a video of a cat falling off a counter.

then you get up to check the time left on your machine.

and you realize.

your jacket is gone.

you stand there staring at the orange chair where you were just sitting, and your jacket is not there. 

you left it there. you know you left it there. you always take it off when you sit, even for a second, because the heat is too much, and you draped it over the back of the chair, and now it's gone.

your heart starts beating in your throat.

you look around the laundromat like the jacket might have just fallen on the floor. like it slipped down behind the chair. like you're imagining things.

but it's not on the floor. it's not behind the chair. it's not on any of the other chairs or folded on the counter or hanging on the coat hook by the door.

someone took it.

or someone moved it.

you walk in a circle around the laundromat, checking every surface, every chair, every windowsill.

you stand in the middle of spin cycle laundromat and your washer beeps, signaling that the cycle is done, and you can't move.

your clothes are done.

your jacket is gone.

bear is gone.

you walk back to the orange chair and you sit down heavily. the plastic creaks under you. your hands are shaking so badly you have to press them between your knees to make them stop.

you try to think logically.

maybe someone moved it. maybe an employee put it somewhere. maybe it got mixed in with someone elses stuff by accident.

you get up and walk to the front counter. there's a girl there with blue hair and a nose ring, reading a paperback with a dragon on the cover. she looks up when you approach.

"hi," you say, and your voice sounds wrong. thin and shaky. 

"did anyone turn in a jacket? navy blue denim? oversized?"

she shakes her head. "not that i've seen. did you check the lost and found?"

you nod. you checked. it was just a sock and a hanger.

she gives you a sympathetic look. "sometimes people move stuff if it's in their way. check the other chairs?"

you already checked. you checked everywhere.

you walk back to the orange chair and sit down again. the washer has stopped beeping now. your clothes sit in the dark behind the glass, wet and heavy and waiting.

you should get them. you should transfer them to the dryer. you should finish your laundry like a normal person.

you can't get up.

your phone buzzes. it's sarah, texting to ask if you got her prescription. you stare at the screen and your thumbs hover over the keyboard but you can't think of what to type. you can't think of anything except the empty space where your jacket should be.

you start to cry.

you didn't mean to. 

you blink hard and press your palms against your eyes but the tears come anyway, hot and fast and embarrassing. you're twenty years old crying in a laundromat over a lost jacket. over a stuffed animal. over bear.

a woman folding towels nearby glances at you. you turn away and hide your face in your hands.

you stay like that for a long time.

eventually you force yourself to stand up. you wipe your face with your sleeve. 

you go to the washer and pull out your wet clothes and carry them to a dryer. you put in quarters you can barely see through your tears. you start the machine.

you sit back down on the orange chair.

you don't know what to do.

you think about calling the police, but what would you say? someone stole my jacket and inside the pocket was a winnie the pooh stuffed animal and i need it to sleep? 

they'd laugh. or worse, they wouldn't laugh. they'd look at you with that concerned expression that says they're wondering if you're safe to be around.

you think about going home without him.

the thought makes your chest tighten until you can't breathe. 

you put your head between your knees and count backwards from one hundred. you learned that in therapy sophomore year when the panic attacks got bad. it doesn't help much now.

the dryer hums.

you sit there and you wait for your clothes to be done and you try not to think about where bear is right now. 

if he's on the floor somewhere. if someone threw him away. if someone found him and is holding him and wondering why a grown woman carries a baby toy in her jacket pocket.

the shame burns hot in your throat.

but underneath it is something worse. something empty and cold. the knowledge that tonight you'll go home to your small apartment and you'll lie in your bed and you won't sleep.

you know this because you've tried to sleep without him before.

you remember junior year. the night at your grandmothers house. 

you'd been so careful all evening, checking your pocket every ten minutes, feeling the reassuring lump of him against your hip. but when you got home and reached in to pull him out for bed, your hand met only empty fabric.

you'd left him on your grandmothers couch. three hours away. three days before you could go back.

that first night without him, you lay in bed with your eyes wide open and stared at the ceiling until the sun came up. 

you counted sheep. you counted your breaths. you listened to every creak of the house settling, every car passing on the street outside, every beat of your own heart that seemed too loud and too fast.

you didn't sleep for one minute.

the second night was worse. your body ached with exhaustion but your mind wouldn't stop spinning. you got up and walked circles around your room at three am. 

you sat on the floor and pressed your face against your knees and rocked back and forth like a child.

by the third night you were hallucinating. shadows moved in the corners of your vision. sounds came from inside your walls. 

you'd tried to remember the smell exactly, sitting there in the dark at your grandmother's house, but you couldn't conjure it. 

you could remember that it was warm, that it was sweet like vanilla and something else, but the specific scent eluded you. it worried you more than the sleeplessness, that your brain couldn't hold onto something so essential. 

you called your grandmother at four in the morning crying so hard you couldn't make words.

you got him back on the fourth day. you slept for fourteen hours straight and woke up with his face pressed against your cheek and your pillow soaked with tears.

you can't do that again.

but you don't know how to fix this.

the dryer stops.

you sit there for five more minutes before you get up and pull out your warm clothes. you fold them mechanically. shirts first, then pants, then socks matched into pairs. you put them in your hamper.

you carry the hamper home through the darkening streets.

the autumn air bites at your cheeks. you didn't realize how late it'd gotten. the streetlights are on now, orange and humming.

you walk up the three flights of stairs to your apartment. sarah is home. she's making pasta in the kitchen and she looks up when you come in.

sarah sees the expression on your face, hers immediately becoming concerned. "are you.. okay?" she asks cautiously.

you nod and pull the white bag from your purse and hand it to her. "fine," you say. "i'm just tired."

she takes the bag but she doesn't look away from you. "you don't look fine," she says. "you look like you've been crying."

you turn away and hang your keys on the hook by the door. "i'm fine," you say again, but your voice cracks on the second word.

"hey," she says, softer now. she puts down the wooden spoon she was holding and comes over to you. "what happened? did something happen at the laundromat?"

you shake your head. you can't talk about it. if you try to explain you'll start crying again and you don't think you'll ever stop.

"i just need to lay down," you say.

sarah reaches out and touches your arm. "are you sure? you can talk to me, you know. whatever it is."

you nod and pull away gently. "i'm sure," you say. "just tired."

you go to your room and close the door.

you sit on your bed and you look at the empty jacket hook by the door.

you lie down on top of your covers still wearing your shoes.

you stare at the ceiling.

you wait.

the first night is exactly as bad as you remember.

you lie there with your eyes open and your hands clenched into fists at your sides. you try to slow your breathing. you try to relax your jaw. you try to think about nothing.

but your brain won't turn off. it keeps circling back to the same thought. bear is gone. bear is gone. bear is gone.

you get up at midnight and search your room again. under the bed. in the closet. in your laundry hamper even though you know you already checked. you go to the living room and look behind the couch cushions. you check the bathroom, the kitchen, the hallway outside your door.

you know he's not there. you knew before you looked. but you can't stop yourself from checking.

by two am you're back in bed and your heart is racing like you've been running. you press your hand against your chest and feel it thumping against your ribs.

you don't sleep.

the sun comes up and you haven't closed your eyes for more than a few seconds at a time. your body feels wired and heavy at the same time. your eyes burn. your head aches in a low constant throb behind your temples.

sarah knocks on your door at eight. "i'm heading to class," she calls through the wood. "are you up?"

you don't answer. you can't make your voice work.

you hear her hesitate. "y/n?" she calls again. "you in there?"

"i'm sick," you manage. your voice sounds like gravel. "calling in sick."

there's a pause. "do you need anything?"

you close your eyes and shake your head even though she can't see you. "no," you say. "just sleep."

you hear her walk away.

you spend the day in a fog. you lie on the couch and stare at the wall. sarah comes back at four and finds you there in the same position she left you.

she sets her bag down and comes over to you. "you still haven't slept?" she asks.

you don't answer.

she sits down on the edge of the couch and puts her hand on your forehead like she's checking for a fever. "you're burning up," she says. "but you don't feel sick. what's going on?"

"just can't sleep," you whisper.

"since when?"

you close your eyes. "since i lost something."

she waits for you to say more. when you don't, she asks, "what did you lose?"

you shake your head. you can't say it out loud.

sarah sighs and stands up. "i'm making soup," she says. "you're eating something."

you don't eat. you drink half the broth she brings you and your stomach cramps around it.

you go back to your room when the sun starts to set. you lie down and you wait for the second night.

the second night is worse.

now your body knows what's coming. it starts to panic before you even get into bed. your hands shake as you brush your teeth. your stomach twists as you pull back the covers.

you lie down and your whole body is tense, waiting for the sleeplessness to start.

it doesn't disappoint.

you spend hours staring at the ceiling. you try counting backwards from one thousand. you try naming every state in alphabetical order. you try to remember the lyrics to every song you learned in elementary school.

nothing works.

your thoughts race in circles. where is he right now? is he cold? is he scared? does he think you abandoned him? the thoughts are ridiculous and you know they're ridiculous but you can't stop them.

at four am you get up and throw up in the bathroom. there's nothing in your stomach but bile. you rinse your mouth and look at yourself in the mirror. your eyes are red and swollen. your skin is gray. you look like you've been sick for weeks.

sarah finds you there. she's in her pajamas, rubbing her eyes. "you're up?" she asks, then she sees your face. "oh my god. y/n. what's happening to you?"

"nothing," you say. "go back to bed."

"you've been throwing up," she says. "and you look terrible. i'm taking you to the hospital."

"no," you say, too fast. "i'm fine. i just can't sleep."

"for two nights?" she asks. "that's not normal. something is wrong."

you lean against the sink and close your eyes. "i just need to find him," you whisper.

"find who?" sarah asks.

you shake your head. you can't say it.

sarah puts her hand on your arm. "you're scaring me," she says quietly. "please tell me what's wrong."

you open your eyes and look at her. she looks scared. you hate that you're doing this to her. but you can't explain. it's too embarrassing

"i'm sorry," you say. "i just need to find something i lost. then i'll be fine. i promise."

she stares at you for a long moment. "what did you lose?" she asks again.

you push past her and go back to your room. you close the door and lean against it and slide down to the floor.

"i'm sorry," you call through the wood. "just please let me handle this."

you hear her hesitate. then you hear her walk away.

you get back in bed.

you lie there and watch the sky outside your window turn from black to gray to pink.

you don't sleep.

by the third day you're unraveling.

you try to go to work because you need the money and you can't afford to lose another day. you stand at the coffee shop counter and you can't remember what buttons to press. you stare at the register for thirty seconds while a customer waits and you can't make your brain work.

your manager sends you home.

"are you on something?" she asks quietly in the back room. "if you need help, we can get you help."

"i'm just tired," you say. "i haven't slept."

she looks at you and her expression softens into pity. "go home," she says. "get some rest. come back when you're better."

you walk back to the laundromat. you check the lost and found box. you ask the blue haired girl if anyone has turned anything in. she recognizes you now and her sympathy has started to turn into something else, something wary.

"no," she says. "nothing."

you put up a sign on the bulletin board.

lost. navy blue denim jacket. no questions asked. reward.

you put your phone number at the bottom.

you wait.

no one calls.

the third night is the worst yet.

now you're afraid to even try to sleep. the bed feels like a battlefield. you lie down and your whole body is rigid with dread. you know what's coming. the long hours of darkness. the racing thoughts. the way your mind turns against you.

you start to cry at eleven pm and you don't stop.

you cry until your throat is raw and your eyes feel like they've been scrubbed with sandpaper. you cry until your chest hurts and you can't catch your breath.

sarah finds you at two in the morning sitting on the kitchen floor with your knees pulled to your chest and your face wet and your whole body shaking.

she sits down on the floor with you. she puts her arm around your shoulders. she doesn't ask what's wrong. she just stays there.

"i'm sorry," you whisper. "i'm so sorry."

"shh," she says. "it's okay. whatever it is, it's okay."

you lean your head against her shoulder and you cry quieter, then, exhausted and empty.

she helps you to bed. she tucks the covers around you like you're a child. she sits on the edge of the mattress and strokes your hair until your breathing slows.

"do you want to tell me now?" she asks softly.

you shake your head against the pillow. "i can't," you whisper.

she sighs. "okay," she says. "but i'm here when you're ready."

she stays until you pretend to fall asleep. then she slips out and closes the door.

you lie there with your eyes open in the dark.

you don't sleep.

the fourth day you don't get out of bed at all.

sarah brings you water. she brings you toast. she sits on the edge of your bed and tries to get you to eat.

"just a bite," she says. "please."

you eat half a slice and your stomach cramps around it.

you stare at the wall and you think about bear. you think about his soft fur. you think about his smell. you think about the way he fit in your hand just right, the perfect size to hold against your heart.

you wonder if you'll ever sleep again.

the fifth night comes.

you've been awake for so long that time has stopped making sense. hours blur together. you can't remember if you ate today. you can't remember what day it is.

you lie in bed and you stare at the ceiling and you wait for morning.

your body is screaming for rest. your eyes burn constantly. your head feels like it's full of static, white noise that never stops.

but your mind won't let you go.

it keeps you awake like a punishment. like a curse.

you start to think that maybe this is just your life now. that you lost the one thing that let you rest and now you'll never rest again. you'll spend the rest of your existence exhausted and hollow and reaching for something that isn't there.

you get up and walk to the window.

you look out at the street below, empty and dark, and you wonder if he's out there somewhere. if he's cold. if he's alone.

you press your forehead against the glass and you close your eyes.

you don't sleep.

you don't sleep on the sixth night either.

or the seventh.

by the eighth day you're a ghost. you move through your apartment like you're haunting it. you don't eat. you don't speak. sarah has stopped asking if you're okay because she knows you're not.

she just brings you water and sits with you and waits.

she doesn't ask again what you lost. she just stays with you, her presence steady and warm, until the afternoon light fades and your room grows dark.

on the ninth day, sarah knocks on your door earlier than usual.

"i'm having some people over tonight," she says through the wood. "just a few friends. dinner. nothing crazy."

you don't answer. you're staring at the ceiling and counting the cracks in the plaster. there are eleven. you've counted them a hundred times.

"it would mean a lot to me if you came out," she continues. "just for an hour. please."

you close your eyes. the thought of being around people makes your skin crawl. you're so tired. you're so empty. you don't have the energy to pretend to be normal.

but sarah has been so patient. she has brought you water and toast and sat with you in silence. she hasn't pushed you to explain. she has just been there.

you owe her this.

"okay," you say. your voice sounds like rust.

you hear her exhale. "really?" she asks. "you'll come out?"

"yeah," you say. "i'll try."

you hear her smile. you can hear it in her voice. "thank you," she says. "just an hour. that's all."

she walks away and you lie there and wonder if you can do this.

you get up at six. you haven't slept in nine days and your body feels like it's made of glass, fragile and ready to shatter.

you go to the bathroom and look at yourself in the mirror.

you look terrible. your eyes are sunken and red rimmed. your skin is pale and splotchy. your hair is a tangled mess.

you try to make yourself look presentable.

you splash cold water on your face until your cheeks have some color. you brush your hair and pull it back into a low ponytail. you put on makeup for the first time in over a week, covering the dark circles under your eyes with concealer that's slightly too light.

you change out of the sweatpants you've been wearing for three days and put on jeans and a sweater.

you look in the mirror again.

you still look tired. you still look hollow. but you look like a person again. not a ghost.

you take a deep breath and open your bedroom door.

the apartment smells like garlic and rosemary. sarah is cooking pasta. music plays softly from her phone, something upbeat and indie.

she turns when she hears you and her face breaks into a smile.

"you look great," she says. she means it.

"thanks," you say.

she crosses the room and hugs you. she squeezes tight and you feel tears prick your eyes but you blink them back. you've cried enough.

"seriously," she whispers. "thank you for trying."

you nod against her shoulder.

the doorbell rings at seven.

sarah pulls away and wipes her hands on her apron. "that's probably maya and leo," she says. "can you get the door?"

you walk to the door on legs that feel unsteady. you open it.

maya and leo stand there holding wine and bread. they smile when they see you.

"hey," maya says. "long time no see. sarah said you've been sick."

"yeah," you say. "stomach thing. getting better now."

they come in and you take their coats and hang them on the hook by the door.

the hook is empty where your jacket should be.

you look away.

more people arrive. sarahs friends from class. a girl named priya who brings brownies. a guy named tom who talks loudly about his internship.

you stand in the kitchen and hold a glass of wine you don't drink. you smile when people look at you. you nod when they talk. you're performing being a person and you're not sure how convincing you are.

the doorbell rings again.

"i'll get it," sarah calls from the stove.

you stay in the kitchen and listen to the door open.

"hey," you hear sarah say. "i'm so glad you could make it."

"wouldn't miss it," a voice answers. male. soft. slightly rough. deep.

you don't think anything of it until they walk into the kitchen.

sarah enters first. then a boy.

he is tall. blonde hair. he's wearing a gray hoodie under a jacket that makes you stop breathing.

your jacket.

navy blue denim. oversized. frayed hem.

your jacket.

on his body.

you stare at him and the glass in your hand starts to shake.

"y/n," sarah says, "this is riki. he's in my art history class. riki, this is my roommate y/n."

riki looks at you and smiles. his eyes are warm and dark brown and he has full lips.

"hey," he says. "nice to meet you."

you force yourself to smile. "nice to meet you too."

you don't say anything about the jacket. your throat closed up. your heart starts hammering against your ribs.

when riki shrugged off the jacket to hang it by the door, you noticed he folded it carefully, smoothing the collar with his palm before stepping away. not the careless toss most people gave their coats, but something deliberate, almost tender. 

you watch him from the corner of your eye all night. you watch him talk to maya about some movie. you watch him help sarah carry plates to the table. you watch the way the jacket moves on his shoulders, the way the front pocket bulges slightly with nothing in it now.

bear is not there.

you feel sick.

but you don't confront him. you can't. not in front of everyone. not when you're barely holding yourself together.

you make it through dinner. you laugh at the right times. you push food around your plate and pretend to eat.

when riki leaves, he shrugs into the jacket and zips it up and you watch him walk out the door and you feel like you're losing bear all over again.

but now you know who has him.

or at least who has your jacket.

you go to bed that night and you don't sleep. but now there's something else mixed with the exhaustion. hope.

the next week, sarah has people over again.

"rikis coming," she mentions casually while chopping vegetables. "he asked about you. said you seemed nice."

you freeze. "oh?"

"yeah. he's really into thrifting. you should see his apartment. it's like a vintage store exploded."

you nod and try to act normal.

when the doorbell rings, your stomach flips.

riki walks in wearing your jacket again. this time with a different hoodie underneath. he smiles when he sees you.

he looked at you differently this time, his eyes lingering on your face like he was looking for something. 

"sarah said you've been sick," he said, and there was a note of suspicion in it, or confusion. "yeah," you said. "stomach thing." he nodded, but his brow stayed furrowed, like he knew you were lying but couldn't figure out about what. 

he hangs the jacket on the coat rack by the door and you have to stop yourself from staring at it.

all night, your eyes drift to that jacket. you wonder if bear is still in the pocket. you wonder if he took bear out. you wonder where bear is now.

you don't sleep that night either. but you spend less time crying and more time thinking.

riki comes over again three days later. sarah invites him for movie night. he brings popcorn and wears your jacket again.

this time you sit next to him on the couch. you can smell the jacket from here. you can smell the musk, amber, and something warm.

it smells like bear.

it smells like home.

your eyes start to close during the movie. just for a second. the scent is so familiar. so comforting.

you jerk awake and riki is looking at you.

"you okay?" he whispers.

"yeah," you say. "just tired."

he nods and looks back at the screen. but after a minute, he shifts slightly and the jacket sleeve brushes against your arm.

you don't pull away.

the fourth time he comes over, you're ready.

sarah is in the kitchen making tea. the others haven't arrived yet. it's just you and riki in the living room.

he's wearing your jacket again. he wears it every time. it must be his favorite now.

you sit down next to him on the couch and your hands are sweating and your heart is racing but you have to ask.

"can i ask you something?" you say.

he looks at you. "yeah. of course."

"that jacket," you say. "where did you get it?"

riki looks down at himself. then back at you. "thrift store," he says. "downtown. why?"

you take a breath. "i think it might be mine," you say. "i lost a jacket just like that at the laundromat on fourth."

rikis eyes widen. "oh," he says. "oh wow. i'm sorry. i didn't know."

"it's okay," you say. "you didn't know. but... there was something in the pocket. when i lost it. something important."

riki stares at you. "something important?" he repeats.

"a stuffed animal," you say. your voice cracks. "a bear. he was in the front pocket. did you... did you find anything like that? when you bought the jacket?"

riki is quiet for a long moment, his brow furrows.

"there was something," he says slowly. "when i got home and checked the pockets. a bear. yeah. i remember."

your whole body goes weak. "you have him?"

riki looks at you. "i have him at my apartment," he says. "i didn't know what to do with him. i kept meaning to bring him back to the thrift store but i kept forgetting. i'm sorry. i should have turned him in."

you're crying. you can't help it. tears are streaming down your face and you don't care.

"can i have him?" you whisper. "please? he... he's really important to me."

riki stares at you. he looks confused but not judgmental. just curious. concerned.

"of course," he says. "i'm so sorry. i didn't realize. i can go get him right now. my apartment is only ten minutes away."

you shake your head. "no," you say. "you don't have to. just... next time you come over. please. bring him."

"i will," riki says. "i promise. tomorrow. i'll bring him tomorrow."

you nod and wipe your face. "thank you," you say. "thank you so much."

sarah comes out of the kitchen with two mugs. she sees your face and stops.

"...everything okay?" she asks.

"yeah," riki says before you can answer. "we were just talking about the jacket. turns out i accidentally bought y/ns lost jacket."

sarah looks between you two. "seriously?"

"yeah," you say. "small world."

sarah sits down and the conversation moves on. but riki keeps looking at you. not with pity. with something else. something gentle.

the next day, he texts sarah that he's running late but he'll be there soon.

you sit on the couch and wait. you haven't slept in twelve days now. you're beyond exhausted. you're running on fumes and hope.

the doorbell rings.

you answer it.

riki stands there holding a small plastic bag. inside is bear.

you make a sound. a sob. you reach out and take the bag with both hands.

"i'm sorry i kept him so long," riki says. "i really didn't know."

you open the bag and pull bear out and press him against your face.

but something was wrong. underneath the familiar notes of amber and musk, there was something else, something chemical and sharp. the thrift store, maybe, or someone else's detergent. 

you pressed harder, trying to find the original smell, the one that had lived in his fur for years, but it was muffled, distant, like trying to hear a song through a wall. 

but underneath bears familiar scent, there is something else. something that smells like musk and amber and warmth.

you look up at riki.

"you smell like him," you say.

riki blinks. "what?"

"like bear," you say. "like home."

riki stares at you. then he smiles slightly. "thats a weird thing to say," he says.

"i know," you say. "im sorry. i just... i havent slept in twelve days. and you smell like sleep. you smell like the only thing that lets me sleep."

riki steps closer. he looks at your face. at your red eyes and your pale skin.

"twelve days?" he asks quietly.

"not since i lost him," you say.

he is quiet for a moment. then he says, ""why do i smell like him?" he asks. "like the bear?"

you look at him. really look at him. at his warm eyes and his messy hair.

"i dont know, maybe its the jacket?" you say. "but you do. you smell exactly like him. like amber and musk."

riki smiles. "amber and musk," he repeats. "thats funny."

"why?"

"because thats what my soap smells like," he says. "my grandmother makes it. she sends me bars every month."

you stare at him.

"amber and musk," you whisper.

"yeah," he says. "weird coincidence, right?"

you look down at bear. at his faded white shirt.

riki is quiet. then he says, "so i smell like your childhood."

you look up at him. "yeah," you say. "you do."

he smiles again. this time it reaches his eyes. "thats not a bad thing to smell like," he says.

that night you sleep for fourteen hours straight.

you woke up once at 3 am, reaching for bear automatically. you pressed your face to his stomach and inhaled, but the sleep did not come back as fast as it used to. 

the scent was there, but faint, like the last bit of perfume on a shirt. you had to bury your whole face in his fur to find it, and even then, it slipped away faster than it used to. 

you wake up with bear pressed against your face and your pillow soaked with tears that you do not remember crying.

the sun is streaming through your window at an angle that suggests it is late afternoon. you check your phone. 3:47 pm.

you've slept through your alarm. through sarah leaving for class. through the morning and into the afternoon.

you don't care.

you bury your face in bears fur and inhale. amber and musk. home.

but underneath that familiar scent, you catch something else. something that makes your chest tighten with a different kind of comfort.

riki.

he smells like this too.

you lie there for another hour, just breathing. just existing in the softness of finally being able to rest.

when you finally get up, you feel like a person again. your eyes are still heavy but they do not burn anymore. your head feels clear for the first time in weeks.

sarah is in the living room when you emerge. she looks up from her laptop and her face breaks into a smile.

"you slept," she says. it is not a question.

"yeah," you say. your voice is rough but steady. "i slept."

she stands up and hugs you. she smells like lavender shampoo and coffee.

"im so glad," she whispers.

you hug her back and you realize you have not told her yet. you haven't explained about riki and the jacket and the soap that smells like your childhood.

"theres something i should tell you," you say.

she pulls back and looks at you. "about the bear?"

"yeah," you say. "and other things."

you sit down on the couch and she sits next to you and you tell her everything. about bear. about the laundromat. about the insomnia. about riki buying your jacket. about the amber and musk.

when you finish, sarah is quiet for a long moment.

"thats why you couldnt sleep," she says finally. "thats what you lost."

"yeah," you say.

"and riki... riki smells like the bear."

"his soap," you say. "his grandmother makes it."

sarah stares at you. then she laughs. not a mean laugh. a disbelieving laugh.

"thats insane," she says. "thats actually insane."

"i know," you say.

she shakes her head. "im glad you told me," she says. "i was so worried. i thought you were having a breakdown."

"i kind of was," you admit.

she reaches out and takes your hand. "next time," she says, "just tell me. even if it sounds crazy. especially if it sounds crazy."

"okay," you say.

she squeezes your hand. "and riki... hes a good guy. he was really worried about you too. after he saw you that night. he texted me asking if you were okay."

your stomach does something soft and warm. "he did?"

"yeah," she says. "he seemed really concerned. more than just polite concerned. like actually worried."

you look down at bear, who you are still holding.

there's a pause before sarah speaks again.

"..does he still smell like it? riki? does he still smell like... home?"

you think about yesterday. about standing in the doorway with riki in front of you. about how even with bear in your hands, you had wanted to lean closer to him. to breathe him in.

"yeah," you say quietly. "he does."

sarah smiles. "interesting," she says.

three days later, riki texts you.

you're surprised when your phone buzzes with an unknown number and a message

hey its riki. got your number from sarah. hope thats okay.

you stare at the screen for a full minute before you answer.

yeah of course. hi.

he texts back immediately.

hey. i was wondering if you wanted to grab coffee sometime. or if thats weird. since i technically stole your jacket and your bear.

you smile.

It wasn't weird until you said that.

his reply comes with a laughing emoji.

fair. but seriously. coffee?

sure, you type. when?

how about saturday?

saturday works.

you put your phone down and you feel something flutter in your chest. it is not anxiety. it is something lighter.

saturday comes and you meet him at a coffee shop downtown. not the one by the laundromat. a different one. quieter. with velvet chairs and exposed brick walls.

he is already there when you arrive. he stands up when he sees you and waves. he's wearing a different jacket today. a brown corduroy one. but you can still smell it when you get close. amber and musk. drifting from his skin.

you order a latte. he gets an americano. you sit at a small table by the window.

you learned he was gentle in small ways. when the barista called out your name wrong 

riki didn't laugh or correct her loudly. he simply took your cup when it came out and said, "here you go, y/n" handing it to you with your actual name, soft and private, like it belonged only between you. 

he stirred his coffee exactly three times, always clockwise. 

"my mom used to say it made the sugar happier," he explained when he caught you watching, cheeks pinking. "stupid, I know." you thought it wasn't stupid at all. 

"so," he says. "how are you sleeping?"

it's such a direct question. such an intimate question from someone who is practically a stranger.

"better," you say. "since you brought bear back."

"good," he says. "im glad."

he tells you about his classes. about his grandmother who makes the soap. about how he grew up in a small town upstate and moved to the city for school.

you tell him about your job at the coffee shop. about sarah being your roommate for two years. about how you’re studying graphic design online.

the conversation flows easier than you expected. he asks questions and actually listens to the answers. he remembers details. he laughs at your jokes.

then he set his cup down and looked at you seriously. "can i be honest?" he asked. 

you nodded, stomach tight. "when i found that bear in the jacket pocket, i thought about throwing it away," he said. "i thought it was trash, or like, a weird mistake. and then when you asked about it, i thought maybe you were... i don’t know.. unstable." he said the word carefully. 

"im telling you this because i want you to know that im trying to understand. but i don’t totally get it yet. is that okay?" you felt tears prick your eyes, but they were relief tears, or something close. 

"that is okay," you said. "i don’t totally get it either." 

when you finish your coffee, he walks you home. it is only six blocks but it takes twenty minutes because you keep stopping to look at things. a street performer playing violin. a cat in a window. a mural that is half finished.

he points things out to you. things you would not have noticed. the way the light hits a particular building at this time of day. the sound of a bird that should not be in the city.

"youre observant," you say.

"i like paying attention," he says.

at your door, he stops. "this was nice," he says. "we should do it again."

"yeah," you say. "id like that."

he smiles. "ill text you."

he does. the next day. and the day after that.

he starts coming over to your apartment more often. not just when sarah invites him. he texts you first. asks if you’re home. asks if you want to hang out.

the first time he shows up unannounced, you’re in your pajamas at two in the afternoon on a sunday. you open the door and he is standing there with a bag of bagels.

"sarah said you like everything bagels," he says. "and shes not here but i thought... maybe you'd want to share them."

you stare at him. "im in my pajamas," you say.

"i dont care," he says. "im wearing sweatpants."

he is. gray ones. with paint stains on the knee.

you let him in.

you eat bagels on the couch and watch a documentary about octopuses. he sits close enough that you can smell him. amber and musk. it mixes with the smell of your apartment. your candles. your shampoo. it starts to feel like he belongs here.

after that, he comes over all the time.

sometimes he brings food. sometimes he brings movies. sometimes he just brings himself and his presence.

you start to notice things about him. the way he runs his hand through his hair when he is thinking. the way he hums under his breath when he is focused on something. the way he always asks if you’re sleeping okay.

"and how is bear?" he asked casually, stirring his coffee. you looked at him, surprised. 

"you never talk about him anymore," he said. "you used to carry him everywhere, secretly. now i never see him." you realized he was right. bear sat on your pillow now, untouched most days. 

"his smell is fading," you admitted. "i think... i think he's getting too old." riki nodded, not judgmental, just observing. 

"that must be scary," he said. "losing your safety net." 

you nodded, throat tight. "but you’ve been sleeping anyway," he said. "without him, sometimes. i notice." you hadn’t realized he had noticed, or that you had been doing it. "yeah," you said. "i guess i have." 

bear is back in his place on your pillow. but sometimes, when riki is over late and the three of you’re  watching movies, you find yourself getting sleepy on the couch. your head drifting toward him. your body relaxing in a way that usually only happens with bear in your arms.

one night, sarah falls asleep first. she is in the armchair, snoring softly, her phone still in her hand.

riki looks at you. "shes out," he whispers.

"yeah," you whisper back.

you’re sitting close on the couch. closer than you were at the beginning of the movie. your thighs almost touching.

"does it bother you?" he asks. "that i smell like... like your thing? like your comfort thing?"

you look at him. his face is serious. his eyes are soft.

"no," you say honestly. "it doesn't bother me."

"does it help?" he asks. "when im around. does it actually help you feel better?"

you think about it. about the way your shoulders drop when he walks in the room. about the way your breathing slows when he sits next to you.

"yeah," you say. "it does."

he smiles. it is a small smile. private. just for you.

"good," he says. "im glad."

he reaches out and takes your hand. his fingers are warm. his palm is slightly rough.

you let him hold your hand until the movie ends.

after that, things shift.

he touches you more. casual touches. his hand on your shoulder when he walks past. his fingers brushing yours when he hands you something. his thigh pressed against yours when you sit together.

but one night, when you had leaned into him particularly hard, burying your face in his neck without thinking, he pulled back. 

"hey," he said gently. "can you tell me when you’re doing that because you want to be close to me, versus when you just need the smell? i want to be here for you, but i also want to know if i am just... a pillow to you. or if im a person." 

you froze, mortified. "you’re a person," you said quickly. "im sorry. i didn’t realize i was doing that." he softened, but his eyes were serious. "just check in with me," he said. "that is all i ask." 

you start to need him there. not just for the scent. for him.

you text him when you’re having a bad day. he comes over. he doesn’t ask questions. he just sits with you. lets you lean against him.

one night, three months after he returned bear to you, you have a nightmare.

you wake up gasping. your heart is racing. the dream is already fading but the fear remains. you reach for bear and clutch him tight but the comfort is not coming. your body is still in panic mode. your mind is still spinning.

you lie there for an hour. two hours. staring at the ceiling.

you held him to your face until your nose hurt from pressing. you inhaled until you were dizzy. but the smell was gone, or nearly gone, replaced by something stale and empty. just cotton. 

just old fabric. the magic had evaporated somewhere between the laundromat and riki's apartment, or maybe it had been dying for months and you had been too dependent to notice. 

bear is not working.

you hold him to your face and inhale. amber and musk. but it is not reaching the place inside you that needs soothing. it is like the scent has lost its power. or your ability to receive it has broken.

you get up and walk to the kitchen. you get a glass of water. you stand in the dark and try to slow your breathing.

it does not work.

you go back to bed. you try again. you hold bear and you close your eyes and you will yourself to sleep.

nothing.

the sun comes up and you have not slept. your eyes burn. your head aches.

sarah finds you in the kitchen making coffee that you do not plan to drink. just something to do with your hands.

"you look tired," she says.

"didnt sleep," you say.

"bear not working?"

you shake your head. "not tonight."

she frowns. "thats weird."

"yeah," you say.

you go to work. you come home. you try again the second night.

the same thing happens.

you lie in bed with bear pressed against your heart and you cannot find the switch that lets you turn off. your mind will not stop. your body will not relax.

you get up at three am and sit on the floor. you press your forehead against your knees.

you do not understand. bear is here. bear is back. why is he not working?

the third night, you do not even try to sleep. you sit on the couch with all the lights on and you watch tv with the volume low. infomercials. cooking shows. anything to fill the silence.

riki texts you at midnight.

you up?

yeah, you reply.

can i come over?

you stare at the message. you don't want him to see you like this. exhausted. unraveling. but you need him. you need to know if it is just bear that is broken, or if you are broken.

please

you text back.

he is there in fifteen minutes. he is wearing a hoodie and his hair is messy like he rolled out of bed.

"couldnt sleep?" he asks when you open the door.

"no," you say. "three nights now."

he steps inside and closes the door behind him. he looks at you. really looks at you. at your red eyes and your shaking hands.

"bear not helping?" he asks quietly.

"no," you say. your voice breaks. "i dont know whats wrong with me."

"hey," he says. he steps closer. he puts his hands on your shoulders. "nothing is wrong with you."

"then why cant i sleep?" you ask. "i have him back. i have everything back. why isnt it working?"

he pulls you into a hug. you bury your face in his neck and inhale.

amber and musk.

and something else. something that is just him. skin and warmth and something clean underneath.

you breathe him in and you feel your shoulders drop. just slightly. just enough.

"do you want to try something?" he asks against your hair.

"what?"

"come to my place," he says. "tonight. just to sleep. my bed is bigger than yours. and... and maybe it will help. being somewhere different. with me there."

you pull back and look at him. "you want me to sleep at your house?"

"just to try," he says. "if it doesnt work, we can figure something else out. but... i want to help. and this is the only thing i know to offer."

you think about it. about going to his apartment. about sleeping in his space. about waking up with his scent all around you instead of just on bear.

"okay," you say.

his place is ten minutes away. you pack a bag with your toothbrush and a change of clothes and bear. you follow him in an uber because you’re too tired to walk.

the uber ride was too bright, the streetlights strobing across your tired vision in harsh yellow flashes.

you sat pressed against the door, your bag clutched to your chest, bear stuffed somewhere in the top where you could feel his soft bulk against your ribs.

riki sat in the middle seat, he'd insisted, saying he didn't mind, so he was close enough that every time the car turned, his knee bumped yours, warm and solid through the denim.

"almost there," he said, and his voice was pitched low, aware that loud noises felt like physical blows to your sleepless brain.

you nodded, not trusting your voice.

three nights without sleep had turned you into something raw and humming, a live wire dressed in sweatpants. your hands wouldn't stop shaking. you'd taken to pressing them between your thighs to still them, but then they'd start again the moment you released the pressure.

riki noticed. of course he did. he reached over and covered your closest hand with his own, pressing down gently. his palm was warm, slightly calloused, he'd mentioned once that he worked at a pottery studio on weekends, and now you could feel the evidence, the roughness of clay and stone against your skin.

"count the streetlights with me," he said.

"what?"

"count them. out loud. one, two, three. just until we get there."

"riki, i'm not a child,"

"i know," he said, and there was no pity in it, only steadiness. "but your brain is loud right now, isn't it? give it something else to say."

so you did. your voice came out rasped, broken, but he nodded along with each number, his thumb tracing slow circles on the back of your hand, and by the time you reached seventeen, you realized you'd stopped shaking.

his apartment building was narrow, sandwiched between a dry cleaner and a closed bakery.

the stairs creaked, old wood, old building, but he went slowly, turning every few steps to make sure you were still following, still there.

at the top, he unlocked three separate locks, the ritual of someone who valued the boundary of inside versus outside.

"welcome to my chaos," he said, pushing the door open.

it wasn't chaos. it was curated warmth.

the living room was small, dominated by a couch that looked soft from across the room, draped with a blanket that had been knitted in uneven rows, homemade, you thought. books stacked on the floor, not haphazardly but in towers, organized by color.

plants in every window, their leaves touching the glass, reaching for moonlight.

but it was the smell that made your knees weak.

amber and musk, yes, but layered with coffee grounds and old paper and the green, growing scent of the plants.

it smelled like a forest floor in a library. it smelled like him, amplified, concentrated, wrapped around you like a physical thing.

"you okay?" he asked, taking your bag and setting it by the door.

"yeah," you breathed. "it smells like..."

"like what?"

you shook your head, unable to explain that it smelled like the concept of sanctuary.

he showed you the bathroom first, clean, white tiles, a towel hung ready for you that was fluffier than anything you owned. then the kitchen, small but organized, a kettle on the stove. then the bedroom.

you hesitated at the threshold.

it was simple.

a queen bed with gray sheets that looked like clouds, a nightstand with a lamp that had a warm, low-wattage bulb already glowing.

more books. a window with curtains that looked thick enough to block out the sun. on the dresser, a small dish with loose change and a single, smooth stone.

"the bed is new," he said suddenly, and you turned to look at him.

he was standing in the doorway, giving you space, his hands in his pockets.

"i bought it last month. the old one was a twin from my childhood. i kept it too long. this one..." he gestured vaguely. "i wanted something that felt like a real place to rest. for when i was ready to rest."

you understood, then, that he was offering you not just his space, but something he'd built for himself. something he was still learning to use.

"i should change," you said, your voice small.

he nodded and pulled a t-shirt from his dresser, soft, worn gray, the collar stretched from use. "for sleeping," he said, handing it over. "it'll smell like me. if that helps."

you took it and went to the bathroom. changed out of your clothes, which felt dirty with exhaustion and anxiety, and pulled his shirt over your head.

it fell to mid-thigh, huge on you, and when you inhaled, it was like burying your face in his neck. you emerged with your own clothes folded in your hands, feeling vulnerable, exposed, but also wrapped in something that felt like safety.

he was in the bedroom, having changed into sweatpants and a thin white t-shirt. he'd turned down the lamp so the room glowed amber, matching the scent. he'd also, you noticed, placed bear on the pillow on the left side of the bed, propped up like he was waiting for you.

"i wasn't sure which side you preferred," riki said, gesturing to the bed. "i sleep on the right, usually, but i can move,"

"left is good," you said. "i sleep on the left."

"okay." he pulled back the covers. "do you need... i mean, is there anything? water? the window open or closed? i have a white noise app on my phone if the street is too loud."

you stood there, suddenly overwhelmed by his care, by the specificity of it. tears pricked your eyes, hot and embarrassing.

"i don't know," you whispered. "i don't know what i need. i've never... i've never done this. slept next to someone. not since i was small."

he nodded like this made perfect sense. "then we'll figure it out together," he said. "come here."

you climbed into the bed. it was firm but giving, the sheets cool against your overheated skin.

you pulled bear into your arms, clutching him tight, but you knew already that he wasn't enough tonight. the magic was thin, worn away by time and washing machines.

riki climbed in on the other side, keeping space between you. respectful. he lay on his back, his hands folded on his stomach, staring at the ceiling.

"tell me about the pottery," you said suddenly. you needed to hear his voice. needed something to follow into the dark.

"what about it?"

"anything. just... talk."

he did. his voice was soft, rhythmic, telling you about the wheel, about the way clay felt when it centered properly, smooth, responsive, like it wanted to become something.

he told you about the first mug he made that didn't leak, the first bowl that was actually round. he told you about his grandmother's soap, how she made it in her kitchen with lye and oils, how she'd send him bars wrapped in wax paper with little notes about the weather back home.

as he talked, you turned on your side to face him.

the lamp was still on, casting his profile in gold. you watched his mouth move, the way his adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed, the way his hands gestured slightly even though they were resting on his stomach.

"you're staring," he said, not looking at you, but smiling.

"sorry."

"don't be. i like it." he turned his head. his eyes were dark, soft.

there was a pause, the two of you just staring at each other.

"can i hold your hand?" riki spoke cautiously

the question was so gentle, so permission-seeking, that your chest ached. you nodded.

he reached across the space between you, still respectable, still careful, and found your hand where it clutched bear.

he didn't try to move the stuffed animal. he simply laced his fingers through yours, his palm warm and dry against your clammy skin.

"is this okay?" he asked.

"yeah," you whispered.

"and this?" he shifted, moving closer, slowly, giving you time to pull away. he settled on his side too, facing you, so that your knees were almost touching, so that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body.

close enough that the amber and musk wrapped around you like a blanket.

"yeah," you said again.

he reached out with his other hand, the one not holding yours, and touched your hair. just the ends, where it lay on the pillow.

"your hair is pretty," he said, and it was such a simple observation, delivered without expectation, that you felt something inside you crack open, something that had been clenched tight for years.

"riki?"

"mm?"

"will you... will you tell me if i'm too much? if this is too weird? i don't want to be a burden."

his hand stopped playing with your hair. he looked serious, intent.

"you could never be too much," he said. "and you're not a burden. you're..." he paused, searching.

"you're the person i want to give my best self to. the careful self. i haven't... i haven't wanted to be that person for anyone in a long time. it feels good. it feels like remembering."

you felt tears spill over, tracking down your temple into the pillow.

"i'm scared," you admitted. "i'm scared i won't sleep and i'll waste your night and you'll regret letting me come here."

"hey," he said, and his voice was firmer now, but still soft. still safe. he released your hand and reached up to wipe your tears with his thumb, a slow, careful stroke. "look at me."

you did.

"you're safe here," he said.

"whether you sleep or not. whether you sleep for five minutes or five hours or not at all. you are safe. i'm here. i am not going anywhere. i will be here when the sun comes up, and i'll make you coffee, and we will figure it out. okay? there's no failing here. there is only you, resting, however you can."

you nodded, sniffling, feeling foolish and cared for in equal measure.

he settled back down, but he didn't retreat.

he stayed close, close enough that you could feel his breath on your forehead.

he took your hand again, and with his other hand, he began to stroke your hair, slow and rhythmic, from temple to the nape of your neck, over and over.

"close your eyes," he whispered.

you did. the darkness was immediate but not frightening. his hand in your hair was anchoring.

his breathing was steady, a metronome.

time became liquid. you didn't know if minutes passed or hours.

you drifted in a half-state, aware of his presence, of the softness of the bed, of bear clutched against your chest, but also of riki's hand, still stroking, still present.

at some point, you realized you were crying again, but silently, tears leaking from closed eyes.

"hey," riki whispered, stopping his hand. "what's wrong?"

"nothing," you whispered back.

"i'm just... i'm relieved. i'm so relieved. i didn't know i could feel like this. safe, with someone else."

he made a small sound, something wounded and tender, and then he moved.

he shifted closer, closing the last few inches of space, and carefully, so carefully, he wrapped his arm around your waist. he didn't pull you against him, he asked with his body, and you answered by curling into him, tucking your head under his chin, pressing your face to the hollow of his throat where the scent was strongest.

his arm tightened, just enough. you could hear his heartbeat, steady and slow.

you could feel the rise and fall of his chest. you held bear between you, a soft barrier, but also a bridge.

"sleep," riki whispered into your hair. "i've got you. just sleep."

and because he was there, because the smell of home surrounded you, because his hand had resumed its slow stroke down your back, you did.

it wasn't immediate.

your mind still skittered, still tried to panic, still reached for the familiar spiral of thoughts. but every time it did, riki was there.

he hummed sometimes, wordless melodies that vibrated in his chest against your cheek.

he adjusted his arm when your shoulder twitched. he breathed slow and deep, and eventually, your breathing matched his.

you fell asleep to the sound of his heart, to the smell of amber and musk, to the feeling of being held like something precious.

when you woke, it was to golden afternoon light and the sound of rain against the window.

you were still curled against him, but sometime in the night, you'd shifted so that your leg was thrown over his, possessive and intimate.

bear had fallen to the side, nestled between your pillows, no longer needed as a shield.

riki was awake. you could tell by the way his chest moved differently, by the way his hand, still on your back, was tracing patterns now, letters maybe, or just shapes.

"hey," he said, his voice morning-rough.

"hey," you mumbled, not moving. not wanting to break the spell.

"you slept," he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice.

"yeah," you said, and then, because you needed him to know, "i slept because you were here. not just the smell. you."

he was quiet for a moment. then he pressed a kiss to your forehead, soft and lingering. "i know," he said. "i felt it. when you let go. i felt you decide to trust me."

you looked up at him. his eyes were soft, crinkled at the corners, his hair a mess from sleep. he looked beautiful.

"thank you," you said.

"thank you," he replied, "for letting me be the one."

you stayed there, wrapped in his arms, listening to the rain, breathing him in, knowing that you'd found something better than a childhood toy.

you'd found a person who smelled like home, who felt like safety, who would hold you through the dark until the light came back.

and for the first time in years, you weren't afraid of the night. because you knew where you'd be when it came.

⋆˚✿˖°

an✧˖°. i really hope you guys enjoyed this! i know it got a bit serious, but i needed to show the importance of bear. reblogs are ALWAYS welcome!! please any feedback is greatly appreciated :) also, PLEASE send me asks if you have anything you want to see me write, I BEGGG. i need inspiration in order to write something, or i wont be motivated!!!

[est3llaa]

ROSES — y.jw

you keep dreaming of the same man, someone you swore you have never actually met. he appears in your dreams regularly, always covered in blood. when you're tasked to sketch the face of a serial killer who has been wrecking havoc in your town, you realise exactly why he looks so familiar.

GENRE — smut, dark content, serial killer au, supernatural au

WARNINGS — mostly dubcon but some noncon too, stalking, murder, lots of supernatural elements, character deaths, reader is kinda fucked in the head, internal crisis, hickeys, making out, fingering, slight spanking, backshots, riding, creampie, lmk if more!

WORD COUNT — 14.2k

NOTE — if you notice the writing style change in the middle, no you didn't.

“third time in a row. our culprit can officially be declared a serial killer.”

you looked up from the body, turning your attention towards chief kang. he was already looking at you. “wouldn’t you agree?”

you glanced back towards the body. same relaxed posture, one hand over his eyes, legs carelessly posed—it almost looked like he was still alive, just peacefully sleeping. but his skin was turning ashy, limbs rigid. and the rose.

god, the rose.

you had no idea what could possibly be it’s significance—if it at all had one. the victims always seemed to ‘hold’ a rose with one hand on their chest. the roses always had no thorns, the petals always fresh when the body was first found. perhaps, it was just the killer’s way of showing that it was indeed his work, but you begged to differ. it had to be more than just a claim, there is always more to the story than such simple explanations.

snapping back to reality, you realized that you hadn’t answered your superior yet. “yes sir, i do.”

the chief let out a hum, looking back at the body. the town was small enough for everyone to know everyone, so it wouldn’t be hard to dig up every piece of information on the victims. at the end of the day, every serial killer had a pattern. this rose lover should also have one.

“detective lee,” the chief suddenly said, turning his attention towards your co-worker and friend. “did you investigate florist kim?”

heeseung was quick to respond. “yes sir, we completed the investigation yesterday itself. please accept my apologies for not informing you earlier.”

the chief waved his hand dismissively. “not a big deal. now tell me what you figured out.”

heeseung pulled out a bunch of pictures from the file in his hands. he pointed to the first picture. “this,” he said. “is a picture of the rose on the victim’s body. they always have the exact same type of rose.” he flipped the pictures to show the roses on the other victims too.

“and this,” he said, flipping the pictures to show fresh roses inside a greenhouse. “is a picture of the roses florist kim sells. he said he only sold red roses, since black ones cannot grow around our area. i asked around to confirm, and he was indeed telling the truth.”

he chief let out a dissatisfied hum. “yet another dead end. the killer could be right among us and we wouldn’t know because we don’t have a single clue.”

you let out a small sigh. there weren’t too many people who could possibly classify as suspects in this town, yet catching the killer or even getting a lead on him seemed practically impossible. “i can deploy some people to ask around, try to find any kind of a common link for me sketch a face. detective sim can use his computer skills to dig up information on all victims and possible suspects. detective lee can stay around the crime sites to find out any fingerprints or tiny pieces of evidence the rest of us might have missed.”

the chief nodded. “sounds good.” he patted your shoulder, as he started making his way back to the car. “this is exactly why you’re one of my favorites. you know when to lead, and exactly how to lead, along with how to correctly deploy resources.” 

you only lowered your head at his words. you were well aware that his favoritism was unprofessional. but you, jake, and heeseung were truly the best detectives in the entire town. everyone in town relied on the three of you whenever any major crime happened, the chief being no exception.

he looked around at all three of you. “if you three can successfully find our killer, i will personally fund a vacation for each of you.”

the three of you glanced at each other. a vacation? now that was thrilling. “of course sir. we will give our best regardless.”

the chief gave one last proud smile, before climbing into his car. being the chief’s only direct subordinates meant most of the work load was on you three. especially since the three of you had extra talents.

you for example, had your love for art, which caused you to become the forensic artist of your town, despite there not being an official post for such a job. jake was exceptionally good with electronic devices, especially computers. heeseung had a keen eye for details, which caused him to easily find things which others may have missed. tiny details, which would turn out to actually be crucial details.

you nodded to jake and heeseung, before going into your own car. your subordinates followed quickly, getting in with you. you sighed, massaging your head. your assistant buckled his seatbelt, getting ready to drive. “where should we go, ma’am?”

you didn’t respond, lifting your head up and looking at the files in front of you. you picked them up, flipping through them. each murder was so cleverly conducted, not a single scratch on any of their bodies. the cause of death was unknown, the autopsy on the first body still being conducted. apparently the result would be known by tomorrow. but until then, there was absolutely no clue.

“take us to the first victim’s neighborhood. maybe we will find some answers there.”

vines surrounded you everywhere, the thorns prickling you continually. black roses adorned the vines beautifully, the scene equivalent to an ancient graveyard, the calmness of the place unsettlingly serene.

you forced your feet to forge ahead, despite the prickles. it was only then that you realized a terrifying fact—there was blood everywhere, drenching everything. the smell suddenly changed, from the sweet subtle smell of roses to the metallic smell of blood and rot.

your feet trudged ahead, almost on autopilot. the smell made you nauseous and lightheaded, but it was as if someone was maneuvering you like a puppet, forcing you to walk ahead despite yourself.

eventually, a gazebo came into view. it was white as snow, the rose vines wrapping around it. the blood dripped down from the vines, the droplets flowing down the pillars of the gazebo. but the most peculiar thing about the whole ordeal was the man standing in the middle of the gazebo.

you walked faster, desperate for answers. once you reached the gazebo, you hesitated. you looked at the unfamiliar man in front of you, really looked at him. his clothes were soaked in blood too. his back was turned to you, leaning on a pillar with his shoulder. he was looking down judging by the way his head was tilted downwards.

swallowing down your nervousness, you took a step forward. immediately, you slipped. before you could fall or even scream, a hand was around your waist, steadying you. a shocked gasp left you, followed by your labored breathing.

the unknown man was looking down at you, his lips curling up into a smirk that screamed menace. he helped you stand properly, before removing his hand from your waist. the loss of contact left a strange feeling in you, as if missing his warmth.

he looked you up and down, the look in his eyes becoming more and more unsettling by the minute. when he locked his gaze with yours again, it felt like you were hypnotized, with how he was pulling you in.

he raised one hand, brushing a stray strand of hair from in front of your eyes, tucking it behind your ear. you suddenly snapped back into reality, taking a step back. “don’t touch me–”

you gasped, waking up with a start. you blinked several times, eyes slowly becoming accustomed to the darkness. what was that?

you remembered your dream vividly, not a single detail amiss. how was that even possible? moreover, who was that man?

you shook your head. it was just a dream, why were you letting it bother you? besides, it was probably the stress of the case that was causing you to lose sleep, resulting in such weird dreams. that was it.

right?

“so," the chief took a sip of his tea. “did any of you find anything?" 

you sighed, looking down at your files. heeseung was massaging his temples. jake was the first to speak up.

“there isn't any common pattern as such, but all three victims had some kind of dirt on them." jake passed a bunch of files to the chief. “the first victim, yoon victoria, daughter of the chaebol yoon haneul, has a reputation for using money to get away with anything and everything." 

the chief raised a brow. “anything and everything, you say?" he flipped through the files jake had placed in front of him. “please, do elaborate." 

“maids and servants in general were always dismissed unfairly from her estate according to many, some even claiming that she had bribed many to keep their mouths shut about what went on inside there.”

by now, heeseung had stopped massaging his temples, and you stopped glaring at your files as if they might magically provide you with a clue. both of you were intently staring at jake as he spoke.

"but some people had still anonymously placed reports of the woman's bad temperament, which had allegedly resulted in the murder of a maid servant in her service. records say that the maid servant had apparently let her kid play with victoria’s, something the chaebol’s daughter was not too happy about. she had apparently flipped out, and when the maid defended herself, victoria had thrown a knife lying near her. safe to say, the knife hit its target, killing the maid instantly.”

he paused to take a breath. “the maid’s child was apparently thrown out and sent somewhere unknown, while her own kid was traumatized while seeing the scene. apparently the kid was watching from the top of the stairs, and fainted upon seeing what her mother did, causing her to and fall from the top of the stairs, dying shortly after.”

a sharp pain pierced through your temples, right as heeseung spoke. “that’s… darker than expected.”

jake let out a hum. “it was really hard to find this out. there were all in old files in the locker room, and very old and unpopular articles on the internet. found out through the—oh, i almost forgot. she used to live in a city where all this happened, but after this incident she had shifted here. apparently she never really got over the loss of her child, causing her to grow mad over the years.”

massaging your temple, you let out a hum in agreement. victoria was well known for being insane, people always mostly avoiding her. once you bumped into her in the market by mistake, and before you could even apologize, she had grabbed your arms tightly. the look in her eyes were wild, as she called a name you didn’t remember now. it took like three people to come and make her finally part from you.

the chief leaned back on his chair. “interesting… what about the other two?”

jake rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. “didn’t get to find out anything about them yet, victoria alone took up a lot of time.”

the chief nodded. “no worries, this alone was a lot of help. thank you for your service, detective sim.”

jake bowed in politeness. chief kang now turned to you and heeseung. “what about you two? any updates on your sides?”

you shook your head. “not a single person in the entire neighborhood noticed anything amiss. not even a hooded figure, or someone at a place they are not supposed to be, nothing out of the ordinary.”

heeseung spoke next. “i searched up the entire site, and even more. i even had my team dig up a lot of areas, but nothing. not a single thing amiss, or anything out of place. its as if any kind of admissible evidence was taken by the killer, or we are missing something very obviously hidden.”

the chief nodded. “i believe you’re right. the autopsy on victoria must be over by now, so we will know the cause of death pretty soon.”

right on que, one of your subordinates burst into the room, files in hand. “chief!” he quickly placed the files down in front of him. “these are the autopsy results.”

the chief nodded to him. “thank you, officer park. you may take your leave now. and in future, please make sure to knock first.”

officer park bowed, embarrassed, before quickly leaving. the chief flipped through the pages, his brows furrowing.

unable to contain your curiosity, you asked, “what is it chief?”

the chief looked puzzled, as he continued to read the same page over and over again. “it says the victim died of undiagnosed diabetes? there were no signs of any kind of external or internal injuries otherwise.”

the three of you looked at each other, dumbfounded. that was… unexpected to say the very least. “but—that can’t be right.” heeseung spoke up. “it’s obviously a murder, the position of their bodies, and the black rose in their hands… it just doesn’t make sense.”

the chief hummed, putting the files back on his desk. “nothing really makes sense. no forced entry, no signs of struggle, no signs that indicate actual murder. all except the weird position of their bodies and the rose.”

the chief sighed, before looking back at the three of you. “continue with the case. something is very amiss, and we need to get to the bottom of this. keep going with the investigation. all three of you have done a brilliant job till now, so don’t stop yet.”

you and heeseung looked at each other. both of you had done absolutely nothing, jake was the one that did anything at all. but praise was praise, and who were you both to not accept it?

you got up from your seat. “i’ll continue asking around in the second victim’s neighborhood then. see if i get any clues.”

heeseung got up as well. “i’ll go there as well. maybe there’s some kind of evidence we missed out in there.”

jake gave a two finger salute. “i’ll go dig up stuff about the other two victims.”

the chief nodded in appreciation. “very good. please do carry on.”

that same garden. the same prickly vines. same black roses. all of course, drenched in blood. and in the middle of it all, the gazebo. hauntingly beautiful, drenched in crimson. same man standing in the middle of it, staring at you with a look that caused goosebumps to rise all over you.

he offered you his hand. you looked at him in the eyes. should you really trust him? nevertheless, you placed your own hand in his outstretched one, letting him pull you inside the gazebo.

as you stood face to face with him, your curiosity and anxiety, both grew in equal measure. “who are you?”

raising a brow, he smirked. he raised his hand, caressing your cheek. you flinched, but still let him do it. his touch felt strangely comforting, yet your guard remained up. after all, you still had no idea who the hell this guy was.

the look in his eyes had taken over a more melancholic edge, which left you confused. what even were you supposed to make of it? not only was this strange man covered in blood, he wasn’t speaking. and he kept finding ways to touch you. normally that would have rang alarm bells in your head, but as the saying goes, curiosity killed the cat. and you were curious as hell.

“why won’t you speak?” your brows furrowed, as you looked at him. his smirk only widened. he tilted his head, leaning close to your ear. you thought he was going to whisper something, but you were proved wrong quickly, as he bit your ear.

you gasped, trying to move away, but he held onto your waist tightly. soothing the bite with his tongue, he kissed the area. he trailed his kisses down to the bottom of your neck, making your breath hitch. he sucked on that spot, rubbing his tongue over the spot so deliciously, that it had you tilting your head from the pleasure.

a moan accidentally slipped out of you. encouraged, he sucked harder and harder, until he was satisfied. when he pulled his head back, your neck sported a bright red spot, blooming rapidly. satisfied with his work, he finally pulled away.

you snapped back to your senses, stepping away from him. his hands were in his pockets, as he stared at you with his signature smirk. you took another step backward, your hand covering the fast forming hickey on your neck. your head hit the pillar in the process, causing you to gasp.

you gasped, your eyes snapping open. your breathing was labored, as you stared at the ceiling. another dream? of the same man? what was going on? worst of all, you still remembered the dream vividly. the events had your face burning. what the hell was wrong with you?

having a weird feeling, you shot up from the bed, quickly going to your vanity table. you switched on the small light beside it. to your utter horror, there was a hickey forming on your neck. you hadn’t been with anyone recently, hell you hadn’t been with anyone in quite a long time. so how–?

surely, the dream was simply a dream? you couldn’t possibly have gotten the hickey because of… that dream, right? after all, it wasn’t real.

right?

“any news?” the chief asked, as soon as he sat down.

heeseung looked at you. you shrugged, catching his gaze. he too shook his head. once again, the two of you had nothing.

jake spoke up. “well… i did find something unexpected about our second victim.”

chief kang sat up straight. “unexpected, you say?”

jake let out a hum. “yeah. kim seil, the con artist. he used to be victoria’s secret lover back in the day.”

“holy shit…” heeseung’s voice rang out, before he quickly slapped his own palm over his mouth, immediately apologizing for the profanity. but the information was almost incredulous—not that you didn’t trust jake, his ability to dig up information was amazing—so his reaction was completely valid.

jake continued. “before victoria allegedly committed the murder, she used to have an affair with our second victim.”

“huh,” you scoffed. “so the victims do have a pattern.”

he went on. “when victoria gave birth, her husband was suspicious of whether the kid was really his or not. he had been suspicious for the entire duration of her pregnancy, since apparently the timing of her getting pregnant and the two of them sleeping together, did not match up. after the kid was born, he did a paternity test, the result showing that he was in fact, not the father.”

heeseung leaned on his palms. “the tea just keeps getting better and better.”

jake gave him a side eye, before continuing. “upon learning the news, the husband divorced victoria. the actual father, was seil. once victoria got divorced, she actively sought his company, although their affair remained an affair, never growing into something more serious.”

taking a deep breath, he continued. “he visited their kid often, and was quite a present father. when the alleged murder happened, he helped victoria, but ultimately left her, since his kid died under her protection. even so, he shifted to the same town as her, since he felt bad about her mental state.”

you leaned back on your chair. “and then he died. right after her.”

the chief looked at the three of you. “i suppose the three of you have deduced who our main suspect is? if, of course, all the alleged information is in fact true.”

you let out a hum. “the maid’s kid. but–” you looked at jake. “how come all the information is alleged?”

jake shrugged. “it’s all recorded as servant gossip. and all the complaints were by servants too. nothing is proven. so yes, it is all alleged.”

the chief opened a file placed in front of him. “the autopsy report is here. the cause of death is the exact same. undiagnosed diabetes.”

you rubbed your temples, sighing. you suddenly felt very aware of the hickey on your neck, which you spent almost twenty minutes in the morning trying to conceal. not only was there a mystery to solve out there in reality, but also in your dreams. curse your terrible living quarters for your terrible sleep which induced such mind boggling dreams. ones that left marks physically outside of the dream.

once again, you were back in the garden. the gazebo was right in front of you as well. this time, the strange man was looking straight at you.

“i was waiting for you,” he said, pushing himself off the pillar. his voice was beautiful. it had this raspy edge to it that made your knees weak.

you raised a brow. “you finally spoke,”

he only smirked, offering you his hand. “well… you kept me waiting, so i grew impatient. which is why i broke my pattern.”

you tilted your head. warily, you took his hand, letting him pull your inside the gazebo. he was yet again too close to you. but this time, before he could touch you, you stopped him. “don’t.”

his hand froze midway. he raised a brow. “what’s the matter?”

you shook your head. “just… don’t. don’t touch me.”

he clenched his jaw, but stepped back. although reluctantly so. you spoke again. “will you please tell me who you are? it is frustrating to experience these… weird dreams over and over again, whenever i sleep, without knowing anything at all as to what is going on. or even who i keep encountering.”

the man chuckled. “is that so?”

you frowned at his rhetorical question, while he only continued to stare at you with amusement. after a few beats of silence, he spoke, “jungwon.”

you blinked. “jungwon?”

he nodded. “that’s my name.”

furrowing your brows, you tilted your head in confusion. “do you live in our town?”

he shrugged. “something like that.”

your frown became bigger. “what is that supposed to mean?”

he only smirked in response. “find that out yourself, detective.”

his words unintentionally caused your cheeks to flush. ignoring your bodily reactions, you instead focused on his clothes. “why are you always soaked in blood? and in this weird garden?”

his smirk grew wider. “curiosity killed the cat, detective. we should leave some of the mystery for our next meetings.”

you were quick to respond. “but satisfaction brought it back. please, everything is so frustrating and blurry and just out of reach—please answer some of my questions.”

jungwon only shook his head. “i’m afraid this is the best i can do for now. till our next meeting, ___”

you woke up with a gasp, panting as you stared at the ceiling. “jungwon…” you whispered into the night, the name tasting familiar. it rolled off on your tongue perfectly, which made you wonder if you knew him. was he someone from your town? how come you couldn’t remember him?

but right now, you had more important matters to focus on. the rose loving killer’s case, for example.

jake dropped a bunch of files in front of him. “third victim, chae unjeong. a.k.a victoria’s ex husband.”

you looked at heeseung. at this point, neither of you were surprised. the murders were obviously connected, so it made sense that the ex husband was also a victim.

jake continued. “after the divorce, victoria had pleaded her case to unjeong a lot, but with no result. but one of the things victoria told unjeong to guilt trip him into staying was ‘stay for the sake of the child’. even though it ultimately didn’t work, he still probably felt guilty, since the poor child had nothing to do with the whole thing, and was only the product of the affair. so it wouldn’t be fair for it to suffer the consequences. thus, he often sent money in the form of child support for it. obviously, victoria didn’t use the money for those purposes, but that wasn’t in unjeong’s knowledge.”

the chief muttered under his breath, “what a kind hearted man…”

jake nodded, before continuing. “there wasn’t much else in the reports, other than the fact that when the alleged murder happened, he helped victoria as well. but the death of the kid had taken a toll on him too, which is why he shifted to this town.”

the chief hummed, flipping through the file in front of him. “his death was apparently caused by the same thing. undiagnosed diabetes. this killer has to be the most impressive killer across history, except for the fact that he deliberately made it obvious that he murdered his victims. despite the autopsy reports showing otherwise.”

heeseung let out a hum. “i think i will go to each crime site again, and search for evidence in a wider radius. it feels simply impossible that all sorts of evidence is erased from every single crime site.”

you shrugged. “suit yourself. i spent six hours or more each time i went to question entire neighborhoods. i’m more than certain i left out no one, so there is nothing more i can do from my side.”

heeseung got up from his chair. “in that case, i’ll leave alone.” he looked at chief kang. “i hope it’s okay that i’m not taking my team with me either.”

the chief shrugged. “you’re a grown man, with years of experience as a detective. it’s your decision. do what you feel is best.”

heeseung bowed, before stepping out. in the silence that followed, a nagging question that filled your mind ever since the first time you had those weird dreams, surfaced again. usually, you always pushed the question to the back of your mind because of how ridiculous it sounded, but then again, the cause of death for each victim was also pretty ridiculous. so you allowed yourself to ask the question.

was jungwon the killer?

it was already starting to get dark when heeseung arrived at victoria’s house. weeds had already started growing, and a certain smell had started settling down on the entire property. nevertheless, he still trudged ahead.

he had already checked her entire house—twice at that—which wasn’t too hard because of how tiny it was. it wasn’t even a house, more so a cottage. surprising choice, given that she was a chaebol’s daughter. but perhaps losing her own child had driven her to this state.

he went around the property again. the cottage was almost fully empty. there wasn’t much of a point to search it all over again, since even if there really was any kind of evidence left, the killer would definitely have visited again to remove it. they always do.

still, he looked around. there was a pungent smell coming from her bedroom. it had been a week since victoria’s death, so the smell was pretty justified. covering his mouth with a handkerchief, he looked through her dresser, and closet. it was all emptied out, the police having taken everything the day they came to first find her dead in her own bedroom. it was to find any kind of clue as to the cause of her death. unfortunately, as is already known, they were unsuccessful.

but heeseung was obviously not one to give up. not this quickly. he was persistent, and persistence was key when it came to solving such cases. so he overturned the mattress, before ultimately lifting the whole thing up and throwing it on the ground. thankfully he was wearing gloves, because the mattress had holes in it, which were obviously a result of rats chewing through the fabric.

it was a box bed, a fact that he already knew of, given, you know, the fact that he already searched the entire property multiple times. he opened the cover, the inside that was previously filled with sheets and other random objects, was now empty. the police had already confiscated everything.

still, he shone the flashlight inside the box. and thank god he did, because he saw this weird discolored part at the bottom, which was obviously not something he had noticed before. frowning, he pushed down on it, causing it to immediately give away. surprised, he stared at the now square shaped hole in the box.

realizing it was a false bottom, heeseung put his hand inside. his hand immediately came in contact with some sort of paper. groping around, he pulled out a stack of papers. shining the flashlight on them, he realized with a start that they were letters. dozens of them, all stacked at the bottom of the bed.

lifting one off the stack, he quickly realized that the letters were all unsent ones, written by victoria to her child. the first letter he picked up, was just victoria expressing her longing for her child, yearning to see her baby again.

reading through the letters, they all had the same content, victoria’s desperation to see her child again. it was quite sad, really, but she had killed some innocent child’s mother, so he couldn’t bring himself to feel quite sorry for her.

stuffing the letters in his pocket, he explored the rest of the house again. but unlike the bed, nothing else in the house seemed to hide any more secrets. disappointed, he headed out to the backyard. it was already dark now, but he wanted to go home without any regrets.

shining the flashlight on the fence, he explored the entire area. until a part of the fence seemed slightly lose. curious, he held the flashlight with his teeth, before pushing on the fence. he had noticed the hinge long back, but it had seemed locked each time he came to inspect it before. but this time it was different. with a bit more effort, he finally managed to pry it apart.

the fence opened to the woods. looking at the isolated house, there was a big chance that the murderer had come in through the fence. or well, it was just a possibility. he decided to explore a bit, just in case.

he walked quite a distance, before stepping on something uncomfortable. bending down, he shone his flashlight. it was a bunch of dead leaves, but he was certain it felt like something else. digging through the leaves, he came across a used syringe.

he slowly stood up, inspecting the syringe. there seemed to be some kind of residual liquid inside it. but before he could inspect it fully, a sharp pain exploded in the back of his head, making him drop the syringe. clutching his head, he dropped to his knees, groaning from the pain, before eventually blacking out.

when you entered your house, it was completely silent. just like it usually was. except this time, the silence felt… wrong. you were a detective, and years of doing your job had made you more wary of approaching danger. and this time, it was no different.

you looked around cautiously. nothing seemed amiss. still, you walked around with extra caution, hand on your gun, just in case. but even after searching your entire home, there was nothing out of the ordinary. yet, the weird feeling did not go away.

the reason for it soon became apparent, when you reached your bedroom. opening the door, you froze in place. sitting on your bed like he belonged there, was none other than the man from your dreams. jungwon.

your throat dried up. all instincts screamed at you to take your gun out and aim at him, but an unknown fear was gripping you so tightly that moving at all felt impossible.

jungwon on the other hand, was having the time of his life watching you. he tilted his head back with a smirk, enjoying the way an experienced police officer like you was so terrified at the mere sight of him, despite him never having done anything to you.

he patted the space beside him. “won’t you come sit?”

forcing yourself to breathe, you managed to ask, “what the hell are you doing inside my house?”

jungwon chuckled, getting up. “that’s not a very nice way to talk to your guest, is it?”

your hand instinctively reached for your gun, but jungwon was faster. within seconds your hands were pinned to the door, jungwon’s face hovering dangerously close to your own.

“i wouldn’t try that if i were you.” he muttered, eyes unabashedly dropping to your lips. with how fast your heart was beating from the proximity, you almost caved in, before remembering your profession. and the fact that this was an intruder, a complete stranger—what he was trying to do was wrong and unlawful on so many levels.

but jungwon seemed to be able to predict your every move. he suddenly twisted your body, pushing your face towards the door. your back was flush to his chest, as he pinned both your hands over your head with one hand, taking your gun out using the other. lifting the side of your perfectly ironed shirt with the gun, he teased your bare skin with it, running the gun back and forth on your waist.

“don’t even try, sweetheart. if i wanted to kill you, i wouldn’t need a gun. and trust me when i say you’re no match for me.”

you were scared, terrified even. this wasn’t a predicament you ever thought you would find yourself in. i mean, come on, you’re trained for these situations. you know self defence. so why is it so hard to do anything to defend yourself against a guy you know only from your dreams? more so, why was he so goddamn strong?

jungwon put his face into the crook of you neck, taking in a deep inhale. god, you smelled just the way he remembered. he couldn’t help but lick a stripe up your neck, ignoring your gasp of horror. he lightly bit and sucked all over the area, trying to leave marks.

you sighed, the pleasure starting to overwhelm your rational brain. which was pretty dumb on your part, but after being touch starved for so long, you were… really sensitive. so you tilted your head, giving him more access. right on que, he sucked harder, pressing himself further into you. he threw the gun to the side, instead pushing his hand inside your shirt, opting to grope you without any obstacles.

he pushed his hand up, inside your bra, squeezing the soft flesh of your boobs. pulling his hand out, he unhooked your bra, before going right back to groping your tits. this time, without resistance. he pinched your perked up nipples, drawing whines out of you. you bit down on your bottom lip, trying to muffle any further sounds.

jungwon rolled your nipples in between his fingers, before flicking them. the way he was playing with them made them even more sensitive than before, your whines growing louder, gradually more unrestrained. slick started seeping out of your pussy, dampening your panties. you rubbed your legs trying to relieve the tension.

jungwon noticed. of course he did, he noticed everything about you. he knew everything about you. every. single. goddamn. thing. what put you off, what got you going, everything. so, when your whines started turning shaky, he smirked. he stopped groping your chest, opting to fiddle with your pants instead.

he popped the button open, pulling down your zipper along with it. pushing his hand inside your soaked panties, he was immediately met with your slick coated folds. he lightly ran one finger lightly across your folds, collecting your slick. you let out a muffled whimper at the feeling, clenching around nothing.

jungwon casually rubbed light circles around your clit, stimulating you further, trying to make your whines louder. he flicked your clit upwards, pinching it. he opted to rubbing it harshly, your broken gasps and whines for him to stop not deterring him in the slightest. in fact, it only encouraged him to continue abusing your clit further.

besides, he knew you didn’t actually want him to stop. he had spied on enough of your solo sessions to know what you liked, what you did not, and what actually made you cum. so he continued to rub your clit harshly with his thumb, inserting two fingers inside your drooling hole.

your whines grew louder, as you squeezed down on his fingers, hard. jungwon paid no heed, instead focusing on thrusting shallowly on your upper wall, listening to your broken moans in satisfaction. the added stimulation was making your head spin, your knees growing weaker by the minute.

you could feel jungwon’s rock hard boner pressing insistently against your ass, while he continued to abuse your pussy. it was all starting to become too much, too good, your brain growing hazy from the intense pleasure, when suddenly that nagging question came back to your mind–

is jungwon the killer you’re looking for?

the thought successfully brought you back to reality. with all your strength, you threw a kick at jungwon, as best as you could while being pushed face first into a door with your hands held captive, and your pussy being abused incessantly. you aimed the kick towards his balls, but missed—obviously—hitting his shin instead.

jungwon hissed at the pain. instead of flinching and letting you go like you had hoped, he dragged you towards your bed, taking his hand—now coated with your fluids—out of your dripping cunt. he pushed you head first into the pillow, practically sneering, “such an ungrateful brat.”

he opened your nightstand, taking your spare handcuffs out—how the fuck did he know they were there?—and used them to cuff your hands together. you didn’t know why you weren’t able to fight back at all, it was as if some unknown force was dulling your senses. it was frustrating, highly so. what was the point in being one of the best officers on the force if you couldn’t stop some random guy from forcing himself onto you?

jungwon pushed your ass up, forcing you to bend your knees. he was done being nice, since you were so insistent on being uncooperative. he forced your pants down, purposely letting them fall only to your knees instead of pulling them down all the way. restricting your movements even further this way.

he pushed your shirt and bra up to pool near your neck, uncaring if it affected your already dulled senses. it was what he wanted anyways. he slapped your bare ass cheek, squeezing the flesh in his palm. you bit your lip, muffling a sob, your face burning hot from the humiliation and self loathing. how could you possibly be wet in such a scenario? why was your body such a traitor?

his eyes were dark, as he stared at your fluttering hole. your slick kept dripping out, wetting the sheets, because of how worked up you were. dipping his thumb into your soaked folds, he lightly massaged your lips, adding to your humiliation. you whined, squirming. jungwon slapped your ass in warning again, to make you lie still.

getting impatient, he fiddled with his zipper, pulling his pants down just enough to pull his throbbing cock out. feeling his bare tip rub against your sensitive folds had you flinching, a fresh batch of tears gathering in your waterline. you felt useless, so fucking useless. were you really that weak? was it really that hard to fight back?

jungwon didn’t know about the self loathing thoughts he was causing you to have, nor would he have cared if he got to know about them. all he cared about was how good it felt just to rub against you, skin to skin, your slick making it too easy for him.

it wasn’t even your fault that you couldn’t do anything to protest, really. jungwon just knew all your weaknesses already. there wasn’t anything you could do to stop him. except for enjoying what he was giving you, of course.

the way he kept grinding on your bare cunt sent shockwaves of pain and pleasure up your spine, the overstimulation getting to you. your brain was going into overdrive, somehow starting to register only the pleasure. more slick poured out of you, coating his dick in a sheen of your arousal, much to his delight.

but jungwon had waited too long for this. he couldn’t wait any longer. he slowly pushed his bulbous tip inside you, his cock dragging across your walls so very deliciously. you couldn’t help but moan at the intrusion, your body completely at his mercy.

when he finally bottomed out in you, it felt like heaven to him. and unfortunately for you, you felt the same way. being touch starved for so long, it felt a bit too good to be so filled up. jungwon knew just how you felt, and fortunately for you, he intended to make it feel good. so that you never ever thought of any other cock filling you up ever again.

pulling out almost all the way, he pushed right back in, making you splutter, somehow feeling more full than you were before. his grip on your hip was tight, tight enough to bruise. pulling out slightly again, he set an almost brutal pace, one that left you dizzy from how good it felt.

he was hitting all the right spots, something your previous hookups had never managed to do. it felt good, almost too good to be true. you didn’t even realize you were moaning, until jungwon squeezed on your neck, lightly choking you. his other hand was gripping your waist tightly, which was the only thing holding you up. your legs were shaking from his intensity, shaking under his unrelenting thrusts.

suddenly, he stopped. he let go of your neck, pulling you up by your waist, making you sit up on your knees. the new angle allowed him to go even deeper, hitting your g-spot continuously. the feeling had you blabbering nonsense, half sobbing, half moaning. he used his other hand to rub circles on your clit, stimulating you even further.

sparks of pleasure shot up your spine, making you cry out from the intense pleasure. the knot in your stomach was growing tighter and tighter, making you wish you weren’t handcuffed, desperately needing to hold on to something. jungwon continued to rub and pinch your bundle of nerves, making you feel like you were on fire.

the coil in your stomach finally snapped. your pussy clamped around his length like a vice, almost pushing him out. your orgasm hit you hard, washing over you like a tsunami, making your eyes roll from the feeling. jungwon’s own orgasm got triggered, as he snapped his hips up into yours one last time, balls slapping against your clit.

he shot ropes and ropes of warm cum inside you, holding your spasming body against his. your walls kept squeezing around him, milking him for every last drop. once he was done, he slowly pulled out his flaccid cock, watching the mixture of his and your cum drip down onto the bed.

carefully laying you down, he took out the tissues from the drawer in the nightstand,—again, how did he know they were there?—using them to wipe both of you clean. he unlocked the handcuffs, lightly massaging your sore wrists. your eyes were closed, as you were on the verge of unconsciousness. right as you were about to fully pass out, he said one last thing.

“don’t worry princess, i’ll be back soon.”

“i’m glad you guys are here, despite it being so early.” the chief spoke, as he walked ahead of you. you glanced at jake, who looked just as confused as you were.

“has another body been found?” you asked, already knowing the answer. what other possible reason could there be to get called upon so early, if not for the appearance of more dead bodies?

“i’m afraid so. apparently someone was taking a walk in the woods and discovered the body. he immediately called us, and upon a little questioning, it was found that the description of the body matched the rest of the victims.”

you nodded, even though the chief couldn’t see you. jake spoke up. “where is heeseung? isn’t he coming.”

chief shrugged. “i called him, but it went straight to voice mail. shot him a text but i was left on delivered. perhaps he is still asleep.”

you frowned. that was very unlikely of heeseung. he was a very light sleeper, even someone’s slightly loud breathing could wake him up. you knew because early in your careers the two of you had hooked up a couple of times, and you woke him up quite often in the night, every time you shifted to your side. it was part of why you both didn’t make it into an arrangement, along with the fact that he started dating someone.

“we are almost there.” the chief announced, as you neared a house. you raised a brow. that was victoria’s house.

the chief pushed through the gates, going inside the property. he walked around the house, the two of you, and your subordinates closely following. behind the house, a part of the fence was agape, the fence gate being wide open.

all of you went through it one by one, going into the woods. after walking for a good ten minutes, the chief stopped dead in his tracks. confused, you peaked from behind him. the sight that greeted you had your blood freezing.

there, lying on the ground, skin starting to turn ashy, legs straightened, hands carefully posed, while holding a black rose to his chest, lay heeseung.

you stared at him for what felt like several minutes, before realizing your hands were shaking. suddenly becoming hyper aware of your surroundings, you looked at jake. he didn’t seem to be taking the news too well either, his eyes way wider than you have ever seen.

as you looked back at heeseung’s corpse, you felt bile rising to your throat. all the times you guys laughed together, called each other lame, drank together—every single memory that you had of him, rushed through your mind like a movie fast forwarded.

unable to control yourself any longer, you moved to the side, running towards some random tree, before retching. you felt someone hold your hair up, but you couldn’t care less. you puked pure bile, your throat stinging. once you were done, you choked on your sobs.

getting up, you turned around to see jake, his own eyes filled with tears. he offered you a bottle of water, ignoring which, you hugged him tightly, sobbing into his jacket. he hugged you back just as tightly, his own tears wetting your shirt.

the chief cleared his throat. his voice cracked, as he spoke. “please escort him with dignity.”

the people who brought the stretcher carefully lifted heeseung’s body, taking him inside the ambulance. you watched the ambulance leave with teary eyes, before you started crying again.

outside the autopsy room, you and jake paced impatiently, waiting for news. the two of you had insisted on the autopsy to be done sooner than normal, determined more than ever to crack down the case. the killer had crossed a line by killing of a dear friend, he had to pay.

the doors to the room creaked open, both of you snapping your necks towards the source of the noise simultaneously. the guy wordlessly handled a file to you, shaking his head.

your shoulders sagged, but you weren’t ready to give up. opening the file, you scanned the pages, jake peering past your shoulder. the same ‘undiagnosed diabetes’ stared up at the two of you, along with something that stirred hope within the two of you.

mild concussion of the back of the head.

bingo. a small clue. minuscule, really, but a clue nonetheless. but then the hope quickly diminished. “heeseung went to victoria’s house to find any clues he missed out. the killer probably got to him there.” you spoke in a hollow voice.

jake hummed. “but… isn’t it odd?”

you frowned, looking at him. “what is?”

jake shook his head. “i mean, every murder happened while the victim was asleep. heeseung was killed out in the open, near one of the crime sites. doesn’t that seem weird to you?”

you blinked, looking back at the file. “it does… it certainly does.”

jake continued. “what if… what if he isn’t part of any pattern? what if he was killed because he found something? some sort of clue that would link the killer’s identity to the murders?”

the realization dawned on you. “sim jaeyun, you’re a fucking genius.”

he blushed. “i only meant it as a possibility. a mere speculation.” he said humbly.

you shook your head. “nope. you’re right. you’re absolutely correct. there isn’t another possible explanation to this, which makes it the truth, not just a speculation.”

jake scratched the back of his head. “well… what do we do then?”

you raised a brow. “isn’t it obvious? we do what we do best. i sketch and you dig up information.”

“look ma’am, i need you to think harder. this person is a serial killer, it is important we catch him quickly. so please try to remember.”

the woman looked genuinely sorry. “i’m really sorry dear, but i can’t remember anyone or anything out of the ordinary that i can remember from the past few days. i’m sorry i couldn’t be of much help.”

you sighed in disappointment. “that’s alright ma’am, i’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time.”

you and your team left the house, going to the car. your assistant spoke. “ma’am, we have already covered all the houses. would you like to get going?”

you sighed, wanting to cry. you didn’t want to give up so soon, but there really didn’t seem to be much of a choice. “i suppose so…”

just then, a voice shouted from somewhere in the distance. “miss, wait!”

you looked towards the source. a boy in his teens was running towards you. almost tripping on his feet, he finally stood in front of you, panting heavily. you looked at him with concern. “are you alright?”

he nodded quickly, before taking in a deep breath. “i saw a stranger last night near… that lamppost. i know everyone in town, so i’m quite positive this person is not from here.”

your eyes widened, as you quickly spoke to double check. “you sure?”

he boy nodded. “i’m positive.”

your adrenaline had spiked. “can you describe him?”

the boy squinted his eyes. “uh… i can try?”

“good.” you said, immediately signaling your assistant to grab your sketchbook and pencil. “start describing.”

“well… the light was flickering, so i only saw him for like two seconds, before he was gone, but uh… he had pale skin? and black hair. his face was soft, i guess. not too rugged or anything. his eyes were kind of big, almost almond shaped? and he had a straight nose, full lips, and a pretty sharp jawline. oh, and he was handsome. like, i’m not gay or anything, but damn that man was attractive.”

as he spoke, your hand moved, quickly. as you drew, you added your own details, something which made you quickly realize that you knew this person. with increasing dread, you continued drawing, a full face quickly forming.

once you were done, you showed the drawing to the teen. “is this the guy?”

his eyes widened. “holy shit, yes! damn, you’re good. like—really good.”

you gave him a dry smile, before looking back at your sketch book. the hauntingly real face of jungwon stared right back at you.

chief was quiet, as he stared down at his cup of coffee, absent mindedly stirring it. your throat felt restricted, as you stared at heeseung’s empty seat. disgust rose to your throat in the form of bile, upon realizing that jungwon must have visited you after killing heeseung.

jake cleared his throat. “uhm… I looked through all of heeseung's records. it's completely clean. nothing in there outside of the information we already know. orphaned at a young age, studied hard, got a scholarship—then ditched it to join the police academy.”

chief sighed softly. “thank you jake." 

jake didn't reply, sitting down. noticing how tense you were, he reached out, putting his hand on your knee. rubbing gentle circles on it.

you looked at him, giving him a half smile to thank him. you had to look away quickly, not wanting him to see your tears.

“we must be close to figuring out who the killer is. must have been why he chose to kill off one of our best officers." the chief spoke, his voice quieter than usual.

you sniffled, muffling a small sob. wordlessly, you took out your sketch book, sliding it over to him. he looked up at you, before flipping through it, stopping at jungwon’s face. he frowned, before his eyes widened. "is this–?”

you didn't trust yourself to speak, so you nodded. the chief gave you a look that showed he was genuinely impressed. “good job, officer ___, good job.”

you only bowed your head lightly. you didn't know if the picture of jungwon at all made things better, or if it only complicated things more.

the chief took one last look at the sketch book, before passing it back to you. “i assume you will send me and everyone else on the force a picture of this?" 

you nodded.

the chief let out a hum. “in that case, you both can leave now. today's work is done. go home and take some rest. you both need it. and–” he looked at the two of you. "don't let today's loss deter you both from our goal. this killer is trying to discourage us from finding him. don't let him succeed.”

you felt a fresh batch of tears forming in your eyes at his words. so you kept silent. jake nodded. "i’ll try to find more information about all of our victims." 

the chief nodded. he looked at you. “you needn't do anything else, officer ___. finding the face of our killer is good enough. please go home and rest.

you swallowed the lump in your throat, nodding. standing up, you bowed. "i’ll take my leave now.”

the chief nodded again. "off with you two then.”

jake’s apartment was messy, fitting in with the computer science nerd stereotype. his desk was cluttered, everything astray. yet for him, nothing was out of place. in fact, he knew exactly where everything was, despite the mess.

carefully navigating through his organized mess, jake picked up some files he had brought home. they contained all the information he had gathered about the first three victims, and some more. he began flipping through the pages, wanting to find out anything else that might be relevant. anything important that he might have missed.

thing is, there were at least a dozen files in total. he hadn’t even gone through all of them yet, but still found quite a lot of useful information. although it was clearly not enough, since now they had in their hands the face of the killer, someone none of them recognized. which meant that this person didn’t belong to their town.

which made the questions arise: if according to previous clues, the killer is the child of a dead maid looking to avenge his mother, how come he is a face no one recognizes? how come he is in town, but hasn’t been spotted even once? other than when one eye witness accidentally spotted him?

questions, so many of them. yet their answers remained unknown. flipping through one of the files at the bottom of the stack, a hand recorded conversation caught his attention.

“i’m telling you right now officer, these new people in town are monsters, monsters i say!”

“that’s a serious accusation, sir. are you sure you’re not simply mistaken? news of your alzheimer’s has spread throughout the entire town, you know.”

“officer, you have to believe me! they killed a child! and hid away another! i heard them talking about it the other day! you must arrest them at once—who knows what else they are capable of?”

“mr. choi, i’m sure you’re mistaken. please go home and rest. make sure to take your medicine on time—i’ve heard you’re being quite stubborn while taking it?”

“fine, don’t believe me. but when these monsters do something worse, don’t tell me i didn’t warn you!”

given the date and time in the file, it wasn’t hard to estimate that the so-called ‘monsters’ mentioned in the file were the first three victims. especially since the fate of the two children mentioned there matched perfectly with the information he already found out.

he sighed, putting the files away. opening up his computer, he went back to the old articles about victoria. said articles were written by very small and unknown journalists, which was why they weren’t too popular—and consequently, very hard to find. scrolling through them, he quickly started becoming bored. they were all the same, nothing that he hadn’t already found out.

right as he was about to give up, a link to another article was provided in one of the comments under an article he had already read three times. clicking on the link, he was taken to a different tab, a different article on display.

this one apparently contained highly classified information, based on a conversation a reporter had with a servant of victoria, one who requested anonymity. skimming through it, a particular part caught his attention.

“—according to our source, victoria’s own child hadn’t actually died, and was in fact alive in the hospital. as the saying goes, walls have ears, our source having eavesdropped on victoria’s phone calls, figuring out exactly what happened to the kid. apparently her child fell into a coma, and was likely to forget everything upon waking up, as a trauma response. following which, victoria had secretly sent away her child to some other place to protect it from any future possible threats. meanwhile, the child of the maid she murdered, was sent away to an abusive foster home, presumably to die, since she didn’t want to get her hands dirty a second time. our source also mentioned that victoria had indeed succeeded in doing so, since she had delightedly shared the news of the child’s passing to her lover. our source also mentioned that–”

jake blanked out. the maid’s child was… dead? victoria’s own child was alive? what. the. fuck? that just made the case a shit ton more complicated than it already was.

looking back at his screen, he was about to scroll further, when suddenly a sharp pain struck the back of his head, accompanied with the dull sound of heavy metal colliding with something hard—in this case, his head.

he clutched the back of his head, his vision swimming. with difficulty, he tried turning around, only to be hit again. this time, he successfully passed out.

you had been staring at the ceiling for at least a couple of hours now. upon reaching home, you had immediately collapsed on the couch, staring up at the ceiling numbly. to think that heeseung was just… gone? it was too much to process, even after the autopsy had already been conducted.

your eyes burned, but you didn’t even have the energy to cry. to think that jungwon had probably killed heeseung before coming to your house and defiling you—and for you to have enjoyed it to a certain extent—it made you want to crawl out of your own skin.

speaking of which, your entire body felt itchy, dirty, disgusting—despite you having already showered in the morning. but maybe another shower was just what you needed, to get rid of his disgusting touch from your skin.

getting up, you headed to the bathroom. your clothes were drenched in sweat from the entire day’s activities, stripping them away and welcoming the cold air on your skin felt like heaven already.

turning up the water temperature, you let the tub fill half way, before stepping in. you instantly felt relieved, the tension leaving your muscles. picking up a bath bomb you had gotten earlier during the year on your birthday, you dropped it in the water, causing it to immediately explode, flooding the water. the smell was exceptionally relaxing, making you sigh and close your eyes, relaxing yourself further.

but you couldn’t relax for too long, since the sound of the door to the bathroom opening interrupted your calm. you sat up in horror, drawing your knees up to your chest.

it was jungwon.

he strolled in like he was taking a walk at the park, looking down at you with a smirk. “why do you look so surprised, pretty? i told you i was gonna come back.”

your hands shook from where they were shielding your chest. you stared up at him with terrified eyes. “why are you…?”

he raised a brow. “why am i here? i already told you, i was going to come back.”

you couldn’t breathe. now that you knew that he had killed heeseung, you felt a lot more terrified of him than before. “are you going to kill me as well?”

jungwon looked at you like you had grown a pair of horns atop your head. “kill you? god, no. of course not. why would i kill you?”

that reassured you. a little bit. “then…?”

he smirked, starting to pop open the buttons on his dress shirt one-by-one. “isn’t it obvious, beautiful?”

your eyes widened, as you quickly looked at your pants, which had your gun attached to the belt. if you were quick, you could reach it. but of course, jungwon wouldn’t let you do that.

“that wouldn’t be a very smart thing to do, princess.” he said, making you snap your gaze back to him. his smirk never left, as he turned to look at the gun.

to your astonishment, and utter horror, it began floating, before flying across the bathroom, to the furthest corner. if you tried getting it now, jungwon would easily stop you. but the question remained: how the fuck did he make the gun levitate?

“wha—how?!”

jungwon chuckled. “there’s so many things you don’t know, ___”

he had already taken off all his clothes, going and sitting inside the bathtub with you. he leaned back casually, staring at you with a look that told you precisely all you needed to know—he had the upper hand over you, and there was nothing you could do about it.

he gestured to you with his hand. "come here princess."

you shook your head, not trusting yourself to speak. you drew your knees in closer, locking them in place with your hands around them.

his expression changed. "don't test my patience ___. come here while i'm still being nice."

you gulped, shaking your head again.

his expression hardened further. "i won't repeat myself again. come. here."

swallowing the lump in your throat, you shook your head again.

he sighed, giving you an almost disappointed look. "i didn't want to do this, really. but you leave me no choice."

you frowned, wondering what he was referring to. but he didn't let you wonder too much, as he flicked his wrist. with a gasp, you suddenly landed on his lap, your hands clumsily landing on his shoulders, aware of how your very bare lower halves were rubbing against each other.

you tried getting up, getting away from him, but his grip on your waist was tight. too tight. how the fuck was he so strong?

"don't bother trying princess. save your energy for later."

you let out a shuddering breath, helpless tears slipping down your face. "why are you doing this to me? what have i done to you?"

jungwon didn't answer. leaning forward, he licked a stripe up your cheek, the salty, yet invigorating taste of your defeat invading his taste buds. sometimes he felt sorry for you. truly, he did. you, as naive as you were, you had no idea about the truth. the truth which so very often threatened to rear its ugly head, threatening to ruin everything in a single slip up—the truth that everyone worked so hard to bury beneath the surface, with layers of nothing but blankets woven with lies. so yes, he felt sorry for you at times. but then he reminded himself why he started all of this in the first place.

but deep down, a part of him questioned it all: was it still revenge, or had it bent into something completely different?

you see, he hates you. hates you for something you were never actually a part of. any of… what had happened—but he still blamed you. how come you get to escape the aftermath of everything, but he doesn't? why was he the only one that had to suffer the consequences of something he never did? whereas you, another witness of the same goddamn crime gets to escape it all? why the discrimination?

was it simply because you were not as old as he was? was it because you couldn't comprehend what had actually happened? he tried, really did, to find reasons to excuse you. to let you off the hook. but perhaps there was more to it than he allowed himself to admit. more to the faux 'hate' he claimed to have in his heart for you. afterall, the strongest emotions to exist are often confused for one another.

but this was no time to contemplate such trivial things. right now, watching you fight your own body to try (and fail) to not fall apart in his hands was a lot more important. especially by making you initiate it yourself.

he pulled you closer to him, hugging your body to his, as he sucked at the spot under your jaw. one hand remained on your waist, the other further up your back. the position was intimate—it almost felt like the two of you were simply lovers getting carried away while bathing together—if it wasn't for your weak attempts at trying to push him away.

jungwon wanted to scoff at you. you weren't fooling anybody, if your pathetic attempts at muffling your moans were anything to go by. god, you were so easy. perhaps this was another reason he did what he was doing.

he pushed you further into him, letting go of your neck to kiss you instead. he wasn't being aggressive like you initially thought he would be. no, he was taking his time with you, kissing you slowly, sensually. almost like it was all consensual.

but god, with the way he made you feel, you might as well lean into it.

you didn't know when the water in the tub drained, but suddenly the pressure was off your lower halves. as you broke the kiss to breathe, you noticed the bottom unplugged. which meant the slipperiness where your cunt rubbed against his cock was because you were wet.

you wanted to blame it on jungwon. on your body for betraying you. for making you feel instead of grieving for your friend that was murdered. for making you enjoy being violated by the same guy that killed heeseung. anything to feel less guilty for doing what you were.

you didn't want to grind on him, you just… couldn't help yourself. he was making you feel like your entire body was on fire, electric shocks running up your spine every time he touched you. it was exhilarating. even if the voice in the back of your head screamed at you for betraying every one by letting yourself go.

but that was the thing, wasn't it? why shouldn't you be selfish for once? the entire circumstances were strange—the way you knew him, the things you knew he was capable of doing—all of it was strange. but none of it changed how real he made you feel.

so you allowed yourself to tilt your head back. to moan, to feel—because it might just be the last time you ever did.

jungwon grinded up into you, both feeling and seeing your initial hesitance melt away in real time, giving space for your real feelings to shine through. he had you right where he wanted, and he couldn't be more smug about it all.

holding your hips with both hands, he guided your movements, the sounds of your slick and your moans gradually taking over the entire space. if anything, it made his cock harder, twitching against your slick folds. god he wished he could just shove himself into you right fucking now—but that would ruin the fun, wouldn't it? he needed you to do it yourself. given how desperate you were getting, he was pretty sure you were getting way to close to doing so yourself.

true to his prediction, you let out the most pathetic whine he had ever had the pleasure of hearing from you, as you rocked your hips even more desperately over his. "please…"

jesus fucking christ. you really were desperate. "please what, angel?"

you let out another whine. "please—h-hah—fuck me?"

god, you knew exactly what you were doing to him, weren't you? "should i?"

you whimpered, your cunt practically throbbing from the lack of attention. you needed him to be inside you, or you were sure you would combust right there. so you lifted yourself up slightly, reaching one of your hands down to grab his twitching cock, clumsily lining him up to your folds, before sitting down, shoving him deep inside you. the 'splat' sound of your thighs slapping together echoing through the room.

the two of you let out collective moans, both of you a throbbing mess. you clenched, and unclenched around him, the wonderful feeling of finally being able to feel something so real while ignoring your conscience was… an experience to say the least. pressing your lips to his again, your hands found purchase on his shoulders. lifting yourself up, you dropped down again, his cock dragging across your gummy walls at the best possible angle.

jungwon gripped your waist—not hard enough to bruise, but just enough to guide your movements. he silently encouraged you to go faster, by bouncing you harder on top of him. your arousal dripped, and dripped, past his balls, wetting his thighs. the constant sound of your ass slapping against his balls filled the space, along with your your muffled moans.

you broke the kiss when your lungs started burning. jungwon focused on your neck instead, determined to fill the entire expanse with his marks. he trailed kisses across your jaw, sucking hickeys there too. his hickeys spread down to your collarbones, as his hands came up to grope your tits. sometimes his actions got a little too intense, causing you to clench down hard on him, which in turn caused him to twitch, small spurts of cum spilling into you. he wasn't embarrassed in the slightest, especially since it seemed to turn you on impossibly more.

your bouncing would slow down at times, but never coming to a full stop. sometimes you grinded onto him instead if it really became too much. but fuck, it was all too good to stop.

but all good things eventually come to an end. you were starting to feel overstimulated, your legs becoming sore as well, despite not being nearly close. fortunately for you, jungwon seemed to notice.

using one hand to support your waist, he used to other to rub light circles around your clit. when your moans started turning into whines, he pinched your engorged nub, before flicking on the sensitive bud. your nerve ending were already on fire, but he then started rubbing on it harshly, causing your moans to practically into screams.

you could feel your orgasm approaching steadily, the knot in your stomach growing tighter and tighter. when you felt it right on the tip of your tongue, jungwon started to shallowly thrust up into you. your orgasm crashed down on you like never before, your eyes rolling back till only the whites were visible. the gush of liquid pushed his cock out, but he pushed right back in, his own orgasm approaching quickly.

holding you in place, he pistoned his hips into you at an almost brutal pace, before making you sit flush on top of his cock, as he shot out ropes of warm cum straight into your cunt. your walls fluttered around him, your body slumping on his. you felt tired, so, so tired.

jungwon patted your head. it was ironic, how soft he was being with you, despite telling himself that this was all to punish you. since when had punishments felt almost like an act of love?

"sleep." he said, in this almost echoing voice. immediately, you were knocked out. he held your body close to his, staring down at the top of your head. he should kill you. it would be the right thing to do. you couldn't even defend yourself in this state. so what was stopping him?

was it his conscience? bullshit, he didn't have one. so why was he doing the opposite of what he originally planned?

he decided he didn't want to keep cuddling you like a lover while contemplating all this. so, he did what he thought was the best thing to do as of now. clean you up, put you to bed, and leave. silently. without leaving any traces of him ever being there in the first place. after all, leaving without a trace was something he excelled at.

anxiety gripped your heart like a vice, as you glared at jake's empty seat.

"officer ___, please, take a seat."

you shook your head. "where is jake? is he running late?"

chief kang didn't say anything, opting to stare at his lap.

you grew more and more frantic by the second. "he is running late, right? right?"

chief looked at you with sad eyes. "please, sit down." his voice was gentle, barely above a whisper.

you dropped to your seat with a thud, vision growing blurry. "no…"

chief sighed softly. "his landlord called us upon finding his limp body on his desk. the killer didn't bother with his usual theatrics this time, leaving the rose beside his head instead of laying him down like the other victims. there are visible injuries on his head as well. the autopsy has almost been finished by now."

your hands were shaky. "why wasn't i informed earlier?"

chief kang gave you an apologetic gaze. "you are already under a lot of pressure, i didn't want to add to it."

you looked at him with indignation, despite the tears running down your face. "i'm part of the force too! jake and heeseung were more than just my coworkers, they were my friends! i should have been the first person to be informed of this!"

chief nodded. "i understand dear, but please trust me when i say i did this out of good will. you have already done a lot, and i didn't want to work you up further."

you shook your head. "you don't understand, i–" a sudden thought struck you. you knew the killer. you have met him. despite the circumstances being strange, you should let the chief know, right? because… what if the next target is you? even if he said he wouldn't kill you? after all, why should you trust a killer, who also liked to play with you? both physically and psychologically?

so you did what you thought was best. "i… i know the killer. i have met him."

the chief's eyes widened in disbelief. "what?"

you shrank into your seat. "you don't believe me…"

the chief shook his head. "no no, of course i believe you. i was just surprised."

you took in a deep breath. "well—what i'm about to say now, that is something you may not believe. but i need you to understand that everything i will say is the truth and the truth only. i swear i will not lie or leave out any details whatsoever."

the chief nodded, giving you the green light to continue. swallowing the lump in your throat, you started speaking. you told him everything—every single dream, the full details of what happened, how the hickey manifested onto your neck outside of the dream, how he came to your house twice and forced himself onto you, how he literally levitated a gun and even you—every single detail.

when you finally finished, the chief was… shocked, to say the very least. "so statistically speaking… there is a chance that you're next."

you nodded. chief kang massaged his temples. "there is something we can do…" he looked at you with a very serious look in his eyes. "but you must be very discreet about it, understand?"

it was a lot later than usual when you finally reached your house. the silence in your house was nothing out of the ordinary, yet you felt a chill up your spine.

reaching your bedroom, you hesitated. your gut told you to run, run as far away as possible. but you ignored it, opening the door anyways.

as expected, jungwon was sitting on the bed. he was staring intently at a page in your sketchbook—presumably his own picture. he looked up at you, signature smirk back on his face. "you're late."

you swallowed the lump in your throat. "work." was all you said, your voice hollow.

he tilted his head. "are you unhappy about something?"

you stared at him, unblinking. "you killed two of my dear friends."

his smirk widened, but he didn't answer. looking back down at your sketchbook, he commented. "you're awfully talented. it's like staring at a mirror."

you clenched your fist, but forced yourself to remain calm. "what exactly is it that you want?"

jungwon looked up at you in surprise. "what do i want? why, i thought i had made it quite obvious from the very beginning?"

you frowned. sensing your confusion, jungwon offered. "you. it is you that i want. was it not obvious?"

you scoffed in surprise. "what?"

he let out a hum, getting up. he came and stood in front of you, hands behind his back. "why is it so hard to believe, princess?"

you shook your head, finding him ridiculous. "tormenting me through weird dreams, killing my friends, forcing yourself onto me multiple times—you did it all because you want me? what kind of a fucked up logic is that?"

he smirked again. "believe it or not, that's your choice. you asked me a question, and i merely answered it."

you glared at him. "in that case, i suppose you won't mind answering some more questions?"

he raised a brow. "shoot and find out."

so you began. "the first three victims—did you kill them because of revenge?"

"mhm."

"why? are you the son of the maid who victoria killed?"

jungwon scoffed. "my mother was no maid. she and victoria were childhood friends, and she went to visit her the day she died."

you frowned. so that meant some of the information you had was inaccurate. "how exactly did she die?"

he tilted his head. "i thought you already knew that victoria killed her. stabbed her with a knife."

you slowly nodded. "and you were there to witness it."

he nodded, so you continued. "why exactly did she kill her?"

his smirk returned. "you have noticed me doing things that seem… unusual, yes?"

you raised a brow. "you mean appearing in my dreams and levitating objects? then yes, i have."

his smirk widened. "my mother, in simple terms, was a witch. her abilities were something i inherited. victoria fought with my mother, because she was the only person who knew of her abilities. she threatened to reveal it to the public, if my mother didn't teach her how she did what she did."

"obviously she couldn't do so, since those powers could only be inherited. victoria, being a temperamental bitch, stabbed my mother over it. because victoria was a dear friend of hers, she couldn't defend herself, and the knife had struck a vital area, so she quickly stopped breathing. the servants had an inaccurate version of the whole ordeal since my mother created an illusion for them. she couldn't risk everyone finding out about her powers. but obviously the illusion didn't work on me, since that time my mind was pure. pure souls cannot be fooled by illusions."

you frowned. "what happened to you after all of it?"

he scoffed lightly. "they put me in an abusive foster house and paid them to kill me. but i killed them first, and mimicked their voices over the phone and told them that i was the one that died. fuckin' dumbasses believed it."

you blinked slowly, trying to wrap your head around it all. "how did you kill them? was it also using your… powers?"

he smirked. "only to an extent. i used a syringe to pump a few doses of insulin under their tongues. that's why they seemed to die of undiagnosed diabetes."

"what about the roses? what did they signify?"

he tilted his head, leaning down slightly. staring dead into your eyes, he spoke. "why, they symbolized you of course."

you blinked several times, staring at him in shock. "me?"

he raised a brow. "of course, rosie. they symbolize you."

you shook your head. "rosie?"

he stared at you, the look in his eyes causing your heart to practically thump out of your chest. "that's your name. don't you remember?"

you shook your head, stepping back. "what the fuck are you talking about right now?"

he took a step forward, towards you. "don't you remember? you were there when my mother was killed."

your eyes widened. "what?"

he took another step towards you. "she was killed by your mother, after all."

it was as if the entire world stopped. the air was knocked out of you, a dull ringing began in your ears. long back, when you bumped into victoria in the market, she had grabbed you and called you rosie.

rosie! oh my darling rose, i missed you…

an image flashed in front of your eyes. a colorful bedroom, a beautiful woman—your mom—sitting in front of you, gazing at you with the fondest smile, as she fed you neatly sliced and peeled apples. "say aaaah…"

the scene changed. your mother—victoria—arguing with a man. "look at her, she is just a baby! she doesn't deserve this! won't you come back for her sake?"

the scene changed. a different man, your father—seil—teaching you how to make paper airplanes. "and then you throw it into the wind, like that—good job!"

the scene changed again. your mother arguing with another woman. a boy few years older than you stood beside you, watching the scene beside you from the top of the stairs. suddenly, victoria charged at the unfamiliar woman with a knife, stabbing her.

blood splattered onto the floor. the shocked faces of both your mother and the woman imprinted into your brain, as your vision swam. as you fell, the boy looked at you in panic, trying to catch you, but failed. your head hit the ground, and you rolled down the stairs.

you snapped back to reality. jungwon was looming over you with a smirk. he glanced down at your necklace. "is that enough information for your backup, or do they need more?"

the chief looked at the rest of the officers sitting in the car, listening to everything from the tiny mic they had installed in your necklace. "now!"

the entire force burst out of the cars which were parked right outside your house, bursting into your house. the chief screamed into his loud speaker. "you have been surrounded from all sides! do not try to run, or harm ms. ___, as it will only earn you a graver sentence."

there was silence from the microphone on your necklace. having a bad feeling about it, the chief hastily burst into your room, the rest of the force following him.

it was empty. not a single trace of anyone being there. no open windows either. ordering the force to search the entire house, he went towards the bed. your sketchbook lay there, pages flipping due to the wind from the fan.

picking it up, he flipped through them himself. he expected the last sketch to be of jungwon, but he was wrong. squinting, he stared at the last sketch. it was of you, a terrified expression on your face. a small rose was drawn next to your face. on the bottom, a small message was inscribed.

'the beauty of some roses never fade, even after death.'

[0210sjy]

━━ PLEASE STOP BECOMING PART OF THE FAMILY.

(🎱) After four months of becoming part of your house, Jake Sim is jealous of a guy who knows your mom lore.

jake sim x fem! reader ˗ˏˋ established relationship, riki is an annoying lil bro, romcom, jealous jake, (not so) mean reader, fluff, profanity, suggestive, no smut but ??, mdni! still wc: 13578 part 1 | part 2 | part 3

By spring, Jake Sim had somehow managed to become a regular presence in your house.

Four months into dating him, he had a designated mug in the kitchen cabinet, a personal drawer in your bedroom, and enough comfort in your house to start cooking for you and Riki.

You’ve also started to believe that Sunghoon and Jay have developed a personal vendetta against you. To make it sound more complicated, you do not care whether Jake and Riki go to parties, usually waving them off with a simple, “It’s none of my business, do what you want.” Except Jake has stopped going altogether, despite your repeated encouragement for him to exercise his individuality, because apparently he would rather spend his Friday nights watching animal documentaries with you.

No hate from the boys of course, they just think you’ve stolen their man from them.

With that, Jake had also met your father formally a month ago over dinner, even though formally was a loose term considering your father already knew him as the Sim boy from charity galas and those adult conversations where surnames mattered in the financial sense. 

Still, you had done it properly by telling your father ahead of time, warning Riki not to say anything stupid that involved 100 bucks, and also warning Jake not to say anything charming enough that your father would invite him golfing (he did, they have one scheduled next weekend).

The dinner itself had gone well at first. Your father was polite, Jake was polite, Riki, by some divine intervention, managed to go full minutes without mentioning illegal outsourcing or the fact that Jake had once technically been hired to romance you against your knowledge.

For most of the meal, your father asked Jake about school, soccer, his parents, his plans for college, and Jake answered because he’s always been charismatic and charming the way networking was always going to be an easy thing he can do (your dad was already smiling differently at him like he was that golden jackpot son-in-law). He was respectful, but not stiff; confident, but not cocky. He somehow managed to make your father look interested in a conversation that did not involve stocks, real estate, or golf.

The most unsettling part that might have made you twitch a little — mostly because some still really mad part can’t help but act out — your father turned to you and asked about one of your classes, and when you answered, he actually listened. Not the distracted kind of listening he usually did, where his eyes were on his phone and half his attention remained somewhere else. He actually looked at you and asked a follow-up question like he was interested, and not because it was another thing to check off his to-do list. 

You told him about a professor you didn’t like, and he laughed. For a while, it felt normal, and close enough that your chest loosened far more than you would have let it. 

You started thinking that maybe it was not too late. That maybe your relationship with your father was not something permanently broken, maybe things could recover slowly through dinners and questions and laughter that did not need an audience to exist — which was stupid.

Then your father smiled across the table and said, “See? This is good for you. I should’ve gotten you a boyfriend years ago. Maybe you would’ve smiled more and mothered Riki less.”

Then you go back to hating him.

You return to that one crime documentary about the daughter who killed her father and start understanding the cinematography on a deeper level. Especially when he keeps smiling like he did not just undo fifteen minutes of character development and storyline progress.

However, because your life had recently developed the irritating habit of becoming emotionally productive, you did eventually understand what happened. It took a very long conversation with Jake in your room that night, where you sat on your bed with your arms crossed. He was careful not to sound like he was defending your father too much, because he was fond of living.

“I’m not saying you have to forgive him,” Jake said.

“Then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying maybe he’s trying.”

He did not tell you your father deserved anything or to let it go. He didn’t flatten the years of hurt into one inspirational sentence and expected you to make it easier for a father that made your life harder. He only said that your dad had been home more recently, that he had been asking about your classes, that he had started remembering Riki’s schedule, that maybe it was too late, or maybe it wasn’t, but either way, he was trying.

“But,” he added, “you might want to know what happens if you try too.”

So, against your better judgment and several documentaries, you decided to try his advice. Not because your father had earned a dramatic reunion scene in the rain or because one decent dinner could undo years of making you the emergency contact for everyone’s inconvenience, but because maybe you owed it to yourself too.

So you stopped actively ignoring him when he was in the house, which was a humanitarian effort, really.

You smiled when he entered the kitchen. Sometimes you even stayed there instead of pretending you suddenly had urgent business upstairs, and also answered when he asked about school. You laughed once when he made a decent joke, then immediately regretted encouraging him because he spent the rest of dinner trying to be funny.

You also agreed to play golf with him one of these days, which Riki called “the most disturbing thing he’s ever heard in his life,” and Jake called it “progress”.

The house became slightly less cold in the places where your father stood. Which was how your father ended up hosting another barbecue in the middle of spring.

Someone’s wife had brought pasta salad in a glass container large enough to feed a small province, but most of the guests were still your father’s friends, which meant executives with white hair and expensive watches that actually were there for casual gatherings in t-shirts and shorts.

You had been standing with them for maybe seven minutes because, weirdly enough, you were fond of them. They were like uncles who had seen you grow up, called Riki “little man” even after he outgrew half of them, and still somehow believed you were fourteen.

Mr. Han tilts his head at you like he suddenly remembers something very important. “Do you remember Beomgyu? He’s in college now,” he says, “Business administration. Very sharp boy.”

Another one of your father’s friends nodded beside him. “Good head on his shoulders.”

Mr. Han looks back at you with a smile. “You could learn a few things from him, you know. Business, discipline, networking. He also plays pickleball now,” he adds, like that is meant to sweeten the offer. “Very popular these days.”

“Right,” you say, because what else were you supposed to say to that? Congratulations to Beomgyu and his racket?

Your father, standing a few feet away with a beer in hand, laughs and shakes his head. “Han.” he points at him lightly. “I know what you’re doing.”

“I’m just saying, they’re around the same age.”

You laugh again, awkward and thin, because this is still technically a barbecue and not a marriage market with grilled meat. “I’m sure Beomgyu is great.”

You take a sip from your cup and consider walking away blatantly right now, until a very familiar arm settles over your shoulders.

“Pickleball?” Jake says easily, stepping into your side like he had been there the whole time. “He’s already where the board members are.”

Your head turns slowly, but Jake does not look at you. He only kept smiling at them, pleasant and entirely shameless. 

That earns him a smile from Mr. Han, then a point with the same hand holding his beer. “Exactly. Smart guy.”

Your father laughs like Jake has just said something personally rewarding to him, then steps closer and claps a hand over his shoulder. “Jake Sim,” he says, and somehow says it with the same pride as he would introduce his favorite child (Jake is his favorite child now). “You know his father.”

Recognition moves through them almost immediately. “Ah,” Mr. Han says, nodding. “Sim’s youngest son.”

“The one in engineering?” another asks.

Jake smiles politely. “Trying to be.”

Your father looks far too pleased. “He’s dating my daughter.”

Then Mr. Han’s expression shifts into something amused and knowing, because old men truly hear two surnames in one sentence and start seeing stock prices. “I see,” he says, looking between you and Jake. “So that’s where your head is at. Very strategic.”

“Tying the families early, aye.” one of the other men says.

Jake’s arm stays around your shoulders, but you feel him laugh under his breath. 

You stare at him, deeply irritated by the fact that he had arrived twenty minutes late and immediately became the most likable person anyway. They started asking him about engineering, golf, and whether he had considered business on the side, and Jake answered smoothly while keeping his arm around your shoulders. Every few seconds, his thumb brushed lightly against your upper arm, calm and absent, as if he had not just inserted himself into the middle of a soft-launch arranged marriage attempt.

You let him talk for another minute, then you step on his shoe when it’s enough.

Jake’s smile does not move, but his arm tightens around you and you can see the slight twitch on his face. “Ow.”

You smile at the men. “Excuse us for a second.”

Before anyone can answer, you take Jake by the wrist and drag him away from the drinks table, past Riki and his girlfriend, who were sitting on the outdoor couch with matching plates of barbecue.

Riki looked up. “Trouble in paradise?”

You ignore him and continue pulling Jake toward the side of the patio, near the narrow space between the house and the garden wall where the noise from the backyard softens. The second you’re out of view, you pinch his side.

Jake flinches, laughing. “Okay, okay.”

“You’re twenty minutes late. You said you were on the way!”

“I was.”

“From where? Another country?”

Jake lifts the paper bag he had been carrying and pulls out a small white box. He watches your face carefully, already trying not to look too pleased with himself when familiarity settles slowly. “Compensation.”

You narrowed your eyes. “What is that?”

“Open it.”

Your suspicion weakens immediately, which is unfortunate and frankly humiliating. You take the box from him and open it to find the dessert you like from the bakery across town, the one that was annoying to get because parking was terrible and the line was always long for being a local icon.

You look up at him. “You drove across town?”

He shrugs, trying to be nonchalant but his perfectly straight teeth are flashing you already. “They had one left.”

You try to keep glaring at him, but the dessert is sitting pretty in your hands and he’s looking at you like he knows exactly how close he is to forgiveness. You hate that a smile is threatening to curve on your lips, so you shove the box against his chest instead. “You’re still late.”

He steps closer, smiling softly now. “But compensated?”

You look up to argue, but he’s already leaning in. His hand comes to your waist first, gentle and sure, and then he kisses your forehead.

He pulls back with the smallest smile. “Hi.”

You stare at him, though with a glare. And because you’re a woman of discipline and emotional restraint, you pinch his side again, which makes him laugh and catch your hand before you can do it a third time. 

Jake looks down at you, still smiling. He lifts the hand he already caught, turns it over, and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

By the time the two of you return to the backyard, the whole place has settled into something warmer and looser. The adults are spread across the patio with beer bottles and paper plates, sunglasses pushed into white hair, laughing too loudly. 

You stay close to Jake without thinking too much about it. Sometimes your shoulder leans briefly into his when one of your father’s friends makes a joke. Or sometimes Jake’s arm is around the back of your chair while you eat the dessert he brought you, his body angled toward yours without even noticing it.

When you reach the grill, your father immediately starts explaining some trick about heat zones, and Jake listens because he is apparently very committed to being everyone’s favorite. He demonstrates what he learned by shifting a few pieces of meat to the side and saying something about indirect heat and the physics behind it.

For about six minutes, it works — until one side comes out almost burnt. He gives you a wounded look, which you ignore.

Eventually, the two of you end up in the lounge area by the pool with Riki, his girlfriend, and a few other people around your age. The outdoor couches are low and wide, arranged under the shade with plates balanced on knees, bowls of fruit on the table, ribs stacked on paper trays, and drinks sweating in the heat. 

Everyone talks to one of your family friends about college plans, thumb moving slowly as an absent habit now. You lean back against the armrest with a plate of fruit in your hands, listening while Riki complains about how everyone keeps asking what course he wants to take as if your father hasn’t already pretty much decided his career trajectory and started informing stakeholders.

The backyard is warm, the pool is bright under the spring sun, Riki is happy beside his girlfriend, and Jake is sitting there with your legs over his lap. Every now and then, when he thinks no one is looking, he leans in close enough to kiss your temple or the side of your head, quick and quiet, like he still enjoys getting away with it.

You keep telling him people can see. He keeps doing it anyway.

In the middle of one of the most boring stories ever told, a familiar voice comes from behind you.

“Don’t tell me Nishimura finally brought out the famous ribeye.”

You go still.

Your whole body reacts before your brain fully catches up, your shoulders dropping, your face changing so quickly that Jake notices it before he even turns his head. One second you are beside him, half-listening to someone talk about golf club renovations, and the next, you are staring past everyone like a celebrity just walked back into the yard.

A guy stands a few feet away from the lounge area, sunglasses pushed into his hair, one hand in his pocket, smiling beside his father, whom he has very clearly outgrown in height.

You literally gasp. Riki looks up too, and his expression shifts with recognition.

The guy’s smile widens when he sees you. “There she is.”

You do not even think (that is the first strange thing).

You just stand so fast the plate of fruit almost tips from your hand, set it down somewhere without looking, and cross the space in three steps. He opens his arms at the same time, like he already knows you are coming, and you walk straight into them.

It is not a polite hug, first and foremost.

Not one of those stiff family-friend greetings where everyone performs affection for the parents watching. It is both arms, no hesitation, your face pressed briefly into his shoulder, his hand landing at the back of your head for half a second before sliding to your upper back.

Woahh.

The kind of hug that says this has happened a lot before. The kind of hug that does not ask permission because, at some point in your life, permission had already been given.

Jake stays seated. His hand, still resting near the arm of your chair, slowly curls against nothing.

Because you do not hug people like that.

You barely hug your own father without looking like you are surviving an obligation. You act like affection is something to tolerate, not step into. But here you are, laughing into some guy’s shoulder like your body remembers him before you remember to be difficult.

The guy leans back first, still holding your arms lightly as he looks at you. “You got prettier.”

You hit his chest immediately. “Shut up.”

And you smile, which isn’t polite nor controlled, not the little smug one you give Jake when you know you have won something.

Jake’s hand, now empty on his lap, curls once against his knee.

Riki stops talking mid-sentence when he realizes who it was, his girlfriend also looks. The guy laughs as he holds you. “Wait,” he says. “Did you get taller?”

Your smile drops. “Shut up. You know I’ve been this height since I was fifteen.”

He laughs, then reaches up and ruffles your hair.

Jake’s eye twitches because as far as he knows, that was his thing that he can only do to you. Turns out he doesn’t know a lot at all!

You laugh, and Jake’s mouth stays in a polite line while he psychoanalyzes the guy that got to tease your height, hug you, touch you, and mess your hair — which feels like a shit ton of information to process right now. The guy finally lets you go, but he keeps one hand briefly at your shoulder, squeezing once with old familiarity. 

“I missed you, scary girl.”

Now he gets to say I miss you?

You giggle again, softer this time, before you ask him about college, about where he’s staying now, about whether business school has successfully humbled him. He tells you he’s fighting back with bad expectations that hit his pressure points. You ask about his mother, his younger sister, the dog they used to bring over when you were kids, and he answers each one easily, like no time has passed at all and the two years between you was nothing.

Jake stays seated for another second, not because he is upset.

Obviously not.

He is a mature and reasonable person, someone who understands that family friends exist and that not every man who hugs his girlfriend needs to be interrogated the way you used to with people.

Still, the way you keep smiling at him feels like he needs to be the way you used to operate. He’d really appreciate it by asking his background prior to the name.

Before Jake can stand, Riki clears his throat beside you. “Wow,” he says flatly. “No one missed me?”

The guy looks over at him, and his face brightens again. “No way.”

They do the manly dap up, pulling him into one of those half-hug greetings boys do. “Little Rik,” he says, laughing. “You’re as tall as me now?”

Riki immediately stands straighter. “Taller, actually.”

“You were literally up to my shoulder last time I saw you.”

You laugh, and Riki points at the guy like this is a legal offense. “See, this is why I didn’t miss you.”

“You definitely missed me.”

“I missed your mom’s cooking.”

The whole thing is familiar in a way that makes the air around you shift, because it’s lived in and the exact setting that didn’t make you feel out of place before. It’s the kind of familiar that does not need explanation, because Riki is smiling, you are laughing too easily, and the guy fits in like someone who used to belong there.

Riki glances at you when the other one’s distracted, eyes moving from you to Jake, then back to you with the expression of someone saying, Are you stupid?

“Oh,” you say, turning quickly.

Jake smiles when your eyes find him, but there is something slightly off about it. Unfortunately, you don’t notice things when you’re too excited.

“Jake,” you say, reaching a hand toward him. “Come here.”

He does. Very normally, or at least that is what he tells himself.

You glance between them, still smiling in a way that is not exactly helping Jake’s current emotional stability. “Jake, this is Hyunjin,” you say. “My childhood friend.”

Hyunjin turns to him fully.

“And Hyunjin,” you continue, shifting closer until your hand brushes Jake’s arm, casual but clear. “This is Jake.”

You pause for half a second.

“My boyfriend.”

For a second, Hyunjin only stares, then his jaw drops. “No way.” he points at Jake, then at you, looking genuinely stunned in a way that is far too dramatic. “Someone is dating you?”

You scoff, offended. “What the fuck?”

“No, I mean, good for him.” Hyunjin looks Jake over, then nods like he is congratulating someone for surviving a difficult licensing exam. “Brave guy.”

Hyunjin then steps forward, offering his hand, which Jake takes and it immediately turns it into another dap. Jake follows smoothly because he is Jake Sim, and because social skills do not abandon him just because his girlfriend has apparently been hugging men from her childhood with the comfort of a weighted blanket.

“Nice to meet you, man,” Hyunjin says.

“You too,” Jake answers.

Usually, Jake’s charm comes easily.

It is one of the more irritating things about him, actually. He can walk into a room where nobody knows him and somehow make himself feel familiar within ten minutes. Warm smile, easy laugh, eye contact, just enough confidence to make people comfortable without making them want to humble him.

Today, however, that version of Jake has apparently taken the afternoon off.

He stands beside you, smiling when he is supposed to, nodding when Hyunjin says something, but none of it lands right. The timing is there, as well as the expression, so technically, the boyfriend is functioning.

Emotionally, he is not.

You are too distracted to notice, too caught in the weird rush of Hyunjin being there at all, of seeing someone who knew the house before it became something you had to manage. Before Riki became less like your brother and more like your full-time unpaid internship, and before your father became someone you even ever had to forgive.

Hyunjin looks around the backyard like he still knows the map of it.

That is what Jake notices first.

Not just the hug, though God knows he noticed the hug. He noticed the way you walked straight into it without thinking, the way your face pressed briefly into Hyunjin’s shoulder, the way his hand landed at the back of your head like he had touched you there before and survived it.

Jake noticed all of that.

But now Hyunjin is looking around your backyard and naming things. Small and stupid things that should not matter, except they come out of Hyunjin’s mouth like he has had them stored somewhere safe for years.

And you smile, not polite nor amused in the controlled way you get when someone makes an unfunny joke. It is easier and younger than that. A smile Jake has seen before, but rarely, and usually only after working very hard to earn it.

Hyunjin gets it by remembering a broken swing.

Great. Fantastic. Jake was hoping for exactly that.

He smiles too, because everyone else is smiling, and he is not insane. He is perfectly normal.

Hyunjin knows things Jake does not.

That is normal too — obviously. People have histories, childhood friends exist, memories do not expire just because someone gets a boyfriend.

Jake knows this. He also hates knowing this.

Hyunjin looks back at you with sudden recognition, like another memory has just come loose. “Do you still know how to make your mom’s mango strawberry smoothie?”

Your smile shifts before you can stop it.

It goes softer, sadder at the edges, like the memory has touched something old enough to still hurt. The word mom has always existed in your house like a glass sitting too close to the edge of a table. Everyone knows it is there, and they move carefully around it. Nobody wants to be the person who knocks it over.

But Hyunjin says it so easily.

You let out a small laugh, looking down at the cup in your hand. “I haven’t made that in years.”

Hyunjin’s face warms with the memory. “Your mom used to make a whole pitcher every time we came over.”

Jake smiles because everyone else smiles.

Normal boyfriend behavior. Healthy. Stable. Very mature.

Except Hyunjin knows what your mother made when the house still sounded like children running around and someone calling from the kitchen. Hyunjin knows your mother as a person who made pitchers of smoothies, who had routines people can remember without making the room go quiet.

Jake only knows her through half-sentences you never finish.

My mom used to… I don’t know, it’s not important.

And then you stop every time.

Jake has never pushed because he knows better. He knows that part of you is locked, and he has been standing outside it with both hands in his pockets, pretending patience does not ache.

Then Hyunjin walks in and the door opens.

Not for Jake. For him.

Jake looks down at his shoes and decides, very calmly, that he possibly hates fruit as a category.

“You should make it again sometime,” Hyunjin says, still smiling. “I’ve been craving it for years.”

You look at him, and for a second, you seem younger and smaller, somehow — but never weak. Just closer to a version of yourself Jake has only ever met in pieces.

You shrug, trying to make it nothing. “Maybe.”

Hyunjin leans back. “I’d pay good money.”

“You cannot afford me.”

He laughs as you laugh. Jake also makes a sound that might count as laughter.

Before Hyunjin can answer, your father calls him from across the yard. He excuses himself with a small laugh, stepping away from the lounge area and toward the adults. His father is already near yours by the grill, both of them smiling like they are about to discuss something boring and expensive.

You turn toward Jake then, finally. Your hand comes to his arm, fingers rubbing lightly over his sleeve. “I’ll just go over there for a bit,” you say. “Catch up with the old men.”

You are smiling at him, a little apologetically, like you know you got swept up in seeing Hyunjin again and are trying to make sure Jake does not feel forgotten.

Which should help (it does not). Jake is currently very aware of the fact that your hand is on his arm, but your attention is already halfway across the yard.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding once. “Go.”

Your smile softens. “I’ll be quick.”

Hyunjin says your name from across the yard, and your head turns immediately. You squeeze his arm once, then walk away.

He watches you go because, unfortunately, he has eyes and no survival instinct.

You slide easily into the small circle with your father, Hyunjin, and Hyunjin’s dad. Your father laughs almost instantly at something Hyunjin says, clapping him once on the shoulder with that proud, familiar affection that makes Jake’s jaw tighten before he can stop it. Hyunjin’s father gestures between you and Hyunjin with his beer bottle, saying something that makes you roll your eyes and smile anyway.

Jake stands there, suddenly feeling very stupid.

Great. Really great.

He returns to the lounge area with Riki beside him, sits down, and reaches for the beer on the table. He takes a long drink, which Riki watches over the rim of his cup. “Damn. Slow down, man.”

Jake lowers the bottle, eyes still across the yard. “I’m fine.”

Across the yard, Hyunjin says something to your father. Your father laughs again. You stand between them with your arms crossed, smiling in that slightly exasperated way Jake loves.

He takes another drink, deeply bothered by a conversation that does not involve him. His jaw tightens, fidgeting with the bottle in his fingers. “They seem really close.”

Riki grimaces immediately before he picks up a piece of fruit from the bowl, mostly so he has something to do with his hands while choosing exactly what words to say. “Yeah, our families were really close.” he gestures vaguely with the fruit, like that should explain anything. “Our parents used to joke about them getting married after college.”

Jake goes very still.

“Mostly joke,” Riki adds, which is somehow worse.

The backyard noise continues around them, and Jake watches it happen with the emotional stability of a man reading his own autopsy report. Because he feels like he’s dying as they speak right now, as Hyunjin looks at you with a smile because he was never scared of you. 

“What does that mean?” he asks.

Riki makes a face. “I mean, our dads were close. Same circles, same charity things, same boring conversations about properties and expansion and whatever. They thought it would be good if the families stayed connected.”

“Through marriage.”

“It was rich business people insane, yeah,” Riki says, like this is an important legal distinction. “They kind of kept pushing her to date him.”

The sentence fucks Jake up with a fucking Ak up his ass at this point, and the trigger pulls when he hears Hyunjin laughing with your father over the goddamn music.

Family plans, apparently, that involve marriage jokes the adults obviously actually meant.

“She thought it was stupid. Hyunjin too, I think. They were close, but not like that.”

Jake says nothing.

Riki leans forward a little, lowering his voice. “Bro, I’m telling you this as someone who has made many mistakes involving your relationship and a couple hundred dollars. Don’t be dumb.”

Jake exhales through his nose, almost a laugh but not quite. “I’m not being dumb.”

Riki looks at him for a second longer, then slowly glances at the beer bottle in his hand. “Okay.”

Jake leans back into the cushions, which is not the body language of a man doing well. It is the body language of a man who has decided to sink into outdoor furniture and let spring swallow him whole. He keeps his eyes across the yard, watching you talk with your father, Hyunjin, and his dad like this is all very normal and not a psychological test.

Beside him, Riki and his girlfriend have gone back to their own conversation, which should be less irritating because it has nothing to do with him, except they have started doing that thing where they speak quietly and smile too much at each other. Jake watches it happen for three seconds and then takes another drink.

He has a decent tolerance, usually. But apparently his tolerance does not account for emotional sabotage through childhood friends and smoothie history, because after almost half an hour, his head starts to feel pleasantly unclear in a way that is not helpful at all. 

Across the yard, Hyunjin says something that makes you laugh again. That makes Jake look down at the bottle in his hand and decide the beer is responsible for the shitty jerk in his chest.

“Dude,” Riki says.

His girlfriend looks at the bottle, then at Jake, with gentle concern. “Maybe slow down?”

Jake sits up a little. “I’m slowed. And comfortable.”

“And very obvious too.”

Before Jake can respond, your shadow falls over him. You are standing in front of the couch with one hand on your hip, eyes moving from his face to the bottle in his hand, then back again. “What are you doing?” you ask.

“Sitting.”

You narrow your eyes at Jake, and he smiles up at you like he is very normal and not currently being held together by jealousy, ribs, and fermented grain. Then your hand reaches down for his. “Come on.”

He looks at your hand, then at you. “Where?”

“We’re playing billiards.”

Riki sits up while Jake processes that that was an actual sentence said to him. “Dad’s table?”

“Hyunjin brought it up.”

Riki’s girlfriend brightens a little. “That sounds fun.”

You tug Jake’s hand. “Up.”

He lets you pull him to his feet, mostly because refusing would be suspicious and also because your hand is warm around his. The moment he stands, the yard tilts for half a second, though not badly — just enough that he becomes very aware of the fact that maybe he should have listened when Riki’s girlfriend told him to slow down.

You notice immediately, your hand tightening around his. “Are you okay?”

Jake nods. “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

He nods again, then leans down before you can say anything else. His forehead brushes yours, warm and a little unsteady, though his smile is still soft enough to make your concern shift into something else.

“Yeah,” he says. “I just missed you.”

You blink before you giggle, which is probably unfair to him. Your hand lifts to his cheek, palm settling against his very warm skin. His eyes are focused on you with that specific heaviness that makes your suspicion return immediately. “You’re drunk, aren’t you?”

He shakes his head. “No.” His smile grows slightly, lazy at the edges. “I just feel warm around you.”

Riki makes a noise from the couch. “That was disgusting.”

His girlfriend elbows him lightly. “It was cute.”

You ignore them and press a kiss to Jake’s other cheek, mostly because he is being stupid and warm and looking at you like you are the only thing in the backyard that has managed to make sense all afternoon.

He stares at you with a strange, softened expression, because you’re softer today. Somewhere in the reasonable part of his mind, Jake understands that you are allowed to be sweet to him without it becoming a federal mystery. You are his girlfriend.

Still, it feels different right now. It has no resistance in it, no insult tucked into the corner, no eye roll, no little shove afterward. Just your hand on his cheek and your mouth against the other, easy and warm — which should make Jake happy. Unfortunately, it also makes him suspicious, because apparently jealousy has turned him into someone who sees affection and thinks it’s too easily given.

Did Hyunjin do this?

That is an insane thought.

Did seeing Hyunjin make you softer? Did laughing with someone from before make the house feel easier? Did remembering your mother through mango strawberry smoothies loosen something in you that Jake has been trying, carefully and quietly, to reach for months?

Was Hyunjin the reason you were smiling like this? Was Hyunjin the emotional WD-40?

Terrible thought. Horrible and deeply undignified.

Jake smiles, but it comes out bitter and sharp at the edges. “Why are you so happy?” he asks.

For a second, the backyard noise fades strangely around you. “What?”

“I mean,” he says, then stops. “You just. You look really happy.”

Your brows pull together. “And that’s bad?”

“No,” Jake says quickly. “No, it’s not bad.”

He should say more after that, like something normal, preferably. But nothing comes to the brain that’s usually reliable enough for charm and math and conversations, which simply sits there with its hands folded.

Your expression stays confused for a moment longer before you sigh. You pat his chest once, light and dismissive, but your mouth still curves a little like you do not fully mind him being weird. “Come on, you’re on my team.”

The pool table sits in the sunroom. Riki picks the least chipped cue stick, and immediately starts chalking it like he is about to get serious. Jake, for the first time in thirty minutes, feels something close to purpose. 

Because billiards, he can do.

Billiards is math, angles, force, control, clean shots — his area. This is where he can stop being a jealous idiot with a beer bottle and start being impressive again. A man with skill and composure, a man whose girlfriend will watch him sink a perfect shot and remember that he is, in fact, her boyfriend.

You pick up a cue stick and walk around the table, studying the rack like you know exactly what you are doing. Jake watches, already softening despite himself, because you look focused in that way that always makes him want to kiss you and also stay out of your path. A complicated emotional position, but he has adapted.

“You’re breaking?” Hyunjin asks, amused.

You glance at him. “Do you have a problem?”

“No,” he says. “I just remember how bad you were.”

You hit Hyunjin lightly with the back of your stick, just against his arm, and he laughs like he expected it. Worse, he looks at you while laughing, like getting hit by you is part of the experience he’s so familiar with.

Terrible start for Jake, actually. He feels like he’s breaking.

You scoff and turn back to the table, leaning down to line up your shot. Jake’s attention immediately gets divided between your form, Hyunjin’s face, and the strong moral belief that Hyunjin should stop knowing things.

You break the rack, the cue ball hits the triangle, the balls scatter weakly, and all the balls stop nowhere near a pocket. For half a second, everyone is quiet, until Hyunjin laughs so obnoxiously loud.

You turn and point the cue at him. “I will hit you harder.”

Great. Jake’s convinced you’re actually hitting on each other.

Jake steps forward, calm and polite and completely deranged in a quiet way he never ever is. “Solids or stripes?”

You look at the table. “We haven’t decided teams.”

“I thought you said I was on your team.”

“I did. But we’re five—”

“Good.” Jake circles the table once, assessing the layout with too much seriousness for a backyard game. “Then we’re solids.”

And that makes the room go quiet, horribly quiet enough that you make eye contact with Riki. Neither of you says anything, but the conversation is clear.

You turn back to Jake, trying not to look amused before the game even really began. He leans over the table, lines up his shot, and hits the cue ball cleanly. One of the solids drops into the corner pocket.

Hyunjin lets out a low whistle. “Okay.”

Jake lines up the next shot and sinks another one.

Riki looks at you. “Your boyfriend’s kind of intense right now.”

You look at Jake, who is already walking around the table with his cue in hand, studying angles like there is money on the line. “I’ve noticed.”

Jake misses the third shot by a little, the ball knocking against the edge of the pocket before rolling away. He straightens, jaw working once like the table has betrayed him.

Hyunjin steps forward. “My turn?”

Jake moves aside with a polite little gesture. “Go ahead.”

Hyunjin takes his shot and gets one stripe in, clean enough that he looks pleased with himself to even look at you. “See? Still got it.”

Riki reacts. “You’re pretty good.”

Hyunjin shrugs. “Used to play here.”

Jake’s hand tightens around his cue because of course Hyunjin used to play here, of course the pool table has lore, of course every object in this house has apparently been emotionally notarized before Jake ever arrived in your life.

Hyunjin laughs, and Jake decides, with full awareness of his own pettiness, that he now has to beat him badly.

Hyunjin then leans for his next shot, although this one he misses. 

Jake says, very calmly, “Tough angle.”

Hyunjin looks at him, amused. “Was it?”

You step up next, deciding to ignore all the tension that’s not supposed to be there, and lean over the table to line up your shot. Jake watches from beside you, one hand around his cue as you hit the cue ball, and it rolls past the pocket by barely an inch.

Jake immediately steps closer. “You rushed it,” he says.

You stare at him for a second, already irritated. “Did I ask?”

Hyunjin, leaning against his cue on the other side of the table, smiles a little and says, “Yeah, she hates being coached.”

Jake looks at him only for a second, but you catch it. The quick glance, the small clench in his jaw, the way he immediately looks back down at the table like he is trying to make his face behave.

“I know,” Jake says.

Riki’s girlfriend clears her throat, probably sensing that the room needs another person to do literally anything else. She reaches for Riki’s cue and steps forward. “My turn!”

She leans over the table, takes barely three seconds to aim, and hits the cue ball cleanly. One of the solids rolls straight into the side pocket.

Riki immediately stands straighter. “Yup. That’s my girl.”

You laugh, and his girlfriend looks pleased in that quiet way, trying not to smile too much while Riki points at the table like he contributed to the shot through moral support.

Jake goes next when she misses the next. He gets one in, of course, because physics is on his side the way emotional instability isn’t. The next shot does not go as well though, it hits the edge of the pocket then rolls away.

You make a small sound to tease. “Tragic.”

That gets the smallest real smile out of him, which feels like progress until Riki takes his turn and misses so badly the cue ball barely touches anything. Everyone laughs at once, and he turns to his girlfriend immediately like he needs major reassurance that she still thinks he’s attractive.

“That was the table,” he says.

She pats his arm. “Sure.”

Your turn comes again after that, so you move around the table, trying to ignore the fact that Hyunjin is watching with that amused little look like he already knows whether you are going to miss.

You lean down and study the shot, and Hyunjin shifts beside the table. “If you angle it a little more to the left, you might get it.”

Jake moves before you can answer and you feel him behind you before he speaks. “Not left,” he says, voice calm. “You’ll hit the stripe first.”

He’s close enough now that you can smell the beer on him, faint beneath his cologne, so when you look at him over your shoulder you see him watching you carefully, waiting for you to decide whether he gets to stay there.

For a second, neither of you says anything, and somehow the whole sentence is there anyway.

You look at him a moment longer, still mildly irritated, then you turn back to your shot without telling him to move away. Because that is answer enough.

Jake steps in quietly behind you, careful now. He does not crowd you, but he is close enough that his chest nearly brushes your back when he leans over to see the angle. “A little straighter,” he says, low enough that it feels meant only for you. “Not hard. Just follow through.”

You let him adjust the angle, his fingers brushing yours for half a second. It is stupid, how warm your face feels from something that is technically just billiards advice. Stupid, and very inconvenient, and unfortunately not helped by the way Jake’s voice drops when he says, “There. You’re good.”

You stare at the ball. “You smell like beer.”

He smiles behind you, his hand still on yours. “Focus, baby.”

No one else sees it, mostly because everyone else is looking at the table. Jake's other hand drops briefly to your butt, giving it a quick smack before he steps back like he did absolutely nothing.

You freeze for half a second, warmth curling in your abdomen. But you pay him no mind: you shoot. The ball rolls cleanly across the felt and drops into the pocket.

You straighten immediately, refusing to look too pleased. "I would've done that anyway."

When you glance at Jake, it is only for one second but he sees the warmth on your face, the way you look away too quickly, and the tiny effort it takes for you to pretend you are completely unaffected. His smile settles softer, but there is still something smug at the edge of it.

“Of course,” he says.

Jake only smiles and steps closer when you line up for the next shot. This time, you let him hover without making a comment, mostly because the last one went in and you are unfortunately results-oriented. He leans in just enough to look at the angle, one hand resting on the table while the other points lightly near the cue ball.

“A little softer this time,” he says.

“I know.”

“Okay, sorry.”

Still, you take the shot the way he suggests. The cue ball hits yours cleanly, but the angle is off by a fraction, and the ball taps the edge of the pocket before rolling away.

He hums, very softly, but no coaching because he knows you know. 

Hyunjin takes his turn after that, still amused but smart enough not to say anything about whatever just happened. He leans over, lines up the shot, and sinks one of the stripes cleanly. He straightens, grinning. “Watch and learn.”

You scoff. “Luck.”

Jake steps in beside you suddenly, though not abruptly, his arm slides around your waist again, a hand settling low at your stomach. He does not even look down when he does it, he just keeps his eyes on the table, calm and unreadable.

You look at him though he keeps his gaze at the table, nodding when Hyunjin gets it. “Nice shot.”

Hyunjin glances at Jake’s arm around you, then at his face, and Hyunjin’s mouth curves like he is trying not to laugh. “Thanks.”

You lean your shoulder back against Jake’s chest for one second, just enough for him to feel it. When Hyunjin misses the next shot, Jake’s thumb moves once over the fabric of your shirt. 

You do not look at him when you say, “Your turn.” 

Jake’s mouth curves near your temple, like he doesn’t want it to be his turn yet. 

“Impress us.”

“Us?”

You glance at him now. “Me.”

He looks at you for a second longer, and the jealousy does not disappear, not entirely, but it goes quiet. Then he steps away from you, lines up his shot, and sinks the next solid with the kind of calm that makes Riki groan into his drink.

Jake lines up for the next shot with that calm, focused look on his face, which lasts all of three seconds before Riki says something from the side of the table purely to be irritating. It works, because Jake’s shot goes slightly wide and misses the pocket by a long way.

He straightens slowly and looks at him. Riki looks back with his drink halfway to his mouth, suddenly pretending innocence while Jake lifts the cue slightly in his direction to suggest that being hit with the equipment has been a possibility.

Riki’s girlfriend takes her turn, because honestly she has been quietly carrying the game while everyone else deals with whatever strange male pride thing has started happening around the pool table.

You are standing near the side, waiting for your next turn, when Hyunjin ends up on your left and Jake ends up on your right. It is not intentional, probably, but it feels intentional enough that you notice the way they both stand a little too straight beside you.

Hyunjin glances past you toward Jake. “You’re pretty good. You play a lot?”

Jake leans lightly against his cue. “Enough.”

Hyunjin nods. “Could tell.”

“Yeah?”

“You take it seriously.”

Jake’s smile stays polite. “Yeah,” Jake says. “Usually depends who I’m playing against.”

You look between them and see that they’re both smiling, but neither smile is friendly enough to be trusted or even be remotely comfortable to be sandwiched between.

Hyunjin shifts his cue from one hand to the other. “Well, this table has a way of humbling people, so,”

Jake glances at the table, then back at him. “Must be nice. Having all that history with the table.”

Hyunjin laughs under his breath, because that one lands exactly where it is supposed to. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

Jake looks at him with the kind of pleasant expression that would pass anywhere else. “But I’m a fast learner.”

Hyunjin raises his brows, more amused that he expected to be.

The silence after that is not long, but it has enough weight to be embarrassing. You roll your eyes. “You’re both acting like kids.”

Hyunjin looks at you, brows knitting like he has no idea what you mean. “What? It’s just small brotherly banter.”

Jake laughs, but it’s cleaner and flatter, polite enough to pass but not warm to belong to him. “Yeah,” Jake says, still smiling. “It is.”

You ignore them, mostly because they are right and you hate that. Then you point your cue toward the table. “Can I take my shot now, or do you two need to finish whatever this is?”

Hyunjin steps back immediately, hands raised. Jake steps back too, quieter. “All yours.”

You take your shot without either of them telling you what to do. The cue ball rolls cleanly across the felt, clips the solid at the right angle, and sends it straight into the corner pocket. You then line up the next one, hitting it softly, and it drops into the side pocket.

Hyunjin laughs. “No coaching needed, then.”

You glance at him, but only briefly, because your eyes move to Jake almost on instinct.

For the record, you do not even mean to do it. You just look at him first, like his reaction is the one that matters most. So when your eyes find his, something in his expression shifts — a bit smug and pleased.

He lifts his brows slightly. “Nice.”

You try not to smile. “Just nice?”

Jake’s mouth curves. “You want more?”

You roll your eyes before the smile can fully happen and shove lightly at his arm. Jake barely moves, but he looks very pleased anyway, which is the problem with him.

The game continues for multiple rounds like that for a while, with everyone getting less serious and somehow worse at the same time. Hyunjin keeps making comments under his breath whenever you line up a shot, Jake keeps giving advice only when you let him, and Riki keeps acting like the table is shitty and therefore needs to be replaced. His girlfriend, unfortunately for his pride, remains the best player by accident, sinking balls with very little effort while Riki stands beside her looking proud of achievements that are not his.

At some point, Hyunjin flicks Riki off after Riki calls one of his shots ugly. Riki flicks him off back, misses his next turn completely, and then has the nerve to blame the table again.

It gets easier after that. People laugh more, the adults call over from the patio every now and then, and Jake actually exchanges a few light messages with the childhood memory shape of a man. Once when Riki took a shot, the cue ball clips the edge of one ball, ricochets wrong, hits the side rail too hard, and somehow jumps slightly before bouncing off the table entirely.

By the time your turn comes around again, the game is barely organized with exhaustion. You lean over the table, aim for the 8-ball, and hit the cue ball carefully. It rolls cleanly across the felt, catches the ball just right, and sends it into the corner pocket with a neat little drop.

Hyunjin claps once, grinning. “Wow. Good job, scary girl.”

You laugh, still pleased from the shot, and Hyunjin lifts his fist toward you. It is automatic enough that you meet it without thinking, knuckles tapping lightly against his before you turn back to the table, still smiling like the whole thing is nothing.

Jake watches it happen, obviously, because it’s not like he can’t.

It is literally a fist bump, an action so harmless it should not mean anything at all. There is no reason for it to land wrong — but it does.

Because you and Hyunjin are apparently a team now. You and Jake won the round, you are on Jake’s team, you chose him, you looked at him first after your shot, you let him help you, and he knows that because he saw it with his own two eyes, which are currently being extremely unhelpful.

Still, Hyunjin says a childhood petname, and you laugh because he doesn’t annoy you. 

Jake should feel like he won, but for some reason, he feels like he just lost.

He sets his cue back against the wall a little too hard, loud enough that you guys look over immediately. Jake ignores it, already stepping away from the table and pushing a hand through his hair like he is only hot from the weather and not quietly becoming unwell near recreational furniture. “I’m gonna check on the food,” he says.

You turn toward him, smile still half-there. “What?”

But Jake is already moving, not even sparing you a proper glance before he steps out and heads toward the grill.

For a second, you just watch him go. He is standing near the grill now, beside your father, who is talking to him about something with tongs in hand. Jake nods at the right places, smiles when he is supposed to, but even from where you stand, something about it looks off. 

Hyunjin looks genuinely confused, which makes the whole thing worse because he really has not done anything wrong. He only showed up, hugged you, remembered too much, and existed near your boyfriend too much.

His mouth curves, but gently this time. “He jealous?”

You stare at Jake. “No. He doesn’t get jealous,” you say, like that settles it. “He’s not insecure.”

Hyunjin shrugs, clearly not convinced but smart enough not to argue with a woman who is already looking mildly irritated. “Okay.”

You look over at Riki instead, who’s standing near the edge of the pool table with his girlfriend beside him, both of them suddenly very invested in doing nothing. Riki meets your eyes for half a second, then looks away with the exact expression of someone who knows something and would rather be medically sedated than involved.

So you give up and cross the yard.

Jake is apparently left in charge of the meat while your father has gone inside to get more sauce. He stands there with the tongs in one hand, eyes on the lamb chop, and when he realizes you’re near, he does not look at you right away, but you see it anyway. The slight pout sitting at his mouth, the stubborn set of his jaw, the very obvious attempt at looking unbothered.

You stop beside him and glance at the grill. “Dad trusts you enough with this?”

Jake flips one piece of meat and does not answer. You wait but he keeps looking at the grill, clearly more invested in it than he is with your presence.

You slowly tilt your head. “Are you ignoring me?”

Jake exhales through his nose, still not looking at you. “Thought you were busy entertaining your fan club.”

There it is.

You blink once, then press your lips together because laughing feels dangerous. Not because it would hurt him, exactly, but because Jake looks genuinely annoyed, and it is made about ten times worse by the fact that he is holding tongs and standing beside barbecue like a wounded suburban husband.

“My fan club?” you repeat.

He finally looks at you, and the pout is still there, faint but visible enough to ruin his entire case. “Yeah.”

You stare at him. “Hyunjin?”

He looks back at the grill. He flips another rib, then immediately frowns at it. “He’s nice.”

You scoff. “He is.”

“Great.”

You look away to hide the smile that starts pulling at your mouth, because there is no possible way you are letting him know that his sulking is doing anything except making him look ridiculous.

His jaw shifts, and he turns one of the meats again with far too much attention for someone who is not emotionally projecting onto barbecue. “Do you two always act like that?”

You look back at him. “That’s very specific.”

Jake gives you a look, then immediately looks back at the grill, because apparently maintaining eye contact during jealousy is where he draws the line. “You know what I mean.”

You sigh, crossing your arms. “Yeah, kind of. We grew up together.”

He scoffs loudly and dramatically. “Right,” he says, tongs clicking once against the tray. “I almost forgot.”

You stare at the side of his face. “Jake, you sound insane.”

He gives the grill another unnecessary look. “Wow. Good to know.”

You press your lips together again, because now you are definitely trying not to laugh. It is not funny, technically. Your boyfriend is clearly upset, and you should be taking that seriously. But he is also standing there in front of your father’s grill, pouting at lamb chops because another guy called you a childhood nickname.

Jake looks over at Hyunjin across the yard, long enough to make himself worse.

Hyunjin is standing by the pool table still, laughing at something Riki says, his posture easy, his expression relaxed, the whole package annoyingly well-adjusted. He is older than both of you by maybe two years, which is not a lot, but apparently enough for Jake’s brain to start acting like Hyunjin is far more superior in your type list.

You like responsible people. Hyunjin is responsible, the kind that comes with business school and a clean laugh. He also has seniority, not just some random guy trying to impress you now. He is the original file, the older family-friend version, the one who knew you when you were a child, when Riki was small enough to be called Little Rik without irony, and when your mom was still around.

Jake has spent four months learning how to be close to you, and Hyunjin had a decade-long free trial.

Terrible. Unfair. 

Jake looks back at the grill and flips one meat with unnecessary aggression and drama.

You see all of it and before you can say anything, Hyunjin appears beside you.

He stands there with both hands on his hips, looking far too casual for someone walking into a situation that already has smoke coming off it — emotionally and literally. “Riki and his girlfriend want to try your mom’s smoothie thing,” he says. “You should make it.”

Jake goes very still and then he sighs so loudly that it sounds like he has just been asked to blend his own downfall with ice and honey and evidence, right in front of your father’s grill.

You look at him quickly, but his eyes don’t meet yours.

Hyunjin, unfortunately, does not seem to realize he has just thrown a grenade into the barbecue area and asked if anyone wants a straw. “If you still remember how.”

You open your mouth, but your father comes back at the same time, sauce mixture in hand, completely oblivious to the fact that the three of you are standing in a very strange triangle of old history, jealousy, and grilled meat.

“Here,” your father says, reaching for the tongs. “I’ll take over.”

Jake gives them up immediately.

Your father starts brushing sauce over the ribs, already talking about heat and timing and whatever else men say to impress 20-year-olds with backyard cooking. You stand there, still watching Jake as he runs a hand through his hair, jaw tight.

Then he is already walking toward the house, no glance at you, least of all an attempt to make it look normal. He just turns and goes inside without another word — which is concerning, because Jake never ever gets passive with you.

Your father keeps brushing sauce on the ribs. Hyunjin looks between you and the door, finally starting to understand that maybe something really is off.

Before Hyunjin can even say anything, you turn to him.

“Leave me alone for a while.” It comes out sharper than intended, but you do not take it back. You are too annoyed now, with Jake, with Hyunjin, with the smoothie, with the fact that everyone keeps remembering things out loud like your life is a group activity.

Hyunjin raises both hands, surprised but not exactly shocked. He has known you long enough to recognize when you are about to become unpleasant to be efficient. “Okay,” he says. “Yeah. Sorry.”

You do not answer, you only turn and follow Jake inside.

The kitchen is cooler than the backyard, the noise outside turning muffled the second the sliding door closes behind you. He’s standing in front of the open fridge, one hand gripping the handle, staring into it like the composure might be sitting behind the orange juice.

“What the hell is your problem?” you ask.

Jake does not look at you. “I’m getting water.”

“You walked out.”

“It was hot.”

“Jake.”

He reaches for a bottle, closes the fridge, then sets it on the counter without drinking from it. Truly natural behavior from a man who definitely came inside for hydration and not because he was one memory mentioned away from combusting truly.

You cross your arms. “Are you seriously ignoring me now?”

“I’m not ignoring you.”

“You left without looking at me.”

He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “Sorry.”

“No, keep going. This is very mature.”

He looks at you then, and there it is again. That weird, tight expression, which is not anger exactly, just something more embarrassed than that, which somehow makes him look even more irritated.

“I said sorry.”

“No, you’re being a dick,” you say, genuinely this time and you hold his stare. “And you’ve been acting weird all day. Literally what, over a smoothie?”

Jake looks at you — irritated, unimpressed, still unfairly hot, which feels disrespectful given the situation. 

Then he says, “Yeah. I was jealous.”

You blink, thrown off by the honesty. “What?”

“I was jealous,” he repeats, slower this time. “That’s what you wanted me to say, right?”

You stare at him. “Over Hyunjin?”

“Obviously.”

You laugh once, but it comes out more shocked than amused. “Jake, he’s my childhood friend. He’s basically family.”

“I know.”

“You met him literally today.”

“Yeah, and he already knows more about your life than I do.”

That makes you pause.

Jake looks away first, jaw tight, like he hates that he said it but not enough to take it back. “He knows the dog. The swing, the pool table, the smoothie, your mom. He walks in and everyone just opens up around him like he never left, and you looked so happy.” He exhales sharply. “And I know that’s not a crime. I’m not stupid. I know you didn’t do anything wrong.”

You cross your arms tighter. “Then why are you acting like I did?”

He scoffs. “I’m really not.”

“You walked out.”

“Because I didn’t want to stand there and keep watching it you,” he says, finally looking back at you. “With him.”

Your face shifts. “There’s nothing with him.”

“I know. He didn’t flirt with you. You didn’t flirt with him. Nothing happened but it still felt shitty.”

You look at him for a second, trying to decide whether to be mad or confused. “Because he knows old stories about smoothies?”

“Because he knows old stories I’ve been too scared to ask about.”

That lands in a way that makes you shut up and tighten your arms around yourself.

Jake rubs a hand over his face. “I don’t ask about your mom because I know how you get when people even come close to that. I know you’ll tell me when you want to. I’ve been trying to respect that.”

“And I appreciate that,” you say, voice tightening. “But that doesn’t mean I can suddenly talk about it just because you feel left out. You can’t just force that out of me, Jake.”

“I’m not asking you to suddenly talk about it —”

“It sounds like you are.”

“— I’m asking you to stop acting like I’m insane for feeling something,” he says. “Hyunjin said your mom like it was easy, and you let him. I can’t even say her name without feeling like I’m about to hurt you.”

The kitchen feels too cold now.

Outside, the barbecue is still going, muffled voices and laughter coming through the glass like nothing inside has shifted. Your father is probably still brushing sauce over ribs. Riki is probably eating something he did not cook, living his happily ever after with a girlfriend who isn’t even half as difficult as you.

And Jake is in front of you, looking jealous and hurt and too honest for how angry you still want to be.

“He was there,” you say. “That’s why he knows. That’s it. Not because he’s on some leverage like you’re making it look like.”

“I know that.”

“Good. Also know that he didn’t earn anything like dumb arcade tickets to know ‘lore’ about my mom. He doesn’t get more of me because he knew me first.”

Jake’s mouth tightens. “It felt like he did.”

“Well, he doesn’t. You should already believe me on that!”

“I do,” he says quickly. “I believe you. I just don’t know what to do with the fact that you looked at him like he was home.”

You go still, completely frozen.

His voice drops. “And I was right there.”

You stare at him, the anger in your chest suddenly turning uncomfortable, because that is too close to something you do not want to sort through in front of him.

“Hyunjin isn’t home,” you say. “He just remembers what it used to feel like. And maybe I missed that,” you add, quieter. “Maybe I missed someone remembering it with me. The smoothies, the dog, Riki being small, my dad being different. I don’t know.”

Jake looks at you for a long second, being careful with what you're telling him.

Then he asks, “And I can’t be that for you?”

Your throat tightens. “Jake.”

“No, I’m asking.” His voice stays low, but there is hurt under it now. “I know I wasn’t there. I know I can’t remember it with you the way he can. But I can listen. I can know it now.”

You look at him. “Don’t make me feel bad for not saying everything to you.”

“I’m not trying to.”

“You kind of are.” Your voice rises before you can stop it. “I need time with things. You knew that when we got together. You knew I don’t just open up because someone cares about me enough.”

“I know that.”

“Then act like it.”

“I have been acting like it,” Jake says, sharper now. “That’s the whole point. I’ve been waiting. I’ve been careful. I don’t push because I know you hate it. But today, Hyunjin walked in and touched the exact thing I’ve been scared to even mention, and you looked at me like I was dramatic for noticing.”

You stare at him.

He exhales, rough and frustrated. “I don’t think I earn your pain because I waited. I’m not treating your life like a prize. But I am allowed to feel like shit when someone else gets to stand there and talk about your mom like it’s easy.”

“It’s not easy,” you snap.

“I know.”

“No, you don’t. You saw me laugh and thought it was easy. I shouldn’t have to tell you to know that either, because you should.”

“Baby,” he huffs, “I’m not a mind reader.”

Your mouth parts like you have an argument ready, but nothing comes out.

Jake looks at you, breathing harder. “You left me there.”

“I went to talk to someone I grew up with.”

“Right. And completely forgot I was beside you.”

“I didn’t forget you.”

“It felt like it.”

You laugh once, sharp and disbelieving. “So you get to be a dick about it?”

“I wasn’t being a dick. I didn’t disrespect anyone out there. I didn’t say anything to Hyunjin. I didn’t even say anything to you.”

“That’s not the defense you think it is.”

“I walked away,” he says. “That’s all I did.”

“You walked away from me.”

“Because I didn’t want to stand there and keep feeling stupid.”

You stare at him.

Jake’s jaw tightens. “I wasn’t trying to punish you. I wasn’t trying to embarrass you. I just didn’t want to stay there watching you and Hyunjin talk about your whole life like I was some random guy at the grill.”

“You’re not a random guy at the grill — you’re the guy I like. You’re the one who comes over. You’re the one who eats in my kitchen, drives Riki around, and holds me when I don’t want to talk.”

Jake’s face shifts, but you keep going because now you cannot stop.

“Hyunjin knows old things because he was there. Fine. But you know me now. You know when I’m mad. You know when I’m quiet. You know when I’m about to cry and pretending I’m not. He doesn’t get this.” You gesture between you two. “He doesn’t get us.”

Jake stares at you. And then he gets quieter, “But he gets the part I don’t know how to reach.”

You blink.

“That’s what I’m jealous of,” he says. “Not because I think he owns it. Not because I think you owe it to me. I’m jealous because I want to know every part of you, and there’s this huge part I can’t even ask about without feeling like I’m going to hurt you.”

Your throat tightens.

“And I hate that he can stand there and remember it with you,” Jake says, voice rough now. 

“He’s my childhood friend.”

“And I’m your boyfriend.”

“Exactly,” you snap. “So why are you still jealous?”

“Because I love you.”

Both of you stop.

The whole kitchen goes still.

Your mouth stays slightly open, the next argument still sitting there, suddenly useless. He freezes too, eyes on yours, chest rising once like even he did not know the words were coming until they were already out.

Jake looks absolutely horrified.

Not because he regrets it, but because this is probably the worst possible way he could have said it. No perfect timing he planned to do it, no nice romantic moment, just him standing in your kitchen, jealous, upset, holding too much hurt in his hands until the truth slipped out and hit the floor between you.

You blink. “What?”

His jaw works once, and he looks like he might take it back. The whole thing is so violently unplanned that even the universe seems embarrassed.

But then he exhales.

“I love you,” he says again.

He looks at you like he is done pretending this is about Hyunjin, or smoothies, or who knew what first. Like he has finally reached the actual ugly center of it and has no choice but to stand there.

“That’s why,” he says. “That’s why I’m jealous. Because Hyunjin knows a part of you that I don’t,” he says. “And I hate that.”

Your throat tightens.

“I hate that he can say something about your mom and you understand him immediately. I hate that he can bring up some old thing and you just know what he means. I hate that he was there for things I can only guess about.” His voice drops. “And I hate that I’m jealous of that, because I know it’s not fair.”

Jake lets out a breath, almost embarrassed. “But I am.”

The kitchen feels too small again, but not in the angry way anymore. 

“I love you,” Jake says again, softer this time. “So yeah, I want to know those parts too. Not because I think I deserve them.” His eyes flick over your face. “I just want to be close to you there too.”

Your lips part, but nothing comes out.

For once, Jake does not push. He only stands there, looking at you with all that hurt still on his face, but also something warmer now. Something scared and hopeful and very, very him.

“I don’t want Hyunjin erased from your life,” he says. “I just hate that there’s this part of you I want to take care of, and I don’t even know where it is.”

Something about that sounds worse than the jealousy, worse than the smoothie, worse than the fan club comment and the meat abandonment and every dumb thing he has done since Hyunjin arrived.

“I don’t want you to take care of me,” you say, but your voice has lost the sharp edge it had before.

Jake nods immediately, like he was waiting for you to say that, like he understands the difference even if it took him a terrible amount of jealousy and one emotionally damaged barbecue to get there.

“I know,” he says. “I know.”

He steps closer, he only reaches for you carefully, hands settling around your elbows, warm and steady. He looks down at where he is holding you, then back up at your face.

“I want to love you,” he says.

Your chest tightens so hard it almost feels inconvenient.

He swallows, but keeps going. “Not fix you, or take over, or push my way into things.” His thumbs move once, barely there, against your arms. “I just want to love you. All of you.”

You stare at him.

For once, there is nothing sharp ready in your mouth, which has been the only thing he can do: disarm you.

Just Jake, standing in your kitchen with the fridge humming behind him, looking at you like loving you is not some heroic thing he is offering, but something he is already doing badly and honestly and trying to learn how to do better.

“I don’t know what to say,” you admit.

Jake closes his eyes briefly, and you are standing close enough to feel the way his hands pause around your arms. 

“It’s okay,” he says.

You stare at him. “Jake.”

“I mean it.” His hands loosen slightly, like he is preparing to let go of you before you can ask him to. “You don’t have to say anything. I didn’t say it so you would.”

“I know.”

“I just said it because it’s true. But I don’t want you to feel pressured,” he says. “Especially not after tonight.”

You look at him for a second, then shake your head. “That’s not why I don’t know what to say.”

Jake goes still, and he watches you swallow, annoyed by how difficult every word feels. “It’s not because I don’t feel anything.”

His eyes stay on yours.

“It’s because I do,”

You stop at that because that is apparently as far as your vocabulary can go before it starts failing you completely. Big surprise. You have always been terrible with words when it meant your feelings, which is deeply inconvenient for someone who has built most of her personality around sounding like she knows exactly what she is doing.

Jake looks at you carefully, still holding himself back — that makes it worse, because he’s so worth it.

You do the only thing your body seems capable of doing. You hit his chest very lightly, more of a tap than an actual hit, but he still looks down at the spot like you have given him a formal complaint.

“What was that for?” he asks, voice quiet.

You do not answer.

Instead, you grab the front of his shirt and pull him down to your height. He barely has time to react before you kiss him.

For half a second, he goes completely still, probably because his brain has not caught up yet. One moment you were arguing with him in your kitchen, and the next, your hands are in his shirt and your mouth is on his, giving him the answer you cannot say properly.

Then he exhales against you.

His hands move from your arms to your waist, careful at first, then steadier when you do not pull away. He kisses you back like he is relieved and still scared of being relieved, like he does not want to assume too much but cannot help holding you closer once you let him, pushing his tongue into your mouth and you gasp.

It is messy and badly timed and still a little upset around the edges, with barbecue smoke clinging to his shirt and a water bottle forgotten on the counter beside you. His first I love you is still sitting between you, dramatic and unplanned, but now your hands are curled in the fabric of his shirt, and Jake is kissing you like maybe this is enough of an answer for now.

When you pull back, neither of you speaks immediately.

His eyes open slowly, stuck on your mouth then your eyes.

You look at him for one second, then glance away because his face is unbearable. “Don’t look at me like you won.”

His mouth curves, soft and stupid. “Did I?”

You hit his chest again, just as lightly. “You’re so annoying.”

Jake’s smile grows, but his voice stays careful. “As annoying as Hyunjin?”

Despite yourself, you giggle. It comes out small, caught somewhere between disbelief and exhaustion, but once it is out, you cannot pull it back. 

“No,” you say, still smiling. “You’re more annoying than Hyunjin.”

His brows lift. “More?”

“Significantly.”

He looks down like he is absorbing the insult with the seriousness it deserves. “Wow, after the big three too.”

You roll your eyes instead of answering and pull him down again.

This kiss is softer than the first one, less like an argument trying to find somewhere to land and more a response that speaks for itself. Jake’s hand comes back to your waist, careful, before sliding to your back to pull you closer.

You pull, looking back up at him. “Come upstairs.”

Jake stares at you, but you do not explain, and maybe that is its own explanation.

Your room is quieter, the backyard noise distant through the walls. The second the door shuts behind him, the air changes again, but not in any sharp way. 

When he reaches you, you grab the front of his shirt again. You pull him closer and kiss him again, not to answer everything, but because he is here, and you want him here.

Jake kisses you back gently, hands resting at your waist. When you pull away, he does not chase it — he only stays close, forehead touching yours. 

Your fingers move to the hair at his nape, playing with the ends lightly while you keep your eyes somewhere near his collar instead of his face. Jake stays still, like even that small touch is something he is trying not to react to too much.

You frown. “I hated that. It felt like you were ignoring me.”

Jake looks at you for a second before his mouth curves in that smug and arrogant way.

“You wanted my attention?” he asks, all fake sympathy and quiet teasing.

You shift closer instead of answering, which is already enough of an answer and unfortunately humiliating for you as a person. “Whatever,” you mutter.

Jake’s smile grows, because he obviously enjoys you.

“Whatever,” he repeats softly.

His arms move around you more securely, pulling you closer like he has decided not to waste the opportunity. You let him, because apparently your pride has left the room to get water and will not be returning soon.

You close your eyes for a second, hating how good it feels to be held like this after being mad at him. “I don’t like when you go cold on me.”

He nods.

“You’re not allowed.”

His mouth brushes lightly against your temple. “Okay, I’m sorry.”

For a while, neither of you says anything. It is quiet but doesn’t feel empty, while he keeps you close, one hand slow against your back, the other resting at your waist. Then he pulls away a little, just enough to look at you properly.

You look up at him through your lashes, still frowning a little because it is easier than looking as affected as you feel. His eyes move over your face carefully, like he is checking whether you are still mad.

Then he whispers, “I love you.”

Your breath catches and Jake catches it immediately. Something in his expression changes, quiet and pleased in a way that makes your stomach flip. You just shift a little closer without meaning to, and that is enough for him.

He leans down, bypassing your lips as his meets the soft skin of your neck.

“I love you,” he whispers against your pulse.

The hand on your waist slides down to the hem of your pants, until his hand glides inside and underneath your panties. The pad of his fingers touches your clit, and your bodies tenses against him as a small and soft gasp escapes your mouth.

“Jake—”

He rubs on you softly, while the hand on your back pulls you impossibly closer to him. His long fingers slip in between your folds, stroking from your clit to your hole.

“Compensation, my love.” he says as he kisses your neck, just before he gently backs you against your bed. 

“On your stomach.”

taglist: @wobblymug @idkhahaha1234 @s1mp4jaeyun

[0210sjy]

━━ PLEASE DON’T SCARE MY GIRLFRIEND.

(🥐) After Riki Nishimura’s hundred-dollar boyfriend scheme works a little too well, everyone now has to survive the aftermath: family dinner.

bf! jake x fem! reader ˗ˏˋ riki is your younger brother, he's annoying, established relationship, romcom, highschool au, (kind of) mean reader, patient jake, fluff, just fluff, cute stuff wc: 7492 part 1 | part 2 | part 3 anj’s note: i didn’t expect the amount of people to ask for a sequel, im honestly soo happy you guys enjoyed please just take my sister out. i literally did not see it coming at all?!?! i also didnt realize how many people would relate to y/n LMAOOO anyway a few asked the meeting with riki’s girlfriend for the sequel, so here it is! i really enjoyed writing this so i hope you would as well. i might write a part 3 because i really do enjoy their dynamic ughh im just not sure how to rn!! ALSO very important, jake and riki is exactly how i picture them age-wise in the photo.

Jake Sim has always been the only person who knew how to hold you without making you feel like something fragile.

He had seen the sharpness, the control, the way your love sometimes came out harsher than your intentions, and it held on through a kind of grip you didn’t know how to adjust. He knew what everyone else called cruel from you was usually just your fear, standing with its arms crossed, pretending not to care. Somehow, he never flinched from the ugly parts. He never tried to smooth you down into someone easier to like, and never prayed for it either — because he liked you the way you are.

Unfortunately, Jake’s personal experience with loving you did not come with a training manual for the general public, to everyone’s unfortunate fate. Other people, tragically, were not Jake Sim.

You were better now, in ways that mattered. Not kinder, exactly, not in the way that made you softer or easier to digest, but more patient and less convinced that every person who entered your life needed to be assessed for specific requirements. Maybe you were a bit classist in the sense that it has nothing to do with class, you didn’t care if someone was rich or poor, actually. You cared if they were stupid, careless, or suspicious.

You had learned how to pause and consider how people would react to you. Sometimes. On good days. With enough effort without giving more than necessary — you’d never give in work for people you couldn’t care less about. Your mouth remains a separate legal entity that needs strict supervision, far greater than your own, wherein Jake actually steps in.

Now, he didn’t have you tethered on a leash, because that would mean he had control over you, and Jake doesn’t believe in fairy tales. He also believed in dismantling the kind of patriarchal system that insisted difficult women only became lovable after a patient man sanded them down into something more socially acceptable. So to say your boyfriend has managed to tame you down and has completely changed you for the better of fitting in social codes! is bullshit and is something that would never happen. That was propaganda. That was something a man with a podcast would say.

It was more of… he had emergency preparedness.

Which was why, by the time you finished preparing food, Jake had already arranged the plates on the dinner table to help you out without getting in your way and letting you do your own thing. Forks on the left, knives on the right, napkins folded neatly beside each plate. He even set out water glasses, juice glasses, and, for some reason, wine glasses.

Riki stares at the table. Then at Jake. “Why are there wine glasses?”

Jake scoffs, like Riki was unreasonable. “For drinks.”

“She’s seventeen. She doesn’t drink wine.”

“I know.”

“So why are there wine glasses?”

Jake picks one up and inspects it like this was a very normal conversation. “For juice.”

Riki blinks. “Juice.”

“You can put juice in a wine glass,” Jake says.

Riki only stares at him for a long second before looking at you, as if expecting you to step in and restore reason to the room. Unfortunately for him, you are too busy adjusting the serving dish in the center of the table, making sure it sits exactly where it should.

“It looks nice,” you say simply.

Riki exhales, defeated. “She’s just coming over for dinner.”

You glance up. “I’m aware.”

Still, you leave the wine glasses where they are.

It is not that you are nervous. At least, that is what you tell yourself while wiping the counter for the third time, checking the food twice, and pretending not to notice Jake quietly moving around the dining area in the way he always does now, helping without getting in your space. He knows better than to take over. He only fills the gaps you leave behind, setting down plates, moving chairs, handing you a towel before you ask for one.

“You’re doing too much,” Riki says finally, watching as you wipe the edge of the counter one last time.

“I made dinner because she’s coming here for the first time.” You glance at him, and for once, there’s no sharpness in it. “I want to put effort,” you say. “She’s important to you, so I’m going to treat her like she is.”

Before anyone can say more, the doorbell rings.

Riki freezes dramatically — shoulders stiffen, his hand goes briefly to his hair, and for one second, he actually looks seventeen with his first love, scared because you’re meeting her. Your expression softens before you can stop it, watching him mumble a few things beneath his breath and reach for the foyer. 

You straighten, inhale once, and deliberately relax your face. Your eyebrows loosen first, then your jaw. You try to make your mouth sit neutrally instead of in the natural line that has apparently made several people assume you find their presence uncomfortable. You even relax your cheekbones, which is a ridiculous thing to become aware of, but you do it anyway — only to try and smile anyway.

Jake notices, obviously. He comes to stand beside you, his arm slipping over your shoulders, warm and easy. You glance at him, trying not to ruin your work. “What?”

He presses his lips together, but his eyes are already amused. “Nothing.”

“You’re laughing.”

“I’m not.”

“Are you making fun of me?” You glare at him, but unfortunately, ends up ruining all the work you have just done.

He laughs under his breath and pulls you a little closer, not enough to make a scene, just enough for his thumb to brush once against your shoulder. “No. You just look cute.”

The front door opens, which makes you and Jake both go quiet at the same time, though his arm stays comfortably around your shoulders while you immediately stiffen.

“Relax, okay?” he murmurs, low enough that only you hear him.

“I am relaxed.”

“You’re not.”

“I was,” you whisper back, eyes fixed toward the hallway. “Riki is making me tense. You’re also making me tense.”

His mouth twitches. “He’s nervous.”

“He said it himself, it’s just dinner.”

“I know, baby.”

“You’re not helping.”

“I’m literally holding you.”

“Exactly, now I’m tense again.”

He laughs under his breath, and you glare up at him again, which, unfortunately, ruins your face for the second time. He only looks more amused, his thumb brushing slowly against your upper arm as if trying to smooth the tension out of you by touch alone. From the foyer, you hear Riki’s voice, lower and softer than usual, which makes something inside you pause. He says something you don’t catch, then a girl answers, her voice careful but sweet. There is the quiet sound of shoes being removed, then footsteps moving closer toward the dining room.

Jake’s hand starts moving lightly over your arm, not enough to distract you, just enough to remind you to breathe when he can feel that you’re growing nervous too.

You’re nervous because for the first time since Jake, you care about being liked.

Riki appears in the doorway first, already looking embarrassed before anyone has even done anything. His hand hovers at the small of her back, not fully touching, just guiding her forward like he wants to be careful with her but does not want anyone to notice. That alone makes you want to be nicer immediately, though instinct comes first and you also want to make fun of him.

The girl, neat and pretty, exactly the kind of girl you expected Riki to like. Not loud kind of pretty, or trying too hard to be noticed. Just soft-faced and carefully put together, with her hair tucked behind one ear and both hands holding a small paper bag in front of her. She looks nervous and polite, but not helpless and boring. There is something bright in her expression when she glances at Riki, something that makes his ears go red when he catches it.

He clears his throat. “This is her.” He immediately looks annoyed with himself for a shitty introduction. “I mean, this is my sister.”

The girl smiles at you, a little shy but trying. “Hi. It’s nice to meet you.”

You make sure your face is still behaving before you smile back, lifting your eyebrows and relaxing your eyes. “It’s nice to meet you too.”

“And this is Jake,” he says, already sounding tired before the sentence is even finished. “My friend. Her boyfriend.”

Jake smiles. “Hello.”

For a second, it goes very well. 

Riki’s shoulders lower slightly and Jake’s arm loosens around you. Riki and the girl steps further into the dining room and she notices the table, the food, the glasses, the napkins, the ridiculous amount of effort you had pretended was casual even though you really did give more than you would.

“This is really nice,” she says, smiling so wide and bright, then seems to remember the paper bag in her hands. “Oh, I brought something. It’s just pastries. My mom said I shouldn’t come empty-handed.”

“That’s sweet,” you say, already nodding in appreciation.

Then she adds, with a small nervous laugh, “Especially if it’s you.”

What the fuck does that mean?

You pause, though it isn’t a big, dramatic thing. To anyone else, it probably looks like you are simply processing what she said like a normal person. But unfortunately, everyone in the room knows you and knows that you are not doing that. Riki freezes first, because he has lived with you long enough to understand what careless words mean to you, his face going blank. 

Then you nod slowly, because the worst part is, you are not even mad. You are curious, deeply curious, academically curious, the kind of curious that has ruined evenings before because you’re an older sister who can’t let things slide.

“Sorry,” you say, still polite. “What does that mean, exactly?”

She looks suddenly unsure. “Oh. Riki just told me you’re a bit unhinged sometimes. So I wanted to put my best foot forward.”

She is smiling, though not plainly rude, she looks like she has said something funny and is waiting for the room to understand it as a joke. Riki seems to understand this too, because he lets out this small, awkward laugh, like he is trying to help her land the joke before you set it on fire. Jake does the same thing, smiling polite and easy, to smooth the room over, but his arm tightens around your shoulders, and he straightens beside you, casual enough that it might pass as posture.

You, however, are not laughing yet. You are looking at her, a little amused, even impressed. Because she is standing in your dining room, holding pastries with both hands, looking sweet and proper, and somehow still had the nerve to call you unhinged to your face before the dinner you made yourself.

Interesting. Very interesting.

You nod once, slowly. “Okay.” then you breathe. “Calling me unhinged five seconds after walking in is —”

Then Jake’s hand covers your mouth. 

One second you are speaking, the next his palm is gently but firmly over your mouth, cutting off whatever fire had been lining itself up behind your teeth. The room goes silent, then you slowly turn your eyes up to him. Jake smiles at Riki’s girlfriend like this is normal, like he did not just manually mute you in your own house. 

“She thinks you’re funny.” 

You make a muffled sound against his hand.

He glances down. “You do.” He keeps his hand there even when you glare at him.

Riki stares at the two of you with a mixture of horror and resignation. “Yeah. They’re like that. Sorry. It’s kind of their dynamic.”

His girlfriend looks between you and Jake, then at Riki, then back at you. For one second, she seems unsure whether she should apologize, laugh, or leave the pastries on the nearest surface and run — which is what most would consider the safest option, but instead, she laughs. It is small at first, but it turns real when she sees the way Riki’s ears have gone completely red and the way Jake is still holding you like a person trying to keep a cat from knocking a glass off the table.

“I’m sorry,” she says, smiling now. “I really meant it as a joke. I just thought of breaking the ice a little.”

Jake slowly lowers his hand, but his arm stays around you just in case. You hate that, you hate being treated like a rabid animal (you are, in this scenario, you really are). You inhale through your nose and fix your expression with as much dignity as possible. “I know. I understand the joke.” but you’re not laughing.

You nod once, polite. “I just think it’s very brave.” Jake’s eyes close for half a second. “It takes a lot of confidence to walk into someone else’s house shamelessly —”

Jake’s hand covers your mouth again, faster this time around. More resigned, like he knew the first intervention had only delayed the inevitable and was now dealing with the consequences of optimism.

You freeze beneath his palm, offended all over again.

Jake smiles at Riki’s girlfriend. “She appreciates your confidence,” he says smoothly. “And the pastries. We’ll eat them for dessert.”

Your eyes narrow, attempting to talk but your words are muffled. He keeps his hand there.

Riki, who looks like he is aging in real time, turns to his girlfriend with a stiff smile. “Let’s just eat. She cooks great food.”

The sudden rushed compliment makes you pause, which works better than Jake’s hand. Your irritation loosens by half an inch, and only then does he slowly remove his hand from your mouth, before placing both his hands over your shoulders and gently steer you toward the kitchen.

The second you reach the kitchen, you whip your head to him and whisper, “She called me unhinged.”

Jake reaches past you for the serving spoon. “Technically, Riki did.”

You stare at him. “And she repeated it. In my house.”

“She was just joking, baby.”

You grab the bowl of pasta from the counter, still whispering because you are civilized, apparently. “And you covered my mouth twice. That was crazy of you.”

He sighs. “I had to.”

“No, you did not have to.”

“You were about to call a seventeen-year-old shameless.”

When you freeze because he did make a point without having to rub it on your face, he then exhales a laugh and takes the heavier dish from you before you can protest, carrying it like he knows you’ll keep arguing better with your hands heavy. “You’re doing fine. Just be careful with her, she’s new.”

You inhale once, slow enough to remind yourself not to speak in weapons, then head back to the dining room with Jake following behind you, dish in hand and looking far too pleased for someone who had just done censoring. Riki and his girlfriend are already seated when you return. She sits neatly with her hands in her lap, taking in the table with careful politeness, while Riki looks like he has not breathed properly since he opened the door.

You smile again, because she’s new and you don’t want to scare her anymore. Jake catches it and has the audacity to look fond. You then sit across from them while Jake sits beside you, close enough for his knee to brush yours under the table, which you pretend not to notice.

For a few moments, dinner begins normally.

Plates are passed around, the wine glasses are filled with juice, as Jake planned. Riki relaxes little by little, especially when his girlfriend compliments the food and you do not immediately ask her for a detailed explanation of what she means by that — even though you want to ask just that. You only say thank you, which makes Jake glance at you like you have just performed a miracle.

Then Riki reaches for the tongs. “What do you want?” he asks her, voice quieter than usual.

She looks at the food, still shy. “Maybe just some of the crab rangoon bread.”

He nods and puts a few on her plate, carefully enough that you have to look down at your own plate to stop yourself from smiling too hard. Because it is sweet, sweeter than the teenage boy had ever been to anyone.

Unfortunately, Jake also notices. Without a word, he reaches for the tong, mimicking Riki’s careful expression so obviously that when you realize, you immediately swat his hand away.

“Stop.”

Jake bites his lip, trying not to smile. “What? I’m just serving you.”

“Stop it.” you hiss before you give him a look, but he only lowers his head and reaches for his glass, still smiling into it like he thinks he is subtle. He is not subtle. He has never been subtle a day in his life when it comes to annoying you.

Across the table, Riki stares at both of you. “Can you two stop?”

Jake, unhelpfully, says nothing, while you sigh and apologize.

Dinner continues after that, though with the fragile peace of something that knows it has survived two near-death experiences already. Riki’s girlfriend eats carefully at first, then relaxes when you ask if she wants more pasta instead of asking for her full academic history. Riki, to his credit, keeps checking on her without making it too obvious, which unfortunately makes it very obvious. Then she looks around the dining room, her eyes moving from the shelves to the framed photos, the organized sideboard, the little dish near the entryway where keys are kept. “I really like your house,” she says. “It feels so put together.”

You glance up from your plate. “Thank you.”

She smiles, encouraged. “Riki said you did most of the organizing.”

You are in the middle of taking a bite of pasta, which means the thought arrives before the social filter does. You chew once, swallow, then ask very casually, “Did he also tell you why I had to?”

Jake nearly chokes on his juice, the liquid gurgling in the cup though not loudly, but enough that his hand immediately goes to his mouth and Riki looks like he has just aged another five years in front of the girl he likes. Under the table, Jake’s hand lands on your thigh so fast it might as well have been an emergency brake.

You look at him and he looks back at you, eyes wide, expression painfully calm. His hand squeezes your thigh once, gentle but firm, because apparently this is what your relationship has become now. Morse code for please be more careful.

Riki’s girlfriend looks between everyone, confused but still polite. “Oh, I mean, he just said you’re really responsible.”

“That’s one word for it,” you say.

Jake’s hand tightens again, which makes you look down at his hand, then back at him. “What?”

He smiles at the table. “Nothing.”

Riki puts his fork down slowly. “Can we not?”

His girlfriend presses her lips together, trying not to smile, and the effort makes you pause. She does not look scared this time, because if anything, she looks like she is starting to understand the rhythm of the room. She’s starting to understand you beyond Riki’s unhinged stories about you, and for the second time, another person doesn’t feel like scurrying away.

That should embarrass you. And it does, at least a little, because you’ve learned social awareness. So you pick up your glass and take a sip, choosing to let the subject die before it grows bones and starts walking around the table. After a second, you say, “Sorry. Thank you. I do most of the organizing.”

Jake’s hand relaxes on your thigh and Riki exhales. His girlfriend smiles, warm and careful. “It’s nice. It feels like someone really takes care of it.”

That lands softer than you expect, and your spine relaxes so profoundly. For once, you do not make a joke out of it. You only nod, looking down at your plate. “I try.”

Jake’s hand stays warm on your thigh for another second before he lets go and reaches for his glass. He looks across the table, eyes moving between Riki and his girlfriend. “So,” he says, lighter now. “Where did you two meet?”

Riki pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth. “School.”

Jake nods slowly. “Wow. Detailed.”

You huff a small laugh before you can stop it, and Jake glances at you, pleased with himself. Riki glares. “What else do you want me to say?”

His girlfriend laughs softly, then looks at Jake. “We got paired for a project.” Her shoulders loosen a little more. “He was really serious about it. I thought he didn’t like me at first.”

Jake turns to you, voice low but not low enough. “He’s your brother.”

You nod solemnly. “Unfortunately, yes.”

His girlfriend smiles wider now, looking more comfortable than she had when she first walked in. “It was cute, actually.  mean, he was responsible,” she says. “During the project. He kept checking if I was done with my parts, and he fixed the slides when the file got messed up.”

No one says anything right away, not even Jake who usually teases the shit out of the younger boy. Not because there is nothing to say either, but because Riki looks so embarrassed that teasing him feels too easy, and maybe a little unfair. His ears are red again, his fork held loosely in his hand, his eyes stuck on his plate like looking up might make the compliment worse.

You look at him and feel something quiet pull at your chest.

Responsible and nice.

It is strange hearing someone else say that about him, not because you do not believe it, but because you know him differently. You know the boy who forgets to answer his phone, who leaves his shoes by the door, who argues about curfew every time. You know him as your brother before anything else, the one you have to keep taking care of. But she knows this version too, the one who fixes things, checks on people, and doesn’t freak out when there’s a problem.

You clear your throat and look back at your plate before your face can do anything embarrassing. “That sounds like him.”

When you glance up again, Riki is looking at you. Not shocked exactly, because he is not unused to you caring. His expression shifts, small and unsure, like he does not know what to do with being seen properly by you. Not just as someone you have to worry over, but as someone who could be responsible without you standing over his shoulder. Maybe you have been so busy seeing him as a problem waiting to happen that you forgot he could also be someone else when you were not looking.

Maybe you have been unreasonable, and once the thought settles, you look down at your plate and take another bite before your face can fully betray you.

Jake notices anyway. And so he takes over for you.

He sits back, smiling now. “So, what tricks did he pull out of his ass after the slides? Did he act mysterious? Pretend he doesn’t care?”

His girlfriend laughs, and this time it comes out easier. “A little.”

Riki looks at her immediately. “No, I didn’t.”

“You kinda did.”

You and Jake laugh before you can stop it, and Riki points his fork at you. “Don’t laugh,” he says.

His girlfriend smiles into her glass, clearly enjoying this more than she expected to. The nervousness has not disappeared completely, but it has softened enough for her to look around the family table without looking like she is waiting for someone to test her. 

After that, the questions continue, though you make sure they sound less like a background check and more like actual interest. The stories come out between bites, one after another, most of them harmless, some of them embarrassing, and nearly all of them at Riki’s expense. Jake keeps the teasing light, Riki keeps hating it, and his girlfriend keeps laughing in a way that makes him look down at his plate every few minutes like that will hide the fact that he likes hearing it.

The room relaxes in small things.

Riki stops sitting so straight, his girlfriend reaches for the juice herself, and Jake’s chair shifts closer to yours without either of you saying anything. At some point, you stop trying so hard to manage the room. Jake does most of the talking now, the three of them fall into conversation easily, voices overlapping, laughter coming in small bursts.

You let yourself sit quietly while you continue eating your food, listening more than speaking, watching Riki talk to someone who looks at him like he is not a problem to solve or a boy to keep alive through constant reminders. She looks at him like he is someone she likes, someone she chose willingly.

At some point, his girlfriend glances across the table and catches your eye. You know you could nod politely or look away or pretend you had only been reaching for your glass.

Instead, you smile at her. Not the careful one you had built earlier with relaxed eyebrows and softened cheekbones. But a small and sincere one.

And she smiles back. Something quiet settles between you, not approval exactly, because you are not her teacher and she is not there to pass. Just an understanding that she is trying, and so are you.

Later, when everyone has started moving around after dessert, the room breaks apart naturally. Riki and Jake end up near the sink, arguing over who is actually helping and who is only standing there only trying to look useful, obviously not wanting to get an earful from you. Your brother’s girlfriend gets pulled into the conversation for a while, laughing softly when Riki complains that Jake is “too comfortable” in the house, but eventually the noise settles behind you as you slip out to the front porch with one of the pastries she brought.

You lean against the railing, pastry in hand, and take a small bite. It’s good, soft, sweet, and clearly homemade, which makes you feel slightly worse about almost interrogating the girl who brought it.

The door opens behind you a minute later. You glance back and find her standing there, hands clasped in front of her like she is not sure if she is allowed to join you.

“Hi,” she says.

You swallow. “Hi.”

She looks at the pastry in your hand, then smiles a little. “Is it okay?”

You look down at it, then back at her. “It’s good.”

Her face brightens, visibly relieved. “Me and my mom made them.” She steps out slowly, leaving enough space between you like she is still learning the proper distance. You appreciate that more than you probably should.

For a moment, both of you just stand there, looking at the front yard while the muffled sound of Riki’s voice carries from inside. She breaks the silence as she says, “I’m sorry again. About earlier. The unhinged thing. I really thought it would be funny.” she winces.

“It was funny,” you say. She gives you a look like she does not fully believe you. You take another bite. “Eventually.”

That makes her laugh, small and careful, but real. Still, you notice the slight rigidness of her shoulders, and her fingers when they fidget with one another. She’s trying, that becomes obvious because you don’t recall anyone willingly staying alone in one room with you — not before or after Jake.

You take another bite of the pastry, buying yourself a second before you say anything too sincere. “I’d like to think that I’m not scary all the time.”

She smiles. “I know.”

You try not to snicker. “You don’t know that yet.”

“I kind of do,” she says, then looks embarrassed by her own confidence. “I mean, Riki talks about you a lot.”

You lower the pastry slightly. “Does he?”

She nods. “Yeah. He complains, but not in a bad way.” she says, laughing softly. “It’s more like… he’ll say you’re annoying, but then he’ll mention you picked him up from practice. Or that you made him eat before school. Or that you texted him because it was raining and he forgot an umbrella.”

Inside, Riki says something loud enough to make Jake laugh, and you remain quiet here. His girlfriend looks toward the door, her expression softening in a way that makes you pause, because you recognize that look. It’s the way Jake looks at you when he thinks you aren’t looking.

“He acts like he hates it,” she says. “But I don’t think he does. I think he likes knowing someone checks.”

You do not answer immediately, because there is nothing funny sitting close enough for you to grab. No sharp comment or an easy correction, just the truth, standing there on your porch in the shape of a seventeen-year-old girl who somehow sees your brother clearly.

So you nod once. “Maybe.”

She glances at you, then says, quieter, “I like him a lot.” Her eyes widen slightly especially when you look at her, like she has surprised herself by saying it directly. “Sorry. That was sudden.”

“No,” you say with a chuckle. “It’s okay.”

She tucks her hair behind her ear. “I know we’re young, and it’s not like I’m gonna marry him right now or anything. I just wanted you to know I’m not trying to get him in trouble or make things harder for you.”

It isn’t some grand statement, but it makes you freeze. It is actually the plainness of it that gets you, the fact that she says it like she understands there is something to make harder.

You are not Riki’s mom, you have never been his mom, and you will never be his mom. But somewhere along the way, between your mother leaving and your father forgetting the smaller parts of parenthood, you had become the person who checked the locks, remembered his schedule, asked if he ate, picked him up, got mad when he lied, and stayed awake when he was late. You gave up so many normal years to make sure he was safe, and he gave you so much shit in return, so much stress, so much noise.

A boyfriend too, apparently, which was still deeply annoying.

You blink once, but your eyes are already starting to sting.

She notices immediately. “Oh my God, I’m sorry.”

You let out a small laugh and look away, wiping quickly beneath one eye with your finger. “No, you’re fine.”

“I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

You sniff once. “I’m barely crying.”

That makes her smile, nervous but relieved. You both stand there with the porch light above you and the muffled sound of boys arguing inside, just before you take another breath, then glance at her.

“He told me,” she says softly. “Uhm. Just. About your mom. And your dad.”

Your face stills and she rushes to explain, eyes widening. “Not in a bad way. He wasn’t gossiping. He just said you had to do a lot. That you’re strict because you had to be. And I think I understood that more after meeting you.” She smiles a little, almost apologetic. “I mean, yes, you’re scary.”

You laugh despite yourself, and she laughs too. “But not in the way he made it sound. It’s more like...” She pauses, searching for the words. “You were kind of just left with him.”

It ruins you enough for your throat to tighten and your eyes to grow wet again before you can stop them. She looks panicked again, hands up like she wants to hold you. “I’m so sorry. That sounded so sad.”

“No,” you say quickly, laughing under your breath as you wipe at your eye again. “No, it’s okay.” You nod, then look down at the pastry in your hand because it is easier than looking at her. “It’s just weird.”

“What is?”

“Hearing someone say that,” you admit, voice quieter now. “Other than Jake.”

Her expression softens and she laughs quietly, looking down at her hands. “Riki talks about him too.”

You blink. “Jake?”

“Yeah.” Her smile grows a little more embarrassed, like she already knows what she is about to say will sound too sweet. “He said Jake is the only one who can tell you to calm down without making you mad.”

You stare at her as she glances toward the door, then back at you. “I think I get it now. It’s just nice. The way he looks at you.”

You immediately look away. “Okay.”

“I know. Sorry. That was cheesy.”

“It was very cheesy.”

“But very true.”

You take another bite of the pastry, mostly to give yourself something to do that is not react like an idiot. “You’re bold.”

“I’m learning from you.”

That makes you laugh. “You’ll need it,” you say, glancing at her. “If you’re going to be around a lot.”

For a second, her face goes completely still. Because the meaning seems to land, and her whole expression brightens before she can stop it, which isn’t loud or dramatic, just this shy, happy thing that she immediately tries to hide by looking down at her hands.

Riki appears halfway through the door a second later, squinting at the two of you like he has walked in on a meeting he was deliberately not invited to. His eyes move from her face to yours, then immediately to the pastry in your hand. “What are you doing?” he asks, already suspicious. “Are you threatening her?”

You give him a deadpan look. He stares back, of course.

“I’m eating,” you say.

His girlfriend laughs softly and steps closer to him. “She’s not threatening me.”

He still does not look convinced, but his hand finds hers anyway, like he has forgotten to be embarrassed for half a second. She lets him, smiling down at their joined hands, and the sight makes your face do something dangerously close to softening.

Jake then appears behind Riki. He takes one look at the porch, at the way Riki and his girlfriend are standing together, then at you. He steps around Riki and comes to your side, his arm slipping around your waist before he presses a quick kiss to your temple.

Riki’s face twists immediately, while his girlfriend, however, makes the worst possible sound, somewhere between a laugh and a squeal she clearly tries to hold back.

Jake ignores them completely, looking down at you instead. “Can I steal you for a bit?”

You barely get to frown before he guides you back inside with a hand at your waist.

“Steal me?” you repeat under your breath.

“Borrow,” he corrects, smiling.

The kitchen warmer from the leftover food and the light above the counter. Jake brings you there gently, not cornering you exactly, just turning you until your back rests against the counter and he stands in front of you, hands on your hips while yours stay on the pastry.

He only looks at you, then his gaze drops to the pastry on your hands, just before you take another bite. “I wasn’t done.”

“I can see that.”

“It’s good.”

His brows lift, innocent in a way that has never worked on you. Then, without looking away from you, he leans down and takes a small bite from the pastry in your hand. He straightens slowly, chewing while eyes remain on yours. For some reason, that makes your face warm faster than anything else he has done all night.

Then, very maturely, you say, “Ew.”

Jake laughs immediately, the sound low and pleased, because he knows you well enough to hear what you are actually doing. You take another bite from the same pastry anyway, mostly out of principle, and his smile only gets worse. Then he leans closer, pressing his forehead down against your shoulder with a quiet laugh. His hands stay at your hips, warm and steady, keeping you there without really keeping you anywhere.

“You’re so mean,” he murmurs.

“You know what you got into.” You huff, but it turns into something too close to a laugh when he presses a kiss to your shoulder. Then another, higher, near the side of your neck, soft enough to still feel like teasing. You try to keep eating like this is not affecting you at all, but Jake knows you too well, and the small smile against your skin says he caught it.

“Stop,” you mutter, though you make no actual effort to move.

He lifts his head just enough for his mouth to brush near your jaw, playful and warm. “Did she call you unhinged out there too?”

You glare at the cabinet over his shoulder. “No.”

“Did you call her shameless?”

“No.”

His brows lift, impressed. “Really?”

You swallow the bite of pastry and give him a flat look. “I don’t like how surprised you sound.”

His smile tilts. “‘Cause I know what I got into.”

You stare at him for a second before realizing he has only thrown your own words back at you, and you roll your eyes, but the smile slips through anyway. Instead of saying anything, he lowers his face and rests his mouth against your hair. Not quite a kiss, just there, warm and quiet and resting. You sigh and lean into him too, your weight shifting from your feet to him, and Jake takes it without needing to adjust.

“I like her,” you say after a moment.

His lips move against your hair. “Yeah?”

“A lot.”

Jake lifts his head just enough to look at you, and his expression is teasing, but his eyes are too soft to fully sell it. “Wow. A lot?”

You narrow your eyes. “What?”

His gaze drops to your mouth for half a second before returning to your eyes, entirely too pleased with himself. “I thought I was the only person allowed to understand you and survive.”

A laugh slips out before you can stop it, light and embarrassingly fond. He lets out a faux disappointed sigh, shaking his head but his smile is kinder. “Now there’s competition.”

“She brought pastries.”

“Very strong opening.”

His thumb brushes once at your side, your throat tightens before you can stop it. Jake lowers his voice. “I’m still the one who gets to hold you after.”

You only look at him, standing close enough that the kitchen feels smaller around you, the pastry forgotten between your fingers, his hands steady at your waist. Jake looks at you for another second, like he is waiting to see if you will tell him to stop.

You do not.

So he leans in and kisses you, soft at first, careful enough that you almost hate him for it. Your eyes close before you can think better of it, and the hand not holding the pastry slips up to his shoulder. Then his hand tightens at your waist, just a little, and the kiss deepens enough to make your thoughts go quiet. Your other arm finds its way around his shoulders too, pastry and all, awkwardly trapped somewhere behind his neck.

He laughs against your mouth, a smile pressing into yours. When you pull back to breathe, he does not go far, his mouth drifts to your jaw instead, and you let out a small, helpless laugh before you can stop it.

“Jake.”

“Hm?”

You tilt your head anyway, trying to sound annoyed even though you are smiling. “Behave. They’re still here.”

He pauses against your jaw before he laughs, low and quiet, his forehead dropping to your shoulder again. “These fucking kids, bro.”

You laugh properly this time, unable to help it, and shove at his chest with the back of your hand. You point the pastry at him. “You’re literally twenty.”

Jake lifts his head, face still tucked too close to yours, and shrugs like you have just made his point for him. “Exactly.”

He only smiles, then wraps his fingers around your wrist and gently brings your hand closer to his mouth. He does not even ask this time. He just holds your gaze, entirely too pleased with himself, and takes another bite from the pastry you were very clearly threatening him with.

You stare at him. “You have a problem.”

Jake swallows, still smiling. “You’re my favorite problem.”

Your eyebrows pull together immediately.

His smile drops by half. “Wait.”

“I’m a problem?”

“No.”

“You just said I’m a problem.”

Jake presses his lips together, clearly trying not to laugh because he knows that would only make this worse. His hand is still around your wrist, but now he looks like he has realized he is holding evidence at the scene of his own crime.

“I meant,” he says carefully, “you are my favorite person who causes problems.”

You stare harder. He closes his eyes for a second. “No. That’s worse.” He exhales a laugh. “Okay. You’re not a problem.”

“Good.”

“You’re just a lot.”

You scoff. “Wow.”

“No, no.” Jake’s hand tightens on your hips you try to pull away, though he is smiling too much to look even slightly sorry. “I like a lot. I love a lot.”

Your face warms before you can stop it. Then, because apparently he has decided to make it worse for your health, he shrugs. “I’m greedy.”

A laugh breaks out of you before you can hold it in, sudden and helpless. You turn your face away, but he follows just enough to catch it, smiling like he has been waiting for that sound all night. “You say terrible things.”

Jake’s smile softens, but he still looks entirely too pleased with himself. “I’m being honest.” His hands settle at your waist again, warm and steady. “You’re scary that I like. Mean that I like. Bossy that I like.”

You stare at him for half a second before another laugh slips out, softer this time, shaking your head because he is genuinely ridiculous. “That is not how compliments work.”

“It worked.”

You hate that he is right.

You hate that he is looking at you like that again, like every difficult part of you is something he has already made room for, and does complain about it. Like he is not trying to soften you into something easier. He’s seen it, and still somehow looks at you like you are the easiest choice he has ever made.

So you stop arguing. You catch the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the collar, and pull him down to you. Jake’s breath catches a little before your mouth meets his again.

This kiss starts soft, but only for a second. Then his hand tightens at your waist and your arm slides around his shoulders, the pastry still trapped awkwardly in your other hand, and you cannot bring yourself to care.

Riki and his girlfriend are somewhere outside. The dishes are still in the sink. Someone could walk in and you should probably be thinking about any of that, because it’d be embarrassing to be caught pressed on the counter like this.

But you do not. Your mind goes blank in the simplest, stupidest way, all because Jake is here.

Jake is close, the warmth under your hands, the smile against your mouth, the person holding you like he already knows where all your sharp parts are and has never once thought to let go.

So, for once, you let yourself stop thinking. You just kiss him back.

part one, part three

[0210sjy]

˚ ༘♡ ⋆。˚  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.”

“Jake.”

“Sorry. Done. No more.”

short sequel