Lakeview gardens - a tucked away village where every nook and cranny had its own special charm. The place you proudly call your home, where everyone knew everyone and everything. From the latest gossip to the new boy (who you almost ran over on your first day of junior year), they knew it all - well almost all of it. Because with so many mouths whispering, the truth is bound to be twisted and distorted...maybe there was more to that boy than you initially thought.
tags: fluff, small town romance, heeseung tries to be a flirt but he's a nervous sap, heavily inspired by Gilmore Girls, angst with payoff, mentions of death, remarriage, grief, emotional instability
seacat's note: just wanted to show a teaser of my wip.. honestly im just craving some small town romance so this is also a bit self-indulgent heehee..
release date : most likely end of july / early august
ËËËâđŠčâ ⥠September âĄâđŠčâËËË
âBABY GET UP WE OVERSLEPTâ were not the words you wanted to hear on your first day of junior year.
You loved your mom, you really did. It was one simple request, really. Your alarm clock was broken and for once, you asked your mother to wake you up. To be fair, it was a failure in your judgment, because you knew how much of a late riser she was. And despite that you thought, that she could wake up early just this once. Time was ticking and you didnât have enough time to complain to her since school was starting in less than 15 minutes - you needed ten minutes to get given you pedaled like your life depended on it.
If you skipped breakfast and combing your hair, youâd arrive there with 3 minutes to spare - just in time to settle down and mentally prepare for school, a ritual you refused to let go of, ever since kindergarten.
âHere - take some proteinâ your mother tossed you a random protein bar from your already cluttered dinner table. Catching it with a precise motion you thanked her and rushed to the garage to grab your bike.
7:55 - you pedaled as fast as you could. Your townâs local vendor greeted you with an amused chuckle whilst he stocked up on his display crates for the day. Your friendâs mom who was on her way to said grocery store waved at you scolding you affectionately for waking up late.
It was just like every morning in Lakeview Gardens.
Every nook and cranny was well lived in by the same people for generations. It was filled with warmth and a sense of familiarity. Everything was going as planned up until the moment you turned into the intersection along Leeâs Diner.
âWATCH OUTâ you screamed at the now horrified boy who seemed to be innocently carrying boxes from Mr Leeâs pick up truck across the street.
You squeezed your brakes for dear life, not wanting to run someone over with your bike on your first day of school. It seems like you just couldnât win today, because although your bike halted, it was too abrupt and thanks to the law of inertia, you were flying face first onto the asphalt before you could even blink.
âow..â you winced sitting up.
âare you okay?â the boy hurried to your side, helping you up looking at you with those eyes that resembled a deerâs all too perfectly.
shut up yn focus
You scolded yourself mentally because what were you thinking about? You almost ran someone over for fucks sake.
âI-im fine.â you accepted his hand and stood up with his help. You dusted yourself down feeling a wave of embarrassment rush through your veins.
âThat looks nastyâ he pointed at your scraped knee, that started to bleed.
Oh.
You didnât even notice.
The mysterious boy - who you instantly noted wasnât someone from here - then pulled out a a handkerchief along with a small band-aid from his pocket.
âWow. You often get into accidents?â you blurted before covering your mouth - Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stup-
But the boy only let out a small chuckle âYou could say that. I often trip and hurt myself too.â he rubbed the back of his nape.
rrriinggg
the distant sound of your school bell ringing instantly brought you back to reality.
âShit - im late- im sorry - i promise iâll- iâll pay you back somehow- sorry for almost running you overâ you apologized as you hopped back on your bike, which has gained new silver scratches.
Watching your frame shrink into the distance, he only let out an amused chortle. Cute, he thought. He hoped this wasnât the last time he saw you.
Thankfully for him, in a town like Lakeview Gardens, it was hard to miss anyone
>> if you want to get tagged feel free to send me an ask ^^
synopsis âËâčâË⥠sim jaeyun broke up with the love of his life eight months ago. sim jaeyun is doing just fine. or at least, he's gotten very good at saying he is. unfortunately, the truth is a little more complicated when the person you're trying to get over still exists in your everyday life, still shares the same friends, still shows up to game night, still laughs at your jokes, and still reminds you of what you lost. so when one reckless night becomes another, then another, then another, jake finds himself caught between the future he thought he wanted and the person he can't seem to stop choosing. because while some people leave your life, some become the place you're always trying to get back to.
warnings ⊠ĘË 18+ // angst, the entire thing is angst bro // spoiler: yes happy ending do not fret :D // ok yes there's some crack in it though because im unserious // it's literally lovers to exes to friends to exes with benefits, it's messy shit (thereâs rebound dating & third party tension & jealousy, yes) // emotional dependency, attachment issues, insecurities, self-doubt // reader & jake are objectively not good decision makers // very introspective and very emotionally constipated but also healing, i promise :D ËËË nsfw tags á°.á it's literally exes with benefits..so lots of sex implied lmfao, hate sex kinda, car sex, one heavy smut scene but the rest implied, unprotected sex, oral sex, fingering, jake is needy and hot lol
°Ë⎠.á wow ok this is my BABY. what started out as me being an emotional angsty girl in her time of month, tmi sorry, turned into the longest thing i've written and i genuinely loved writing it but also nervvyyy lol bc i feel this one is heavier than my usual kind of style? & i got so much excitement for this one so i really hope it meets everyone's expectations :3 but ty for being patient and excited and sticking around with me when i disappeared a lil bit and haven't really done a long fic in a while <3 i appreciate each & every one of you guys and everything gets noticed so thank u very very very much mwah (˶ËáËË”) hope you guys enjoy <3
jake had spent the last eight months telling himself he was fine. which, if we're being honest, is already not a particularly encouraging sentence.
people who are fine don't usually spend eight consecutive months reminding themselves that they're fine. people who are actually fine just go about their day. people who are not fine, however, tend to wake up on a random tuesday, stare at the ceiling fan for forty-five minutes, and have to convince themselves they're fine.Â
jake knew this. and unfortunately for him, knowing something and doing something about it was two completely different skills that he had no idea how to differentiate.
the thing is, there were days when he was genuinely fine. really. there were entire afternoons where he didn't think about you once. moments where he would be halfway through a conversation with heeseung or laughing at something stupid jay said and realize, with a small burst of relief, that an entire hour passed without your name crossing his mind. which, yes, he's aware it sounds pathetic, but heartbreak has a funny way of lowering the bar like that. eight months later, jake was still collecting small victories wherever he could find them.
still, there was another reason why he kept insisting he was fine, and this one is probably the realest one of them allâbecause that's just what everybody says after a breakup.
especially when the breakup involves what jake would describe, with absolutely no exaggeration whatsoever, as the best thing that has ever happened to him in his twenty three years of being alive. and that might sound dramatic, but to jake, it was just true. it wasn't anything like a rom-com, nothing cinematic or perfectly timed. nobody ran through an airport, nobody stood outside anybody's window holding a boombox.
it was worse than that, actually. it was ordinary. it was the quiet, ordinary kind of best thing that sneaks up on you and becomes the shape of your days before you even know it. the kind where you wake up next to someone and the first thing you do is reach for them without thinking, because their body becomes as familiar as your own. the kind where inside jokes turn into entire languages only the two of you speak. the kind where you start keeping their favorite snacks in your cabinet and they leave an extra toothbrush at your sink, because of course.
you and jake had been together for three and a half years, and somewhere in the middle of that stretch of time he had stopped thinking of himself as a singular person and starting thinking in plurals. we should try that new ramen place. we need to remember to water the plant before we leave for the weekend. we'll figure it out. he had liked the way it sounded. the way it felt. like the two of you were building something forever-shaped.
it started slow, the way only real things tend to. a shared friend group that slowly narrowed until it was just the two of you staying up too late on the couch, talking about nothing and everything until the sun came up. then it was late night texts that turned into late night calls that turned into late night car rides where the rest of the group was conveniently not invited. then it was the first time he kissed youâproperly, too, not in the heat of the moment but rather after waiting for a long timeâand the way you had smiled against his mouth like you'd been waiting for it too. by the time anyone in the group noticed, you were already something solid. something that made sense. the guys teased you both about it constantly, but jake didn't mind. he liked the way it felt to be known like that. to have someone who saw every version of him, the charming one he showed the world, the quiet one who got overwhelmed around too many people, the one who still sometimes doubted he deserved good thingsâand stayed anyways.
you built a life in the small spaces of jake's life that he hadn't realized was missing you. weekends at his place or yours, trading hoodies and playlists and the kind of easy domesticity that felt revolutionary at twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two. you knew how he took his coffee (two sugars, splash of oat milk) and he knew the exact pressure to use when rubbing your ankles after a long day. you had matching scars from the time you both tried to cook something ambitious and set off the smoke alarm three separate times. you had a list of 'stupid things we've done together' that lived in the notes app on your phone. he introduced you to his family over video calls and during the holidays, you fit there tooâlaughing in the kitchen with his mom, letting his little cousins climb all over you like you'd always been part of the chaos.
but yeah, jake was fine. jake was fine because he had gotten very good at only remembering the good moments. which was pretty easy, if he was being honest, because that was pretty much most of all three and a half years of it, which only made the end hurt only worse. there was that one rainy sunday in your apartment, the one with the leaky faucet in the kitchen he kept meaning to fix and never did. you had woken up before him, which was rare, and instead of getting up you stayed curled against his side, tracing lazy patterns on his bare stomach with your fingertips while the rain tapped against the window. jake had pretended to still be asleep just to feel it a little longer. he remembered the exact weight of your leg thrown over his, the way you kept humming some half remembered song under your breath. eventually you got up to make coffeeâbadly, because you always forgot how many grounds to useâand brought it back to bed anyways. you climbed on top of him, straddling his lap, and handed him the mug with that little smirk that said you knew it was terrible but were proud of it anyway.
"drink it and tell me it's good," you said, your voice still heavy, hair still messy, eyes still sleepy.
jake had taken a sip, made a face, and said, "it's the best coffee i've ever had in my entire life."
"liar."
"would i lie to you?"
you then leaned down and kissed him, slow and unhurried, tasting like bad coffee and late mornings and the kind of quiet happiness that just tends to show up on its own. your hands had slid into his hair and he pulled you closer until there was no space left between you, and for a while the leaky faucet and the rain and everything else outside that bed stopped existing.
and yeah, it wasn't all perfect, no relationship that real ever is. there were the harder nights, the ones that proved you were both still human, that you could hurt each other even when you didn't mean to. there was the one night in the middle of fall, maybe three months before the end. you were stretched thin by exam season and jake with his own mounting pressure of what came after graduation and the quiet fear that he wasn't moving fast enough, wasn't good enough, wasn't enough period. it started off small, something about him canceling your plans last minute. you had been tired and a little too sharp, he had been defensive and a little too quiet. it escalated in his kitchen, voices rising, the kind of argument where old insecurities got dragged into the light because you knew each other too well to keep anything hidden.
"you always do this," you had said, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in frustration. "you pull away when things get hard and then act like i'm the one being difficult for noticing."
"i'm not pulling away," jake had shot back, even though part of him knew he was. "i'm trying to figure my shit out so i don't drag you down with me."
"that's not how this works, jaeyun!" you had paused then to take a breath, as if to steady yourself. then, smaller, softer, "you don't get to decide what i can handle, i'm not some fragile thing you have to protect from your bad days."
jake had faltered midstep at the sound of his name, the sound having landed somewhere deep, cutting straight through the defensive haze he wrapped himself in. he hated fighting with you, hated the way your voice got tight because he knows you cry whenever you get overwhelmed, hated the way his own chest felt like it was caving in because he loved you so much it made every sharp word feel like it was cutting him too.
it ended the way most of them did, with one of you cracking first. this time it had been him. he crossed the kitchen in two steps, pulled you into his arms even though you were still stiff and angry, and buried his face in your neck.
"i'm sorry," he had mumbled against your skin. "i'm an idiot. i know i'm an idiot."
you stayed rigid for a few seconds longer, then your arms had come up around him and your voice had gone soft in that way it only did for him. "yeah, you are."
later that night you ended up on the couch, your head in his lap while some mindless show played in the background. his fingers were in your hair, gentle and light, and you had looked up at him with that small tired smile and asked, "we're gonna be okay, right?"
jake had nodded like he believed it. like he could will it into existence just by wanting it hard enough. those nights had always felt survivable back then. like proof that you could get through anything as long as you kept choosing each other at the end of it.
and then there was the last and final night.
it happened on a normal tuesday night that had felt completely unsuspecting when you both woke up that morning. except jake had already been in his own head silently, falling back into that old, familiar pattern of doubting himself, the future, and every uncertain thing that stood in between the two of you.
it happened in his room this time, the plant you both had jokingly named after jay still half-dead and the string lights you forced him to hang blinking above you. you had been sitting on the floor with your back against his bed, knees pulled to your chest, wearing one of his old hoodies because you always did. jake sat across from you, legs stretched out, trying to find the right words and failing.
"i just thinkâŠ" he had started, then stopped. then started again. "we've been doing this for a long time now. and i love you. i really fucking love you." his voice almost cracked, so he looked down at his hands. "but sometimes it feels like we're holding each other back from figuring out who we are without the other person in the middle of everything."
you had looked at him for a long time without saying anything. your eyes were shiny in that way that meant you were holding back tears, and jake felt something in his chest twist so violently.
"and that's not your fault. it's not. it's justâ" he exhaled shakily. "you're in everything. every plan i make, every place i go, every version of my future i imagine. and i know that sounds like a good thing."
"it's not?" you asked quietly, like you were scared for the answer.
"i don't know," he whispered. "i don't know if it is when i can't tell if i'm choosing things because i want them or because they keep me close to you."
he remembers the way your eyes filled when you looked at him then. "are youâŠunhappy with me?"
jake looked up fast. "no."
he had reached for your hand then, selfishly, stupidly threading his fingers through yours like he could still be the person who comforted you while simultaneously becoming the person to ever hurt you the most.
"no," he repeats immediately, shaking his head. "i justâi don't want to lose you. that's the last thing i want. but i also don't want to wake up in five years and realize i never figured out who i was because loving you was the easiest thing to do instead."
you had then nodded slowly. a tear slipped down your cheek and you wiped it away. then another and another, until wiping them away became useless.
"okay," you finally whispered, nodding again because you had loved him enough to let him go if that's what he thought he needed.
it wasn't what jake needed, he would realize many months down the road. not at all. but at the time, terrified and twenty-something and stupid enough to mistake pain and insecurities for maturity, it was what he had convinced himself was best for both of you. the right choice, the one that would hurt less in the long run.
it was selfish, is what he would also realize. because he didn't save either of you from pain at all, it would turn out. he only made sure he was the one holding the knife, so that maybe breaking your heart first felt safer than waiting around for you to break his.
you had stayed on the floor for a long time after that, neither of you quite ready to stand up and make it real. eventually jake shifted to sit next to you, your head instinctively falling to rest against his shoulder, eyes closed, breathing the same shared air one last time.
"i love you," you had said, so, so quietly in between your tears that he almost missed it.
he closed his eyes too. "i know. i love you too."
when you finally left, the door had clicked shut with a sound that felt a little too gentle for how much everything had just changed. jake sat on the floor for maybe another hour, staring at the half-dead plant and the single burnt out bulb on the string lights and the empty space where you had been, and told himself over and over again that this was the right thing. that love sometimes meant letting go. that he would be fine.
he was still telling himself that.
jake was still telling himself that he was fine because he had to be fine. the group made it pretty much impossible to disappear cleanly from your life. that was the thing about sharing the same three people who had been in the same orbit for years. every late night takeout run, every casual 'you coming?' text in the group chat kept pulling you both back into the same room. he convinced himself that two people who had once been everything to each other could still be friends, real friends too, not just the polite kind of acquaintances who avoided eye contact. that it was possible to love someone and let them go and still sit across from them in the living room during game night without the world ending.
jake had gotten good at it, mostly. at first it was awkward because, well, of course it would be. it was the kind of stiff, overly polite dance where you both speak a little too carefully and laughed a little too loudly and made sure to never sit a little too closely. the first group hangout after the break up felt like walking through a minefield, honestly. every shared glance, every accidental brush of hands when passing snacks, every time someone said something that used to be an inside joke between just the two of you. he remembered how you smiled at him that night like it hurt to do it, and how he had smiled back the same way.
but time did its thing, the way it always does. slowly, painfully, things started to settle into something that almost felt normal. he could sit across from you at jay's place now and steal fries off heeseung's plate and not stare too long when you tuck your hair behind your ear the way you always do when you were overthinking. he could text updates in the groupchat without his thumb hovering over your name first, without typing and deleting three different versions of a message that used to be just for you.
there were even the small moments where it started to feel almost normal again. like the one particular night sunghoon had made a dry comment about 'exes who still share the same three friends and see each other every day are the strongest soldiers.' the whole table burst into laughter, even jake. you had laughed too, bright and genuine, and for a second your eyes had met across the table and something soft and knowing had passed between you. and jake didn't really know if it was pain or longing or both. maybe it was recognition, like both of you understood exactly how ridiculous and impossible this arrangement was, and yet here you both were.
because this version, this careful friendship, the polite distance, the shared laughs that didn't really quite reach as deep as they used toâwas better than nothing. better than losing you completely. better than waking up one day and realizing the friendship that was the foundation of everything you two had ever built had been completely destroyed all because jake woke up one morning and made a rash, terrified decision he still wasn't sure he believed in.
so he showed up. he smiled at the right times. he stole fries and sent his updates and laughed at sunghoon's jokes and pretended the ache in his chest was just old habit. and most days it was fine.
but fine was a fragile thing. a fragile, sheer layer that cracked in the quiet moments. in the way he caught the faint trace of your perfume on a hoodie he swore he'd wash after the breakup, or when his phone lit up with a notification with your name and his heart did that hopeful little stutter thing before he realized it was you texting the groupchat, not just him. fine was what he wore like armor, but underneath it the truth sat heavy and patient, the kind that lived in the small details of the past. like how he still knew exactly how you liked your eggs cooked, the way his hands remember the shape of your waist even when they had no right to anymore, the way he still hears the way 'jaeyun' would slip from your mouth, the only person in the world allowed to use that version of his name like it was something precious.
jake told himself he was fine. he still believes it. well, most nights he believes it.
tonight was not most nights.
the party is loud in the way parties stop being fun after twenty two and start being endurance testsâbass vibrating too hard through the floorboards, red cups everywhere, that specific smell of cheap vodka and someone's cologne that was trying too hard. jake doesn't even fully remember how you all ended up here, it was something along the lines of all five of you lazily sprawled across jay's living room with a movie no one was watching playing in the background until jay mentioned something about knowing a guy who knows a guy who was throwing a house warming party even though he moved in over six months ago and now here we are.
jake had been doing alright the first hour, he'd taken two shots with sunghoon and heeseung just to feel something, let jay rope him into some dumb drinking game that mostly involved shouting and losing, and nodded easily when you told the group you were going to go say hi to some people you recognized. he didn't think about it too much, which was a good habit he found himself trying to get better at more recentlyânot overthinking every little thing you did, not letting his eyes follow you across rooms like they still had the right to.
but then everything and anything he learned about good habits was thrown right out the window the second he looks over and searches for you, solely only because he's being a good friend, he tells himself. just making sure you were okay, just checking, nothing more. the lie sits easy on his tongue even as his eyes scan across the crowded room, past the clusters of people and the haze of spilled drinks and cigarette smoke drifting in from the balcony. he finds you near the kitchen island, leaning against the counter in that comfortable, familiar way, talking to yang jungwon.
now, yang jungwon was the kind of guy who just kind of existed to jake, a friend, but the kind that never really orbited in his life. he was younger, a little removed from the group, the kind of person whose life didn't collide with jake's enough for a solid, everyday friendship to form. to jake, he was always kind of like background noise, someone he used to nod at across campus, someone he sees at parties and gives a quick 'hey' to before moving on and that's it. never someone significant enough to warrant a second thought in jake's head.
until jake looks over and finds you looking at jungwon. and then what occurs in jake's head isn't only a second thought, but a third, a fourth and maybe the beginning of a fifth. all of which are circling the same stupid, irrational thing: jake hates yang jungwon.
because now here he is, watching the way jungwon leans in a little closer when he speaks, the way your hand brushes against his arm when you make a point. the way you look relaxed in a way jake hasn't seen in a while, shoulders soft, smile easy, the kind of open that used to be reserved for early nights and late mornings when it was just the two of you and the rest of the world felt far away.
and the worst part is that jake couldn't even be mad at jungwon. jungwon, who was all bright smiles and sweet and a little shy and looked at you like he was trying not to look too hard. jungwon, the kind of person who probably remembered birthdays without being reminded and asked follow up questions about people's days. jungwon, the kind of person who probably returned rogue shopping carts in the grocery store's parking lot. jungwon, who didn't know that the last time you laughed like that was because jake said something stupid on purpose just to watch your eyes crinkle at the corners in that way that always made his chest feel too full.
that's the funny thing about perspective. because here's the thing. jake had been looking at the breakup entirely from one side of it, his side. the side where he lost you. which, objectively speaking, was terrible enough on its own. but still, loss is a strangely selfish thing. because when someone loses something, they almost center themselves around the surrounding artifacts of what is no longer theirs. for jake, it was the calls he didn't get anymore, or the newly cold and empty space beside him in bed. or like how he still pauses in grocery aisles in front of snacks he didn't even like because buying them for you became so automatic that not buying them felt stranger. he spent so long mourning the absence of you that he never really stopped to consider what came after.
because yes, you're now his ex-girlfriend. yes, the relationship was over. yes, he had been the one to end it. all of those were true. but there was another truth too, the one that he unfortunately believes in more than the formerâthat the two of you had loved each other for three and a half years. and that doesn't just disappear. there were entire pieces of one another that would always belong to that relationship, memories nobody else would understand, inside jokes nobody else would find funny. versions of yourselves that only existed because the other person had been there to witness them. it was something sacred, in a way. sacred and special and it belonged to you and him and him and you and some small, selfish part of jake maybe took comfort in that. because even after everything, it still felt like yours and his. like nobody else could ever touch it, understand it, or even come near to it.
but then jake looks across the room and sees you laughing and suddenly, a realization hits him hard enough to make his stomach drop. that you weren't just something he lost. you were someone who would keep going, someone who would keep living. someone who would keep collecting new memories and new experiences and new people. and someone who would eventually fall in love again and be loved.
the thought sat heavy in his chest like a bruise that he couldn't stop pressing. jake was all at once suddenly and painfully aware that not only did he take you out of his future, but he had given you back to the rest of the world. that the version of you he still carried in his head wouldn't just be his anymore. that one day it would belong to someone else, someone who would look at you for five minutes and immediately understand why jake had loved you for three and a half years. someone like jungwon, who was sweet and safe and looking at you like he already knew exactly how lucky that would make him.
jake takes a long sip from his drink. then another. then another. as if enough of whatever concoction this is in his cup might somehow make him stop thinking. and obviously, because we all know how this goes, it doesn't. if anything, it makes the spiral worse, because now he's really watching. and once jake starts watching you, he's kind of screwed.
he watches the way you're smiling, real and unguarded, the way you lightly shove jungwon's shoulder after something he says, the way he grins, the way you grin back. and suddenly jake is very aware that he hates this. which is ridiculous because, really, nothing is happening. because jungwon is jungwon. because you're allowed to talk to whoever you want. because jake is twenty-three years old, not twelve. because he broke up with you. because he broke up with you. because heâ
the thought doesn't get to finish itself. jake is already moving. already halfway across the room before his brain catches up. because apparently all that maturity he spent the last eight months building could be taken out behind a shed and shot the second he saw you smiling at somebody else.
and before he knows it, before he could let himself think about what he's doing for even a second, he's right there against you, his arm sliding around your waist before either of you could react, fingers spreading possessive and familiar over the curve of your hip like they had every right to be there. the warmth of your body against his side hits him like a memory he didn't realize he wasn't ready for. and for the first time in eight months, for one stupid, selfish second, jake felt like he was home again.
"there you are," he says, low enough that only you could hear the small crack in his voice. he then presses a quick, deliberate kiss to your temple, the kind of small, possessive thing that used to make you roll your eyes and smile at the same time. the kind of thing that he's done a thousand times before that used to mean absolutely nothing but now means entirely too much.
everything in your body immediately goes still and jake feels it. he feels the way you freeze beneath his arm, the sharp inhale you try to hide. he feels jungwon's eyes snap to him. then yours. but jake's committed now. or perhaps more accurately, he's already ruined his own life.
"been looking everywhere for you."
there's a horrifying two seconds of silence where nobody says anything.
jungwon then blinks, his eyes flicking between the two of you with that polite confusion that says he's realizing in real time that he's stepping into something he didn't really have the full context for.
"ohâshit, sorry, i didn't know you guys got backâ"
"yeah, yeah we did," jake cut in smoothly, smiling like he had everything totally under control and didn't just lie right through his teeth with ease. your head whips towards him. jake pointedly does not look at you. instead, his thumb strokes once, slow and instinctive against your hip under the hem of your top before he could stop it. "right, baby?"
you don't answer right away. the music pulses around you, the lights catch your eyes, and for a second jake recognizes that look and that's when he realizes he's absolutely done for, that he pretty much dug his own grave and is actively getting in it.
jungwon then backs up slightly, mumbling something polite about catching up later before he finally turns and disappears into the crowd. the second he's out of sight, you spin in jake's hold, shoving his chest with both hands, and the look on your face is the one he had been waiting for and dreading in equal measure.
"what the fuck, jake?"
jake blinks at you slowly, like his brain was still catching up to what his body had done. like he's only just realizing that he crossed an invisible line that he laid down himself and then proceeded to sprint fifty feet past it.
"i thought we were good," you say, your voice tight as you look up at him, eyes wide and filled with the familiar mix of frustration and hurt that he knows all too well.
jake's jaw flexes, like he was trying hard to hold back every single, selfish, ugly emotion he'd been suffering with ever since you walked out of those apartment doors eight months ago and took half of him with you. his hold tightens too, his fingers pressing into your side before he answers, exhaling through his nose.
"we are good." the words come out too fast, too defensive. he heard it and hated it.
you let out a short, disbelieving laugh, "right. yeah. because that was totally normal."
he hesitates for a moment, the small distance forcing his eyes to flick down to your mouth for half a second before he forced them back up.
"c'mon, i meanâŠyouâ" the words stopped. for a second he just stands there, just looking at you, accepting that this is the closest he's been to you ever since eight months ago and this could very well be the last time he ever will be. just looking at you and the way your lips press together like you were holding back something much bigger than anger. and then at the very, very obvious fact that even now, even when upset at him, you still haven't stepped back. neither of you have. eight months of carefully curated distance and here you were again, letting him hold you like this in the middle of a crowded room.
"jungwon," he says finally, quieter. "really?"
"and what's wrong with jungwon," you ask, voice deceptively calm, your mouth quirked in that way where jake can't tell if you're annoyed or amused, or both.
his thumb moves without permission, a quick stroke against your hip, restless and desperate. "he's a kid."
"he's like a year younger than me," you shoot back, tilting your head, the movement bringing your faces a fraction even closer.
jake's jaw tightens. "he's still in school."
you stare at him for a long second, something dangerous and challenging sparkling behind your eyes. then the corner of your mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but close enough to make his stomach flip.
"i'm gonna pretend you didn't just say that," you say, voice laced with that teasing edge that always used to get under his skin in the best way. "since when did you become such a possessive old man, jaeyun?"
jake closes his eyes at the sound of his name rolling off your tongue, trying his hardest to pretend it didn't hit him the way it always did whenever you called him that. he sighs, the sound quiet and exhausted, in that defeated kind of way that tells you this isn't coming from completely out of no where.
"c'mon, y/n," his voice is softer now, almost pleading. "i know you."
"right," you scoff, but your stance falters slightly. "so you know what's best for me, right? for the both of us?"
and that lands somewhere. somewhere deep and hard and admittedly more vulnerably raw than he wishes it had. his fingers tighten slightly around you, his breath hitching for a moment before he catches himself.
"c'mon..don't be like that," he murmurs, eyes searching yours like he was looking for an exit he already knew didn't exist. his hand slides a little higher against you, his palm now flat against the warm skin of your lower back. "you know i'm not trying toâ"
"i'm not being anything," you cut in, voice quieter now but still edged with that defensive frustration, "you're the one who decided to make it weird. you're the one who came over here andâ" your voice breaks off with a shaky laugh. you shake your head then, eyes now shining. "you know what, this is stupid. whatever."
a beat of silence stretches again between you, jake still unmoving, holding you right there against him. your bodies were nearly flush now in the cramped room, your knee slotted between his thighs, every point of contact painfully impossible to ignore.
then, soft and almost reluctant, you whisper, "let go of me, yun."
he swallows hard, voice low and defeated when he finally answers, the words slipping out before he could stop them.
"i kinda really don't want to."
the confession hangs there in the small space between your bodies, the truth heavy and honest in a way that solved absolutely nothing and made everything worse. you let out another small scoff, but despite yourself you still don't pull away. you don't push him. you just stay right there, letting him hold you, neither of you making any real effort to create distance. then, your eyes meet his in the dim party light, dark and shining and full of the same messy, desperate thing he was feeling. you break the silence first.
"how drunk are you?" you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
"not at all."
you pause, studying him. your gaze traces his face like you were memorizing it, like you were actively aware you were making a mistake but couldn't bring yourself to stop. then, slowly, hesitantly, one of your hands slid up from his shirt, fingers trailing along his collarbone before curving around the back of his neck, finding the ends of his hair automatically, mindlessly playing with the strands in that familiar way that always used to make his breath catch.
your eyes then meet his again and something flashed between you, something tired and hurt and full of everything you weren't supposed to feel anymore.
"sober enough to drive me home?" you ask after a moment.
"yes ma'am."
and for another agonizingly long second you just watch him again, eyes searching like you were waiting for one of you to be smart enough to stop this. to choose self-preservation over whatever this still was between you.
"liar."
jake's breath hitches. a small, low chuckle escapes him.
"would i lie to you?"
and what happens next is, what jake would later say, probably not his brightest idea.
the backseat of jake's car is cramped and all too familiar.
the second the door shut behind you both, it was as if the last thread of restraint never even existed. jake barely has any time to lock the doors before you're on him, or maybe it was him on you. it's messy from the start, your hands fisting in his shirt, yanking him closer as his mouth crashes into yours like he'd been starving for it, which, yes. eight months is a long time, so he won't deny that part. the kiss is all teeth and heat and months of pent up frustration. he tastes like a mix of beer and something that was just him, something that makes you make a small, broken sound against his mouth that goes straight to his head.
jake's hands go everywhere at once, one sliding up the back of your shirt to press flat against the warm skin of your back, the other gripping your thigh as he pulls you into his lap. the movement is clumsy in the tight space, your knee knocks against the seat, his elbow hits the window, the car rocks slightly with the shift of weight, but neither of you care. you pull back just enough to breathe, lips swollen, eyes wide.
"we're not getting back together," you mutter, voice already rough and gasping.
jake's mouth stays on your jaw, going lower and lower, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down the side of your neck. "i didn't say we were," he mumbles against your skin, teeth grazing slightly before soothing it with his tongue. his hands slip higher under your shirt, palms dragging up and down your sides like he needed to relearn every inch.
you tilt your head back, giving him better access even as your fingers tighten in his hair. "you're such an asshole," you breathe, the scoff cracking in your throat as a moan slips out anyways. "getting all jealous over jungwon like you have any right toâ"
that's when jake makes a low, rough sound in the back of his throat and tugs you harder against him, rolling his hips up so you can feel exactly how much he didn't care about being called an asshole right now. "don't say his name while i'm trying to kiss you," he mutters, voice muffled against your collarbone.
you let out a short, breathless laugh and tug his head back by the hair so you can look at him, your eyes dark, lips parted. "you're the one who started it," the words low, your mouth barely touching his. "coming over there like some possessive ex."
"i am a possessive ex," he cuts in, voice wrecked before leaning in and kissing you again, deeper this time, tongue sliding against yours like he was trying to shut you up and pull you closer at the same time. one of his hands slips between your bodies, fingers toying with the button of your jeans without actually undoing it quite yet. "and you're still letting me touch you like this, so what does that make you?"
you bite his bottom lip in retaliation, hard enough to make him groan, head falling back against the seat as you drag your mouth down his neck. "someone who's definitely not getting back together with you," you whisper back against his mouth, even as your hips roll down against the hard line of him through his pants. his breath hitches sharply at the sensation, his hand sliding fully into your back pocket now, gripping you harder against him, guiding you into a rhythm that was hungry and messy and perfect.
"good," he pants between kisses, voice lower and desperate. "because i'm not asking you to."
but even as the words left his mouth, you could feel the lie in them just from the way he kisses you after that. like he's trying to pour everything he can't bring himself to say into the press of his mouth. like he was contradicting every careful denial he just made. his hands held you like he was afraid you'd disappear if he let go for even a second, his hips rolling up to meet yours in that slow, needy rhythm that said everything he refused to.
you both knew it.
you pull back again, breathing heavier, lips shiny, "this is so stupid."
jake doesn't respond yet, instead he tilts his head and mouths at your neck, slow and deliberate, lips dragging along your skin until he finds that spot he remembers just below your ear. he starts gently at first, then sucks even harder, pulling a soft sound from your throat as he leaves a mark you're definitely going to hate him for tomorrowâamongst many, many other things. when he finally pulls back, he tilts his head back up to look at you, his eyes half-lidded, dazed and dark, pupils grown wide with something that looked a lot like surrender. no more careful distance, no more bite. just the pure, raw, unguarded want.
"yeah," he agrees, voice hoarse. "so stop me."
and well, you don't. because again, loss is a funny, selfish little thing. it makes you greedy, it makes you reach for what you know will hurt you later, just because the ache of not having it right now felt worse.
so you lean back in and kiss him again, slower this time, deeper like you were both finally admitting that the last eight months had been one long, exhausting lie you were both too tired to keep telling. you just pull him in even closer, and jake responds instantly, arms wrapping around you tighter, like he could somehow press the two of you back together if he held on hard enough, until there's no more fight between you. no more denial, no more pretending you could keep ignoring what still lived in the space between your bodies. just two people giving in.
you don't stop him when his hand drifts from your neck down to the front of your jeans, fingers toying with the button again until it finally pops open. you don't stop him when he tugs the fabric down your hips, lifting your leg to help him slide it off completely. and he definitely doesn't stop you when your own hands start working on his belt, the metal clinking harshly with the rush.
it's all too messy, too clumsy. it's eight months of missing each other crashing into the present all at once. and when it finally tips over, when you fully give in and give him all of you, it's fast and intense and full of everything that was left unshared between you two. his hands go everywhere, gripping, guiding, almost too rough in the way as if he was terrified this would be the last time. yours were in his hair, tugging, anchoring, like you needed the reminder that he was real. eventually, the car grows hotter, the windows fogging over completely, the only sounds your shaky breaths, the creak of leather, the soft involuntary noises that jake doesn't even try to hold back anymore.
and when it's over, when the tension finally breaks and leaves you both trembling and shaking hard, jake doesn't find it in him to pull away. he just stays there, holding your body on his, arms wrapped around you like he can't bear the thought of putting space between you yet. his thumb strokes slow, soothing circles against your skin, like his body is still trying to comfort you even now.
he closes his eyes and lets out a shaky breath against your neck, his hands now tremble slightly where they rest on you. and jake knows he should let go, knows that this is the part where he's supposed to pull away, fix his clothes, and pretend this didn't just happen. but his body is much slower than his brain, and for a few seconds he let himself stay thereâlet himself feel the weight of you against him, the way your forehead presses against his shoulder like it used to on sunday mornings when neither of you had anywhere to be. the way you'd wake up tangled in his sheets, steal his hoodie before he could even open his eyes, kiss his face stupid until he finally woke up. the way you used to fix his hair with your fingers after sex, the same way you did just now without thinking. some habits never learn how to die.
eventually, you shift with a quiet wince, and jake's hands move on instinct, steadying you at the waist as you lift yourself off him, the loss of contact hitting him harder than expected. once you move to the seat next to his, he reaches over the front seat with one arm, fumbling blindly until the glove compartment clicks open, pulling out the small pack of wipes he'd kept in there for so long now and that you two were all too familiar with. he doesn't even remember when he'd last replaced them. maybe he never took them out in the first place.
he tears one open without looking at you and hands it over. you take it without a word. he then grabs another for himself, wiping himself in quick, efficient movements before tossing it into the small trash bag he keeps hooked on the back of the passenger seat.
then, without thinking too hard about it, he reaches for the hem of your shirt that had ridden up and tugs it back down gently, smoothing it over your hips like it was the most natural thing in the world. you don't say anything about it. instead, your hands move on autopilot tooâfixing the collar of his shirt where you pulled at it just a few minutes ago, brushing a piece of his hair back into place like muscle memory. it was too comfortable, familiar. the kind of quiet and ordinary tenderness that only existed between two people who had known each other too long and too deeply to pretend things were simple.
"you still keep the wipes in your car," you finally say quietly, breaking the silence.
jake lets out a small, breathy laugh through his nose, the kind that sounds more tired than amused. "yeah. guess i never got around to taking them out."
you didn't say anything to that, but your eyes soften for a moment, just long enough for him to catch it before you look away. he wonders if you're remembering the same things he is. like how he used to keep your favorite snacks in the same glove compartment. or how you used to leave hair ties and lip balm in here like this car was yours. the way he still hasn't cleaned it out completely even after the breakup, like some pathetic part deep within him had been waiting for nights like this.
you then reach over and gently fix another piece of his hair sticking up in the back, your touch soft, thoughtless. it makes something in the chest pull tight.
"still a mess," you murmur.
jake's mouth twitches. "you caused it."
you don't deny it. instead, you give him a small look before letting out a quiet sigh as you lean back against the seat, pulling your jeans back up in the cramped space. jake starts to help without saying anything, tugging the waistband up over your hips when your hands fumble, his fingers brushing against your stomach in the process. he tries not to think about how many times he's done this before. how many nights that ended with him helping you get dressed in this very same backseat, both of you laughing quietly in bliss like the rest of the world didn't exist.
this time, there was no laughing, just the quiet sound of zippers and fabric rustling and the heavier thing sitting between you that neither of you seemed ready to address. you were the first to speak again, voice even softer this time.
"this was a really bad idea."
jake leans his head back against the seat, staring up at the ceiling. his hand finds yours in the space between you without thinking, thumb brushing over your knuckles once before he catches himself.
"yeah," he lets out quietly. "i know."
and for a moment longer, neither of you move. jake lets himself sit in it, the weight of everything you both used to be and everything you weren't anymore. he thinks about the night he broke up with you, sitting on the floor with the plant on the window and the lights above. he thinks about how he'd been the one to say you both needed the space, and how you looked at him like you already knew this was going to hurt worse than either of you could admit.
he thinks about all the nights since then that he spent telling himself he was fine. he thinks about how he spent the last eight months convincing himself that breaking up with you was the mature choice. now jake is starting to think that was the worst part. because at the time, it did sound mature. it sounded selfless. it sounded like the kind of thing a person says when they are trying very hard to be very good.
i don't want to hold you back. i don't want us to lose ourselves in each other. i don't want to wake up one day and realize we stayed because leaving was too hard.
all very reasonable, mature sentences. all very responsible. but all absolutely devastating when translated into what jake really meant, which was:
i'm scared. i don't know who i am without you, and somehow i convinced myself that means loving you is the problem. and frankly, that sim jaeyun, intelligent in several areas but yet deeply stupid in one very specific department, had mistaken fear for wisdom.
and now here you are again, in his car, letting him fix your clothes like nothing changed, when, in fact, everything has.
"you're still gonna drive me home?" your voice cuts through the silence, the heaviness of what you both refuse to acknowledge sitting between you.
jake turns his head to look at you. your eyes meet in the dim light, and for a second he let himself really look at youâthe tiredness in your face, the slight redness around your eyes, the way your lips were still a little swollen. he wonders if you could see the same things in him.
"yeah," he says, simple and honest. "of course i am."
you nod once, like that was enough for now.
jake then reaches over across your body and unlocks your side of the door, pushing it open for you, and he follows on his side, patting his palms against his pants like he's trying to steady himself before getting back in. the two of you move in silence, you sliding into the passenger seat and instinctively adjusting it to the exact position you always used to, him sitting up straighter as he turns the key in the ignition. he swipes his hand across the inside of the windshield, clearing just enough of the fog so he can see the road.
he doesn't ask if you want to go back inside first. he doesn't ask if you want to talk about what just happened. he just puts the car in drive and pulls away from the curb, one hand loosely holding the steering wheel, the other resting on the center console between you two.
it's quiet for most of the ride. no sound other then the soft blast of air conditioning and jake's indicator blinking every now and then. but somewhere along the ride, somewhere between the third red light and the turn onto your street, your hand found its way back to his on the center console, neither of you saying anything about it. jake just turned his palm up and let your fingers slide between his, squeezing once, like his muscle memory refused to erase itself no matter how hard he tried.
he let out a small breath when he felt your touch, keeping his eyes on the road but his mind staying stuck on the same loop it always did when it came to you.
he didn't know if letting you go had been the right thing.
he didn't know if he'd ever stop missing this.
you stay silent sitting beside him with your head leaning against the seat, eyes half-lidded, thumb brushing slowly against his hand, watching the road like you were somewhere else entirely.
jake looks over at you briefly, and he remembers all the times he's driven you home like this. how many nights ended up with you in his passenger seat, your hand resting on his thigh while you hummed along to whatever song was playing. how you used to fall asleep sometimes on longer drives, and he would turn the music down and drive slower just so he wouldn't have to wake you up. how he used to hate dropping you off at your place because it meant the night was over. but at least back then, there was always a tomorrow, always a next time. always a version of his life where tomorrow always existed with you in it. until one day, it just simply didn't.
jake swallows hard, his grip tightening on the steering wheel.
when he finally pulls up in front of your building, he puts the car in park but doesn't turn the engine off right away. the low hum fills the space in the air, neither of you moving quite yet. you stare out the window for a second, then finally turn your head to look at him. your eyes were soft in a way that made jake's chest ache, that made him want to take back every word he ever said eight months ago and pretend that night never happened at all.
you look at him for a moment longer before your voice comes out low, almost careful.
"âŠdo you want some water or something?"
and it's such a simple question. so casual, so normal, like you were asking him to come inside after a usual night out, not after he'd just hooked up with you in the backseat of his car while you both ignored the fact you've been broken up for nearly a year now.
jake knew what you were really asking. he also knew that he should say no. that he should say goodnight, drive away, and go home. he should be the one to put the distance between you, because the both of you were clearly too weak to do it when you were this close, and because he had been the one to draw the line eight months ago in the first place.
but he doesn't. he turns the car off.
by the time you unlock the front door to your apartment, jake moves on instinct, his body remembering the motions like instinct. you mumble something about using the bathroom, disappearing down the hall while jake kicks off his shoes and wanders into the kitchen before he even consciously decides to. he reaches into the cabinet to the left of the sink and pulls out two glasses all without thinking. he almost doesn't even notice how your kitchen sink faucet is still leakingâthe exact same leak you used to complain about every week. the exact same leak he kept promising to fix, and the exact same leak he never actually fixed.
he turns the handle and waits exactly seven seconds to let the water run cold first, because he remembers your sink is slow like that and because he, unfortunately, also remembers you hate drinking room temperature water. the sound of the leaking faucet and the running water and the distant shuffle of you moving somewhere in the apartment feels too familiar and selfishly comforting in a way that makes his stomach twist. like maybe if he looked down at his phone, the date would say it was last year. that you were still together and he still belonged here.
by the time you return, jake's noticed too much around him. the same chipped mug you always used to make your objectively terrible morning coffee sitting by the sink. the same magnet on the fridge from that trip you took together last year. the same candle scent sitting on the counter. everything looked the same and yet somehow nothing was the same at all.
jake watches the way you lean against the counter next to him, the way you keep your eyes on the glass in your hands like it was safer than looking at him. he thinks about how many times he's stood in this exact spot while you made tea in the morning, or while you ranted about your day after work, or while you kissed him against the same counter because you couldn't wait until you made it to the bedroom.
you don't look at him when you finally break the silence. instead, your eyes stay fixed on the half-empty glass in your hands.
"it's late," you say quietly. a beat passes. "you probably shouldn't drive home right now."
and there it is, his out, his second chance. his opportunity to be the responsible one for once. because despite everything that's happened tonight, despite the alcohol and the tension and the backseat, there was still a chance to stop this before it became something neither of you could pretend wasn't happening. but of course, since we all know by now that jake doesn't know the difference between knowing something and then doing something about it, we all know what happens next.
"yeah," he says, his eyes trained on the leaking faucet for a second, watching the slow, steady familiar drip before they finally land back on you. "i probably shouldn't."
and then the rest of night kind of falls into place in the exact way that it really, really shouldn't, given your circumstances. jake just kind of finds his body moving on its own, the same way it always used to when the two of you headed to bed after a long night. he knew the path by heart by nowâthe way that one specific floorboard near your bedroom door creaks, the way the hallway feels narrower in the dark.
in your room, the small lamp on the nightstand is already on. jake remembers all too well the nights he would accidentally turn on the overhead light and how you'd immediately scold him because you had a thing against using the 'big light'. now, the warm glow just reminds him of the version of his life out there where he still belonged here, where walking into this room doesn't hurt as much as it does now. jake stands in the doorway for second, watching as you move toward your dresser and open the bottom drawer to pull out one of your sleep shirts. his eyes drift to the drawer beside it without meaning to, the one that used to be his.
he walks over quietly and opens it. a few of his old hoodies and shirt were still folded inside, exactly where he left them months ago and never bothered to ask for them back. one of them, the black one that you used to steal constantly, sits right on top, smelling more like your detergent than his own. he pulls it out without thinking too hard about what that meant.
you don't say anything when he changes into it, just turning your back slightly while you slip into your own shirt, like you were giving him space even though there was nothing left to hide between you.
when he turns around, you're already climbing into your side of the bed, not that it used to really matter anyways. by morning, you'd usually end up sprawled halfway across his side already. jakes stands there for second, heart pounding.
he knows this is stupid. he knows you both know it. but he walks around to his side of the bed anyways and slides under the covers like he's done a hundred times before. he settles onto his back for a moment, staring up at the ceiling before finally turning on his side to face you.
you're already facing him. and it just takes that one small look from you for him to move automatically. he reaches for you without thinking, and you meet him halfwayâyour leg sliding between his, your body pressing close like it needed this as much as he did. his arm wraps around your shoulder and his hand finds its way into your hair, the other one going around your waist and slipping just under the hem of your shirt. your face finds its way into the crook of his neck, and his chin rests on top of your head. everything about it feels so painfully normal that it hurt.
jake could feel your heartbeat against his chest, the way your breath is warm against the skin of his neck and the way it eventually evens out. but most of all, he could feel how perfectly you still fit against him, like the two of you had been put into this world as missing halves meant to find one another.
jake never really believed in soulmates before he met you. the entire concept always felt too neat, too convenient, like something people told themselves to make sense of why certain connections felt different. but one night, a night so similar to this one, where you were tucked into him and his hand was mindlessly going up and down your spine because it helped you sleep, a night that felt so far from now, he remembers something you had mumbled to him in the haze of being half asleep and in bliss.
"you know i'd choose you in every lifetime, right?"
and jake had gone still for a second, his fingers pausing between your shoulder blades. then he chuckled quietly, the sound low and fond and full of warmth.
"yeah?"
you then nodded lazily against his neck, a small, content sound slipping out of you. "mmhm."
and jake remembers exactly what he said next. every single time. he could still hear the way the words had left his mouth, so steady and so sure, like they were the easiest truth he'd ever spoken.
"good," he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "because i'm never letting you go."
the memory sits too heavy in his chest, even now. but the worst part wasn't that he had lied. it wasn't even that he had let you go. the worst part was that it took losing you for jake to finally understand that maybe he did believe in soulmates after all.
not because the idea of soulmates was romantic or comforting, but because losing you felt like losing something fundamental. something that felt like losing a piece of himself he didn't know how to function without until after the fact. it took letting you go to realize that so much of who he had become wasn't separate from you at all. a large part of the person he grown into had been quietly shaped by loving youâby the way you softened him, challenged him, and made space for parts of himself he didn't know how to hold on his own. he didn't just lose you. he lost a part of him that only existed because of you in the first place.
jake barely slept. which, to be fair, would be asking a lot from him when your literal body stayed curled against his all night in a way he hasn't let himself remember in eight long months.
he wakes up before you, still tangled in your sheets, your leg thrown over his like it had been eight months ago, and ten months ago, and a year ago, and every ordinary morning before everything became something different. your face still stays buried in his chest like you barely moved an inch in your sleep, and for a few minutes jake just lies there, staring at your ceiling, and let himself have it. let himself press his nose into your hair and breathe you in. let himself trace the slow, barely there patterns on your back with his fingers. let himself remember how some time ago in the past he got used to this, to waking up with your hair in his mouth and leg thrown over his hip and the way you somehow took up too much of the bed despite being smaller than him and feel like the luckiest guy alive.
then jake reluctantly yet carefully untangles himself from you, kisses the top of your head while you're still half-asleep, and slips out before either of you have to say anything real.
walking out of your apartment and driving to his own felt like he was doing something wrong, so when he steps through his front door, and three pairs of eyes immediately land on him, he feels even worse.
heeseung is sprawled across the couch with a bowl of cereal balanced on his stomach. sunghoon sits at the kitchen island scrolling through his phone, and jay, who very much does not live here yet acts like he does, stands at the stove flipping something in a pan.
the apartment goes quiet for half a second. then, heeseung grins, slow and knowing.
"ah," the word drags out. "there he is."
jake freezes in the doorway, one hand still on the doorknob. he's still wearing the same clothes he slept in, his hair's a mess, and he knew he probably smelled like your laundry detergent and something else he really didn't want to think about right now.
sunghoon doesn't even look up from his phone. "you were supposed to drive us home last night, asshole."
jay turns around with the spatula in hand, eyebrows raised. "yeah, what the hell, man? we had to uber. heeseung almost threw up in some guy's backseat."
jake rubs the back of his neck, trying to play it cool. "sorry," he mutters, kicking his shoes off by the door. "change of plans."
he then tries to walk past them to his room, but then heeseung suddenly sits up straighter, eyes narrowing at jake's figure.
"wait," he tilts his head, studying him. "you didn't come home last night."
jake keeps walking, eyes focused on his door and very much not on the other three pairs of eyes following him. "i stayed at the party longer."
"no you didn't," sunghoon says pointedly. "one, you hate parties, and two, we would've seen you."
jay's eyes dart slowly from jake to the guys then to the guys back to jake, still holding the spatula but not flipping anything anymore. then, as if everyone in the room put the pieces together with absolutely no other context needed, heeseung's face split into a wide, open gasp.
"oh my god," he says. "you slept with y/n, didn't you?"
jake freezes mid-step.
the apartment goes dead silent for two solid business seconds. then all three of them explode at once.
"i knew it!" heeseung shouts, pointing at him with his cereal spoon. "i fucking knew it the second you disappeared at the party last night."
sunghoon lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, "no way. you actually went home with her?"
and jay, still holding the spatula, just shakes his head slowly, but there's a small, knowing smile tugging at his mouth that somehow felt worse than heeseung's yelling. "dude."
jake turns around suddenly, face hot and burning and not at all helping his case. "okay, first of all, it could've literally been anyone elseâ"
"âokay well that's bullshit because you're, like, deeply so downbadly in love with y/nâ" heeseung interrupts before jake shoots a pointed look at him.
"âand second of all," jake adds quickly, holding his hands up in defense, "it's not a big deal, okay? i literally just slept over. that's it."
the three of them stare back at him. the clear, very obvious kind of stare that says they don't believe a single word coming out of his mouth. then, with one eyebrow raised and his voice dry, sunghoon asks, "so you didn't hook up with her?"
jake opens his mouth. then closes it. and the three seconds of silence that follows pretty much tells them all they need to know.
heeseung's grin grows. "oh my godâ"
"okay, fine," jake snaps, running a hand through his hair in frustration. "yes. we hooked up in the car. happy now?"
the apartment erupts again all at once. jay actually drops the spatula this time, heeseung lets outs a loud, delighted whoop and falls back against the couch, completely disregarding his cereal nearly spilling, and sunghoon just stares at jake with that specific look on his face that says he's watching a disaster happen in real time.
jake groans and drags a hand down his face. "you guys aren't supposed to know. and you definitely can't make it weird. please."
"make it weird?" heeseung repeats, sitting back up. "bro, you slept with your ex, who is, mind you, our friend, in your car after you broke up with her and then went home with her. it's already weird."
jay picks the spatula back up, but still watches jake carefully, "soâŠare you guys getting back together or what?"
jake's stomach twists. it twists violently and harshly and most of all, confusingly because he didn't know. he didn't have an answer. he didn't even know what he wanted the answer to be. the best way he could describe it is like standing in the middle of a road with no idea which direction he was supposed to go, or even worse, which direction he even wanted in the first place.
"i don't know," he admits quietly, dropping his hands helplessly. "neither of us tried to talk about it, i don'tâŠi just don't know."
there's a brief moment of silence shared for another moment. heeseung exchanges a look with sunghoon. jay turns the stove off completely and leans back against the counter, arms crossed.
"you know this is gonna blow up in your face, right?" sunghoon says, not unkindly. just in that honest way friends do when they're genuinely concerned and know both of the parties involved too well to ignore the inevitable outcome. "you can't just do that and expect it to not hurt both of you."
and jake knew that. he knew it last night when he came over to you talking to jungwon. he knew it when he followed you out of the party and into the backseat of his car. he knew it when he woke up in your bed this morning and he knew it now.
but unfortunately for him, the truth is a little harder to face when all jake can remember is how you looked last night when you were asleep in his arms and your hand stayed holding the front of his hoodie like you didn't want him to leave, or how you had given him that quiet, knowing look in the kitchen when you asked if he wanted to stay over, like you already knew he would say yes.
he kept replaying those moments. the softness in your voice, the way you didn't pull away when he reached for you. the way it felt so easy to fall back into something that you both knew was supposed to be over.
and the cruel thing about the universe, jake was actively learning, was that it rarely cared about what he needed. and he wasn't asking for much, really. just some time or space to sit with what happened last night and figure out why he was still carrying pieces of you with him when he had been the one to walk away. he just needed a moment to sort through the mess in his chestâthe guilt, the want, the quiet confusion of still reaching for someone he's supposed to have let go of, especially before having to see you again.
so yeah. he would've liked maybe at least a full business day, if anything. just one.
the universe did not give him a day.
and jake learns that the hard way later that night. because, instead, the universe gives him game night.
now, game night is one of those things that has always existed in the friend group, one of those little traditions that started so casually no one actually remembers who started it. it predates you and jake. predates the relationship. predates the breakup.
back then, game night looked a little different.
sometimes it was mario kart in heeseung's, sunghoon's, and jake's shared apartment with three controllers that worked and one that drifted aggressively to the left. sometimes it was monopoly, which eventually got permanently banned after jay accused sunghoon of cheating and refused to speak to him for forty seven minutes. sometimes it was card games, board games, drinking games, stupid phone games, or even just watching a movie because everyone was too tired to commit to anything that involved actual thinking.
but the point was never really the game. the point was the showing up, the collapsing onto the couch, the passing around the take-out boxes, the arguing over rules no body fully understood. the same five people ending up in the same room again and again because somewhere along the way, routine had started to feel like family. and for a while, game night had been one of jake's favorite things for reasons he never admitted, mostly because admitting them would mean admitting how much of it had always been about you.
game night was one of the first nights jake saw you differently. it was one of those nights that came and went and really meant absolutely nothing in the moment until suddenly jake was sitting there thinking about the way you laughed and then he realized that nothing was actually the beginning of everything.
it was before your first kiss, before the late-night calls, before the car rides. before your toothbrush lived by his sink and his hoodies found their way into that one specific drawer in your room on their own.
back then, you were just you. someone in the friend group, someone jay met in lecture one day and started bringing around to the lunch table. someone who started showing up to game night with snacks nobody asked for but everyone ate anyway. someone who got weirdly competitive over games you swore you didn't care about, which was funny because you absolutely did care and jake absolutely knew it.
and one night, somehow and somewhere in that stretch of time, it ended up being just you and jake on the couch. you were sitting on the opposite end with your knees pulled up under a blanket, picking through a bag of jolly ranchers and making a face every time you found a blue raspberry one, which apparently you had very strong feelings against.
"blue raspberry is too blue," you had said, looking at jake with a completely serious expression on your face.
jake remembered laughing because, at the time, he thought that was just a ridiculous thing to say. then he remembered watching you hand him every blue raspberry jolly rancher after that without even thinking about it.
and jake thinks he's pretty good at noticing people. he notices when jay gets quiet before admitting he was stressed. notices when heeseung pretended not to care about something he very obviously cared about. notices when sunghoon was hungry because he got meaner in a very specific, low effort way.
but you noticed things too. the smaller and hidden things, the things most people missed because they were too busy waiting for their turn to talk. you noticed that he always picked the blue controller if nobody else took it first. noticed that he drank the last sip of soda even when it went flat because he hated wasting things. noticed he laughed louder when he was tired, like he had to try a little harder to make up for his social battery giving up.
and then, you noticed that jake almost always only ate the blue raspberry jolly ranchers.
that night, sometime around two in the morning, when jay had already left and heeseung and sunghoon went into their rooms, you had looked over at him and said, "you're quieter than people think."
and jake had just blinked, because that was not the kind of sentence people usually say to him. people usually told him he was funny, charming, easy to talk to. occasionally annoying, depending on whether if jay just lost a game of mario kart to him.
"am i?" he asked, trying to sound casual about it.
you then shrugged, picking another blue raspberry jolly rancher out of the bag and sliding it across the couch to him. "yeah. not in a bad way. i feel like you just observe more than you talk sometimes."
"that's creepy."
"it's only creepy if you're bad at it."
"am i bad at it?"
you looked at him then, going quiet for a moment, with this small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.
"no," you said. "i think you're actually kind of good."
and jake, who had done a pretty decent job of being a pretty normal human being around you up until that point, suddenly forgot how. because at some point in the middle of that night, between the abandoned games, the jolly ranchers, and a conversation that somehow became about everything and nothing all at once, jake had the same, one persistent thought sitting in the back of his mind: he wanted to know you better.
and not just the version of you everyone knew. he wanted the small things you noticed that he didn't. the things you didn't think were interesting enough to tell people. your worst habit. your favorite childhood movie. the song you played whenever you were sad but didn't want to admit that you were sad. what you looked like first thing in the morning, which, at the time, was a wildly inappropriate and unearned thought considering he had strictly just been your friend for about a year by then.
tonight, however, game night looks like heeseung and sunghoon yelling at a basketball video game, jay sitting on the couch with half a takeout container balancing on his knee while offering extremely aggressive coaching no one asked for, and jake holding a controller he stopped meaningfully using about fifteen minutes ago.
"pass, pass, passâare you actually blind?" jay snaps, leaning forward on the couch.
"i know how to play," heeseung says, immediately running his player directly into sunghoon's.
sunghoon doesn't even blink, "do you?"
and jake, meanwhile, is kind of justâŠthere. physically present, yes, but mentally and most definitely emotionally, somewhere stuck between the events that took place in between his backseat and then waking up in your bed this morning. his thumbs move over the controller on autopilot, his character doing something clearly unhelpful and sunghoon swears under his breath.
"jake," sunghoon deadpans without looking away from the screen, "are you even playing or having some religious experience right now?"
jake gives him a look. "i'm playing."
"you're standing out of bounds."
jake looks at the screen. and he is, indeed, standing out of bounds.
"whatever," he mutters.
jay then gives him a sideways look, the kind of look that says i know exactly what your problem is and i am choosing not to say it out loud yet, which is somehow worse than if he had just said it. and then heeseung, because he's heeseung and therefore constitutionally incapable of letting anything breathe, glances over with a knowing look.
"you're doing it again," he drags the words out before looking back at the screen. "you're thinking about it."
jake's grip tightens around the controller. "i'm not."
"mm."
"don't do that."
"do what?"
"that."
heeseung's brow lifts. "i literally just said mm."
"you said it weird," jake says pointedly.
"well maybe you're hearing it weird because you're feeling guilty."
jake opens his mouth, already prepared to say something defensive, when the front door swings open.
"i swear to god," you announce, stepping inside with a plastic container of cookies tucked under your arm, "if someone ate the leftovers i left here last time, i'm fighting someoneâ"
you stop mid-sentence. because once you kick the door shut behind you, the whole room does that horrible, subtle thing rooms do when everyone knows something they're not supposed to and try very hard to act like they don't.
you stare back at the four pairs of eyes on you all at once, and not one of them is doing a particularly convincing job of looking normal. your gaze flicks across the room before finally landing on jake. you stare at him for another long second and then all at once, jake sees your expression shift in real timeâfrom confusion, to understanding, to something much, much sharper.
"are you serious right now?" you let out a disbelieving laugh but terrifying enough, with no humor in it. heeseung and sunghoon suddenly become very interested in the paused game on the tv and jay, meanwhile, looks down at his phone like the conversation about to take place is absolutely none of his business.
"you told them?" you ask, eyes still fixed on jake, brows furrowed. "i thought we weren't going to make this a thing."
jake winces. "i know, i know. i'm sorry. they were justâthey asked and it justâŠslipped out."
"slipped out," you repeated flatly, clearly unimpressed.
heeseung is the first to crack, letting out a small snort before immediately, and unsuccessfully, failing to cover it with a cough, "in his defense, he did try to lie at first. it was actually kind of impressive how bad he was at it."
"shut up," jake mutters, face burning now.
you drag a hand down your face, then fully step into the living room, looking between all of them. "okay, fine," you say finally, letting out a long sigh. "yes. jake and i hooked up last night."
the room goes painfully, awkwardly silent.
"that's it. end of story." you point towards the tv, then cross the room and drop into the empty spot beside jake like it was nothing. "and we're not going to be weird about it so unpause the game before i regret coming over."
and just like that, game night continues.
well, continues is a generous way to put it. it moreso limps forward with the very, very fragile determination of a group of people pretending to ignore what just happened. heeseung misses two open shots because he keeps glancing at you and jake sitting next to each other like he's afraid something might happen if he looks away for too long. sunghoon tells jake to lock in, even though he himself has clearly given up on focusing on the game. and jay keeps pretending he isn't very obviously tracking the situation out of the corner of his eye, because jay has always had the subtlety of a man pretending not to eavesdrop while standing directly outside a closed glass door.
meanwhile, jakeâŠjake is doing his best. which historically has not always meant good things. but it's not particularly easy when the one person you're actively trying to move on from is still right next to you and the gap between your thigh and theirs is getting increasingly smaller and smaller with each sudden and small movement.
at some point much later in the night, sometime between jay suggesting they switch games and sunghoon nearly falling asleep on the floor against the couch, you stand, heading for the kitchen, "gonna get some water."
jake lasts maybe twelve seconds. because then he sets his controller down and stands too.
"i'm gonnaâ" he starts before realizing there is not a single convincing end to that sentence.
all three of them look up at him.
jake points vaguely to the kitchen. "âŠwater."
 "right," jay says, already shaking his head as he goes back to flip through the game options.
"very important," heeseung adds with amusement in his tone and jake takes that as a sign to leave before anyone can make it worse.
you're standing near the fridge when he enters, holding your glass under the dispenser. you don't look at him right away.
"very subtle," you say.
jake stops a few feet behind you. "what?"
"that," you nod towards the living room. "that was literally, like, twelve seconds after i got up."
jake opens his mouth then closes it. then tries again. "i wanted water."
you finally turn around then, leaning back against the counter, glass in hand.
"you have never once voluntarily wanted water in your life, jake. you're chronically dehydrated."
and that is fair. annoying, but fair, given he can't exactly argue against the only person in the world, other than his mom, who has ever taken it upon themselves to remind him that he needed to drink more water on a daily basis.
"i'm notâ," jake starts, then stops. he takes a small breath before he continues.
"i justâŠ" he rubs a hand over the back of his neck and hesitates, glancing back toward the living room to make sure no one was paying attention. "i'm sorry. for leaving this morning without saying anything."
and you just go still. for a second, you just look at him, like you're actively trying to figure out what he wanted from this conversation. the fridge hums quietly beside you and from the living room, heeseung yells something at the tv, but it all sounds far away now. then you set your glass down and cross your arms over your chest.
"there's nothing to be sorry about, jake," you say, quietly but steady. "you don't owe me anything. it was a one time thing and we both knew that."
and there it is. clean, controlled, and merciful, maybe, given jake thinks he has plenty to be sorry about.
"right," jake says, and it comes out wrong, the kind of right where actually nothing feels right at all and too much is on his mind.
you sense it immediately. "jake."
"no, yeah. i know." he nods, looking down at the floor because looking at you right now felt too much like that night eight months ago. "one time thing."
you push off the counter and take a small step towards him, and jake tries his best to breathe normally with how much the distance closed in just that one step.
you stop in front of him. "i mean it," your voice is softer now. "i'm not mad."
"you looked mad."
"because you told them."
"technically, they guessed."
"yun."
"right. sorry."
the corner of your mouth twitches like you don't want to smile and hate that he almost made you. then your hand lifts, and it's slow enough that jake has the time to move away if he wants to, but of course because he's jake, he doesn't.
your fingers then wrap gently around his wrist, thumb brushing once over the inside of it in a small, absent motion that feels so painfully familiar he almost has to close his eyes.
"we're okay," you say, and your voice is now so gentle that it's almost too soft for the way you're trying to make this casual. "okay?"
jake looks down at your hand around his wrist. the way it's too casual, too warm, and how his pulse is probably hammering beneath your thumb, and he knows you can feel it because your gaze drops too. for another long second, neither of you say anything else. then, your thumb moves again, in that small, comforting stroke that breaks him just a little more. because you say things like we're okay and one time thing and then touch him like you never forgot how to comfort him when he needed it the most.
jake swallows. "yeah," he nods, even though he knows it's a lie. "okay."
you hold his gaze for another moment, then give his wrist one last gentle squeeze before letting go.
"good," you murmur, then jake watches you walk back into the living room and join the game like nothing had just happened.
by the time the night finally starts to wind down, jay is the first to leave, muttering something about having an early morning and heeseung disappears into his room shortly after, clearly already half asleep. sunghoon lingers just long enough to give jake one long, dry, and pointed look before saying goodnight to you and disappearing down the hall too.
"okay," you say mostly to yourself. "i'm gonna head out."
jake looks up too fast, which is embarrassing and he knows it so he tries to play it off by standing, but even that feels suspiciously urgent, so now he's just a guy standing in the middle of his living room for no reason.
"it's late," he suddenly blurts out with no logic or plan behind it. you pause with your keys already in your hand. then slowly, you look up at him and jake can tell immediately from your face you know exactly where this is going.
you lift a brow. "if you're about to tell me to stay over, i'm going to laugh in your face," you say with a small smile tugging at your lips. "we both know how that ended last time."
he doesn't argue right away. because, yes, last time was literally only twenty four hours ago and it ended up with him falling asleep holding you in your own bed, his entire dignity in shambles, and then waking up with the horrible realization that sometimes, some mistakes do not feel like mistakes while they're happening.
this is one of those times.
he just shoves his hands into the pocket of his hoodie and walks over slowly, stopping just a few feet away from you.
"i know," he says quietly. and your expression shifts just a little at the sound of it. "but just stay," he adds, and the please is already there in his expression before he says it. "please."
you give him a certain look after, and jake hates that he knows that look. hates that he can read it before you can even say anything. because it's the same look you always get when you know he's asking for something he shouldn't, and you know you probably shouldn't give it to him, and somehow both of you already know how this is going to end.
he exhales, dragging a hand through his hair like that might somehow make this sound less like begging. "you can take the couch," he says quickly. "nothing weird. i promise."
your mouth twitches. "you promising nothing weird is not as reassuring as you think it is."
"yeah, that's fair."
"you are, honestly, historically awful at nothing weird."
jake just blinks.
"like impressively bad."
"okay, are we done?"
"i don't know, i'm kind of enjoying myself," and now you're actually smiling and jake huffs out a small laugh, the sound slipping out tired and fond.
"i just don't want you driving this late," he says, voice dropping down lower as he looks at you. "that's all."
and technically, he isn't lying. he doesn't want you driving this late. he also doesn't want you walking out the door yet. both things can be true.
you look down at your keys, thumb brushing over the small metal keychain hanging from the ring. it's the one he bought you forever ago from some random gas station during a road trip because you said it was ugly in a way that made you want it. he hates that he remembers that and he hates that it's still there and he hates that he's wondering what that meant.
then you let out a quiet sigh, and drop your keys back into your bag and set your bag down on the table next to the door.
"fine."
the relief hits him embarrassingly fast. "yeah?"
"yeah," you say, walking back into the living room and giving the couch a small pat as you sit back down. "couch it is."
jake presses his lips together, trying and failing to force his face into something neutral as he stops near the hall, "i'll grab you something to change into."
and jake didn't really fully have a solid plan when he says it, he just says it because that's what you do when your ex is about to sleep on your couch and you don't want her falling asleep uncomfortably in jeans. because technically, yes, there's probably other clothes in the apartment. heeseung's and sunghoon's maybe, if jake suddenly developed a sense of humor strong enough for that. he has not. the thought alone of giving you someone else's shirt makes something ugly and childish twist in his stomach, which is exactly the kind of thing he will be taking to the grave.
so he settles on grabbing one of his own hoodies from the back of his closet, an oversized one that already hangs too big on him, which, by your logic, makes it perfect for you. he remembers you telling him that once, standing in front of his mirror with the sleeves covering half your hands like your word was his new law.
if it's too big on you, it's mine. if it fits you, it's also mine.
and jake didn't argue against that because it was you, so naturally, he automatically doesn't need any other excuse.
when he returns to the living room, hoodie in hand, you take it without a word, but your eyes linger on it half a second longer than necessary, and jakes knows you're thinking the same thing he is. because most of the time, in normal situations, clothes are just clothes. this one isn't.
you disappear down the hall and jake stands there for a second after the bathroom door clicks shut, staring at the empty space you just left behind like a person who has learned absolutely nothing from the last twenty-four hours. then he exhales, and turns toward his room.
jake does not sleep well. actually, he doesn't sleep at all, for that matter. he spends the first twenty minutes lying on his back, scrolling through his phone, then putting his phone down, staring at the ceiling, then going back on this phone. he's trying very, very hard to be normal about this. he turns onto his side. then his other side. then his back again. at some point, he flips his pillow over like the cooler side of it might do the trick. it does not.
he can hear the faint hum of the air conditioner, the occasional honk of a car outside, the neighbor's footsteps from upstairs. and he can especially hear the sounds coming from the living room. there's the soft rustle of the blanket, the tiny creak of the couch when you shift, the barely there noises of you trying to get comfortable somewhere you clearly do not belong.
and jake knows. he knows the couch is fine. objectively, it's a perfectly acceptable couch. people have slept on it before. sunghoon once took a four hour nap on it after claiming he was only resting his eyes, which was a lie because no one rests their eyes with a blanket pulled over their head and ends up snoring twenty minutes in.
so jake knows the couch is not the problem, but you. the problem is that jake knows exactly how you sleep. he knows you hate being cold but will kick the blanket off an hour into sleeping anyways. knows you always sleep better on your side. knows that if you're not comfortable, you'll pretend you are anyways because you hate making things inconvenient.
and suddenly, the thought of you lying out there on his couch, in his hoodie, trying to sleep like anything from this arrangement makes sense, feels so stupid he physically can't stand it.
the hallway is dark when he steps out of his room, the living room only lit by the small light glowing from your phone, held loosely in your hand as you're curled on your side, one arm tucked under your head.
your eyes lift when you see him.
"can't sleep?" you ask quietly.
jake leans one shoulder against the wall, hands already in the pockets of his sweat pants. "no."
you exhale through your nose, "me neither."
jake looks at you for a second, at the way his hoodie slips off one shoulder, at the bare skin of your legs folded beneath you, and something in his chest pulls a little tighter.
"this is dumb," he eventually says. "you're not sleeping out here."
"jakeâ"
"come here," he exhales, cutting you off. it wasn't demanding, it wasn't loud, just something sure and a little tired, like he's already given in to whatever this is. he rubs a hand over his face before looking back at you. "justâŠcome sleep in my room. the bed's bigger anyways."
your expression softens, and for a moment, jake sees the same quiet resignation in your eyes that he feels settling in his own chest. then you sigh, set your phone on the coffee table, and push yourself up from the couch. "okay."
jake doesn't say anything else, just turns and walks back down the hall into his room. you follow him a few seconds later, stopping in the doorway for a moment, one hand still on the handle like you were deciding whether to step inside.
it felt strangeâwalking into a room that used to feel like yours. the same plant sat on his windowsill, somehow still miraculously alive. the same string lights hang across the wall, though more bulbs have gone out since the last time you'd been here. his bed was unmade, sheets crinkled from where he'd been tossing and turning.
and then there was jake. sitting on the edge of his bed, looking warm and comfortable and hair messy and eyes sleepy and like everything you missed.
this time, when you look at him, there's something different. like seeing you walk in here and close the door behind you and stand there with his hoodie swallowing your figure shifted something in the air. jake's gaze stayed on you, heavier now, thicker and in a way that made it very, very clear that you both knew exactly why you were in here.
you walk over slowly until you're standing right in front of him, close enough that if you took one small step forward, you'd be in between his knees, close enough that if either of you leaned in even slightly, it would turn into something else entirely.
jake looks up at you. your hands move first, resting lightly on his shoulders, like you're still testing whether you're allowed to touch him. his hands answer before his brain does, moving up to settle on the back of your thighs beneath the hem of the hoodie, his palms large and warm against your skin.
your gaze drops to his hands before going back up to his face. "so much for not making it weird," you whisper quietly.
jake lets out a small breath that almost becomes a laugh. his thumbs start moving up and down on their own, and your breath hitches immediately. "you were out there sleeping in my clothes," he murmurs. "it was already weird."
your mouth twitches into a small smile, your fingers shifting against his shoulders, sliding slightly towards the back of his neck, and jake has to look down for a second and take a breath because there's only so many things a person can survive at once.
"plus," he adds, "you let me sleep in your bed last night. i'd be kind of a jerk to make you sleep on the couch."
he then spreads his knees slightly and tugs you just an inch closer, and you let him, stepping into the already small space between the two of you in between his legs. you look down at him, eyes soft but guarded.
"we said it was a one time thing," you murmur softly.
jake's thumbs kept moving in that slow, comforting motion, and you feel his grip tighten just slightly, like he was afraid you would step back.
"well," he says, voice low and a little rough, "technically we didn't break that yet."
jake knew what he was doing. he knew that you knew it too. that he was toeing the line, that he was giving in, and the dangerous part was that you weren't stopping him. you weren't stepping back. you were still standing there, letting him touch you, letting the space between you disappear like some unspoken part of you has been waiting for this as much as he has.
his eyes drag over you slowly, the way you look small in his hoodie, the way it fell just past the middle of your thighs. something flickered across his face, something raw and dark and a lot like he was trying very hard not to feel what he was feeling.
"this is still a bad idea," and you try to sound steady, but your voice cracks at the end.
"i know," jake answers, hands sliding a little higher up the back of your thighs. "i know it is."
he gently tugs you forward, slow, careful like he was giving you every chance to stop him, eyes watching your expression the entire time. your knees bump against the edge of the bed as he guides you closer, until you're standing right against him. then his hands move up higher and settle on your waist, and with one gentle pull, he brings you down into his lap.
you go willingly, a small sound escaping you as your knees settle on either side of his hips, your hands find his shoulders and grip them tighter, like you were trying to ground yourself. neither of you speak for a moment, the silence stretching and growing heavier with every slow second that passes between you.
jake's eyes drop to your mouth, then flick back up to meet yours, his voice barely above a whisper.
"tell me to stop."
you don't. instead, you lean in first.
the second your lips touch his, jake feels something inside him give way, like a silent, inevitable unraveling.
he knew he shouldn't be doing this, knew this was exactly what you both said you wouldn't do. but the moment your hand slides into his hair, he stops thinking altogether. he kisses you back like he was trying to be careful, trying to keep it soft, but the second you sigh against his mouth, the cautious thing inside him cracks open, and his hands are already sliding higher, pulling you closer like his body had been waiting for permission.
he missed the way you used to kiss him like this, like you still knew exactly how he liked it. he missed the way your body fit against his, the quiet and familiar weight of you in his lap, the way your fingers always found their way into his hair. and the longer it goes on, the less jake can pretend he's trying to be careful.
he suddenly deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding slowly against yours that makes you tug slightly at his hair. his hands slide down to grip the back of your thighs as he lifts you with ease, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively before he turns and lowers you onto the bed without breaking the kiss. you let out a small giggle against his lips at the sudden movement, and he smiles into the kiss before settling between your legs, the mattress dipping beneath your weight as he follows you down. his hips roll down against yours on instinct, and the friction pulls a small gasp from your breath.
jake pulls back just enough to look at you, both of you catching your breath. your eyes were dark, lips swollen, the hoodie bunched up around your waist. his hand moves again, sliding higher until his palm covered your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple in light, teasing strokes, making you arch into his touch with a soft, desperate sound that goes straight to his core. he breaks the kiss to press his forehead against yours.Â
"missed you," he admits, the words slipping out before he can stop them. "missed the way you sound when iâ" his thumb circles again, slower this time, and the way you shiver under his hand makes something hot and helpless twist in his stomach. "fuck. so sensitive still."
your hands slide down from his hair to his shoulders, gripping him like you needed something to hold on to. "more," you whisper against his lips, your hips rolling up to meet him in that needy way he always loved. his hand leaves your breast and slides down your stomach, fingers dipping just beneath the waistband of your underwear, pausing there, breathing hard, giving you one last chance to stop him.
you look down at where his hand sits, then back up at him, and your hand then comes up to cover his, gently pushing it lower. jake lets out a shaky exhale against your neck as his fingers slipped beneath the fabric, finding you already warm and wet. he groans quietly, forehead dropping to your shoulder.
"fuck, babyâŠ" the pet name slips out before he can catch it. his fingers move instantly but carefully, like he's savoring every reaction coming out of you. two fingers slide through your folds, gathering the wetness there before he slowly pushes them inside you, curling them upward in a slow, firm stroke that made your walls flutter around him. the wet sound of it is obscene in the quiet room, and jake groans at how easily you take him. "you're alreadyâshit. you feel so good."
you let out a small moan, hips shifting against his hand. one of your hands fisted in his shirt while the other stayed in his hair, tugging slightly every time his fingers found the right spot inside you again.
jake lifts his head to look at you again, eyes dark, pupils blown wide as he watches you, his fingers still moving inside you, curling on every pull back, thumb pressing circles on your clit at the same time.
"you're so fucking pretty like this," his voice comes out hoarse, his breathing getting heavier. he kisses you harder this time, swallowing the moan that escapes you as he worked his fingers faster, his own hips rocking against your thigh now, seeking friction. when he pulls back, his eyes stay on yours.
"wanna taste you," he says quietly. it wasn't a question, but there was something almost hesitant in his voice, like he was asking for permission to cross another line. you then nod, eyes half-lidded and dark and trusting, and that was all jake needed.
he moves down your body slowly, pressing open-mouthed kisses down your jaw then your throat then your stomach as he pushes the hoodie up higher. his hands slide under your thighs, gently spreading you open as he settles between your legs. then he looks up at you for a moment, his voice low and sincere, "tell me if you want me to stop, okay?"
you just nod, already breathless as you tug his head closer.Â
the first drag of his tongue over you is agonizingly slow, your back arching hard off the bed as a broken whimper tears from your throat before you can catch it. jake groans against you, the vibration shooting straight through your core like heâd been waiting for that sound.
"fuck," he breathed, voice muffled. "always taste so good."
your eyes roll back as he starts taking his time. long, unhurried licks that make your thighs start to tremble, gentle sucks that pull desperate little sounds from your throat. every so often he glances up, watching your face like he wanted to memorize every reaction. one of his hands stayed firm on your thigh, holding you open while the other slid up to rest over your stomach, grounding you there.
"you're being so quiet," he murmurs between his strokes that were getting quicker and quicker. "you used to be louder for me."
you gasp right as you feel his tongue dip right into you, "jaeyunâ"
"there we go," he whispers, almost to himself. he slides two fingers back inside you, curling in that same way that made your vision blur while his tongue circles your clit again. "say it again."
your voice cracks on his name, hips jerking, "jaeyunâfuckâ"
jake groans again, the sound going through you as he works you harder, fingers moving in tandem with his mouth. he pulls back just enough to look at you again, lips shiny.
"god, love it when you say it like that," he admits, eyes glassy. "like i'm still yours."
you look down at him, chest heaving, "you're not supposed toâfuckânot supposed to say shit like that."
"yeah," he breathes, eyes flicking up to meet yours. "i know."
jake doesn't stop though, still keeping his mouth on you, still sliding his fingers deep inside you until your legs were shaking and until you were getting louder. not that jake minded, if anything, it made him more determined, like every sound you made was something he wanted to earn.
when he finally pulls away, his mouth is wet and eyes wild as he goes back up and kisses you deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. one of his hands stays between your legs, still moving slowly inside you.
"need to feel you, yun," your voice strained now against his mouth. "please."
you're already reaching for the waistband of his sweats when he answers, "yeah. yeah, okay."
jake helps you shove his pants down just enough, then pauses, breathing uneven as he looks down at you. one hand comes up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing gently over your bottom lip. "look at me."
your eyes lift up to meet his and for a moment, jake forgets everything else. forgets the circumstances, forgets the careful distance he's supposed to be keeping. in that exact second, jake forgets that this isn't supposed to mean anything, that you weren't his anymore. none of it existed in the space between your bodies, all he can feel is the way you're looking at him, open, vulnerable, and so painfully familiar.
his eyes stay locked on yours as he lines himself up and pushes in slowly, inch by inch, until he was fully buried inside you. the stretch makes your mouth drop open slightly, and jake has to stop and stay there for a second, like he needed a moment to feel it.Â
"fuck," he groans, forehead dropping to yours, eyes squeezing shut like he was trying to keep it together. "you feel so good. so fucking good, baby."
jake starts thrusting deeper, slower at firstâlong, deliberate strokes that make you feel every inch of him, his hips rolling forward until the slick sound kept growing louder with every movement. one hand stays wrapped around your jaw while the other grips your thigh around his waist, pushing it higher and wider as he fucks into you with steady, heavy rolls of his hips.
"missed this," he murmurs between thrusts, the words low and honest. "missed the way you look at me when iâm inside you like this."
your hands then slide under his shirt, nails dragging lightly down his back as you meet his every thrust.
"yunâ" your voice cracks again, more breathless now. "harder. please."
he lets out another low groan like heâd been waiting for permission this entire time. he shifts his weight and snaps his hips harder on the next thrust, going a little faster, a little rougher. the new force pulls a sharp sound from you.Â
âyeah?â he pants, eyes locked on you. "like that?"
you nod quickly, eyes squeezing shut as your fingers dig harder into his back. âmore, yun, pleaseââÂ
that was all it took. he gives it to you, gripping your waist hard enough to leave marks, fucking into you properly now, hips driving into you with deep, forceful thrusts that make the bed creak loudly beneath you. the wet, filthy sound of skin meeting skin fills the room with every thrust, each snap of his hips sharper, rougher, like he was finally letting himself take what heâd been aching for all night. every thrust, every time he bottoms out, knocks another helpless whimper out of you, and jake drinks it in like it's his air. his hands tighten where they hold you, fingers pressing into your skin as he kept you exactly where he wanted you, fucking into you harder, faster, the rhythm turning relentless, like he was trying to fuck the memory of the last eight months out of both of you.
"you're so beautiful," he breathes out, the words coming out like muscle memory, his mouth curving into a small smile against yours. "especially when you're trying to stay quiet."
you let out a shaky laugh that turns into a moan right when he hits that spot inside you just right. you can feel the shift in him, the way his control starts to slip as his thrusts grow faster, rougher, the bed frame now hitting the wall in a steady rhythm. he shifts slightly, changing the angle, and you canât stop the sounds suddenly slipping out of your mouth.Â
"there it is," he pants against your month. "right there, baby. let me hear you."Â
you moan again, louder this time, and jake's rhythm stutters for a second.Â
"fuckâyeah, keep making those sounds," he murmurs. "not gonna last if you keep doing that."
you arch up into him even more, your back curving off the bed as you chase the new angle, the shift making him sink even deeper, the stretch and pressure pulling a choked moan from your throat. your hands slide up the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair as you pull him down into a desperate kiss, all tongue and heavy breaths, the low sound he makes against your mouth vibrating straight through you.Â
"hate how good you feel," you breathe against his mouth, the words coming out strained.Â
jake lets out a breathless laugh, retaliating by thrusting into you with more purpose. "yeah?" he mumbles, voice rough. "then why are you squeezing me so tight?"
one of his hands move to pin yours down next to your head, fingers threading with yours. "come on," he whispers, eyes never leaving yours. "wanna feel you come. let me feel it."
you were so close, jake could feel it in the way you clenched around him, in the sharp, stuttering rhythm of your breath against his neck, in how your thighs start to shake where they stayed locked around his waist. he feels your walls flutter again and his hand immediately slips between your bodies, thumb finding your clit again, rubbing faster, tighter circles as he kept the same deep, relentless angle.Â
"yunâ" your eyes squeeze shut and your free hand grabs onto his shoulder, your jaw falling open, the words stumbling out on their own. "i'mâkeep going, i'm gonnaâ"
"that's it," his voice muffled against the side of your neck. "let go, baby. i've got you."
your back arches hard as it hits you, a moan tearing from your throat as your orgasm crashes over you, your walls clamping down around him in tight, pulsing waves.Â
"fuckâfuckâyun," the words spill out of you in a rush, half a moan and a sob all a once as your free hand flies to his shoulder, nails digging in until jake could feel every tremor running through you. jake groans loudly at the feeling of you clenching around him, his rhythm now faltering in a way he can't recover from.
"shitâfuck, that's it," his voice wrecked as his hips keep thrusting you through your orgasm, chasing his own release now, hips stuttering as he loses the last of his control. "just like that." his forehead then drops back against yours, his eyes shut, short gasps spilling from his mouth. "fuckâfuck, babyâgonna comeâtell me it's okay, pleaseâ"
âdo it,â you manage to gasp, body still shaking underneath him as your legs pull him in even more. âpleaseâi want itââ
jake buries his face in your neck with a low, wrecked sound as he finally comes, hips jerking as you feel the hot spill of him deep inside you. his whole body tenses above you, the noises leaving him raw and desperate and just purely him.
"fuckâbabyâ" his voice is muffled against your neck. "oh my godâ" he keeps moving through it, his thrusts getting shallower and shallower through out both your highs, until he finally stilled, breathing hard against your skin.
for a long moment, neither of you move. jake stays buried inside you, chest heaving, one hand gently stroking slow and soothing lines down your thigh now while the other stays tangled with yours beside your head. his lips press soft, shaky kisses against your neck as he tries to catch his breath, and yours stay in his hair, lightly scratching his scalp the way you knew he liked.Â
eventually, jake lifts his head just enough to look at you, his eyes glassy, a little overwhelmed and a little dazed, like he still hasn't fully come back to himself yet. the sharp loss of contact draws involuntary sounds from the both of you as he shifts carefully onto his side, automatically reaching for you as he went. his arm slides under your neck as he gently pulls you into his chest, drawing you in until your body presses flush against his.
the room falls quiet except for the sound of your breathing slowly settling and the faint rustle of sheets as he adjusts his hold on you, tucking you closer into him. his fingers trace slow, absent patterns along your spine, his touch careful and tender. it all felt too easy, too natural, like slipping back into something that was never supposed to become a habit again.
"yunâŠ" you break the quiet first, your voice low against his chest. he hums softly in response, hand still moving along your back. you swallow, fingers curling slightly into the front of his hoodie. "i'm serious. this was the last time."
jake's hand pauses for a second against you, his movements faltering. then, he just nods, his arm tightening around your waist as he presses one more kiss to the top of you head, your breathing already evening out and your eyes fluttering closed.
"yeah," he whispers against your hair as his hand starts moving again, slower this time. "last time."
and so, obviously, it was not the last time.
the next time is only two days later. your car decided to break down in the parking lot of your work office, and you sent a panicked SOS text to the group chat. and itâs almost impressive how thoroughly the universe particularly set you up that night, because heeseungâs phone is on do not disturb, jay stuck in a late meeting, and sunghoon, based on absolutely no evidence whatsoever but strong historical precedent, is probably âresting his eyesâ on the couch.Â
which, by process of elimination, leaves jake.
so the next thing jake knows, heâs pulling into a mostly empty parking lot and youâre getting into his car and heâs looking at you with a small smile and youâre looking back at him like you were hoping itâd be him.Â
you complained about your car, jake complained about how you ignored the check engine light for three weeks. you tell him not to victim blame you in your time of need. he says your car literally gave you a warning in bright orange. you say cars are depreciating assets and capitalist by design. he says that doesnât mean theyâre wrong.Â
you laugh and then he laughs and just like that, the two of you fall back into that gray area where the line blurs a little more every time you cross it until jake isnât sure which side heâs supposed to be standing on. what he is sure about is that when he gets to your building, he parks and then looks at you and you look at him and then he finds himself turning his car off and waking up in your bed the next morning.Â
the time after that happens after dinner with everyone. itâs you sitting across from him at the restaurant, laughing at something jay says, your chin resting in your hand, the sleeve of your sweater slipping over your fingers. itâs jake trying very hard not to look at you too much and failing horribly. itâs your foot bumping his once beneath the table and both of you pretending it was accidental. then twice. then not accidental at all. and then itâs jake later finding himself underneath you in the backseat of his car with his mouth on your neck and your hands under his shirt.Â
then itâs a week before it happens again, which is pretty impressive given you two see each other twice in between and manage not to cave. one of those times is coffee with heeseung and sunghoon where jake mentally curses heeseung for taking the seat next to you before jake gets there. the second time is game night again but this time with too much beer involved, and you all pass out in the living room before midnight.
the next evening, however, you show up at their door with a large tote bag in your arms and two containers of hangover soup balancing on top. jake answers the door, and you're just standing there, hair a little messy, face bare, and looking at him in that very specific way that doesn't even make jake think twice before he mentions that neither heeseung or sunghoon were home at the moment. and so by now, we all probably know how this ends, and it looks a lot like you on the kitchen counter, tote bag abandoned on the floor, soup containers left unopened near the sink, and jake standing between your legs, mouth hot against your neck like he was making up for every second of the past week he spent pretending he didn't want this.
sometimes the excuse was simple. sometimes it was you needing a ride and turns into you under him in his passenger seat with the windows fogging up and his hand braced against the center console. sometimes it was because you had a bad day, and jake would show up with takeout in his hands, and then somewhere between opening the orange chicken and act two of the movie you put on, he ended up in your bed.
sometimes, there was no real reason at all, and it just simply happened, whether in his car or yours, in your bed or his, and that one time in your shower when he was supposed to be getting ready to leave and very much did not leave for another forty minutes. sometimes it was you pressed up against your front door before it even fully clicked shut and most of the time, it was on your couch because neither of you could wait to go down the hall.
jake can't really tell you exactly how long this goes on for, and that's the thing he's starting to learn about bad habits. one day something happens once, and it's a mistake. then it happens again, and it's a coincidence. then a third time, then a fourth, and suddenly there's a rhythm to it neither of you say anything about because labeling it would mean admitting you both know it exists. so jake doesn't say anything and neither do you, and if any of the guys noticed it, they don't say anything either.
it goes on long enough for the green leaves on the trees to start fading at the edges into an early stage of orange, long enough for the nights to get cooler, long enough for you to start taking his hoodies back home again without asking, and if jake notices, he pretends he doesn't. because noticing means he would having to confront this entire situation, and he knows better than to ask what this is, because is answer is probably nothing good, but also because some selfish part of him is terrified that asking will make you stop.
so he takes what he can get; he takes the late nights, the borrowed clothes, the half-finished takeout and abandoned movies, the mornings where you wake up and kiss a smile into his lips but then can't quite look at him in the eyes when he leaves. the brief, stupid moments where it almost feels like having you again.
one particular night, it had been less than twelve hours since jake last saw you. the last time being earlier that morning, when he was leaving your apartment with his hair still damp from your shower and his shirt wrinkled in a way that made him feel very obvious walking late into work. he was running on maybe three hours of sleep, which was pretty generous, honestly, because not much sleeping had actually happened with you.Â
so by the time midnight rolls around, jake is exhausted. heâs already in bed when his phone buzzes next to him on the nightstand.Â
y/n: hi
jake stares at his screen for half a second, his heartbeat doing that annoying thing it still, and always has, does whenever he thinks of you. then he types back.
jake: hey
jake: everything okay?
he watches as the typing bubble appears, disappears, appear again, then disappears one more time. then, finallyâ
y/n: remember how we used to go on late night drives whenever i couldnât fall asleep?
jakeâs thumb stills over the screen. he blinks hard, because of course he remembers. you in the passenger seat with your knees tucked up, shoes kicked off, his phone in your hand because you had the important responsibility of choosing the music. the two of you driving nowhere with the windows cracked open, city lights dragging soft lines across your face, you feeding him snacks as he drove. he remembers the nights you talked about everything. the nights you said nothing at all. the nights he drove until your voice got quieter and your head finally tipped against the window.
jake swallows.
jake: of course
jake: pretty sure youâre personally responsible for half the miles on my car
a few seconds pass. then your reply comes through.
y/n: what are you up to rn?
and jake knows what the correct answer is.
he could say heâs tired, which is true. he could say itâs late, which is also true. he could say he has work in the morning, which would be most definitely true and responsible and deeply unlike anything he has done lately when it comes to you.
and so, about eleven minutes later, jake finds himself parked outside your building with you climbing into his passenger seat in your pajamas.Â
âhi,â you say softly.
jake looks over at you, one hand still resting on the gear shift.
âhi.â
for a second, neither of you move. then you glance down at his phone connected to the charger and raise an eyebrow.
âyou still have my night drive playlist saved?"
jakeâs fingers tighten slightly against the wheel, âyou mean the one you named âinsomnia is a bitch.'â
âyeah,â you say. âand?â
âkind of hard to delete something with that much artistic integrity.â
then you let out a laugh and jake decides that alone makes the whole stupid night worth it before it has even started.
jake puts the car in drive.
âwhere to?â
you lean your head back against the seat, eyes drifting back to meet his.
ânowhere.â
jake nods, because he knows that place. heâs taken you there before.
so he drives, with no destination, no real route. just the familiar pattern of roads the two of you used to take when sleep felt far away and the apartment felt too small and you needed to breathe for a moment.
the streets are almost empty at this hour, which helps in jake's case, because it means he can look over at you more than he probably should. you're turned toward the window, cheek resting against the seat, one sleeve covering your hand tucked under your chin. the surrounding city passes you in piecesâgold from a streetlamp, blue from a store sign, red from a traffic light that catches in your eyes when you blink.
jake keeps one hand on the wheel and the other low on the console, fingers drumming like he needs something to do with them when reaching for you isn't an option. and for the first part of it, neither of you say much, it's just the sound of your playlist in the background and the engine running and your low humming to a song you added because you knew jake liked it.
late night drives with you were never really about conversation, at least not always. sometimes they were about the silence. about knowing someone well enough that you didn't have to fill every second just to prove you still belong there. about the soft kind of company that didn't ask anything from you except presence. jake used to love that. and frankly, he still does.
eventually at some point, you shift in the passenger seat, pulling one knee up slightly as you turn towards him. jake feels the sudden attention, the way you're just quietly and carefully studying the side of his face as he tries his best to stay focused on the road ahead of him.
"did you figure it out?"
the question comes out softly. so softly in fact, that jake almost convinces himself he heard you wrong. his eyes flick to you, then back to the road.
"âŠfigure it out?"
you don't answer right away. the car moves through a green light, an empty crosswalk. a closed bakery. a laundromat still glowing at the corner.
then you say, "you."
jake's hold tightens around the steering wheel, not looking away from the street quite yet. you keep looking at him.
"when we broke up," you say, voice almost too calm, too accepting, "you said you needed to figure out who you were outside of us. outside of me."
jake feels his stomach drop, and he can't will himself to look at you yet. because your voice isn't even sharp, isn't accusing, but moreso gentle, like you're not trying to cause a scene or hurt him with it, which somehow makes it hurt worse.
he doesn't say anything. for one ridiculous second, all he can remember is the way he said it back then, how reasonable he tried to make it sound. how carefully he chose his words, like if he stacked them neatly enough, you wouldn't see that he built something to hide behind because he was scared and tired and overwhelmed by the size of a future that started to feel more like something he could ruin if he held it wrong.
"jaeyun."
your voice pulls him back, and jake realizes he's been quiet for too long, the car slowing down like his body is trying to buy more time.
"i don't know," he says finally.
your expression doesn't change much, but your fingers curl slightly into the sleeve of your sweatshirt. "you don't know?"
he breathes out a humorless laugh. "i thought i would."
and then jake can feel it on the side of his faceâthe way you're looking at him, caught somewhere between hurt and frustration and like part of you understands what he means and another part of you hates that you do.
"i thoughtâ" he starts, then stops, because the sentence already sounds stupid in his head. "i thought if i had enough space, it would make sense eventually."
"did it?"
jake swallows. because the honest answer is no. but the more honest answer is that nothing made sense, at least not in the way he wanted it to.
because, yes, he learned things. he learned how to sleep alone again, technically. granted, much, much worse, but technically. he learned which takeout places delivered late enough so he didn't have to stand in the kitchen and remember all the meals you used to make together. he learned that grocery shopping for one person is depressing in a way nobody warns you about. he learned that some silences are peaceful and some silences are just rooms missing the person who used to laugh in them.
he learned that he could live without you.
he could wake up, make his coffee, go to work, show up to game nights, make small talk, fold laundry. he continued, in the most basic and humiliating sense of the world. he learned that life did not stop without you. it just got worse.
"not really," he exhales and he feels his chest tighten when your gaze drops to your lap. "i mean, i figured out some stuff," he adds, his voice smaller now. "just notâŠnot what i thought i would."
you're quiet for a moment. then, "like what?"
jake should keep driving. he should keep his eyes on the road and his hands where they are and answer carefully, if he answers at all. but suddenly what was supposed to be a simple night turned into this, and the thought feels instantly dumb because nothing about nights with you has ever been simple. so instead, he pulls into an empty parking lot close to the river and parks under a flickering lamp. he lets his hand fall from the wheel, rubbing once over his mouth before he finally looks over at you.
"i figured out that being without you didn't make me feel more like myself," he says. your eyes lift to his and his stomach twists. "it just made me realize how much of myself i built around loving you."
the words land and they stay there. they're out there, in that undefined space between you and him and that's when jake almost wishes he could take them back. and not because they aren't true, but because they're too true and he knows it and he can tell by the way you go still that you know it too. and now he's looking at you and how your lips part slightly but don't say anything. so he keeps going, because he thinks stopping now would somehow make everything worse.
"and i know that's not fair," he says quickly, looking down at his hands for a second before forcing himself to look back at you. "i know that sounds like i'm making it your responsibility, and i'm not trying to. i'm not. i justâ" he lets out an frustrated exhale. "i thought space would teach me who i was without you. but it just taught me what everything felt like without you in it."
and then your face changes. and it's barely there, barely noticeable to the average human being. but this is jake we're talking about and jake knows you, so he knows the tiny things. he sees the way your throat moves when you swallow. he watches the way your eyes go shiny before you decide whether or not you're going to let yourself cry. he recognizes the way you look away when something hits too close because you hate giving people the satisfaction of knowing they reached you.
"heyâ"
"it's fine," your words come out too quickly, too automatic, and jake hates it.
"y/n."
"it's fine," you say again, but this time when you lift your eyes to his, the expression on your face doesn't match the sentence at all. "i asked, you answered."
and jake hates that word by now. he hates it because he's spent the last eight months trying to convince himself he's fine and so by that logic, he knows you're objectively not fine.
"don't do that, y/n," he lets out quietly, eyes steady on you.
your brows then pull together and you let out a small breath through your nose, something almost like a laugh with no humor in it. "what do you want me to say, yun?"
jake feels his throat tighten, he feels his answer die on this tongue because it's selfish, and he knows it. that he wants you to say that you missed him too. that this meant something to you and that you still want him even though he doesn't deserve it or even knows what he wants himself.
you shake your head faintly, eyes dropping back to your hands. "you can't just say something like that and then look at me like i'm supposed to know what to do with it."
jake's chest caves in a little. "you don't have to do anything with it."
you turn your head slightly then, and jake sees the sad smile on your face and the way yours eyes are shining and he immediately has to look away because he doesn't think he can survive that right now.
"that's not how this works."
jake pauses for moment, his heart hammering and brain screaming yet failing to find the right thing to say when the moment actually matters.
"i'm sorry," he eventually says, because he doesn't know what else to do with the ache in his chest. and he even doesn't know which part he's apologizing forâfor everything he said? or everything he didn't? or maybe the breakup, then the late nights, and the last times that kept turning into next times.
your eyes close at his words, your head leaning back against the seat as a small, unsteady breath slips out of you.
"i know."
not forgiveness, not closure, but just two soft words sitting quietly between you, like you don't have the energy to be angry at him right now. like anger would require too much from you, and this conversation has already taken enough.
jake stays still. he watches you carefully, fighting back every instinct in his body telling him to reach for you when he notices the way your lashes are damp and the way your mouth presses into a thin line like you're holding so much back.
then, quietly, you whisper, "drive?"
jake nods, even though your eyes are still closed.
"yeah," he says softly, and then he puts the car into drive and backs out of the parking lot and that was it.
the next few days after that go terribly slow, because they feel terribly normal, which doesn't help jake's case at all because he just feels plain terrible. your name still shows up in his texts, because you're still laughing at sunghoon's jokes and liking messages and sending random tiktok posts. but you stop texting him separately, you stop showing up randomly at the apartment with takeout because you were bored. you don't complain about your car or tell him your day in that casual, thoughtless way you had started doing again. and jake spends three long, terrible days pretending he is normal about it.
by the third night, he gives in.
jake: hey
jake: are we okay
he stares at the message after he hits send and mentally smacks himself in the head. what a stupid question. what does okay even mean between two people who broke up almost ten months ago, hooked up more times than considered healthy, had a deeply unsettling conversation in an empty parking lot, and then ended the night with you asking him to drive you home because sitting still in silence with him became unbearable?
still, he waits. one minute. three. seven. then your reply comes through.
y/n: yeah
y/n: why wouldn't we be
jake exhales. then that exhale turns into a groan which then turns into him pressing his face into his pillow and screaming into it for a full three seconds, because that is both an answer and not helpful whatsoever.
why wouldn't we be?
jake could think of at least twelve reasons off the top of his head right now, and that was him being generous, because the two of you have been operating under a very loose definition of okay for months now.
okay meant broken up but still friends. okay meant friends but sleeping together. okay meant sleeping together but not talking about it. okay meant not talking about it then everything exploding in jake's face all at once.
so, really, the range of what okay meant here was alarmingly broad.
jake: idk
jake: just checking
your typing bubble appears, disappears. appears again.
y/n: we're fine yun
jake lies back against his pillow and stares at the ceiling and pretends he didn't just see that word. fine. his least favorite word in the entire english language, currently beating last time, mature, and okay, which says something because he feels very strongly about those words in this phase of his life right now.
still, he takes it and runs with it.
jake: okay
jake: can i see you?
and then he shuts his phone off. because he doesn't really know how else to word can we fix whatever happened in the car and, the more private one in his head, can you please stop sounding like you're already halfway gone?
you take longer to answer this time. long enough that jake picks his phone back up, locks it, unlocks it, puts it back down, then considers throwing himself directly into traffic.
y/n: early morning tmrw, sorry
y/n: another time?
it's not a no. but it's not a yes either. and that's pretty much how the next two weeks pass.
you don't show up to game night that week, telling the group you're feeling under the weather. heeseung sends three sad face emojis. jay tells you to drink water. sunghoon says, okay yea sureee, and then follows up with a but get better <3. jake waits exactly nine minutes before texting you privately.
jake: are you feeling okay?
y/n: yeah just tired
jake: need anything? i'll can get the soup you like
y/n: no im ok
y/n: thank you though
jake stares at it until the screen dims.
by the end of the third week, jake found himself getting better at finding distractions to keep his mind elsewhere. errands help a little, long showers help sometimes. work helps because he's busy enough to forget he has a phone. and soccer, as it turns out, is one of them.
the day is going objectively well, which really means something because it has been some time since jake has had a day he could honestly call good. the sun is out, the sky is clear. he remembered to eat breakfast before noon and his coffee tasted just right. his favorite hoodie came out of the wash without shrinking, and for a few hours, his chest doesn't feel like it has something heavy sitting inside it.
so when sunghoon suggests they play at the park nearby, jake actually says yes before anyone can guilt him into it. and it feels good. he scores once against jay, then again, then a third time which jay insists doesn't count because he was not ready but jake counts it anyways. by the end of it, jake is sweaty and out of breath and lying dramatically on the grass with one arm thrown over his eyes while heeseung complains about his lungs from next to him.
"i think i'm dying," heeseung says.
sunghoon, sitting besides him with his knees pulled up, barely looks over. "i think you're being dramatic."
heeseung then shoots him a pointed look and jay snorts and takes the water bottle from jake's hand.
the four of them end up in a scattered circle at the edge of the field, passing around the same water bottle because everyone except jake forgot to pack theirs, naturally. they talk about nothing for a while. about how lucky they got that the highschoolers in the area didn't claim the field before they did. about the new burger king opening down the block even though jake is pretty sure no one has willingly gone to a burger king since 2014. about how jay thinks he can beat them all in a footrace if properly motivated, which immediately turns into a ten minute argument because sunghoon says jay runs like the character that dies first in a horror movie.
jake lets himself enjoy it for a little while, which was a mistake from the start and he should've known it. because eventually a short silence settles over the group, the kind that only happens after everyone runs out of nonsense to contribute and is too tired to invent more.
sunghoon is the first one to break it. he clears his throat, twisting a blade of grass between his fingers before looking over at jake.
"you look like you're doing okay," he says, carefully enough that the carefulness becomes suspicious. "considering everything."
jake stills. the water bottle pauses halfway to his mouth. then he lowers it slowly.
"considering everything?"
he looks at sunghoon, but sunghoon is looking at jay, who's already staring at him with a death stare, and then heeseung, still lying flat on his back, suddenly starts coughing on absolutely nothing.
jake looks between the three of them, eyes narrowing. "why wouldn't i be?"
and then no one says anything, which is impressive, honestly, because between the three of them, silence has never been a skill they possess collectively. jake turns his head to jay, who is now looking at a patch of grass in front of him.
"jay," jake says slowly. "why wouldn't i be okay?"
jay looks up. his mouth opens, then closes. then opens again, but with much, much less confidence than before.
"iâweâokay, look," he drags a hand over his face, eyes darting from jake to sunghoon to heeseung, then back to the grass. "she didn't want to make it a big deal."
jake's stomach drops. he thinks he stops breathing but he can't stop the next word when it slips out of him anyways. "who?"
which is stupid, because he knows who, we all know who.Â
sunghoon groans quietly, heeseung sits up slowly, and jay genuinely looks pained.
"y/n," jay says finally. and just like that, jake's objectively good day has taken a turn because just hearing your name gives his nervous system the absurd power to malfunction. he has to force himself to breathe.
"what about her?"
jay hesitates. then, "it was just something she told me in passing the other day," he adds quickly. "and i didn't really think much about it at first."
"think much about what?"
sunghoon closes his eyes like bracing himself, and from next to him, heeseung mutters, "oh god."
jay exhales. "she went on a date."
for a second, jake doesn't move, doesn't breathe, and he's pretty sure his heart stops for a moment there.
and the world keeps existing around him. somewhere across the grass, a kid laughs loudly and someone's dog barks at absolutely nothing and a car honks in the distance. but inside him, everything goes very, very still. his face feels strange, too blank, too calm for having just heard five words that could have very well just changed the trajectory of his life.
"who?" is the first word that comes out of him and he regrets it immediately. because he doesn't want to know. because he does. no, he doesn't and he really, really shouldn't.
jay's expression shifts to something more gentle. "i don't know."
jake gives him a look. "you don't know?"
"she didn't say."
"you didn't ask?"
"no, jake," jay sighs in between. " and even if i did, you probably shouldn't know that information anyways."
"right," jake lets out, the expression on his face blank then shakes his head to himself. "right, yeah. of course."
and then all at once, it all made sense. the quiet, the distance. the way you've been slowly pulling back these past few weeks ever since the night in the car. the way that another time texted turned into nothing. the way jake stopped texting first because he told himself he was giving you space, because he didn't want to look too desperate, which was stupid, because he is, but also because some stupid, fragile part of him wanted you to be the one to reach for him this time. but you never did. and maybe that night had been it.
maybe that night had been the thing that made you decide you couldnât keep waiting for him to become brave enough to want you properly. that you needed to try something else, someone else. the thought of that twists something in jake so hard it almost feels physical.
sunghoon lean back on his hands, "you knew this could happen one day."
jake laughs once, short and humorless. he knew you could date. he knew you should date, probably. he knew you were allowed to move on because he was the one who let you go. actually no, that sounds too generous. he was the one who pushed you there, handed you back to the world, and is now sitting here, shocked as if he wasn't the one who did it himself.
"i mean," heeseung then clears his throat, and pauses for a moment to rethink his next words. "you could alsoâŠgo on one. a date."
jake turns his head slowly, and heeseung lifts both hands a little, already defensive. "i'm just saying."
"don't," sunghoon mutters.
"look," heeseung ignores him and then looks back at jake. "i know some people, and i think it'd be good for you."
and somehow, out of everything said so far, that is the sentence that makes jake's brain stop fully working. because the idea is so foreign to him that, for one second, he genuinely doesn't understand it. it's like a formula jake has never once ever thought he would need to solve: a date + him + someone else that isn't you.
some girl sitting across from him at a table, asking what he does for work, laughing politely at something he says, maybe touching his arm if the conversation goes well. some girl he would have to learn from the beginning. favorite drink. favorite movie. whether she likes cilantro. if she runs cold or warm. what makes her laugh too hard, what she looks like when she's tired.
the thought feels less like moving on and more like being asked to speak a language he never learned. or worse, one he only used to know because of you.
"he has a point. it's not the craziest idea," jay says. "not right away, maybe. but eventually."
eventually.
eventually almost beats fine on jake's list of hated words. because eventually implies a future where this is normal. where you date someone else and he dates someone else and the two of you become a story told in past tense. three and a half years turned into a story time. something that happened before whatever comes next. and maybe that's healthy, maybe that's the entire point of this entire thing.
but eventually is not now, and right now, the sheer thought of moving on feels impossible in a way he doesn't know how to explain without sounding pathetic.
"i'm not really interested," he then says.
heeseung nods quickly. "yeah. no. totally fair."
"like, at all."
"yep. got it."
"not even a little."
"heard you the first time."
jake rubs a hand through his hair as he exhales. "sorry. thank you, though."
heeseung softens a little. "don't be."
"look," jay speaks up again, with something that sounds genuine laced in his tone, which just makes it worse. "you don't have to be ready to fall in love with someone else, nobody's saying that. but maybe you should at least find out whether the idea of moving on is impossible because you're actually not ready, or because you've never let yourself try."
jake's mouth closes. because that, unfortunately for him, is a very valid sentence. a sentence with full structure and complete sense and a point that lands somewhere jake doesn't particularly want to confront right now. because he can't even imagine it without feeling like he's doing something wrong. which is stupid, because he has been single for almost ten months now. you went on a date. and you are allowed to go on dates. he is allowed to go on dates. everyone involved is technically allowed to do everything they are doing and that just makes it ten times more complicated because nothing ruins a good spiral more than the fact that no one is actually breaking any rules.
"i don't know," he mutters eventually, and jay just nods back, like he was expecting that.
"you don't have to know. just think about it."
"i don't really want to think about it."
"then think about why you don't want to think about it."
jake lets out a small laugh, but it comes out wrong. "jay."
"yeah?"
"you're being deeply irritating."
"i know," jay shrugs. "but i'm right."
jake hates that no one immediately disagrees.
heeseung just nods, not really saying anything else and sunghoon is just staring at the blade of grass in between his fingers.
after another minute, jake stands too quickly, brushing dirt off his shorts. "i'm gonna head home."
sunghoon looks up. "jake."
"i'm good," he says, already reaching for his bag. "seriously. i just need to shower."
the three of them give him a long look.
"don't disappear. you'll be okay."
jake pauses. then shrugs. "i'm not disappearing. i live with you."
then he swings his bag over one shoulder and starts walking before anyone can say anything else helpful, which is really just another word for unbearable at this point. and on his walk back home, jake thinks about it. not willingly, of course, but because now the idea is in his head and it refuses to leave.
he tries to picture it practically first, as if maybe it will make it less awful. heeseung gives him a number. he texts some girl. they agree on dinner. he picks a place that isn't too romantic but not too casual either. he shows up, she shows up. they sit down. they talk. all simple, normal things that normal people do every day. so maybe the idea isn't all too impossible.
maybe he could do it. and maybe that was the terrifying part. maybe he goes and maybe he survives it, or maybe he genuinely enjoys it.
or maybe, and this is the uglier truth he doesn't want to examine too closely, something deep inside him is scared and bitter and hurt that you are clearly trying to be okay without him. that you sat across from someone else and gave the world proof that your life could move on, even after him.
and so maybe jake is not mature enough to sit with that. maybe he needs to prove to you, to himself, to whatever higher power there is out there that he too can move on, even if he has to force it.
so by the time he enters the apartment, drops his bag by the door, and stares at his phone in his hand, the decision is already there. he unlocks it before he can talk himself out of it and texts heeseung.
jake: what's your friend's name?
her name is mina.
and she is nice. that's the first thing jake learns about her. she's nice in that easy, uncomplicated way that makes people comfortable. nice in the way she laughs at his jokes even when they're only kind of funny, which jake appreciates but also immediately distrusts because he knows, objectively, that he is not that funny.
the first date is at a cafe heeseung recommends. mina asks about his job, his roommates, soccer, what kind of movies he likes. she tells him about her own work, about her older sister, about how she hates olives but keeps trying them every year just to confirm she still hates them. sheâs easy to talk to, the conversation doesnât drag.
jake walks away thinking it could have been worse.
the second date is dinner. nothing too fancy, just some small place downtown with warm lights and a menu that takes jake too long to read because he keeps thinking about what you wouldâve ordered.
which is unfair, he knows. unfair to mina, mostly, and also to him, maybe. but the thought appears anyways and sticks until the appetizers come out.Â
mina then tells a story about getting locked out of her apartment once while holding a bag of frozen dumplings, and jake genuinely laughs that time, and it surprises him enough that he feels guilty for it immediately after.
and then he feels guilty for feeling guilty for having a moderately pleasant time with a nice girl who has done absolutely nothing wrong except not be you.
the third time, mina asks him if he's ever been to the park near the river at the edge of town. jake says yes before he thinks too hard about it, but unfortunately, he is already thinking hard about it.
she doesn't know it's where jake kissed you for the first time ever. where the two of you stood underneath a streetlamp in the middle of october, both pretending you weren't cold because neither of you wanted to be the first one to suggest going home. where you laughed against his mouth afterwards because he was so nervous.
she doesn't know any of that. she just says, "it's pretty this time of year," and jake just agrees like his entire chest didn't just cave in and goes anyways.
it's cooler out by now, the trees either fully orange or already shedding around them. jake buys them hot chocolate from a cart nearby because he doesn't know what else to do with his hands. she laughs when he burns his tongue, and he laughs too. and again, it's simple at first.
but every few steps, the park starts to become something else. a bench becomes you sitting cross-legged next to him with fries balanced in your lap. the river railing becomes where jake first grabbed your hand and held it inside his jacket pocket because you forgot gloves one winter.
that one streetlamp they pass becomes three and a half years ago, with you looking up at him, cheeks pink from the cold, your hair slightly messy from the wind, looking up at him with your eyes bright and teasing, saying, "are you going to kiss me or are you just going to keep staring?"
jake laughed nervously, caught off guard, looking down,"i'm not staring."
"you are. it's okay though."
"i'mâŠtrying to be respectful."
"you've been staring at my mouth for ten minutes."
"that's notâ"
"jaeyun."
and that had done it. you said it quietly and carefully, like you knew exactly where to touch the sentence to make him stop running from it. his smile softened.
"i just really want to do this right," he admitted, voice lower now.
then you stepped closer, tilting your head as you looked up at him.
"you've been doing everything right," you said with the softest smile on your face. then your hand came up just enough to catch the front of his jacket and he leaned it first.
and the first kiss was not perfect, by all means. he bumped your nose and then you laughed against his mouth. he whispered "sorry" even though he was smiling so hard the word barely came out and you whispered, "don't ruin it."
so he kissed you again, this time with your hand curled into his jacket and his fingers brushing your cheek like he can't believe he was allowed to finally have you like that. and when you pulled away, you had that kind of smile on your face made him feel, stupidly and immediately, like the whole world had narrowed down to one streetlamp, one cold night, one girl looking at him like she chose him on purpose.
"okay," you exhaled afterwards.
jake just blinked back. "okay?"
"yeah." you smiled wider. "you should do that again."
"you okay?"
mina's voice cuts through so suddenly, making jake blink hard.
"yeah," he says, looking away from the streetlamp before forcing a small smile. "just cold."
and still, after that night, jake keeps going. that's kind of how his life moves on for the next month. he wakes up, goes to work. comes home from work, plays video games with the guys until someone falls asleep. plays soccer on the weekends when the weather is decent. sees mina every now and then when their schedules line up and tries very, very hard not to spend the entire time wondering what you're doing on your end.
because mina is nice. and mina is funny. and jake likes her, in the general sense. in the she is a good person and this is objectively pleasant sense. in the sense that makes jake feel like if he was a decent guy, he would know what to do with that. instead, he finds himself sitting there, waiting for that ache. that shift, that terrifying, inevitable feeling of wanting so badly to know someone better and realizing it might ruin him.
but jake keeps trying anyways, because he convinces himself that maybe this is what moving on looks likeâit's messy, it's nonlinear, it's effort.
by the seventh or eighth time they see each other (jake stopped counting because counting makes it feel like something), sunghoon casually brings up one night, "so are we ever meeting her or are you embarrassed by your friends?"
jake looks up from his phone. "i'm always embarrassed by my friends."
and that is how he ends up at the bar that weekend with mina tucked into the corner booth beside him. heeseung sits across from her, smiling too polite, sunghoon beside him, looking calm but observant in a mildly intimidating way, and jay at the end of the booth, already looking like he's pretending not to judge.
and jake sits there, hand wrapped around his glass, watching mina laugh at something heeseung says, trying to feel normal about the fact that maybe this is what his life looks like nowâand then trying even harder not to think about the one person missing from the table.
it's around an hour into the night when jake wishes he didn't think about it too hard though, because he's pretty sure he manifested you. because then the bar door opens, letting in a breeze of cold air rush in, followed by a burst of laughter from a small group near the entrance that makes everyone at the table look over, and suddenly, there you are.
jake doesn't know how to really describe the emotions that rush through him all at once in that moment. fear first, maybe. then guilt. then shock, even though he really shouldn't be surprised, because this is your usual bar too, your usual people, your usual seat tucked under jake's arm before everything got complicated and then more complicated and then quietly disappeared.
he sees the exact moment you spot them, sees the way your expression pause, but not drop exactly, because you're too good for that. he just sees something in your face still, just for half a second, your eyes moving from heeseung to jay to sunghoon before landing on mina beside him. and then finally, him. and that's when jake adds a new emotion onto the listânauseous.
but because you've already seen them and they've already seen you, you come over anyways and jake can see the equally subtle and deeply terrified looks the guys are giving him from the corner of his eyes as he chooses to stare directly at his empty glass instead.
by the time you reach the table, mina, bless her heart, is the first to speak, bright and excited and entirely unaware of the scene she just wandered into. "oh my gosh, you must be y/n!"
and jake feels everything in him still. of course she knows your name, of course. not in the way you probably know hers, by force and bad luck and most likely from the guys mentioning her to you before anyone thought to warn him this night might someday exist, but in a normal way. in that casual way someone learns the names of their boyfriend's friends.
boyfriend.
jake doesn't know if that word belongs there. he doesn't know if mina thinks it does. he doesn't know if you do. he hopes you don't and he hates that he hopes that.
you smile back immediately and it's polite and smooth and sweet and jake wants to crawl out of his own skin.
"hi," you say. "mina right?"
"yeah," mina says warmly. "it's nice to finally meet you. i heard you're, like, the glue of this group."
jake looks down at the table. you glance at him for one second before looking away and back at her with a small smile, "i try my best."
sunghoon then immediately shifts over, pressing closer against heeseung to make a small space at the end of the booth. "sit," he says, too loudly and too stiff. "unless you're meeting someone. are you meeting someone? you can still sit. or not. no pressure."
jay closes his eyes immediately.
heeseung mutters under his breath, "wow."
you let out a small laugh, and jake hates how fast his body reacts to it.
"i came with some people," you say, glancing vaguely over your shoulder at a small group standing near the bar, "but i can stay for a little."
so that's how you end up here, squeezed next to sunghoon and heeseung, and across from jake in that complicated way where it makes it impossible for him to not look at you.
the next thirty minutes go painfully slow for jake. mina talks about work, heeseung asks too many questions because silence makes him nervous, sunghoon makes one of his dry jokes and everyone laughs.
and you are perfect.
you smile when you talk, you ask mina about herself, you nod when she talks and you act like this is normal. like sitting across from the girl jake has been seeing doesn't make your throat tight.
jake, meanwhile, barely says anything all night. which you, of course, notice immediately. but mina also notices. mina notices and then everything proceeds to blow up in flames right afterwards. because after a while, she turns towards him, nudging his arm gently with hers.
"you're quiet tonight," she says, smiling softly, voice low but still clear enough for everyone at the table to hear. "tired, jaeyunie?"
and the best way to describe the mutual, shared reaction the table has at the sound of her saying those words, that nameâthat name no one else calls him because they've tried and he would shoot them down with something like "only y/n calls me that"âis like watching a house catch fire, explode, and then burn down into ashes in real time.
jake freezes. jay stops mid-sip. heeseung's eyes flick to jake so, so fast. sunghoon's face goes completely blank like he knew shit was about to go down and youâyou don't move. you just look down at the drink in front of you and blink a few times and suddenly jake can't breathe.
mina doesn't pick up on it fully, of course, because she doesn't know. she doesn't know, which is the problem. it's soft, affectionate, and harmless to her. to her, it's probably just a cute nickname, something she tried once and he didn't correct because he had been too startled, too tired, too cowardly to explain that the name already belonged somewhere, to someone else.
your eyes stay down, and your hand around the glass is shaking now, and of course jake notices. he notices everything when it comes to you, apparently, except how not to hurt you. jake stays quiet, his heart pounding too quickly now, swallowing hard because there's now a lump sitting in his throat and he might actually be sick.
mina's smile falters a little. "what?"
"nothing," jake says too quickly. too quickly, because jay looks at him. too quickly, because you finally lift your eyes and you finally look right at him. and you're not angry, not even hurt in a way jake could apologize for. but it was like something small and private had been taken right out of your hands in front of everyone, and you're trying very hard not to make anyone feel bad for noticing you lost it.
you suddenly sit up a little straighter. "i'm gonna get some fresh air," you say, your voice too light.
sunghoon shifts immediately, "do you want me toâ"
"no," you say quickly, already sliding out of the booth. then, softer, with a smile that doesn't fully reach, "i'm fine."
and there it is again. that word again. fine. the most useless lie any of you have ever told.
you grab your bag and step away from the table before anyone can stop you. everyone watches you go in a terribly awkward silence, and mina's brows pull together, turning back to jake.
"did i say something?"
jake's throat tightens.
"no," he says too quickly and too automatic before he feels an instant wave of guilt and pain and regret because now mina is there, kind and oblivious and confused, while jake feels like the cruelest person in the room for letting her borrow a name he never should have let anyone else touch.
"i'll be right back," he then says, already moving.
jay's head snaps up. "jake."
sunghoon says his name too, quieter. like a warning, or a plea, or both.
mina looks up at him, confusion still written all over her, "is everything okay?"
jake looks at her, then toward the bar's doors where you left, then back at her and realized, with something incredibly heavy in his chest, that there is no good answer.
"yeah," he says, because apparently lying badly is the only thing he knows how to do anymore. "i just need a second."
mina nods slowly as jake steps out of the booth. and as he walks towards the exit and through the doors, he can feel all three of the guys watching him like they already know this is either the first right thing he's done in weeks or another terrible mistake he's going to regret.
the cold air hits jake the second he steps outside and for one disoriented second, he just stands there under the weak glow of the bar sign, the sound of music and laughter muffled behind the door as it swings shut behind him. he looks both directions down the sidewalk before he finally sees you near the end of the block, head down, walking fast with your arms wrapped around yourself like you're trying to keep yourself together.
"waitây/nâ" his voice cuts through the quiet, rougher than he means it to be. you don't turn around, still walking away.
"i'm good, jake. seriously," you sound small as you call out behind you.
he jogs a little to catch up. "no, please," he says, voice heavy. "can we just talk?"
you turn in your steps so sharply that jake has to stop short, his shoes skidding slightly against the pavement. jake halts in his step, brows furrowed, chest rising up and down.
"why?"
jake blinks back at you, shaking his head slightly in confusion. "w-what?"
"why," you repeat, and your voice is already trembling, already angry, your eyes already shining with the kind of tears you've been holding back for too long. "that night in your car, when you told me you didnât know if youâd figuredâ" you gesture vaguely between the two of you, around the street, at the space where your lives used to fit together cleanly. "if youâd figured all this shit out. our breakup, who you are, what you wanted, all of it. you said you didnât know."
jake doesnât say anything. he just stands there, breathing too hard, watching the tears gather along your lashes.
"so why did you do it?" you ask.
his throat tightens.
"why did youâ" your voice cracks, and you press your lips together like you hate yourself for it. "why did you break us?"
and that was the real question from that night in the car. the one you were too scared to ask because the answer terrified you. not did you figure it out? but was it worth it? did losing you give him whatever he thought he needed? did ruining the best thing in his life at least mean something?
jake looks away first. he looks away and he knows he's a coward and that he always has been a coward in the moments that matter most.
"y/nâ" he says, barely above a whisper.
"no." you shake your head, tears slipping down your cheeks now. "no, donât do that. donât say my name like that, like youâre hurt because iâm finally asking.
he goes quiet, his arms hanging uselessly by his side. because maybe thatâs what he should have done the first time. maybe he should've listened, and stayed, and let you be angry without trying to turn it into something easier for him to handle.
"you made that decision alone," you say, voice cracking hard now as you spoke louder, faster, "you stood there and told me it was for the best, and i believed you because i loved you, and because you looked so sad saying it that i thoughtâŠ" you swallow, wiping angrily under one eye. "i donât know. i thought maybe loving you meant trusting that you knew what you needed."
jake canât breathe right. he blinks hard, one of his own tears now running down his face.
âi trusted you more than i trusted myself,â you whisper. âlike loving you made me stupid.â
his head snaps up. âi never thought that.â
âbut you acted like it.â
jake shakes his head, looking down at the ground, silently begging the universe that this is all some sick, cruel dream. he has no defense, nothing he can say that can reverse this entire night, this entire past year that's been haunting his every waking moment of every day. so he just stands there and takes it.
"you acted like you could decide what hurt less for both of us," you continue. "like you could walk away and call it mercy. likeâ" you stop, letting out a broken exhale to ground yourself for a moment.
jakeâs eyes burn.
"it wasnât like that."
"then help me understand," you say, words coming out more like a plea, "because i have been trying to understand you for eleven months, jake. eleven months. i have replayed every conversation, every look, every stupid quiet moment before you left, trying to figure out what i missed."
his jaw trembles and he hates that it does. he hates that he has no right to look hurt and ruined when you're the one he left, you're the one who he broke.
"and then you pull me back into this fucked up mess," you say, voice rising. "you act jealous, you tell people we're together, you text me. you ask me to come over. you look at me like that. you touch me like youâ"
you stop. then he watches as your face crumples for half a second before you force it back.
"like you just want the easy parts of me without actually choosing me."
and that one goes straight through him. that one makes jake feel like he just got punched right in the gut and he wants to vomit everything inside him right then and there because no other words said could be untrue.
"you know that's not what i was doing," he says, stepping forward, and it's the first thing he's said steady enough. "you know that's not true, y/n."
your eyes flash. "then what were you doing?"
jake doesn't answer fast enough, not because he doesn't know, but because he's terrified that he does. because youâre standing there with tears streaming down your face, close enough for him to reach for and too far for him to deserve, and every possible version of the truth makes him sound exactly like the person he never wanted to be to you.
you just nod, crying harder now, almost laughing like you can't believe you expected anything else from him. "exactly."
there's a beat of silence.
"i'm sorry," the words fall out of him uselessly. too small, too minor for what they're standing in. his voice breaks again. "i'm so sorry."
"i know," you whisper, and that somehow makes it hurt worse. "i know you are. i know you're sorry. i know you didn't mean to hurt me. i know you're confused and scared and whatever else you are, and i keep letting that matter more than the fact that you hurt me anyways."
jake forces himself to look at you, and you look so small in front of him, so broken, because of him.
"and i know iâm part of it," you say, voice softer now. "i know i keep letting it happen. the first night in your car, in your apartment, every time after that. i keep answering and showing up and asking you to, and i know thatâs on me too. iâm not pretending iâm innocent here."
"donât," jake lets out quietly. "donât blame yourself for me being selfish."
for a second, you just stare at him. then your face twists into something sad, angry, tired, all of the above.Â
âthen stop being selfish.â
he flinches and you see it, but you keep going anyway.
"because i donât know what you want from me anymore." your voice breaks completely into a sob there, and you press a hand to your chest like the words physically hurt coming out. âi donât know if you want me to wait. i donât know if you want me to move on, and trust me, i tried so, so hard to. and i donât know if you want to be my friend or my ex or whatever the fuck this is supposed to be when you look at me like you still want me and then bring your new girlfriend to places we share with our friends.â
"she's notâ"
you shake your head, forcing out a bitter laugh. "don't correct me on the technicality, yun. please. not right now."
his mouth closes.
"maybe she's not your girlfriend," you say, tears still falling. "maybe you don't know what she is either. apparently that's kind of your thing now." you gesture back to the bar behind him. "but she's in there right now, thinking she's something in your life enough to call you that name, and i was supposed to just sit there and smile like you weren't texting me to come over a month ago like it would actually mean something."
jake's eyes squeeze shut for a second. his face immediately feels hot.
"it did," he forces out through a choked breath. "every single time, it meant something."
you go still. then, quieter, "did it?"
and that one hurt, because he wants to say yes immediately. he wants to say of course it did, are you insane, it meant everything, it has meant everything since the second you walked out of his apartment eleven months ago and took every version of his future with you.
"to me," he says, voice shaking. "yes."
"then say it," your expression shifts. "say what this is."
jake's mouth opens but nothing comes out. because the truth is too ugly and too honest for him to just hand to you. that he regretted leaving almost immediately, but his pride was too fragile to admit it and his fear too loud to undo it. that he broke your heart trying to save himself, then came crawling back to you in pieces because he still missed you, wanted you, loved you but couldn't bring himself to say it.
that he has spent the last year making decisions too big for him and then acting surprised when he finds out he can't carry them.
you nod once, like his silence confirms something you were already afraid of.
"yeah," you whisper.
"y/nâ"
"i love you, jaeyun."
everything in him stops. everything physically hurts immediately.
itâs been nearly a year since he last heard you say those words, and after all that time, this is what they sound like now. not warm, not sleepy, not mumbled against his shoulder in the morning. they sound ruined. they sound like something you wish you could take back from your own heart, like you wish it wasn't true. like the words have been sitting in your throat for months, cutting you open every time you swallow them back.
"i love you," you say again, crying openly now. "and that is the worst part, because i donât know what to do with it anymore. i donât know where to put it."
jake's vision blurs.
"i love you too," he says, and it comes out broken. "i never stopped."
your face crumples and for one awfully slow second, he thinks you might step towards him. but instead, you step back, shaking your head.
"then you need to figure your shit out," you say, voice shaking. "because i canât keep doing it for you."
he takes a step forward, and you immediately shake your head even harder. "no."
he freezes, his hands trembling like they're instinctively trying to reach you and comfort you and tell you that the two you are going to be okay. "please," he whispers.
"i canât keep doing this." you wipe at your cheeks with both hands now, angry at the tears, angry at him, angry at yourself. "as friends. as exes. as whatever the fuck this is. i canât keep being around you and pretending like weâre okay when we havenât been okay for a long time."
jake has never hated himself more. not when he broke up with you. not when he woke up next to you in your bed a few months ago and left without saying anything. not even inside the bar, when you watched mina fit into his life and he did nothing fast enough to stop it. this is worse. this is you finally telling him what his pride, his fear, his confusionâwhat it all cost, and he has to stand here and hear every word.
"i need to go," you say. "i really hope you find what you need, yun. genuinely."
and that is the final blow to what's left of jake's heart. because after all of it, after ten minutes of standing in the cold and crying through every way he hurt you, after finally letting out what you've been carrying with you for nearly the past year, the last thing you give him isn't anger. it's still kindness, the tired, broken, honest fragments of it you have left. the kindness that still wants the best for him even if you can no longer be the person who helps him find it.
jake doesnât follow when you finally turn and walk away. he stands there on the sidewalk, under the distant bar light, with the door somewhere behind him full of warmth and music and people who have no idea his whole life just split open in the middle of the street.
and for a long time, he doesnât move. because jake had spent the last eleven months convincing himself he was fine.
he wasnât fine. he hasn't been fine in a long, long time.
jake has felt heartbreak before. heartbreak was the first morning after the breakup, waking up on his side of the bed and reaching for a body that wasn't there anymore. he's felt sadness too. sadness was seeing you laughing in the same room as his friends and realizing he was missing his best friend, even though she was only five feet away. anger, definitely. anger was seeing red at that party all those months ago when jungwon stood too close to you, when jake realized the world didn't stopped wanting you just because he had been stupid enough to let you go.
but this? this is new. this is numbness. jake feels numb and hollow and empty because he thinks he really, truly lost you this time. which is exactly what he had been so afraid of in the first place, and somehow, impossibly, the place every one of his decisions had been leading him towards.
because at least during those first eight months after the breakup, he still had you in some way. you, as his friend. you, as the girl who still texted the groupchat and showed up to game night and smiled at him sometimes, even if the smile was forced or polite.
then you, as the girl he kept finding his way back to in the worst possible way. one night that became another. one mistake both of you swore wouldn't happen again until it did. one almost, then another, then another, all of them close enough to feel like love and far enough that neither of you had to say what it really was.
but now, you are just y/n. someone who used to everywhere, but now nowhere. someone who is suddenly trying very, very hard to make it seem like you were never in his life at all.
the texts stop completely. the guys stop mentioning you whenever jake is in the room, which just makes everything obviously ten times worse. conversations bend around your name, jokes cut off too early. heeseung starts saying "someone" when he means you, and jay starts glaring at him every time he does.
you unfollow jake on everything too. which is a stupid and small thing for jake to overthink, except he sits there anyways staring at his phone for ten full minutes when he notices, feeling like someone reached into his life and took one more ordinary thing he didn't know he was still counting on.
game nights still happen, just not the same, for obvious reasons. your usual spot on the couch stays empty the first time, and everyone pretends not to notice. the second time, sunghoon sits there by accident and then looks so uncomfortable about it that he gets up halfway through the night and says the angle is bad for his neck. jake doesn't say anything.
figuring his shit out, jake learns very quickly, is not nearly as poetic as it sounded when you said it. it's mostly quiet. ugly, sometimes, and then boring, often. it's waking up and trying not to check his phone. then it's opening your contact anyways, staring at your name until his chest hurts, then locking his phone and putting it facedown because missing you is not the same thing as respecting you.
figuring it out is telling mina the truth.
not all of it, because some of it is not hers to carry anyways, but enough. that she's nice, that she did nothing wrong, that he's sorry for trying to turn her into proof that he was ready when he wasn't.
mina listens quietly, then she nods and says, "i hope you figure it out."
and jake almost laughs, because of how ironic that is.
but he tries and frankly, badly, at first. but then a little less badly.
he plays soccer even when he doesn't feel like moving, he lets sunghoon drag him to the grocery store and he tries to cook a new recipe which he inevitably butchers, but at least he tried.
one night, they're all sitting around in the living room when heeseung starts telling a story. and being heeseung is heeseung, he gets too invested and realizes halfway through that the story involves you. your name catches before it leaves his mouth and he tries to clear his throat just as quickly but there's an awkward pause anyways.
that's when jake says, "you guys can say her name."
the room goes quiet. he keeps his eyes on the tv in front of him.
"i mean it," he says. "you don't have to keep acting like she died."
sunghoon is the first to answer. "good," he says, too quickly. "i was running out of fake names to use in my stories."
heeseung lets out a laugh that sounds mostly relieved. jay doesn't say anything, but later, when they're cleaning up, he squeezes jake's shoulder and leaves it there for half a second and jake understands.
winter starts to slowly settle in, enough for the windows to fog in the morning, that the bar puts festive lights up. enough that jake starts seeing his breath in the air and starts wearing jackets over his hoodies. enough that the park near the river turns gray and bare, all the leaves gone now.
jake goes there alone one night. he tells himself he's just on a walk, because he read somewhere that they're good for you and he's trying to be better at whatever âgood for himâ looks like, so he puts on a jacket over his hoodie, shoves his hands into its pockets, and walks.
he walks until he gets to the spot. until he gets to the streetlamp where he kissed you for the first time and he stands there and waits for the memory to swallow him whole.
he stands there and closes his eyes and it hurts. it really, really hurts. but then he opens his eyes and realizes it doesn't destroy him, that he's still standing and that he's, relatively, more or less, okay. so he stays there for a minute, then for two more. then he breathes in, breathes out, and for the first time, he lets himself remember you without turning the memory into a reason or an excuse to want something from you.
he just lets himself miss you.
because maybe healing is not forgetting. maybe healing is learning how to hold the memories even if it cuts him, even if it hurts. maybe healing is letting himself fully feel every emotion, everything he ignored, pretended didn't exist, everything he thought would disappear if he kept moving.
so jake keeps trying.
he fixes the plant on his window sill, he takes down the broken string light instead of leaving it slowly dying, blinking above his bed. he washes the hoodie you used to steal the most and folds it into the back of his drawer.
he starts making decisions. small ones, but his own ones. what to eat, where to go. what to do with a free afternoon when there is no you to ask, no you to orbit, no you to think about. and then slowly, so, so slowly, jake starts to understand.
maybe he had been right about one thing.
he did need to know who he was without you.
not because loving you made him less himself, but because he had loved you so much, so completely, that somewhere along the way he had started using love as a place to hide. a safe place to hide from fear, from change, from the possibility of becoming someone you might not need.
so he lets you stay gone. and everyday, it feels impossible. but every day, he does it anyway. and somewhere in the middle of the cold, ordinary winter, jake feels the difference.
he can live without you, he is living without you. bad on some days, better on others, but he can, regardless. and that is what makes the truth clearer to him, because wanting you is not the same as needing you to hold him together, loving you is not the same as being unable to stand alone.
because you are a part of him in a way that he can still learn to survive without, but like a language he learned so deeply he still thinks in it sometimes, or like a song he knows by heart even without hearing it for years. like a home, not because he has nowhere else to go, but because even after he finally learns how to leave, some part of him still chooses to return one day.
and jake knows, if he ever gets the chance to tell you this, he knows he can't come back with just regret, because regret is not enough. missing you is not enough. even love, by itself, it not enough if all it does is ask you to carry the weight again.
so that's why jake keeps trying. not so you'll come back, even though a large part of him wakes up every day still wishing you could, but because if you ever do, he wants to be your someone who knows how to love you without making you responsible for holding him up. and even if you don'tâ
jake closes his eyes again. breathes through the ache.
even if you don't, then he still has to become that person anyways.
the holidays come eventually, which makes everything sting in a little more specific way, because this is the time of year jake usually takes you home. for three years in a row, you had been there. in his parents' kitchen, stealing pieces of food before dinner and pretending you weren't. on the couch with his cousins, arguing over a kid's movie, beside him at the dinner table, your knee pressed against his under the tablecloth, laughing at something his aunt said while jake sat there feeling stupidly proud that you fit into his life so easily.
this year, he goes home alone. his mom opens the door first, pulls him into a hug, and looks over his shoulder, still expecting you to be standing behind him with a bag in one hand and that polite, nervous smile you always had for the first five minutes before remembering everyone already loved you, already made space for you like you were always going to be there.
"just you?" she asks him gently.
jake holds the strap of his bag a little tighter, and for a second, he almost lies, because it would be too easy. too easy to say something like, oh she's busy this year, or visiting her family, or work stuff. something simple and normal. something that lets the idea of the two of you keep existing together in someone else's version of reality out there for just a little longer. but even he knows that wouldn't be fair and it definitely wouldn't be the healing he has been trying, miserably and imperfectly, to do. so instead, he swallows hard and looks at his mom with a sad smile.
"we're not together anymore," he says.
his mom's face changes and he doesn't try to ignore it this time. "oh, sweetheart," she says softly.
one by one, the rest of his family finds out too.
his aunt asks where you are while setting plates down. his cousins says your name too casually from the living room. his dad pauses for half a second before patting a hand gently on jake's shoulder and saying he's sorry in that quiet, steady way that makes jake want to be eight years old and cry to him again.
but regardless, each time, jake tells the truth. he doesn't tell the whole story, not every ugly detail, but just enough. yes, you guys broke up. yes, it's hard. yes, he misses her. he lets everyone look at him sadly, he lets everyone see his sadness, too. he lets the loss be real instead of hiding it behind some convenient lie, and he has to live in rooms where people know it now.
everything else happens anyways, like christmas dinner where he argues with his brother over who gets the corner piece of dessert. he opens gifts the next morning and laughs when his uncle gives him socks with his own face printed on it. he watches movies on the couch while the house gets warm and loud around him.
he doesn't pretend it doesn't hurt. he doesn't pretend he isn't aware of the empty space next to him where you used to sit with a blanket pulled up to your chin, whispering commentary into his ear until he almost choked trying not to laugh. he doesnât pretend he doesnât look in the mug cabinet and remember the ugly holiday mug you loved for no reason.
but he also doesn't shut down, because life is still happening. because his family is still there and his cousins are still annoying and his mom is still asking him if he wants more hot chocolate. because love, jake is starting to learn, does not become less real just because one version of it is gone.
jake goes back to the city in time for new year's, mostly because jay rents out the same rooftop every year for the countdown party, and jake has gone every year. before he met you, after he met you, while he dated you. and now, it'll be after he lost you. he goes anyways, because he knows that avoiding every place that might still have your finger print on it won't do anything good for him.
the city is freezing by the time he gets there, all sharp wind and wet pavement and people spilling out of restaurants in glittery dresses and jackets that are too thin, but laughing anyways because that's just how these things go.
jay meets him by the elevator with a drink in one hand and a look on his face that is trying very hard to not look surprised.
"you came," jay says, smiling.
jake gives him a look. "you invited me."
then jay's expression softens just a little, enough that jake knows what he's really asking. if he's okay, if he's ready, if this isn't going to be too much for much.
jake looks past him, toward the rooftop door where music and laughter is already spilling out into the hallway.
"i'm good," he says, nodding like it'll make his statement more convincing.
jay's brow lifts. jake exhales, then corrects himself.
"i'm not good," he says quietly. "but i'm okay enough."
jay then studies him for a second before nodding. "okay enough is solid."
"thanks."
"low bar," jay gives him a smile, "but we celebrate growth. i'm proud of you."
and jake gives him a genuine smile back.
the rooftop is exactly the same as it always isâstring lights wrapped along the railing, heaters glowing red in the corners, a dj booth in the center and an open bar with far too many people tucked into the side. heeseung is already arguing with sunghoon near the speakers, and sunghoon is already wearing a party hat against his will.
jake takes a drink jay hands him, talks when people talk to him, laughs when sunghoon says something funny, lets heeseung drag him into a conversation with someone from work whose name jake immediately forgets and feels only mildly guilty about.
he doesn't scan the party for you right away. he notices the lights first, the skyline, the little plastic champagne glasses stacked too close to the edge of one of the tables. he notices the cold air biting at his knuckles and the loud music and the way midnight feels close.
but, eventually, he notices you.
he wasn't looking, but it's that part of him that still knows when you enter a room. you're standing near the far side of the rooftop, close to the railing, talking to jay's cousin with a drink held loosely in one hand. your coat is buttoned up against the cold, your hair moving slightly in the wind, your face turned toward the city lights.
jake goes still, because even after everything, even after all his trying, his body can't help but react that way. but this time isn't like before. this time isn't like the bar, when seeing you walk in felt like a punishment he earned. not like the party months ago, when jealously made him stupid. this was different.
it still hurt, of course. the sight of you still finds the softest place in him and presses down hard, but alongside that feeling is something else too, something close to relief. the kind of relief that isn't selfish, not the kind that thinks you being here means anything profound for him. just relief that you are here, that you are laughing at something and look less tense and that the world has held you and taken care of you even when he wasn't allowed to.
jake breathes in slowly. he just looks at you for one honest second from the distance and lets himself have it.
he misses you. he loves you. and for once, neither of those things has to become a demand. then, like you feel it too because of course you would, your eyes shift across the rooftop and land on him.
the noise around him dulls just slightly, and your expression changes, just barely. a flicker of surprise, then softening into something he can't name quite yet. but he just stays where he is anyways, and after a second, he gives you the smallest nod.
you look at him for a long moment. then, you give him the smallest smile back.
somewhere close to midnight, the rooftop starts to shift in that slow and natural way new year's eve parties tend to do. people shift toward the railing with their champagne in hand, someone turns the music down just enough for the dj's voice to cut through the cold air, announcing the ten-minute warning with too much enthusiasm and then people start pairing off without meaning to.
jay gets pulled into a conversation near the bar, heeseung disappears with two champagne glasses and jake just gives him a thumbs up of good luck, and sunghoon is arguing with someone about fireworks, someone who is most likely going to be the unfortunate individual who is going to kiss him in ten minutes.
and somehow, in the middle of all of it, jake's eyes find yours across the rooftop. but this time, he doesn't look away. you're standing near the far side of the crowd, one hand tucked into your coat sleeve, your face lit softly by the lights overhead. you look beautiful.
he loves how simple and true the thought is. how it doesn't arrive with panic this time, but just tenderness. just the ache of knowing, even after all this time, even after everything he ruined and everything he learned, his heart still knows exactly where to look.
so jake crosses the rooftop slowly.
he just walks towards you with his pulse beating hard and loud in this throat, weaving past laughing friends and drunk strangers and half-empty glasses and people holding up their phones towards the skyline.
you see him coming, and your shoulders tense slightly, but you don't leave, which he takes as a good sign. when he stops in front of you, the music is loud enough that he has to lean in just a little, close enough for you to see the exhaustion in his eyes, the faint redness there, the months he spent missing you without asking you to do anything about it.
"hey," he says quietly.
your throat moves. "hey."
for a second, neither of you says anything. then, because jake is still jake, and because his heart is currently trying to crawl out of his chest, he says the first honest thing he can manage.
âyou look good.â
you pause for a moment, then give him a soft smile. âyou do too.â
he lets out a breath that nearly becomes a laugh. âi really donât.â
and then the tension almost breaks right there, with that small flicker of something comforting and familiar falling in between the two of you. your mouth trembles like youâre trying not to smile too much but also trying not to cry at the same time.
the music goes quiet again for a moment while the dj announces five minutes until midnight and the rooftop cheers.
jake glances toward the crowd, then back at you.
âcan we go somewhere quieter?â he asks. then, quickly, softer, âonly if you want to.â
you look at him for a moment and your eyes flicker to the skyline before back to him, and then you finally nod.Â
jake leads you inside to the lounge just past the rooftop's glass doors, where it's empty now and the lights are dim and warm. through the large windows, the party continues outside in a blur of coats and gold lights and people waiting for the year to end. he closes the door behind you and all the noise goes muffled immediately.Â
you stand a few feet apart in silence, arms wrapped around yourselves against the chill still clinging to your clothes, both of you reflected faintly in the glass.
then jake looks at you, and he really, really looks. and then for the first time in a long, long time, he lets himself be brave.
"i figured it out, by the way."
your eyes flick up to his as if in a quick second of shock before looking away just as quickly.
he swallows hard. "not everything. i donât think anyone ever figures out everything. but what you asked me that night. what i wanted, why i left, why i kept coming back. all of it."
you don't say anything, your eyes now trained on something past him just so you don't have to look at him quite yet. he keeps going.
"i left you because i was scared," he says, voice low. "not because i stopped loving you or because you were holding me back, or because we were wrong. but because i loved you so much that i couldn't admit it and i turned it into something i thought i had to save both of us from." his voice cracks. "but i didn't."
you look up at him now, and your eyes shine immediately.
jakeâs hands curl at his sides, like his body still wants to reach for you before he has earned the right.
"i was trying to control the ending," he stops, letting the words sit for a moment. "because some awful part of me was terrified that one day you would wake up and realize you didn't need me when i still needed you. that maybe you had become my whole life, but i was only part of yours and if you left first, i wouldn't know how to survive it. so i left first, i hurt you first, and then i convinced myself it was love because the truth sounded uglier."
a tear slips down your cheek, and jake sees it immediately and he almost stops. he almost stops, but he doesn't. he can't, not now, not after he spent a year missing you, hurting you, hurting himself, and hiding.
not when stopping would be easier for him, and the whole point is that he is done choosing what is easy for him.
"and then i kept doing it," he whispers. "i kept coming back to you in pieces i could get because being near you was the only time i didn't feel like i had ruined my own life completely. but it wasn't fair, i know it wasn't. i wanted the comfort of you without giving you the certainty you deserved."
somewhere beyond the glass, the dj's voice cuts through the music, muffled but clear enough, one minute left.
your lips part slightly, like you might say something, but jake shakes his head, eyes burning now.
"iâm not saying this because i expect you to forgive me tonight. iâm not saying it because itâs new yearâs and everyone outside is about to kiss someone and iâm lonely. iâm not asking you to fix me. iâm not asking you to come back because i finally got hurt enough to say the right thing."
he takes a breath. then another. then he holds your gaze carefully.
"i'm saying it because you deserve to hear the truth from me. because i figured it out, and i couldn't let you go thinking my confusion meant you were ever easy to lose."
thirty seconds and people outside start gathering loudly, but neither of you move.
"i know how to be without you now," jake says, voice breaking around it, eyes glassy. "and i hate it. i really, really hate it, but i know how. i can wake up and live my life and stand in rooms where youâre missing and not make that your responsibility."
fifteen seconds.
his eyes search yours.
"but i look at you," he whispers, taking one small step closer, "and i still see my future."
your face crumples and jake wants to reach for you so badly his fingers twitch at his sides.
ten.
"not because i donât have one without you," his voice breaks again, and he has to swallow hard, "but because every version of me that is honest, every version that isnât scared and running and pretending, still chooses you. and not as a place to hide, not as someone to hold me together. just you."
five.
jake finally lifts his hand, slowly, carefully, letting it hover just beside yours, giving you every chance to step away.
four.
"i love you," he says, the words spilling out now in that quick way they do when itâs just the truth and he canât stop it anymore. "i love you in a way i shouldâve been brave enough to choose the first time. and if you canât choose me back anymore, iâll understand. iâll hate it, but iâll understand."
three.
your eyes drop to his hand, then back up to his face. and then finally, you reach for him, your fingers slipping into his, cold and trembling, and jake lets out a breath that sounds broken.
two.
âi love you,â you breathe, voice shaking, face wet. âand i never stopped choosing you. i just needed you to choose me back.â
one.
the rooftop erupts outside in loud cheers, fireworks bursting over the city, gold and red and blue spilling across the glass, lighting your face in flashes.
jake hesitates for one heartbreaking second, his forehead nearly touching yours now, his breath trembling against your mouth, like even now he's asking. even now, he's waiting. because after everything, after all the hurt and healing and polite smiles and quiet looks, after all the late night drives and one more times he had no right to ask for, he needs this part to be yours.
not taken, not assumed by him, but yours to choose.
and so you do.
you tilt your face up, and you kiss him. and it's barely anything at first, it's soft and a trembling press of your mouth to his, so light it almost feels like both of you are afraid to ask for more. but then jake kisses you back, just as gentle, and just as disbelieving. but then your fingers tighten in his and your other hand finds the front of his jacket and you lean closer, pressing yourself into his hold and then it's desperate in the quietest way. the kind that comes from two people choosing, after the long, long road behind them, to find their way back to one another.
he kisses you like this is something he should have been more careful with from the start, one hand holding you at the waist, the other rising to your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear he caused and is finally trying to deserve the chance to heal.
you kiss him back like youâve been holding your breath for months. like anger and love and grief and relief all have nowhere else to go except the small, fragile space between you.
outside, people are screaming happy new year. people are kissing and hugging and spilling champagne onto the rooftop floor and laughing into the cold.Â
inside, jake pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, breathing unevenly, eyes wet. neither of your move, his thumb staying against your cheek, your fingers staying twisted in his jacket.Â
and the year begins quietly between you. itâs not perfect, itâs not untouched, but itâs yours.Â
"happy new year," he whispers.
you let out a tiny broken laugh, your fingers tightening like youâre still making sure heâs there. then you look up at him.Â
"happy new year, jaeyun."
and this time, when you say his name, it sounds like coming back home. not because the long and complicated road behind you disappeared. it hasnât, it will always be there.
synopsis à âșâ⧠simp, i mean, sim jaeyun is a hopeless romantic. a cursed hopeless romantic, he would say, doomed to exist as just your friend, nothing more. but when his genius (read: nerdy) best friend creates a highly accurate matchmaking app for the university, jake is ready to bribe, beg, and possibly sell his soul to make sure he gets paired with you. plan a? hack the system. plan b? there is no plan b. simp jaeyun is all in.
°Ë⎠.á addie ââ it's finally done! i'm nervvy because i haven't posted a fic in almost three years now,,,but i randomly got inspo one day after seeing a tiktok about a matchmaking questionnare and now here we are! i loved writing these characters, it was so much fun,,,but i also don't know how to feel abt the whole thing so i hope people enjoy this !! :â)) à«źê° Ë¶âą àŒ âąË¶ê±á âĄ
SIMPLY PUT, SIM JAEYUN IS A SIMP. His name should honestly be legally changed from Sim Jae-yun to Simp Jae-yun at this point.Â
Jake doesnât fall often, but when he does, he hits the ground with the force of a malfunctioning rocket ship. Once in the third grade, a girl gave him a Hello Kitty bandage after he face-planted off the playground swings. Cute, right? Well, Jake was so smitten, he spent the next week sliding his prized dino chicken nuggets across the lunch table like they were some ancient currency to win her over. Â
Did it work? Sort of. Did she eat all his nuggets without ever looking back? Absolutely. Â
But this? With you? This is different. Â
Jake would give up more than just his room-temp mystery-meat pterodactyls for you. He thinks heâd willingly cat-sit twelve catsâdespite his strong dislike for cats. He thinks heâd voluntarily train for the national triathlonâdespite always getting winded walking up the two flights of stairs to get to his apartment. Heâd probably let you have the last Supreme pizza slice, which for Jake, is basically like offering you his soul on a silver platter.Â
Forget fallingâJake didnât just trip, no. He plummeted into a cartoon-style pit, the kind covered with leaves spread over the top like some dollar-store disguise. Heâs still down there, metaphorically flailing around like a maniac while youâre chilling up above, completely unaware that you Tom & Jerry-ed his heart.Â
In hindsight, Jake hopelessly pining for you was about as inevitable as a rom-com misunderstanding. The second his childhood best friend Graceâaka your college best friend and roommateâintroduced you guys during freshman year orientation, Jake was hit with the biggest, dumbest case of whiplash known to mankind.Â
You were so confident, so outgoing, so unapologetically you. You were like sunshine, and Jake was just there, squinting and hoping he wouldn't spontaneously combust into a thousand ashes from simply staring at you.Â
But, as with all classic tropes (and pining fanfics), Jake knows that mixing friend groups and love interests is a recipe for disaster. And not just any disasterâa culinary trainwreck. Worse than whatever recipe the dining hall uses to make their sad excuse for tacos. Like, is it beef? Is it tofu? Who knows, and honestly, I don't think anyone wants to know. Â
Anyways, that brings us to today: a couple years later, with Jake still mooning over his friend. His feelings remain the best-kept secret in the history of best-kept secretsâwell, if secrets were meant to be as obvious as a neon sign in a blackout.Â
In fact, Jakeâs attempts at subtlety are about as smooth as a drunk giraffe on roller skates. Whenever you walk into the room, itâs like someone hits the âshutdownâ button on his brain. One second, heâs cracking jokes and holding conversations just fine, the next? Boom. Total system failure. You can almost hear the Windows XP error sound the moment you catch him off guard with a smile.
Itâs not that Jake canât talk to youâheâs your friend, after all. But the second he catches your sweet laugh or smile and his feelings come rolling in and the butterflies come out? Well, thatâs when words start slipping through his fingers like sand, and his once confident banter turns into a cautious game of verbal Jenga.Â
His brilliant solution?
Simple: stick to safe topics and keep it light. Foolproof, right? Well, if your idea of foolproof includes missed opportunities and enough internal cringe to fuel a thousand regret-filled 3am thoughts.
Luckily for him, youâve gone all these years mistaking his massive, raging, hormonal crush on you as part of his âfriendly, sweet, soft-spoken boyâ personality. And Jake? Heâll take that over an awkward-confession-which-may-lead-to-a-crash-and-burn-outcome any day.Â
Honestly, who wouldnât? Jake thinks as he glances at you from across the lunch table, currently laughing at one of Jayâs terrible puns. Yep, being friends with you is totally fine⊠totally fine⊠totally fine.
Jakeâs totally fine.
Jake is totally not one more bad-Jay-pun away from writing tragic love haikus in his Notes app and forming a backstory about his unrequited feelings.
As if right on cue, Jay cracks a banana-physics joke (because, obviously, Jay is an expert in theoretical physics despite never having taken a class), and while everyone else is laughing, Jakeâs over here, contemplating the meaning of life:
Her laugh echoes bright,
Iâm lost, no GPS found,
Help, Iâm still simping.
Jake stares down at his phone, horrified. Did he seriously just⊠haiku his feelings? Help. Is this what rock-bottom looks like?
"Alright listen up you peasants," Heeseung clears his throat dramatically as he suddenly approaches the group's lunch table located outside on campus grounds, interrupting Jake's poetic inner melodrama. "Your savior has arrived."Â Â
âThis better be good, Hee. The last time you said that, you tried to convince us that you could drink five Red Bulls, pull an all-nighter, and still pass that chem exam,â you smirk questionably.Â
Heeseung points at you. âAnd I did pass.âÂ
âYou got a 61%,â Grace says, not even looking up from her phone.Â
âThatâs still passing!â Heeseung declares, full of confidence. âAnyway, this time is different. Iâve been working on something life-changing.âÂ
Jake shoots a glance in your direction before quickly looking away. He wants to say something witty, something that could make you laugh, but his brain is like, nah bro, not today. Instead, he nervously fidgets with the sleeve of his hoodie. Since when was there a hole there?
âLife-changing?â Jay leans back in his chair, arms crossed, wearing his usual smirk. âWhat, are you finally going to start that YouTube channel where you rank ramen brands?âÂ
Heeseung rolls his eyes as he takes a seat, âFirst of all, that channel is coming. But no, this is better. Way better. Iâve createdâŠâÂ
He pauses for dramatic effect, looking at everyone and drumming his fingers against the table,ââŠa matchmaking algorithm.âÂ
You burst out laughing, breaking the silence of the table, âWhat? Like a dating app?âÂ
âIs this about to be Tinder, but, like, nerdy?â Grace raises an eyebrow, intrigued but skeptical.Â
âNot quite. Itâs a scientific, algorithm-based matching system, designed to pair people based on compatibility and mutual interests. And, lucky for you all, Iâm testing it out on campus,â Heeseung grins, completely unbothered.Â
Jakeâs heart skips a beat. Matchmaking? His mind first immediately goes to you. And then, downright panic. What if this robot thing pairs you with someone else? Oh god, what if it pairs you with, like, Jay, and he has to watch you guys flirt non-stop while he sits in the corner like a sad, dying houseplant? (mental note: water your houseplants when you get back to your dorm, jake!)
âDidnât you also say it was âscientificâ when you ate an entire pack of Mentos and then drank Coke?â Graceâs brows furrow at the boy.
Heeseung scoffs at her dramatically. âThat was for science. This is for love.âÂ
You lean forward into the table, clearly interested.
âSo youâre saying this app will scientifically find me a soulmate?â Your eyes light up and Jakeâs heart skips a second beat as they happen to make eye contact with him as you say that. Please let that soulmate be me. Please. âWhatâs the catch? Youâre not the type to just⊠help people find 'love' for free.âÂ
Heeseung shrugs, pretending to be modest, âNot true! Iâm doing this purely out of the goodness of my heart.âÂ
Jay coughs, "Cap.âÂ
âOkay, fine,â Heeseung admits, âitâs for a coding competition. The winner gets a yearâs worth of free ramen from that noodle place near the dorms.âÂ
Graceâs jaw drops. âYou mean Noodle Nirvana? The one with the spicy miso?âÂ
âPrecisely, the one with the spicy miso," Heeseung nods proudly.Â
You let out a giggle, âSo youâre telling me, youâve created a love machine just so you can hoard ramen?âÂ
âCorrection,â Heeseung says, raising a finger, âIâve created a highly advanced matchmaking algorithm to bring people together and also hoard ramen.âÂ
âGood enoughâ you shrug, raising your iced coffee in a mock toast to your nerdy friend. âSign me up.âÂ
Oh no. Jake's heart skips a third beat (someone get him an ambulance please). Oh god, you're most definitely going to get matched up with someone else. And if that happens, bye-bye to the 12 black cats heâs already mentally prepared to care for. Bye-bye triathlon training. Â
But on the other hand...this could be Jake's golden opportunityâthat is if somehow the universe decides to play nice and matches you with him. This could be his chance, his moment, his... immediate descent into chaos.Â
"Can your app match me with that cute barista that works at the campus boba shop every Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays from 12pm to 5pm?" Jay's eyes sparkle with curiosity and excitement. Â
Heeseung gives Jay a look that says heâs one step away from calling campus security. "First of all, thatâs borderline stalker territory. Second, no. It doesnât work that way."
"So..there's no way you can influence the results at all? It's purely the robotâs doing?" you cock your head at Heeseung.Â
"Again, it's an algorithm! Not a robot," he then shrugs, "and Iâm above bribery. Unless, of course, youâve got a worthy offer."
"ooOoOh, corruption? Me likey," Jayâs eyebrows shoot up in mischief, "I'm in. Where do I sign up?"Â
âAlready done, my friends. Check your emails," Heeseung pulls out his phone and points at it. Â
Jakeâs phone buzzes at that moment, and when he opens it, the email is sitting at the top of his inbox. Heâs never been more nervous to open an email in his life. Well, except maybe his college acceptance letter. Or his professorâs recent feedback on his History of Modern Warfare essay.Â
You tap your screen and start reading the email out loud:
Subject: [IMPORTANT SCHOOL ANNOUNCEMENT]Â
Hello there awesome students & fellow single-tons,
Have you ever looked around campus and thought, âWow, everyone here is either taken, weird, or impossible to talk to?â Well, Iâm here to save you from the trenches of singleness with...*drumroll please*Â
THE MATCHMATIC 3000 Â â the university's very own matchmaking algorithm!Â
How does it work you ask? Simple.Â
1. Download the app from the link in this email (no, it's not a scam or a virus, I promise). Â
2. Enter your name and student ID (for verification purposes only â no catfishing allowed!)Â Â
3. Answer a bunch of super fun questions that might make you question your life choices but will definitely help MatchMatic 3000 find your perfect match!Â
Once youâre done, the app will work its algorithmic magic to pair you with someone whoâs probably just as confused about life as you are but is at least willing to share similar pizza toppings with you. The results will be sent out after a few days of algorithmic wizardry!
Why am I doing this, you ask? Because who doesnât love a good matchmaking fiasco? Itâs like throwing spaghetti at the wall and seeing what sticks, except instead of pasta, itâs your love life. And hey, if it doesnât work out, at least youâll have some hilarious stories to tell your future therapist!Â
(Please don't bill me for your therapy bill. I'm broke.)
Itâs scientifically programmed, which means itâs flawless. Trust me, Iâm very smart. Sign up now, and may your love life finally flourish. If it doesnât, well, you canât say I didnât try. Questions will be released tomorrow, so sign up today before you catch a serious case of FOMO when all the cool kids start using the app ;)
Sincerely, your friendly Campus Cupid, Â
Lee Heeseung <3Â
*Disclaimer: The university, nor I, takes no responsibility for any romantic entanglements, awkward encounters, or sudden realizations that you might be better off single. Please use the MatchMatic 3000 responsibly.*Â
You look up, trying to hold in your laughter, âHeeseung, what the hell is this?âÂ
Everyone around the table bursts into muffled giggles as they take in the sight of a 240fps gif of Heeseungâs head superimposed onto a sparkly cupidâs body, dramatically shooting an arrow into the abyss of their screens.
"It's called marketing, Y/N. You wouldn't understand,â Heeseung says unbothered.Â
âYou really called yourself campus cupid,â Grace manages to get out, laughing so hard sheâs practically wheezing.
âI said what I said,â Heeseung replies, puffing out his chest like a self-proclaimed genius. âAnd itâs true. I am your cupid. My algorithm is perfect. You guys are just haters. Just wait until I go viral and become rich and famous. Jake, you support me, right?"
Jake, who hasnât uttered a peep in maybe a century, suddenly finds himself put on the spot. Oh no, Iâve been radio silent. They probably think Iâm plotting my grand escape or something.
You turn towards Jake, waiting for his response and with a smile on your face, which is enough to send him into a decade long coma he thinks.Â
âUh... yeah, for sure. Whatever it takes for that ramen, right?â he blurts out, awkwardly throwing in a finger gun for good measure.
Nailed it.
"Jakey here is too sweet to disagree with you, Hee, â you look up at him, flashing him a soft, teasing smile.Â
And thatâs it. Jakeâs soul exits stage left.Â
He nearly chokes on his own saliva at the casual way you let the pet name roll off your tongue. Itâs as if youâve just handed him a ticket to a new dimension where 'Jakey' is a thing and heâs suddenly the happiest (and only) person on the planet.
Jakey, you called him Jakey. His mind takes an ad-break as he tries to recover. Is thisâŠflirting? Is this how normal people flirt? Or are you just trying to send him into cardiac arrest for fun?
Either way, Jakeâs officially malfunctioning. He deduces youâre just being your typical, outgoing selfâcompletely oblivious to the heart palpitations your simple actions send to Jakeâs heart. How can someone be so effortlessly charming yet unaware of the chaotic consequences?Â
âY-Yeah, totally, sorry man,â he croaks out, praying to all higher powers above that this brief interaction is over. Heeseung's love machine may be flawless, but Jake? Heâs barely functional.
Jake stares at the floor, trying to process this entire ordeal, as the rest of the table returns to their everyday conversation. This is happening. This is real. He needs to find a way to get matched with you, or else he can kiss Salt and Pepper (two of the twelve cats heâs already mentally named and is now emotionally invested in) goodbye. He glances over at you, whoâs alreadyâbless your curiosityâdownloading the app.Â
Jake gulps. Heâs doomed.Â
Today's the day. Jakeâs internal doomsday.Â
Also known as, MatchMatic-3000-launches-it's-questions-day.Â
To the group's surprise, Heeseungâs love machine has gone viral across campusâitâs been the buzz of the school since his mass email blast 24 hours ago.Â
âAlright gang, letâs see if this app is as magical as Heeseungâs ego claims!â you declare, your eyes sparkling with excitement as you join everyone at the usual lunch table outside.
Jake, sitting beside you, is staring at his phone like it holds the secrets of the universe.Â
âIâm just hoping it matches me with someone who understands the sacred bond between a man and his video game console,â he mutters, sneakily glancing at your screen to see if youâre answering questions about your favorite video games. Because obviously, thatâs the secret to his heart.Â
Youâre too engrossed in the questions on your phone to notice his subtle mission.
âEven better,â you say without looking up, âI hope it matches me with someone whoâll actually play video games with me.â
Then, you look up and throw him a quick wink. Casual. Effortless. But to Jake? Itâs like being a victim of a hit and run to the heart.Â
Heâs definitely as red as his Asian Flush after two shots of soju. Maybe three.
Jay suddenly chimes in, âWhat if the app pairs us with people who have weird hobbies? Like, what if I get matched with someone who collects miniature spoons or lives in a house made entirely of cheese?âÂ
Grace snickers at the overly dramatic boy. âJay, I think youâd thrive in a cheese house. Youâve already mastered the art of cheesy puns.â
Jake, still staring at his phone, suddenly gets an epiphany, âWait, do you think it can match you with someone whoâs just as obsessed with obscure internet memes as I am?â
You let out a giggle towards his direction, amused by his question, which makes Jake realize that he said that out loud. Well, if he made you laugh, that's a win in his book.
Heeseung, noticing Jakeâs moment of glory, nods.Â
âOh, definitely. You might end up with someone who can appreciate a well-timed âDogeâ meme or has a shrine dedicated to Rickrolling."
âThese questions are so random! A black cat or a golden retriever? What does that even mean?â you exclaim suddenly, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.Â
âExcuse me, itâs all about the science of psychology, Y/Nââ Heeseung stabs his fork into his pasta with an almost theatrical flair, ââthe algorithm needs to understand your deepest preferences. Itâs not about cats or dogs; itâs about what your choices say about your soul.â
Jay, munching on his questionable-looking dining hall taco, grins. âSo, basically, the appâs trying to figure out if weâre more âmoody cat personâ or âhappy-go-lucky dog lover.â Got it.â
Jakeâs thumb hovers nervously over his screen as he reaches the same question himself. His eyes dart back to your screen but canât seem to make out what youâve selected. Youâre biting your lip in concentration, and Jakeâs brain glitches for a second because, wow, how can someone look so cute answering stupid personality questions?
Heeseung notices Jakeâs expression from across the table and leans back in his chair with a knowing smirk. âJake, you look like youâre solving world hunger over there. Whatâs the deal? Just pick whatever, man.âÂ
âIâmâIâm just being thorough, okay? This appâs gonna decide my entire love life. No pressure or anything,â Jake shifts uncomfortably, his face heating up. Â
Jay snorts, stuffing yet another taco in his mouth, "Jakeâs acting like the appâs about to determine the rest of his life. Just chill, man. Youâll get paired with someone. Even if itâs someone who only eats purple foods or, I donât know, makes miniatures of their exes.âÂ
"Y/N's definitely getting paired with someone awesome," Grace teases, nudging you playfully from your other side. "Someone tall, athletic, probably knows how to cook gourmet meals."Â Â
Jake internally winces at the description. Tall? He's definitely 6 feet...on a good day...with the right shoes. Athletic? Jake plays soccer! Well..played. In, like, middle school. Gourmet meals? He considers dino nuggets a gourmet meal so...he's practically a Michelin-star chef. Â
You laugh at Grace's comment, shaking your head, "Honestly, I'm just hoping for someone who doesn't ghost me after three texts. Low bar, I know."Â Â
Jake swallows besides you. Three texts. Got it. Don't ghost her, even if you do forget what words are in her presence. Â
Suddenly, you look up from your phone and turn to lock eyes with Jake. "What did you put Jake? Black cat or golden retriever?"Â Â
Jake freezes. Oh no, is this a test? This is definitely a test. He panics for a split second while his brain scrambles for the lobe that contains actual, cohesive, vocabulary.
"Uh, golden retriever. Definitely," he blurts out, voice higher than usual. "Golden retrievers are...loyal. And fun. Kinda like...you?" The last part slips out before he can stop himself. Â
The table goes silent. Jay chokes on his suspicious taco. Grace's eyebrows shoot up in amusement. Heeseung stares at Jake like he's watching the most entertaining drama unfold right in front of him.Â
You blink at Jake, then follow it with a soft giggle. "You're comparing me to a dog now?"Â Â
Jake goes bright red, stammering as he's viciously shaking his head, "NoâI meanânot like that! I just meantâ"Â Â
But you're still laughing next to him, he can feel your shoulders happily shaking against his, and while he's completely mortified, he can't help but feel the tiniest flicker of hope. At least you're laughing with him, not at him. Right? Right? Â
"Did anyone consider the fact that we might get matched up with one another?" Jay changes the topic as he wipes the remaining taco shell crumbs off his mouth.
Jake notices the look of pure horror plastered on both you and Grace's faces. Â
"Ew," you pretend to gag, while Grace laughs next to you. "Hard pass. You've got the same level of commitment as a first grader has with finishing their homework, and Heeseungâs definitely gonna end up marrying a computer. Plankton and Karen style. I think I'd rather date a Roomba. And you know I hate Roombas."Â Â
Jake can't help the smile tugging at his lips. He knows you're joking, but hearing you rule out the other two makes him feel just a little better. But then...wait. Â
You didn't say anything about Jake. What if youâve already ruled Jake out, too? Not even a contender against Jay and Heeseung? The panic sets in as he thinks oh god, maybe she sees me like an actual Roombaâjust following her around, waiting for crumbs of affection.Â
Heeseung feigns hurt by dramatically clutching his heart. "Oh no. I'm so heartbroken," he deadpans. Â
"I'd date you, Hee, don't worry," Jay winks, and without missing a beat, Heeseung blows him an exaggerated air kiss. "Thanks, babe."Â
Jake, still lost in his thoughts, wonders if heâs been friend-zoned so hard heâs transcended into actual appliance territory, right next to the Roombas.
Everyone's laughing over Heeseung and Jay's antics, while Jake here is spiraling into a full-on existential crisis over accepting his fate as the Roomba of your heart.Â
Is this my life now? I'm a...self-cleaning vacuum?
Jake comes to a realization the next morning: he canât just settle for being the human equivalent of a non-sentient vacuum in your life. He needs to take actionâand he needs to do it fast. Especially before the algorithm matches you with some 6-foot-tall, athletic, five-star chef who probably wakes up with flawless skin and has a perfectly curated Spotify playlist. Â
Jakeâs brain scrambles for ideas, as he stares hopelessly at the blank essay document on his laptop titled: "History of Modern Warfare (with revisions)" His essay can wait. World War II may have been a big deal, but this? This is you. Only the most important thing to walk this earth (in Jake's eyes, at least). Â
What would a normal human being do? Grow a pair, march right up to you, and say something charming (probably, Jake wouldn't know). But Jake? Jake knows thereâs a higher chance of him learning to speak fluent French in the next 24 hours than actually telling you how he feels.
Because that would require practiceâin front of a mirror, at least five times a day, for three days straight. And by then, the matches will already be out, and you'll be swept off your feet by some handsome demigod in human form. Â
Jake sighs as he tries to type at least one sentence of his essay, hoping it will distract him from his lingering thoughts of you. Your smile, your laughter, your wink, your voice saying âJakeyâ...Â
âThe Battle of Normandy marked a significant turning pointâŠâÂ
Jake frowns. Turning point. Oh, great. Thatâs exactly what Jakeâs waiting forâa turning point with you. Except his 'battle plan' is to let Heeseungâs love algorithm do the work for him. Yeah, sure. Because nothing says romantic courage like leaving your fate up to a glorified love machine.Â
Jake groans at the screen. He tries to type more, but his brain is already spiraling into worst-case scenarios. What if you get matched with someone who can bench-press a refrigerator? Or worseâsomeone who actually knows how to emotionally open up to you?
Frustrated, Jake slams his laptop shut, earning dirty glares from the students studying quietly around him in the library. His essay is long forgotten at this point. Who cares about The Battle of Normandy when his entire (nonexistent) love life is crumbling right in front of him? Â
He pulls at his hair in sheer desperation, searching for answers, any answers, to this disaster. Think, Jake, think!Â
Wait.Â
That's it. Â
Answers. He needs answers! Not the kind that would magically fix his social dysfunction around you. No, not thoseâthatâs way beyond saving.
But your answers. The ones you put into The Matchmatic 3000. If Jake could somehow get a hold of those, he could match his responses to yours perfectly. Then BAM! Instant match. One foot in the door. Then maybe, just maybe, you'd stop seeing him as some automated dust-sucker.Â
A smile forms across Jake's face. Pure genius (self-proclaimed, of course). Â
Yes, this is the solution to all his problems. Well, except for the crippling anxiety and social awkwardness part. But one thing at a time, right?Â
Now he just needs your answers. Â
And possibly a therapist.Â
âJake! What's wrong?" Grace appears at Jake's table tucked away in the back of the library, her hair frazzled and disheveled from her sprint across campus as a result of Jake's âSOSâ text.
Jake is sitting at the table, hands folded, looking perfectly intact, totally not at all in an âSOSâ situation, and has a small smile on his face as he looks up at his best friend.Â
âI figured it out!â
"You better tell me you just figured out time travel or the cure for world hunger, because I just full-on sprinted across campus thinking you got your laptop stolen or, heaven forbid, you got your hand trapped in the printer again,â Grace's eyes narrow as she takes a seat across from him.Â
"I told you not to mention that again! It was an honest mistake," Jake's eyes widen, afraid people around them heard about Jake's embarrassingly tragic battle with the libraryâs printer. "But no, it's even better than that. It's kinda...off the books though."
Grace blinks back at him. "How off the books? Like...'help me hide the body' off the books, or 'expose the secret recipe to the dining hall's mysterious tacos' off the books?â
Jake glances around to make sure no one's eavesdropping, then lowers his voice, "More like...'help me get Y/N's answers to the Matchmatic 3000' off the books?"
There's a beat of silence as Grace struggles to process the absurdity of what she just heard. Â
âWait, hold up. You want me to help you cheat the dating app?â
Jake nods fervently, if not a little desperately.Â
"It's not cheating! Call it...strategic alignment. I need to make sure I match with her. That's the only way I could ever get a chance, and you're the only one who can help me!"
Grace leans in from across the table, clearly in disbelief, yet amused, "So let me get this straight...you want me to somehow get her answers, so you can change yours to match hers, in hopes that Hee's magical AI or whatever pairs you two together?"
Jake attempts to give her his best 'please help me' puppy eyes, but it's clear he's more of a lost kitten right now.
"And you're asking me to get my hands dirty...why exactly?" She smirks at the fidgety Jake, finding his over-the-top desperation for you both amusing and oddly endearing.
"Uh..because you're my best friend, duh. And also, you're the closest to herâif Jay and Hee found out, they'd never let me live it down! And Jay would probably make a TikTok about it just to watch me die from embarrassment," Jake rambles, hoping he can convince the seemingly unimpressed girl in front of him.
âUh-huh," Grace raises an eyebrow. "And whatâs in it for me? Sure, I'm your best friend, but I'm also her friend and ever-so-loyal roommate. You're asking for a lot here, bud."
Jake looks flustered for a moment, as if he hadnât really thought about that part.Â
âUh, well, I couldâumâmaybe buy you coffee for a week? Or, I donât know, do your physics thesis project you've been avoiding."
Grace pretends to consider his offer for a second, but the second he mentions âphysics thesis projectâ, her decision is instantly made.
"Fine," she sighs, leaning back in her chair. "But just so you know, if this goes sideways, I was never here."
Jake smiles like he just won the lottery. Salt & Pepper, here I come!
"But alsoâŠ," Grace begins, looking right at Jake, making him squirm. Not in a cute Y/N-noticed-me type of squirm, but the oh-no-I'm-about-to-get-lectured kind. "Take my advice, Jake. Stop being a wuss."
Jake's grin falters at his friend's sudden, but painfully true, words.
Grace leans in, her voice serious, "I mean, you can't just hide behind an app and hope for the best. If you really want a shot with Y/N, you need to actually, I donât know, tell her your feelings? She's not some untouchable goddess who's going to smite you for shooting their shot."Â
Jake winces. "But what if she's not interested? What if I make it weird? What ifâ"
"Jake," Grace's voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts. "You won't know unless you try! And you're a great guy, but how would Y/N know that if you don't open yourself up more? Seriously, what's the worst that could happen?"
"Uh. Spontaneous combustion? If I look her in the eyes for longer than 5 seconds, I just might implode. Or, you know, cease to exist," Jake deadpans, his hands gesturing wildly to emphasize his impending doom.
Grace snorts at her poor, poor friend, clearly amused by his romantic spiral. "Okay, first, no one's ever died from eye contact, buddy. Second, I'm not saying you should storm out there and go ask for her hand in marriage or anythingâplease, don't do that. I'm just saying, just at least try talking to her more maybe.â Baby steps, Grace thinks, baby steps.Â
Jake blinks. She's right. Of course she's right. He canât let some algorithm control his entire love life, no matter how advanced or magical Heeseung claims it is.
Grace, seeing Jake's gears slowly turning, throws him a lifeline: âAlright, fine. If it makes you feel better, she may or may not have called you cute once. Better?"
Jake freezes. His eyes widen like a deer caught in headlights. Cute? You called him cute? All the oxygen leaves his lungs, and heâs pretty sure heâs about to pass out right here in the library.Â
"Wait, what?"
"Donât get too excited," Grace smirks, clearly enjoying watching Jake short-circuit. "She said it in passing. Once."
Jake, now on the verge of a mental breakdown, blurts out, "Like, âaw-that-puppy-is-cuteâ cute? Or like, âheâs-so-cute-I-wanna-kiss-himâ cute? I need specifics, Grace!"
Graceâs grin widens, watching her friend spiral into oblivion. "Jake, youâre overthinking it again. Relax. Just take the win."
"Grace, please, I'm begging you. On a scale from 'puppy' to 'kiss', where do I stand?!" Jake's eyes are practically bugging out of his head at this point.Â
Grace rolls her eyes, but her teasing smile doesn't falter. "If you keep freaking out like this, youâre gonna drop down to 'awkward goldfish' cute real quick."Â
"Iâm doomed,â Jake groans, burying his face in his hands.Â
Grace pats his back with mock sympathy. "Yep. But at least she'll think you're cute while doing it."
Jake peeks at her through his fingers. âYou think she meant 'kiss' cute?â
"Finish your plan first, lover boy. Then weâll talk."
Jake canât help the ridiculous smile growing on his face.
"I hate this. I hate the circulatory system. Why do I even need to know what the âsuperior vena cavaâ is," you groan as you take a sip of what's left of your watered down iced matcha.
Grace hums in front of you as her eyes continually scan the textbook, desperate to absorb just enough information to survive tomorrow's anatomy quiz.
"Because it keeps you alive, Y/N. Duh," Grace jokes as her eyes stay peeled to her textbook.
"Screw that," you scoff. "I don't need the circulatory system to keep me alive. I just need caffeine and BTS's entire discography pumped through my veins to live."
Grace finally glances up, giving you an amused side-eye at your usual dramatic flair, before she remembers she has an important mission at hand:Â
Operation Jake & Y/N.Â
Grace slams her textbook closed with a dramatic thud to show she's finished studying (she's not).Â
"Sooo...speaking of circulatory systems and...hearts and...stuffâdid you ever finish filling out the questions for Hee's love app thingy?"
You, oblivious to the sudden change in topic, shrug as you fish your straw around your plastic cup, hoping to find more drops of watery matcha to savor.Â
"Yeah, I finished it the other day. It took me forever though. Like, why does it need to know if I'd rather have a personal trainer who can only teach me interpretive dance versus a personal chef who can only cook cereal? I swear Hee was on some drugs or something while creating those questions."
"Not drugs, probably an unhealthy amount of caffeine and ramen though," Grace snorts, still trying to play it cool.
"Caffeine is a drug, doofus," you say pointedly, right before you get a smack in the forehead by Grace's crumbled up straw wrapper.
"Whatever," Grace laughs. "Hey I'm curiousâwhat did you put for your answers? Wanna compare? See how similar we are?" Grace's leg is bouncing under the table, trying to keep up the âsmoothâ façade, hoping you won't find her sudden interest weird.
"Sure, why not?" you nonchalantly agree, not thinking twice about the random request.
Grace blinks in surprise. That was...way easier than expected. She was ready to prepare some elaborate excuse, like âI need your answers to match you up with my desperate best friend who's head over heels for you!â
Oh wait. That part is real. You get the gist.
"Unless...," you pause suddenly. Uh oh. "Unless you're going to sell my answers to some mad scientist and they try to make an evil clone of me to take over the world and end up framing me and I'll have to clear my name in a dramatic world-televised court trial."
Grace blinks, before rolling her eyes, as her nervous heartbeat returns to a normal rate.Â
âYou're so goddamn weird sometimes.âÂ
You beam at your friend, clearly amused at yourself, as you scroll through your answers and send screenshots to Grace without a second thought. "Sent! Oh, and send me yoursâI wanna know what you put for 'Stuck in a room with Shrek for 24 hours' versus 'Fight 100 duck-sized horses.'"
âOh, vibe with Shrek, 100%,â Grace answers without skipping a beat, earning an agreeing high five from you.
Grace is ecstatic. This was so much easier than she thought. Not only does this mean her desperate best friend will finally get his shot with you (which also means she wonât have to hear his dramatic overthinking questions over whether you sharing a sandwich with him was a cosmic sign or just a sandwich), but it also guarantees her a week of free coffee and an A+ in physics for this semester.
She quickly types out a quick message to Jake as you're still distracted by your now near empty matcha cup:
Grace [1:26PM]: "mission accomplished. prepare for epic matchmaking success and a lifetime supply of guilt-free caffeine. for me, ofc"
Grace leans back in satisfaction, practically tasting the sweet (and caffeinated) taste of victory. She's done her end of Mission Impossible, and now it's up to Jake to do...well, whatever Jake does in these situations.
Her phone buzzes with a reply from Jake:
Jake [1:28PM]: THANK YOU!!! also...not a lifetime supply...just a week. don't get it twisted"
"Look, all I'm saying is," you declare, leaning back on the couch, "if all five of us pitch in, we could most definitely rob a bank."Â
What had started as a group study session two hours ago in your and Grace's apartment has, as usual, turned into your friend group's typical day of hanging out: wildly imagining scenarios so far removed from reality that thereâs absolutely no chance youâd end up in themâbut entertaining the idea anyway, because what else are you going to do when you're supposed to be studying?
Grace snickers from beside you, "Yeah, and with your stealth skills, we'd get caught in about three business seconds. You literally screamed when I dropped that piece of paper yesterday."
"It startled me! Gravity's such a scary concept, okay?" You huff, arms crossed. Jake, sitting on your other side, fights back the slight grin growing on his face as he watches you scrunch your face in that way he secretly finds unfairly cute, even if it is over your fear of inanimate objects. So weirdly adorable.
Heeseung, sitting cross-legged on the floor from across the couch, raises an eyebrow, âY/N, do you even know how banks work?â
âSheâs got the spirit. Iâd give her a solid 7/10 for enthusiasm. Execution, though? Negative two,â Jay says as crosses his arms with a grin from beside Heeseung.Â
You grab and throw a couch pillow at him, which he dodges with ease, sticking out his tongue. Jake instinctively shifts closer to you, to your oblivion, like heâs ready to shield you from any incoming retaliation missiles.
âWhat, and youâd be the brains of the operation? Mr. âI forgot my own phone password for two days?ââ You fire back.
Jay shrugs, unfazed, âHey, no need to bring up the past. We all make mistakes.â
âYeah,â Jake finally chimes in, hoping you will notice how smooth he sounds, âbut not all of us text our own phone âWhy wonât you let me in?â while the password is literally â1234.ââ
Everyone laughs, except Jay, who gasps and points dramatically at Jake, âBetrayal. How dare you?â
âItâs public knowledge, bro. You told everyone,â Jake raises his hands in defense, but his eyes keep flickering back to you, wondering if your sweet laughter is because of him this time. And call him delusional, but he really thinks it is. You throw your head back from laughing so hard, at some point your hand graces Jakeâs knee next to yours to stabilize yourself.Â
Itâs no secretâwell, at least not to Graceâthat Jakeâs newfound confidence around you is all thanks to that one tiny lifeline Grace threw him: you called him cute once. Just once. And now, Jakeâs running with it, holding on for dear life, and convincing himself that maybe, just maybe, you think about him the same way he thinks about you. Maybe.Â
âI told you all in confidence! That was a moment of weakness!â Jay crosses his arms, looking like a child who just got scolded at. âI trusted you people.â
Grace, grabbing a handful of popcorn from the coffee table, pouts at Jay, âAnd that, my friend, was your first mistake.âÂ
âEt tu, Grace?â Jay gasps, clutching his chest like heâs been personally victimized by the betrayal of his closest friends. WellâŠhe was.Â
Heeseung, shaking his head, cuts in, âOkay, but if weâre robbing a bank, Iâm in charge. Iâm the only one here with any common sense.âÂ
You frown, âWhat do you mean? I have common sense! I brushed my teeth today and everything!â
Jake watches you with a soft smile, finding even your exaggerated outrage so weirdly adorable.
Grace bursts out laughing, âY/N, sweetie, thatâs basic hygiene, not common sense. But good job. Weâre all proud of you.â
Jake, clearly riding his boost of confidence from earning that one (1) laugh from you, decides to add in and nods, looking completely serious, âHonestly, I think we should celebrate that. Maybe get you a gold sticker or something.âÂ
âYou guys are bullies,â you mutter, sinking into the couch, but you're laughing too. Jake tries to hide how melted he feels when you laugh like thatâall bright and simply, you.
âIt's nothing personal, Y/N,â Heeseung adds, smirking, "but you can't easily get startled by inanimate objects and claim you have common sense."
Jay snickers, pointing at you, âRemember that time you thought the vacuum was attacking you?â
You shoot him a glare, debating on throwing yet another couch pillow at him, âIt moved on its own, okay? Thatâs suspicious.â
"The Roomba was doing its job. You nearly declared war on the thing," Grace, mouth full of popcorn, can't defend you on this one.
Jake, on the other hand, feels compelled to defend you, even if he knows itâs ridiculous. You know, since he could relate to the whole impending-mental-doom-by-a-Roomba thing, "The Roomba was being weird that day.â
Jay side-eyes Jake, âOh, so now youâre on Team Roomba Conspiracy? Thatâs rich.â
That is rich, considering Jake nearly signed up for therapy just days ago after having an existential crisis over being recruited to join your arch-nemesisâRoombas. Now here he was, ready to go to battle for your anti-automated-dust-sucker stance.
Jake shrugs, refusing to make eye contact with anyone, suddenly hyper-aware of your attention on him, âI just think we shouldnât dismiss Y/Nâs concerns so quickly.â
You turn to him with the softest smile he's seen in the history of smilesâone that fully knocks the breath right out of him.Â
âAw thank you, Jake! Someone around here finally gets it,â you momentarily rest your head on his shoulder for two fleeting secondsâshort enough to show your appreciation but long enough to utterly dismantle the boyâs composure.Â
Heâs frozen. Brain empty, no thoughtsâŠexcept for the scent of your shampoo rushing his senses. Heâs not sure if heâs about to pass out or propose.
âSimp,â Jay mutters under his breath, just loud enough for Jake to hear. Jake shoots him a warning look, making Jayâs smirk grow wider.Â
Grace, still giggling at the memory of you running away from a Roomba, then turns to Heeseung with a curious grin, "Speaking of concerns, how's the app going? When are we gonna find out who's paired with who?"
Heeseung immediately groans, frustratingly running a hand through his hair, "It's...going, alright. Some people are weird, man. I don't even know how to process some of these answers."
"Really? How so?" You perk up at this, interested.Â
Heeseung sighs as he pulls his phone out of his pocket, "Okay, look at thisâsomeone put 'ramen' as an answer for what they're looking for in a partner."
Jay snorts, "Sounds like something youâd put, honestly. You should match yourself up with them!"
"And this person," Heeseung continues, scrolling and displaying his phone to the rest of the group, "just answered 'vibes' to every single question. Every. One. What does that even mean?!"
Everyone shrugs around the coffee table in confusion as the exasperated boy dramatically tosses his phone to the side like it personally offended him.
"Anyways. I should be done tonight, so hopefully the matches get released tomorrow," he reveals, to everyone's excitement.
"Ohmygosh, tomorrow?" Grace claps her hands lightly. "I can't wait, I hope I get paired with someone who, like, is secretly Spiderman or something. You know, someone with substance."
"I'm nervous, what if I get a total weirdo?" You mutter, eyes widening at the thought.
Jake thinks to himself: as long as he gets paired with you, he doesn't mind being a total weirdo. He'll be your total weirdo. He'll dye his hair neon rainbow, start collecting Russian nesting dolls, and live in a treehouse if that's what it takes.
"Y/N," Jay speaks up, cocking his head out from the bag of potato chips he's currently annihilating, "if anything, you're gonna be the weird one in whatever relationship you end up in."
You instinctively reach for another pillow to throw at him, but Jake is faster, shielding his arms around you, "Okay, okay, let's be nice. I'm sure Y/N will end up with someone perfectly normal, and anyone who ends up with Y/N will not find her weird at all."Â
That's because Jake better be the one that ends up with you. And he definitely doesn't think you're weird. Well maybe a little. In an endearing way.
And hopefully, in your eyes, he's normal. Or notâit's all the same to him, as long as he's the one by your side.Â
All the steps are set in stone. Now, he just needs the algorithm to do its thing and simply match you two togetherâwhich is bound to happen, given Jake is practically a Y/N 2.0 after copying all your answers. If this doesn't work, then the universe is officially out to get him.Â
Yes. Everything will happen according to plan.
It has to. Â
Nothing goes according to plan. Â
Jake's eyes dart in panic between Grace's look of confusion and your phone screen, currently displaying to the rest of the lunch table your so-called soulmate's name, which, surprise surpriseâit's not Jake.
Instead, it reads:Â Â
Match: Park SunghoonÂ
You shrug as you glance up from your phone, completely unaware of the Tom and Jerry hole Jake is crawling back down right now, "I think he's that new transfer student. I've seen him around in my psychology class, he's kinda cute!"Â Â
Jake's heart sinks deeper than he thought was humanly possible. Cute? Like 'puppy' cute or 'kiss' cute? Oh god, his worst nightmare is coming true. He's about to be banished back to the sad category of 'automated vacuums' in your heart, left to raise 12 kittens on his own. Â
Jay frowns, crossing his arm, "No fair, I haven't gotten my match yet, and Y/N gets the cute new kid? This is rigged."Â Â
Heeseung smirks, leaning back in his chair like some algorithm god, "Patience, child. The results are rolling out throughout the entire day. I added that feature for the 'element of surprise.'"Â
Grace, meanwhile, subtly leans towards Jake while everyone else rambles over your match, "Looks like the universe hates you."Â Â
"I can't believe it didn't work. It doesn't make any sense, it has to be broken or something,â Jake says, visibly upset, trying his very best to not dig himself a grave right then and there in the middle of the university's quad. Â
Grace shrugs, feeling confusion on behalf of her best friend as well, "At least you can say you tried. Maybe the universe is trying to hint at you to actually talk to her and get into a relationship the normal, organic way."Â Â
"Yeah, yeah," he mumbles. But Jake is too perplexed to listen to Grace'sâvery, very, validâlogic right now.Â
Jake's thoughts spiral faster than a malfunctioning Roomba trapped in a corner, repeatedly slamming into the same wall with no hope of escape. Honestly, Jake wishes there was a wall around him right now to repeatedly slam his head into. Maybe that way the delulu in himâthe one that convinced him he could hack his way into your heartâcan finally escape his brain. Â
His brain is short-circuiting in panic, bouncing between the reality of his failure and the absolute tragedy that Sunghoonâthe cute transfer student (you probably think he's kiss-cute too)âis about to waltz in and steal his entire future. Jake can already picture Sunghoon effortlessly holding all twelve hypothetical kittens, while Jake is left alone with nothing but his shattered dreams.Â
Before Jake can imagine another over dramatic scenario in his head of you and Sunghoon that would make him physically rip out his own heart and stomp all over it, Grace's phone suddenly pings.
"You've got to be kidding me."Â Â
Everyone turns to look at her, as Grace glances up from her phone, the look of pure horror on her face. Â
Grace slowly turns her phone around for everyone to see, and there, in bold letters, sits:
Match: Park Jongseong Â
A beat of silence (or as Grace would call it, moment of silence for the fallen. The fallen being Grace), then...Â
âHA!â Jay cackles, pointing at her. âSucks to be you.âÂ
"Oh, you think this is funny, Park?" Grace glares at him, and at everyone else for giggling at the absurd match. "I would literally rather match with my chemistry TA who wears socks with sandals."Â Â
Heeseung perks up, clearly overly amused at the match drama ensuing around the table, "Wait, that chem TA's not that bad lowkey..."Â Â
Grace throws him a look, "Hee, this isn't about Steve the TA! This is about my life being ruined in real time!"Â Â
Jake tunes in and scoffs, so shocked at his friend's statement, he forgot the setting they're all in, "Your life being ruined? What about mine?"Â Â
Jake quickly silences himself after he realizes what he just said..and in front of you.Â
"What about your life getting ruined, Jake? Did you get your match yet?" You look up at him from across the table, curious who could possibly have Jake in such shambles (Ironic, isn't it?).Â
"Errâno, not yet. What I mean is..uhh," Jake stammers, his remaining brain cells (which isn't many at this point) trying to muster up the best lie they could to cover himself. "My life would totally be ruined if Grace and Jay end up together because...uhh..because I'd totally have to third-wheel them all the time!"Â Â
Yes, that's good Jake. Good job, good job. Â
You seem to be convinced enough by the excuse, your eyes suddenly widening in fear.
"Oh god, you're so right! This means Jay's gonna be over at our apartment all the time now. He'll probably never leave,â you visibly shudder.
Grace gestures wildly at the entire table in disbelief, "You guys! What in the world makes you think Jay and I are going to end up together just because some love algorithm thinks we're good for each other? No offense, Hee."Â Â
Jay, on the other hand, reclines back in his chair, looking entirely too smug for someone who just got called out as a last-choice match, "Hey, the algorithm knows what's up. Maybe this is fate, Grace. This could be fun." He points between the two of them, as if sealing a deal. Â
"Fun?! Wrestling a bear made entirely of thorns sounds more fun," Grace physically recoils, like she just touched something soggy in the sink's drain, her expression sending the whole table into laughter.Â
"Honestly, I see it. Can't fight the science," you speak up, throwing a knowing look at Grace before Jay gives you an appreciative high-five from across the table. Â
Grace snaps her head towards you and gasps, "Traitor! How dare youâyou better sleep with your door locked tonight or I swearâ"Â Â
"ALL I'm saying isâ" you raise your hands in defense, interjecting before Grace can vow to eliminate you and your future lineage from the face of this planet, "âI think itâs kind of sweet you matched with someone you actually know, you know? I mean, I wish I got paired with a close friend. Iâve always believed in the friend-to-significant-other pipeline."Â
Friend to significant other? Jake's internal monologue screeches to a halt. Y/N, I'm right here! I could be the one, not Sunghoon! That could be us!
Then, as if you could read his thoughts, your gaze meets Jakeâs for just a beat too long, lingering in that space where words usually get lost. Jake swears your expression softens for half a second before you casually shift your focus back on Grace. His brain is officially overheating. Was that a hint? Was it?Â
Oh my god. Sheâs totally hinting at me.
Orâno, wait. Maybe he's reading into it again. Maybe he's so deep into this 'delulu' life that now every sentence feels like it's tailor-made just for him.Â
Yeah, that has to be it. Definitely the latter, right? Right.Â
Heeseung perks up from his seat, pointing at Grace, "See? She's right. Trust the science. And the friendship! But mostly the science. Science doesnât mess up, man. It must've sensed some... undercurrents between you and Jay."Â
Grace looks like sheâs about to leap across the table and strangle Heeseung with his own hoodie strings, but Jay interrupts with a wide grin.Â
You lose it, breaking into uncontrollable laughter as Grace pretends to dry heave at the sound of the pet name.Â
"And just like that," she says, dramatically standing up from her seat, "I think thatâs my cue to leave. If I hear Jay call me âGracey-pooâ again, Iâm going to bleach my ears."Â
The entire table is still laughing while Grace makes her swift escape to her next class. You finally manage to catch your breath, turning to Jake with a small smile (which also casually happens to send his brain into overdrive. No big deal, really).Â
"I'm excited to see who you get paired with, Jake! I bet she's amazing."Â Â
Jake feels his heart sink a little, but he forces a casual smile. No one is as amazing as you though (cheesy, but painfully true).
Trying to cover his disappointment, Jake shrugs, "I donât know... Iâm not really that into this whole matchmaking thing anyway." He leans back, feigning nonchalance. "I donât think Iâll actually do anything with whoever I get matched with."Â
Jake canât tell if the small breath you let out is in relief or if, once again, heâs feeding his delusional part of his brain thatâs been working overtime.Â
But before he can overthink it, you raise an eyebrow, teasing him, "What? Youâre not even curious? What if itâs someone perfect for you?"Â
Jake laughs awkwardly, desperately trying to keep his cool. It would be perfect if it was you. But instead, he blurts out, "Yeah, maybe theyâll match me with my future laundry partner. Who knows?" Laundry? Really, Jake?Â
"That would be a miracle," Heeseung looks up from his phone, gesturing towards Jake, "this guy never does his laundry."Â Â
Jake shoots him a sharp look, "Not true! I just need...some motivation.."Â
"Motivation from your future girlfriend?" Jay chimes in, raising an eyebrow. "That's gotta be a new low, dude."Â Â
You nudge Jake's arm from across the table, grinning, "Hey, maybe the algorithmâs just that good. It knows you need a laundry-loving girlfriend in your life."Â
Jake snorts, playing along, but his thoughts are a mess. Laundry-loving girlfriend? Nah, Jake needs you as his girlfriendâno question about it.
As you turn your attention back to your phone, the smile fades from Jakeâs face, just for a second. His eyes linger on you longer than he means to, before he leans his head on his hand, pretending to care about whatever random TikTok Heeseung is showing him right now. Â
But the videoâs a blur. All Jake can focus on is how wrong everything feels. This isnât how it was supposed to go. You were supposed to be his match. You are his match. He knows it. Â
Forget laundry-doing-girlfriends or algorithm-approved pairings. If the app really knew what Jake needed, it wouldâve led him straight to you.Â
And honestly, Jakeâs pretty sure heâs smarter than the sleep-deprived, ramen-fueled algorithm Heeseung cooked up. So yeah, screw the love machine.Â
If the app wonât do it for him, then itâs time he takes matters into his own hands.Â
(About time.)
âPlease please please pleeeeease!â Jakeâs trailing behind Heeseung throughout their shared living room like a toddler whose candy got snatched, but way more desperate.
Yeah, uh, this is Jake's idea of taking matters into his own hands. Â
This is officially the billionth time Heeseungâs heard this in the past 24 hours. At least this time Jake managed to wait until Heeseung was out of the shower and fully clothed before launching into his regularly programmed meltdown. Progress, right?Â
âJake! You do realize what youâre asking me, right? You sound insane.â Heeseung's patience is thinner than the cup ramen noodles heâs survived on for the past week. He takes a seat on their couch, before pointedly looking at his desperate roommate. âYouâre being ridiculously dramatic.âÂ
Jake scoffs, like the mature adult he is. âYOUR FACE is being ridiculously dramatic.â Yup. Like the mature adult he is. Â
Heeseung came out to the living room in hopes of being able to catch up on the latest episode of The Bachelor, but to no avail, as the younger boy was waiting to catch him all day (not that Heeseung was actively avoiding Jake or anything, no definitely not). But instead of screaming at the TV in frustration at the bachelor's terrible decisions, here he was, staring at Jake, silently contemplating how many years in prison throwing him off their apartment's balcony would cost him.Â
Three? Maybe four? Would it be worth it? Possibly.Â
âAll you gotta do,â Jake begins to launch his TED Talk, âis send out a mass email to all your participants and be like, âOh noooo, the AI or robot or magical unicorn or whatever messed up!â Then you just re-release the answers, but this time, pair me with Y/N, bada-bing bada-boom. Easy peasy.âÂ
Heeseung stares blankly. Honestly, prison doesnât sound that bad.Â
âFirst off, itâs not a robot. Itâs an algorithm,â Heeseung says for the seventy-millionth time, contemplating launching his side career as a 'broken record'. âSecond, if people found out it âmessed up,â my reputation would be in shambles. Can you imagine all the couples who met their match, only to find out it was a giant, steaming load ofââÂ
âYeah, yeah, whatever.â Jake waves him off, deploying his best attempt (key word: attempt) at puppy-dog eyes. âBut what about my soulmate?âÂ
Heeseung groans and rubs his temples, âJake, if sheâs really your soulmate, maybe try telling her how you feel like a normal human being instead of begging me to rewrite reality?âÂ
Jake pauses, then, in true Jake fashion, says: âYeah, but like...nah.âÂ
Heeseung looks at Jake, who is now staring at him with the intensity of someone waiting for a miracle, âYou really donât see how unhinged this sounds, do you?âÂ
Jake blinks.Â
âI mean, yeah, but, like, what if it works? Iâm just saying, you miss 100% of the shots you donât take. Wayne Gretzky said that.âÂ
Heeseung rolls his eyes so hard heâs pretty sure he saw his past life flash by, âDid Wayne Gretzky also say, âBe a total weirdo and bother your friend to break all ethical codes and rig an algorithm because youâre too chicken to tell a girl you like her?ââÂ
Jake shrugs. âHe mightâve. We donât know his whole catalog of wisdom.âÂ
âIâm begging youâjust talk to her. Or, I dunno, send her a meme on Instagram or something. Do anything other than harass me. Please.âÂ
Jake's face scrunches up like Heeseung just suggested he swim with sharks. âA meme? Really? Do I look like some kind of loser who communicates through memes? Iâll have you know Iâm a very mature aduââÂ
SMACK!Â
A flying sock lands squarely on Jakeâs head. He blinks, confused, as Jay strolls in from his room and plops next to Heeseung, looking way too pleased with himself, âDude, youâre begging like a guy who just got ghosted by an ATM. Have some dignity.âÂ
âYouâre not helping,â Jake glares, throwing the sock back at Jay.Â
Jay, with the wisdom only a seasoned disaster like him can possess, shrugs, âHonestly, Heeseung, just rerun the thing. Iâm pretty sure the universe would implode if this dude doesnât get matched with Y/N. And frankly, I donât want to deal with that level of cosmic drama.âÂ
âJay, not you too,â Heeseung pinches the bridge of his nose as he realizes he needs to find a new spot to watch his show from now on.Â
Jay raises his hands in mock surrender, âHey, man, Iâm just looking out for you. If Jake doesnât get his way, heâll never shut up. Youâre one day away from him showing up at your room's door with a PowerPoint presentation. Think of your sanity. Plus, we all live together which means I have to see the presentation too. Think of my sanity.âÂ
âPowerPoint, huh? I could probably whip something up. Maybe add some pie charts and bar graphs,â Jake, clearly inspired, mutters to himself. Â
Heeseung stares at the ceiling, wondering if this is his villain origin story (it most definitely is). âThereâs absolutely no way Iâm risking the integrity of my algorithm just because you canât grow a backbone.â
Jakeâs face falls, but Jayâs wheels are already turning on behalf of his friend, Mr. Simp, âHold up, hold up. Hee, think about it. Thereâs gotta be something you want. I mean, everyoneâs got a price, right?âÂ
Heeseung raises an eyebrow, still annoyed, yet intrigued. What? A good deal is a good deal.
âAnd what exactly do you think I want, Jay?âÂ
Jay flashes a grin that screams mischief.Â
âWe know youâve been grinding on this algorithm for weeks, man. Barely sleeping. Barely eating,â Jay narrows his eyes in dramatic fashion, as though heâs about to uncover a deep secret. âYouâre like two ramen packets away from full-on malnutrition. Sad really.âÂ
âYeah, bro. We care about you. You need... balance. Maybe a reward for all your hard work?â Jake suddenly adds, nodding vigorously, picking up on Jay's scheming.Â
Heeseung stares at them blankly, âAre you bribing me with...food?âÂ
âNot just any food,â Jake adds, gesturing dramatically. âFree food. Unlimited food from anywhere, for a month. On me. Youâll never have to eat those mystery meat tacos from the dining hall ever again.âÂ
Jay interjects, pointing at Jake, "Hey, I'll have you know, those tacos are actually quite good! You just have to deal with the initial frequent toilet trips when you first try them..."Â
Heeseungâs resolve flickers for a moment. His stomach growls at the mere thought of having actual, edible food (for free!) that isnât microwavable...or whatever they put in those tacos.Â
Jake, sensing weakness, presses on, âAND⊠AND! Iâll do all your laundry. One month. No questions asked. Iâll even iron your shirts.âÂ
Jay, impressed by Jake's bargaining methods, nods his head along as if to convince the skeptical Heeseung, hoping to save himself from also having to hear Jake's consistent whining around the apartment any longer. Â
Heeseung narrows his eyes. âI donât iron my shirts.âÂ
âIâll iron them anyway. Luxury service.âÂ
A pause. Heeseungâs brain is doing some serious mental gymnastics. On one hand, his precious algorithm. On the other⊠food that didnât come from a vending machine and clean clothes that werenât dug out of his laundry basket which is somewhere in the abyss that is his closet right now.Â
Jay nudges him, whispering like he's the devil on Heeseung's left shoulder, âThink about it, man. Whatâs more important? Some random algorithm, or free pizza from that one place around the corner every day?âÂ
âI swear, if this comes back to bite me..,â Heeseung sighs, rubbing his temples but already thinking about the mouth-watering cheesy goodness he could be having every day.
âSo, youâll do it?!â Jakeâs eyes suddenly light up with hope, reflecting the picture-perfect image of a golden retriever right now.Â
âFine,â Heeseung glares at him, feeling the last of his integrity slip away. âBut if anyone asks, you never heard this from me. And I expect my meals hot and my laundry folded.â
Jake gleams and practically starts bouncing off their living room's walls. âYes! Yes! You wonât regret this! I mean, you probably will, but thank you!âÂ
Heeseung shakes his head, regretting every life choice that led to this moment. Jay claps him on the back. âSee? Was that so hard? Now you can live like a king for a whole month. Iâd call that a win.âÂ
âA king with a crumbling empire,â Heeseung sighs. Â
âY/N, here I come!â Jakeâs already halfway out their apartment's front door, with no destination in sightâjust overjoyed with excitement that he feels he could run ten laps around campus right now (plot twist: he doesn'tâhe ends up running down the stairs just to get winded and comes right back up to the apartment).Â
As Jake sprints off, Heeseung groans, âIâve made a terrible mistake, havenât I?âÂ
"Nah," Jay shrugs, already opening his phone. "Probably.âÂ
Heeseung realizes he, indeed, made a terrible mistake when he looks up from his phone at lunch the next day and sees a particular you, storming up to the table.
Once you reach the table, you thrust your phone into his face, the ârematchâ email, that Heeseung had sent out only a few minutes ago, on display:Â Â
Subject [SCHOOL ANNOUNCEMENT] : MatchMatic 3000 Oopsie AlertÂ
Hello there, awesome students & fellow singletons,Â
Sooo...this is awkward. Despite weeks of blood, sweat, and ramen going into the creation of the Matchmatic 3000, it appears that a tiny part of the code had a full-on meltdown đ€đÂ
As a result, some of the matches you received earlier this week were... well... not exactly what the love gods (or the code) intended. But hey, donât panic! Not everyoneâs match was wrong, just a small handful (I swear, please donât come for me!). Â
I truly apologize for the mix-up, and Iâm already back at my desk (and caffeine-mixed-with-ramen-fueled) fixing it.Â
The correct matches will be sent out ASAPâright after I double, triple, and quadruple check that this algorithm doesnât throw another tantrum.Â
Thanks for your patience, and please donât hunt me down! đ I promise Iâll do better next time... or, at the very least, make sure the matches donât require emergency therapy sessions.Â
Your (struggling) Campus Cupid, Â
Lee Heeseung, Â
Creator of the Slightly Dysfunctional Love Algorithmâą đÂ
âWhat happened to âOh, the science is never wrong! Iâm very smart, trust me, Iâm King Romantic Algorithm!ââ You mock in your best Heeseung impression, earning amused looks from everyone around the tableâwell, everyone except Heeseung.Â
âIâm sorry, Iâm sorry!â Heeseung groans, holding up his hands defensively. Heeseung still canât believe heâs apologizing for absolutely no reason, except for the looming fact that his hopelessly-in-love-with-you roommate is making him. âI swear, it mustâve been all the sleep deprivation. Maybe the algorithm glitched somewhere between my tenth cup of ramen and a power nap.âÂ
Heeseung shoots a knowing side glance towards Jake without anyone noticing, and Jake looks anywhere but at the older boy, avoiding eye contact at all costs. Â
Jay raises an eyebrow as he chews on his sandwich, âHonestly, Iâm not mad about it. I was still holding out hope for that cute boba barista.âÂ
âExcuse me?â Grace smacks Jayâs arm without hesitation from beside him. âWhatâs wrong with being matched with me?âÂ
Jay blinks at her in disbelief.Â
âYou literally said youâd rather wrestle a bear made of thorns than go out with me.âÂ
âYeah, but it doesnât mean you shouldnât want to go out with me,â Grace mutters, crossing her arms as Jay chuckles and nudges her back.Â
âI donât have time for your boba barista fantasies, Jay,â you grumble, feeling clearly annoyed over the rematch debacle.
Jake, sitting across from you, has beenâŠwell characteristically quiet, probably because heâs still trying to figure out how to comfort you without feeling a pang of guilt for being the reason youâre frustrated. But he gives it a shot anyway, turning to you with a cautious, almost-too-casual smile. Â
âAre you really that upset over the rematch, Y/N?â His voice gentle, almost laced with concern, you would think.Â
You glance up at him, instantly feeling less annoyedâŠfor some reason. Jakeâs always had this weird ability to calm you down without even trying. Maybe it was just his soft and steady demeanor that made you feel the need to match his. You take a deep breath, smoothing out the sharp edges of your mood before you speak. Â
âItâs not that I was desperate to be with Sunghoon,â you start, your voice softer now. âI donât knowâŠI guess it was just kinda exciting and meeting someone new is always fun, you know? I think Iâve just been wanting something new or different in my life.â Â
You trail off, and when you meet Jake's eyes again, you catch the way he's nodding along, completely absorbed in what you're saying. His attentiveness is cute, it makes something flutter in your chestâan unfamiliar warmth. You, a little curious, let the feeling linger, before quickly brushing it aside.Â
But Jake? He feels that warmth too, though for him, itâs coupled with a twinge of jealousy. He's bothered. The thought of you seeking something ânewâ with someone else twists in his chest, but he hides it with a smile, determined not to let you see how much it bothers him.Â
âWell,â Jake begins, voice light but with a subtle undertone of something more you pick up on and you wonder what it is. âMaybe itâs a good thing. The rematch, I mean. Itâs like a second chance. Everything happens for a reason, right? Maybe Sunghoonâs secretly a serial heartbreakerâŠor into collecting voodoo dolls or something.âÂ
You laugh, his humor breaking through any of your remaining frustration, and you raise an eyebrow at him.Â
âYou sound awfully optimistic about this,â you tease, trying to figure out if thereâs something more to his words. Was there? Probably not, you deduce. Definitely not. Â
Jakeâs heart stutters, wondering if he's been caught red-handed. He fights the urge to panic and instead flashes you a cheesy grin and that somehow makes your stomach flip, though you can't exactly figure out why.Â
âJust saying, it could be a blessing in disguise,â he shrugs, his tone playful but sincere. âMaybe this time, itâll match you with someone whoâs right in front of you.âÂ
Your breath catches as you take in his words quite literally. Heâs just speaking metaphorically, right? But when your eyes meet again, thereâs something in the way he looks at youâsomething that makes your heart skip a beat. Â
For a moment, you don't know why, but you feel vulnerable in front of Jake. Jake, of all people. Heâs always been sweet, always been there, but right now, the way heâs looking at you feels different. Maybe it's the way he's talking to you like you two are the only people at the table, like everything you're saying is heard and understood, and you feel seen amidst all the chaos. Like heâs seeing you in a way youâve never quite noticed before. And it sends warmth radiating through you, mixing with the confusion already swirling in your chest.Â
You blink and shake your head, you're overthinking. Jake is just being Jakeâkind, supportive, and always ready to listen. That's just who he is. That's all. Â
So why can you still feel his lingering gaze on you even as the conversation moves on? And why does it make you feel...something? Shy? Nervous? Excited? Maybe all of the above. Â
Grace suddenly claps her hands together, breaking you out of your confusion, âWell, I think this whole rematch thing is the universe giving me a shot at a real love story,â she announces dramatically. Â
âRight, because nothing says âromanceâ like a computerâs ruling,â Jay rolls his eyes. Â
Grace glares at him, âMaybe itâll match me with someone whoâs not emotionally unavailable for once.âÂ
You laugh at your friends' banter, but your thoughts are still stuck on Jake's words, and all you can think about is the possibility of getting paired with Jake. You feel a fluttering sensation at that thought, and as if you were afraid he could read your mind, you try to sneak a glance at him, only to catch him looking at you at the exact same moment. His eyes quickly dart away, making the interaction short enough to avoid any awkwardness but still long enough for you to catch the same gentle, almost longing expression, on his soft features. Â
Your heart skips.Â
Feeling exposed, you clear your throat, trying to break the silent tension youâre sure only youâre feeling.Â
âAnyway,â you say, forcing a smile, âI guess weâll just have to wait and see. Iâm sure itâll all work out in the end.âÂ
Your friends all nod and murmur in agreement at your statement, but your heart lingers on Jake. You can't help but glance back at him, your mind refusing to shake this unfamiliar feeling of...somethingâmaybe the slightest flicker of hopeâthat you match with him.Â
And maybe, just maybe, you wouldn't mind that at all. Â
And for Jake, well, thereâs only one version of âeverything working out at the end,â and it's simple, reallyâit's you. And for him, thatâs the only ending that matters.Â
Maybe Jake bit off a little more than he could chew this time.Â
Sure, weâve established that Jakeâs inner simpâJake Simpâis willing to do just about anything to end up with you. Training for a triathlon? Done. Cat-sitting twelve cats? Heâd do it, no questions asked. So, naturally, promising Grace a weekâs worth of iced coffee deliveries, finishing her physics poster, funding Heeseungâs meals and doing all his laundry for a month didnât seem that bad in comparison.Â
That was, until nowâwhen he's speed-walking across campus, juggling an iced matcha latte (with two pumps of chai, because of course), a dry-cleaning bag with freshly ironed clothes, and a trifold poster board tucked precariously under his armpit, praying the drink doesnât melt before he gets it to Grace.
Jake hastily rounds the corner by the library, barely keeping his balance whenâÂ
Smack.Â
Jake runs straight into someone, thankfully only sacrificing a few drops of the matcha as he stumbles, trying to keep everything from falling out of his grasp.
"Woah! Easy," an oddly familiar voice says, and when Jake looks up, he's met with your adorably amused expression. Of course it's you.
âY/N!â Jake nearly chokes on his words, trying to steady himself. âIâuh, didnât see you there.â
You laugh softly, your eyes flicking over everything in Jake's hold.Â
"Is that a...physics project? I thought you took that class last year."Â
Jake stalls, trying to recollect himself and somehow explain why he's running around campus with a trifold poster, (at this point, half-melted) iced matcha, and someone's else's dry cleaning, all over trying to end up with you. Because, yeah, there's really no way to explain that. But then...wait.
"I did take it last year," he says, eyebrows raised. "You remember that?"
Now you're the one seemingly flustered, as if you're the one that just ran into their crush, sweating beads over running a million of chores.Â
You think your face is as red as a beet right now, well, at least it feels like it.Â
"Uhâyeah, I guess I did," you give a sheepish smile, nervously tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, and Jake thinks he's about to faint from lightheadedness right then and there.
"Plus, you were always talking about how the professor went on tangents about wormholes...but you would secretly enjoy them because you always swore you could survive getting sucked through one, remember?"Â
Jakeâs heart skips at the way you're ever so casually recalling these details that even he didn't remember. He doesn't know which one takes the leaderboard, you calling him âJakeyâ, or this.
"Wow," he breathes, unable to hide the smile spreading across his face. "I didn't think youâd notice all that. I thought I was just rambling half the time and the group would nod along to just be nice."
You shrug, looking up at the boy in front of you while trying to play it off casually, even though your heart feels like it's about to break free from your ribcage.Â
"Well, I guess Iâve just always remembered the stuff you talked about. Itâs...kind of hard not to when you go on about it with that excited look on your face,â you quickly clamp your mouth and your eyes widen as you realize what you just said out loud. Yup, there goes your heartâbroken out of your ribcage, running wild and free.
Jake blinks, mentally putting this interaction at the top of the leaderboard, for sure.Â
"Wait, seriously?" Jake's eyes widen as he asks with his voice softer now, as if he's not entirely sure he heard you right. He shifts the matcha latte in his hand, trying to ignore the way his heart just did a little flip at your words.
You're mentally kicking yourself for blurting that out loud, what is going on with you? You swallow hard, feeling trapped in the moment.Â
"I mean...yeah," you admit, your voice even quieter now, feeling the gaze of his eyes on you, as you fiddle with the strap of your bag.Â
"You get really into the stuff you care about, and it's kind of cute. In, like, a wholesome way," you quickly add, feeling even more heat suddenly rush to your face, "it's just...you know...cute."Â
You trail off as you realize you said cute twice but Jake's smile just widens even more at that, and suddenly the mountain of things he's carrying feels a teensy bit lighter.Â
"So you think it's cute, huh?"Â
Jake feels a newfound confidence, noticing how you're not your typical outspoken self, in fact, you almost look nervous around him. This is his delusion speaking right? Have you always been paying attention to him this way and he's been too blindsided to see it? Regardless, for whatever reasonâdelusion or notâin this moment, Jake feels a little more out of his comfort zone in front of you.Â
"I didn't say that! I said wholesome!" Your eyes dart up to meet his as you protest, but the flustered look on your face betrays you and Jake thinks he could definitely soar to the moon right now.
Jake, still smiling, shifts his weight, and without thinking, takes a small step closer.Â
"You totally did," his eyes peer teasingly at you and he doesn't know how he's still breathing, let alone talking, with you looking up at him, like that. "Guess Iâll have to keep talking about stuff I care about, then."
You try to muster something witty back, but the way heâs looking at youâand the way heâs talking to youâis making it so incredibly hard to focus on anything but the fluttering in your chest.Â
"Yeah I guess you do," you smile back at him, noticing the lack of space between you two all of the sudden. You've never seen this side of Jake, and you can't help but enjoy it...the banter, the flirty glances, the way he makes you feelâ
You clear your throat, snapping yourself back into reality, "So..what is with the project poster andâŠdry-cleaning?" Your eyes go back to everything he's juggling to avoid further eye contact, grateful for the distraction to give you a chance to catch your breath and regain your composure.
"Oh, this? You know, just doing my daily round of favors for Grace, Heeseung, and the rest of the world apparently," Jake chuckles, more so to himself, at how ridiculous of a situation he really did get himself in.Â
You smile, your heart warming at the thought. Jake's always been this wayâkind, thoughtful, always helping the people he cares about. WellâŠin reality, he technically is doing this for someone he cares aboutâŠyou.Â
"Damn, guess I should ask for the same treatment then, huh?" You tilt your head, lips quirking into a grin, eyes lit up.
Typically, that look on your face would have Jake in absolute shambles and he'd probably want to curl up into a turtle shell for life. But whatever cosmic forces out there that orchestrated this recent shift between you two had given him a much-needed confidence boost.
"I mean, I'd totally do that for you, if that's what you're asking," he leans in with another playful smirk on his face, "anytime."Â Â
Your breath catches, the butterflies in your stomach fighting to escape.Â
"Oh? Even if it means running across campus with an iced latte in one hand and my dirty laundry in the other?"Â Â
âFor you? Yeah. No problem.âÂ
For a second, you donât respond, just watching him with a curious, unreadable expression that always drives him crazy. Now, Jake feels like he might actually pass out from how intensely youâre looking at him.Â
Finally, you smile. âI'll hold you to that, Jakey.âÂ
Jake freezes. It's like you know exactly what that name does to him.Â
You giggle, clearly amused at the way he stumbles over a reaction and quickly add, "Anyway, I'll leave you to it! Grace is gonna kill you for bringing over a watered-down matcha. But I'll see you later tonight for movie night, right?"Â Â
Jake suddenly remembers the long-awaited (it was planned one day ago) movie night the group set for tonight, and he gets excited at the idea of seeing you again in just a few hours.Â
"Definitely, I'll save you a seat?"Â
"Mmm," you nod as you start walking away slowly, still facing him, basking in the way he's watching you. "See you later, Jakey!"Â
You finally turn and stroll away, thankful your back is to him now so he can't see how your smile is growing wider than you thought was possible. Â
On the other hand, Jake blinks, eyes on you as you walk away, still trying to process what just happened. Confidence or not, you always have the last word. But that doesnât matter.Â
One thing is for sureâJake Simp is in full throttle, and heâd happily run across campus a hundred times, coffee and laundry in hand, if it means hearing you say his name like that again.Â
Not that Jakeâs been counting down the hours until movie night or anythingâno, definitely notâbut itâs been approximately five hours since he ran into you, andâif heâs being honestâabout four and a half of those hours were spent thinking about how heâll be seeing you again. The other 30 minutes? Well, they were spent explaining to Grace why her matcha was delivered watered down, which was a scolding heâd rather forget about.Â
Needless to say, he's even more excited than usual to see you tonight, for no particular reason. But after your last interaction, Jake feels closer to you than ever before. Thereâs a tiny flicker of hope, but he keeps reminding himself not to get ahead of himself. After all, heâs only recently mastered the art of saying more than one sentence to you without hyperventilating. Baby steps.Â
Jakeâs eyes scan the coffee table of the living room, mentally checking off all the important snacks (important as in your favorite ones, of course). Â
"What vibe are we going for tonight?" Heeseung calls out from the couch, as he flips through the Netflix homepage on their TV. "Horror or coming-of-age rom-com?"Â
Jake grimaces, "Please, no horror. Iâm still having nightmares from the last movie night." He shudders at the memory.Â
"Dude," Jay strolls into the room, chuckling, "Coraline is a kids movie!"Â
"A scary kids movie! That thing should be rated at least PG-13!" Jake protests, while still scanning the room to ensure everythingâs perfectly set up. Snacks, check. Drinks, check. Your favorite blanket neatly folded on the seat heâs reserved for you? Check.Â
As if right on cue, a knock sounds at the door, and Jay casually starts, "I got it!"âbut because Jake's Spidey senses (aka Y/N-senses) are sure it's you at the door, he's already sprinting and launches to the door, parkour style, slightly nudging Jay out the way and making it to the door before himâall in a second's time.Â
"Itâs okay! I got it!" Jake blurts, a bit too breathlessly, leaving Jay with a mixed look of disbelief that quickly morphs into amused pity.Â
"Oookayyy," Jay drawls, turning to Heeseung with a knowing look, clearly entertained by their roommate. "Heâs officially lost it."Â
Jake takes a breath and quickly runs a hand through his hair in an attempt to not look disheveled, before pulling open the door.Â
"Y/N. Hi."Â
"Jake. Hi," you smile up at him, dressed in what you would call your 'comfy movie night outfit'âbut what Jake would call Met Gala worthy. He's pretty sure you could wear a paper bag and it'd be Met Gala worthy.Â
For a split second, Jakeâs brain malfunctions as he stalls at the door. The moment heâs been daydreaming about in his head for the last five hours is happening, but now that itâs here, he has zero idea what to do. Think, Jake, think!Â
"Congrats, youâre the first one here!" he blurts, mentally face-palming as soon as the words leave his mouth.Â
You giggle as you step inside, "Well, that would make sense, since you guys live here, and Grace is always late to everything. But thanks, Jakey, Iâll take it."Â
You turn to grin at the boy once more, and he's officially a goner. RIP. Â
"Ohâright," Jake stifles a sheepish grin as he rubs the back of his neck, shooting Jay and Heeseung a death glare as they're both silently roasting him with their eyes. Â
"Hi boys," you greet the others as you step into the living room, eyes immediately going to the table lined with snacks. "Wow, you guys really went all out!"Â
"Hiii Y/N," Heeseung and Jay say in perfect unison. You give them a raised brow, but shrug it off, too used to their weird behavior to question it.Â
"Sooo, which seat is mine?" You excitedly turn back to Jake, scanning the available spots. Â
"That one! Best seat in the house, guaranteed,â Jake practically beams, heart pitter-pattering as he's pointing to the cushion right next to his favorite spot.Â
"Oh really? What makes it the best?" you ask, plopping down and curling up instantly into the cushion, which makes Jake wonder how much more his heart can truly take before it spontaneously implodes on itself.Â
âIt comes with your favorite blanket and easy access to the snacks. All your favorites, by the way," Jake slides into the seat beside you, keeping his voice cool. Â
Heâs very proud of himself for that one. After all, he did scour three different stores near campus for watermelon Sour Patch and strawberry Pocky.Â
Jay butts in, grinning like the devil himself, "And the fact that youâre sitting next to Jake makes it extra special, right, Jakey?"
"Oh? Is that so?" You tilt your head, feigning innocence, although you've always known that the middle seat cushion has always been Jake's sacred seat on movie nights.Â
"Heâs...joking. I can sit anywhere! I just, uh... think this seat happens to have the best angle of the TV." Jakeâs heart is definitely about to combust.Â
Smooth, Jake. Real smooth.Â
You smile and place a hand on Jakeâs knee, patting it lightly, "I trust you, Jake. Iâm already enjoying this seat more than you know."Â
Jake swallows thickly, his body going rigid under your warm hand briefly against his skin. He thinks if he tries to say anything else, it'll come out sounding like a goose giving birth to fifty eggs.Â
From Jakeâs other side, Heeseung chimes in, obliviously saving his hopeless roommate, "So, Y/Nâhorror or rom-com tonight?"
"Horror!" you gasp excitedly, eyes widening immediately, "I need those jump scares to make me feel something, you know?"Â
Jay breaks out in a coughing fit, nearly choking on his sudden laughter, while Jake shoots him yet another death glare. Â
âY/N, I completely agree with you! Any objections anyone?â Jay announces almost animatedly, leaving you slightly confused but, once again, unfazed by your friendâs weirdness.Â
"Nope, none from me. Jake?" Heeseung raises a brow, also trying not to laugh himself.Â
Jake looks at you, seeing how excited you are, and yepâheâs screwed. More nightmares for him, it seems.Â
"Nope! Iâm...totally down for horror."Â
You lightly clap your hands in excitement, making Jake realize that, yeah, the nightmares are probably worth it if it means seeing you this happy.Â
As you reach over for a snack, Jay mouths the word "SIMP" at Jake. Jake responds with an eye roll, but yeah, Jayâs not wrong.Â
âă».ă»â«
The movie is only 20 minutes in when you frown looking at the coffee table, âHow is it possible weâre out of snacks already?â Â
âI blame Grace for showing up late. I got hungry, okay?â Jay says, pointing at her. Grace responds by smacking the back of his head. âOuch.âÂ
Heeseung pauses the movie. âVending machine run, anyone?âÂ
âJake and Y/N, go! Perfect candidates,â Jay suggests without skipping a beat, rubbing the back of his head from the provoked attack. Â
You raise an eyebrow at Jake, feeling your heart race a little faster. You're trying to play it cool but the thought of having a moment alone with him sends a buzz through you. It's the kind of opportunity you didn't realize you were hoping forâwait, were you? You have no idea. But what you do know is that being around Jake has felt different lately, in a good way. There's something about his presence that makes you want to be near him more and more. It's confusing, whatever this is, but all you can admit to yourself right now is, feelings or not, you want this time with him. Â
Jake opens his mouth to respond, but doesnât manage to get anything out before you quickly grab his hand and pull him toward the door.Â
âOkay! Be back in a few!â you call back to the group, trying to sound casual.Â
Inside, youâre freaking out just a little. Or a lot. Definitely a lot. The feeling of his hand in yours is warm, almost comforting, but thereâs...something that you swear is there. It just feels right. Â
Jake follows behind you down the hall, and you can feel the warmth of his hand lingering even as you let go. You sneak a glance at him, and for some reason, he just seems... different. You've always found Jake cute. That's not news. But thisâthis is different, this isn't your typical âoh he's cuteâ feeling...but you can't pinpoint what it is either. You shake the thought off. Â
"SooâŠ" you start, looking up at him from the corner of your eye. Your heart pounds a little louder, and you hope he canât hear it over the sound of your sneakers hitting the hallway tiles. Heâs just so cute standing there, slightly awkward, but making it work. How can someone look this adorable just existing?Â
âSorry for dragging you out like that. I hope you don't mind,â you finally say as you both step into the elevator. You try to sound casual, but the slight bubble in your throat betrays you. Â
âOhâno, not at all. I totally wanted to...go with you...â Jake says, and then he quickly adds, âI mean, you're practically saving me from all the jump scares.âÂ
You laugh softly after a beat of silence, raising an eyebrow as the elevator doors open. âI thought you said you didnât mind horror movies?âÂ
âWell,â Jake hesitates, but then says quietly, âhow could I say no when you were that excited to watch one?âÂ
You blink, feeling your breath catch for a second. Did he justâ? You look up at him, searching his expression, but all you see is that sweet smile of his, and your mind goes a little fuzzy, trying to piece together what that meant.Â
You roll the thought around for a second before giving him a playful nudge.Â
âWow, who knew Jake Sim was such a people pleaser?â Youâre teasing, but thereâs an unfamiliar giddiness in your chest when he simply grins at you in response. Â
As you step into the vending machine room, a soft hum fills the space. You glance at Jake againâhe's studying the snack options with a small, focused frown, and you canât help but smile. Why is everything he does so...frustratedly cute?Â
Eventually, he sighs, giving up on his snack mission, and leans casually against the machine. Meanwhile, you're slightly bent down, continuing to mentally analyze the shelves, but you're hyper-aware of the fact that his eyes are definitely on you. And because you can feel the heat from his gaze, you swear you're turning ten shades redder by the second. Â
âAre you gonna help me pick out snacks, or are you just gonna keep staring at me like that?â you ask, trying to sound casual, even though your brain's in overdrive. Your eyes stay glued to the snack shelves, anything to avoid the tension of locking eyes with him right now.Â
âHmmm,â you can hear the teasing smirk in his voice, and it sends a spark through you. âNah, you can handle the snacks. Iâm perfectly okay where I am.âÂ
You roll your eyes playfully, but your pulse quickens. Punching in the numbers for a random snack, you slide a dollar into the machine, stalling a little before you finally stand up and look up at him. âOh, are you?âÂ
You donât expect him to be this close when you're fully standing up. The space between you shrinks, and suddenly, you can almost feel his breath on your skin. Your pulse thumps loudly in your ears as you try your best to swallow the lump in your throat. Â
âStill perfectly okay?â The words come out softer than you intended, almost a whisper. Youâre holding his gaze now, neither of you wanting to break it. You swear you could probably hear a pin drop if it wasn't for your loud heartbeat right now. Â
Jake swallows, and for a split second, you see him hesitate. His eyes flicker down to your lips, and that simple, unintentional move makes your breath hitch. You could lean in right nowâclose the gap between youâand you wonder if heâs thinking the same thing. Maybe you're hoping he's thinking the same thing.Â
But then Jake chuckles, breaking the silence with his soft laugh that makes your stomach flip for maybe the hundredth time tonight.Â
âI, uh⊠yeah, Iâm still okay,â he says, though his voice exposes just how not okay he actually is. You see the faintest blush creeping up his neck, and itâs endearingâso much so that you almost forget you were nervous too. Â
You swear you can sense him shuffle just a little bit closer and you're subconsciously wanting to lean into the feeling...Â
Plop!Â
The sound of the bag of chips landing at the bottom of the machine breaks whatever moment you thought was forming between you two. Â
You blink. Jake blinks.Â
For a split second, the two of you just stare at each other, wide-eyed, before Jake is the first to snap out of it. His hand quickly goes to rake through his hair, his eyes darting anywhere but yours, and the flush on his cheeks is unmistakable. It almost matches the heat you feel creeping up your own face.Â
You canât tell if youâre more relieved or disappointed that the moment broke so abruptly. You can't tell anything at this point, if you're being honest. Â
âUhâum,â you clear your throat, reaching for the snack like itâs the most important thing in the world. âI hope you like sour cream and onion chips!âÂ
You hold up the bag with a nervous laugh, trying to shake off the tension in the air. Jake just gives you this soft, searching smile, like he's trying to figure out what just happenedâor maybe he's wondering if you felt it too.Â
The way his eyes are so gentle, so open, makes your stomach flutter, and because you think you might actually crumble if he keeps looking at you like that for a second longer, you break eye contact to immediately turn back to the vending machine, hoping the heat in your face isnât as obvious as it feels.Â
âWhat other snacks do you think theyâd like?â you hum, trying to sound casual, but inside youâre mentally screaming at yourself for not just going for it earlier. Great going, Y/N.Â
From the corner of your eye, you catch Jake letting out a small exhale before he chuckles softly.Â
âHonestly, as long as it has sugar, I think everyone will be happy,â he says, and you instantly feel yourself relax, his lightheartedness simmering the tension a bit.
"Hmmm... sour cream and onion and sugar. Got it," you punch in a few more random numbers into the machine, feeding it your remaining cash. "Looks like weâve hit all the major food groups for today. Nutritionists everywhere will be so proud."Â
The air between you both feels a lot lighter now, but thereâs still a lingering warmth under your skinâa little too flustered to fully shake it off. You wonder if Jake is feeling the same, but if he is, he seems to be handling it way better than you are. Of course he would be. Cool, calm, collected Jake. (Also ironic, isn't it?)Â Â
"Honestly, we should just unplug the machine and rob the whole thing," Jake playfully adds as you grab the last snack from the bottom slot. "You already know Jayâs gonna inhale all of these the second we walk back in."Â
"Youâre so right. I say next time, Operation 'Y/N and Jake versus the vending machine' needs to happen,â you laugh, feeling a little more like yourself again.Â
"Oh, so what I'm hearing is thereâs gonna be a next time?" Jake raises an eyebrow as the two of you start heading back to the elevator. "Count me in."Â
You instinctively roll your eyes at how annoyingly smooth he was being, but you can't help the giddy smile growing on your face as a result of his words. As you two stand side by side to each other in the elevator, there's a new quiet that's settled and it's...nice. It's not awkward, just...heavier than before. As if there's a shared secret between youâsomething you both know but aren't ready to speak aloud just yet. But it's thereâjust for the two of you to mutually share in comfortable silence. Â
Before you reach the apartment, you feel a light tug on your sleeve, and you stop. Looking up, you see Jake holding onto the corner of your sleeve, his expression...soft. Like, too soft. And for a moment, you swear time just stops. If he was on a mission to officially kill you, he can officially say mission accomplished. Â
"Y/N, Iâ" he hesitates, his voice quieter again, like he's about to say something serious, and your heart picks up speed again. But then he stops himself, his grip loosening. Â
You blink up at him, wanting him to continue so bad, but also unsure if you're ready of what might come next.Â
"Mmm?" you hum, almost afraid to say anything louder.Â
Jake bites the inside of his cheek, looking like heâs at war with himself. He finally lets go of your sleeve and gives you a small smile.Â
"Sorry, itâs...nothing. Just... you look really nice tonight."Â
The sudden, sincere comment catches you off guard, and you feel that familiar warmth rush to your face once again. Â
"Oh," you manage to squeak out, because apparently, that's all you're capable of in the moment as your heart is spiraling. "Thanks, Jakey."Â Â
You smile and look down at where his hand just was on your sleeve, and you almost want to reach out and grab his hand again, just to see if it'll feel as warm as it did earlier. Why do you want to reach out so bad? Â
Jake's eyes flicker to yours, and for a split second, you swear there's a flicker of something in his eyesâsomething vulnerableâbut then, just as quickly, his gaze shifts to the apartment door behind you, and he clears his throat. Â
"Yeah," he says almost breathlessly. "Sorry, we should...probably go in. They probably think we got lost or something at this point."Â Â
You finally let out a breath and snap yourself back in reality from staring at him.Â
"Right, yeah. Wouldnât want them sending a search party," you joke, though your brainâs still fuzzy from the million thoughts and feelings swirling around.Â
As Jake unlocks the door, you canât help but wonder if whatever just happened between you two was all in your head. But it canât be, right? That feeling had to be real... Right?Â
You step inside, and your friendsâ commentary barely registers. Itâs all background noise compared to the whirlpool of emotions screaming inside you. You sit back down on the couch, and so does Jake, in his seat next to yours. Â
And while the movie plays for the rest of the night, you can't seem to focus on anything but the memory of everything that's happened tonight. That and the feeling of Jakeâs arm resting right up against yours. Â
Youâre doomed.Â
Jake has never been more confused in his entire life, like, ever. The past few days for him have been more confusing than that one semester he took Postmodern Interpretations of the Emoji Language and actually had to write a ten-page paper on the laughing emoji (don't judge, he had to fulfill his last two elective credits somehow). Â
Life has been an absolute whirlwind for Jakeâmainly due to the fact that his emotions have been spinning out of control. And to top it off, todayâs the long-awaited rematch day. Â
Normally, Jake would be a complete wreck by now, bouncing his leg under the table or fidgeting with his phone, but today? Today, he's nervous in a completely different way. The kind of nerves you get when you already know what's about to happen⊠but after everything thatâs gone down lately, he thinks thereâs something more between the two of you. And it has nothing to do with Heeseungâs so-called love algorithm.Â
At least, he hopes thereâs something between you two. Unlessâoh godâheâs been totally delusional this whole time, and youâve just been nice, and Jakeâs fully lost it. Perfect, thatâs exactly what he needs right now, on top of everything else. But the scariest part? In just a few moments, when the app refreshes and pairs you two together, Jake's going to have to face whatever's been simmering between you bothâwhether he's ready for it or not. Â
And as if Heeseung could read his trembling thoughts, he breaks the silence at the lunch table, "Are you guys ready?"Â Â
Grace and Jay's heads are nodding so fast for Heeseung to just push the 'send' button already, Jake thinks they look like bobbleheads. But when he glances over at you, you don't seem nearly as eager. Which is...weird. Considering how only a couple days ago, you were fired up about the rematch. But now? You look almost...conflicted? Â
Jake's eyes linger on you for a second longer, taking in the way you're biting your lip, clearly deep in your thoughts. He can't help but find the sight of you zoned out like that so ridiculously adorable. Â
"Y/N?" He nudges you gently. "You good?"Â Â
"Huh?" You blink, snapping out of your daydream. "Oh, yeah. Sorry, Just...thinking, I guess."Â Â
"You'll be fine, Y/N!" Grace chimes in, ever the optimist. "I bet you're gonna love whoever your match is!"Â Â
Well, gee, Jake really, really, hopes so. If not, the last few days will have been a very confusing rollercoaster of emotional whiplash.Â
"Right," Jake agrees, trying to act normal, though his voice sounds a little too tight. "Everything's going to be fine." Please, please let everything be fine. Â
Jake can tell you're hesitant about somethingâyou open your mouth like you want to say something, but then just as quickly, you press your lips closed again. If Jake didn't think you were the most precious being in the world, you could say you look like a fish out of water right now.
"Hypothetically speaking," you slowly speak up, eyes flicking up to your friends. "What would you do if...let's say you started catching feelings for someone...but then the app might pair you with someone else?" You pause, swallowing hard.Â
"HypotheticallyâŠof course.â
Grace raises an eyebrow. Heeseung freezes mid-bite. And Jake? Well, let's just say his heart is already running a mile into the marathon. Hypothetical? Feelings? That has to be about him, right? What were the chances? Â
Jay lets out a snort. "Lucky for you, in a hypothetical situation, you do absolutely nothing. Cause it's...you know, hypothetical."Â Â
"Yeah, you're right. Forget I said anything." You wave your hand, brushing it off, but Jake notices a blush growing across your face. "Okay, Hee! Let's get this over with."Â Â
Jake's mind is spinning. What could you have possibly meant by that? That had to be about him...right? Because that is all he's ever wanted, all he's been pining for. But at the same time...it's too good to be true, so Jake refuses to believe it. He can't get his hopes upânot yet.
"Okayyyy," Heeseung's still lifting an eyebrow at your odd behavior before he clears his throat, âeveryone ready?â Â
Jay and Grace drum the table in anticipation, and Jake? Jake's pretty sure he's going to throw up.Â
Heeseung taps his screen, and the table collectively holds its breath. Then, all at once, everyoneâs phones light up.Â
Grace and Jay scramble to grab their phones first and Jake thinks he's actually developing an incurable case of heart failure. Â
âWHAT?â Grace shrieks before she whips around to Jay with wide eyes. âI got you, AGAIN!â Â
Jay, unbothered, raises his hands defensively, âWhat can I say? Itâs science, Gracey-poo.â Â
"Sure. Science," Grace rolls her eyes so hard it's a wonder they don't get stuck. "Like how you scientifically forgot how to text me back after last night's study sesh?"Â Â
Before Grace can verbally throttle Jay, Jake's entire focus narrows in on you, and how your phone is still face down on the table. You haven't even touched it.
The suspense is killing him, especially knowing his name is going to be on your screen. And if it's not? Well, then the end. End of fanfic. Cue the end credits. Â
You, on the other hand, are staring intently at the Grace v. Jay debacle, as if focusing hard enough on other people's life issues will prevent the existential crisis you're about to have. Honestly, your phone could've exploded into a million pieces next to you and you'd still be pretending to care more about anything else. Â
Because honestly? You couldn't care less about whoever Heeseung's magical powers paired you withâyou're more focused on whatever's been going on between you and Jake. Or at least, you hope, thereâs something happening between you and Jake. Unless, oh god, he's just being nice, and you've fully lost it. Please, please don't tell me I've lost it. Â
"Y/N! Jake! Who did you guys get?" Grace turns towards the two of you, breaking the both of you out of your respective spirals.Â
"Right, yeah. Umâokay. Let's see,â you let out a shaky laugh as your hands fidget in your lap before they finally reach for your phone, as Jake does the same next to you. Â
You take a breath, click on the daunting email notification on your screen, and finally look down. Â
You blink down at your phone. You squeeze your eyes to make sure theyâre not deceiving you. Â
Match: Sim Jae-yun Â
Your brain is absolutely jumbled beyond saving, you seem to have forgotten how to breathe, and your stomach feels like it was just turned inside out. You donât know whatâs happening, is this what dying feels like?
You blink once. Twice. And maybe a third time just to make extra, extra sure. Â
Suddenly, the whole room seems to slow down, like you're watching a replay of your life recently at 0.5 speed. All the moments between you and Jake flash by: the vending machine run, the shared glances, the oddly adorable way he got flustered over you calling him 'Jakey.' But you don't have time to fully process everything because the fact is:Â Â
Youâve just been matched with Jake. Jake. Â
You finally look up, heart racing, and try to see if Jake's opened his notification yet, but his face is still too normal at whatever he's looking at on his phone. Or, more accurately, he's pretending to be normal, because the tips of his ears are a little too red for someone who's âchillâ (he's most definitely not chill, right now). Â
"So, uh..." Jake's voice finally comes out quiet, his gaze slowly meeting yours, and it makes you feel like you two are the only ones at this table. Scratch that, in this world. "Did you open yours?"
"Yeah,â you nod, trying to act nonchalant, âI did.â
Jake lets out a soft chuckle, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips.Â
"Same here."
The way he says itâsoft, like heâs addressing the shared secret between the two of youâmakes the air feel warmer. Or maybe itâs just you overheating. Get it together, Y/N.
Grace, across the table, catches the tension happening in front of her, her eyes darting back and forth like she's watching a slow motion scene of a k-drama unfold in real time. Thenâ
âOh my god,â she gasps loudly, before violently clapping a hand over her mouth.Â
Her eyes fill with excitement and just as quickly, she jumps up, grabbing both Jay and Heeseung by the back of their shirts and yanking them to their feet.Â
âWeâre getting boba! Be right back!â Â
Heeseungâs brows scrunch. âWait, what? I donât even wanââ Â
âToo bad! Weâre going.â Â
And just like that, youâre left alone with Jake next to youâand his flaming red ears that could probably power a small country.Â
âSoâŠâ Jake clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly as he finally turns to look at you. Â
âSo..,â you softly say, your fingers tapping nervously on the edge of the table, hoping he'll say something, anything.Â
"So," Jake repeats for the third time, followed by an awkward chuckle. âUh...what do we...do now?â Â
You blink.
âDo now?â Â
Jakeâs eyes dart to yours, and for a second, you think heâs about to up and bolt from the table.Â
âI mean, like, uh...weâreâŠwell, I donât know, is there something to do now..? Or not do? Thatâs okay too! I have no idea. Iâm justâwow. Sorry.â Â
You smile endearingly at him before breaking out into laughter as your heart does a little Olympics routine. How were you this oblivious before? Â
âJake,â you say between laughs, catching your breath as you instantly feel eased by him. "It's okay. I've been thinking...Iâ"Â
You mentally high-five yourself and give yourself a pep talk for what you're about to say. Please, for the love of all things holy, don't let me be wrong about this.
"I can't stop thinking about you," you say, voice quiet, but steady. "It's like you've taken over my brain, Jake, and it's driving me crazy. And I don't knowâI don't know if it's just me or if everything I've been sensing between us is real, but I think my brain might explode if I didn't tell you. Plus, I was terrified the Matchmatic would pair you with someone else and I had lost my chance."Â Â
You finally feel like the weight of the world has been lifted off your shoulders, but when you look at Jake? He's gone. Eyes wide, looking like a malfunctioning robot. His mouth opens and closes, and you're 110% sure he's about to glitch out of existence right in front of you. Â
"Wow."Â Â
You blink. Wow? That's it? Is this a good wow or a wow-she's-crazy wow? Naturally, you think itâs the latter, so you mentally prepare yourself to fake your death and move to Norway. Â
But before you're about to flee the scene and start your new life as a mountain goat herder, Jake's eyes lock on yours, filled with the softest, most fond expression you've ever seen. Â
"Y/N, I like you. A lot. And I have for, like...forever, I think." His voice is quiet, but his shoulders are more relaxed the more he looks at you. "I didn't think you'd feel the same way. You know, because we're friends and all."Â
Your smile grows impossibly wide as you nudge his shoulder playfully with yours.Â
"Well, surprise surprise, you're wrong."Â Â
Jake chuckles, now fully facing you, his face flushed from wearing his heart on his sleeve. But for you? He thinks heâs about to stand on this lunch table and scream his feelings into a megaphone.Â
"So...maybe we could try out this 'more-than-friends' thing?" you suggest, finding it hard to form a coherent sentence without sounding like a fifth grader. But Jake? Jake thinks seeing you stumbling your words over talking to him, for once, is the cutest sight ever. "I mean, unless you don't wantâ"Â Â
"Oh, I definitely want to!" Jake practically launches himself forward, his smile so big you wish you could keep a mental image of it forever.
You laugh, suddenly feeling lighter. "Okay, then. Let's do it."Â Â
"Here's to doing it!" Jake echoes, his voice warm and soft as he moves closer to you, finding it hard to resist just simply being in your close presence. Then, his eyes widen and he clears his throat, "I mean, not like do it, do itâwait, but not saying that I wouldn'tâoh godâ"Â Â
Your giggles are uncontrollable once again as you watch Jake's face turn into the deepest shade of red you've ever seen. Without even thinking, you reach for his hand, seeking stability, as if he's a magnet drawing you in and you can't resist the pull of his warmth.
You finally take a breath, calming yourself down as Jake's eyes flicker down to your intertwined fingers, and his smile softens into something that makes your heart so full. Â
For a moment, neither of you say anything, just letting the weight of everything finally settle, your hand resting under his in between you two. Then, Jake's thumb brushes softly over your knuckles, and he looks up at you with that newfound confidence that somehow makes him even more irresistible. Â
âSoâŠnow what?â Jake's corners of his mouth twitch into a smile as he subconsciously leans in closer than before, and this time, you know there's no way you're backing out.Â
A playful smile tugs at your lips as your eyes flicker between his soft brown eyes and his mouth.Â
âWell, I meanâŠyou still owe me from the vending machine.â Â
Jake freezes. He blinks in confusion, and you're pretty sure you can hear the whirrr of his brain rebooting right in front of you. Â
âOh, you mean for the snacks? How much do I owe you? I can Venmo you, or, uh, buy you more snacks?â he stammers, completely caught off guard by your random comment, especially when he thought this was the moment. But, you know...priorities, I guess? Â
Now you freeze, blinking at him before you let out a giggle that surprises even you. Seriously? You reach out and gently cup his adorably confused face. Â
"Jake, you lovable dork," you say, shaking your head, unable to stop the giggles bubbling up. "Not what I meant."Â Â
Jake doesn't even get the chance to respond (and honestly, he doesn't know if he could even form words right now, not with you so close, holding his face so gently). Before either of you even know it, you lean up and close the gap, your lips softly pressing against his. Â
Jake freezes for a heartbeat. Or maybe two. He's unsure if he's even still breathing (is oxygen even necessary at a time like this?). But then, instinctively, his hands find their way to your waist, and he's gently pulling you closer on the table bench, as if he's afraid to let you slip away. He's pretty sure the world hit pause, and all that existed was the softness of your touch, the sweet warmth of your lips, and the faint vanilla scent of your shampoo that's doing a great job at scrambling his brain right now. Â
He tries to stay coolâhe really doesâbut his lips curve into a smile against yours, and he can't help but think, well, this is it. This is peak life. I've peaked. This? This just knocked anything else right off the leaderboard of his best life moments.Â
Itâs short. Itâs sweet. Itâs everything you didnât know you needed and everything Jakeâs been dreaming about.
He's savoring every little moment, every little movement guided by you, feeling like he's on cloud infinity, before you pull away, a soft pink blush growing on your entire face.
You lean your head back slightly to look at him, the warmth of the moment still lingering between you. Jakeâs eyes are wide, his cheeks flushed, but thereâs a soft, almost dazed smile playing on his lips, like heâs still processing.
"W-wow," he stammers, his voice barely above a whisper as he's trying to process if he's actually alive or in a sugar-induced dream.Â
"Yeah," you breathe out, smiling as you gently run your thumb across his cheek, enjoying the way his face heats up even more under your touch.Â
"So...," you say playfully after a beat of silence, leaning in so close that you're sure youâd be kissing him all over again if it wasnât for your self-control, "do I still get my snacks?"
Jake laughs, officially breaking the heavy tension. He drops his head on your shoulder, completely and utterly overwhelmed by the pure sensation of you, but in the best way possible. Â
"You can have all the snacks you want," he mumbles into your shoulder, his voice muffled but filled with so much affection that you think you might actually burst with joy. "Take my whole bank account while you're at it. Take whatever you want."Â Â
You can't help but laugh as you wrap your arms around his neck, tugging him even closer to you.Â
"You're ridiculous, Sim Jae-yun."Â
"I know," he admits, voice still muffled into your shoulder. "But I'm your ridiculous, algorithm-proven match, right?"Â Â
Jake feels your laughter from under him. "Mmmhmm, Jakey. 100% mine. Algorithm or not."Â Â
You feel his smile grow against your shoulder as your arms squeeze him tighter. The perfect moment settles and you think you could die happy right now. For the first time in days, everything feels right.
But then, Jake pulls back just slightly, still under your hold, his eyebrows furrowing like he's about to say something very important. Â
"Waitâ" he raises his eyebrows at you.
 "âdoes this mean you never saw me as a Roomba?" Â
âIf your next words are that youâre Spider-Man,â you say, your head nestled in Jakeâs lap as you absentmindedly watch the TV, âthen congratulations, youâre officially the worldâs coolest boyfriend ever.â
Jake lets out a soft laugh, his fingers gently playing with the ends of your hair. Itâs movie nightâa rare, private one this time, much to your friends' annoyance. No horror films tonight (thank god, because Jake still hasnât fully recovered from the last one), but honestly, the movie has long been forgotten. The moment Jake blurted out that he had something âdireâ to tell you, all plotlines flew out the window.Â
You told him, unless it's about a sudden worldwide ramen shortage or that he's secretly a bug-themed superhero, then it could definitely wait until after the movie.Â
But Jake had shook his head, claiming no, itâs likeâŠlife-changing important.Â
Which is why youâre here now, his lap a perfect pillow, waiting for him to speak. He looks down at you, and you finally catch the serious gleam in his eyes. Oh wait, heâs actually being serious.Â
âNo, unfortunately, I donât have Spidey senses,â he laughs nervously, gently nudging you up until youâre sitting face to face on the couch. âI do think Iâve developed Y/N senses, though.âÂ
âOh? What are your Y/N senses telling you now?â you raise an eyebrow, smirking.Â
âUm⊠that you hopefully wonât be mad at me?â Jakeâs voice wavers slightly, hands fiddling with yours, and your playful smile fades just a little, confusion and worry taking over your face.Â
Jake hesitates, looking down at your intertwined fingers, and takes a deep breath.
âWell, remember the Matchmatic thingy from a few months ago?âÂ
âMmhm,â you hum, studying his expression.Â
âSo⊠umâŠI may or may not have done somethingâŠto make sure you got matched with me,â Jakeâs eyes immediately squeeze shut, bracing for impact, like heâs expecting an explosion, or worse, your wrath.Â
Thereâs a beat of silence. And thenâÂ
You burst into laughter. Full-on, head-thrown-back, shoulders-shaking laughter. You drop your head back into Jakeâs lap, your cackles muffled by his hoodie, while Jake sits frozen, staring at you like youâve grown two heads.Â
âIâuh⊠Iâm confused?â He stares down at you, unsure if youâre about to pull a full-on Joker moment.Â
âJakey,â you coo, your laughter softening into giggles as you sit back up and cradle his cheeks. âYou are so adorable. You really thought I didnât know?âÂ
Jake blinks.Â
âWait, what?âÂ
âI knew.â You grin, watching as his brain seems to stall for a second.Â
ââŠYou knew?âÂ
You nod, leaning back on your hands.Â
âYeah, I knew. I mean, I kind of just put two and two together after we started dating. And Hee? He's a genius, no way he messed up the first way around,â you roll your eyes playfully.Â
âBut the thing is, Jake⊠the algorithm didnât make me like you. I already did.â You reach forward and tap his forehead lightly, preciously smiling at how utterly stunned he looks.Â
âYouâwait, what?â Jakeâs mind is catching up at the speed of 3G internet.Â
âYeah,â you laugh again, softer this time. Â
Heâs still staring at you, wide-eyed, like you just casually told him you're moving to the moon tomorrow. Honestly, he looks like his entire world just got flipped upside down, but in the best way possible, of course. Â
âSoâŠyouâre not mad?âÂ
"Nope."Â Â
"And you still wanna be with me?"Â Â
"Yup."Â Â
"And you're not just saying that because I buy you all the snacks you want?"Â Â
"Nope."Â Â
"Oh thank god," Jake exhales dramatically, hand flying to his chest like he barely survived a life-threatening situation. He looks at you with the softest, dopiest smile that makes you feel like you're staring at a puppy in a rom-com. "Because you are, hands down, the most perfect person for me. Like, ever."Â Â
"You are so cute, Jakey," you scrunch your nose at him before leaning up to plant a quick kiss on his blushing cheek, which only makes his ears turn an even deeper shade of red. Â
But before you can pull away, he's already frowning playfully. Â
(đ„) After Riki Nishimuraâs hundred-dollar boyfriend scheme works a little too well, everyone now has to survive the aftermath: family dinner.
bf! jake x fem! reader
ËËË riki is your younger brother, he's annoying, romcom, highschool au, (kind of) mean reader, patient jake, fluff, just fluff, cute stuff
đđ very short ficlet sequel of PLEASE JUST TAKE MY SISTER OUT.
anjâs note: i didnât 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 rikiâs girlfriend for the sequel, so here it is! i really enjoyed writing this so i hope you would as well. i might write an actual part 2 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 didnât 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 â because he liked you the way you are.
Unfortunately, Jakeâs personal experience with loving you did not come with a training manual for the general public, to everyoneâs 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 didnât 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 â youâd never give in work for people you couldnât 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 didnât have you tethered on a leash, because that would mean he had control over you, and Jake doesnât 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. âWhy are there wine glasses?â
Jake scoffs, like Riki was unreasonable. âFor drinks.â
âSheâs seventeen. She doesnât drink wine.â
âI know.â
âSo why are there wine glasses?â
Jake picks one up and inspects it like this was a very normal conversation. âFor juice.â
Riki blinks. âJuice.â
âYou can put juice in a wine glass,â 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.
âIt looks nice,â you say simply.
Riki exhales, defeated. âSheâs just coming over for dinner.â
You glance up. âIâm aware.â
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.
âYouâre doing too much,â Riki says finally, watching as you wipe the edge of the counter one last time.
âI made dinner because sheâs coming here for the first time.â You glance at him, and for once, thereâs no sharpness in it. âI want to put effort,â you say. âSheâs important to you, so Iâm going to treat her like she is.â
Before anyone can say more, the doorbell rings.
Riki freezes dramatically â shoulders stiffen, his hand goes briefly to his hair, and for one second, he actually looks seventeen with his first love, scared because youâre meeting her. Your expression softens before you can stop it, watching him mumble a few things beneath his breath and reach for the foyer.Â
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 â 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. âWhat?â
He presses his lips together, but his eyes are already amused. âNothing.â
âYouâre laughing.â
âIâm not.â
âAre you making fun of me?â 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. âNo. You just look cute.â
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.
âRelax, okay?â he murmurs, low enough that only you hear him.
âI am relaxed.â
âYouâre not.â
âI was,â you whisper back, eyes fixed toward the hallway. âRiki is making me tense. Youâre also making me tense.â
His mouth twitches. âHeâs nervous.â
âHe said it himself, itâs just dinner.â
âI know, baby.â
âYouâre not helping.â
âIâm literally holding you.â
âExactly, now Iâm tense again.â
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 Rikiâs voice, lower and softer than usual, which makes something inside you pause. He says something you donât 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.
Jakeâs hand starts moving lightly over your arm, not enough to distract you, just enough to remind you to breathe when he can feel that youâre growing nervous too.
Youâre 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. âThis is her.â He immediately looks annoyed with himself for a shitty introduction. âI mean, this is my sister.â
The girl smiles at you, a little shy but trying. âHi. Itâs nice to meet you.â
You make sure your face is still behaving before you smile back, lifting your eyebrows and relaxing your eyes. âItâs nice to meet you too.â
âAnd this is Jake,â he says, already sounding tired before the sentence is even finished. âMy friend. Her boyfriend.â
Jake smiles. âHello.â
For a second, it goes very well.Â
Rikiâs shoulders lower slightly and Jakeâs 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.
âThis is really nice,â she says, smiling so wide and bright, then seems to remember the paper bag in her hands. âOh, I brought something. Itâs just pastries. My mom said I shouldnât come empty-handed.â
âThatâs sweet,â you say, already nodding in appreciation.
Then she adds, with a small nervous laugh, âEspecially if itâs you.â
What the fuck does that mean?
You pause, though it isnât 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.Â
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 youâre an older sister who canât let things slide.
âSorry,â you say, still polite. âWhat does that mean, exactly?â
She looks suddenly unsure. âOh. Riki just told me youâre a bit unhinged sometimes. So I wanted to put my best foot forward.â
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. âOkay.â then you breathe. âCalling me unhinged five seconds after walking in is ââ
Then Jakeâs hand covers your mouth.Â
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 Rikiâs girlfriend like this is normal, like he did not just manually mute you in your own house.Â
âShe thinks youâre funny.âÂ
You make a muffled sound against his hand.
He glances down. âYou do.â 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. âYeah. Theyâre like that. Sorry. Itâs kind of their dynamic.â
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 â 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 Rikiâs 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.
âIâm sorry,â she says, smiling now. âI really meant it as a joke. I just thought of breaking the ice a little.â
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. âI know. I understand the joke.â but youâre not laughing.
You nod once, polite. âI just think itâs very brave.â Jakeâs eyes close for half a second. âIt takes a lot of confidence to walk into someone elseâs house shamelessly ââ
Jakeâs 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 Rikiâs girlfriend. âShe appreciates your confidence,â he says smoothly. âAnd the pastries. Weâll eat them for dessert.â
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. âLetâs just eat. She cooks great food.â
The sudden rushed compliment makes you pause, which works better than Jakeâs 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, âShe called me unhinged.â
Jake reaches past you for the serving spoon. âTechnically, Riki did.â
You stare at him. âAnd she repeated it. In my house.â
âShe was just joking, baby.â
You grab the bowl of pasta from the counter, still whispering because you are civilized, apparently. âAnd you covered my mouth twice. That was crazy of you.â
He sighs. âI had to.â
âNo, you did not have to.â
âYou were about to call a seventeen-year-old shameless.â
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 youâll keep arguing better with your hands heavy. âYouâre doing fine. Just be careful with her, sheâs new.â
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 sheâs new and you donât 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 â 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. âWhat do you want?â he asks her, voice quieter than usual.
She looks at the food, still shy. âMaybe just some of the crab rangoon bread.â
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 Rikiâs careful expression so obviously that when you realize, you immediately swat his hand away.
âStop.â
Jake bites his lip, trying not to smile. âWhat? Iâm just serving you.â
âStop it.â 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. âCan you two stop?â
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. Rikiâs 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. âI really like your house,â she says. âIt feels so put together.â
You glance up from your plate. âThank you.â
She smiles, encouraged. âRiki said you did most of the organizing.â
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, âDid he also tell you why I had to?â
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, Jakeâs 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.
Rikiâs girlfriend looks between everyone, confused but still polite. âOh, I mean, he just said youâre really responsible.â
âThatâs one word for it,â you say.
Jakeâs hand tightens again, which makes you look down at his hand, then back at him. âWhat?â
He smiles at the table. âNothing.â
Riki puts his fork down slowly. âCan we not?â
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. Sheâs starting to understand you beyond Rikiâs unhinged stories about you, and for the second time, another person doesnât feel like scurrying away.
That should embarrass you. And it does, at least a little, because youâve 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, âSorry. Thank you. I do most of the organizing.â
Jakeâs hand relaxes on your thigh and Riki exhales. His girlfriend smiles, warm and careful. âItâs nice. It feels like someone really takes care of it.â
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. âI try.â
Jakeâs 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. âSo,â he says, lighter now. âWhere did you two meet?â
Riki pauses with his fork halfway to his mouth. âSchool.â
Jake nods slowly. âWow. Detailed.â
You huff a small laugh before you can stop it, and Jake glances at you, pleased with himself. Riki glares. âWhat else do you want me to say?â
His girlfriend laughs softly, then looks at Jake. âWe got paired for a project.â Her shoulders loosen a little more. âHe was really serious about it. I thought he didnât like me at first.â
Jake turns to you, voice low but not low enough. âHeâs your brother.â
You nod solemnly. âUnfortunately, yes.â
His girlfriend smiles wider now, looking more comfortable than she had when she first walked in. âIt was cute, actually. mean, he was responsible,â she says. âDuring the project. He kept checking if I was done with my parts, and he fixed the slides when the file got messed up.â
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 doesnât freak out when thereâs a problem.
You clear your throat and look back at your plate before your face can do anything embarrassing. âThat sounds like him.â
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. âSo, what tricks did he pull out of his ass after the slides? Did he act mysterious? Pretend he doesnât care?â
His girlfriend laughs, and this time it comes out easier. âA little.â
Riki looks at her immediately. âNo, I didnât.â
âYou kinda did.â
You and Jake laugh before you can stop it, and Riki points his fork at you. âDonât laugh,â 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.Â
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 Rikiâs 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 Jakeâs 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 brotherâs girlfriend gets pulled into the conversation for a while, laughing softly when Riki complains that Jake is âtoo comfortableâ 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. Itâs 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.
âHi,â she says.
You swallow. âHi.â
She looks at the pastry in your hand, then smiles a little. âIs it okay?â
You look down at it, then back at her. âItâs good.â
Her face brightens, visibly relieved. âMe and my mom made them.â 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 Rikiâs voice carries from inside. She breaks the silence as she says, âIâm sorry again. About earlier. The unhinged thing. I really thought it would be funny.â she winces.
âIt was funny,â you say. She gives you a look like she does not fully believe you. You take another bite. âEventually.â
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. Sheâs trying, that becomes obvious because you donât recall anyone willingly staying alone in one room with you â not before or after Jake.
You take another bite of the pastry, buying yourself a second before you say anything too sincere. âIâd like to think that Iâm not scary all the time.â
She smiles. âI know.â
You try not to snicker. âYou donât know that yet.â
âI kind of do,â she says, then looks embarrassed by her own confidence. âI mean, Riki talks about you a lot.â
You lower the pastry slightly. âDoes he?â
She nods. âYeah. He complains, but not in a bad way.â she says, laughing softly. âItâs more like⊠heâll say youâre annoying, but then heâll 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.â
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. Itâs the way Jake looks at you when he thinks you arenât looking.
âHe acts like he hates it,â she says. âBut I donât think he does. I think he likes knowing someone checks.â
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. âMaybe.â
She glances at you, then says, quieter, âI like him a lot.â Her eyes widen slightly especially when you look at her, like she has surprised herself by saying it directly. âSorry. That was sudden.â
âNo,â you say with a chuckle. âItâs okay.â
She tucks her hair behind her ear. âI know weâre young, and itâs not like Iâm gonna marry him right now or anything. I just wanted you to know Iâm not trying to get him in trouble or make things harder for you.â
It isnât 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 Rikiâs 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. âOh my God, Iâm sorry.â
You let out a small laugh and look away, wiping quickly beneath one eye with your finger. âNo, youâre fine.â
âI didnât mean to make you cry.â
You sniff once. âIâm barely crying.â
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.
âHe told me,â she says softly. âUhm. Just. About your mom. And your dad.â
Your face stills and she rushes to explain, eyes widening. âNot in a bad way. He wasnât gossiping. He just said you had to do a lot. That youâre strict because you had to be. And I think I understood that more after meeting you.â She smiles a little, almost apologetic. âI mean, yes, youâre scary.â
You laugh despite yourself, and she laughs too. âBut not in the way he made it sound. Itâs more like...â She pauses, searching for the words. âYou were kind of just left with him.â
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. âIâm so sorry. That sounded so sad.â
âNo,â you say quickly, laughing under your breath as you wipe at your eye again. âNo, itâs okay.â You nod, then look down at the pastry in your hand because it is easier than looking at her. âItâs just weird.â
âWhat is?â
âHearing someone say that,â you admit, voice quieter now. âOther than Jake.â
Her expression softens and she laughs quietly, looking down at her hands. âRiki talks about him too.â
You blink. âJake?â
âYeah.â Her smile grows a little more embarrassed, like she already knows what she is about to say will sound too sweet. âHe said Jake is the only one who can tell you to calm down without making you mad.â
You stare at her as she glances toward the door, then back at you. âI think I get it now. Itâs just nice. The way he looks at you.â
You immediately look away. âOkay.â
âI know. Sorry. That was cheesy.â
âIt was very cheesy.â
âBut very true.â
You take another bite of the pastry, mostly to give yourself something to do that is not react like an idiot. âYouâre bold.â
âIâm learning from you.â
That makes you laugh. âYouâll need it,â you say, glancing at her. âIf youâre going to be around a lot.â
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 isnât 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. âWhat are you doing?â he asks, already suspicious. âAre you threatening her?â
You give him a deadpan look. He stares back, of course.
âIâm eating,â you say.
His girlfriend laughs softly and steps closer to him. âSheâs not threatening me.â
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.
Rikiâs 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. âCan I steal you for a bit?â
You barely get to frown before he guides you back inside with a hand at your waist.
âSteal me?â you repeat under your breath.
âBorrow,â 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. âI wasnât done.â
âI can see that.â
âItâs good.â
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, âEw.â
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.
âYouâre so mean,â he murmurs.
âYou know what you got into.â 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.
âStop,â 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. âDid she call you unhinged out there too?â
You glare at the cabinet over his shoulder. âNo.â
âDid you call her shameless?â
âNo.â
His brows lift, impressed. âReally?â
You swallow the bite of pastry and give him a flat look. âI donât like how surprised you sound.â
His smile tilts. ââCause I know what I got into.â
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.
âI like her,â you say after a moment.
His lips move against your hair. âYeah?â
âA lot.â
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. âWow. A lot?â
You narrow your eyes. âWhat?â
His gaze drops to your mouth for half a second before returning to your eyes, entirely too pleased with himself. âI thought I was the only person allowed to understand you and survive.â
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. âNow thereâs competition.â
âShe brought pastries.â
âVery strong opening.â
His thumb brushes once at your side, your throat tightens before you can stop it. Jake lowers his voice. âIâm still the one who gets to hold you after.â
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.
âJake.â
âHm?â
You tilt your head anyway, trying to sound annoyed even though you are smiling. âBehave. Theyâre still here.â
He pauses against your jaw before he laughs, low and quiet, his forehead dropping to your shoulder again. âThese fucking kids, bro.â
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. âYouâre literally twenty.â
Jake lifts his head, face still tucked too close to yours, and shrugs like you have just made his point for him. âExactly.â
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. âYou have a problem.â
Jake swallows, still smiling. âYouâre my favorite problem.â
Your eyebrows pull together immediately.
His smile drops by half. âWait.â
âIâm a problem?â
âNo.â
âYou just said Iâm a problem.â
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.
âI meant,â he says carefully, âyou are my favorite person who causes problems.â
You stare harder. He closes his eyes for a second. âNo. Thatâs worse.â He exhales a laugh. âOkay. Youâre not a problem.â
âGood.â
âYouâre just a lot.â
You scoff. âWow.â
âNo, no.â Jakeâs hand tightens on your hips you try to pull away, though he is smiling too much to look even slightly sorry. âI like a lot. I love a lot.â
Your face warms before you can stop it. Then, because apparently he has decided to make it worse for your health, he shrugs. âIâm greedy.â
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. âYou say terrible things.â
Jakeâs smile softens, but he still looks entirely too pleased with himself. âIâm being honest.â His hands settle at your waist again, warm and steady. âYouâre scary that I like. Mean that I like. Bossy that I like.â
You stare at him for half a second before another laugh slips out, softer this time, shaking your head because he is genuinely ridiculous. âThat is not how compliments work.â
âIt worked.â
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. Heâs 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. Jakeâs 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 itâd 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.
Ë àŒâĄ âăË sim jake âYou donât have to like her. Just take her out.â
ââ PLEASE JUST TAKE MY SISTER OUT.
(đŠź) After seventeen years of surviving his older sisterâs 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
ËËË brotherâs 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 !
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 â 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 wasnât.
These rules came from you, his older sister. Scratch that â his terrifying older sister thatâs 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.Â
The bad part was that you also happened to be ruining his life.Â
"Donât 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 isnât (he doesnât give a fuck, heâs actually glad he isnât as tense as you are). "Be home by ten."
He groans. "It's a party."Â
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.Â
A hand suddenly smacked the back of his head. "Ow â 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. âYour sister would freak the fuck out if she saw you.â he says.
Riki scoffs, shaking his head before taking more sips. âGood thing she isnât here.â
âWow, someoneâs bold.â Jungwon snickers.
Sunoo lets out a laugh from where he's leaning against the counter. âI can already count the amount of times sheâll call me tonight because you wonât be answering your phone.â
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 Rikiâs 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 didnât 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 Rikiâs 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. âHonestly, she canât be that bad.â
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. âYouâve never met her, then.â
Jake frowned. âI mean, she just sounds responsible.â
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 doctorâs 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?Â
âSheâs likeâŠâ Riki started, then stopped, because there genuinely wasnât 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. âImagine your mom, but if she had anxiety.â
âAnd a planner,â Riki added immediately, âand a superiority complex, and an attitude, and the ability to track your location and all your friendsâ locations. She has everyoneâs number saved, too, just so she can call around and make sure Iâm actually where I said I was.â
Riki smiles though, because the way Jake shrugs it off and doesnât think youâre that bad makes a terrible idea begin forming in his head. If he felt that way about you, maybe some things could be arranged.Â
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 â 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 â"
âHave you ever considered dating my sister?â
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.Â
âNo.â
âWhy not?â Riki asks, genuinely offended, like Jake is the unreasonable one here.
Jake looks at him as if he has lost his mind. âBecause sheâs your sister.â
Riki waves a hand, dismissing the concern as if family relation is just a minor technicality on a form. âYou donât have to like her. Just take her out.â
Jake shakes his head, âWhat?â
âTake her out,â Riki repeats, slower this time, like Jake is the one struggling with basic comprehension. âDinner, coffee, whatever girls like. Somewhere outside the house where she canât govern my life.â
And for all the ridiculousness of the conversation, something in his face turns a little more serious. âLook, sheâs always busy. Always. If sheâs not studying, sheâs doing house stuff, and if sheâs not doing house stuff, sheâs worrying about me, and ruining my life. Anyway, I think she needs to go outside and be a normal nineteen-year-old.â
âIâm not dating your sister because you want fewer curfew checks,â 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. âOkay, fine,â he sighs, âIâll pay you a hundred bucks weekly,â Â
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 â 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. âWhen do I start?â
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 personâs confidence.
Your gaze landed on Riki first, and whatever thin thread of patience you had left snapped immediately. âYouâre dead.â you said, voice flat enough.Â
Riki, drunk and useless, pointed at you before looking back at Jake. âSee?â
Jake could see, yes, but not exactly what everyone else seemed to see.
âI told you not to drink,â you said, already stepping forward.
âTechnically,â Riki started. âYou said I couldnât drink too much, and I think ââ
âNo.â
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 Rikiâs weight, and the next you had somehow taken your brotherâs arm, and dragged it over your shoulder.
âYou are seventeen years old,â you muttered. âSeventeen. Not grown enough to survive every stupid decision your friends encourage.â
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. âStand properly,â you snapped. âI swear to God, Riki.â
âUh,â 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. âWhat?â
âI can help.â 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.Â
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. âNo,â you said. âIâve got him,â
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.Â
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.
Youâre 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 didnât belong in the same tax bracket as your family.
Jake walks over easily, casually, friendly in the way he usually is without trying.
âHey.â
You look up, not startled nor pleased, just disturbed. He smiles automatically, the kind people return before they even realize theyâre 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 donât react, your pace remains even, your expression unchanged, and by the time he catches up beside you, you still donât give him so much as a glance.
âSo thatâs how this is gonna be?â he asks, amused despite himself. âYou pretending you donât hear me?â
You finally look over briefly. âHi.â
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.Â
He raises an eyebrow. âDo you remember me?â
That barely gets your attention. âYes, Jake Sim,â you say, your voice stays perfectly even. âYouâre one of Rikiâs friends.â
The answer comes instantly, and Jake has no idea why you saying his name feels satisfying. âSo you do know me.â
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 Simâs attention? Unfortunately, you arenât looking at him at all.
He exhales a quiet laugh through his nose. âHave you always been this friendly?â
âNo.â
He frowns. âSo itâs personal.â
âNo.â
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.
âWhat exactly do you need?â 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. âIf youâre looking for assistance regarding academics, facilities, or student concerns,â you say politely, âI suggest you start by talking to a member of the student body.â
He opens his mouth, but you continue before he can speak. âAlthough,â you add, giving him one last slow once-over, âthe nurseâs building might be more appropriate.â
For a second, Jake genuinely cannot tell if youâre 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 â 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.
âWhat are you doing?â 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. âStudying.â
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. âAnd you chose the only occupied table in this section?"
âIt had the best lighting.â
âIt has me.â
âExactly.â
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 â flips one page, glances at your highlighter, then at your face. âCan you help me with something?â he whispers.
You donât look up. âNo.â
Jakeâs 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.
âFine,â he says, leaning back. âI need help with economics.â
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. âYou got a ninety-four.â
He blinks. âSo?â
âYou have the second-highest grade in the class.â
âYou know my grade?â
âIâm the TA,â you say flatly. âThat isnât special.â
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. âMaybe I want to be first.â
This time, you do smile, but it is not warm. âNo,â you say, âBecause Iâm first.â
The corner of his mouth rises before he can stop it. âThen I definitely need your notes.â
âYou need attention,â you correct, closing your highlighter with a soft click. âThereâs a difference.â
You turn a page, your tone still calm after shutting him up. âYou ask questions you already know the answers to. You sit where you clearly arenât wanted. You make jokes because you think being charming is the same thing as being interesting.â Your eyes lift to his again. âItâs not.â
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. âWow.â
âYou asked for help.â
âI asked for economics.â
âAnd I gave you something useful.â
His mouth opens, but nothing decent comes out of it â 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. âAlso, next time you want to sit with me, try having a reason that isnât your ego.â 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 canât do this.
âCome on, dude! Itâs barely been a week and nothing happened yet. I already gave you the cash!â 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.Â
âNo.â
Riki stares. âNo? Jake.â
âNo.â
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. âWhat happened?â
Jake isnât entirely sure where to begin. Maybe the front porch, then the devastating situations after it. Collectively, all encounters had taught him one important lesson: youâre impossible, not in the fun way people usually meant when describing someone to be cute â but actually a pain in the ass.
âSheâs difficult,â Jake finally says while adjusting the cue against his purlicue. Jungwon just shrugs because such inference wasnât surprising at all, I mean itâs you.Â
âShe doesn't want anything,â he adds. âThere's usually something. People want you to laugh, they want you to like them, or they want attention. Dude, people want conversation â or literally anything.â Jake scoffs. âAnd she doesn't.â 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 wasnât 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.Â
The more Jake thought about it, the more absurd you seemed. Youâre 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 â unnecessary.Â
âPlease,â Riki says, and for the first time all afternoon there was genuine desperation in his voice. âJust keep trying.â
Jake groans. âNo.â
âPlease.â
Jake rubs a hand down his face, because he already knows heâs going to lose this argument. Not through Rikiâs 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 canât seem to bear him.Â
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 someoneâs grandmotherâs 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 isnât polite smile you use like a weapon, but something real and easy.
âHi, Mrs. Park,â you greet.
The elderly woman behind the counter brightens immediately. âThere you are.â
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.
âYou come here often?â 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. âWhat are you doing here?â
He blinks, as if the answer should be obvious. âTo read books.â
You stare at him for a second before your expression flattens. âWow. I didnât know you knew how to read.â
His face shifts into immediate offense. âI know how to read.â
You hum, entirely unimpressed, and continue walking down the aisle. âColoring books donât count.â
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. âWow,â he mutters, following after you. âFor the record, real books. Little Women. The Bell Jar. Percy Jackson.â
You stop walking and turn to him properly, huffing once through your nose. âPercy Jackson is new. Is that a thing now? The male campaign for feminism?â
His eyebrows lift. âAll Iâm hearing is you also read Percy Jackson and that we have something in common.â
Your eyes lift to his, flat and unimpressed, but there is the faintest twitch at the corner of your mouth. âRight, how exciting it is to bond over a childrenâs fantasy series.â
âWell,â he says, smiling. âItâs a start.â
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. âSince weâre apparently literary equals now, do you want to get coffee?â
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. âNo,â you say.
The answer comes cleanly, and he just blinks. âWhat? Why not?â
âI have coffee at home.â
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.
âThatâs not the point,â he says.
You scoff. âThen why did you ask?â
He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Instead, he exhales a laugh, softer this time. âBecause most normal people actually understand that getting coffee means spending time together.â
You hum, still not looking at him. âThen you should have asked that.â 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 doesnât even bother hiding how entertained he is. âYouâre impossible.â
âAnd youâre predictable.â
âFine,â he says, straightening a little. âGo out with me?â
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 didnât expect. For once, he doesnât grin.
Then you pull a book from the shelf and shove it against his chest. âNo,â you say, coming out quieter than before, less mean than before. âRead your book.â
Jake catches it automatically, turning it a little to see that itâs the poetry collection he came here for.
By the time he looks back up, youâre 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.Â
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 â 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 isnât enough to be inappropriate, just enough to be annoying. "Nothing."
You narrow your eyes. Jake, unfortunately, appears completely unbothered by this, like heâs 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 â respectable, even, as if youâre 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.Â
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 fatherâs acquaintance. Once she leaves, you clear your throat and shrug casually. "Iâm starting to think it's reached concerning levels."
That earns you a look â 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 Simâs are â 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.Â
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 youâve decided that you will stop entertaining the jest.
A hand settles lightly at your shoulder. âThere you are.â
You turn at the sound of your fatherâs 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. âHi, Dad.â
He then guides you aside with the kind of effortless authority. âYouâve been doing well tonight,â he says.
The compliment should feel nice, and it does for half a second until you remember who itâs coming from and how rare it is, and suddenly it feels less like praise and more like something you have to catch carefully. âThank you,â you say.
His eyes drift past you, scanning the room. âWhereâs Riki?â
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. âHe probably forgot. He had practice earlier, and his workloadâs been heavy.â
Your father looks at you then, and you immediately hate the expression on his face. Because itâs disappointment dressed up as responsibility, one you know too well. âYouâre his older sister,â he says. âYou know how he is. You should have made sure he came.â
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. âI canât force him to come,â you say carefully.
Your fatherâs mouth presses into a thin line. âYouâve never had a problem controlling him before.â
Something hot sparks behind your ribs. You didnât care for anyone to think that way about you, but the way your father had borrowed the notion feels shitty. âHeâs seventeen, heâs going to be careless â thatâs expected. But you know better.â he looks at you this time. âSo do better.â
For a moment, you canât speak. Because how can you be nineteen, and somehow old enough to be held responsible for everyone elseâs failures. âI should talk to some friends,â you say as you take a step back.
Your father nods, already looking toward another guest who has begun approaching him. âGood.â
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 â your jaw aches from clenching and your chest feels tight with things you canât say. You turn the corner too quickly and a hand catches your wrist, a gasp spilling as youâre 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.Â
âWhat the hell?â you hiss.
He raises both hands immediately, though one stays close in case you lose your balance again. âOkay, bad approach.â
You stare at him, breath uneven. âAre you insane?â
âA little,â he admits. âBut I just came from the restroom and you came out looking very mad.â
Your expression shifts before you can stop it. âMove,â you say, trying to step past him.
However, he doesnât move. âYou need air,â he says.
âI need people to stop telling me what I need. And I need you to stop appearing everywhere.â
His mouth twitches. âFair.â
You narrow your eyes again. âThen move.â
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. âTwo minutes,â he says.
âNo.â
âThen one.â
âJake.â
âYou can yell at me outside.â
You should go back into the ballroom, smile at executives, pretend your father didnât 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 itâs irritation and not the cold making your shoulders rise. He watches you for a second, like heâs 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. âWalk with me?â
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 heâs 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 doesnât fill the silence just to fill it.
Which lasts forty-seven seconds.
âRiki told me he wasnât going.â
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. âRight. Youâre friends.â you say as you remember. âSo he just tells you things.â
He shrugs. âOccasionally.â
âAbout me?â
He looks like he already regrets opening his mouth, but only halfway. âNot that much.â He falls into step beside you again, catching up with your pace. âHim not showing up must be why youâre upset?â 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. âIâm just asking.â
âYouâre nosy.â
âWell, yes.â
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. âLet me guess. Your dadâs pissed because he didnât show up.â
âNo.â Still, your jaw tightens. And he notices. His expression shifts slightly, amusement dimming into something quieter. âYouâre shitty at guessing.â
âAm I?â
âYes.â
âOkay.â He nods like heâs accepting the challenge. âThen maybe itâs the champagne. Bad year?â
You give him a look. âItâs champagne.â
âSo yes.â
âNo.â
âIs it the gown? You keep tugging at it.â
Your hand immediately stills at your hip, growing a little insecure. âI am not.â
âYou are.â
You glare at him, but thereâs a traitorous twitch at the corner of your mouth that you immediately force away. He catches it anyway and his eyes brighten. âThere it is.â
âThereâs nothing.â
âWell, I think there is something. The gardenâs very enchanted tonight.â he sighs in relief, looking very pleased with himself.
âYou are so annoying,â you mutter, turning your face away before he can catch the smile fighting its way onto your mouth.
âIâve been told.â
âFrequently, I hope.â You roll your eyes and keep walking, but the anger inside your chest has loosened slightly, enough that breathing doesnât 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. âIs it one of the donors?â
âNo.â
âBoard member?â
âNo.â
Then, because Jake really is bad at guessing, he says, âOr maybe itâs about a guy.â
Your head snaps up. âA guy?â
He shrugs, trying for casual and failing spectacularly because there is something too deliberate in the way he doesnât look directly at you. âYeah. I donât know. Maybe a boyfriend.â
You actually laugh, disbelieving. âA boyfriend?â
âA shitty boyfriend,â he clarifies, like that makes it a more reasonable theory to hypothesize tonight. âMaybe he said something stupid. Maybe heâs the reason you look so grumpy in couture.â
You stare at him before you scoff, shaking your head as you look away. âI donât have a boyfriend.â
The silence that follows is immediate and loud. He doesnât say anything, and because he doesnât say anything, you look back to see heâs looking ahead now, with the corner of his mouth lifted just slightly.
âGood.â
Your heart trips over itself. You stare at him, horrified by the fact that your face feels warm. âGood?â
His mouth twitches. âYeah.â
âYouâre being weird.â
He turns back to you then, eyebrows raised. âHow?â
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 thatâs 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.
âYou know,â he says after a while, softer now, âfor what itâs worth, I donât think Riki skipping tonight is your fault.â
Your throat tightens before you can stop it, continuing to stare ahead. âI didnât ask.â
For once, he doesnât tilt his head with that pleased little smile, doesnât 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 didnât 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 youâre walking, the next youâre lowering yourself onto the bench, careful with the fabric of your gown, your hands folding tightly in your lap like youâre 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 thereâs a whole stretch of cold stone between you, choosing to understand that closeness right now might make you run.
He isnât 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 donât feel miserable.
You bite your bottom lip, contemplating whether youâll entertain words sitting at the back of your throat, heavy and stubborn, and you tell yourself not to say them. You donât even know him like that because heâs not your friend; heâs Rikiâs 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. âItâs not just because Riki didnât show up.â
Jake remains still, but you notice the way his attention sharpens a little. âI told him about tonight,â you say. âI reminded him. I even texted him this morning.â Your fingers tighten around each other in your lap. âAnd he didnât come. Which is annoying, yes, but itâs also just Riki. He forgets things, gets distracted, acts like nothing bad can happen to him.â
The fountain fills the silence for a moment, the ballroom doors open briefly, spilling faint music and laughter into the garden before closing again. âI donât do it for fun,â you say, almost under your breath. âThe controlling thing.â
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. âI donât know how to parent,â you admit. âI know heâs my brother, not my child, but somehow it became my job anyway.â
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. âMy momâs a long story, and my dadâŠâ You laugh softly, but there is no humor in it. âHe pays for things. Heâs not cruel. He just doesnât know the small things. When Riki has practice, or when he has exams, or when heâs sick and pretending he isnât.â
You look down at your hands. âHe doesnât know who to call when Riki doesnât answer his phone.â Your throat tightens. âAnd I do.â The words sit between you, heavier than you meant them to be. âI just did what I thought was right. Iâm not a mom. I donât know what Iâm doing. But then my father looks at me tonight and tells me to do better, like I havenât been trying since I was eleven.â
For a moment, Jake doesnât say anything. His expression shifts again, losing the last of its teasing until all thatâs left is something quieter, something you donât quite know how to hold without feeling embarrassed.
He looks down at your hands. âIs that why youâre upset tonight?â
You press your lips together before you nod. His gaze lifts to your face again, his voice gentle when he asks, âIs that why youâre upset every day?â
The question catches you so off guard that you laugh, a soft and helpless sound that slips out before you can stop it.Â
Then you nod again and he smiles a little too. âOkay.â
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 hasnât 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. âDo people really think Iâm a bitch?â
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 youâre smiling. âSo yes.â
âNo.â
He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, looking genuinely shy, which is oddly enough to distract you from your own misery. âI mean, I donât think that.â
You tilt your head, amusement softening your face. âOkay, so what did you think?â
His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek. âI thought you were scary.â He looks at you, then immediately adds, âI still think youâre scary.â
Your eyes narrow, almost to a glare. âYouâre scared of me?â You try to make it sound like a joke but it doesnât quite work.
His mouth tilts. âThe first time you shut the door in my face? Yeah.â
A breath of laughter escapes you as you remember a very irritable night of a brother coming home drunk. âYou shouldâve stopped then.â
âI considered it.â He leans back slightly, looking at the fountain instead of you now. âBut then you smiled at a cat named Chicken.â
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. âI saw it,â he admits. âYou were with Mrs. Park, and then the cat got up, and you just...â He stops, suddenly aware of how much detail he is giving. âYou looked different.â
Your face warms despite yourself, but you keep your expression sharp. âSo you were watching me.â
He lifts one hand like he is surrendering in court. âI know how it sounds. I just mean I noticed you before you noticed me.â
You fold your arms, still looking at him like he has committed some minor felony against your privacy. âAnd you remembered the catâs name?â
âYou called him Chicken.â
âBecause his name is Chicken.â
âWhich is insane, by the way.â
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. âI guess I just didnât expect you to look less angry.â His gaze flicks to yours.
You scoff, but there is barely any bite in it. âSo you watched me because I looked less angry?â
âNo,â he says, then pauses. âMaybe. A little. I donât know.â He exhales, looking down at his hands. âEveryone talked about you like you were this impossible person. Then I met you and, yeah, you were mean to me.â
A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it, quiet and a little disbelieving. âYeah, well,â you say, looking away first, âI wasnât exactly making myself likable.â
His smile softens at that, not teasing this time. âIâm not saying you made it easy.â His eyes stay on you, steady enough to make your chest feel weird. âIâm saying I still wanted to get to know you.â
For once, you donât 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.
âYou know,â you say slowly, ânormal people introduce themselves.â
He glances at you. âI did.â
You give him a look. âYou followed me through campus.â
âI said hey.â
âThat is not an introduction, that was stalking.â
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.
âOkay,â he says. âThen let me redo it.â
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.
âHi,â he says, offering his hand. âIâm Jake Sim. Iâm Rikiâs friend. I have a border collie named Layla. I play soccer, Iâm good at math, and Iâm apparently terrible at approaching girls who scare me.â
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. âI also know I made a bad first impression. And I know you had every reason to think I was annoying.â
âYou are annoying,â you say automatically while your hand reaches his to shake.
âI know.â His smile grows a little. âBut Iâm trying to be less annoying.â
âUnlikely.â
âProbably,â he admits. âBut Iâd still like to try.â
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 youâre both processing that youâve 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.Â
âWell,â you say after a moment, folding your hands over your lap, âyouâre the first person whoâs actually lasted this long with me.â You say it lightly, almost dismissively, but your eyes stay in front of you. âMost people usually give up before this part.â
His smile fades just a little, not into sadness exactly, but into something more attentive. âBecause you push them away?â
You huff out a small laugh. âFriends, mostly.â Then your mouth twists, like youâre deciding whether to soften the words or not. âApparently, people canât handle a heinous bitch for very long.â
He huffs a small laugh, looking down at his fidgeting hands. You glance at him, confused. âWhat?â
He shakes his head once, like heâs amused by something private. âNothing.â
âTell me.â
His gaze lifts to yours again. Thereâs a strange look on his face now, which isnât teasing exactly, but not shy either.Â
Then he says, âIâm not trying to be your friend.â
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. âWhat?â
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 doesnât 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.
âI mean,â he starts, then stops. He exhales, laughing under his breath, embarrassed now. âI mean, I can be. Your friend.â
âThat is not what you said.â
âI know.â
âYou said you werenât trying to be my friend.â
âI know what I said.â
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. âI should go back.â
His gaze lifts immediately, but he doesnât argue. âYeah.â
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. âYouâre not going to convince me to stay?â you ask before you can stop yourself.
Jake stands, brushing one hand over his trousers. âDo you want me to?â
He looks at you, and something in his expression grows rigid again when he realizes what he just asked. So he corrects himself. âI mean,â he says, âI can. But I can also walk you back.â
You look away, pretending to adjust the fabric of your gown. âFine.â
His mouth curves. âFine?â
âYes.â
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. Itâs 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. Youâve spent all night holding yourself together, only to end up in a garden with Rikiâs friend, exposing everything youâve kept to yourself, and now covered in mud at your fatherâs charity gala.
âI canât walk back in like this.â you can only sigh.
He grins, then his eyes drop again to your shoes, while the amusement fades into thoughtfulness. âDo you want me to carry you?â
You look at him so fast your neck nearly protests. âWhat?â
His face changes instantly and his ears go red again. âSorry. 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. Arenât your feet tired?â
You stare at him as he exhales, glancing away for a second before looking back at you, steadier this time. âI can carry you back.â The correction is soft, because itâs not a question that leaves you to decide whether accepting makes you ridiculous. Itâs an offer.
âIn front of everyone?â
âNo,â he says quickly, then gestures toward the side path. âNot everyone. Thereâs another entrance near the hallway, right? The one we came out of. I can take you there.â
You blink and the idea is absurd, too much for everything that has happened tonight. âIâm not letting you carry me.â
âOkay.â
You shake your head, but youâre smiling again, and this time you donât try to hide it anymore.Â
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 canât stop the small shiver that runs through you. You tuck your chin, tighten your arms around yourself, and keep walking like your body hasnât 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 doesnât slide off before he pulls them back.
You look down at the jacket, then back at him with a glare of concern. âYouâre going to get cold.â
âIâm fine.â
âYouâre in a dress shirt.â
âAnd youâre shivering.â
âI was not.â You glare at him, but it has no teeth now, no bite, which he seems to know that too, because his smile turns softer.Â
âJust wear it.â
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 Simâs jacket is currently covering your gown in a way that feels too intimate for something so practical. But you havenât 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. âIf you tell anyone what happened...â
âI wonât,â he says, before you even finish. âI wonât.â 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.Â
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. âWhat happened to you?â
Normally, you would straighten, explain and apologize, but this time, you only shrug. âI had a bit too much champagne,â 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 Simâs 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 â 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 â before Riki shoved his shoulder like a dumbass.
Jake learns fairly quickly that he is feeling (concerned, of course, thatâs all) for you. And itâs 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.Â
He is also actively trying not to think about it on the pavement when his phone buzzes in his pocket.Â
âBro,â Riki says the second Jake answers, voice low and hurried. âI need you to take my sister out tonight.â
He pauses with one hand still on Laylaâs leash, standing on the sidewalk outside his house while the dog sniffs a bush. Jakeâs starting to think that Rikiâs a bit more insane than you are, because he always asks the most unhinged favors. âWhat?â
âYou know,â Riki says quickly, then seems to think about it. âOur deal. I need it badly tonight. I have plans.â
Jakeâs expression flattens. âWhat plans?â
âA date.â
There is silence â one awkward silence.
Layla tugs at the leash and Jake lets himself be pulled two steps forward before asking, very carefully, âDoes your sister know?â
âNo, obviously not.â
âRiki.â
âItâs not bad,â Riki insists immediately. âIâm just going out with this girl from school, and Iâll be home early, but if my sisterâs home and Iâm not, sheâs gonna start calling people and asking questions again. Itâs part of her rules that Iâm not allowed to date âtil Iâm eighteen.â
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. âSo your solution is to make me distract her.â
âI pay a hundred bucks a week for that!â
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 Rikiâs 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.
âIâm not doing this because you asked,â Jake says.
Riki makes a confused sound. âBut I did ask.â
âI know.â Jake says, watching Layla sit neatly at his feet and look up as if even she understands this is going badly. âIâm saying if I take her somewhere, itâs because I want to.â
Then Riki says, with the kind of slow horror that proves he has begun realizing his plan may have developed organs and free will, âOh.â
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 Jakeâs 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. âWhat?â
There is a brief pause, and you can almost hear his smile through the phone. âHi to you too.â
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. âWhy are you calling me?â
âBecause Iâm going to the night market across town,â he says. âThere are food trucks, stalls, probably overpriced shit,â
You cock a brow at relevance. âOkay?â
âCome with me.â
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.Â
Your fingers tighten around your phone. âNo.â
He doesnât 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, âOkay.â
You blink. The movie on your laptop continues playing in the background, but your attention has already abandoned it entirely. âThen why are you still calling?â you ask.
On the other end, there is a small pause.Â
âI donât know,â he admits. âI guess I donât really want to hang up yet.â
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.
âThatâs a terrible reason,â you say quietly.
âYeah.â he laughs after. Neither of you speaks for a second until he breathes out softly. âI just thought you might like it.â
You smile down at your phone, suddenly brave because he canât see your face. âYou sound nervous.âÂ
He goes quiet for half a second before answering, softer, âI am nervous. A little.â
You press the phone closer to your ear without meaning to. âWhy?â
Then, quieter, âBecause I asked you to come with me and you said no.â he lets out a soft chuckle, like he canât believe himself for what heâs about to say, âBut Iâm going to be there,â he says. âAnd Iâd rather go with you.â
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 â 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 whatâs so bad about going somewhere tonight. With Jake. âHow far is it?â
He does not answer immediately, maybe busy weighing in what that means already. You can practically feel him trying not to sound pleased. âAcross town,â he says carefully. âTwenty minutes, maybe.â
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. âGive me one hour,â he says. âIf you hate it, Iâll take you home.â
You shake your head, still smiling. âYouâre very confident for someone I havenât technically agreed to go out with.â
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 didnât mean it like that. âI mean go out to the market.â
âYeah,â he says, voice quieter now. âI know.â
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 youâve been assembled by clothing that make people feel underdressed by association, but tonight youâre 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.
âWhat?â you ask, already defensive.
He shakes his head, but the smile gets there before his denial does. âNothing.â
âTell me.â
He pushes himself off the car, one hand already reaching for the passenger door handle. âYou look cute.â
You physically jerk to a stop and your face warms immediately. âYouâre weird.â
âIâve heard.â
âYou canât just say things like that.â
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. âGet in.â
You narrow your eyes. âYouâre bossy tonight.â
âPlease get in,â 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.Â
The rideâs quiet with the memory of Jake flirting with you in the gala garden â 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 itâs loud and crowded, which means itâs not your thing. There is smoke from grills twisting into the cold air, music blasting everywhere, laughter rising and falling in waves â which feels less like a market and more like a small fair.
You look at the crowd, then up at Jake. âThis is busy.â
He closes his door and comes around the car, following your gaze. âYeah.â 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.
âCome on,â 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. âPeople have no spatial awareness.â
âPeople are walking.â
âBadly.â
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. âWhat?â
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.
âIâve been craving dumplings.â
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. âDo you want a drink with that?â
You nod, mouth still full, and heâs 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. âThanks.â
âWas that gratitude?â
You look at him over the rim of the bottle. He lifts both hands in surrender, still holding his own drink.Â
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. âThat one looks like you.â 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. âNo, it does not.â
He picks it up. âIt does.â
You glare at him and he smiles at the charm. âSee? Same expression.â he says as he holds it up beside your face to compare.
âPut it back.â
Instead, he pays for it and you stare at him. âWhy did you buy that?â
He looks at it once, and then pockets it without explanation. âCome on.â
âNo, why did you buy it?â
âI liked it.â 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.Â
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. âThis is cute.â
He looks at the bookmark, then at you, still smiling faintly. âYeah.â
At some point, the crowd gets worse, which you didnât 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 â 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. âThis is ridiculous.â
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. âItâs practical.â
Your eyes narrow. âIs it?â
He glances toward the crowd like it might help him build a better defense. âThere are a lot of people.â
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. âYou donât have to,â 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.
âThis is practical,â you say, staring straight ahead.
âYeah,â he answers, voice lower than before. âVery practical.â
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.
âAre you blushing?â you ask.
Jake looks at you then, and the smile finally breaks loose. âNo.â
âYou are.â
âItâs cold.â
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.
âSorry,â he says near your ear, already loosening his hold. âYou okay?â
You nod too quickly. âFine.â
âYou sure?â
âYes.â
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 â you both had stopped checking the time altogether.Â
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 thatâs 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 youâre 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.
âI can carry my own stuff,â
âI know.â
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. âDid you have fun?â
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.
âA little,â you say.
His smile appears slowly, like he is trying not to let it happen too fast. âA little?â
âDonât get greedy.â
âI feel greedy.â
Your face warms immediately, but he seems to hear himself a second later because his smile widens just slightly. âI had fun,â he says and you hold his gaze.Â
Your fingers tighten around the handles of your bag. âYouâre very easy to entertain then,â you say.
âOnly tonight.â
âBecause of the market?â
âSure.â
You narrow your eyes at him. âWhat was it then?â
He leans his head back lightly against the window, still watching you through half-lidded eyes, his smile barely there now. âYou really wanna know?â he asks.
You smile despite yourself, shaking your head before he can answer. âNo.â because you know what heâll 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. âI figured.â
You lift the paper bag in your hand. âThe dumplings were good.â
He sighs, disbelieving but still completely okay with it anyway. âIâll take it,â 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, âI should go,â he does not actually move.
You nod. âYeah.â
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 Jakeâs 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.
âYou should go,â you say, even though you are the one not stepping away.
His mouth curves faintly. âI know.â
âYouâre not going.â
âNeither are you.â
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. âWhat is it?â
You shake your head. âNothing.â
âOkay.â
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 donât hate him at all.
âYouâre thinking really loud,â he says quietly.
You let out a small breath, almost a laugh, but not quite. âYouâre very annoying.â
âIâve heard.â
âNo.â You look up at him properly this time, and your voice comes out softer than you meant it to. âYouâve been very inconvenient.â
He tilts his head, confusion crossing his face. âInconvenient?â
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 Rikiâs friend.
âYes,â you say, almost sharply. âInconvenient.â
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.Â
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.
âI ââ You swallow, already stepping back. âSorry. I shouldnât have ââ
But youâre 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.Â
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.
âYou have no idea,â he says quietly with his hands steady at your waist. âHow long Iâve wanted you to stop walking away from me.â
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.
âYou froze,â you whisper, because it is the only thing your pride can still manage.
His laugh comes out breathless. âYou surprised me.â
âThatâs your excuse?â
His hands tighten at your waist, like even now he cannot believe you are still arguing with him. âThatâs my apology.â
You lift your chin slightly. âIt wasnât very good.â
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.
âThen let me do better,â
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. âDo you want to come in?â
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. âYouâre getting very bold,â he whispers.
You glare at him, which is difficult when you are still holding onto him. âAre you complaining?â
His smile breaks wider. âNo. Iâm not.â 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. âI want to be your boyfriend.â
You go still, and his eyes open, searching your face. You look at him for a second, breath still uneven, then whisper, âThink you can wait a little bit more?â
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. âI can wait,â 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. âThat sounds like a yes.â
âIt sounds like you should kiss me again before I change my mind.â
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.Â
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. âOkay?â
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.
âYouâre overthinking,â you whisper.
Jake lets out a quiet laugh, but it sounds strained in the softest way. âYeah.â
âYou usually have more to say.â
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.Â
He pulls away, not far, just enough to look at you properly, his eyes searching yours. âStill okay?â 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. âIâm okay.â The relief on his face is quiet, but obvious.
âYouâre very careful.â
His mouth lifts faintly. âWith you? Yeah.â
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 youâre 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 heâs not sure you want.
Except, you do. And it is very obvious.
You pull him down again, kissing until you know youâve 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 heâs in between behaving and giving in. He pulls away abruptly, mouths detaching with a pop, and you visibly grow annoyed.
âGod,â he lets out an airy and startled laugh, âWhat the fuck.â
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. âWhy are you so far away?â you whine.
âWe should probably stop,â 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. âYour dick says otherwise,â God, you are so mean, and he loves it.Â
A hand lifts from the mattress and slips towards your bare thigh thatâs 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.Â
 âI donât have a condom,â he says lowly, voice made of velvet and restraint.
You smile, evil and insatiable. âI donât care.â
He sighs, disbelieving of how youâve completely turned to a 180. âIâm trying to be good,â he says. âYouâre making it impossible.â 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.
âTell me to stop,â he says quietly, âAnd I will.â 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 itâs littered with hickeys. âThis isnât good, baby,â he whispers, contradicting himself when he continues to bite the flesh above your pulse. You can only smile and moan, fascinated with the way heâs quickly losing composure.
He helps you out of your sweater next, carefully lifting your upper body up. âArms up,â 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. âWhere did all that attitude go now, hm?â 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. âYouâre making this too easy,â he whispers. âI thought you liked arguing with me.â 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.Â
âShut up.â 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.
âMiss Attitude is so fucking soft,â he murmurs. âThey have no idea.âÂ
He hooks his fingers over the hem of your shorts and slides it off you along with your panties. Youâre already feverish when his face meets your cunt after, his breath fanning your folds, large hands holding your thighs so tightly you know itâd mark.Â
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 youâre watching him. âIâve got you.â Then, because heâs 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.Â
He licks a stripe this time, from your hole to your clit, your sensitivity reaching an all time high. âFuck, Jake, come on,â 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 youâre his favorite meal. He kisses the flesh, then sucks on it like heâs mad, sounds so wet and frenzy.
âOh my God â Jake, fuck ââ 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.Â
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.Â
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, heâs breathing heavily and youâre pouting, unsure why heâs stopping. Though the sightâs 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.
âI want more, pleaseâŠâ 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. âPrettiest pussy Iâve ever seen.â 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.Â
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. âS-shit â s-so fucking goodâŠâ
âFuck,â he huffs a chuckle. âSo tight. How would my cock fit you?âÂ
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 itâs no use, your brother definitely knows now just whoâs 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.Â
âI-Iâm gonna cum â Jake, c-cumming ââ 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 youâve 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 youâve 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. âYouâre such a fucking tease,â 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, thereâs something unbearably gentle in his eyes, like heâs looking at the prettiest thing heâs 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.Â
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. âS-shitâŠâ
You whine, weak but pitched. âTake it out, Jake, please,â You buck into his cock, feeling the heavy outline of it slide into your folds.
He doesnât 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 heâs been waiting for permission all night, squeezing you tightly.
âYeah,â he murmurs, voice low and completely gone. âOkay.â
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. Heâs thick, long, veiny. And pink at the tip.
You donât even pretend youâre not staring anymore, and you donât notice the tips of his ears flushing pink this time, a little hint of sheepishness. Youâve 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 youâve been wrong about yourself in many ways. You want nothing more but to see how he tastes, or how itâd slap against your tongue. He strokes himself, thumb playing with his own slit, spreading his pre around his thick head.
âNo condom, baby, Iâm so sorry,â His mouth twists into a pout before he can stop it, eyes wide and miserably apologetic. âIâll pull out, I promise.â
âI donât give a fuck, Jake,â you urge him closer to you, hands roaming down his abs. âI need you inside me, please â â
If his cock wasnât twitching in hand, begging to be inside you, heâd probably let out a chuckle at how cute and eager you look right now, practically squirming and begging underneath him. But heâs 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.Â
âIt will only hurt for a second,â he warns and you swallow, staring at his dick as you wonder if it will even fit at all. âBreathe, baby, okay?â You nod, biting down your lip.Â
You lift your hips slightly with the help of his hand against your hip, letting the tip nuzzle against your entrance. Heâs 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.
âFuck, t-thatâs so tight â ah ââ Jakeâs 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 heâs 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.
âJ-Jake,â 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.
âY-youâre clenching â shit, youâre clenching too hard, baby ââ he moans, sweat dripping down his neck to his chest. His hips snap forward harder and faster, breath coming in ragged gasps.Â
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. âI-Iâm coming, Jake â fuck, Iâm â â
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. âS-shitâŠâ he breathes against your mouth, riding out the last few seconds of your pleasure.Â
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.Â
âFuck,â he curses, licking the inside of his cheek. You can only laugh tiredly, wiping the sweat from your forehead.
âI did not fucking mean to,â he clears his throat before looking back up at you, âcum in you.â
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. âStop staring,â
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. âIâm gonna go to the store.â
Your brows draw slightly, âNow?â
âYeah,â he gives you a sly smile, âFor Plan B.â
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. âWhat?â
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 heâs laid down. His cock twitches against your pussy, slowly growing again.
âIâm trying to be a good boyfriend,â he says under his breath, uneven and clearly strained.
Your lips twitch before you can stop them. âBoyfriend, hm?â 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. âJesus Christ,â he whispers, almost laughing under his breath. âYouâre gonna kill me.â
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.Â
âLater, okay?â is all you say before you manage to slide his cock back inside you, stealing a startled gasp from his throat.Â
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, âI know you can,â 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 hasnât 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 fatherâs never home and Rikiâs somewhere you donât know, having a hot boyfriend in your room would always mean heâd 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 â did you regret it? No. Would it happen again? You hope not.
You might have had a hidden trait thatâs 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 Jakeâs 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 itâs 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.Â
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, âMy bad, baby. Iâll be faster next time.â
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 donât 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 â 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, âThatâs good.â then reaches for your hand like it is the easiest thing in the world. âYou did good.â
You donât 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 itâs 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 doesnât 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 âit does not have to be a big thing, we can leave whenever you want. Iâll stay with you the whole time if you want me toâ, 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 â youâre not exactly uncomfortable, only uneasy in a way that this is not something youâre used to, not like how Riki and Jake soothes right in.Â
Then Jakeâs hand settles at the small of your back. âYou okay?â 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. âThis is loud.â
âBecause thatâs how parties usually work,â Jakeâs mouth curves when you give him a look, before his hand rubs the small of your back up and down. âBut we can leave.â
That is annoying, mostly because it is thoughtful, and you have learned there is very little to do with Jakeâs 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, âWeâll stay.â
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.Â
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 Rikiâs 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 donât even realize.Â
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 peopleâs 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.Â
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 Rikiâs off your field of view, youâre less anxious.
He brushes his fingers lightly against your wrist, making you turn to him slightly. âIâll be quick,â he says. âIâll just get another drink.â
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.Â
The hallway is too crowded, so you head for the front door instead, slipping past two people arguing over someoneâs 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. âDude, Iâm just saying,â he says, laughing carelessly. âI shouldâve done this months ago.â
Someone snorts, Jay, probably. âYou mean hiring Jake?â
Your steps slow before you fully reach them, deciding to still behind a stupid bush.
Riki laughs again. âI mean, clearly the money worked.â
âHe really put those hundreds to use, huh?â
There is laughter, easy, stupid, and thoughtless laughter from boys who have no idea that the joke is standing right there, turning rigid again.
âTaming the lion,â 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 â yet each memory with him reaches backward for a new shape, forming into one joke shared by teenage schemes.
Someone inside says, âNah, but seriously, Jake deserves a raise. She actually smiles now.â
Riki says something you cannot fully make out, but it does not matter because your mind has already started blurring.
Then Jakeâs voice cuts through, appearing through the patio door. âHey, have you guys seen her?â
âThere he is,â Jay says, too loud, too cheerful. âMan of the hour.â
âWhat?â 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.
âCongrats, bro,â one of them says, laughing. âHundreds well spent.â
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 isnât 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 youâre not supposed to hear.
Behind him, Riki turns and the color drains from his face when he sees you. Your name leaves Jakeâs mouth once, low and ruined but youâre 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. Itâs a little shitty how your whole body feels strangely calm now, the way it does in emergencies, when adrenaline doesnât 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.
âWait,â he calls, closer now. âPlease, just wait.â
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. âI can explain.â His jaw tightens. âItâs not what they made it sound like.â
âReally?â Your voice stays calm. âBecause it sounded like my brother paid you to distract me, and your friends think you deserve congratulations for doing it well.â
Jakeâs face goes white. Riki moves down one step. âIt was my idea.â
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. âYou paid someone to get me out of the way?â
He shakes his head too quickly. âNo. I just wanted you to have something else,â he says, and the words come out in a rush now, messy and panicked. âI thought if you were busy, if you were happy, maybe youâd stop worrying about me all the time. I didnât know how else to get you to stop. You never listen to me. You never believe me.â
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.Â
You hate that part of yourself instantly. You hate that it exists because of him.
âIs that true?â you ask.
His eyes flick down, then back to your face, desperate now. âAt first,â he says, voice rough. âAt first, yes, but it stopped being that.â
You stare at him.
âBut I gave the money back,â he continues, voice rough. âI told him I was done. I told him I didnât want any part of it anymore.â
Your throat tightens. âAfter I slept with you?â
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. âYou let me think,â your voice is low and calm, âthat for once, someone just wanted to be there. You let me trust you with the parts of myself I donât even like,â you say. âAnd you knew. You knew what they didnât.â
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 didnât think you were cruel at all.
He takes a step toward you. âIâm sorry,â he says, voice breaking around it. âI should have told you that night. I know I should have.â
âI thought you chose me,â you say.
âI did.â His eyes go red. âI did choose you.â
Your mouth trembles once, then stills. âFor a hundred bucks?â
He looks like the words hit him somewhere physical.
âNo,â he says, too quickly, too desperately. âNo, not like that.â
You nod once, not because you believe him, but because your body needs to do something other than fall apart in front of them. âI want to go home.â
Jake straightens immediately. âOkay. Iâll take you home.â
You turn away from him and reach for your phone with shaking fingers. âNo.â
His breath catches. âPlease.â
You unlock your screen and open the app, feeling stupid because you canât see through the blur as you type it in.Â
âI can drive you,â 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 heâs 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.Â
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 â 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 â 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.Â
âJakeâs been driving me from and to school,â 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.
âIâm sorry,â he says but does not step closer. âI know sorry doesnât fix it. I just wanted to say it.â
You keep staring at the television, where the ugly little fish continues glowing alone in the dark, refusing to pay him any mind.Â
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.Â
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 Jakeâs 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 Rikiâs voice breaks through. âJakeâs here,â he says. âHe has food. He said heâll wait ten minutes, and if you donât come down, heâll leave.â
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 itâs because heâs 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.Â
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.
âWhat?â
He stays by the doorway, one hand still on the knob. âIâm hungry.â
You stare at him for a second, then look back at your screen. âThen order something.â
âI donât want delivery.â
âThen make something.â
âI want to go out.â
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. âThen go out.â
Riki shifts his weight. âNo,â he says, quieter. âWith you.â
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.
âItâs late,â you say.
âI know.â
âAnd you have Jake, apparently.â
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. âI donât want Jake.â
You hate men. You hate your brother. You hate that the sentence works.
With a long, irritated sigh, you close your laptop. âGet your shoes.â
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.Â
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 â 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. âI have a girlfriend.â 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.
âWhat?â
He shifts in his seat. âI have a girlfriend.â
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. âWhen Jake started taking you out, I was also taking her out.â His fingers pick at the edge of the paper liner. âThatâs why I wanted more time and freedom. I know that doesnât make what I did okay.â
You look at him, face unreadable.
âIt was bad,â he says, before you can say it for him. âI 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 werenât always watching me like something bad was about to happen. You went out and laughed and you had someone.â
You look down at the untouched mozzarella stick in front of you. âRight,â you say quietly. âSo much for a hundred bucks.â
Rikiâs face falls. âNo,â he says, then stops himself because even he knows he cannot deny the beginning. âI know I canât decide which parts hurt for you, but I thought I was helping both of us. That doesnât make me right, I know that. But please donât think that I wasnât considering you along the way â because I did, I really did.â
The answer is too ready, too practiced, and for a moment you think that maybe heâs being foolish again. But now that youâre looking at him, you realize that heâs old enough to make cruel decisions, young enough to look shattered when he finally understands.
âI know you wanted me to stop controlling you,â you say. âI know I was too much.â
He exhales, miserable. âOkay. Sometimes. But not because you were bad. You raised me,â he says, quieter now. âAnd I hated it because I wanted you to just be my sister, but I also knew you were the only one checking. Thatâs why it felt so messed up all the time.â He wipes his palms on his hoodie. âIâm sorry I made you feel like something I had to escape.â
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. âIâm still mad,â you say. âBut Iâd like to meet your girlfriend.â
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. âOkay.â
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.
âI really am sorry,â 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.
âRiki,â you say, but it comes out cracking.
He shakes his head, wiping his face too fast. âIâm sorry. I know I ruined it. I know. Iâm sorry.â
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.
âI hate you,â you whisper.
âFuck you too,â he says, crying harder.
âYouâre so stupid.â
âA dumbass, I know.â
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.
âI donât get to tell you what to do,â he says.
You look at him, already tired. âGreat start.â
He lets out a shaky breath. âEspecially not about Jake.â
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. âIâm not defending what happened. Iâm not. But,â he continues carefully, âhe did give the money back.â
Your eyes narrow at him.
âI know that doesnât fix it,â he says quickly. âI know it doesnât make the beginning less awful. I just⊠I was there, and I saw when it changed.â
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. âAt 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.â His voice gets smaller. âAnd then he stopped asking me altogether.â
Your throat tightens, which is infuriating.
âHe didnât need me anymore,â he says. âNot for you.â
âRiki.â
âI know. Iâll stop.â He wipes his face again, then nods like he is trying to obey before you even say anything mean. âI just wanted you to know that part.â
You stare at him for a long second.
âAnd what am I supposed to do with that?â
âI donât know,â he admits. âGet mad â at me, at him, at dad too. Do nothing. Eat more ice cream. I just donât 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 donât think that was fake.â
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.Â
You wipe under your eye with your knuckle. âYouâre very annoying.â
âI know.â
You sniff, looking away before your face can crumple again. âIâm not forgiving him just because you feel guilty.â
âIâm not asking you to.â
âIâm not forgiving you either. Not yet.â
âI know.â
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, âBut can I still ride home with you?â
Your mouth almost curves.
âUnfortunately,â 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 â your brotherâs 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 Jakeâs 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 youâre 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 whoâll stand on this and not someone whose feelings drove her here.
âWhere are you going?â you ask.
His hand tightens slightly around his keys. âStore.â
You nod once. âRight.â
âI was just going to buy something,â 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 â which is excessively dumb. The whole thing suddenly feels ridiculous; you in your sleep clothes and him standing by his car.Â
âOkay,â 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. âWhat are you doing here?â
You keep your eyes on your car door. âI donât know.â The answer is embarrassing because it is true, and youâre glad you canât see his reaction.
âOkay.â
You almost laugh, but it gets stuck somewhere in your throat. You look back at him with enough courage. âRiki talked to me.â
He goes still.
âIâm not here because of that,â you say quickly.
âOkay.â
âIâm still mad.â
âI know.â
âAnd you still hurt me.â
His jaw tightens, but he nods. âI know.â
You look away, because his face is making this harder. âI donât even know why I drove here.â
Heâs quiet for a long second, still careful as to not step on a mine. Then he says, âI was hoping you would.â He looks almost embarrassed by the honesty, but he does not take it back, not even when you look back at him. âI just kept thinking maybe one day youâd show up, or text, or yell at me, or anything.â His mouth pulls faintly, but it is not really a smile.Â
âThatâs pathetic,â you say, but your voice has no bite.
He lets out a breath. âYeah. I know.â
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 donât, 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.
âI tried,â you say, barely above a whisper. You blink hard, still looking down. âNot thinking about you.â
He does not answer.
âI tried being angry enough that it would cancel everything else out,â you continue, and the words start coming before you can stop them. âI tried making all of it ugly. I tried telling myself that every good thing only happened because of a bad reason.â
Your voice shakes, and you hate it, but you keep going. âBut it didnât work.â You finally look up at him, and his eyes are already on you, wide and quiet and so full of hope because thatâs just who he is. Your own mouth trembles once before you still it.
âI canât not be in love with you, Jake.â
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 â 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.
âCan I?â he asks.
You know what he means and you should say no â 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.
âYou can still be mad,â he says quietly. He swallows, his thumb moving once against your sleeve. âI donât want you to think Iâm asking you to stop being hurt just because you still love me.â
You look down, because that is the exact kind of thing that makes your chest go weak in a way you cannot afford. âThen what are you asking?â
He is quiet for a second, and when he answers, his voice is lower, rougher. âFor whatever part of you drove here.â
Your eyes lift to his, just to see heâs nervous after saying it, knowing itâs 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.
âI hate you,â you whisper.
His mouth barely moves, not quite a smile. âGood.â
âYouâre unfair because you hurt me, and then you still know how to hold me like this.â Your voice turns softer, more frustrated than sharp.Â
His face changes. âI donât know how to hold you any other way.â
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. âI hate the way I donât hate you.â
He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, but it sounds too shaky to be amused. âYeah,â he says, voice low. âIâll take that.â
You blink. âWhat?â
He looks down at your hand, then back at you, and his mouth does this stupid little almost-smile that makes your chest hurt. âI mean, itâs not ideal,â he says carefully. âBut itâs better than you hating me normally.â
You glare at him, but it barely has any strength. âYouâre not funny.â
âI know.â His eyes stay on you. âIâm nervous.â
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, âI kept thinking about what Iâd say if you ever looked at me again.â
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, âAnd what did you come up with?â
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.
âI want you,â he says.
He swallows, eyes still on yours, voice lower now. âNo deal, no money, no Riki asking me to.â 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
âYouâre very annoying,â you whisper, because anything softer would ruin you completely.
His mouth twitches, but his eyes do not leave yours. âThen be annoyed at me,â he says quietly.
His hand finally settles against your arm. âBe mad at me. Yell at me if you want. Look at me like you hate me.â 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. âTo my face,â he adds, voice barely above a whisper. âSo at least I know youâre still there.â
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. âWhat?â
âYouâre very stupid,â you whisper.
His mouth softens. âYeah.â
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. âI wonât ask for more than you want to give me.â
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.
âCareful,â 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.
âDo you want to go somewhere?â
You blink. âRight now?â
âYeah.â His thumb moves once at your waist. âI mean, not as a date if you donât want it to be a date. Or it can be. Or it can be something else. I donât know.â He winces slightly. âIâm doing badly again.â
You bite the inside of your cheek, trying not to smile. âVery badly.â
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. âIâm buying. I have cash.â he says. âGot it from some dumb seventeen-year-old who asked me to take his sister out.â
Your jaw drops. He starts laughing before you can even form a sentence, and that makes it worse. âOh my God.â 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.
âOkay, sorry,â 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.
âIâm sorry,â he says, quieter now. âBad joke.â
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. âFine.â His smile grows. âBut if you mention the money again, Iâm breaking up with you. Again.â
He nods seriously. âOkay. No more money jokes. I canât afford to lose my girlfriend twice.â
Your marriage to Jay was already hanging by a thread, cold silences, dead love, secrets thick enough to choke on. But everything shatters the night you discover the truth: youâre assassins on opposite sides, and your entire relationship was engineered to end with one of you dead. When a mission goes sideways and Jay collapses bleeding in your arms, the two of you are forced into a feral, desperate partnership to outrun the kill orders now targeting you both. What follows is pure chaos: rooftop fights, a mini-heist gone wrong, explosions, marriage counseling sessions that definitely werenât meant for combat couples, and the kind of chemistry that only hits when hatred and love coexist in the same breath. Trust breaks. Trust rebuilds. Guns misfire. Hearts donât.
đenre: action-thriller, marriage-on-the-rocks, morally gray romance, espionage drama, slow-burn rebuilding trust, hurt/comfort, dark comedy in chaos.
đairing: assassin spy husband!Jay x assassin spy wife!reader
đŠarnings: morally gray MCs, marriage built on lies, toxic-but-entertaining dynamics, secret identities, spy/assassin themes, high-stakes missions, violence, guns, blades, bombs, explosions, gore/blood, injury detail, near-death scenes, betrayal, psychological manipulation, chasing, interrogations, emotional whiplash, mutual attempted murder (married-core), and overall thriller chaos, power imbalance, flirting, cheesy lines.
đŠarnings (SMUT!): explicit sexual content, rough/angry sex, bruising intimacy, dominance/power struggle, breathy pinning/grappling, semi-public tension, clothes half-on type scenes, fingering/oral implications, marking (handprints/bruises), messy desperate pacing, and emotionally charged sex between two very hot, very unhinged assassins.
đameos: Lee Heeseung/Evan from Enhypen (the bait/enemy), Yang Jungwon from Enhypen (Jay's best friend/ handler)
đnspired đy: Mr and Mrs. Smith
đŠord đount: 35K
Sam: Please they get so unserious :D One of my fav fav fav movies ever!
[Better Than The Movies] [Masterlist]
THE MARRIAGE COUNSELOR.
You stared at it for a long moment, the brass letters catching the light like they were mocking you. The metal nameplate read like a joke, The Marriage Counselor, as if couples didnât already know what they were signing up for when they crossed that sterile white threshold.
The plaque glinted under the soft fluorescent light, its polished edges reflecting back a room that was far too clean for the kind of damage that usually entered it. You couldâve been anywhere else, preferably doing something productive, like chasing down a target who owed you blood and money, but instead you were here, legs crossed, back straight, wasting two hours in a room that smelled like lavender and futility. As if this expensive, ineffective junk would magically bring back a ship that had already sunk.
Across from you, Jay tapped his watch. Again. The sound was rhythmic, deliberate, like he wanted you to notice it. You didnât look up from your nails, filing them into sharp, immaculate ovals that gleamed under the dull lighting. You could feel his eyes flick toward you anyway, just a brief, silent assessment, habitual, detached.
The therapistâs office looked like it had been curated for calm. Light beige walls, two steel-framed chairs facing each other, a small table between them stacked with tissues and mint candies. A diffuser hummed softly in the corner, puffing out a lazy curl of scented air. The smell was supposed to be soothing. It wasnât.
You shifted your leg slightly, the heel of your boot clicking against the floor. Jayâs gaze followed the movement for a second before he went back to adjusting the cuff of his shirt, his fingers running down the smooth white fabric until it was perfectly aligned with his wristwatch. He did everything that way, precise, practiced, exacting.
He looked good, as always. That was part of the problem. Hair slicked back in that calculatedly careless way, sleeves rolled to his forearms, veins visible, posture so relaxed it bordered on arrogant. He didnât have to speak for you to know heâd rather be anywhere else, preferably in a room where there were more weapons than words.
The counselor, a woman in her fifties with kind eyes and too much perfume, shifted in her seat, her pen hovering over the open notebook in her lap. She was waiting for something. For anything.
You could hear the clock ticking behind her. Every second dragged.
When she finally spoke, her voice was warm, measured, professional. âSo,â she began, glancing between the two of you like she was approaching a pair of unpredictable animals. âWhy are you here today?â
You didnât answer. Neither did he.
Her pen hovered. The silence settled, heavy and stale, stretching thin like glass that refused to shatter.
Jay exhaled through his nose, low and impatient. The sound wasnât loud, but it carried enough weight to fill the room. His eyes flicked toward the clock, then the window, then you. You caught the glance from your peripheral vision, but you didnât bother to meet it. You simply continued filing your nails, slow, deliberate strokes, tiny sparks of metal scraping against the emery board.
The counselor cleared her throat. The sound was tentative, like she didnât want to startle either of you. âItâs okay,â she tried again, forcing a small, placid smile. âThereâs no wrong way to start. Most couples feel uncomfortable at first.â
Still, neither of you said a word. If silence could kill, this room would have been a crime scene already. The counselor shifted again, that nervous little smile faltering when neither of you took the bait. Her pen made a soft click as she pressed the end compulsively, as if the noise might fill the silence neither of you seemed willing to break.
âWhy donât we start simple?â she tried, voice lilting, hopeful in the way of someone trying not to drown. âWhoâd like to share first?â
Still nothing. You sat with your ankle crossed neatly over your knee, back straight, every inch of your posture polished and controlled. The kind of stillness that took years to learn. Inside, though, inside you were ticking like a bomb. You could feel Jayâs attention like static at the edge of your awareness, brushing against your skin even as he looked away, pretending to check the time on that damned expensive watch. He didnât need to look at you to make you feel watched.
It had always been like that with him. A quiet, constant pressure. A touch that wasnât a touch. Finally, you sighed, a deliberate, theatrical exhale, and muttered, âHe left the door open again.â
Jayâs head tilted slightly, the smallest shift, but you caught it. âExcuse me?â âThe door,â you repeated, voice flat, still not meeting his eyes. âFront door. Wide open. Again.â He blinked slowly, as if replaying the memory frame by frame. A faint tick pulsed in his jaw. âIt was locked.â âIt was open.â
A pause, long enough to taste. Then, smoothly, âYou sure you werenât too distracted rearranging the kitchen to notice?â That made you look at him. Finally. The counselor blinked, pen frozen midair. âRearranging?â You smiled, small, sharp, surgical. âHe hates the new layout.â
Jay returned it, equally thin. âBecause it doesnât make sense. The knives are nowhere near the cutting board.â âTheyâre decorative knives, Jay.â He leaned back slightly, voice deceptively soft. âKnives are never decorative.â âDepends,â you murmured, âon what you use them for.â The air thickened like smoke. The counselor let out a shaky, misplaced laugh, mistaking the sharpness for humor. âWell, itâs good that you can jokeââ âWeâre not joking,â you both said, almost in unison.
The silence that followed wasnât empty, it was pressurized. A held breath waiting for something to explode. The counselor swallowed, adjusting her glasses, her pen trembling just slightly as she tried to look at one of you without staring too long at either. Her voice came out thinner this time. âAlright, um⊠letâs try to keep things constructive. Maybe talk about whatâs working?â
You ignored her. Jay did too. Instead, you tilted your head toward him, almost lazy. âHe replaced my coffee beans,â you said, like it was an accusation. Jayâs brows lifted. âBecause yours taste like burnt rubber.â âTheyâre imported,â you shot back, just a little too fast. âYou wouldnât know the difference.â âIâd know poison if I tasted it.â
That earned you a low hum from him, barely audible, but his gaze was locked on yours now, steady, calm, dangerous. There was nothing romantic about it. It was the stillness before the pull of a trigger, the charged quiet of two professionals whoâd memorized each otherâs tells: the flick of a wrist, the dilation of a pupil, the heartbeat quickening just slightly when the line was crossed.
The counselor scribbled something down, uncommunicative, defensive, mutual hostility, as if any of those words came close to describing this. Jay leaned back slightly, one arm draped over the side of his chair, the picture of lazy indifference, but you caught the twitch in his fingers, the way his thumb brushed absently over his ring, like a tic. You wondered if he realized he was doing it. You wondered if heâd kill you before or after he stopped pretending to love you.Â
You noticed because you always noticed. Every tic, every micro-expression. It was a habit you couldnât unlearn, observing him was survival. And maybe, somewhere deep down, compulsion. He noticed your glance. He didnât stop. âSo,â the counselor tried again, her smile stretching thin as paper. âYou two have been together⊠how long?â
âSeven years,â you said. âEight,â Jay corrected. You turned to him, brows arching. âEight?â He met your look evenly. âYou always forget the first year.â You let out a faint, humorless breath. âThatâs because we were pretending to be other people the whole time.â
Jayâs lips twitched, but his eyes didnât. âYou make it sound like it stopped.â The counselor laughed again, high, nervous, sharp around the edges. âAh! So youâre both very⊠um⊠playful.â âSure,â you said lightly, crossing your arms. âLetâs call it that.â
Jayâs tone was even smoother now, honey over glass. âSheâs always been creative with her definitions.â You tilted your head toward him, eyes narrowed just enough to pass as teasing. âYouâd know.â He smiled back, slow and deliberate, that same charming smile he used in interrogation rooms right before the subject broke. The one that never reached his eyes. âI do.â
The counselorâs pen stuttered against her notepad, a faint tap-tap-tap. Her gaze darted between you again, searching for a foothold, some way to steer this shipwreck of a session back to shore. âWhy,â she asked carefully, âdo you think youâre here today?â The question hung in the air, too light for how heavy the room had become.
You looked at Jay. Jay looked at you. And neither of you answered. Outside, a car door slammed somewhere down the street. Inside, the hum of the diffuser filled the silence like a heartbeat. The counselor waited, blinking, as if time itself might coax the truth out of you. Jayâs thumb tapped once more against his ring before he finally spoke, voice low enough that it barely reached the other side of the room. âBecause someone thinks one of us might snap.â
You didnât flinch. Just smiled. âTheyâre wrong.â He looked at you again, longer this time, slower, and something unreadable passed through his expression. A flash of recognition. A memory, maybe. Or the ghost of the night heâd wiped blood from his hands and kissed you before the body had even cooled.
Flash: White walls. Fluorescent lights. A man tied to a chair, shaking. You stood over him, one gloved hand wrapped around his jaw, the other holding a blade so sharp it glimmered even under the cheap light.
âWho paid you?â you asked softly. He whimpered something useless. The knife pressed closer, the point grazing his pulse. His eyes darted, terrified. You smiled faintly. Professional. Detached. âYouâve got one more chance.â The man spoke. You didnât even need to hear the words, you could tell from the tremor in his voice that he was lying. By the time you left the room, the floor was a Rorschach painting of red.
Flash: Different lighting. Different silence.
A lab, sterile, humming, too bright. The air reeked of ozone and burnt circuitry. Jay stood in front of a dismantled computer tower, hands gloved, wiping blood from the barrel of a silencer with an efficiency that was almost tender. The man slumped over the desk beside him had stopped breathing five minutes ago. Jay didnât look at him. Didnât need to.
He wiped his hands, slipped his phone out of his pocket, and typed a brief message. Target acquired. Cleanup in process. Then, like nothing had happened, he removed his gloves, adjusted his cuffs, and walked out.
Now. The therapistâs office. The scent of lavender diffusing through stale air. Your pulse in your throat. The counselor cleared her throat again, too loud this time. âOkay, letâs try something different. Iâd like each of you to share one thing you admire about the other.â Jay leaned back, that half-smile ghosting across his lips again. âSheâs good at lying.â
You didnât miss a beat. âHeâs good at pretending it bothers him.â The counselorâs pen stilled. The silence returned, heavier than before. And beneath it all, the quiet hum of mutual recognition, the tension between love and annihilation, the unspoken truth that neither of you would ever walk away first.
Because in your world, leaving was just another way of dying. The counselor blinks at the two of you like sheâs trying to decode a foreign language. Her pen stills halfway through an unhelpful note, the faint scratching noise fading into the hum of the too-cold air conditioner. You and Jay sit in the same metallic chairs, same careful distance apart, enough space for a ghost to sit between you, maybe two.
She clears her throat again, voice pitched in the way people do when theyâre trying too hard to be gentle. âYou two seem⊠distant.â You donât even look at him when you answer. âWe work on communication.â Jay leans back, arms crossing, itâs almost lazy, but you know that posture is defensive, practiced. His jaw flexes just enough to betray irritation. âNot effectively,â he says.
The counselor blinks again. âRight. And what does that mean to you?â You shrug, the corner of your mouth lifting into something almost resembling a smile. âIt means weâre talking, arenât we?â Jay scoffs softly, itâs not cruel, but itâs edged. âIf you call this talking.â âBetter than silence,â you shoot back. She looks between you, a human metronome of confusion, before scribbling something again, probably deflection or passive hostility. Youâd bet a bullet on it.
The silence that follows is weighted, brittle. You stare at the wall clock ticking away the seconds of your so-called therapy, while Jay stares at you. You can feel it, that sharp, assessing gaze thatâs less husband and more⊠analyst. The air between you feels like itâs been split by a blade neither of you has drawn.
He shifts slightly. âSo. How long do we have to do this?â The counselor blinks. âItâs a fifty-minute session.â âFeels longer,â you murmur. Jay smirks, and itâs infuriating, that same smirk that used to melt you, now just fans the irritation in your chest.
The counselor forces a smile, her voice catching somewhere between concern and exhaustion. âMaybe we can start small. Whatâs something you both⊠appreciate about each other?â A pause. You open your mouth, then close it. Jayâs hand twitches like heâs about to speak but doesnât. You can see her hope crumble a little more with every second that passes.
Finally, you say, âHeâs punctual.â Jay turns to look at you, a glint of amusement cutting through the cold. âSheâs efficient.â You both smile, but itâs nothing close to warmth. Itâs choreography, neat, sharp, and deadly in its precision. The counselor sighs. âRight. Okay. I think thatâs⊠progress.â
You almost laugh. Jay does, quietly, under his breath. The counselor mistakes it for relief. When the session ends, you both stand at the same time. No words exchanged, just the scrape of metal chairs against tiled floor. The door clicks shut behind you, and the silence is louder than anything said in that room.
You drive home with the radio off. Streetlights flash through the windshield, slicing your reflection into fragments. In the corner of your eye, Jayâs hands stay perfectly steady on the steering wheel, controlled, precise. He always drives like that, like heâs calculating escape routes rather than directions. Neither of you speaks. You havenât, not since the door closed behind the counselorâs polite wave. The hum of the tires on asphalt fills the space between you. You glance out the window, rain threatens in the distance, smudging the city skyline into streaks of gray and gold.
At a red light, your phone buzzes against your thigh. You glance down, thumb flicking open the hidden compartment under the console. The burner glows faintly, one message. Target confirmed. 0300 hours.
You lock it before Jay can see. Not that heâs looking. Heâs too busy checking the reflection in the rearview mirror, not for traffic, but for tails. He exhales, almost a sigh, and you can tell heâs somewhere far from the present. Maybe a lab, maybe a mission. You wouldnât know. Eight years, and youâve never told him what you do when you âwork late.â Youâve never mentioned the sound a man makes when a blade touches his throat, or how steady your hands stay during interrogation.
Little do you know, heâs never told you what he does in those âovernight meetings,â or why thereâs always a faint scent of gun oil on his collar. You turn your head toward the window, eyes following the blur of passing lights. Jayâs profile is calm, unreadable, and for a moment, the silence feels like confession. Eight years of marriage. Zero truths. And yet somehow, both of you think youâre winning.
The traffic light flicks green. He doesnât move right away. Just watches the intersection ahead like heâs waiting for someone to step out of the shadows. When he finally drives, itâs slower, deliberate. âAre you cold?â he asks suddenly, voice quiet enough that it almost startles you. You glance over. His tone is neutral, too neutral. âIâm fine.â
He hums in acknowledgment, eyes still fixed on the road. âYou were shaking.â âI wasnât.â (You were.) His hand tightens on the steering wheel. âYou donât have to lie.â
You smile faintly, the reflection of streetlights catching in your eyes. âThatâs rich, coming from you.â He looks at you now, just for a second, long enough for tension to spark across the console like static. The air feels thinner somehow. You can almost hear the beat of his pulse under the hum of the engine.
âWhy do you always assume the worst?â he asks softly. âBecause Iâve met you,â you say, matching his tone. âAnd Iâve seen the worst.â
A pause. The carâs interior feels suddenly too small. The smell of leather, the low vibration of the engine, itâs all too intimate for two people so armed. He laughs once, quietly. âFair.â You donât say anything. Neither does he. The silence stretches again, elastic and dangerous. You reach the apartment building at the edge of the city. He parks neatly, kills the engine, and unbuckles his seatbelt, but doesnât get out. Just sits there, fingers drumming once against the steering wheel. You wait. He finally says, âYou told her I left the door open.â
You tilt your head. âYou did.â âI didnât.â âThen someone else did.â His eyes narrow, just a fraction. âWho would that be?â You smile, small and sharp. âYou tell me. Youâre the paranoid one.â âCautious,â he corrects. âSame thing.â
You both sit in the dark, the only light coming from the streetlamp flickering outside. You can feel his gaze again, heavy, deliberate. Not cruel, but dissecting. âDo you ever wonder,â he says after a moment, âwhat sheâd write down if she knew who we really were?â
A beat, what was that supposed to mean? You let the question hang, then murmur, âShe wouldnât have time to write.â He looked at you more carefully, studying the way your cold eyes were fixed ahead, the bridge of your nose, the curve of your lipsâ he chuckles, low, dangerous, and it makes your skin prickle. âThatâs what I thought.â
You open the door first, stepping into the cool night air. He follows a moment later, his footsteps matching yours out of habit, synchronized, as always. The elevator ride up is silent, the kind of silence that hums. You both stare straight ahead, watching the floor numbers blink past. At the 14th floor, the doors slide open, and he gestures for you to go first. Always the gentleman. Always the predator. Inside the apartment, everything is too neat. Too sterile. The faint scent of jasmine from the diffuser tries, and fails, to soften the tension. You take off your coat. He doesnât.
You turn to him. âYou hungry?â He shakes his head. âAlready ate.â You hum. âWhere?â He meets your eyes. âWork.â You nod once. âLong day?â âAlways.â You stand there, an armâs length apart. Married. Civil. Strangers. And under it all, that same question neither of you has ever asked aloud: Who will pull the trigger first?
The morning begins the way it always does, too quiet, too clean, too precise.
The sun filters weakly through the curtains, painting the kitchen in thin bars of gold. Itâs the kind of light that should make everything look warm, but somehow, here, it only sharpens the edges.
Jay is already at the table, the newspaper folded into perfect thirds. He doesnât eat. He never does in the mornings, just sits there, sleeves rolled up, reading headlines that donât really interest him, coffee cooling untouched by his elbow. The faint sound of the clock fills the silence between you, measured and mechanical. You move around him soundlessly. The choreography is familiar: kettle, mug, filter, grind. Your movements are exact, like a dance youâve performed too many times to ever forget the steps. You donât look at him when you pass by. You donât need to. You can feel him. The shift of air when he turns a page, the subtle creak of the chair when he crosses one leg over the other. Every sound in this apartment is catalogued, memorized, understood.
The smell of roasted beans fills the air, a comfort to anyone else, but not to you. To you, itâs strategy. Distraction. Something to do with your hands. Jayâs voice breaks the quiet, smooth but cool. âYouâre up late.â You donât glance at him. âYouâre up early.â He hums, a neutral, noncommittal sound, and returns to the paper. The kettle clicks off, a neat punctuation mark.
You pour the water slowly, deliberately, watching the dark bloom of coffee spread through the filter. The faint hiss of the pour-over fills the silence again. You used to talk, once. There used to be laughter here. The sound of him humming along to some old record while you burned toast and pretended not to care. Now itâs just this, ritual without warmth.
When you finally speak again, itâs because you have to. âYou used all the sugar.â Jay doesnât look up. âI measured it.â âYou measured it wrong.â A flicker of a smirk ghosts across his face, there and gone. âI donât measure wrong.â You place your mug down with a quiet, deliberate clink. âYou do when youâre distracted.â That earns you a glance, brief and razor-sharp. âI donât get distracted.â âOf course not.â
You take a sip, too hot, and let the burn sit on your tongue longer than necessary. You wonder if heâs watching. He is. Always. Jay folds the newspaper with surgical precision, every line crisp, every edge aligned. âYou have plans today?â âWork,â you say simply.
He nods, pretending to read again. âLate?â âProbably.â He hums again, and the silence stretches out between you like a tripwire. You used to ask him the same thing. You used to care. Now you both just trade questions like moves on a chessboard, predictable, sterile, practiced.
Your cover story is pristine. Youâre the Director of The Firm, a high-end âcorporate solutionsâ company that handles sensitive acquisitions and âproblem resolution.â In reality, itâs a global assassination network disguised as a consultancy firm for CEOs with blood on their ledgers. You sit behind smoked glass, dressed in sharp suits, managing death as if itâs logistics. Your business cards say: Precision. Discretion. Permanence.
Jay, for his part, is an IT recruiter for a cybersecurity firm, or so the neighborhood believes. In truth, he runs his own cover operation, a shell company that builds defensive systems for covert agencies and offensive ones for whoever pays more. His world is lines of code and encrypted servers, networks so deep you can drown in them.
Between the two of you, youâve destabilized governments, erased identities, and orchestrated coups. But here, in this quiet suburb, your greatest operation is keeping the façade of marriage intact. A faint breeze stirs the curtains. Outside, the city is waking up, car horns, dogs, a neighborâs radio bleeding faintly through the walls. Normal sounds. Civilian sounds. They donât fit here.
You glance at him over the rim of your mug. His tie is straight. His shirt immaculate. He looks like the picture of control. But you know that stillness, have seen it before, in interrogation rooms, on rooftops, in the moments before someone decides to pull a trigger.
âYouâre thinking too loud,â you say, mostly to fill the air. He lowers the newspaper. âAnd youâre listening too hard.â You smile faintly. âOccupational hazard.â That earns you another silence, but itâs different this time, denser. His eyes linger a second too long, and you can almost feel the air change, heavier, charged. For a heartbeat, the kitchen feels smaller. Then he blinks, the spell breaks, and he stands.
His chair scrapes back quietly, too controlled to be careless. He sets the paper down in its exact place and walks past you, close enough for his sleeve to brush your arm. The touch is brief but electric, leaving a shiver that you hide behind another sip of coffee. âDonât wait up,â he says, reaching for his jacket. âI wasnât planning to.â He pauses at the door. You donât look at him, but you can feel the weight of his gaze. Thereâs something like amusement in it, cold, knowing. âYou say that every time.â
âAnd I mean it every time.â His hand lingers on the doorknob. For a second, you think he might say something else. But he just exhales softly, the kind of breath that carries too many unsaid things, and leaves. The door clicks shut behind him. The sound echoes through the apartment like a gunshot.
The silence after heâs gone feels heavier than his presence ever does. You set the mug down, stare at the faint ring it leaves on the counter. A perfect circle. Unbroken. You rinse the cup, wipe the counter, straighten the chair he moved, because thatâs what you do. Maintain order. Keep things clean. Keep the edges sharp and the routine tighter than the lies holding it all together. Your reflection stares back at you from the dark window. Same face. Same calm. Same invisible hairline crack beneath the surface.
You check your watch. 08:03. Plenty of time. You reach under the sink, hand brushing past cleaning supplies until your fingers find the cool metal of the lockbox. A code. A click. The lid opens with a soft hiss. Inside: a gun, two flash drives, a sealed envelope marked in red. You touch none of it. Just look. Inventory. Confirm. Close.
By the time youâre done, the kitchen looks normal again. Domestic. Safe. You take your coat, grab your keys, and step into the hallway. The air smells faintly of detergent and someone elseâs perfume. For a moment, you imagine what it might be like to live an ordinary life, to argue about bills, about laundry, about love. Then you lock the door behind you, and the thought dissolves.
Jay takes the elevator down alone. He doesnât press the ground floor, he presses the basement. The ride hums softly, the mechanical buzz like white noise over the sound of his own heartbeat. When the doors open, the fluorescent light flickers once, twice. He walks through rows of cars, past the one he drives to work, to another parked deeper in the shadows. The trunk opens with a coded click.
Inside: a weapon case, neatly organized. Two suppressors. A map. A folder labeled Asset 42. He doesnât look at the map long, just enough to memorize. Then he closes it again, adjusts his tie, and checks his reflection in the rearview mirror. Calm. Composed. Civilian. He glances at his watch. 08:11. Heâs got two hours before the briefing. Four before the first target moves.
He drives. Back upstairs, the sun has shifted. The kitchen is filled with light now, bright, almost cheerful. The scent of coffee still lingers. The newspaper headline stares up from the table where he left it. Diplomatâs Car Bomb Kills Three â Suspects Unknown.
Your mug sits beside it, lipstick mark smudged at the rim.
Two halves of the same scene. A life that looks ordinary from the outside. And a marriage built on the art of pretending.
â â â
âMorning, Jay! Morning, sweetheart!â You look up from clipping the hedge to see Linda from next door, a hurricane of floral perfume and gossip, waving like youâre her favorite soap opera couple. Her husband mows the lawn behind her, humming to himself, the picture of cheerful obedience.
âMorning, Linda,â Jay says smoothly, lowering his sunglasses. His smile is crisp, calculated, perfect. You can almost hear the click of it being deployed. âOh, you two are just adorable!â she gushes, leaning over the fence like sheâs confiding in an old friend. âAlways so composed! I tell Gary all the time, you could teach us a thing or two about marriage.â
You meet Jayâs gaze over the hedge, and the irony almost makes you laugh. Almost. âWell,â you say, voice sweet enough to rot. âDiscipline helps.â Linda laughs, oblivious. âOh, absolutely! By the way, donât forget the HOA meeting this evening. Weâre discussing mailbox uniformity, again!â
Your fingers tighten slightly on the hedge clippers. âWouldnât miss it.â When she finally retreats into her pastel house, you exhale, setting the clippers down with surgical precision. Jayâs smirk is small, sharp. âMailbox uniformity,â he murmurs. âHow will we ever survive the chaos?â
âMaybe Iâll volunteer to lead the discussion,â you reply. âYou know how I am with problem-solving.â He glances at you, a flicker of amusement, and something darker, passing through his eyes. âThatâs what Iâm afraid of.â
You smile, stepping past him to collect the mail. The sunlight glints off your wedding ring, sterile, reflective, a weapon in its own right. Inside, the house hummed with the practiced life of perfect suburbia: the faint scent of vanilla candles, the distant whir of the washing machine, the immaculate surfaces that hid everything they were meant to hide. On the refrigerator door a grocery list in your handwriting read like an accusation: Milk. Eggs. Lemons. Lies.
Jayâs voice called from the living room, easy, casual. âYouâll be home for dinner?â You paused, sorting the mail, bills, glossy coupons, a charity leaflet, and one unmarked envelope that didnât belong with the polite clutter of everyday life. It lay there like a promise wrapped in neutral paper. âDepends,â you said, slipping the envelope between your fingers. âWork might run late.â
He made that soft, ambiguous hum again, the sound that meant nothing and everything. âOf course.â Neither of you specified what âworkâ meant. In this house the word was elastic, an execution in a foreign warehouse, a midnight breach into a fortified server room, a phone call that made people stop breathing. Saying any of it aloud would be dangerous in more ways than one, so you let the sentence remain small and tidy like a lie folded into a napkin. The air in the hallway felt thick with polite deceit, as if the wallpaper itself had learned to keep secrets. You slid the unmarked envelope into your blazer pocket, no ceremony, no examining the edges, and walked up the stairs. Jay watched you go, eyes unreadable above the rim of his coffee mug, the quiet of his stare cataloguing you in ways words never could.
Outside, the street looked exactly as it should: children shrieking in a cluster of summer laughter, sprinklers hissing in tidy arcs, hedges clipped to friendly angles. The neighborhood was a tableau of smiling façades and hollow certainties. You and Jay were its crown jewel, polished, enviable, quietly rotting behind the same clean windows everyone admired.
The meeting takes place in Lindaâs living room, beige, symmetrical, aggressively normal. Everything smells faintly of lemon cleaner and desperation. You and Jay arrive exactly on time. Not early enough to seem overeager, not late enough to be rude. The performance begins at the door, his hand on the small of your back, your polite laugh at something you didnât hear.
The neighborhood royalty is all here: Linda and Gary from next door, Karen and Tom from across the street, a handful of retirees who seem to feed on complaint. A tray of deviled eggs sits untouched in the center of the coffee table, next to a bowl of hummus thatâs trying very hard to look artisanal. âJay! Y/N!â Linda beams, ushering you in. âSo glad you could make it!â
âWouldnât miss it,â you say, smiling like it doesnât hurt. Jay takes the seat beside you on the couch, close enough that your knees brush, a reminder, maybe, of the part youâre both playing. His cologne lingers, sharp and clean. You can feel the eyes of every neighbor on you two: the perfect pair, the aspirational marriage. Linda claps her hands. âAlright, everyone! Letâs get started. First item on the agenda: mailbox uniformity!â
Jayâs fingers twitch against his knee. You almost smirk. Karen, who runs the neighborhood Facebook group like a dictatorship, raises a manicured hand. âI personally think everyone should have the same model, black, metal, with a lock. It looks more professional.â Tom, her husband, nods obediently. âWe donât want inconsistency. It lowers property value.â
Gary chuckles. âTell that to the Johnsons and their flamingo mailbox.â The group murmurs, scandalized. You exchange a glance with Jay, your lips parting in a whisper only he can hear. âRiveting, isnât it?â He doesnât look at you, but you can see the twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth. âAlmost as exciting as your last board meeting, I bet.â
You tilt your head slightly, voice soft and dangerous. âThe last board meeting ended with someone bleeding out in the restroom. This oneâs just⊠louder.â He covers a smile with his knuckles, and the sight of it, the faint curve of his mouth, the warmth that flickers and dies too fast, makes your stomach twist, traitorous.
Lindaâs voice cuts through. âY/N, youâve got such a good eye for aesthetics, what do you think?â The room turns to you. Every gaze expectant. You rest your chin on your hand, feigning thoughtfulness. âUniformity can be⊠stifling. But structureâs good for discipline.â Jay glances sideways, the ghost of a smirk betraying him. âSheâs always been a fan of discipline.â
A few polite chuckles ripple through the group. You turn to him, smiling sweetly, the kind of smile that hides a knife. âAnd heâs always been a fan of control.â Something electric shifts in the air. Just for a second. Linda, blissfully unaware, scribbles something on her notepad. âWonderful points! Alright, moving on! The community watch programâŠâ
You tune out the next fifteen minutes, conversations about porch lights, unfamiliar cars, and a mysterious âteenager in a hoodieâ sighting. The irony isnât lost on you. If they knew what kind of surveillance systems you both ran from your basement, the HOA would probably dissolve itself out of existential dread. Jay leans closer, whispering under the hum of small talk. âYou could run this whole thing if you wanted.â You hum, still staring at Lindaâs notes. âMaybe I already do.â He laughs under his breath, low, quiet, genuine. It almost sounds like affection.
When the meeting finally ends, thereâs a flurry of thank-yous and casserole invitations. You and Jay play your roles to perfection: smiling, nodding, engaging in small talk about the weather and recycling schedules. Linda hugs you both at the door, her perfume clinging like static. âYouâre such a lovely couple,â she coos. âYou remind me that marriage can be so stable when both people work at it.â
Jayâs smile is polite, sharp enough to cut glass. âOh, we work at it.â The door closes behind you. The night air tastes clean, finally. You walk down the driveway in silence, the sound of your heels echoing on the pavement. Jay unlocks the car, but you donât get in right away. You look up at the rows of glowing windows, every family inside pretending just as hard as you are.
âStable,â you repeat, under your breath. Jay glances at you, that faint, assessing squint returning. âWhat?â You turn toward him, voice smooth. âShe called us stable.â He chuckles softly. âWe are. Statistically.â You cross your arms. âStatistically, most marriages fail.â
He meets your gaze then, something unspoken tightening between you. âSo letâs make sure ours doesnât.â The words sound like a promise. Or a threat.
Later, back home, the lights are dim. You hang your coat, he loosens his tie. The performance lingers even now, two actors unwilling to break character. On the kitchen counter, your phone buzzes once. A single message flashes across the screen. CLIENT CONFIRMED. NEW TARGET: Evan. Your breath stills. The initials hit like a pulse of static.
You glance toward the living room, Jay, unbuttoning his cuffs, unaware. Or maybe not. He looks up, meets your eyes. His expression doesnât change, but thereâs a weight to it now, like heâs reading more than your face. âEverything alright?â he asks. You smile, sliding the phone face down. âPerfect.â He studies you a second longer, then nods. The hum of the refrigerator fills the silence. You pour yourself a glass of water, watching your reflection ripple in it. Jay passes behind you, brushing close enough that his sleeve grazes your arm. Itâs nothing. And itâs everything. Domestic bliss. Just another mission, perfectly executed.
The day unravels in silence. By noon, the house has settled into its perfect performance, sterile, still, and utterly convincing. The kind of silence that feels deliberate. You work at the desk in the upstairs office, light slanting in through blinds like prison bars. Files are open on your screen, innocent spreadsheets, dummy emails, HR reports. All camouflage. Beneath the desktop, another monitor hums quietly, encrypted. A hidden window blinks to life every forty seconds, asking for authorization. You donât answer it yet.
Jayâs absence fills the house like a ghost. You can feel him even when heâs gone, his watch ticking on the dresser, his jacket hanging too neatly, the faint trace of his cologne in the air. Everything he leaves behind is a placeholder for the things he doesnât say.
You tell yourself the marriage is fine. That silence is safer than honesty. But lately, something in the quiet feels off. Like a wire pulled too tight. You open the window, let in the city hum. And under the sound of traffic, you think, Somethingâs missing. Not affection. Not even trust. Something else, something you canât name. A piece of the game you canât see. Down in the basement of a downtown office tower, Jay sits at his desk, surrounded by monitors that cast his face in pale light. His reflection flickers in the glass, a man who could be anyone. Who is anyone.
He scrolls through lines of code that no civilian should ever have access to, eyes scanning, calculating. The pattern of movement is almost graceful, like a pianist playing a dangerous song only he understands. He should be focused. He should be calm. But a thought keeps needling at him, looping back no matter how many firewalls he builds around it.
Somethingâs missing. He doesnât know if itâs her, or him, or whatever used to fill the air between them before it all went quiet. Maybe itâs the sound of truth, and heâs forgotten what that even feels like. The phone rings. Not his personal one. The other one, the matte-black satellite phone buried beneath a stack of meaningless reports.
He stares at it for half a second before answering. âSmith.â A pause. Then a voice, smooth and precise. âYouâre being reassigned.â Jay leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing. âReassigned?â
âTemporary directive. DIA asset transfer. Codename: Evan. Prisoner extraction. Youâll receive coordinates within the hour.â Heâs silent for a beat too long. The voice doesnât wait for a reply. âHigh value, high discretion. You know the drill.â
The line clicks dead. Jay exhales slowly, jaw tightening. The name Evan sticks in his head like a shard of glass. Heâs heard it before, once, months ago, buried in chatter that never made sense. A rumor about a prisoner too valuable to kill and too dangerous to keep.
He pulls up the encrypted database. The same blinking authorization window appears, the one heâs been ignoring. This time, he types in his code. The screen floods with classified data. Coordinates. Transfer schedules. Escort routes. He scrolls once, twice, and freezes.
Because in the logistics roster, beside the operation ID, thereâs a familiar name listed under âField Operative â Alternate Contractor.â
Yours.
âââ
Youâre in the kitchen when your phone vibrates against the counter. Not your phone, the other one. The one that doesnât have a ringtone, only a low, steady pulse. You dry your hands, glance once toward the living room. The clock ticks steadily, the kind of rhythm that hides secrets. Then you swipe to answer. âReport,â a voice says, low, modulated, genderless. Your handler. You stand still, eyes on the window. âListening.â
âPriority job. DIA prisoner transfer. Codename: Evan. Extraction on transport route Alpha-Nine. Two-day window. Youâll receive the drop point at 0600.â You nod once, even though no one can see you. âParameters?â âAlive,â the voice says. âFor now. Full debrief later.â The call ends with a soft tone, no goodbye, no confirmation. You stand there a moment, the hum of the refrigerator filling the silence.
Evan. Youâve heard the name too. Whispered across encrypted lines, pinned on bulletin boards that only exist in the dark. You set the phone down, but your hand lingers on it longer than it should. Upstairs, the faint creak of the bedroom floor makes you look up. Empty. But the air feels wrong, as if the house is holding its breath. You close your eyes and inhale slowly, the way you do before every mission. Focus. Compartmentalize. The lies keep you alive. Still, beneath the precision of your thoughts, the same phantom pulse thrums like an aftershock. Somethingâs missing.
âââ
By evening, Jay and you will sit across from each other again, pretending at normalcy. The distance between you will hum like a live wire, and neither of you will say a word about the missions, the phones, the target. But somewhere between your silence and his restraint, both of you will know, whateverâs missing is about to find you first. And its name is Evan.
â â â
By the time Jay gets home, the light has turned the color of smoke. The street outside hums with the soft sounds of suburbia, sprinklers, car doors, someoneâs dog barking like a metronome. Inside, the house smells faintly of lemon soap and silence. You hear the lock turn before you hear his footsteps. Itâs always the same rhythm: two steps, pause, another three. He doesnât call out. Neither do you. The door shuts, the shoes come off, the keys land with a soft clink in the ceramic bowl by the stairs. Precision. Control. Predictability, the same way you both survive.
âLong day?â you ask, voice smooth, neutral. Itâs not a question so much as a ritual line in a well-rehearsed play. âSame as usual,â Jay says. His tieâs gone, the collar of his shirt undone just enough to look human. He moves through the kitchen like a man walking through his own dream, touching nothing, seeing everything. âYou?â
You hum. âPaperwork. Endless.â He glances at your laptop on the counter. The screen shows only an open spreadsheet, columns of meaningless data. He doesnât look close enough to notice the faint flicker of the hidden window beneath it. You know, because he never does. He trusts your surface. And youâve made an art of keeping it polished.
Jay opens the fridge. âWeâre out of milk.â You shrug. âIâll add it to the list.â He leans against the counter, watching you. You can feel the weight of it, not affection, not suspicion, but something quieter. The way a soldier studies the field before a fight. You break eye contact first, reaching for a glass. The water runs clear and cold. He watches the stream hit the rim, the condensation bead and slide down your fingers. âDinner?â he asks.
âI ordered in,â you say. âThai.â He nods. Itâs the same answer every Thursday, Thai, then silence, then bed. The rhythm holds the illusion together. Predictable marriages donât draw attention. Predictable marriages donât raise flags.
You plate the food in silence. The radio hums low in the background, soft jazz, warm and domestic. Jay sits across from you at the dining table, sleeves rolled, wristwatch glinting faintly in the lamplight. The watch you bought him two years ago. He still wears it every day, though you doubt itâs sentiment. More likely habit. Or guilt. You push a grain of rice around your plate. âThey called me in for another presentation next week,â you lie.
Jay looks up. âAnother one?â âMhm. New client. Potential merger.â âAnyone Iâd know?â You smile. âDoubt it.â He nods, accepting it. You feel something almost cruel twist in your chest. Because you could say it, you could tell him what The Firm really does, how the mergers you lead end in body bags. But you donât. You wonât. And the worst part is, a small, self-protective part of you wonders if heâd even be surprised.
Jay cuts into his food, slow, deliberate. âLinda mentioned the HOA might raise the community fees again.â âOf course she did,â you murmur, reaching for your glass. âItâs her love language.â That earns a quiet snort from him, an almost laugh. Itâs the first sound that feels remotely alive all evening. You both linger in that pause longer than you should. Then the clock ticks again, loud and sharp, and whatever flicker of warmth was there dissolves like sugar in water.
Later, in the living room, you sit beside him on the couch. The TV glows faintly, some nature documentary, muted. On the screen, a lion stalks a herd of gazelles through long grass. The irony isnât lost on you. Jay scrolls through his phone. You pretend to read a book. Both of you are elsewhere, running coordinates, decoding patterns, mapping exits in your heads. Every quiet second feels like reconnaissance.
At some point, he reaches out, resting a hand lightly on your thigh. Not possessive. Not tender. Just contact, the kind of touch that says, weâre still here. It almost undoes you. You look at him. His profile in the low light, sharp, immaculate, distant. You wonder if heâd still look at you like that if he knew how much blood your hands have seen. âJay,â you say before you can stop yourself. The sound of his name feels strange, heavy on your tongue.
He turns, eyes softening a fraction. âYeah?â You open your mouth. Close it. Smile. âNever mind.â He studies you for a moment, then nods, like he knows not to press. You both go back to your respective silences. On screen, the lion strikes. Midnight comes like a held breath. The house is dark. The air conditioner hums, the clock ticks, the world pretends to sleep.
Downstairs, in the quiet glow of the kitchen, your phone vibrates once, the secure one, the one hidden in the breadbox behind the false panel. You move like smoke, bare feet soundless on tile. You lift the lid, thumb brushing the cold glass. TRANSFER ROUTE CONFIRMED. ALPHA-NINE. 0600 HOURS.
Across town, Jay sits in his own office, the blue light of his monitors painting his face in fractured shadows. His satellite phone lies open on the desk beside a map. ASSET EVAN. LOCATION LOCKED. EXTRACT, NOT ELIMINATE. HIGH PRIORITY.
Two different rooms. Two different missions. One collision course. Jay rubs a hand over his jaw, exhaustion setting in behind his eyes. He doesnât notice the photo frame at the edge of his desk, the two of you on your wedding day, smiling under white light. You look happy. He looks human. Both illusions, perfectly preserved.
In bed, the space between you feels colder than the sheets. He sleeps on his side, one arm beneath the pillow. You lie awake, watching the shadows slide across the ceiling. Every breath you take feels counted. You know how this will go. Two days from now, somewhere along Route Alpha-Nine, your paths will cross. He wonât know itâs you behind the trigger. You wonât know heâs the extraction agent keeping your target alive.The lie has always been your safety net. Now itâs the knife pressed between your ribs. And as you finally close your eyes, you think: if love is just another form of loyalty, what happens when youâre assigned to betray it?
â â â
Eight years ago.
Florence glows like a dream set on fire. The Palazzo Vecchio blazes with chandeliers, laughter, and the low hum of moneyed indulgence. Gilded masks glint beneath candlelight; the air hums with strings, perfume, and the faintest edge of danger. Gold dust clings to the night like a secret that refuses to fade. You move through it all like smoke, silver gown, dark mask, smile sharpened to perfection. Youâve been here before, though never under this name. Never with this mark. Tonightâs target: a black-market art broker selling information under the guise of a charity auction. Tonightâs mission: simple. Blend, charm, retrieve. And never, ever get caught.
A waiter offers you wine. You take it, the stem cool between your fingers, the glass catching slivers of light as though even it canât stay still. The ballroom is a maze of mirrors and murmurs. A watch chain flashes. A coded gesture passes between two men by the fountain. Somewhere near the orchestra pit, you hear the unmistakable click of a gunâs safety being released and reset. Every sound, every glint, every careless whisper, you catalogue them all.
And then you see him. At first, itâs nothing, a shimmer in your peripheral. A man leaning against a marble column, mask of black and gold, tuxedo cut sharp enough to wound. He looks impossibly calm, as though the chaos around him is a play heâs already read the ending to. But his gaze moves with purpose, slow and assessing, never idle. You recognize that look. Not from memory, but instinct. Predator. Still, when his eyes find yours, when that slight, knowing smile curves his mouth, you donât look away. You never do.
He notices you before the orchestra reaches its second crescendo. Red wine, silver silk, the faintest edge of steel beneath your grace. You linger too long on the exits, your attention flicking over the crowd like a scanner. Not a debutante. Not a diplomatâs bored wife. He doesnât know your name, but he knows the type, careful, calculated, deliberate. The kind who never comes anywhere unarmed, even if the only weapon is a smile. He should leave you alone. He knows better. But curiosity, that old, dangerous thing, has always been his favorite sin.
The auction begins. A Van Gogh replica is unveiled to reverent sighs and polite applause. You raise your glass, play your part, your earpiece crackling softly, a voice confirming your targetâs position near the north balcony. Focus, you remind yourself. But his gaze is still on you. You can feel it, that invisible thread pulling tight between your spine and his. The air shifts, charged. A song changes, and something in you does too. You take a step left. So does he. You reach for another glass of champagne, and heâs already there, hand brushing yours as he offers one.
âLooks like weâve got the same taste,â he says, voice smooth enough to make the room feel smaller. You turn, meeting his eyes through the maskâs dark edge. âIn wine or in trouble?â He grins, slow, devastating, the kind of grin that feels like a confession. âDepends which one youâre offering.â
Your heart shouldnât skip. But it does. Florence has that effect; it makes even ruin look romantic. You study him for a beat too long. His mask hides half his face, but not the way his eyes soften when he looks at you. Not the flicker of curiosity there, like heâs wondering what kind of storm youâd be if he let you close enough. He tilts his glass toward yours. A quiet toast. No words. Just the soft clink of crystal beneath candlelight, and something unspoken in the air, something dangerous, but almost tender. âI donât believe weâve met,â he says finally. âThatâs because we werenât supposed to.â
He laughs, and you almost forget where you are. The music swells, violins sweeping through the silence between you. His presence feels magnetic, an anchor in a sea of masks and lies. For a fleeting second, you imagine meeting him in another life. One without missions, or aliases, or marks on your wrist. One where Florence isnât a cover, but a promise.
But then the earpiece hums again, a reminder, sharp and cold. The spell breaks. You smile, polite, distant, perfect. âEnjoy the auction, Mr...?â âJay,â he offers, after the smallest hesitation. âJay,â you echo, letting the name linger on your tongue like the last sip of wine. âTry not to get into too much trouble.â
He leans closer, voice low enough to melt into the music. âI was about to tell you the same thing.â And just like that, two strangers in a city made of light and lies, caught in the flicker of something that shouldnât exist at all, you walk away first. But you can feel his eyes following you, long after the song ends.
â â â
The orchestra shifted into a darker, slower rhythm, a waltz meant for people who liked to play with fire. The kind of melody that made secrets lean closer.
He crossed the marble floor toward you, each step unhurried, deliberate, the kind of confidence that didnât need to be announced. You could feel him before he reached you, that quiet gravity that some men carried like a weapon. âWould you dance with me?â His voice was low, smooth, perfectly even, too even to be real.
You tilted your head, feigning a kind of lazy curiosity. âThat depends. Are you a good dancer?â He smiled, slow, restrained, the kind that didnât bother showing teeth because it didnât need to. âI donât make a habit of disappointing.â
And perhaps that shouldâve been your warning. You took his hand. The moment his palm met yours, the air changed. The sound dulled, the light thickened, as though Florence itself had paused to watch. His touch was warm, steady. Too steady. You recognized that composure, the kind of calm people build when theyâve seen blood before and learned how to wash it off.
He led you onto the floor, and the crowd swallowed you both. Masks turned, diamonds gleamed, and violins sighed like confession. You moved together like youâd done it before, step, turn, glide. His hand on your back, your palm against his shoulder, every motion measured and exact. But beneath the elegance was tension, the friction of two people reading each other like code, testing limits without ever breaking character.
His fingers brushed the small of your back, light as breath. The briefest contact, yet it burned. You wondered if he could feel the knife strapped to your thigh, if he knew what kind of woman he was holding. âI donât think Iâve seen you before,â he said, tone casual, but his eyes far too observant. âThatâs the point of a masquerade,â you replied, voice soft but edged. âSome people come to be seen.â
âAnd some people come to disappear.â His laugh was quiet, a single note that didnât reach his eyes. âWhich are you?â âTonight?â you said, spinning under his arm, letting your dress flare like liquid silver before you fell neatly back against him. âStill deciding.â He twirled you again, slower this time, his gaze never breaking from yours. When he caught you, his mouth was dangerously close to your ear.
âBe careful,â he murmured. âFlorence has a habit of burning people who donât pay attention.â You exhaled, pulse thrumming against his palm. âGood thing I like fire.â He studied you like he was committing the line to memory. âYou shouldnât.â The music swelled, lush, decadent, almost too slow for propriety. But you didnât care. Neither did he. The space between you was too charged, too deliberate. It wasnât romance, not really. It was recognition. The kind of understanding that only predators share when they see themselves reflected in someone elseâs eyes.
âYouâre not here for the art auction,â you said softly. He smirked, every inch of arrogance perfectly measured. âAnd you are?â âMaybe I like pretty things.â His hand flexed against your waist, a silent pressure that said he didnât believe you. âThen youâre in the wrong room.â You laughedm quiet, bright, disarming. A sound meant to draw attention just long enough to deflect it. âAnd what do you think Iâm here for, then?â
He leaned in, the scent of him sharp and clean, cedar, smoke, and something darker beneath. âThe same thing I am.â For a heartbeat, the world narrowed, to the press of his hand, the rhythm of the waltz, and the pull of something reckless inside your chest. You didnât know who he was, but you knew what he was. You could feel it, that coiled stillness, the awareness of exits, the constant calculation behind his eyes.
âInteresting guess,â you murmured, smile ghosting your lips as your mask brushed his. âBut you shouldnât assume.â âNeither should you.â The song ended in a slow, aching note. Applause broke out, brittle, hollow, meaningless. Couples separated. Champagne glasses chimed. The room exhaled. But not you. Not him. You both stood still, still caught in the invisible pull between you, pretending you hadnât just recognized something fatal in each other.
He was the first to move, offering his hand again, not as an invitation, but as a dare. âBalcony?â You shouldâve declined. You didnât. You took it. Outside, Florence was quieter, the air cooled by the river, the night spilling over the city in strokes of gold and ink. The Duomo glowed against the horizon, its dome like a candle cupped in the hands of heaven. From below, you could hear laughter drifting up from the streets, muffled by distance, softened by time.
For a moment, it almost looked peaceful. Almost. He leaned against the railing, loosening his tie, half removing his mask. Candlelight from the ballroom pooled over his jaw, catching the sharpness of his cheekbone, the curve of his mouth. âYou donât seem like the type who gets nervous,â he said, voice low and easy. You set your glass down on the stone ledge. âThatâs because I donât.â
âEveryone gets nervous,â he said lightly. âItâs just a matter of what theyâre hiding.â You stepped closer, skirts whispering against the marble. âAnd what are you hiding?â He looked at you then, really looked. And something in his expression changed. The arrogance softened, replaced by something quieter, more dangerous. âIf I told you,â he murmured, âyou wouldnât believe me.â
âTry me.â For a second, he almost did. You saw the hesitation, the flicker of truth just behind his eyes, but then it was gone, replaced by that immaculate calm, the kind built from years of lies and necessity. âYouâre dangerous,â he said finally, like it was a compliment. Like he already knew what you could do with a single look. You smiled. âYou have no idea.â
The wind stirred, carrying the faint scent of jasmine, the distant hum of the orchestra, the echo of a world that didnât belong to either of you. Somewhere below, a bell tolled, and for just that instant, Florence felt suspended, breathless, waiting. He moved first, closing the last few inches between you. Not touching, not yet, but close enough that you could feel the heat of him through the silk, could hear the quiet control in his breathing.
âDo you always walk into danger this willingly?â he asked, voice barely a whisper. âOnly when itâs worth the risk.â His lips curved, softer now. âAnd am I?â You met his gaze, heart hammering. âI havenât decided yet.â The air between you felt alive, vibrating with the weight of things unsaid. The kind of pull that wasnât attraction, not at first, something older, more instinctual. Recognition. Challenge. The dangerous thrill of someone who might understand you too well.
Inside, the orchestra began another song, brighter, faster, a reminder that the night wasnât done. Laughter spilled out from the open doors, glittering and hollow. Neither of you moved.
And in that golden hush of the Florentine night, two assassins stood inches apart, each one a secret the other shouldnât want to keep, each one about to become the otherâs most beautiful mistake. âYou shouldnât stare,â you said, keeping your tone even. He smiled faintly. âMaybe Iâm just waiting to see if youâll run.â âWhy would I?â âBecause you look like someone who knows when sheâs in danger.â You tilted your head, lips curving into a slow, deliberate smile. âMaybe I like danger.â That did it, the air shifted, sharp with static. Neither of you moved, yet the space between you seemed to close on its own, drawn by something magnetic and merciless.
He took one step closer. The balcony was narrow; his shadow merged with yours against the stone wall. Candlelight flickered across his mask, gilding the edges of his jaw. You could feel his breath brush your cheek, warm against the cool night air. âYouâre not afraid of much, are you?â he asked quietly. âNot usually.â
âWhat about now?â You laughed, soft and breathless, the sound catching on something deeper. âYouâll have to try harder.â His hand rose, unhurried, fingers grazing the edge of your mask. âMay I?â You didnât answer, not yes, not no, just held his gaze, letting him decide what kind of trouble he wanted to be.
He traced the ribbon at your temple, touch impossibly gentle. The kind of careful that wasnât restraint but study, like he was learning the map of you with every pass of his fingers. Your breath faltered, betraying you. You caught his wrist before he could untie it, your nails pressing just enough to make his pulse stutter.
âCareful,â you whispered. âYou might ruin the mystery.â He leaned closer, the corner of his mouth curving. âMaybe I want to.â And then it happened, no warning, no pause. The distance between you snapped like tensioned wire.
The first kiss wasnât gentle. It wasnât the kind that asked for permission; it was collision, heat, breath, surprise. The kind that started like a mistake and felt like gravity. His mouth was warm and sure, the kind of kiss that burned too fast to stop. Your hand fisted in his shirt; his fingers slid into your hair, tilting your head until you had no choice but to fall into it. You tried to pull back. You did. Once, twice. But every time you broke the kiss, breath ragged, his thumb brushed your jaw and you found yourself leaning in again, chasing the taste you shouldnât want.
âStop,â you managed between breaths, though your hands were still on him, holding, pulling. âI am,â he murmured against your mouth, though he clearly wasnât. You laughed, breathless, wrecked, and he kissed the sound right off your lips.
The railing pressed cold against your back. The city stretched below, golden and silent, the Duomo gleaming like a witness. His hand slid up your arm, over your shoulder, fingertips tracing your pulse. Every movement was deliberate, not hungry, but patient, measured, as if he was memorizing the cadence of your restraint.
âThis isââ you started, meaning to say wrong. ââinevitable,â he finished, barely audible. His lips found yours again before you could argue. This one slower, deeper. He tasted like red wine and smoke, and something darker, control, maybe. The kind of man who kissed like he was used to having the upper hand and terrified when he didnât.
Your mask tilted slightly under his touch. You almost let it fall, almost let him see, but instinct flared and you broke the kiss, chest rising, breath catching. His eyes searched yours, still close enough that you could feel the words before he said them. âYou keep running from it.â
âIâm not running,â you whispered. âIâm surviving.â His smile was soft this time, almost sad. âSame thing.â He leaned in again, slower, careful, and your resolve cracked. The world blurred into motion and warmth, his mouth on yours, your heartbeat deafening in your ears. The kiss deepened until you forgot the reason youâd come out here at all.
And then, crackle. A sound cut through the night, sharp and surgical, right in your ear. âTargetâs on the move. This is your chance.â The words sliced through the haze like a blade. You froze. Lips still inches from his, still wet from his. eyes wide. His expression flickered, too fast to read, too smooth to trust. For a moment, you thought heâd heard something too.
But no. Impossible. You swallowed hard, forcing your pulse to steady, forcing air back into your lungs. You took a step back, fingers trembling as you reached for your glass. Anything to mask the sudden shift.
âI shouldââ your voice faltered, the taste of him still on your lips. ââget back inside.â
He didnât stop you, but his gaze followed every move, tracking, assessing, remembering. The mask between you was back in place, but it didnât feel like enough. âLeaving already?â His voice was low, almost lazy, but there was something beneath it now, something thin and dangerous, like the edge of a knife.
âDuty calls,â you said, and forced a smile that didnât quite hold. He tilted his head, a mock toast in your direction. âThen I wonât keep you.â You hesitated for a heartbeat, not sure why, then turned, heels sharp against marble. You didnât look back. You couldnât. Inside, the ballroom swallowed you whole. Perfume. Laughter. Gold. The glittering noise of people oblivious to the storm around them. Your pulse hadnât calmed. You touched your earpiece, voice a whisper of steel.
âConfirmed. Visual acquired. Moving in.â
Across the balcony doors, behind the veil of curtains, Jay exhaled slowly. Almost a laugh, low, disbelieving. He dragged a thumb over his lower lip, smudging the faint trace of your lipstick there. Then his own earpiece hissed to life. âTargetâs on the move. This is your chance.â
For half a second, he stilled. Looked toward the door youâd just vanished through. The sound of your heels still echoed faintly, and his mouth curved into something almost fond. âAlready on it,â he murmured. He straightened his mask, stepped back into the golden noise of the ballroom, and neither of you noticed just how close your paths were about to cross again. Not as strangers. Not as lovers. But as executioners chasing the same prey, each unknowingly aimed at the other.
Outside, Florence gleams. The city is a fever dream of light and stone, domes glinting under moonlight, rain slicking down the marble saints that watch from cathedral spires. Somewhere far below, the Arno catches the moon and breaks it to silver shards. You move fast. The streets twist like veins beneath your heels, narrow, ancient, full of echoes. A blur of a tuxedo flashes ahead, your target. You donât hesitate. You sprint.
Your pulse syncs to the city: the slap of your boots against cobblestone, the rasp of breath in your throat, the click of metal in your grip. Right turn, an alley, tight and stinking of wine and smoke. Left, a market stall overturned, oranges rolling like spilled gold. Somewhere close, another rhythm matches yours. Footsteps. Controlled. Trained. Not the target. You donât look. You canât.
A shadow drops cleanly from a balcony, lands without a sound. Then: a muted thwip. A silenced round cuts the air; the guard beside you jerks once and collapses. You donât pause to wonder who fired it. You vault the body and keep going, heartbeat climbing like itâs chasing the end of the world. You donât think of his mouth. Or the way heâd kissed you like it was a challenge. But the memory cuts through anyway, heat and danger, your pulse tangled with his. Focus. The word hits like an order. You obey it.
Ahead, movement. You raise your weapon.And freeze. Another figure stands at the mouth of the alley, dark suit, wet shoulders, gun already leveled. Both masked. Both steady. Both certain the other shouldnât be here.
The silence holds, drawn tight as wire. Then, gunfire.
Stone explodes inches from your cheek. You dive behind a pillar, glass raining down, the scent of gunpowder thick and metallic. Return fire. Two rounds. Miss. You curse, roll, reload. The echo of his shots comes sharp and disciplined, military precision. Whoever he is, heâs good. Too good.
Rain hisses down, plastering silk to your skin. You break cover, sprint. Footsteps follow, fast, relentless. The chase twists through Florenceâs back arteries: under laundry lines, across empty piazzas glowing gold with lamplight. A bell tolls, slow and ancient. You move faster. Jay cuts through a side street, his jaw set, his breathing even despite the sprint. The voice in his ear crackles: âSuspectâs turning east, toward the river.â Yours says the same. You both turn.
The city splits between you, parallel routes divided by one stone wall, one alley, one heartbeat. You pause under an archway, chest rising and falling. Steam curls from your lips into the rain. You press your back to the wall, eyes scanning corners. On the other side, Jay mirrors you exactly, pistol up, breath controlled, pulse heavy under the thunder.
Neither of you knows how close you are. One step. One corner. One second from recognition. The comm hisses again. âCopy that,â you whisper. At the same time, he whispers it too.
Then the line cuts, dead silence, and the rain swallows everything. For a moment, only the city breathes. Then you move. Both of you. Toward the river. Toward the target. Toward each other. Rain slicks the terracotta rooftops into mirrors. Florence is half-asleep, half-burning, lamplight leaking from shuttered windows, church bells shivering through the mist. You move across the skyline like a whisper, one heel digging into wet clay after another, breath measured, heartbeat locked to the rhythm of the storm.
âTarget moving east,â your handlerâs voice cuts through the static. âDo not lose visual.â
Copy. You vault a low wall; the slick edge bites into your palms. The world is a blur of rain and stone, wind and distance. Below, the Arno glitters in fractured silver, rippling with the pulse of thunder. You barely feel the cold anymore. Youâve become it, precise, silent, relentless.
But something else moves with you. It starts as a whisper, the faint percussion of steps that match yours too cleanly to be chance. You donât look back. The rooftops demand all your focus, and the night feels too delicate to trust. One wrong glance, one hesitation, and youâll vanish into the dark like smoke. Still, the presence clings to you, a pulse in the corner of your awareness. Too close to ignore. Too far to confirm.
Across the river, Jay runs in near-perfect sync. His silhouette cuts through rain, black coat streaming like ink, eyes locked on the faint shape ahead. The same ghost. The same target. The same hunt. âTargetâs on the move. Confirm pursuit.â His handlerâs voice crackles through the earpiece. He doesnât reply. The rain drowns everything but breath and metal. He moves faster.
The city below has gone still, Florence folded into itself like a held breath. Only the rooftops are alive, slick with rain and shadows, streaked with the motion of two predators who donât know theyâre circling each other. You catch movement ahead, a glint of metal, a flutter of a coat, the suggestion of someone watching. You push harder, knees burning, lungs tightening. The edge of the roof ends abruptly. You leap, roll, come up hard against scaffolding. Rust flakes beneath your grip; a loose pipe clangs against concrete. A flicker of motion ahead, the target. Gone before you can fire.
âVisual reacquired,â you start to say, but the words falter. The space ahead is empty. Only rain. Only echoes. Jay turns down a side street two blocks away. His shoes slap water, his hand steady on the grip of his gun. For a second, he sees it too, that same half-formed shadow slipping behind glass, swallowed by fog. He stops, scanning rooftops, breathing through his teeth. Just mist. Just the sound of his own heart.
âVisual lost,â you say, your tone clipped, professional, even as your jaw tightens.
At that same instant, Jay murmurs the same words into the same open frequency. Neither of you knows youâve spoken in unison. Neither knows that the signal is bleeding across both lines, syncing you like reflections. A long pause. Rain patters through static. Then the command: âReturn to safe point.â
You lower your weapon. Exhale. The tension leaves you in controlled increments, muscle by muscle, breath by breath, until only the hollow throb of adrenaline remains. You wipe the water from your cheek and glance across the river. There, just for a moment, a movement. A silhouette stepping onto the parallel roof, framed by lightning. Broad shoulders, deliberate stride. A stranger. A shadow. Something in your chest flinches, recognition without reason.
And then heâs gone. Jay pauses in the same heartbeat, head lifting toward the opposite bank. Through the rain, through the fog, he swears he sees someone, small frame, deliberate motion, the glint of a weapon lowered too slowly. Lightning blinks, and sheâs gone too. The bells toll the hour, low and distant. The sound drips through the rain like a heartbeat fading.
You disappear down one stairwell. He disappears down another. Two ghosts descending into the arteries of a city that never even saw them. No witnesses. No confirmation. Mission failed.
Just rain. And the faint, unshakable sense that somewhere out there, in another storm, another night, the chase isnât over yet. The gala hums when you step back inside, strings swelling, laughter floating, perfume hanging thick in the air. Gold light flickers against the marble; glasses clink like small detonations. The world pretends nothing happened. You donât. The storm is still in you, heartbeat still ragged, breath still half-missing. The memory of rain and rooftops hasnât left your skin. You move through the glittering crowd as if surfacing from another world, each step too sharp, too careful.
Then you see him. Jay. By the bar. Hair mussed, collar open, a faint smear of dust near his jaw like evidence of the chaos you both just survived. His suit fits too well to be innocent, his glass of whiskey half-finished, his expression too calm to be real. He looks like sin that dressed itself in a tuxedo, and almost convinced the world it belonged here.
Your pulse betrays you. You shouldnât look twice. You do anyway. He notices immediately, of course he does. His gaze hooks into yours across the room, slow and deliberate. The smallest flicker of amusement breaks the surface, the kind of smile that says I know something you donât.
When he moves, the crowd parts for him. Effortless. Predatory. Everyone turns, but heâs already looking at you. âRough night?â he murmurs when he reaches you, voice threaded with smoke and velvet. You take a sip of champagne you donât remember picking up. âYou could say that.â His eyes drag over you, the faint smear of rain on your shoulder, the damp curl at your temple, the tiny tremor in your fingers you thought youâd hidden. âYou look like you ran a marathon.â
âAnd you look like you started it.â His laugh is low and warm, too human for what he is, too easy for the edge in his posture. âMaybe I did.â You donât smile. You donât move. For a breathless moment, thereâs no orchestra, no people, no noise. Just the static between you. The kind that feels like something alive.
He tilts his head, eyes catching the light. âDance with me.â The words shouldnât sound like an order, but they do. You glance down at his hand, steady, offered, dangerous. âI donât even know your name.â âGood,â he says softly. âKeeps it interesting.â
Temptation wins. You take it. The music slows into a waltz, sweet and heavy. He pulls you closer, not indecently, but close enough that your perfume mixes with his cologne, sharp and woodsy. His hand rests against your back, the other guiding your palm to his. You follow his lead before you realize youâre doing it.
Every step feels like a secret traded in plain sight, your heartbeat betraying you, his gaze memorizing it. Around you, the ballroom spins in slow gold blur, chandeliers catching light like fire trapped in glass. âYouâre trouble,â you whisper, eyes on his collarbone, your mouth brushing the edge of a smile. He leans in until his lips almost touch your ear. âYou have no idea.â
The words hum against your skin, low and certain. You feel the pull, familiar, fatal. For a second, it feels like that kiss on the balcony never ended, just rewound itself into something more dangerous.
When the song fades, you step back first. The space between you feels too wide and too narrow all at once. âThis was fun,â you say, because itâs easier than saying what it really was. âJust fun?â His tone is light, teasing, but his eyes donât match. âYouâll live.â You turn, half-grinning, ready to disappear back into the crowd, but his hand catches your wrist, not rough, just enough pressure to stop time for a single breath. His skin is warm, his pulse steady.
He slips something into your hand. Smooth. Small. Quick. A folded napkin. âEmergency contact,â he says, smirk curving back into place. âIn case you ever get lost again.â You roll your eyes, but itâs mostly for show. âYouâre assuming Iâd call.â âOh, you will,â he says easily, already walking away. âCuriosity always wins.â
You watch him go, the straight line of his back, the confidence that shouldnât be as compelling as it is. He doesnât look back. He doesnât need to. You unfold the napkin. A number, written in dark ink. No name. No flourish. Just a number. You stare at it longer than you mean to. Your fingers hover over your phone. You tell yourself not to. You do anyway.
You: Youâre insufferable.
The reply comes faster than it should.
Unknown: Tomorrow, 8 p.m.?
You hesitate. One heartbeat. Two. The city hums around you, but all you hear is the echo of his voice.
You: Fine. But Iâm picking the place.
A pause. Then:
Unknown: Wouldnât have it any other way.
You slip the napkin into your clutch, close your phone, and take one last look at the crowd where he disappeared. Heâs gone. But the ghost of his hand, his mouth, his voice, all of it lingers like smoke.
You shouldnât feel this much electricity from a stranger. But then again, he never really felt like one.
You sit, order something just to keep your hands busy, and let your eyes trace the crowd, tourists, locals, lovers. You spot reflections in windows, movements in shadows. You canât quite shake the instinct to scan every corner. Old habits.
Jay arrives late, not enough to annoy you, just enough to make you notice. He moves through the streetlight like he owns it. His shirt is black this time, sleeves rolled to his forearms, hair still slightly tousled from the wind. When he smiles, the world sharpens into focus, like someone twisted the lens and suddenly everything else blurred except him.
âYouâre punctual,â he says, voice smooth, teasing. âYouâre not,â you reply. âHad to make an entrance.â You roll your eyes, but youâre already smiling. The waiter pours wine, deep red, rich, the kind that burns slow. You watch the reflection of candlelight swirl in your glass as he speaks.
It starts easy. Talk of cities, of art, of music. The kind of small talk that feels like testing fences for weaknesses. Every question sounds casual, but neither of you really believes in coincidence. Then it starts to deepen.
He asks, âWhy Florence?â You say, âWhy not?â He tilts his head, watching you over the rim of his glass. You can feel him studying the shape of your lies, how smoothly you let them pass. You notice he does the same. Every truth feels half-dressed, every smile too measured. But you donât stop. You laugh. You lean in. You let the warmth of the wine make you bold. He tells you a story about getting lost in Venice; you tell him one about a painting that made you cry. Somewhere between the laughter and the silences, something clicks, not comfort, not trust, but recognition.
When the bill comes, he pays without asking, sliding enough cash to cover both and a little extra. His fingers brush yours on the table, casual but deliberate. You reach for your coat, but he stops you with a look that feels like an invitation and a dare all at once.
âWalk with me?â You do.
Florence at night is cinematic, streets washed in gold and shadow, bridges glowing like veins of light across the river. The air hums with music and memory. You walk without purpose, trading stories that sound true enough to believe. He gestures when he talks, animated, half-distracting you from the way he keeps glancing at your lips.
And somewhere between a joke and a silence, his hand brushes yours. Once. Twice. Then stays. You look at him, really look, and it hits you how dangerous this feels. Not because of who you are or what youâre hiding, but because it feels too easy. Too real. Heâs smiling when you glance up at him, like he knows he shouldnât, but canât help it. His thumb grazes your knuckles, a touch soft enough to feel accidental, certain enough to say otherwise.
Youâre the one who kisses him first, quick, reckless, testing. Heâs the one who deepens it, slow, sure, undoing. It tastes like red wine and rain, and something you canât name yet. And when you finally pull away, the city keeps glowing like it knows something you donât. Jay pulls back just an inch, lips still brushing yours, breath warm and uneven. Thereâs a question in his eyes, not permission, not hesitance, but something quieter. Something like want.
And then he says, voice low enough to scrape against your spine: âCome with me.â You blink once, pulse stuttering. âWhere?â His smile curves, slow, deliberate, confident in a way that shouldnât be legal. âMy place. Itâs⊠close.â
He means dangerously close. You mean dangerously tempting. Before you can overthink it, before you can remind yourself that you donât do this, donât follow strangers into elevators and penthouses with views of entire cities, your hand is already in his. He leads you through the rain-glossed streets, past shuttered boutiques and glowing trattorias, until the marble lobby of an old Renaissance-restored building rises out of the dark. Inside, the floors gleam. The chandeliers drip light. The concierge greets him by name.
Of course he has a penthouse. Of course he does. The elevator ride is silent, but not empty. You can feel him watching your, not with hunger, but with curiosity. Like heâs trying to solve a puzzle with no corners. When the doors slide open, the city spills in. His penthouse is all glass and shadow, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Arno, dark wood floors reflecting the city lights, a bottle of unopened scotch on the counter, a jacket tossed across the sofa.
It smells faintly like cedar and something clean, expensive. He steps inside first, loosening his collar. You follow, dripping rain onto his immaculate floor. Jay turns to you, and for a second, neither of you speaks. Thereâs the hum of the city. The faint echo of your pulse in your ears. The knowledge that this is a bad idea wrapped in a perfect one.
Then softly, almost shyly, impossibly, he asks: âCan I take your coat?â You laugh under your breath, handing it over. âYou kiss someone like that and then you ask for my coat?â He hangs it up carefully, almost too carefully, then looks back at you with a grin that is anything but careful. âTrying to be a gentleman,â he says. âItâs not working.â
He takes that step toward you, the one that erases distance. His fingers graze your jaw. Your breath catches. The air tilts. âThen I wonât pretend to be one,â he murmurs. His mouth finds yours again, slower this time. Deeper. The room fades, the world dissolves, and Florence hums beneath your feet like itâs holding its breath. You donât know his name. You donât know his secrets. You donât know the life he leads.
But tonight, in the soft glow of a city that has seen too much love to warn you away, you let yourself want him. And when he leads you through the dim hallway toward his bedroom, you follow. Not because you trust him. Not because you should. But because something about him sets every nerve alight, a match struck in the dark a taste of danger a heartbeat you shouldnât be hearing this close. And because for the first time in a long time, youâre not thinking about lies or missions or escape routes. Just him. Just tonight. Just the way he looks back at you like heâs already memorizing the moment you walked into his life.
The door closes with a soft click behind you, sealing the room in a hush that feels almost sacred. The only light is the thin strip of gold leaking from the hallway under the door and the faint glow of the bedside lamp, dimmed so low it barely exists. Shadows stretch up the walls, long and trembling, and Jay stands in front of you like he was carved out of one. He doesnât speak. He just steps closer.
âSit.â A whisper, low, rough, almost like the command scrapes the air. His fingers brush your hip as he guides you backward, barely there, but enough to make your breath stick. The mattress dips when the backs of your knees hit it, and then youâre sinking down, palms sliding across the sheets, heartbeat pounding through your skin. Jay stands over you, chest rising slow, deliberate. You canât see his expression clearly, not with the light falling only from the side, but you can feel it, the intent, the heaviness, the focus. His gaze drags over you like a touch.
He steps into your space. Knees brushing yours. Breath ghosting your forehead. His hands rise, but he doesnât touch you yet. He hovers, knuckles grazing the air just shy of your jaw, your collarbone, the hem of your shirt. You can feel the heat of him without the contact, and something tightens inside you.
âLook at me.â Another whisper. Not soft. Just precise. You raise your eyes, and whatever he sees in yours pulls a slow exhale from him, the kind that sounds like restraint unspooling. His fingers finally touch your skin, first the underside of your jaw, tracing the line of it with the backs of his knuckles, then the column of your throat. He doesnât squeeze. He doesnât rush. He maps you with a patience that borders on reverence.
His thumb hooks into the neckline of your top. âIâm taking this off,â he murmurs, voice so close it vibrates against your lips even though heâs not kissing you. âSlowly.â And he does. The fabric peels upward inch by inch, his hands never leaving you. His fingers slide beneath the hem, gliding over your stomach, your ribs, the curve beneath your breasts, not groping, not grabbing, just learning you, marking the shape of you into his palms. He lifts the shirt higher, the soft scrape of cotton passing over your skin making every nerve spark awake.
When the fabric hits your arms, he stops again.
âArms up.â Breath against your ear, warm and quiet. You raise them, and he pulls the top off in one smooth, unbroken motion, dropping it beside him without breaking eye contact. His gaze runs over your bare skin like heâs memorizing the moment cell by cell. No smile. No tease. Just heat. Stark and focused.
Then he kneels. Right between your knees. His hands slide up the outside of your thighs, slow enough that your breathing stutters. He doesnât rush to your waistband; he traces circles into your skin with his thumbs, following the curve of your hips, pressing just enough to ground you. His head is down, dark hair falling into his eyes, breathing steady but deep, like heâs trying not to lose himself too fast.
Your shorts sit low on your hips now, his fingers hooked into each side, waiting. âYou want them off?â Barely a whisper. You nod, and he shakes his head slightly. âSay it.â Your voice barely works, but the word comes out, small and trembling: âTake them off.â His fingers tighten. He pulls.
The fabric slides downward, dragging along your thighs, your knees, your calves. He doesnât look away from your body as he works them off, folding them once, placing them neatly beside your discarded shirt, something about the neatness only making the moment feel more intense, more intentional. When he rises back up, his hands cup your calves, sliding slowly up, over your knees, along the tender inside of your thighs. The higher he goes, the slower he moves, like heâs savoring every inch of skin he uncovers. Your breathing catches halfway through, and he pauses, not pulling back, just holding you there, letting the tension coil tighter.
His thumbs stroke lazily along the inner edges of your thighs, and he leans in, voice just a breath: âTell me if you want me to stop.â You whisper back, âDonât stop.â A muscle in his jaw twitches, sharp in the dim light. His hands roam upward again, tracing your hips, your waist, the sides of your ribs, every inch taken with an almost cinematic patience, as though heâs unwrapping someone precious, someone heâs waited too long to touch like this. He stands again, towering over you, shadow falling across your bare skin. His fingertips brush your shoulders, glide down your arms, then return to your torso like he canât decide which part of you he wants to touch first. Every pass of his hands leaves you warmer.
Then he leans close enough that his forehead nearly touches yours. âLie back.â A whisper that trembles at the edges. You sink into the pillows, and he follows, palms dragging down your sides one more time, mapping you all over again, slower, deeper, more deliberate.
Like heâs memorizing the moment he finally has you stripped, open, waiting under him. Like heâs worshipping you in silence. Like the room itself is holding its breath for what comes next.
The door closes with a soft click behind you, sealing the room in a hush that feels almost sacred. The only light is the thin strip of gold leaking from the hallway under the door and the faint glow of the bedside lamp, dimmed so low it barely exists. Shadows stretch up the walls, long and trembling, and Jay stands in front of you like he was carved out of one. He doesnât speak. He just steps closer.
âSit.â A whisper, low, rough, almost like the command scrapes the air. His fingers brush your hip as he guides you backward, barely there, but enough to make your breath stick. The mattress dips when the backs of your knees hit it, and then youâre sinking down, palms sliding across the sheets, heartbeat pounding through your skin.
Jay stands over you, chest rising slow, deliberate. You canât see his expression clearly, not with the light falling only from the side, but you can feel it, the intent, the heaviness, the focus. His gaze drags over you like a touch. He steps into your space. Knees brushing yours. Breath ghosting your forehead. His hands rise, but he doesnât touch you yet. He hovers, knuckles grazing the air just shy of your jaw, your collarbone, the hem of your shirt. You can feel the heat of him without the contact, and something tightens inside you.
âLook at me.â Another whisper. Not soft. Just precise. You raise your eyes, and whatever he sees in yours pulls a slow exhale from him, the kind that sounds like restraint unspooling. His fingers finally touch your skin, first the underside of your jaw, tracing the line of it with the backs of his knuckles, then the column of your throat. He doesnât squeeze. He doesnât rush. He maps you with a patience that borders on reverence.
His thumb hooks into the neckline of your top. âIâm taking this off,â he murmurs, voice so close it vibrates against your lips even though heâs not kissing you. âSlowly.â And he does.
The fabric peels upward inch by inch, his hands never leaving you. His fingers slide beneath the hem, gliding over your stomach, your ribs, the curve beneath your breasts, not groping, not grabbing, just learning you, marking the shape of you into his palms. He lifts the shirt higher, the soft scrape of cotton passing over your skin making every nerve spark awake. When the fabric hits your arms, he stops again.
âArms up.â Breath against your ear, warm and quiet. You raise them, and he pulls the top off in one smooth, unbroken motion, dropping it beside him without breaking eye contact. His gaze runs over your bare skin like heâs memorizing the moment cell by cell. No smile. No tease. Just heat. Stark and focused. Then he kneels. Right between your knees.
His hands slide up the outside of your thighs, slow enough that your breathing stutters. He doesnât rush to your waistband; he traces circles into your skin with his thumbs, following the curve of your hips, pressing just enough to ground you. His head is down, dark hair falling into his eyes, breathing steady but deep, like heâs trying not to lose himself too fast.
Your shorts sit low on your hips now, his fingers hooked into each side, waiting. âYou want them off?â Barely a whisper. You nod, and he shakes his head slightly. âSay it.â Your voice barely works, but the word comes out, small and trembling: âTake them off.â His fingers tighten.
He pulls. The fabric slides downward, dragging along your thighs, your knees, your calves. He doesnât look away from your body as he works them off, folding them once, placing them neatly beside your discarded shirt, something about the neatness only making the moment feel more intense, more intentional.
When he rises back up, his hands cup your calves, sliding slowly up, over your knees, along the tender inside of your thighs. The higher he goes, the slower he moves, like heâs savoring every inch of skin he uncovers. Your breathing catches halfway through, and he pauses, not pulling back, just holding you there, letting the tension coil tighter.
His thumbs stroke lazily along the inner edges of your thighs, and he leans in, voice just a breath: âTell me if you want me to stop.â
You whisper back, âDonât stop.â A muscle in his jaw twitches, sharp in the dim light. His hands roam upward again, tracing your hips, your waist, the sides of your ribs, every inch taken with an almost cinematic patience, as though heâs unwrapping someone precious, someone heâs waited too long to touch like this.
He stands again, towering over you, shadow falling across your bare skin. His fingertips brush your shoulders, glide down your arms, then return to your torso like he canât decide which part of you he wants to touch first. Every pass of his hands leaves you warmer. Then he leans close enough that his forehead nearly touches yours. âLie back.â A whisper that trembles at the edges.
You sink into the pillows, and he follows, palms dragging down your sides one more time, mapping you all over again, slower, deeper, more deliberate. Like heâs memorizing the moment he finally has you stripped, open, waiting under him. Like heâs worshipping you in silence. Like the room itself is holding its breath for what comes next.
Jay lowers himself over you without letting his weight touch you yet, just hovering, his breath warm and uneven. The bed dips under his knees, and the shadows shift across his face, cutting him into sharp angles. His eyes drag over you, slow enough to make your chest tighten. His fingers find your waist again. Not grabbing. Not rushing. Just claiming the space. âYouâre so still,â he whispers, the words brushing your lips even though heâs not kissing you. âAre you nervous?â
You swallow, but your voice is steady when you breathe out, âA little.â His fingertips slide inward⊠just under your ribs⊠tracing the slope down to your stomach. His thumb presses lightly, drawing a line that makes your hips jerk. His gaze flicks down, watching the reaction.
Quietly, with a breath that sounds like heâs already losing control: âGood.â Then his lips touch your skin, right beneath your ribs. A single kiss. Deep, slow, warm. His mouth moves lower, pausing between each kiss just long enough to let the heat build. He doesnât kiss like a man in a hurry. He kisses like heâs studying you, tasting your reactions, choosing his next move with surgical precision.
Your breath stutters when he reaches the softest part of your stomach. He hears it. His voice is a whisper against your skin, low, restrained, almost pained: âDonât hide that from me.â One of his hands slides up, cupping the underside of your breast. He doesnât squeeze, he just holds you there, thumb stroking a slow, almost cruelly gentle rhythm. His mouth trails higher, his hair brushing your skin, his lips tracing the line under your breast with a slowness that makes your whole body arch.
When his mouth finally closes around your nipple, your inhale breaks. He groans, a low, quiet sound, muffled against your skin as his tongue circles you, slow and deliberate. His other hand moves to your thigh, fingers digging in, holding you open as he takes his time sucking, kissing, tasting you like heâs trying to keep himself from devouring you too fast.
He switches sides, lips closing around your other nipple with a deeper pull, and you feel every controlled tremor radiating from him. Then he lifts his head and whispers against your breast: âYouâre already shaking. Lie still for me.â You try. But when he moves lower, when his tongue traces a line down the center of your stomach, slow enough that your toes curl, your hips lift on their own.
He catches them with one hand, pressing you flat to the bed. âDonât.â Just one word. But said so softly, so dangerously, it forces stillness into your bones. His lips are at your waistband now, the last barrier, thin and useless. He looks up at you through the shadows. Not smiling. Not teasing. Just hungry. âOpen your legs for me.â
Your thighs fall apart, breath hitching. Jay exhales like heâs been waiting for that moment. Two fingers hook the edge of your last piece of clothing, pulling it down slowly, slower than his patience should allow, dragging the thin fabric over your hips, your thighs, your knees, your ankles. He drops it somewhere behind him without looking.
And then he sees you fully. His jaw tightens. His breath leaves him in a slow, shaky exhale. âBeautiful,â he whispers, not soft, but reverent, like the word forces itself out. He spreads your thighs wider with his hands, thumbs stroking the inside, and lowers himself between them. His face hovers inches from you, his breath warm where you need him most. He looks up again. Voice deeper. Rougher.
âBefore I taste you,â he murmurs, âtell me what you want.â Your voice is barely a whisper. âYou.â Jay shuts his eyes for half a second, just half, like the word hits him too hard. Then he leans in. Slow. Inevitable. Pinning you with his hands on your thighs. His lips touch you. One slow, deep lick. Your back arches, involuntary, sharp, and he grips your thighs harder, holding you open as he does it again⊠slower this time⊠deeper.
A whisper against you: âGood⊠keep giving me reactions like that.â He starts to eat you out with a quiet, consuming intensity, no loud sounds, just heavy breathing, the wet pull of his mouth, the soft drag of his tongue. Every movement is deliberate, like heâs building you from the inside out, like he wants to memorize every tremor. And when you start to beg, breathless, whispering his name, he just moans into you and murmurs:
âIâm not stopping until you break for me.â Then he licks you. From bottom to top, one slow, devastating stripe of tongue that makes your whole spine curve off the mattress. He stops at the top, tongue flattening against your clit for a second, pressing just hard enough to make your breath crack, then he pulls back with a quiet inhale like heâs savoring your taste.
âOh, fuckâŠâ he whispers, voice roughened. âYou taste better than I imagined.â
He doesnât give you time to recover. His tongue returns, this time soft and slow, lazily stroking you, mapping you, tasting you like heâs learning your body one wet, trembling flick at a time. His hands grip your thighs harder, holding them open as he settles his mouth deeper against you. He chooses a rhythm, deliberate, focused, steady.
Long, deep licks. Followed by soft circles. Followed by slow, pulsing pressure. Your hips twitch up, and he pins them immediately, fingers tightening. âStay still,â he murmurs against you, voice vibrating through your core. âLet me do the work.â He slides his tongue lower, dipping inside you with a slow push that makes your legs shake. He groans, actually groans, the sound muffled and sinful, and your body answers it with a pulse he feels immediately.
His fingers dig in. âThere it is,â he whispers, breath hot against you. âGive me that again.â Then he gets rougher. His mouth latches onto your clit with a sudden, hungry pressure, and he sucks, deep, slow, controlled, the kind of suction that makes you grab the sheets and gasp his name. He reacts to that.
He growls. Not loud, low, quiet, primal, and the vibration rolls through you. Jay keeps sucking, tongue flicking in perfect, devastating pulses, alternating between gentle strokes and sharper, firmer pressure until your voice breaks into airless sounds you canât control.
Your thighs try to close around his head. He doesnât let them. He shoves them open, grip firm, voice so dark it borders on a warning: âDonât⊠fucking⊠run.â He buries his face deeper into you, eating you out with an intensity thatâs almost desperate, messy now, wet sounds filling the room as his tongue works you faster, harder, his jaw moving with purpose.
He moans into you again when you tug his hair, the sound sending another sharp wave through your body. âYouâre close,â he whispers, his voice shaking with how badly he wants it. âI can feel it, donât fight it. Come for me. Right here. On my tongue.â He sucks harder, the perfect pressure, tongue circling your clit in tight, relentless movements. Your breath breaks, your hips lift, and he holds you down, forcing you to stay exactly where he wants you.
You fall apart. Your gasp turns into a cry, your thighs trembling, your whole body tightening and unraveling all at once, and Jay doesnât stop. Not for a second. He keeps licking you through it, slow and hungry, drawing every last shake out of you until youâre limp against the mattress. Only then does he pull back, lips glistening, breath ragged, eyes dark.
He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, slow, deliberate, and whispers: âAgain.â Your pulse is still stuttering from his mouth, your thighs trembling against the sheets, when Jay lifts his head. His lips are swollen, wet from you, his breath sharp and uneven. He climbs up your body with a slow, predatory steadiness, each movement deliberate, like heâs savoring the moment before he finally breaks.
His hands bracket your hips first, fingers digging in just enough to remind you whoâs in control. Then he drags them up your sides, over your ribs, up to your wrists, pinning both your hands above your head in one smooth motion. He leans down until his forehead nearly touches yours.
âYouâre still shaking,â he whispers, voice low, rough. âGood.â His body settles between your thighs like it was made to fit there, warm, heavy, solid. You feel the hard length of him press against your inner thigh, and the jolt that shoots through you is so sharp your breath catches. He feels it. His jaw clenches. âLook at me.â Your eyes lift to meet his, and he holds your wrists tighter, the weight of his stare heavy, consuming.
âIâm going to fuck you,â he murmurs, voice barely audible. âSlow enough that you feel every inch.â You nod, breathless, but he shakes his head. âSay you want it.â âI want it,â you whisper. He exhales, slow, shaky, like those words hit him deeper than they should. Then he lets go of your wrists just long enough to guide himself, the tip of him brushing your entrance. The contact alone steals your breath. He presses forward just a little, barely parting you, just enough to make you whimper.
A soft, dark whisper at your lips: âRelax⊠let me in.â And then he pushes. Slow. Deep. Unstoppable. Your breath breaks. Your nails dig into his shoulders. Your body tightens around him immediately, involuntarily, and Jay feels it. His head drops to your neck, his breath coming out in a strained, bitten-off groan. âFuck⊠youâre tightââ
He stops himself, pulling in a slow, shaking breath like heâs on the edge of losing control already. He presses deeper inch by inch, your body stretching around him, taking him, pulling him in. You gasp his name. His hand shoots to your jaw, tilting your face toward his. âDonât look away,â he whispers again, voice trembling now. âI want to see everything you feel.â
He sinks deeper. Deeper. Deeper until his hips meet yours and thereâs no space left between you. Youâre full. Breathless. Pinned under him. Jayâs forehead drops to yours, his hair brushing your cheeks, his breath sharp and uneven. âShitâŠâ he breathes out, voice cracking at the edges. âYou feelââ He cuts off with another shuddering exhale. âYou feel too good.â
His hands slide under your thighs, lifting them higher around his hips, opening you wider, pulling you closer, pulling you onto him. He holds still for a moment, letting your body adjust, letting the pressure settle deep and heavy between you. Then he whispers: âTell me when youâre ready for me to move.â You canât find your voice, so you pull your hips up into him, small, shaky, desperate.
His breath catches. âOkayâŠâ A whisper that sounds like surrender. âOkay.â He pulls out slowly, every inch a drag that makes your eyes flutter, and then pushes back in with a deep, deliberate thrust that knocks a breathy sound from your chest. Jay groans into your neck, the sound low and ragged, his control slipping. His pace stays slow at first, deep, grinding strokes that make your whole body lift off the mattress each time. His hand slides behind your knee, pushing your thigh up higher, opening you more, letting him sink deeper, hit deeper.
Your breath starts breaking, your voice catching with each thrust. And Jay murmurs against your mouth, breath trembling: âThatâs it⊠take it⊠take all of itâŠâ
He thrusts again, deeper, harder, the sound of your bodies meeting sharp and wet in the quiet room. Your fingers claw into his back. He groans, low, guttural. His voice drops to a whisper so dark it shakes through you: âIâm going to ruin you for anyone else.â Jayâs thrusts get heavier, deeper, the kind that shake the mattress, the kind that force sound out of your throat no matter how hard you try to hold it back. His breathing is ragged now, brushing hot against your cheek, every exhale trembling like heâs fighting something in himself.
Heâs not winning. You can feel it. His hips snap forward again, harder than before, and your gasp breaks into his mouth. His hand slides up your throat, not squeezing, just holding you there, anchoring you, guiding the angle of your head as he kisses you. A deep, messy, open-mouth kiss that tastes like desperation and heat. He pulls back only far enough to whisper against your lips:
âI canâtââ His breath shudders. âI canât stay gentle anymore.â Your body clenches around him, and the reaction rips something raw from his chest. âThat,â he growls softly, forehead pressing to yours, âdonât do that unless you want me completely gone.â You whisper, broken:Â âI want you gone. Lose it.â
Jay freezes, only for a heartbeat. Thatâs all it takes. His control snaps. His hand slides down your thigh, grabbing hard, and he flips you onto your stomach in one fluid, effortless motion. You gasp as the sheets brush your skin, your body still trembling from the shock of being moved so fast. Heâs already behind you. Already pulling your hips up to meet his. Already pressing himself back inside you with a deep, brutal thrust that makes your arms collapse.
Your forehead drops to the pillow, your fingers fisting the sheets. Jay groans behind you, long, low, dragged from his chest like heâs been holding it back for too long. âFuck⊠this positionâŠâ Another thrust, harder. âYouâre gripping me like you donât want to let go.â He leans over you, chest pressed to your back, his hand sliding around your waist, fingers finding the softness just above your hip. He pulls you back onto him, matching his thrusts to the desperate rhythm of your breath.
Your voice breaks into the pillow. Jay hears it. He slides one hand into your hair, gripping at the base of your neck, pulling your head back until your mouth opens on a gasp. His lips find your ear, hot, panting, trembling with feral restraint. âYou want it rough?â Another snap of his hips. âTake it.â
He slams into you, deep, precise, punishing in the best way. Your body jolts, back arching, legs shaking. His whisper cuts right into the sound of your breath: âEvery⊠single⊠drop of meââ Thrust. âYouâre taking it.â Thrust. âYou hear me?â You try to answer, but it comes out a whimper. He growls, quiet but sharp, and tightens his grip in your hair.
âUse your words.â âYâyes,â you choke out. âIâm taking it.â He bites your shoulder, hard enough to make your breath stutter, then licks the spot slowly, soothing it with a soft drag of his tongue.
âGood,â he whispers against your skin. âKeep saying yes.â He lifts your hips higher, the new angle letting him sink impossibly deeper. The sounds of your bodies meeting fill the room, sharp, wet, rhythmic. You feel him everywhere. His breath on your neck. His chest on your back. His fingers bruising your hips. His cock dragging so deep each thrust feels like it reaches your breath.
Your voice cracks with every movement. And Jay loses the last piece of control heâs holding. His thrusts turn rougher, faster, his pace hungry and relentless. His hand slides between your thighs, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, fast circles that make your entire body jerk. âThatâs it,â he whispers, voice shaking. âCome on my cock. Come for me while Iâm inside you.â
Your fingers claw at the sheets. Your knees buckle. Your vision whites out. âJayââ He snaps his hips into you harder, hand working you with ruthless precision. âSay my name again.â âJayâfuckâJayââ âThatâs it,â he whispers, breath breaking. âGive it to me. Now.â And when your climax hits, sudden, violent, overwhelming, Jay moans into your shoulder, grabbing your hips, thrusting through your orgasm like heâs trying to lose himself inside the feeling of you coming apart around him. Your body collapses forward.
Jay follows you down, still buried deep, chest pressed to your back, breath hot and shaking against your skin. âDonât move,â he whispers into your neck. âIâm not done with you yet.â
â â â
It happens fast. Not the falling, that part was slow. Weeks of stolen nights. Rain on penthouse windows. Jay learning the shape of your mouth like it was a map heâd forgotten how to read. You pretending you werenât already lost in him. Two ghosts who had chased each other without knowing it. But the moment he asks, truly asks, isnât dramatic. Itâs raining again. Same rain. Same city. Different you.
Youâre standing under a stone overhang outside the old courthouse, both of you dripping, both of you laughing because this is ridiculous, utterly, impossibly ridiculous, and yet youâve never been more certain of anything.
Jayâs hair is plastered to his forehead. His shirt is damp at the collar. He looks at you like the world finally stopped spinning. âMarry me,â he says. Quiet. Breathless. No theatrics. No ring. Just him.
You donât even pretend to think. âOkay.â Thatâs how you end up inside the courthouse, rain streaking every window, thunder shaking the old wooden floorboards. The lights buzz faintly. The judge looks half-asleep. Your clothes are still wet. Jay canât stop staring at you. Itâs small. Itâs messy. Itâs real. You hold each otherâs hands, cold fingers, warm palms, and the rain outside becomes the only witness.
Jay steps closer, thumb brushing over your knuckles like heâs grounding himself. His voice is barely above a whisper: ââTil death do us part.â You lift your chin, eyes locked on his. âYou first.â Jay lets out a broken laugh, the kind that sounds like surrender, and kisses you right there, before the judge even finishes the sentence. The world blurs into rain and lips and the taste of something terrifyingly close to forever.
But you donât end there. Hours later, the storm has quieted into a drizzle as he drives you through narrow streets until the Florence Cathedral rises, luminous, ancient, impossibly beautiful. No crowds tonight. Just candlelight pooling through stained glass, flickering in ruby and sapphire across marble floors. Jay leads you inside, not to marry you again, not for formality, but because he wants this memory carved into something sacred.
He stands with you in the center of the vast nave, rain dripping from your coat onto centuries-old stone. His hand finds yours. Your wedding bands, simple silver, glint under the candles.
The silence feels holy. Jay turns to you, jaw softening, rain still clinging to his lashes. âYou know,â he murmurs, voice reverent, âif you ever walk away from me, this place wonât survive it. I wonât survive it.â You lean in until your foreheads touch, breath mingling in the chill of the cathedral. âGood,â you whisper. âBecause Iâm not going anywhere.â Outside, the bells begin to ring, slow, deep, echoing through every stone archway like a blessing.
Two ghosts who once chased each other across rooftops now stand inside a church older than every name theyâve worn, bound by a rain-soaked vow whispered too quietly for the world, but loud enough to last.A courthouse wedding in a storm. A kiss beneath a vaulted ceiling of angels. And a promise neither of you ever planned to keep, yet couldnât imagine breaking. Til death do you part. You first.
â â â
The present burns colder than memory. Gone is Florence. Gone is warmth. Gone is the taste of Jayâs mouth on yours, hot and reverent, like he was learning you cell by cell. All that remains is the mission room. An unmarked building. An unlabeled door. A table so cold it might as well be carved from absence. A folder hits the metal with the blunt weight of inevitability. Your handler doesnât sit. He doesnât blink. His voice is a monotone blade when he says:
âTarget identified.â
You open the file. At the top lies a grainy surveillance still, taped in with a single yellowing strip of medical tape, like the print is alive and might try to run. LEE HEESEUNG. Codename: EVAN. Black hair. A sharp, unsmiling mouth. Eyes that look like theyâve witnessed the wrong side of hell and decided not to come back. Below, in stark block letters:
HIGH-VALUE TARGET.DIA PRISONER â ESCAPED CUSTODY. A HIGHEST PRIORITY FOR ELIMINATION.POTENTIAL RISK: EXTREME.
You keep your expression neutral, professional. Your pulse betrays you anyway, tightening in your wrists, fluttering too fast in your neck. Your handler continues, tone flat: âIntel confirms he resurfaced three days ago. Multiple agencies want him dead. Weâre pulling international contractors to lock down the grid. Youâll have first contact. Coordinates on dispatch only when his location stabilizes.â
Stabilizes. A strange word. A stranger implication. You close the folder with a soft, decisive snap. âWhen do I move?â âTonight.â You nod, controlled, composed, a ghost wearing your skin. But your stomach twists tight, curling around a feeling you canât name. Something is wrong. The lights above flicker as if agreeing. You slide the file into your coat and walk out like nothing inside you has shifted at all. Except everything has.
â
Different city. Different agency. Same fluorescent hum of dread. Jay sits across from his director, legs spread loose, posture careless enough to fool anyone who hasnât watched him kill. But the tight vein in his jaw pulses once, barely there, but real. âYour assignment,â the director says, pushing a folder across the steel table. Jay flips it open with two bored fingers. Then he sees the photo. A small taped polaroid. Same face. Same eyes. Same ghost. LEE HEESEUNG. Codename: EVAN.
Jay goes still. Not visibly. But he forgets to breathe for half a second.
His director doesnât notice. âTarget escaped custody. Too dangerous to leave in circulation. Termination authorized, no retrieval, no arbitration.â Jay turns the page. Dense black text. Red stamps that read like they were carved instead of printed.
HIGH-VALUE. PRIORITY ONE. ELIMINATE ON SIGHT.
His voice comes out low, edged with something he doesnât let surface often. âSolo contract?â âYes. Clean. Quiet. No footprint.â Of course. Jay is a ghost maker. âLocation?â he asks. âYouâll receive coordinates in transit. Target is migrating.â Jay closes the folder, leans back, tongue pressing once against the inside of his cheek, a tell he never allows. Not unless something feels off. He didnât expect the sensation clawing through his chest now.He doesnât like it. Like heâs standing at the mouth of a memory he hasnât lived yet. Like the world has tilted one degree and heâs the only one who noticed. Like fate just cracked its knuckles.
He stands. âWhen do I depart?â âNow.â Jay leaves without another word.
Your safehouse greets you with silence and stale air. You drop the folder onto the bed. It flips open on impact. Heeseungâs eyes stare up, dark, hollow, too knowing. Something in you recoils. Not in fear. In recognition you canât justify. A familiarity that feels like a bruise you donât remember getting.
You press your palm over his image until your skin hides the photo entirely. Your comms vibrate.
MISSION ACTIVE.STANDBY FOR COORDINATES.
The unease slithers deeper, coiling in your ribs. This is just another job. Just another shadow to neutralize. Thatâs what you tell yourself. You donât know Jay is reading the same photo in another part of the city. You donât know heâs already moving. You donât know the mission has already tied your fates too tight to pull apart. Outside, the wind picks up. Somewhere, the storm shifts. And the moment the coordinates hit both your phones⊠everything begins to break.
The desert wind cuts like glass. You stand among the guards, helmet low, visor down, uniform crisp. Breath steady. Pulse measured. The armored convoy crawls across the dirt road in front of you like a beast made of steel and secrets. Engines hum. Radios crackle. Boots crunch.
Evan, Heeseung, is in the third vehicle. Chained. Drugged. Supposed to be harmless. He isnât. You grip your rifle tighter. Up on the ridge, unseen, Jay lies flat against red stone, rifle braced on a bipod. Sun cutting across his scope in a thin, lethal line. Heâs still. Focused. A shadow carved from patience. His handlerâs voice whispers in his ear: âConfirmed visual on Evan?â
Jay exhales. âConfirmed.â Your handler whispers the same into your comm, almost word-for-word. Neither of you knows the other is listening to the exact same briefing.
The transport halts. Guards reposition. You blend among them, steps silent, movements practiced. Your disguise holds. No one looks twice. Jay adjusts his aim, tracking the man being escorted out of the armored vehicle. Evanâs hair is longer than the file photo. His face gaunt. But his eyes, sharp and aware, cut through everyone around him.
Jayâs finger settles on the trigger. So does yours. The plan is clean: You draw fire and chaos from the inside. Jay snipes from the ridge. Evan dies between both shots.
Flawless. Mathematically perfect. Zero risk of failure. Until the sun shifts. Until Jayâs scope catches the smallest sliver of reflection, your reflection. Helmets down. Uniform standard. Shouldâve been nothing. But he sees the tilt of your chin. The tension in your shoulders. The way you steady your rifle. He knows bodies. He knows yours. Jayâs breath stops.
âŠNo. It canât be. Not here.
He blinks once, and, you look up. Your eyes meet his through the glint of his scope. Instant. Electric. Catastrophic. Recognition hits you like a punch to the ribs. Your lips part beneath the helmet, shock flooding ice-cold down your spine. Jay. Jay is the sniper. Jay is the second operative. Jay is on the same hit.
What the hellâ
âShooter One, take the shot,â your handler orders. âShooter Two, green light,â his handler echoes. Neither of you pulls the trigger. That hesitation, one heartbeat, ruins everything. Evan, ever perceptive, looks directly where Jay is hiding. Then directly at you. His mouth twitches. Not into a smile. Into readiness. He moves first. A knee to a guard. A ripped weapon. A shot fired into a fuel tank.
You dive, Jay curses and rolls, and the world explodes. Fire erupts through the convoy. Guards scatter. Bullets rain. Smoke eats the sky. Through the flames, Evan slips free, fast, trained, terrifyingly calm, and vanishes into the burning horizon. Mission blown. Target alive. You and Jay exposed. You scramble behind an overturned truck, helmet half-melted, lungs burning with smoke. Jay slides down the ridge, grabs his gear, and disappears into the canyon. Both of you escape. Barely. Both of you are shaking. More from the recognition than the blast.
You drive with white-knuckled hands, headlights slicing through dusk, replaying his face in your mind. Jay. At the ridge. Rifle aimed at the same man. Your stomach refuses to settle. Across the city, Jay drives just as hard, jaw tight, music off, mind racing. You. At the convoy. In uniform. Holding a rifle. Too coincidental. Too precise. He isnât stupid. Neither are you. You both know exactly what this means.
Your apartment is warm. Your clothes are clean. Your pulse is anything but steady. Jay arrives right on time. You donât hug him. He doesnât kiss you. The tension is a living thing between you, sharp, metallic, almost visible.
You cook because it gives your hands something to do. He stands behind you, silent, watching the knife move. You speak first. âTraffic?â Your voice doesnât sound like yours. He shrugs. âNot bad.â
You sit. You both eat too quietly. Then you slip. You donât realize youâve said it until the air collapses. âI thought you were in Itaewon today.â You freeze. Jay lifts his gaze slowly. A smirk forms, slow, subtle, cutting. âYou always think you know where I am.â
Itâs not flirtation. Itâs a test. Your pulse spikes. âWhere were you?â you ask. He places his chopsticks down, leans back, eyes on yours with unnerving calm. âIn the heat,â he says. âIn the open.â âWind was bad. Distance was⊠manageable.â
Your heart stops. Only a sniper would phrase it that way. He watches your reaction carefully. Then, softly, almost gently: âFunny thing, though. Someone down there hesitated too.â
Your blood turns to ice. He knows. And worse, he knows you know. The silence that follows isnât awkward. Itâs lethal.Two operatives. Two lies. Two truths cracking open all at once. One failed mission. One escaped target. One inevitable collision. Jayâs smile fades. His voice drops to something dangerous and intimate: âTell me, sweetheartâŠâ His eyes glint. ââŠwere you aiming for Evan today?â
You inhale. Exhale. Lie or tell the truth. Either way, everything changes here.
The morning after the botched prisoner transfer tastes like the inside of a bullet casing, metallic, bitter, and humming with the memory of heat. Your apartment is too still. Too neat. Too unbroken for what you both witnessed yesterday. Jay moves through the kitchen like someone daring it to betray him. His shoulders are loose, relaxed, casual, the exact posture he wears right before he puts a knife through someoneâs ribs. Youâve studied that body language in your enemies. In him, itâs worse. Because it isnât foreign. Itâs familiar.
You woke up to him breathing beside you, warm, steady. The kind of breathing only a man who slept well produces. He shouldnât have slept well. Not after seeing you in that convoy. Not after recognizing your eyes through the sniper glint.
Not after realizing the truth. Neither should you. But assassins adapt. And marriage, even a forged, accidental, courthouse one, teaches you how to lie through breakfast. Jay opens a drawer and pulls out a mug. He doesnât reach for your favorite one. He reaches for the one he bought, the newer one, the one that doesnât have your fingerprints memorized. Heâs telling you without saying a word:
Iâm not predictable today. Donât assume anything.
Good. You werenât planning to. âCoffee?â you ask, voice light. Sweet. Dangerous. âPlease.â Jay leans a hip against the counter and watches you with eyes that give nothing away. Not fear. Not anger. Not confusion. Just calculation. You grind the beans by hand, slow, methodical. You measure the water temperature. You test the bitterness. You make it perfect.
And then, when you pour it into his mug, your finger taps the hidden capsule against the rim. It dissolves instantl, micro-poison, nearly undetectable, designed to mimic food poisoning for the first nine minutes, then shut down the heart. You stir it once. Twice. Jayâs gaze flicks to your wrist. A single raised brow.
He knows. You slide the mug toward him anyway, like the worldâs deadliest waitress. Jay picks it up, inhales the steam, and smiles. âLooks good.â His fingers curl around the ceramic. You watch his pulse.
He takes a sip. Swallows. And smirks. âI love when you make things strong,â he murmurs, eyes lifting to meet yours, deliberate. âIt wakes me up.â You keep your face serene, completely still, but your blood chills. Because Jay doesnât set the mug down. He doesnât drink it again. He just⊠holds it. Letting you wonder whether he swallowed anything at all. Letting you imagine him spitting it out behind your back this morning. Or swapping the mug. Or taking the antidote he always keeps in his back pocket.
Heâs playing with his life like itâs his wedding ring. The same way you just played with his. He takes another sip. You stop breathing. Then he sets the mug down, pushes it a few centimeters toward the center of the counter, and taps the handle twice with one finger.
Message loud and brutal: Try harder.
Your body warms, adrenaline or arousal, you canât tell. With Jay itâs always been that fine, lethal line. âEarly mission today?â you ask casually, rinsing the spoon you stirred his coffee with. Jayâs eyes follow the spoonâs path. Your wrist. Your stance. Heâs mapping where your weapons could be hidden. Where you could run. How fast he could catch you.
âSomething like that,â he says lightly. âAnd you?â âSame.â âAh.â He stretches, neck cracking slightly as he rolls his shoulders. âBusy couple. Always on the move.â His tone is teasing. His eyes are not. You both move at the same time, him reaching for his phone; you turning for your jacket. Your fingers brush the drawer of the entryway table, where you usually keep your keys.
Only today, your keys arenât there. Jay took them. Jay knows you noticed. You meet his eyes. He smiles. âBorrowed your car,â he says simply. No apology. No reason. Just theft. Just war. You school your expression. âWhen?â âThis morning.â âThat early?â âHm.â Jay gives a small shrug. âI had⊠errands.â Translation: He was checking everything you own for traps. He didnât find the ones you wanted him to. But he found enough.
âYours is still here,â he adds. âWhatâs left of it,â you say under your breath, so quiet a regular husband wouldnât catch it. Jay is not a regular husband. He hears it. His smirk sharpens. âYou say something?â You look up through your lashes. âJust wondering why you look so tired.â
That lands. A small, precise hit. He steps closer. Not touching. Just close enough that your breath shifts. His hand lifts, thumb grazing a strand of hair behind your ear. It would be tender, if it werenât a threat. âOh?â Jay murmurs. âI slept like a baby.â You didnât. He knows. âDidnât you?â
You tilt your chin. âLighter sleeper,â you say simply. âYou know that.â Jayâs smile is too soft to be safe. âI do.â A beat of silence. Heavy. Charged. Loaded like a chambered bullet. Then he steps back, grabs his jacket, and says: âIâll see you tonight.â
A normal line. Too normal. You nod once. âDinner at eight.â âEight,â he echoes. Neither of you says if we both make it. When he leaves, the air collapses. Your spine straightens. Your pupils narrow. Today is the day. The first strike. The first real attempt. You check the time. Jay will reach the parking garage in seven minutes. You have the detonator in your hand.
You flip open the blinds just a sliver. The view of the street below is clear. Your husband crosses the road, calm, unhurried, unaware (or pretending to be). He reaches the elevator to the garage.
Six minutes. You move through the apartment quickly, silently, retrieving your backup keys, your boots, the bag under the sink with a gun no one but you knows about. You breathe once. Then you press the detonator.
The explosion shakes the city block. Flame ruptures upward, glass shattering, concrete cracking. People scream. Birds scatter. Smoke billows like a beast unleashed. Your pulse spikes.
You scan the wreckage. Burning metal. Twisted doors. Fire licking the hood of your husbandâs car. And then, through the smoke, a silhouette steps out. Untouched. Unrushed.
Unburned.
Jay walks through the flames like heâs leaving a photoshoot, not a murder attempt. His jaw is sharp, his hair slightly wind-tossed, suit jacket thrown over one shoulder like the explosion was an inconvenience at best. He lifts his gaze straight to your window.
And smiles. Slow. Infuriating. Devastatingly amused. He mouths: Cute. You exhale a curse. War has officially begun. Your phone lights up before the smoke even clears.
1 new message â JAY đ
You open it with a thumb that doesnât tremble.
You wonât give him that. The message contains no text. Just a photo.
Him. Standing in front of the burning remains of his car. Two fingers raised in a peace sign. A heart emoji drawn in smoke behind him. You clench your jaw. Smug bastard.
Youâre still staring at the photo when your door unlocks behind you. Not forced. Not picked. Not kicked in. Unlocked. From the inside. Your stomach drops. You reach for your gun, too slow.
Jay presses the muzzle of his gun behind your ribs, so gentle it feels like a greeting. âGood morning again, sweetheart,â he says, voice low, warm, mocking. âMiss me?â You donât let your spine stiffen. âDoors lock for a reason.â âOh, I know.â His breath brushes your neck as he steps around you, gun still resting at your side like an affectionate hand. âI just donât care.â
He doesnât shoot. He doesnât need to. He walks in, calm as ever, dropping his jacket on the couch. You watch him move, fluid, confident, unbothered.
He survived your bomb. He broke into your home. And heâs making himself comfortable. âCoffee was good,â he says lightly as he toes off his shoes. âBold flavor. Slightly poisonous aftertaste, but still smooth.â You grit your teeth. âYou drank it.â âDid I?â Jay tilts his head. âOr did I pour it into the pothos plant when you blinked?â
You glance at the plant. Itâs wilted. You exhale sharply. ââŠyou asshole.â Jay beams. âI love when you notice.â He walks past you without a care in the world, crossing to your desk. Your laptop sits there. Closed. Untouched. Or so you thought. Jay sits in your chair, spins once, and props his feet on your notebook. âCan I ask you something?â he says casually.
You cross your arms. âNo.â He continues anyway. âWhy did you think blowing up my car would work?â he asks. âYou know Iâve survived worse.â You force your heartbeat to steady. âIt was worth a try.â He looks at you for a long, quiet moment. âYeah,â he murmurs. âIt was.â And then he opens your laptop. Your breath catches. âJay.â Warning. Threat. Plea.
He ignores all three. The screen comes to life, your wallpaper, your folders, your encrypted files, Except itâs not your normal login screen. Itâs a new one. White text on a black background:
HELLO, SUNSHINE.ENTER PASSWORD TO SIGN YOUR RESIGNATION LETTER.
Your blood goes ice-cold. Jay glances up sweetly. âYou didnât think Iâd let you be the only one to leave surprises today, did you?â âIf you touched my filesââ âOh, I touched everything.â He taps a few keys. Windows flicker openâyour missions, your photos, your kill records, your handlerâs notes. âYour entire professional history is so⊠intimate. Like reading your diary. Except more murder-y.â
You lunge forward. Jay lifts a finger. One finger. Barely a motion. You stop. Your body responds to him before your mind does. âBaby,â he murmurs. âDo you really want to fight me this early? We havenât even discussed lunch.â You want to hit him. You want to kiss him. You want to strangle him with the charging cable.
He continues typing with lazy, deadly precision. âYour firm thinks youâre resigning effective immediately,â he says. âI drafted a lovely, heartfelt letter. You talk about burnout. Wanting to reconnect with your spouse. Wanting a quiet life.â âI would never write that.â Jay grins. âI know. Thatâs why itâs funny.â You step closer. âJay, undo it.â
âCanât.â âUndo it.â âNo.â You slam your palm on the desk beside him. âNow.â His eyes lift to yours with slow, thrilling danger. âYou blew up my car.â âYou drank poison.â âYou tried to stab me in your sleep.â âYou dodged. Thatâs not my fault.â âOh, please,â he scoffs, fingers flying across the keyboard. âYou were aiming for my shoulder.â Your jaw tics. He noticed. Of course he did.
Jayâs tone shifts, softens. âYou donât want to kill me.â You ignore the sting in your chest. âThatâs not the point.â âThen what is?â he asks quietly. Silence drapes over you both. Thick. Heavy. Truth-shaped. You break it with steel rather than vulnerability. âYouâre compromising my mission.â Jay laughs under his breath. âSweetheart, you are the mission.â You freeze. He doesnât. He clicks one last button, and your laptop pings. Your heart stops. On the screen is the confirmation:
RESIGNATION SENT. Â
ACCESS TO FIRM FILES LOCKED.
GOOD LUCK IN YOUR FUTURE ENDEAVORS.
You breathe out slowly, deadly calm. âYouâre insane.â Jay stands slowly, stepping into your space like he owns it. Like he owns you. âMaybe,â he says. âBut Iâm your problem now.â You grab his collar, hard. âUndo it.â He dips his head so your noses almost touch. âMake me.â You shove him away. He lets you, only because he wants to see what youâll do next. âYouâll pay for that,â you say under your breath.
Jay smirks. âPromise?â You turn on your heel. He follows. Every step you take, he mirrors, calm, close, unshakable. Like youâre dancing. Like youâve always been dancing. Like you were both trained for this moment without knowing it. âWhere are you going?â he asks lightly.
âTo fix what you broke.â He hums. âTry. Iâll enjoy watching you.â You reach for your weapons bag. Jay reaches the other side of it at the same time. Your hands brush. He freezes. You freeze. Then his smile curls sharp and dark. âMarried couple things,â he says softly. âSharing the murder kit.â
You grab the bag first. Jay lets it go. âThis is war,â you tell him. He shrugs. âItâs Tuesday.â You donât bother responding. You storm toward the door. Jay calls after you: âDinner at eight!â You flip him off without looking back. âCanât wait!â he shouts cheerfully.
The smile drops. His eyes narrow. His entire posture shifts from amused husband to operative. He sits back at your desk, pulls out a flash drive, and inserts it quietly. A new screen pops up:
TRANSFER COMPLETE.TARGET: EVAN â LOCATION UNKNOWN.SECONDARY TARGETS: YOU.
Jay stares at the screen. His jaw ticks. He whispers: ââŠyou werenât supposed to be on this mission.â He closes the laptop gently. Then stands, stoic, tense, deadly. No more jokes. No more flirting. For the first time since the wedding,
Jay looks scared. Not for himself. For you. The moment you hit the street, the cool air cuts through the lingering smoke clinging to your clothes. You breathe once, deep, steady, calculated. Then your phone vibrates.
JAY đ: Miss you already.
You turn the phone off. No, you slam it off.
You hit your firmâs satellite tech hub in under twenty minutes. Not the front door. Not even the side entrance. You take the maintenance stairs, four levels up, two down, a narrow hall, a biometric scanner you bypass with a thin strip of heated wire and a practiced twist, and youâre in. The room is dark, humming with servers and fluorescent lights that flicker like dying stars. Your handler, Mira, sits at the central monitor wall, boots up on the desk, chewing gum like sheâs bored with the world.
She doesnât look surprised when you appear behind her. âBad day?â she asks. You toss your locked-out credentials onto her lap. âMy loginâs dead. Who did it?â Mira leans back, chewing slowing. âDidnât come from us. It came from you.â
Your blood chills. âSomeone hacked it,â you say. âNo.â Mira taps her screen. âSomeone with physical access logged in as you and sent a resignation letter manually.â You inhale through your teeth. âJay.â Mira whistles softly. âYou got married fast.â
You donât answer. Her gum pops. âLook, I donât care about your love life, but if youâre out, youâre out. I canât reverse this.â âGive me access,â you say. Voice low. Controlled. Deadly. She studies you. Then sighs. Then types. Her gaze flicks up once. âIf anyone finds outââ âNo one will.â A temporary access tunnel opens on her screen, thirty minutes before it self-erasers.
You pull out your phone to re-route your handler keys, but the phone isnât in your pocket. Your pulse spikes. Mira raises a brow. âLose something?â You exhale. âJay.â
You return home like a shadow, silent, poised, lethal. Your apartment is dark. Too dark. Jay never leaves it dark. He hates the dark. You move slow, every step measured. The door clicks behind you. And the moment it shuts, a hand covers your mouth. Not rough. Not panicked.
Purposeful. Jayâs body presses yours into the wall, his breath warm against your ear. âYou left without saying goodbye,â he murmurs. You sink your teeth into his palm. He hisses, pulling back, hand flexing. âYou bite harder at home than on missions,â he says lightly.
You elbow him in the ribs. He dodges, laughs, and spins you, pinning your wrist to the wall with a grip thatâs firm, not bruising.
âAre we fighting?â he asks, eyes bright, wild, excited. âPlease say yes.â You twist your wrist. He tightens grip. âLet go,â you whisper. âNo.â You slam your knee toward his thigh, he blocks, catches your leg, hooks it around his waist. Too close. Too intimate. Too familiar. Your breath stutters. He notices. His voice softens. âWhere were you?â Itâs not jealousy. Itâs not suspicion. Itâs fear. Real fear. âDonât,â you say. Jay leans in, forehead brushing yours. âTell me.â
âWhy?â Your pulse stings. âSo you can report it?â He freezes. Slowly, his hand drops from your wrist. âYou think Iâd turn you in?â âYou hacked my firm.â âYou blew up my car.â âYou poisoned me.â âYou stabbed me.â âYou started it.â âYou married me.â
You both blink. Everything stops.Jay takes a slow step back. Something flickers in his eyes, hurt, sharp, unguarded for a fraction of a second. âYou donât get to use that,â he says quietly.
ââŠJayââ âNo.â He shakes his head once. âThat was real. Whatever else we are, whatever game weâre playing, that wasnât the game.â His voice cracks just a little. Barely there. Barely audible.
It hits harder than any weapon. You swallow. Your chest feels too tight. He steps around you, slow, cautious, like approaching a wounded animal. âIf you keep treating this like a mission,â Jay says softly, âIâll start fighting like it is one.â Thatâs the warning. The last one heâll give. Your voice is thin. âI didnât ask you to follow me.â âYou never have to ask,â he says. âI just do.â
You turn away, fast. Too fast. It gives him the opening. Jay reaches into his back pocket and tosses something onto the table. Your phone. Completely wiped. Factory reset. SIM ejected. Firmware updated. âJay.â The word isn't anger. Itâs disbelief.
âI told you I was good with tech,â he says. You stare at the dead device. âYou wiped my tracking. My contacts.â âYes.â âMy encrypted notes.â âYes.â âMy mission tags.â âYes.â You take a step toward him, voice lethal. âWhy?â Jay stares at you. Not smirking. Not teasing.
Serious. âBecause someone else put you on the Evan hit,â he says quietly. âSomeone who wasnât supposed to. And your firm isnât the one pulling strings.â Your heart stops. ââŠwhat?â He walks closer, slowly, the way he always does when the truth is the most dangerous thing in the room. âThe target?â Jay says softly. âEverything around him?â âThe hit that went wrong?â âThe explosion?â âThe double assignment?â He exhales. âIt wasnât an accident.â Your breath stutters. âJay, what the fuck do you know that I donât?â
He shakes his head. âNot here.â He reaches out, slowly, like a truce. His fingers hover near yours. âIf weâre going to survive this,â he murmurs, âyou need to trust me.âYou stare at his hand. Trust. You havenât trusted anyone in five years. You donât know how.
So you do the only thing you can. You donât take his hand. But you donât walk away either. Jayâs breath shakes. A tiny, almost imperceptible release of tension. Itâs enough. He nods. Steps back. Gives you space. âWeâre in this together now,â he says. You swallow. âNot by choice.â
Jay holds your gaze. âMarriage never is.â You almost laugh. Almost. And thatâs when both your phones buzz at the same time. You look at each other. Then at the notification.
Your pulse spikes. Jayâs eyes flick to you, fear, fury, devotion all tangled into one sharp, explosive truth: Someone is hunting you both. And they know exactly where to find you. Your notification blinks twice before the screen goes black. Jayâs does the same. A synchronized kill-switch. An external override.
Someone just shut down your comms. Someone inside your network. Someone inside his. Your pulse spikes. Jayâs jaw tightens. âBack room,â he says. You donât argue.
The two of you move in perfect sync, terrifyingly perfect, crossing the living room in three strides. You reach for the emergency drawer beneath the bar; Jay grabs the floor-plate latch behind the bookshelf. Your fingers brush cold metal. Glock. Silencer. Knife. Jay pulls up a case you didnât even know he hid beneath the floorboards.
âReally?â you whisper, motioning to the hidden compartment. âI said I was good at tech, not that I was boring.â He flips the case open. Guns. Ammo. A tracking beacon the size of a grain of rice. You donât have time to question it. A soft click echoes through the apartment. Then another.
Thenâ
WHRRRâ
The buildingâs automatic locks engage. Jayâs head snaps up. âSomeone triggered the internal seal.â âFrom outside?â âNo.â He cocks his gun. âSomeone who has access to both of our profiles.â Meaning: Someone who knows youâre assassins. Someone who knows youâre married. Someone who wants you trapped.
Your breath goes thin. Jay moves first, pushing you behind the kitchen island just as the glass balcony doors SHATTER. Wind. Glass. Gunfire. The first bullet whistles past your ear. The next embeds in the marble countertop. Jay shoves you down with a sharp, âStay low,â then fires three quick, precise shots through the broken glass.
Two bodies drop. A third retreats behind the balcony railing. You slide across the floor, snagging a spare pistol heâd left under the table (of course he has guns everywhere), and pop off a shot toward the movement. Jay glances at you. Not surprised. Not impressed. Something like relief.
Then an echoing THUNK. A grappling hook hits the floor, metal claws digging into the tile. âTheyâre coming in from the roof,â you hiss. âNo, theyâre coming in from everywhere.â As if on cue, the hallway door explodes inward, splintering wood across the floor. Four men enter. Black gear. Custom rifles. Zero insignia.
Not government. Not mercenaries. Something worse. âDown!â Jay barks. You duck behind the overturned chair as Jay fires again, his shots sharp and clean even in chaos. One intruder drops, but the others fan out, forcing you into a crossfire. You roll sideways, sliding behind the dining table, heart hammering. You fire twice, one bullet taking a manâs shoulder, another grazing his thigh.
Jay shouts, âLeft!â You spin, knife out, just as another intruder lunges. You bury the blade between his ribs. Jayâs breath catches. Not from fear. From something closer to awe. But thereâs no time to acknowledge it. More footsteps thunder down the hall. âJay,â you breathe, âwe need an exit.â âWeâre not making it to the stairs.â He reloads. âWe take the balcony.â
âThatâs a ten-story drop.â âI didnât say jump.â He hits a switch on the wall, a switch youâve never noticed, and a thin metal cable unspools toward the balcony like a steel lifeline. You stare. He winks. Of course he has a zipline.But before either of you can reach itâCRACK.
A bullet hits the floor inches from your hand. You dive. Jay turns to cover you, and in that one second, you see it. The sniper on the roof. The glint of a scope. The trajectory aligning perfectly with Jayâs chest. Your breath freezes.
âJAYâ!â The gun fires.Jay turns, but not fast enough. THUD. The bullet slams into his shoulder, jerking his body backward. You scream his name, raw, unfiltered, instinctive, and launch forward, catching him before he hits the floor. Blood spreads fast beneath your fingers. âFuckâJayânoâstay with meââ He grits his teeth, breath ragged, eyes squeezing shut for a second too long.
âIâm fine,â he pants. âYouâre bleeding out,â you snap. His grin is shaky, defiant. âYou shouldâve seen the other guy.â Another bullet smashes into the wall behind you. âMove!â you hiss, dragging him behind the couch. He tries to push you away. Fails. His arm trembles.
Your chest feels like itâs collapsing. Not from panic. From realization. You are not supposed to care this much. You are absolutely caring this much. Jay leans his head back, breath heaving. âYouâre⊠worried about me,â he says weakly. âShut up.â âYou are.â He smiles again. Itâs soft. Itâs stupid. Itâs killing you.
âJay, I swear to godââ âYour hands are shaking,â he whispers. You look down. They are. Another blast from the hallway makes the floor tremble. You grab him by the jaw, forcing his eyes open. âListen to me. If you pass out, Iâm killing you myself.â Jay breathes a broken laugh. âI knew you cared.â You press your forehead to his, just for a second, because fear is a physical thing in your throat.
âWeâre getting you out,â you whisper. Then you stand. Gun ready. Heart burning. A shadow moves in the hall. You fire before you think. Two shots. One body drops. Jay watches you through half-lidded eyes, dazed and bleeding but still tracking your every move. âJesus,â he murmurs, âyouâre beautiful.â
âJay, shut the fuck upââ Another volley of gunfire cuts into your words. Jay forces himself to his feet, pressing a hand to his wound, face going white. You grab his arm. âDonât you dareââ âIâm not leaving you,â he says hoarsely. âYou can barely standââ âThen youâll hold me up.â
He raises his gun with his good arm. You stare at him, angry. Terrified. A little in love. Just a little. âOn three,â you say. Jay nods, breath stuttering. âThree.â
You donât even say one or two. You both burst from cover, you firing left, Jay firing right, two bodies drop, and Jay stumbles. You catch him with an arm around the waist, hauling him toward the balcony.
Glass crunches under your boots. The wind screams through the broken doors. Jay gasps, âWe zipline.â âYou canât grip it.â âYouâre not carrying me.â âWatch me.â
He opens his mouth to argue, but gunfire erupts behind you and he has no time. The cable swings wildly in the wind. Jay sways. You grab the harness, loop his arm through it, cinch it across his chest. âHold on to me,â you demand. His hand grips your shirt weakly. âAlways,â he whispers. You kick off the balcony.
Bullets chase you through the air. Wind tears at your clothes. Jayâs blood smears your arm where heâs clinging to you. You hit the opposite balcony too hard. You nearly fall. Jay groans, collapsing against you. But youâre alive. Youâre out. For now. You drag him inside the empty apartment, slam the door shut, and drop to your knees beside him.
Jay looks at you through hazy eyes. Smile faint. Voice faint. âYou saved me.â âDonât.â Your voice cracks. âDonât say it like that.â Jay lifts a hand, shaking, bloodied, and touches your cheek.âYouâre shaking again,â he whispers.
Your vision blurs for a second. âYou took a bullet for me,â you breathe. His lips part. âOf course I did.â The truth of it hangs between you, dangerous, unspoken, blinding. And thatâs when you realize:You are not his enemy. You never were. Someone else is. Someone who wants you both dead. Someone who just forced you onto the same side.
Jayâs head lolls forward, barely conscious. âStay with me,â you whisper, grabbing his face, forcing his eyes open. He breathes a tiny laugh. âAs long as youâre here,â he murmurs, âIâm not going anywhere.â And he doesnât let go of your shirt.
His head lolls forward before you catch it, your hands sliding under his jaw, guiding him back against the wall. His skin is cold. Too cold. âJayâJay, stay with me,â you breathe, panic tearing up your throat like barbed wire. Not even when his eyes finally close do you let yourself blink. âNo⊠no, noâ Jay.â You shake him, voice breaking. âWake up! Wakeââ Your vision blurs. Hot, stinging tears gather so fast you barely feel them until they fall, hitting his cheek, mixing with the rain and blood.
Jayâs lashes flutter. His eyes open only a sliver, unfocused but stubborn. âRelax, princessâŠâ he murmurs, and the nickname sounds wrong on dying lips. He coughs, hard, body shaking, blood splattering across your wrist. You flinch, but only for a second before cupping his face again. âDonât talk,â you whisper. It comes out harsher than intended. âPlease. Donât talk.â He tries to laugh, but it breaks in his chest. âBossyâŠâ
âShut up.â You press your forehead to his, breathing him in, counting his breaths like you can hold them steady with sheer will. âIâm gonna, Iâm gonna fix this, okay? Justâ just hold on.â Your hands move before your thoughts do, tearing open the med pack strapped to your thigh. Your fingers shake so violently you drop the gauze twice before slamming it against the wound in his side.
Jay groans, low, guttural, teeth gritted. âI know,â you whisper, voice cracking. âI know, I knowâ Iâm sorryââ You press harder. His blood seeps through instantly, hot and slick against your palms. Youâre losing him. If you donât stop the bleed, heâllâ âIâve had worse,â he rasps.
You glare at him through your tears. âStop trying to be charming while youâre dying.â âWorked on you before,â he whispers, mouth twitching. âJay.â Your voice breaks again. âPlease. Let me help you.â He lifts a shaky hand, blood-soaked fingers brushing your cheek, smearing red across your skin like paint. âYouâre beautiful when you worry.â
Your breath leaves you in a shudder. âIâm notâ Iâm not losing you,â you choke out. âNot now. Not like this.â You rip open another roll of gauze, press harder, feel for the bullet. You canât pull it out here, not without killing him faster, so you stabilize, bind, improvise a pressure pack using your own torn shirt.
Jay watches you through half-lidded eyes, like memorizing you is the only thing keeping him awake. âYouâre shaking,â he murmurs.âBecause youâre bleeding out, you idiot.â He tries for a smile, fails. âStill bossy.â You swallow a sob. âJay, donât close your eyes.â âIâm tired.ââNo.â Your voice snaps, sharp and terrified. âYou donât get to sleep. Look at me. Keep looking.â
His gaze slips, then steadies. âIâm right here,â you whisper, pressing your lips to his temple. âStay with me.â He exhales, long and shaky, leaning into you like itâs instinct. âThought you hated me,â he mumbles. âI do,â you whisper. âBut youâre not allowed to die.â
His hand finds your wrist weakly. âSelfish.â âI donât care.â For a moment, thereâs only rain, blood, your breath shaking against his. Then, âPrincessâŠ?â His voice breaks. âDonât⊠leave.â âIâm not going anywhere,â you swear, gripping his hand so hard your knuckles ache. âIâve got you. Iâve got you.â And even as his eyes start to flutter closed again, you keep holding him together with your hands, your voice, your heartbeat pressed to his. You wonât let him go. Not tonight. Not ever.
You press your palm to the wound, breath shaking. âStay with me, Jay, donât you dareââ His eyes slip half-shut, lashes wet. âRelax, princess⊠Iâm fine.â Heâs not. Blood spreads warm under your fingers.
âFine?â you snap, voice breaking. âYou took a bullet for me. I couldâveââ A sharp clatter echoes from outside the safehouse. Both your heads snap up. Jay inhales sharply, forcing himself upright despite your hands. âWe need to move.â You sling his arm over your shoulder, practically dragging him out the back. The moment the door bursts open, the sky greets you with a cold, merciless downpour. Rain soaks through your clothes instantly, mixing with the blood on your hands.
You stop in the alleyway, chest heaving. Everything hits you at once. âYou shouldnât have done that,â you whisper, rain sliding down your face like tears you refuse to let fall. âYou shouldnât⊠I couldâve taken the damn bullet, Jay.â He opens his mouth, but you step back from him, shaking your head hard.â You donât get to make that choice for me.â Your voice is raw, trembling. âNot anymore.â Then you turn, heart pounding, rain drowning out every sound except the shatter of something breaking inside you, and you walk away from him.
You slam the door behind you so hard the frame rattles. Jayâs eyes follow you, bruised from the shrapnel, and still somehow infuriatingly calm. The apartment smells like smoke and adrenaline. You smell like panic. He saved you. You hate that he saved you. You hate even more that he almost died doing it.
You wheel around on him, chest heaving. âWhat the hell was that?â
Jay pauses, one hand braced on the wall as he toes off his boots, rainwater pooling beneath him. Thereâs a cut across his cheekbone he hasnât even bothered to wipe. He glances up at you, slow, measured, knowing exactly how to piss you off. âWhat was what?â he says lightly.
Your hands curl into fists. âYou were reckless.â
His brows lift, just a little. His breath hitches, just a little. And then he laughs under his breath, soft and disbelieving. âThatâs what I get for saving your life?â âItâs notââ you start, voice cracking with more emotion than youâd ever allow if you werenât this wrung out. âItâs not like that, Jay.â
He pushes off the wall, stepping closer, wiping the blood from his cheek with the back of his hand. âReally? Because from where I was standing, you were about two seconds away from becoming modern art on that wall.â âThat was the job.â Your throat burns. âAnd youâ you didnât have toââ âDidnât have to what?â he interrupts. âJump in? Blow my cover? Pick you over the target? Yeah. Iâm aware.â
You stare at him, stunned. He says it like itâs nothing. Like it didnât cost him. Like he didnât just choose you over a multimillion-dollar bounty. Like he didnât almost get shot in the throat because he was too busy making sure you stayed alive.
âThis isnât funny.â âYou think Iâm laughing?â You shut up. Silence slams into the room like a bullet. Jay inhales deeply, trying, failing, to steady himself. Thereâs soot on his collar. A bruise blooming over his ribs. He looks wrecked. And somehow, still⊠looking at you like youâre the only thing in the room worth keeping track of.
He steps closer. âYou scared the shit out of me,â he says quietly. Almost brokenly. His voice is low enough that if the thunder outside were louder, youâd miss it entirely. Your breath catches. Your heart forgets what itâs supposed to do. âJayâŠâ you say softly. But heâs already shaking his head, pushing past whatever softness was threatening to break him open.
âDonât twist it,â he mutters. âYouâd have done the same for me.â You donât answer. Because heâs right. And that terrifies you more than anything. His eyes search yours, messy, raw, too honest for two people who signed a marriage certificate under false names and lies.
Then he says, quieter still: âTell me it didnât mean anything.â A challenge. A plea. You swallow hard, and say nothing. Because you canât lie to him anymore. Not in this moment. Jay exhales sharply, stepping back like heâs been hit. âYeah,â he whispers. âThatâs what I thought.â The storm outside cracks open the sky. Inside, the tension is a different kind of thunder. âJay, waitââ âDonât,â he says, turning away, jaw clenched. âJust⊠donât.â
But you cross the distance before he can escape into the hallway, grabbing his wrist. His pulse jumps beneath your fingers. âListen to me,â you say, breath shaking. âI wasnât angry because you saved me. I was angry because you didnât think about yourself.â He scoffs. But you see the way his shoulders loosen, just barely. âHow noble of you,â he mutters. âConcern for the man you tried to poison with his morning coffee.â You wince. âYou know why I did that.â
âDo I?â he says, spinning to face you, eyes burning. âBecause from my perspective, our marriage turned into a battleground before breakfast.â âBecause I thought you were going to kill me first,â you snap. Jayâs jaw flexes. He stares at you, stunned. âNo,â he says slowly. âI wasnât.â
âI knew,â you whisper. âI knew the second you hesitated at the briefing. You were never going to take the hit.â âAnd you were?â Thereâs no accusation. Just hurt. You close your eyes. âI donât know,â you admit. Jayâs breath leaves him in one long, exhausted sigh. âThen what are we doing?â he says. The question isn't rhetorical. Itâs the most honest thing heâs ever asked you.
âWeâre surviving,â you say. âTogether?â he asks. You donât answer. You canât answer. Not yet. But you donât let go of his wrist. And he doesnât pull away.Â
âI think not letting you die is the bare minimum of being your husbaââ He cuts himself off, jaw flexing, voice cracking on the word he suddenly seems afraid to say. Husband. The one word neither of you had dared to use since the reveal. Your heart thunders. âYou canâtâJay, you canât justââ âJust what?â His hand wraps around your wrist and slams it above your head. âCare? Worry? Interfere?â
âGet shot!â you snap. âBetter me than you,â he snaps back. And that, that is what breaks something open in you. The fear. The fury. The adrenaline. Everything youâd been holding together with duct tape and denial. Your hand goes to your thigh holster so fast he doesnât even register the movement, but he does when you jam the barrel of your pistol into the center of his chest.
You feel the jolt run through him. A shiver. A hesitation. He looks down at the gun, then up at you. Slowly. A smile, sharp, crooked, infuriating, crawls onto his lips. âFinally,â he murmurs. âThere you are.â You pull the trigger half a millimeter, just enough to make the metal click. He exhales like youâve kissed him. Then he moves. His hand knocks the gun sideways; the shot fires into the ceiling, plaster raining down. At the same time he sweeps your legs, fast, elegant, brutal, and the two of you crash onto the floor in a snarl of limbs and curses.
You roll, flip, pin him. He twists, grabs your waist, flips you back. Your knee drives into his ribs. His elbow catches the floor beside your head, inches from smashing your skull. A grunt. A gasp. The scrape of skin on hardwood. Your breaths tangling like wire. He manages to get on top of you, thighs bracketing your hips, hands gripping your wrists so tightly you feel the pulse pounding through his palms.
His face is flushed, chest heaving, eyes burning with equal parts fury and want. âYouâre out of your mind,â you breathe. Jay leans down, lips brushing your ear. âSo are you.â
You buck your hips to throw him off just as he lowers himself onto you, and it backfires. His hips grind into yours, the friction sharp, scorching. A moan breaks in your throat. He hears it. His breath stutters. And then everything changes. His grip on your wrists tightens. His hips pin yours harder. The fight hums into something darker.
He drags your hands above your head and holds both with one palm, the veins in his forearm rising like tension cables. His other hand slides down your throat, not choking, just feeling your pulse slam against his skin. âYou were scared,â he says quietly. The softness of the words clashes with the ferocity of his hold. âNo,â you lie. His thumb brushes the hollow of your throat. âYou were terrified something would happen to me.â
Your breath shakes. âJayââ He kisses you. Not gentle. Not careful. A violent, hungry collision of teeth and breath and heat. You bite his lip and he groans into your mouth, his hand sliding down your throat, along your collarbone, under your shirt. His fingers splay across your stomach, dragging the fabric up.
Your legs lock around his waist without your permission. He breaks the kiss only to drag his mouth down your jaw, biting just hard enough to leave marks. âYou wanted to kill me five minutes ago.â âI still might,â you pant. âDo it after.â He grinds down against you, slow and deliberate, and your back arches off the floor. His hand releases your wrists just long enough to rip your shirt open, the buttons snapping, scattering across the hardwood.
You shove him onto his back and straddle him, your hands braced on his chest. He looks up at you like youâre a miracle and a threat. âFuck,â he whispers, head falling back. âHit me again.â You punch him in the shoulder so hard it echoes. He groans, long, deep, wrecked.
You drag your hips down against his and his entire body jerks. He grabs your waist, thumbs digging into your skin, guiding your movement with frustrated, desperate precision. âHarder,â he gets out, voice fraying. âDonâtâdonât hold back.â You lean down and bite his neck, the taste of his skin hot and sharp between your teeth. He bucks so violently you have to grab his shoulders to stay balanced.
His hands slide under you, gripping your ass, pulling you against him rhythmically, hungry, demanding, each motion a dare. You kiss him again, even messier this time, both of you gasping into each otherâs mouths, tearing at clothing, at control. At sanity. He flips you again, your breath knocks out as your back hits the floor, and then heâs on you, between your legs, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand while the other drags down your stomach, down your hip, down, you gasp when he reaches between your legs through whatâs left of your underwear.
His thumb strokes you once, experimentally. Your hips jerk. Jay exhales shakily, forehead pressing to yours. âGod, youâreââ He cuts himself off with a shudder. âYouâre killing me.â âGood,â you breathe. He kisses you again, slow for half a second, then brutal, full of teeth, his fingers sliding against you, stroking harder, deeper, pushing you toward a fall neither of you planned for. Your nails drag down his back. He hisses. He bites your shoulder. You moan.
Every movement is anger and need and unstoppable momentum. He shifts, lining himself up, breath hitching, but then he stills. Completely. His forehead presses to yours. His breathing stumbles. You feel the tremor run through him. âYou sure?â he whispers. You grab his jaw, forcing him to look at you. âJay. Shut up.â He laughs once, wrecked, breathless, then pushes into you.
Your breath catches, your hands fly to his shoulders, nails digging in as he thrusts again, harder this time, hips snapping forward with the same precision he fights with. A broken sound leaves your throat. He answers with one of his own. His rhythm is fast, rough, hungry, each thrust driving your back across the floor, your fingers scrambling for purchase, your legs tightening around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper. He kisses your mouth. Your neck. Your jaw. Whispering curses and confessions against your skin.
âI shouldnât want you like this,â he growls. âThen stop.â âYou know I canât.â Your bodies snap together in a frantic, violent rhythm, fighting and clinging and devouring each other, the line between combat and desire shredded beyond recognition. Your climax hits like a gunshot, sharp, overwhelming, ripping a cry from you that you try and fail to swallow. Jay feels it. His whole body shudders. âDonâtâstopââ you gasp.
He doesnât. He canât. He moves faster, hips slamming into yours, hands gripping your throat and waist like he canât decide whether he wants to worship you or pin you to the floor forever.
When he finally comes, itâs with a broken, strangled sound, his face buried in your neck, his body shaking through the final thrusts, breath hot and shattered against your skin. For a long moment, neither of you move. The only sounds: your breathing, his breathing, the distant hum of the fridge, the soft clatter of a gun rolling across the floor. Slowly, carefully, Jay lifts his head. His hair falls over his forehead, damp with sweat. His eyes meet yours. And there it is. The truth youâve been avoiding, fearing, hating.
Neither of you will ever kill the other. Not because you canât. But because you wonât. He collapses beside you, chest heaving, arm thrown over his face. You stare at the ceiling, heart still racing, your body still trembling with the shock of everything that just happened. After a long silence, Jay speaks, voice quiet, wrecked:ââŠWeâre in so much trouble.â
You laugh, soft, disbelieving, broken. âYeah,â you breathe. âWe are.â His hand blindly finds yours on the floor. You let him take it. You donât let go.
Morning breaks through shattered glass like an apology that comes too late. The living room is a battlefield wearing sunlight. A cracked lamp. A chair on its side. Guns scattered across the floor. Your ripped shirt dangling from the edge of the couch like a white flag no one surrendered.
Youâre the first to wake. Your body aches, bruises blooming purple, muscles trembling in ways that have nothing to do with fighting. Jay is asleep on the floor beside you, one arm thrown over his eyes, chest rising slow and steady despite the deep, angry bruise blooming across his ribs.
Right where your knee hit him. You swallow. Last night had been a war. This morning feels like the ceasefire no one signed. You push yourself up, wincing. Jay stirs at the sound. His voice is rough, sleep-heavy, almost gentle enough to hurt: ââŠMorning.â He moves to sit up and instantly stiffens, pain flashing across his face. His hand goes to his shoulder. You reach out without thinking. âHey, stop. You're injuredââ
He bats your hand away, offended. âIâm fine.â âYouâre literally bleeding, Jay.â He looks down at the dried streak of red along his side, unimpressed. âOccupational hazard.â âYou need rest.â He snorts. âI need coffee.â
He pushes himself to his feet anyway, stubborn as hell, favoring his left side. He winces only once, and only because he thinks youâre not looking. You are. You follow him into the kitchen, the air between you still⊠charged. Last night sits on your skin like phantom fingerprints. Jay grabs the French press. Pauses. Glances at you.
And in a quiet voice that sounds like truce, like surrender, like something youâre not ready to name,âCoffee?â You hesitate.Not because you donât want it. Because accepting anything from him feels too much like trust. Your silence makes something flicker through his eyes, hurt, maybe, or fear heâd never admit to. He turns away. âItâs not poisoned.â You let out a breath you didnât know you were holding. âI know.â
He pours two cups. You take yours. His shoulders drop the smallest amount, as if that simple gesture, coffee accepted, means he can breathe for the first time since last night. You open your mouth to say something, apology, maybe, or warning, but your phone vibrates on the counter. A single alert. Your blood runs cold. Jayâs phone buzzes at the exact same time. You pull yours open. He does the same. Two identical messages. Two identical contract codes. Two identical targets.
Specter. Jayâs codename. Nightshade. Yours. Your firm gave you a kill order. On him. His firm gave him a kill order. On you. Jayâs eyes meet yours, quiet, hollow, stunned. ââŠThey teamed up,â he says. âYeah.â Your throat feels tight. âThey did.â âBecause we survived.â âBecause we didnât kill each other.â Silence stretches between you, long, sharp, terrifying. Then, A shadow moves behind the frosted glass of the front door.
Jay reacts first. Gun drawn. Body tense despite the pain ripping through his ribs. You move beside him, back-to-back, mirroring his stance. Your hands tremble just slightly. ââŠJay?â you whisper. âI see him.â The doorknob turns. Jay raises his gun. The door opens. A man steps inside, hands lifted, expression calm, but eyes alert, scanning the room in one sweep. Black jacket. Messy brown hair. Sharp, intelligent gaze. Yang Jungwon. Jayâs handler. His closest friend.
Jungwon shuts the door behind him and lets out a soft whistle at the destruction. âWell,â he says lightly, âat least you two finally consummated something.â âJungwon,â Jay warns through his teeth.
Jungwon ignores him. He looks at you, not as an enemy, not even as competition. As someone whose life is equally hanging by a thread. âThey know,â Jungwon says simply. You force your voice steady. âAbout last night?â âNo.â Jungwon steps further inside, lowering his hands. âAbout the prison transfer. About the botched hit. About Evan.â
Your pulse kicks hard. Lee Heeseung. Codename: Evan. The target both firms wanted dead. The target who escaped because you and Jay were too busy staring each other down to finish the job. Jungwon continues, tone flat: âYouâre both liabilities now. Loose ends. They teamed up to erase you.â
Jay tenses beside you. âHow long do we have?â âHours. Maybe less.â Jungwonâs eyes settle on Jayâs side. âYouâre hurt.â âHeâs fine,â you say automatically. âI didnât ask you,â Jungwon replies, but not unkindly. Jay straightens despite the clear pain. âWhatâs the plan?â Jungwon hesitates for the first time. He looks at both of you, at the bruises, the tension, the silent terror beneath your defiance.
Then: âYou need leverage. Big leverage.â A beat. âGrab Evan.â You blink. âHe escaped. He could be anywhereââ âHeâs not.â Jungwon reaches into his jacket, pulls out a tracking photo. Grainy but clear. âHeâs wounded. Hiding. He wonât get far without help.â Jay exhales slowly, jaw tightening. âYou want us to use a DIA prisoner as a bargaining chip.â
Jungwon nods. âItâs the only thing that stops both firms from wiping you off the map.â You step back, shaking your head. âJay needs rest. He canâtââ Jungwon raises a brow. âJay has hours until a kill squad kicks down this door.â You turn to Jay. âWe can do it tomorrow. Youâre injuredââ
Jay laughs once, dry, disbelieving. âTomorrow?â âJayââ âTomorrow?â he repeats, stepping closer, his voice quietly furious. âWe donât have a tomorrow if we sit here.â You grab his arm. âYouâre not at full capacityââ âI donât care.â âYouâre bleedingââ âI. Donât. Care.â His voice cracks on the last word. Not with anger.
With fear. He looks at you, really looks, eyes raw, chest rising too fast, his ribs clearly killing him. âIâm not losing you,â he says. Itâs barely louder than a breath. Your heart stumbles in your chest. Jungwon clears his throat. âSo⊠shall we?â Jay grabs his jacket, his gun, the keys to the ruined car you blew up yesterday. You take a breath, steady yourself, and follow him out.
Because even injured, even furious, even hunted, Jay doesnât hesitate. And neither do you. The plan shouldâve waited. You said it three times. Jay ignored it three times. Heâs still moving like someone stitched him together with adrenaline and pure spite; his ribs are wrapped, his lip is split, and every few minutes he winces like his body is reminding him what you did to each other last night.
But he still holsters his weapons like nothing hurts. âJay,â you hiss as you crouch behind the concrete barriers overlooking the transport route. âYouâre injured.â He cocks his head, expression maddeningly casual. âAnd youâre bossy. We all have our burdens.â
âJayââ âLook,â he murmurs, adjusting his scope despite the tremor in his grip. âWe do this now or they move him underground forever. You want to spend the rest of our lives being hunted? Because I would like at least one morning where our coffee isnât poisoned.â
You smack his shoulder. He smirks. âSee? You care.â âShut up.â The convoy rumbles into view, six armored cars, two decoy vans, the kind of escort pattern reserved for nuclear weapons or very, very important men. Like Evan. Heeseung. The reason your entire world is burning.
Jay gives you a look, a question disguised as a shrug. âReady?â You exhale. âDonât die.â His jaw softens, but only for a second. âNot planning to. Not until you say I can.â And then, chaos. You drop smoke onto the road. Jay shoots out the front wheels of the lead truck. The transport jolts, metal screaming as it swerves off the roadside barrier.
Soldiers scatter. Jay moves fast, too fast for someone stitched with bruises, sliding over the hood of a van, taking two guards down with clean, silent precision. You match his rhythm: a blade to a throat, a chokehold, a sweep, a disarm. The two of you couldâve coordinated this in your sleep, and maybe you had, in the old life, the life before rings, before truth.
He catches your eye mid-spin. âYou always were sloppy with exits.â You duck a punch, elbow a guard in the temple. âYou liked that about me.â He laughs, breathless, wicked. âYouâre not wrong.â Together you reach the transport, override the manual lock, and haul the reinforced door open. Inside, cuffed to a steel bench, sits Evan. He looks⊠calm. Almost forgiving. âYou came,â he says softly, like he expected you. Jay points a gun at him. âMove and Iâll put three in your leg.â
Evan tilts his head. âJay Park. DIAâs worst hire and their biggest headache. Youâre looking a little rough.â âThanks,â Jay says flatly. âWe had marital issues.â You shove Jay. âShut up.â Evan smiles like he knows exactly what that means.You cut his restraints. Jay yanks him out by the collar. âWeâre using you as leverage,â Jay says. âDonât get sentimental.â
Evanâs eyes flick toward you. âYou still think Iâm the mission?â You stiffen. âWhat?â Jay narrows his eyes. âDonât play games.â Evan sighs, rolling his wrists where the cuffs had bitten skin. âYou really donât know.â âKnow what?â you demand. He looks between you, slow, almost pitying. âYou werenât sent to kill me.â His voice is calm. Too calm. âI was bait.â Jay stops breathing. âWhat?â you whisper.
Evan steps out of the truck like a condemned man walking himself to the gallows. His voice is steady, but thereâs a tremor beneath it, fear or grief, you canât tell. âYou were meant to kill each other.â The world goes very quiet. Your firms. The double kill order. The impossible mission overlap. The repeated âno survivorsâ clause.
Everything clicks. Everything shatters. Jay closes his eyes for one heartbeat, then another. ââŠFuck,â he breathes. You swallow. Hard. âWe walked into a setup.â âYou didnât walk,â Evan says gently. âYou ran.â Jayâs fingers twitch toward yours, barely a brush, barely a breath, but you feel it like impact. Youâre both shaking. Not from fear. From realization. From betrayal.
From the knowledge that the only person who didnât try to kill you⊠is the same person you were ordered to kill. The wind circles the wrecked transport, carrying smoke and dust and the faint metallic bite of blood. Evan waits several paces away, smart enough to give you distance, smart enough to know the real explosion hasnât happened yet.
Itâs between you and Jay. Jayâs breathing is uneven, like his body canât decide whether to collapse or fight. The morning sun cuts across his cheekbone, highlighting the bruise you gave him, the split lip he earned, the exhaustion heâs hiding badly.
He looks at you. And for the first time since the night you married him⊠you canât read him at all. You take a half-step back. âDonât,â he says quietly. Your throat feels scraped raw. âJayââ âNo.â He runs a hand through his hair, wincing when his ribs protest. âLet me, just, try to say something before this gets worse.â You stay silent. You donât trust your voice. He breathes in slow, controlled, like heâs defusing a bomb strapped to his own spine. âSo thatâs what we were,â he says. âA mission. An assignment that went on too long.â Your mouth trembles. You hate that he can see it.
âWe were set up to fail,â you say. âSet up to kill each other.â Jay nods, grim, bitter. âYeah. I guess the jokeâs on them.â His eyes meet yours, something breaking underneath. âBecause I didnât.â You swallow hard. He takes one step closer.
âMaybe it started as a mission.â His voice softens in a way that hurts more than any bullet ever could. âBut I fell anyway.â The world steadies for one impossible heartbeat. Jay doesnât look away. He doesnât lie. He doesnât hide. He just stands there, bruised, cut, breathing too shallow, offering the one thing that could destroy you more thoroughly than any firm ever has: the truth.
Your fingers curl into fists. You want to scream. You want to kiss him. You want to go back in time and drag your past self by the throat for letting this happen. Instead, your voice comes out barely audible. âThatâs the problem.â Jayâs jaw clenches. Not in anger. In pain. He knows exactly what you mean. You fell too. And that, that, is the one variable neither of you were trained to survive.
Smoke drifts from the cracked asphalt. The transport alarms wail faintly in the distance, glitching in and out like a dying heartbeat. You and Jay stand there in the tension of something raw and newly broken, your confession hanging between you like a live wire. Jayâs chest rises and falls too fast. You can tell he wants to step toward you again. You can tell youâd let him. But before either of you move, a voice slices in: âRomantic,â Evan deadpans. âTouching, even. But unless you both want to be buried here, we should RUN.â
You turn sharply, Evan is limping toward you, a stolen pistol in one hand, blood drying on his collar. He looks pissed, exhausted, and somehow still completely unimpressed. Jay mutters, âYou always had terrible timing.â âYeah?â Evan snaps. âWell, your welcoming committees are two minutes out. Drones, thermal sweeps, and eight agents who donât miss.â He points at you with his gun. âEspecially at you.â You exhale through your nose. âWonderful.â
He gestures wildly. âYou think I wanted to be bait? They framed me just to trap you two idiots. So unless you feel like dying for a failed marriage, MOVE.â Jay flinches at the word marriage. You do too. But Evan isnât done. He jabs a thumb behind him. âYour firms have teamed up. They know youâre alive. They want a clean slate. And guess what cleans a slate real nice and shiny?â
Jay groans. ââŠour corpses.â âDing ding,â Evan says. A distant drone hum rises over the ridge. Jay meets your eyes. The argument. The confession. The truth. All of it collapses into one silent decision.
âCome on,â he murmurs, grabbing your wrist, not rough, but firm. âWeâre not dying here.â âFor once,â Evan mutters, âI agree with the husband.â You shoot him a glare. âHeâs notââ But Jay interrupts. âLater.â The three of you sprint across the dirt, weaving between charred vehicles. The droneâs beam sweeps across the ground, searching. Jay shoves you behind a wrecked armored van just as gunfire sparks against the metal.
Evan dives in beside you, panting. âThey brought the elites. Perfect. Fantastic. Love this journey for us.â Jay peeks over the edge. âWe can take the valley road. Itâs unscannable for at least five kilometers.â
You wipe blood from your cheek. âAnd after that?â Jay hesitates. Evan answers for him: âWe improvise. Badly, based on your track record.â Jay throws him a glare. âYouâre welcome for pulling you out of that transport.â âI didnât ask to be saved!â âDoesnât mean you werenât going to die.â âGUYS,â you snap. They shut up. Gunfire hits closer.
Jay reaches out, not grabbing your hand, but hovering near it. Almost asking. Almost touching. âStay close,â he says softly. And you do. Not because heâs right. Not because heâs wrong. But because everything inside you is already moving toward him. Evan sighs dramatically. âIf youÂ
You all break from cover. Running. Breath burning. Heart pounding. Behind you, the drones rise like angry steel hornets. The valley road is nothing more than a cracked stretch of asphalt carved between cliffs, no lights, no railings, just moonlight and danger. Jayâs SUV fishtails as he guns the engine, gravel spraying behind you in flashes. Evan is half-conscious in the back seat, muttering insults between pained breaths. Jay keeps glancing at you through the reflection in the windshield. Not checking if youâre okay, checking if youâre still here.
Drones rise behind the ridge like a dark swarm, red eyes pulsing. âTell me thatâs not four,â you say. Jay doesnât blink. âItâs six.â âPerfect.â
Youâre already climbing into the back, popping open the trunk compartment. Jay keeps one hand on the wheel, the other reaching blindly to grab a spare mag you slap into his palm. The swarm locks onto the carâs heat signature. Beepâbeepâbeep. âThatâs a missile lock,â Evan groans. âMissile. As in things that blow up. You two love ignoring those.â
Jayâs voice drops into something low, focused, lethal. âYou want to complain, or do you want to grab the EMP?â Evan coughs. âWhich oneâs the EMP?â âThe one that looks like itâll kill you if you sneeze on it,â you say. âOh,â Evan mutters. âRight.â
The beeping quickens. You vault over the seat, shove the hatch open, and balance yourself against the frame as the wind tears at your clothes. Jay yells, âAre you insane?â âDo you have a better idea?â âYes! Not dying!â âThen drive faster!â Behind you, the drones tighten formation, sleek, military, unrelenting. You yank the EMP sphere from Evanâs shaking hands and twist the dial. The device warms instantly, humming with unstable power.
Jay swerves hard. The world tilts. Wind howls. The beeping hits a fever pitch. You look over your shoulder, a missile flare ignites. âJayââ âNOW!â he shouts. You slam the EMP button. A pulse of blue light erupts, rippling through the air like a shockwave. The missile flickers, stutters, then drops dead midair. The drones short-circuit, spiraling into the canyon like dying birds.
Jay lets out a breath he didnât know he was holding. You collapse back into your seat, chest heaving. Evan wheezes, âI⊠hate⊠you both.â Jay glances sideways, finally letting the relief, and something softer, show for half a second. âYou okay?â he asks. You meet his eyes. âYouâre reckless.â He smirks. âYou knew that when you married me.â Evan coughs loudly. âOh my god, is this really the timeââ
BANG. Gunfire explodes against the rear glass, cracking it like ice. Jay curses. âThey sent the ground teams.â âOf course they did,â you mutter. Ahead, headlights bloom, three black armored transports blocking the road. Jayâs grip tightens on the wheel. âBaby,â you say, âdonât you dareââ Jay floors it. Evan screams. The SUV slams through the barricade in a shower of sparks, spinning out onto the main highway. Jay wrestles the wheel, gravel spitting in all directions until the tires grip and the car rockets forward again.
Youâre all thrown back in your seats. More headlights appear over the hill. Evan groans, âPlease tell me thatâs ordinary traffic.â Jay snorts, feral. âAt this hour?â You draw your gun and chamber a round. âSo what now?â Jayâs jaw flexes. âWe lose them.â âHow?â He slams the turn signal even though no one is looking. And cuts across lanes into oncoming traffic.
Evan shrieks. Jay grins. You swear under your breath but reach for the dashboard to stabilize yourself. âYouâre insane.â âMarried me anyway,â he says.
Bullets spray from the pursuing convoy, shattering the side mirror, shredding the back tire. The SUV fishtails again. Jay growls under his breath, correcting. âWe need cover!â you shout. Jay nods. âI know a place.â âIs it stable?â
âNo.â âSafe?â âNot a chance.â âJay.â He gives you a reckless, stupidly beautiful half-smile. âYou trust me?â The car skids around a blind corner. And you see it. A hotel. Lit up like a beacon. Crowded with civilians. Your stomach drops. âJayânoââ âWeâll shake them inside.â
âThat is a terrible ideaââ
âYou married me.â âThat was BEFORE I realized how insane you are!â Jay slams the brakes, yanks the wheel, and the SUV rockets toward the hotelâs front entrance. Evan screams again. âWE ARE NOT DRIVING INTO Aââ CRASH.
Glass explodes. The lobby floods with smoke and gunfire. And the chase becomes a war. The SUV skids to a brutal stop in the middle of the marble lobby, tires smoking, chandeliers trembling from the impact. Guests scream and scatter, champagne flutes smashing across polished floors. You shove the door open first, coughing through the dust cloud. Jay emerges on the driverâs side like he does this for morning cardio, rolling his shoulders, grabbing his gun, unfazed.
Evan limps out behind you both, wheezing. âYou two need therapy. Separately.â No time to answer, because the glass front shatters again as three tactical teams charge into the lobby, rifles raised. You duck behind a toppled luggage cart, pulling Evan down with you. Jay rolls across the floor, sliding behind a display of fake plants.
Gunfire erupts in a violent percussion. Marble chips fly. A statue of some Renaissance noble loses its head. Jay shouts over the chaos, âYou take left, Iâll take the right!â You grit your teeth. âWhat about the middle?â Jayâs smile is audible. âTrust me!â
You pop up and fire three quick rounds, two hit body armor, one finds a jaw. The man drops. You pivot, grab a serverâs overturned tray, and use the polished steel to catch reflections behind you. Two more. You shoot through the tray like a mirror sight.
Jay mirrors you on the other side, sliding across the lobby floor, grabbing a weapon off a fallen guard, and firing with surgical precision. Evan crawls toward a decorative fountain like heâs seeking baptism. âThis isâthis is notâthis isâholy shââ A grenade clinks onto the floor.
You and Jay shout in unison:Â âDOWN!â It detonates, smoke spilling in thick white plumes. Vision drops to zero. Your ears ring. Boots thunder closer. Through the fog, you hear Jayâs voice, low, controlled: âTwo incoming to your right!â You twist on instinct, catching only silhouettes, dark, hulking, moving fast. One lunges.
You grab his wrist, twist, and slam his head into the marble. He goes down but tackles you with him, rolling both of you across the floor. He pins you. You jam your knee upward. He chokes, loosens. You elbow his face and finish him with a point-blank shot. Your chest heaves. Jayâs figure cuts through the smoke, expression sharp with adrenaline. âYou good?â he asks.
âIâm busy,â you snap, firing past him to pick off someone aiming at his back. Jay doesnât even look. âThank you, sweetheart.â âThis is NOT the time!â âLater then?â More gunfire. More bodies. The smoke thins just in time for you both to see the second wave enter through the blown-out glass front, armored, masked, efficient. Jay clicks his tongue. âThey brought the expensive ones.â
You reload. âGreat. Letâs be cost-effective and kill them fast.â He grins. âGod, I love you.â You fire twice. âShut up.â They move in a tight formation, sweeping through the lobby. Jay tugs your arm. âWe need high ground.â âWhat high ground? Itâs a lobby.â
He nods toward the enormous crystal chandelier above. âWe jump.â You stare at him. âJay. That is a terribleââ He grabs your waist. âOn three.â âJayââ âThree!â He launches the two of you upward, one hand on your hip, one on the broken banister of the second-floor balcony, using the momentum to swing both your bodies upward. Your stomach drops. Your hands scramble for purchase, but you make it.
The two of you land hard on the balcony floor, breathless but alive. Below, the squads fire up at you. Jay yells, âGo left!â You sprint, ducking behind decorative pillars. Jay takes the opposite direction. Bullets tear through the railings. The balcony trembles. You fire back, picking off the commanders first. Jayâs shots sync with yours, like choreography forged in war.
A guard climbs up the far stairwell. You see him first. Jayâs busy taking down three at once. âJay, headâs up!â Jay turns, too late. The guard fires.You leap, tackling Jay behind a bust of Julius Caesar. The bullet hits Caesarâs face. Jay breathes hard. âHe ruined history.â You shove him. âStay focused.â But youâre both smiling. Because this is what you are, two storms that somehow learned to move in orbit.
A rocket launcher beeps. You freeze. Jay freezes. Evan screams from downstairs, âDUCK!â The entire left wall detonates, ripping a hole through the lobby, blasting marble, wood, plaster in a bloom of fire and dust. You shield Jay with your body. He drags you down with him. The world tilts, groans, and finally settles. Silence. Then, Jay coughs. âOkay. New plan.â
You rub the blood from your lip. âYeah?â âRun.â âRun where?â He points toward the emergency exit sign flickering over a side door. You blink. âYou want to escape?â âTemporarily.â âThatâs new.â âYouâre rubbing off on me.â âJayââ He grabs your hand. Warm. Steady. Infuriating. âCome on.â
And the two of you sprint through the ruined lobby, through fire, through smoke, through broken marble and gunfire, until you slam into the alley behind the hotel, lungs burning.
And for one tiny, fragile second, youâre alive. Together. Just long enough for Jay to say: ââŠtheyâre still tracking us.â You turn. A drone hums overhead. Jay sighs. âGreat.â You reload your gun. âWhere to next?â Jay jerks his head down the alley. âThe one place theyâll never expect.â You raise a brow. âAnd that isâ?â
The bell above the door chimes politely. Jay looks at it, offended. âWeâre literally being hunted by black-ops kill teams and they give us a cute little ding?â You grab his wrist and yank him inside. âMove.â The place is enormousm a warehouse-style labyrinth of staged living rooms, fake kitchens, throw pillows, and more plants than any single store should legally be allowed to sell. Soft jazz plays over the speakers, which feels personally disrespectful considering the number of bullets youâre both carrying.
Jayâs eyes scan the aisles. âOkay. Everything in here is soft. And useless.â You kick over a wicker basket full of blankets. âWeâll adapt.â âI hate adapting.â âYou married me.â âExactly.â You shoot him a look. He grins, even bleeding from the eyebrow. Somewhere behind you, the front door gets kicked in. Boots pound the ground. Jay grabs your hand. âCâmon.â
You drag him between two couch displays, both the same beige color that speaks of hopelessness, and duck behind the one labeled NORDIC DREAM: Minimalist Elegance.
Jay snorts. âThis couch has better marketing than I do.â âFocus.â âI AM focused. Iâm focused on how ugly this couch is.â You smack his arm. Hard. Behind you, motors whirr, a drone floats up the aisle, sweeping blue light beams across the furniture. You flatten. Jay pulls you tighter against the back of the couch.
And thenm Jay whispers, âWeâre really hiding behind a couch set?â You whisper back, âItâs 30% off.â A beat. Then he shakes with silent laughter. âGod, I fell for a menace.â The drone draws closer. You tilt your head just enough to see it. Sleek. Armed. Deadly. Jay meets your eyes. You nod once. Timing. Oneâ Twoâ THREEâ You both pop up. You shoot the drone once â Jay shoots twice, it jerks, sparks, then spirals into a Rustic Autumn Display, setting several decorative pumpkins on fire.
Jay winces. âSeasonal items. Tragic.â You donât get to scold him, because the next wave of agents storm in, black armor, LED visors, full tactical gear. Six of them. Jay mutters, âThey seriously brought the deluxe edition.â You grab his wrist. âSplit?â He nods. âRejoin in⊠kidsâ furniture?â âDeal.â You break off, sprinting behind a row of Scandinavian storage units. Jay peels left toward the lamps.
Gunfire erupts immediately, rounds punching through walls, splintering wood, sending ceramic mugs exploding into shard clouds. One agent rushes your aisle. You duck behind a wardrobe closet. He swings it open. You shoot him point-blank inside the wardrobe. He collapses neatly into the storage space. You mutter, âNarniaâs closed.â
Another agent charges. You grab the nearest object, a coat rack, and swing it like a medieval halberd. He goes down. Jay, on the other side of the store, grabs a lamp off a display and smashes it over someoneâs helmet. You hear him shout: âTHAT WAS FIFTY EUROS!â
You almost smile. Almost. Two more agents sprint your way, coordinated, fast. You vault over a dining table and land on the other side, grabbing a steak knife from a staged place setting. You fling it, it buries itself in the thigh plate of the first agent. He stumbles. You seize the opportunity, rushing in, tackling him to the ground, slamming his helmet into the floor until the visor cracks.
Gunfire ricochets behind you. Jay yells, âLeft side! Two incoming!â You spin, sliding across the floor behind a coffee table. One bullet grazes your arm; the sting burns through you.
Jay sees it, and his voice drops to something lethal. âYou okay?â âKeep shooting!â
He does, with unnerving accuracy, even while limping, even while bleeding. You take down the last one together, one shot from you, one from him, the bodies hitting the ground in a synchronized thud. Silence. Smoke wafts between bookshelves and model kitchens. Designer rugs are shredded. Fake fruit is EVERYWHERE. Your chest heaves. Jayâs, too.
He walks toward you through the chaos, brushing debris off his bloodstained shirt, hair a mess, expression fierce. You donât even realize youâre shaking until heâs right in front of you. Jay gently touches your cheek. âYouâre hurt.â You whisper, âYouâre worse.â
He huffs a half-laugh. âYeah. But Iâm prettier, so it balances out.â You smack his chest. He catches your wrist. You pull back, he pulls you forward. Your bodies crash together in the ruined remains of Modern Elegance: Cherrywood Collection. His forehead rests against yours. Your breath mingles. Chaos hums around you.
Jay murmurs, âTheyâre not stopping.â âI know.â âTheyâll chase us until one of us is dead.â âI know.â âAnd you still want to run with me?â You swallow. A nod. He exhales, part relief, part fear. Then someone coughs behind you. You jerk apart, guns drawn, Evan limps out from behind a plant shelf holding two throw pillows, looking traumatized.
âNot to interrupt your, whatever that was, but we should probably MOVE. Like, now.â Jay blinks. âWere you hiding in the plants?â Evan glares. âI have been shot at eighteen times in the last twenty minutes. I will hide in whatever I want.â You grab Jayâs hand again.
âWe go out the back,â you say. âSteal a car. Disappear.â Evan waves a pillow. âYes. Please. Letâs do that.â And as the three of you sprint through the emergency exit, alarms blaring, sprinklers erupting overhead, Jay looks at you sideways. âYou know,â he pants, âthis could be our thing.â You snort. âRunning for our lives?â He grins. âNo. Making terrible decisions together.â
You squeeze his hand. âYeah. Same thing.â The wind outside the safehouse screamed like it wanted to skin the walls. Evan limped ahead of you and Jay, muttering curses under his breath as he shoved open the back exit. âGo,â he hissed, eyes wide with a terror youâd never seen on him, not even on missions gone nuclear. âTheyâre already here.â
Jay tried to steady him, but Evan shoved him off. âNo, idiot. Iâm slowing you down. And if they catch me, theyâll keep me alive long enough to track you. So run.â Jay opened his mouth, probably to argue, probably to be noble and self-sacrificial and infuriating, but Evan jabbed a finger into his chest. âDonât make this sentimental,â Evan snapped. âI will punch you.â
The building shuddered. A boom echoed from somewhere above, heavy boots, breaching charges, the entire damn alphabet soup of elite killers descending the stairwells. You grabbed Jayâs wrist. âWe need to go. Now.â Evan stepped back into the shadows, lifting the gun youâd stolen from the transport convoy. His stance was shaky. His jaw was set.
âBuy me a beer when you somehow survive this,â he said, already firing toward the stairwell. Jay hesitated for a fraction of a second, the kind that gets people killed, before you yanked him through the emergency door, into the alleyâs morning haze. The explosion behind you rattled the street. Jay flinched. You didnât let go of his hand.
The car was a battered sedan Jay hot-wired in under seven seconds. You climbed in, slamming the door, but before he could pull away, bullets punched through the rear window. âDrive!â you snapped. âI am driving!â He floored it, tires screaming. Black SUVs surged into the intersection behind you, windows dropping. Muzzle flashes lit up the fog.
âWho the hell did they send?â Jay muttered. âEveryone,â you said. âThey want us erased.â A bullet grazed the side mirror, exploding it into shards. Jay tilted his head, avoiding the spray. âStill think we couldâve done this tomorrow?â he snapped, throwing the car into a turn so sharp your shoulder slammed into the door. You shot him a glare. âI said youâre injured, genius! Your ribs are barelyââ âOh my god, not this again,â he cut in. âWeâre being hunted by two governments and three private intelligence corps, and youâre nagging me about my ribsââ
âThatâs because you donât value your own lifeââ âThatâs what I get for saving yours?â You froze. The words hit you harder than the crash you narrowly avoided when he swerved around a delivery truck. âItâs notââ You gritted your teeth. âItâs not like that.â
Jayâs jaw flexed. But he didnât push. Not now, not when the streets behind you filled with vehicles, shadows, drones, a whole strike team sent to wipe their hands clean. Ahead of you, the highway unfurled like a silver throat. A perfect kill box. Jay cursed under his breath. âWeâre not making it out on wheels.â You checked your mag. âThen we improvise.â âYou always did love improvising.â âYou always did hate it.â âAnd yet,â he said, meeting your eyes with a wild, reckless smirk, âYou married me.âÂ
â â â
The counselorâs office hadnât changed. Same soft beige walls. Same too-sweet diffuser scent. Same watercolor painting of a boat that made Jay snort every time you came in. The only difference was you. Both of you dressed in black, not intentionally matching, yet somehow perfectly coordinated. Your bruises had turned from deep violet to faint amber-yellow. Jayâs lip still held the slightest cut, healed enough to look rakish rather than dangerous.
You sat on the left side of the couch. Jay sat on the right. Somewhere in the middle, your knees brushed, but neither of you acknowledged it.
The counselor, bless her soul, tried to hide the tremor in her hands as she adjusted her glasses.
âSo,â she began, voice bright in that therapist way people use when theyâre silently praying, âI⊠hear things are⊠better?â
Jay smiled. That slow, clean, lethal smile that made people confess state secrets without realizing it.
âMuch,â he said.
You nodded once. âWe communicate more now.â
Jay added, âExplosively.â
You elbowed him. He didnât even flinch. The counselor laughed, the brittle kind that shatters like cheap glass. âThatâs wonderful. Can you give me an example of, uh⊠improved communication?â You and Jay exchanged a glance. Dangerous. Shared. Almost amused.
You shrugged. âWeâre more open about our needs.â Jay leaned back, stretching an arm along the couch, behind you, not touching, but close enough to feel the heat.
âShe tells me when Iâm being unreasonable,â he said.
âAnd he tells me,â you countered, âwhen Iâm being reckless.â
The counselor nodded, scribbling notes frantically. âGood, good. And how do you handle disagreements now?â Jay tilted his head. âNon-violently.â You coughed. He coughed louder. The counselor frowned.
âMostly non-violently,â you amended. âEmphasis on âmostly,ââ Jay added, helpful as ever. The counselor blinked rapidly. âAnd⊠intimacy?â Jayâs lips twitched. You stared at the wall and prayed.
He answered anyway. âWeâre bonding,â Jay said, voice dark silk. âDeepening trust exercises.â You choked. The counselor didnât understand but blushed anyway.
âThatâs⊠very good to hear.â She cleared her throat. âAnd your shared activities? Are you spending more quality time together?â
Jay laced his fingers loosely in front of him. âWell, weâve started a joint workout routine.â You nodded. âAnd we cook more.â âTravel together.â
âWe run.â âSometimes sprint.â You sighed. âThatâs when weâre being shot at.â
The counselor froze. Pen hovering in the air. âShot⊠at?â Jay smiled politely. âWe process stress differently.â âAnd together,â you added. It wasnât a lie. Not anymore.
The counselor shuffled her papers. âWell,â she said weakly, âdespite the⊠intense phrasing⊠Iâm glad youâre finding ways to reconnect. Marriage can be challenging. Itâs wonderful youâre trying.â Jay hummed. You leaned back. Silence fell.
Not awkward. Not sharp. Just⊠easy. The kind of silence youâd both earned. The counselor exhaled softly, relief creeping into her voice. âI⊠think weâve made real progress. If you two keep communicating this well, your marriage will absolutely thrive.â Jay looked at you. You looked at him. A beat. Then, you both laughed. Low, quiet, shared.
A secret. A promise. A survival. You leave the counselorâs office side by side, the hallway glowing with cheap fluorescent lighting. Jayâs hand brushes yours once, twice⊠then stays. Outside, the sky hangs low with clouds, soft and silver. Rain threatens, it always does around the two of you.
Jay opens the door for you. Not to be polite. To watch your back. You step into the street.
â â â
Waves smashing against jagged cliffs. Vineyards rolling down green hills. A stone house with blue shutters and a terracotta roof. Your laundry clips onto a line in the sun. Jay is terrible at it. He pretends not to hear your laughter. A cat you absolutely did not adopt lounges on your windowsill like it owns the world.
Jay at a sleek laptop, glasses sliding down his nose. Freelance âsecurity consultant.â (He pretends that doesnât mean occasional assassination.) You, leaning over architectural blueprints at the dining table. Freelance ârestoration expert.â (You pretend that doesnât mean breaking into high-security estates at 3AM.) Your passports line the drawer. Five each. All believable. All dangerous.
He watches you zip a duffel bag. You watch him check a handgunâs magazine. Neither of you tells the other to be careful. You donât have to.
Gnocchi. Fresh tomatoes. White wine. Jay chopping basil in a way that is objectively illegal. You lean over from behind and correct his knife angle. He complains. You kiss his shoulder. He pretends to complain louder. The kitchen smells like garlic and warmth and something that feels frighteningly close to peace. Music plays low, old Italian jazz humming through the small speaker near the window.
You steal pieces of bread off his cutting board. He pretends not to notice. Jay steals kisses. You pretend not to notice. A storm rolls in. Rain taps against the roof. He lights a candle. You open the window anyway, letting in the scent of wet earth. The cat knocks something off the counter. Jay swears. You laugh so hard you snort.
He looks at you like you hung the moon. You ignore the way your chest tightens.
Dinner done. Dishes in the sink. Rain whispering against the glass. The house dim and soft, lit only by candlelight and lightning far off the coast. Jay steps behind you as you wipe the counter. His hands slip around your waist, confident, warm, familiar in a way that still startles you.
He kisses your neck once. Slow. Claiming. Home-making.
You inhale sharply. He murmurs against your skin, voice velvet-dark: âTil death do us part.â
You turn in his arms, tug his shirt, pull him closer, your smile brushing his mouth, dangerous and adoring all at once.
âYou first.â
The screen cuts to black.
Fade out.Â
The nameplate hung on your door tilts, Mr and Mrs. Park.
does anyone else feel like they're on a writing slump? I don't even know if i can call it that since i do have good ideas they keep coming but like i cant commit to writing the whole fic.. i already know what happens and all that but i just can't bring myself to write. I just can't write it's like my brain juice is gone but maybe it's because it's my finals month...
If anyone has tips please do tell i wanna write but my brain just won't cooperate.
P.Y.T. (Pretty Young Thing) âïœĄđŠč Ë đŒ ËïœĄâ
Niki never really wanted to learn how to surf. He never understood why his brother and cousin liked it so much, being at the beach all day, having to wear those ridiculous suits and getting sunburns nonetheless. He also never thought that he would ever be as interested in sea urchins as he was right now.
He truly wasnât. He didnât care for surfing or for the spawning process of sea urchins; he actually thought that was kind of weird, but what he did care for was you. He didn't mind listening to you talk about your sea urchins for hours, even though he understood only half of it, nor did he mind your hands on him as you were teaching him his way around the water. There was just a small problem: you weren't dating younger.
đż SOUNDTRACK ăąđ MY MASTERLIST ăą WORDCOUNT 23,546
á”!á” WARNINGS ââââ SFW, homesickness, intentional grammar mistakes, Niki is a huge loser but tries to deny it, age gap (reader is 3 years older, but both are adults!), very internal monologue heavy, mentions of gayness and homophobia, Niki is afraid of the ocean, for story purposes the reader is described to have blond curls like 3a-3c (shes a surfer and has surfer blond hair!)
# TAGS ââââ older reader x younger niki, set in 1987 Australia, small coastal town vibes, fluff fluff fluff, brotherâs older friend, summer romance, language barrier, he hates everything except her, he's kinda obsessed with her hair
reblogs are welcome â.á
The sand under his feet was hot and stung against the skin when he adjusted his position on the surfboard he was sitting on. It was a small one, maybe half his size.
Riki wasnât a big fan of the beach or the heat, but there was no way he would be getting into the water. The waves were gently rocking back and forth, coming dangerously close to one of the sandcastles he had watched two children build a while ago.Â
His family moved to Australia almost a full month ago now.Â
Jay had been overjoyed to move back into his childhood home, to reconnect with his old friends and rebuild his life back in Australia, while Riki hated it.
He hated the heat, the language, the food, the people.Â
Just everything.Â
Sure, he could have stayed in Japan and finished his degree, but the mere thought of his mom and his stepdad moving away, Jay following along and leaving him alone in Korea was worse than moving to Australia.Â
His grandmother had died last year, and with that, had his mother's desire to stay in Korea. She had always loved change. She loved experiencing new things, seeing new places, meeting new people, so when his stepdad mentioned wanting to move back to Australia, his mom immediately agreed.Â
They had offered him to stay in Korea, to help him find an apartment near his university, send him money every month, so he wouldnât have to get a job, but Riki had declined.Â
A long shadow appeared in his view, covering the blistering heat of the sun.Â
âRiki, donât you want to at least get your feet into the water for a bit?âÂ
His gaze flickered upwards to Jay. He was looking at him expectantly, his hair dripping with water, thick drops darkening the otherwise light sand.
Riki shook his head. âNo, Iâm good.âÂ
His brother took a deep breath through his nose and exhaled it loudly before letting himself drop onto the surfboard next to Riki. âIs there a particular reason why youâre moping around outside today and not in your room?â
Riki hummed, his gaze wandering back to the shallow water, where you were helping a boy back onto his surfboard. He had come to watch the bustling people around the beach, eat an absurd amount of ice cream and relax a bit.Â
That was one thing he really liked about Australia.Â
Everything was more relaxed, more balanced, than in Korea or even in Japan. Kids had time to be kids, and college students were using their summer break to do nothing.
Growing up in Korea meant he went to school when the sun was rising and he went home long after it had gone down again, sometimes even during summer breaks, and if he had time to himself, he spent it in the dance studio a few streets from his apartment.Â
âMom was annoying me,â he answered, burying his toes deeper in the sand while shrugging. âShe said I should go out and make some friends here at the beach or something.âÂ
Jay furrowed his eyebrows and looked around on the beach. It was pretty empty for a hot summer day, and most of the people who actually came were either in groups or definitely not in Rikiâs age range.Â
âYou could always come into the water with Jake and me?â his brother asked, looking back at where JakeÂ
was sitting on his surfboard, seemingly waiting for Jay to return.Â
âI donât want to get wet,â Riki shrugged again and immediately regretted it. He was behaving like a moody teenager, and he knew it was annoying.Â
It annoyed him as well, but he didnât really know what to do with himself.Â
âMaybe you could go to the city for a bit? You wanted to go to that one LP store last week. Iâm sure it has the album you wanted.â
Riki pursed his lips but nodded lightly. âMaybe tomorrow. I still have to unpack my LPs before I buy a new one. I left so many at home and gave them to Heeseung and Jungwon, I donât even know what I still have with me.âÂ
He paused for a second, but didnât correct himself when he realised that he had called Seoul his home.Â
It should be Melmair, right?Â
That was his home now.Â
His gaze wandered back to you and the group of elementary school kids. You werenât wearing your wetsuit, so he had a good view of the tattoo running along your spine. He had meant to ask you where you had gotten it a while ago, but he hasnât worked up the courage yet.Â
Youâve been nothing but nice and welcoming to him for the past month, inviting him to get-togethers, trying your best to involve him in conversation, and introducing him to some of your friends.Â
But he hasnât been the most forthcoming.Â
He wished he had been.Â
He had been stuck up in his head, unhappy with the change, somehow unhappy with his decision and entirely unhappy about the fact that he wasnât able to speak English fluently.Â
Jay and Jake always did their best translating for him, yet it was clear to everyone that he had to start getting his shit together and study the language properly.
Technically, the best way to learn a language was to use it.Â
The biggest problem here was that Riki hated using it.Â
It was so hard with all of its letters and its complicated grammar. He should have paid more attention back in High School; maybe he wouldnât be at the level of a kindergarten student when using English.Â
His mom wasnât fluent in English either, but Hyeongyu, his stepfather, had started speaking only in English to her and also to Riki, hoping they would get used to it.Â
His mom did, she also quickly found a group of friends, consisting of his aunt, your mother and two other women.Â
Riki didnât understand how his mother did it.
How she could just arrive somewhere new and⊠fit.Â
Jay followed his line of sight. âYou know sheâs not gonna bite, right? You can ask her if she could teach you as well.â
Riki frowned. âI donât know if thatâs a good idea.â
âWhy not? At least youâd have something to do and wouldn't mope around at home,â Jay leaned back, stretching his legs out. âI know youâd be stuck in the water until youâd perfected it.â
Riki rolled his eyes, shifting on the board again.Â
The sand stuck to his damp skin.Â
âI donât know. Wouldnât it be embarrassing? Iâm twenty, and sheâs teaching kids half my age right now. I just donât want to be⊠weird,â he muttered after a second.
Jay glanced at him, something softer crossing his face. âYouâre not.â
Riki didnât answer. He wasnât convinced.
The two of them sat there for a few minutes, just staring out into the ocean, before Jay hummed and stood up, careful not to jostle the surfboard too much.Â
âIâm gonna go into the water for a bit more,â he turned towards Riki. âWill you be alright here?â
Riki nodded and gave his brother a small smile. âIâm fine. Donât worry.âÂ
âOkay.â
He watched his Jay walk back to the ocean, paddling towards Jake, who had just come to a halt after riding another wave.Â
It looked fun, surfing.Â
He never really considered trying it. Jay had been excited, talking about coming back and jumping onto a board the second he could, but Riki was a bit more cautious. He had taken a swimming course as a child, and he was sure it would return to him if he actually tried, but it didnât seem like a good idea to go surfing if he didnât even know how to swim properly.Â
Out in the water, you and the children were making your way back to shore now, boards tucked under your arms. The sun hit the water behind you, turning everything into something too bright to look at for too long.
Riki looked anyway.
You shook your head, pushing wet hair out of your face, saying something to one of the girls in your class that made her laugh. When you reached the sand, you dropped your board carelessly, stretching your arms over your head before your gaze landed on him.
For a second, you just smiled before wrapping up the class with the kids.Â
He tried his best not to watch you too obviously, but it was hard to look away.Â
It was embarrassing how quickly he had developed a crush, almost an obsession, with you. From the day he was introduced to you as Jayâs baby brother, he had not been able to take his eyes off of you whenever he saw you somewhere. It was as if he were compelled to do so.Â
Sometimes he wondered if it was because you were so different from the girls he knew from home.Â
When he met you, it was the first time in his life that he saw someone with natural blond hair and natural curls. Sure, many of the girls back home had gotten perms and bleached their hair, especially after it got popular in the West, but he didnât know anyone who had this kind of hair naturally. Heâd love to touch it, to see if it felt different from the perm his mom had last year, if it was softer.Â
âHey,â you suddenly called out, ripping him out of his thoughts.Â
He blinked at you while you were walking over.Â
âHi Riki!â
âHi,â he smiled at you, or at least tried his best to give you a sincere smile.
You seemed to light up even more at that. âWould you like to get some ice cream? I donât think the others are gonna come out of the water for a while, and Iâm sure youâre hot.âÂ
Riki straightened a little without meaning to, brushing his hands over his shorts. âYeah,â he said, a bit too quickly. Then, correcting himself, slower, âYeah, I come.â
You didnât react to the phrasing, just nodded like it was the most normal thing in the world. âCool.â
With that, you turned around and started walking through the hot sand.
Riki hesitated for half a second, then nodded, falling into step next to you.
For a moment, neither of you said anything.Â
The noise of the beach faded a little as you walked further up, replaced by quieter sounds, wind, distant voices, and the hum of a car passing somewhere beyond the dunes.
Then you glanced at him. âSoâŠwhat did you do today?â
Riki exhaled quietly, already running through words in his head, trying to piece them together in the right order.
âUhâŠâ He frowned slightly, eyes dropping to the sand as he walked. âI⊠slept long. Until noon.â
Your expression lit up a little. âThatâs so nice,â you said. âI wish I could do that.â
Riki blinked, a bit thrown off by the enthusiasm. âYeah?â
âYeah,â you nodded, smiling. âIâve been up since five thirty.â
He let out a small, surprised sound. âWhy?â
âEarly lesson,â you said, gesturing vaguely back toward the water. âMany adults come to the beach before work to surf a bit. Or learn how to surf.â
Riki huffed softly at that, the corner of his mouth twitching before he could stop it. He liked that you tried to speak without your usual accent, damping it down a bit so he could understand you better.
There was another small pause.
âI come here,â he added after a moment, a bit more quietly. âFor⊠the sun.â He gestured vaguely upward, then toward the beach. âAnd⊠watching.â
Your gaze flickered to him again, a hint of something curious in your expression. âWatching?â
He nodded, then immediately felt the need to explain. âPeople. Surfing. You.â
The last word slipped out before he could stop it.
He stiffened slightly.
But instead of making fun of him, your smile softened, just a little. âMe?â you echoed, like you were genuinely surprised.
Riki shrugged, trying to play it off, even if his ears felt warm. âYou are⊠good at it. Surfing and teaching.â
You let out a quiet laugh. âThanks.â
For a second, neither of you looked away.
Then you nudged his arm gently with your elbow. âMaybe you should try it then. If Iâm such a good teacher.â
Riki scoffed, shaking his head. âI think⊠I watch better.â
âWeâll see about that,â you said, already turning your attention toward the ice cream stand ahead.
It was small, tucked just off the path, painted in faded pastel colours that had probably looked brighter years ago. A striped awning hung low over the counter, and somewhere behind it, a radio crackled softly.
You stepped up to the counter as if you had done that a hundred times already. You probably had. He learned a few weeks ago that you grew up here, that your family rarely left the area, your mother being the mayor of the town.
âWhat do you want?â you asked, turning to him.
Riki glanced at the menu. By now, he could decipher most letters into actual sounds and words after a few seconds, but there were too many words he didnât fully recognise.Â
He hesitated, then looked back at you. âYou choose.â
Your eyebrows lifted slightly. âFor you?â
He nodded. âBest one.â
A small smile pulled at your lips. âOkay,â you said, turning back to the vendor.Â
You ordered without asking anything else, pointing at a few options, speaking fast enough that Riki lost track halfway through. A moment later, he looked down at an ice cream cone in his hands. You had gotten him two scoops, one white, one a soft pink. He tilted his head slightly.
âWhat is it?â he asked.
âJust try it,â you said, shrugging.Â
Riki took a cautious bite.
And then paused.
It was tangy and sour.Â
His face scrunched together in surprise, but he kept eating.Â
âGood?â you asked, watching him.
He nodded slowly. âYeah⊠good.â
âSee?â you said, satisfied.
âTheyâre all different,â he said, trying the second flavour on his cone. It was a strawberry.
âDifferent from what?â you asked.
He shrugged slightly, licking his lips. âFrom⊠home.â
You hummed, like you understood more than he had actually said.
Behind you, the music shifted a little louder as someone adjusted the radio. The melody was bright, with layered voices blending together.
You perked up immediately. âOh, I love this one.â
Riki glanced at you. âWhat is it?â
âThe Beach Boys,â you said, like it should be obvious. âTheyâre my favourite.â
He listened a bit more carefully this time, nodding after a second. âYeah⊠Itâs good.â
You looked at him again, curious. âWhat about you? Do you have a favourite singer?â
Riki opened his mouth, then hesitated for a split second.
âMichael Jackson,â he said finally.
Your eyes lit up. âOh, I know him.â
âI really like herâno, his?â dancing.â Riki frowned a bit, but you nodded.Â
âYeah, his,â you took another bite of your ice cream. âIâve seen one of his music videos on MTV recently. Bad?âÂ
Riki hummed. âYes. Itâs newest. I really like it.â
âHis newest song?â
âYes,â Riki nodded again.Â
âYou also dance, right? I think Jay mentioned that you were looking for a studio here?â
Riki blinked, processing the words clicking into place a second too late.
âOh,â he said and felt heat creep up the back of his neck. âItâs notâI justââ He huffed quietly, shaking his head. âYes, I am dancing. Itâs my major.â
âReally?â You seemed surprised at that, your gaze flickering back to him. âI didnât know that. Thatâs so cool. Are you taking it up here at uni? I know they have a renowned dance program at MVU.â
Riki didnât know what the word renowned meant, but nodded regardless. âYes. Iâm doing a Bachelor of Creative Arts in Dancing.âÂ
âThatâs so cool. One of my mom's friends' sons, James, is doing that too. He should be your age. Maybe youâd be in the same classes.âÂ
Riki hummed again and shrugged. âMaybe?â
âHeâs really fun. I think youâd get along well,â you smiled up at him again before you looked back to the sea. âLooks like Jay and Jake are done with surfing for today.âÂ
He followed your line of sight and noticed that both his brother and his cousin were sitting next to where they had dumped their bags, towelling off their hair.Â
The two of you reached the two of them a few minutes later, Rikis' ice cream now dripping down the cone, leaving his hand a bit sticky.
Jay was sitting half sprawled on a towel, one arm propped behind him, looking up first and immediately grinning.
âThere you are,â he said, like Riki had taken hours instead of minutes, when he let himself drop down next to his brother.
Before Riki could answer, Jay reached over and stole a bite from his cone.
He stared at him. âHey.â
Jay just chewed, entirely unbothered. âWhat? I wanted to know if it was good.â
âYou could have asked.â
âAnd risked you saying no?â
Riki frowned, but he couldnât really find the energy to argue when Jay looked so pleased with himself.Â
A few years back, Riki would have been furious, probably screaming at Jay for doing so.Â
It was weird, really, how he struggled being the younger sibling two times in his lifetime. His dad remarried shortly after his mom divorced him, and suddenly, Riki wasnât an only child anymore but had an older and a younger sister.Â
He liked being around Misora; being a big brother was cool. Even when he was cringe and weird, she always looked up at him, while Konon struggled just as much with the new changes within her family as Riki did, causing the of them to fight.Â
Both of them had been unfair and had said things that hurt, knowing it would, but neither would back down until either his dad or his wife stopped them.Â
It was one of the reasons why he preferred staying with his mom and limiting his visits to his dad's house to a minimum if he could.Â
Jay, on the other hand, had been nothing short of amazing.Â
He was caring, gentle, and considerate of his feelings, even when he was an angry teen. He had taken the time to study Japanese more intensely, going to an additional cram school, just to understand Riki better, had looked into his hobbies, and had been supportive.Â
All in all, he was the perfect big brother.Â
Riki needed a few years to understand that, but now he couldnât imagine life without Jay.Â
That was most likely the reason why Riki decided to move to Australia with his family.Â
Jake stretched and ripped him from his thoughts. âHow is it Sunday already? I donât want to work.â
Jay let out a short laugh. âDude, I have my first day tomorrow. I have to make a good impression and be all proper all day.â
You tipped your head slightly and handed Jake the rest of your ice cream. âYouâve been all proper since childhood.â
Jay looked offended. âI have not.â
âYou have,â you said, smiling now. âI bet teen Jay was getting all the girls with your gentleman thing.âÂ
Jay stole another bite of Riki's ice cream, shaking his head. âYou have no idea what I was like as a teen. I definitely didnât get any girls.â
âYou got no girls ever, because youâve been in a one-sided relationship with one of my friends since you first met,â Riki mumbled in Korean, ignoring the way his brother shoved him hard enough to almost slide off the surfboard.
Jake barked out a laugh at that. âJesus, Riki.â
You gave him a look, raising one eyebrow, before looking back at Jay. âI got to see enough of adult Jay that I think I can say with confidence youâll be fine. Also, you sent me letters for the last ten years that gave me the impression that you were a proper guy. How many internships did you do again? How many of those insane cram schools did you go to? I am sure youâre fine tomorrow.â
Jay stared at you for a second, then huffed. âThat is not how that works.â
âIt is exactly how that works.â
âHe still did not get girlfriends,â Riki shrugged and avoided Jay, hitting him again.Â
Jake snorted again, and even you seemed to think that was funny, grinning at Jay.Â
Jay groaned and dropped his head back. âWhatever.â He turned to Jake with a dramatic sigh. âAnyway. If I have to go be professional tomorrow, Iâm blaming you if I embarrass myself.â
Jake pointed at himself. âWhy would that be my fault?â
âBecause youâre making me nervous.â
âYouâre making yourself nervous,â Jake said.
Jay ignored him and leaned back on his hands again. âYou know, Iâm actually offended. I thought I had more composure than this.â
You laughed. âYou do. Barely.â
Jay looked at you incredulously. âYouâre supposed to be on my side.â
âI am on your side,â you said. âIâm just being honest.â
Riki listened to the three of you bicker and turned the part of his brain that understood English off for a second. He had loads of older friends, but somehow he always ended up being one of the youngest around, probably because when he came to Korea, the situation was similar. Jay had introduced him to his friends, and Riki just ran with it.Â
But sitting here with the three of you, being noticeably more⊠adult, having real adult people problems and not just moping around because you were too stubborn to go out and socialise made him feel a bitâŠstupid.Â
He usually didnât mind still being a student while Heeseung, Jay or even Sunghoon had graduated ages ago and were doing a master's or working.Â
But here with Jake and you, it felt different.Â
He already felt stupid for not knowing english but somehow the two of you being in actually hard fields made him feel a bitâŠunimpressive.
Riki looked down at his ice cream and took a slow bite, suddenly wishing he had ignored his mom's nagging.
Jake glanced at him after a second, like he was just noticing Riki had been quiet for longer than usual. âYou got plans tomorrow, kid?â
Riki blinked, looking up. âNo.â
Jake huffed out a small laugh. âYouâre gonna be alone when Jayâs at work, then? Is there anything youâre doing while heâs gone?â
Riki hesitated, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek. âI⊠donât know yet.â
Jake glanced between them, then back to Riki. âSo youâre saying youâre just going to sit around?â
Riki opened his mouth, then closed it.
Beside him, you tilted your head a little. âYou wanna come surfing tomorrow?â
He looked at you.
You were half smiling. âI can for sure play babysitter for a day,â you added, winking at him. âMaybe I could even get you to surf with me. Itâs not that hard.âÂ
Rikiâs mouth opened again, then closed. He really was just that, apparently, a moody kid that needed a babysitter.
âIâŠâ He paused, frowning slightly, searching for something he could say to get out of this, of not having to be âbabysatâ. âI canât even swim.â
Jake blinked. âWait, what?â
You looked at him in surprise. âRiki canât swim?â you asked, like you were telling Jay and Jake instead of him.
Jay opened his mouth, then shut it. âI thought he had learned it in Japan?â
Jake looked at Riki like he had just confessed to a crime. âHow old are you?â
Riki shrugged, feeling slightly embarrassed even though he hadnât done anything wrong. âDoesnât matter.â
Jake shook his head. âThat matters.â
âItâs not a big deal,â Jay said, but it sounded defensive even to Riki.
You looked at Riki directly now, your expression softening. âIt isnât,â you said. âIf you want to, I could show you. Iâm sure itâs gonna come in handy, if you know how to swim.â
He shrugged at that, trying to seem nonchalant about it.Â
But his chest tightened anyway.
He thought about the water, the waves, the way people just disappeared into them like it was nothing.
âIâŠâ He hesitated, then looked down at his ice cream. âI donât want to. I donât like the sea.â
It came out quieter than he meant.
You tilted your head again, thinking. âI have to go to the lab first,â you said casually. âMy sea urchins need a check-up.â
Riki looked up at you and frowned, wondering what sea urins had to do with him not being able to swim.
âAfter that,â you continued, âyou could come over to my house? Or I come to yours? We could swim in one of our pools. Iâll teach you.â
Rikiâs throat tightened.
He wanted to say no.
He wanted to say he was fine, that he didnât need to learn, that he didnât need to do anything new.
But Jay nudged his shoulder lightly, quick and firm, and he could feel the words slipping out before he could stop them.
âOkay,â he said.
You nodded and gave him a big smile.Â
âGood,â you said.
đŒ â.Ë đ đ đĄâ.Ë đŒ
He woke up earlier than usual the next day. It was barely 8 am, but he didnât know when you wanted to come over, and he wanted to be ready.Â
There technically wasnât much for him to do but brush his teeth, comb his hair once or twice and then put on his swimming trunks. That was it.
But Riki was somehow stuck in the bathroom for a while now.
It was warm and sticky and smelled like Jay's expensive perfume, but he couldnât get himself to open a window.
He was just standing there, looking at his reflection in the mirror.Â
He looked fine.
He looked fine.
He lookedâ
He turned on the shower, then turned the water off again almost immediately. He had showered yesterday after coming home from the beach. He didnât need another one.
Riki stepped in anyway, letting the water wash over him, then got out quickly after a few minutes. By the time he wrapped the towel around his waist, his skin was pruned from the heat, and his hair was dripping into his face. Â
He looked at himself again.
He didnât have much body hair. He never had.Â
He had seen so many men and young adults his age, proudly displaying what he had learned to call a âbush of hairâ here in Australia. In Japan, men also prided themselves on their hair, though they had way less than the people he saw here.Â
Riki had spent some time flipping through the magazines his mom had ordered to study English. Apparently, for surfers and swimmers, it was a thing to shave their bodies for practical reasons, and less aesthetic ones. He also remembered reading an interview with Arnold Schwarzenegger where he talked about how many bodybuilders were starting to shave and even wax for aesthetics, and Riki had put a lot of work into his body recently. He might not be on body building levels yet, but he had started seeing significant growth in muscle mass all over his body. Â
He ran the razor over his legs, careful, methodical. His arms. His chest. Everywhere.
It actually felt really nice, his skin soft under his palms.Â
When he was done, he dried off quickly and pulled on a pair of clean shorts, one of his old dance T-shirts, and a fresh pair of socks. He ruffled his hair a little, then stopped, then ruffled it again, then stopped again.
He was being ridiculous.
The floorboards creaked outside the door.
âRiki,â his mom called through the door. âWhat are you doing up so early?â
He froze.
âNothing,â he called back in Japanese, not having the mental capability to speak English right now.
He opened the door a crack.
His mom was standing in the hallway, one hand on her hip, the other one holding up a basket full of laundry. Her eyes flicked down to his legs, then back up to his face.
âDid you shave?â she asked, seeming as surprised at his decision as he was.
âYes,â he said after a second.
She looked at him for a moment longer, then passed him when she walked into the bathroom. âWhy?â
He blinked. âBecause I thought it would look good.â
âYou thought it would look good?â
âYes?â
She tilted her head, unimpressed, switching to Japanese. âAre you trying to impress a girl, Riki?â
âHuh?â His eyebrows shot up in surprise, but he caught himself quickly, crossing his arms in front of his chest and shaking his head. âNo? No, I'm not trying to impress anyone. Why would you think that, Mom?â
His voice trailed off into a whine at the end of his sentence, and she studied him for a moment, then sighed. âWhat is going on?â
He hesitated, then gave in. âY/N is coming over later,â he said, biting his lip and averting his mother's eyes for a second. âSheâs going to teach me how to swim.â
His momâs eyebrows lifted. âYou already know how to swim.â
Riki exhaled loudly, running a hand through his damp hair. âI know I lied.â
He knew it was stupid, but there was nothing he could do about it now.
âWhy did you lie?â she asked, switching back to English while she set the laundry basket down.
âBecause I didnât want to surf,â he said, the words coming out faster than intended, more defensive than he wanted. âI didnât want to go in the water. I didnât want to look stupid in front of everyone. So I said I canât swim.â
His mom stared at him.
He stared back.
Then she let out a short, disbelieving laugh.
âWhat?â he said immediately.
She shook her head slightly, still smiling, like she couldnât believe what she was hearing. âYou lied because you didnât want to tell them youâre scared of the ocean?â
âYes.â
She looked at him for a second, then shook her head again. âYouâre ridiculous.â
He frowned. âIâm what?â
âRidiculous,â she repeated in Japanese.
He crossed his arms. âIâm not ridiculous.â
She stepped closer, reaching out to fix his hair with a small, almost automatic gesture. âYou are. And you're nervous about Y/N coming over.â
He looked away. âIâm not nervous.â
She smiled, small and knowing. âYouâre nervous.â
She dropped her hand, then turned toward the door. âYouâre going to be fine,â she said over her shoulder. âSheâs a clever girl, Iâm sure sheâll figure out you lied.â
âMom.â
âWhat?â
He bit his lip. âDonât say that.â
She turned back, smiling again. âWhat? Iâm being honest.â
He groaned, shaking his head.
His mother laughed softly, then walked away, leaving him alone with the mirror again.
Riki looked at himself one more time.
He felt ridiculous.
He felt nervous.
He also felt⊠kind of terrible about lying.
đŒ â.Ë đ đ đĄâ.Ë đŒ
You arrived at one thirty sharp.Â
He was helping his mom wash the dishes when the doorbell rang, and his hands froze in the soapy water. Next to him, his mother looked up at him with a telling look. âGo get the door.âÂ
He nodded and dried his hands off on the towel he had slung over his shoulder.Â
For a long second, he just stood in the hallway, staring at the door, then at his mom, then back at the door.
Riki took a deep breath.
Then another.
Then he crossed the hallway and opened the door.
You were standing there with a bag slung over your shoulder, with your hair pulled up into a loose bun, a few strands escaping around your face. It made him think of the way angles were portrayed here, pale, with blond curly hair and flowy dresses.
You lookedâŠ
You looked good.
He knew he was staring, but you didnât seem to mind, smiling up at him.Â
âHi.â
He blinked, then realised he hadnât said anything back.
âHi,â he managed, awkwardly stepping back. âCome⊠in.â
He held the door open for you, and you stepped inside, ducking under the frame slightly like you were used to it.
âThanks,â you said, dropping your bag by the door.
He closed the door behind you and turned around, suddenly very aware of how quiet the house was.
His mom was watching the two of you from the kitchen, one hand on her hip, a small smile on her face.
Riki ignored her.
âDo you want something to drink?â he asked, the words coming out faster than he meant them to. âWater? Tea? I think⊠we have tea.â
You looked at him, eyes crinkling at the corners. âWater is fine.â
He nodded quickly. âOkay. Water.â
He turned toward the kitchen, then stopped, then turned back to you again. âWait.â
You tilted your head. âWhat?â
He gestured vaguely toward the hallway. âYour bag. You can⊠put it there.â
He pointed at the coat rack, then realised that was a stupid thing to say.
You smiled, picking up your bag. âItâs okay, Iâll put it here.â
You set it down beside his, and suddenly they were both standing in the hallway, just looking at each other for a second.
He felt ridiculous.
He felt like he was fifteen again.
Having a crush on that one pretty girl in his class, whom he ended up never talking to after all.Â
But he was talking to you, wasnât he?
You laughed softly, breaking the silence. âYouâre nervous.â
He frowned. âIâm not nervous.â
You were smiling now, like you knew he was lying.
âSure,â you said, nodding, raising your eyebrow.
He didnât know what to say to that, so he just turned and walked toward the kitchen instead, where his mom winked at him, then turned to you.
âY/N,â she said warmly in English. âHello.â
You turned immediately, your expression lighting up.Â
âHi, Mrs Park!â you said, stepping forward with that same easy energy you always had. âHow are you?â
âIâm good,â she replied, her accent still thick when she was talking in English. âYou look nice today.â
âThank you,â you beamed at her.
She looked at you, then at Riki, then back at you. âWhy are you here?â
âIâm trying to teach Riki how to swim.â
Riki felt his face go hot.
His momâs eyebrows lifted. She turned to look at him, one eyebrow higher than the other. âWell,â she chuckled, âwe did teach him when he was a kid. It apparently didnât stick.â
Riki didnât say anything to that; he just looked at you, then at his mom, then at the door to his parents' garden, wanting to escape this situation as fast as he could.
âCome on,â he muttered, already moving toward the hallway. âWe should go.â
You laughed, following him outside.Â
Once you were out the door and he had closed it behind you, he let out a quiet breath.
You laughed again, softer this time. âAt least you have a base to go off of then,â you said. âIâm sure we are going to get you to swim in no time.â
He looked at you. âAre you sure?â
You smiled, nudging his arm lightly. âOf course, swimming is like riding a bike.â
He shook his head, but he couldnât stop the small, reluctant smile from forming anyway.
The tiles were hot under Riki's bare feet as you were walking towards the pool.
Riki set the dish towel down and looked at you, then at the water again.
You started unbuttoning your dress, revealing a simple swimsuit underneath. Your hair came down from the bun, falling around your shoulders in loose waves. He had to swallow and avert his gaze for a second, his face growing warm once again.Â
Instead of thinking about how the blue fabric was working really well with the tanned colour of your skin, he started undressing as well, pulling off his t-shirt and slipping into the water first, the cold sending a shock through his skin, when he sank down onto one of the stairs.
You followed him, stepping in slowly, the water lapping at your feet.
He took a breath, then blurted out the first thing his mind could come up with. âHow are your sea urins?â
You blinked, then laughed. âWhat?â
He tried again, slower. âYour⊠sea urins? How are they?â
You smiled, shaking your head. âMy sea urchins! Theyâre good.â
âDid they⊠swam?â he asked, the word coming out wrong again, and he willed the floor to open up and swallow him on the spot.
You laughed again, softer this time, and his heart swelled a bit. âSpawn,â you corrected gently.Â
âSpawn,â he repeated.
You nodded. âYeah.â
He looked at you, then at the water. âDid they⊠spawn?â
You shrugged, smiling. âNot yet. But they will soon.â
He nodded, not knowing what else to say for a second, but he didnât have to. You began moving, sliding from the stair the two of you were sitting on into the water.Â
âShould we try getting a bit more comfortable with the water? Jay said he might think youâre scared of the water, and thatâs why you donât want to swim?â
Riki nodded and hummed; it sounded rather unhappy even to his own ears, but he started moving as well, the water coming up to his waist.Â
âAre you?â You asked, already having walked even deeper into the water, but smiling at you.Â
âIâm not scared of the pool,â he shrugged, but stopped moving. âIâm scared of the sea.âÂ
âBecause of the animals?â You swam closer to him again.Â
He nodded and watched your movements. You seemed so comfortable in the water.
âThe waves? I donât like the waves,â he said, gently bending his knees to get his upper body under water.Â
You hummed and came to a stop in front of him, your legs bent as well, so the two of you were suddenly the same height. He felt your eyes studying his posture, his face, and after a second, you gently moved your hand towards him. âLetâs try floating.â
He looked at you.
âWith me,â you added quickly. âIâll hold you. I promise itâs not as scary as it sounds.â
He hesitated.
Then he nodded.
âOkay,â he said and gently put his hand into yours.
You gave it a small squeeze and pulled him a bit deeper into the pool. He let you guide him towards the middle of the shallow end, the water now coming up to your chest when you stood up. He stayed crouched down in the water, watching you move.Â
âFloating is pretty easy,â you said, putting your hands to your hips. âI love floating on my back, and I think itâs really relaxing, and youâve been kinda floating forward since we've come in anyway.â
He didnât answer, just kept his eyes on you while the water gently lapped against his collar bones.
âCan I get you into a floating position? I promise I wonât let go of you.â
Riki hummed in agreement, moving closer to you.Â
You reached out, placing one hand on his shoulder and the other on his lower back. âLean backwards,â you said gently. âJust a little.â
He hesitated, then did as you asked.
The moment your hands touched him, goosebumps broke out across his skin. Not from the cold this time.
He didnât understand why your touch felt like that. You were just⊠touching him.Â
You didnât seem to notice, or if you did, you didnât say anything. Instead, you carefully guided him into position, your hands firm but gentle.
âSee?â you said. âYouâre floating.â
You were a lot stronger than you looked. He could feel it in the way you held him up, steady and sure. He knew he was heavy; his shoulders were broad, his chest solid from all the hours he had spent at the gym.Â
âYouâre shaking,â you said, grinning. âAre you cold?â
âYeah,â he muttered, taking a deep breath while you moved around his body, your hands not leaving his skin.
âFrom the water?â
âYeah.â
You laughed. âYouâre so dramatic.â
He scowled, but he didnât move away from your hands.
The feelings of them against the back of his neck caused another wave of goosebumps to build on his skin. You adjusted your grip, guiding him into a better position. âOkay, now just relax your arms. Let them float. Iâm gonna hold your head up.â
He did, slowly, letting his arms drift out to the sides.
âOkay, big boy,â you moved backwards slowly, dragging him with you. âNow put some tension in your body, stretch your stomach and back as if you were arching up to the sky.â
He did as you said, tightening up the muscles in his back and stomach, while one of your hands wandered in between his shoulder blades, slightly pushing him upwards.Â
You laughed a bit, the sound being distorted by the water in his ears. âBreath, Riki, you have to breathe.âÂ
He didnât realise he had closed his eyes, but they shot open the second he did take a breath, and it somehow threw him off enough to move forward, slightly out of your reach, and suddenly he was unsupported.Â
The water surged under him, and he panicked.
His arms flailed, his feet kicked, and he went under for a moment before he breached the surface, coughing, water in his nose and ears, his heart hammering in his chest.
You were laughing.
He was laughing too, even as he gasped for air.
Your hand shot forward and grabbed his arm, pulling him back toward stability.
âOkay,â you said between laughs. âOkay, Iâm sorry. Iâm sorry. No breathing while you are floating.â
He coughed again, wiping water from his face. âYouââ he started, then stopped, then laughed harder.
You were still grinning, your eyes bright with amusement. âIâm sorry,â you said again, though you didnât sound very sorry at all.
He shook his head, still laughing. âYou almost drown me.â
You snorted. âI drowned you? You suddenly jerked forward when I told you to breathe, Riki!â
âYes!â He grinned at you and shrugged. âYou have to hold me!â
âI was!â You laughed again, and Riki splashed some water at you, which made you shriek and cover your face for a second.
âHey!âÂ
âSorry,â Riki said, grinning, taking a few steps backwards in the water in case you wanted to splash water back at him.Â
You opened your mouth, looked away, and laughed again. âYouâre not, shit head.âÂ
Riki pretended to be offended, putting one of his hands against his naked chest before doing a small, almost mocking bow, which caused you to press your lips onto each other while you chuckled. âI am very sorry.âÂ
âMhm, right,â you swam in his direction. âLetâs go again before I decide to actually let you drown in the shallow end of your parents' pool.â
đŒ â.Ë đ đ đĄâ.Ë đŒ
An hour and a few more successful tries at floating later, you both settled into the shallow end of the pool, the water lapping gently around Rikiâs waist as the sun dipped lower and lower.Â
It was slowly cooling down, a slight breeze making the water seem warmer than the world outside.Â
Riki leaned back against the edge, resting his arms on the concrete.
âSo,â you turned to him, tilting your head slightly, âdo you like Australia so far?â
He thought a moment about the question. He wanted to answer with a yes, but he knew that wasnât the truth.
He didnât know if he liked Australia.Â
Sure, there wasnât something he particularly disliked, but also nothing he had really come to like.
Riki opened his mouth, then closed it, then tried again.Â
âI⊠donât know,â he said finally. âI havenât really⊠done anything.â
You raised an eyebrow. âWhy not?â
He searched for the words in English, fishing around for something that made sense. âI⊠donât know how to say it.â
You waited.
He shrugged, looking down at his hands. âI miss⊠my friends,â he said slowly. âMy routine. I⊠always struggle with change.â
After a second, he continued. âI was just⊠hanging out with Jay.â
You nodded, giving him a small smile. Then you tilted your head again. âIs it weird? Having a stepdad and a stepbrother?â
âNo,â he said after a moment. âI like⊠Jay.â He paused, then added, âBut I donât⊠like my stepmom. Or my stepsister.â
You made a small, understanding noise. âOh,â you said softly. âDonât you miss your dad?â
He thought about that for a second. It was complicated. Has always been complicated. His dad wasâŠhis dad after all, so he did love and miss him to some degree, but he stillâŠdidnât.
âNot really,â he settled on, not wanting to go into more detail.
You just nodded again, only to grow silent for a second before smiling faintly. âIâm an only child,â you said. âI always dreamed of having a brother.â
He looked at you.
You shrugged, stretching your feet in the water. âIâm close enough to Jake that he actually counts as one.â
Riki huffed out a small laugh. âI thought⊠You two were a couple.â
You blinked, then laughed. âOh, my god.â
He felt his face go hot. âIâm sorry.â
You shook your head, still smiling. âNo, no, thatâs⊠thatâs actually kind of funny.â
He didnât understand why it would be funny, so he hoped you would just elaborate on that.
You glanced at him, smiling. âWe tried,â you said casually, like it was no big deal. âBut we realised quickly it wasnât a good idea.â
Riki blinked. âOh.â
You grinned. âYeah. Just⊠friends.â
A seagull flew over your heads, screeching loud enough to make Riki flinch at the sudden sound.Â
With a sigh, you leaned back against the edge beside him, the water rippling slightly between you. âSo,â you said, âyou like Jay, but not your stepmom or stepsister.â
He nodded. âYeah.â
The two of you grew silent for a moment, the only sound coming from inside, his mother listening to one of her favourite LPs, the Japanese city pop so loud that he could hear the lyrics clearly even through the closed doors and windows.Â
âYou know what,â you pushed yourself off the edge and swam to the middle of the pool, where the water was deeper, before you turned around, grinning at him. âLetâs do another round before we go out.â
He hesitated for a second, then pushed off the edge too, swimming after you.
When he came to a stop just a few feet away from you, you looked up at him with a teasing grin.Â
He realized belatedly that his feet were touching the floor while your arms were floating loosely at your sides, your feet were paddling in the water to keep you above the waterline.Â
He straightened up, water dripping from his hair, his shoulders, his chest. âYouâre so small.â
You narrowed your eyes. âI am not.â
âYou are,â he chuckled, shaking his head, lowering down to your level.Â
You splashed water on his face this time, the chlorine stinging his eyes slightly.
He blinked, wiping water from his face. âHey.â
You were smiling, entirely unrepentant. âIâm not small.â
He splashed you back.
You yelped, pushing water away from your face.Â
âOh, itâs on.â
You tried to swim away, but he was quicker. He caught up to you easily, his longer legs giving him an advantage, and hovered just behind you.
âI can walk more fast than you swim,â he said, turning to face you with a grin.
You just laughed, and then you did something he didnât expect: you hooked your arms around his neck and pulled him under.
The water surged over him, sudden and cold, and he came up a few seconds later, gasping, water dripping from his eyelashes.
You were laughing, completely breathless, just as drenched as he was, your hair now hanging down from your head, the strands almost brown now.
He stared at you for a second, then his hands shot forward, wrapping around your shoulders, and he tipped you back, trying to dunk you into the water again.
You laughed harder, gripping his wrists in a futile attempt to stop him before he could go through with it. The second he got your head under water again, your legs came around his waist, and he was again pulled down with you.Â
He bent up, and when you came to a standstill, you dropped your legs but didnât move backwards. Both of you were heaving, almost chest to chest, water lapping between you. You were still laughing, your hand pressing against his shoulder to stop him from moving closer.
He definitely saw the way your eyes raked over his upper body, the way your gaze flicked across his chest and shoulders before snapping back up to his face.
Your cheeks flushed, just slightly.
He didnât say anything.
He just looked at you, his chest rising and falling, water dripping from his hair.
You were so close he could see the freckles on your nose, the way the light caught the streaks in your eyes, the way your hair clung to your cheeks.
And for a second, neither of you moved.
âIâm going to let you drown the next time you get scared of breathing," you rolled your eyes in faux annoyance.
He grinned. âOkay, sure.â
You looked at him, then at the water.
Then back at him.
âLet's call it a truce for today and get out of the water. I think we both spent enough time out here today,â and with that, you let go of his shoulder and swam backwards a few stripes before turning around. Â
đŒ â.Ë đ đ đĄâ.Ë đŒ
Jake had a new favourite restaurant: Bettyâs Burgers, a small diner just down the pier, where one of his friends worked.Â
Riki was pretty sure that that very platonic girl friend was the reason why he was on the way to eat another hamburger and fries with extra mayo on the side. He had fallen in love with Mayonnaise here in Australia. It was so different from home, but so good, especially with those crispy and salty fries that Betty made.Â
A bead of sweat ran down Riki's back, and he sighed.Â
The heat had been unbearable the past couple of days, and being outside, the sun blazing onto his skin didnât make things better.Â
You were walking next to him, your shoulder brushing his every few steps.
He liked that, you being this close to him.Â
He liked that you were this tall. He didnât have to bend down when wanting to talk to you or when he hugged you. Sure, you were still a good bit smaller than him, but not as much as the girls back homeâŠback in Korea.Â
The thought made his stomach clench.Â
Home.Â
He wasnât sure what home was at the moment.Â
Even Jay didnât know what to answer when he asked him. He shrugged and told Riki that Melmair will feel like home as soon as life had fallen into a rhythm, after he had found friends, started uni.Â
Riki looked out at the water, his throat suddenly tight.
You were talking next to him, but he barely caught it.
âItâs actually really good,â you were saying, your voice lighter now. âEven if it might sound weird to you. We should try it sometimes, I amââÂ
âHow tall are you?â He interrupted you before he could stop himself.
You stopped, turning to look at him. âWhat?â
He gestured vaguely at you. âYourâŠheight? How tall are you?â
You tilted your head, like you were trying to figure out why he was asking. âOne point seven-five.â
âOver average,â you added after a second.
Riki nodded slowly. âOh. Thatâs really tall for a girl.â
You looked at him, your expression unreadable.
âAnd?â you said.
He blinked. âOh. Nothing.â
You stared at him for a second longer, then smirked. âYouâre weird.â
He felt his face go hot. âIâm not.â
You nudged his arm lightly, still smiling. âYou are.â
He just shrugged, and you went back to talking about toasties, having all of Riki's attention this time.
đŒ â.Ë đ đ đĄâ.Ë đŒ
Jake led the way inside, Bettyâs Burger already waving to his friend while Jay followed him, holding the door open for you.
Riki watched the way his cousin's face lit up when he caught a glimpse of the brunette girl, whom Jake had introduced as Cleo to him a few weeks back. He would have made fun of him if it werenât for the similarity of their situations. Riki just hoped that he didnât look as excited as Jake did whenever you were close to him.Â
It was kinda embarrassing how he was talking to Cleo, his voice a little too loud, his hands moving too much. He looked like he was trying way too hard to be cool.
You laughed lowly behind Riki, and he turned his head slightly to see what was funny, only to realise that you were also watching Jake being hopeless.Â
âJake should just give up,â you whispered, your voice right next to his ear.
Riki felt his face get warm. "Give up?"
You chuckled, glancing at him. "She's like three years older than him. And sheâs way out of his league. The boyfriends I know of were all on a supermodel level, and Jake isâŠJake.âÂ
Riki's stomach dropped.
"Jake is pretty and charming," Riki said, the words coming out a little faster than he wanted. "And dating older is not problem if he likes it."
You looked at him, surprised. "Oh. I would never date someone younger."
Riki blinked. "Why?"
You shrugged, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Most younger guys are idiots. And not mature."
Riki frowned, trying to find the right translation for what you have just said, giving in before silence could develop between the two of you. "What is mature?"
âMature?â You glanced at him, pursing your lips and humming. "It means⊠You think about other people. You don't just do whatever you want. You're responsible. Like a mom? Or a dad? Most women are a lot more mature than men their age, so it's more common to date older men."
Riki thought about that for a second.
Then he looked at you, trying to sound like he was joking. "So⊠am I also not mature?"
You chuckled before you brushed past him, following the other two to your usual table.
âI guess you can be, Riki,â you said, slowly nodding, still smiling. "I mean, youâre still young, right? At twenty, I was high at the beach if I wasnât at work or at school, so itâs cool if youâre not super mature yet.â
Riki frowned at that. He didnât think he was immature or irresponsible. He had loads of responsibilities and was very reliable.
âI prefer to date older, though," you added while you slid into the booth. âItâs just easier. They are usually a bit more upfront about what they want and feel more emotionally stable. Most of my friends who have boyfriends also like to date older.â
He nodded slowly, giving you a small smile, before sliding in next to you.Â
You were older.
You were older, and he was younger, and you thought he was immature.
"Hey. I mean, itâs totally cool if you like older girls, right? Itâs just my personal preference,â you reached out, nudging his arm lightly, your voice softer now.Â
Riki scrunched his nose, grinning at you, doing his best to hide the hurt. âIâm not.âÂ
You studied him for a second, then smiled, small and careful. "Cool?"
âYeah,â he nodded again. âCool.âÂ
Nothing was cool.Â
He didnât like older girls or women or whatever.Â
He had never liked someone older than him, aside from you.Â
And he didnât know what it was, why he was liking you the way he did, why he felt obsessed with you, wanting your attention, your time.Â
Cleo left your booth after everyone had placed their order, the same one you had given her the last three times, and you leaned forward, nudging Jake.Â
Riki used that opportunity and turned to his brother.Â
"Is it weird that Cleo is older than Jake?" he asked, his voice low, having switched to Japanese so neither you nor Jake could understand what he was saying.
"Why would you think that?" Jay frowned, but lowered his voice as well.
Riki hesitated, then answered. "I donât know. Y/N said it is not really a thing, that most younger guys aren't mature enough to date. And you know,â he paused for a second, âJake is younger?â
Jay's eyes shot from Riki to you and back again, and then he was silent for a long second.
Riki pressed his lips together. He shouldnât have asked that. He knew Jay wasnât stupid; he probably put one and one together and knew that this wasnât about Jake at all.Â
His brother took a deep breath.
"It's not weird," he said carefully. "It's just⊠her personal preference. Maybe."
Riki frowned. "You think so?"
"Yeah," Jay said. "She just⊠doesn't like younger guys. It doesn't mean that itâs weird at all, Riki."
Riki looked down at the table.
"Don't you think it's weird for me to like her?" Riki asked quietly, the words coming out slower than he wanted.
Jay hummed, thinking for a second.
"No," he said finally. "Y/N is pretty and outgoing and fun. And maybe not what I thought you would go for, but she's great nonetheless."
Riki glanced at him, then smirked slightly. "It sounds like you have a crush on her."
Jay rolled his eyes, but there was a small smile on his face. "We both know that that won't happen." He leaned in slightly, his voice quieter. "But I would have Y/N all on my own if I wanted her."
Riki huffed out a quiet laugh. "Right."
Jay grinned, but then his expression softened again.
"Riki," he said. "You should try."
Riki shook his head. "She sees me as someone to babysit. I don't think she'll ever see me romantically."
Jay studied him for a second, then sighed.
"You're right," he said finally. "But that doesn't mean you shouldn't try anyway. You are an amazing young man, Riki. And I am sure she knows that as well. JustâŠyou know, get to know her better, give her the chance to get to know you better. Developing feelings and admitting to them takes time, especially if itâs something you donât want to admit to yourself at first. Believe me, I'd know."
Riki didn't answer; he didnât know what to say.Â
Being gay, especially being gay in Korea, was something really scary. It was a dangerous thing to say out loud, to love loudly.Â
Jay had to hide himself, had to hide who he loved, while Riki was here moping around because he was crushing on a slightly older woman. He would never get shunned because he loved, he would never have to fear being verbally or physically assaulted because he loved a woman.Â
Jay couldn't just⊠like someone.
He couldn't just⊠try.
He had to be careful.
He had to hide.
He had to live with the fear that someone would find out.
Riki didn't have that.
He could like someone.
He could try.
He could fail.
But he could try.
And Jay couldn't.
It made him feel guilty.
And it made him feel angry.
âThank you, Jay,â Riki said, looking directly into Jayâs eyes, trying to convey just with his face alone how much his brother trying to cheer him up meant to him.
Jay winked. âItâs alright. And just so you know. I think youâre not as hopeless as Jake. Y/N does seem interested in you.â
Riki opened his mouth, but you interrupted him before he could answer his brother. âHey, that was my name, are you two talking shit about me?âÂ
He felt his face go hot in embarrassment. âWe werenâtâIââ
âWe were talking about how maybe he could try coming to the beach with us,â Jay interjected, kicking Riki's foot under the table. âHe doesnât look like a drowning dog while he is swimming anymore, so I thought he could come along?â
âYes,â Riki nodded. âMaybe.âÂ
âOh!â You lit up at that, turning to him, and Riki had to blink, while he tried to hide his surprise.
âFor sure! Are you feeling up to going into the ocean?â You asked, bumping his shoulder. âI promise the three of us wonât let you drown!âÂ
Rikiâs gaze flickered to Jay for a second, but his brother hit him again, harder this time, so he just nodded, croaking out a small. "Yeah."Â
đŒ â.Ë đ đ đĄâ.Ë đŒ
Riki got up with Jay the next morning, but he didnât go with him into the city.
He waited until Jay had left, until the front door clicked shut and the house was quiet again.Â
The printed map of the city, with the bus stops written out in both English and Japanese, just in case, was almost glaring at him from his desk.
When he had gotten home from the diner yesterday, he had sat down and actually started unpacking the rest of his room, had done his best at tidying everything up and realised that he most likely needed another closet or something else to stuff the vast amount of clothing he apparently owned into. Using the sudden sprout of motivation, called immature and being someone who had to be babysat, made him also tackle the immense list of tasks he had to wrap up before the semester would start in two months.Â
The first and most important part was to hand in his academic reports at the university.Â
He still had to figure out if he had enough credits to join in on classes or if he had to start over. Considering he had already done four out of the six semesters he had to do for his bachelor's, he prayed that he could get his Korean courses and grades credited.
Riki took a deep breath and got up from his bed, his knees cracking under his weight.Â
The bus ride felt longer than it was supposed to.Â
The twenty-five minutes felt more like an hour when he finally heard the name of his stop, the map carefully folded within his hands.
The university was a lot bigger than he expected it to be.Â
If he were honest, he didnât know what to expect. His aunt had sent him leaflets for different universities all over Australia, but for Riki, there wasnât really much of a choice. He wanted to stay with his family, so he only applied for the one in Melmair.Â
Most of his professors had agreed to send letters of recommendation, and his university handled the rest, sending over most of his documents. All he had to do was take a written test to prove his level of English. He still wondered how he passed that one, seeing how much he was currently struggling with the language. But writing and reading were much easier than speaking.Â
The building was modern, all brick and glass, with students still hanging around the campus despite summer break having started.Â
He followed two girls who seemed to be around college student age into the first building.Â
Riki tried to keep his distance, to not seem like a creep, but at some point, he just gave up and stopped. It would be no use following them around if they were not going to the department of arts, which he was currently searching for.Â
The signs hung above him were in English, obviously, some of them with words he had simply never seen before. After a few minutes of mindlessly walking around, he found a map of the campus. Riki cheered to himself and came to a halt in front of it.
Faculty of creative arts, building B.
He tried to memorise the map, the shapes of the buildings, their names, before turning around and moving in the opposite direction from where he came from.Â
He found his department and the secretaryâs office after a few wrong turns. Relief flooded him when he knocked on the door and heard a response coming from inside.Â
The woman behind the desk looked up, smiling.
âHi,â she said. âCan I help you?â
He nodded, trying to make his English sound steady. âI need to⊠hand in my documents and sign something? I transferred from Korea?â
He reached into his bag and pulled out the folder, handing it to her.
She looked through it, then looked up at him. âWhatâs your name?â
âRiki,â he said. âNishimura Riki.â
âMr Nishimura,â she repeated, smiling at him. âWhatâs your major?â
âDance?â
âOkay, let me take a look, and weâll get it sorted.â
He smiled back at her, nodding slightly.Â
âTake a seat, take a seat,â the lady gestured towards the chair in front of her desk, before she turned around and opened the door to one of the filing cabinets behind her.Â
The chair scraped along the floor when Riki pulled him out. He winced at the sound but sat down anyway, folding his hands over his lap, watching the secretary rummage through a folder.Â
âAh, look at that, yes, here it is,â she pulled out a few sheets of paper, putting them down onto the desk in front of him. âWe are just missing your signature here,â she flipped the page, âand here, to confirm that you agree with taking the required courses within our program that are necessary to graduate. Your university in Korea did not have enough credits in a few subjects we focus more on.âÂ
Riki blinked at her for a second and opened his mouth, before closing it and nodding, humming out a âokay.â
She handed him a pen and gestured for him to sign the documents.Â
Riki felt his face grow hot. He struggled a bit with understanding her accent from the get-go, but she had talked so quickly that most of it went over his head. âCould youâŠCould you repeat that? It was fast.âÂ
âOh sure!â She looked back at the document, then back at him. âWe just need you to say yes, that you donât mind having to retake a few courses you might have done already.â
Riki nodded again and moved forward to sign. He paused for a second after he had done so, his hand automatically having signed the document with his Korean signature, so he just did his English signature next to it.Â
âIâm sorryâŠit is Korean and English?", he said slowly.
âThatâs okay,â the secretary said, reaching for the papers, taking a look at his signatures. âMr Nisimura, will you also be taking one of the English courses? We offer the course for international as well as transferring students to make sure you will understand your classes well.âÂ
âI-â Riki blinked, his face growing even hotter. âNo? I donât know? Is it good?â
âYes, I usually recommend, especially those who arenât fluent yet, to visit one of them. There is one starting in two weeks. It is a four-week programme with classes starting at 8 am and going on until two. At the end, you will receive a language certificate,â she smiled apologetically at him before she opened one of the drawers of her desk, pulling out a colourful flyer and handing it to him. âIf youâd like, I can get the documents ready to get you enrolled in it.â
Riki took the flyer and skimmed over the words, his eyes getting stuck at the price of the course.Â
800 AUSD.
He knew his dad wouldnât mind paying that, but Riki still felt like he should ask him before he agreed to be enrolled in the course.Â
âCan I ask my parents?â Riki asked hesitantly.Â
âOf course, of course!â She nodded enthusiastically and handed him his folder and a few additional sheets of paper. âPlease just be sure to hand in your application as soon as possible.âÂ
âOkay.â
âPerfect, then we are finished here, Mr Nishimura,â the secretary gave him another dazzling smile, which Riki tried to return before he turned around and walked out as fast as he could without running. Â
đŒ â.Ë đ đ đĄâ.Ë đŒ
Somehow, he couldnât get himself to go home.Â
He knew that enrolling in that course would be a pretty good idea, considering he was indeed struggling with English and nowhere near an academic level of speaking or understanding the language, but he still feltâŠstupid.Â
When he first came to Korea, he was a middle school student, and he was thrown into classes right away, even though he wasnât fluent in Korean either. But somehow that was much easier than this was right here. He had met Junwon and Sunoo; somehow, the two of them âadoptedâ him, and suddenly he had two friends who were talking nonstop in Korean, helping him study and correct him. Riki suspected that the two of them were the sole reason why he picked up Korean as quickly as he did. Maybe it was also the similarity of the two languages.Â
English was justâŠharder. The sounds were different, the grammar was just unnecessarily hard, and sometimes the way words were pronounced made absolutely no sense.Â
Riki wandered off the main path, walking without really thinking, letting his feet take him around the campus.
He had found the cafeteria already, and just by the smell alone decided to bring food from home instead of eating here. He had also stumbled into your faculty, the department of Marine Biology. It was a nice building, next to the sea and with whales and other sea creatures painted along the walls.Â
A smile made its way onto his face. He could see you studying here, with your weird sea urins.
âŠurchins.
Maybe that English course wasnât a bad idea at all.Â
Riki kept walking, passing a few more buildings, when he suddenly heard music.Â
Very familiar music.Â
He slowed when he realised that he was standing in front of the building he would most likely spend a lot of time in as soon as the semester started again.
The windows to the dance studio were wide open, and the music was loud enough to be heard across the whole yard.Â
He chuckled and moved closer, so he could see inside.Â
A guy was dancing inside, his body moving in the rhythm to âBadâ. His movements were precise and powerful, very similar to Rikiâs style.Â
He nodded along to the beat, honestly impressed.Â
Riki himself had studied the choreography in his parents' living room, pushing their rug and sofa out of the way to make space in front of the TV. His mom had scolded him for scratching up the floor, but Riki had been careful, so her claims were unfounded, and she just let him do his thing.Â
He had been yearning to dance properly since he came here, and now there it was, right in front of him.
Riki could barely feel his feet before he was already moving towards the door to the studio, pushing it open.
The studio was bright and empty except for the guy in the middle of the floor, moving through the choreography. Sweat clung to his shirt, his hair damp at the temples, but his movements were sharp, clean, and confident.
Riki stopped just inside the door.
He watched for a few seconds, completely pulled in.
When the song ended, the other guy turned and finally noticed him.
âThat was good,â he said immediately, and the smile on his face was honest. âReally good.â
The guy looked at him, a little surprised, then smiled back.
âThanks,â he said, shaking out his sweaty hair.
Riki nodded once. âNo, seriously. Your rhythm is good. Very good.â
That earned him a wider grin.
The guy tilted his head. âYou dance?â
âYeah,â Riki mirrored his grin.
That seemed to catch the guyâs attention.
Riki hooked a thumb toward himself. âIâm Riki. Iâm a transfer student. Iâm in Major Bachelor of Creative Arts in Dancing.â
The other guy blinked.
Then his face changed.
âOh,â he said, pointing at him a little. âYouâre the guy Y/N told me about.â
Riki paused for half a second, then smiled despite himself. âShe did?â
âYeah,â the guy said, clearly amused now. âNice to meet you. Iâm James.â
Riki gave a small nod. âNice to meet you.â
James looked him over again. âYou know âBadâ?â
âYes,â Riki said, and there was no hesitation in it. âI can do the dance fullâŠly?â
James gestured at the floor. âLetâs go then, Riki, dude Y/N is teaching you how to swim.â
Riki let out a snort at that, dropping his bag next to the entrance. âShe told you that?âÂ
âHell yeah,â James nodded, fanning himself with his shirt. âShe was actually so excited to finally put her life guard course to good use when you almost drowned after she told you to breathe.â
âOh my god,â Riki felt his face grow warm, and he clicked his tongue in embarrassment. âShe startâno starteleded?â me?â
âAnd then had to save you from drowning in water that wasnât even as high as an elementary school kid is tall. Nice one, Riki,â James snorted, but moved towards the boom box standing under one of the opened windows. âCan you do it from top to bottom?â
âTop to bottom?âÂ
âLike from the beginning to the end?â James explained.Â
Riki nodded. âYeah. I can do bottom to top.âÂ
âTop to bottom.â
âWhatever,â Riki rolled his eyes and exhaled. âI hate English.â
âOh yeah, itâs shit,â the other agreed, squatting down to rewind the tape in the boom box. âOne of my friends, JJâhe is also in this major, but a year under me, or us? Whateverâ he came here when we were teens, and he has been struggling so badly back then.â
âOh man, school during summer. Iâm so sorry,â James snorted again.Â
âItâs okay. I have to study,â Riki shrugged and walked further into the studio.Â
James pressed play, and the first beats of bad vibrated through the room.Â
đŒ â.Ë đ đ đĄâ.Ë đŒ
The sand under Rikiâs feet was hot, almost painfully so, but he couldnât get himself to step into the water.Â
The sun was high, the sky clear, the water turning a deep, bright blue under the light.Â
You were sitting in the shallow water, legs stretched out in front of you, the tide lapping at your thighs.Â
The waves were bigger here than in the pool, rolling in with a steady rhythm that made Riki feel uneasy just watching them.
"Come on," you said, smiling, looking up at him when he hesitated at the edge of the water. "You've been swimming in the pool for two weeks. You're good enough now to try the ocean."
Riki didn't move; he watched a few of the surfers further in, how they fell and resurfaced.
"I don't know," he said finally.
You tilted your head, still smiling. "Yes, you do."
He shook his head. "No."
You stood up, brushing sand off your legs, and walked over to him. "I'm gonna be there with you," you said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. "I won't let you drown."
He looked at you, then at the water, then back at you.
"I know," he said quietly.
You nudged his arm lightly, taking a step back towards the water, holding both hands out for him to grab. "Then come on.â
Riki hesitated for a second longer before he took your hands and let you slowly pull him towards the water.
He felt stupid for being as afraid of the ocean as he was; he had spent his whole childhood living on an island for fucks sake. But he had heard and seen too many horror stories of people, young and old, succumbing to the force the ocean had within it.
The first wave moved over his shins, and goosebumps spread across his whole body. His hands gripped yours more tightly.Â
âItâs okay,â you mumbled, moving backwards slowly. "You're good.âÂ
Riki pressed his lips onto each other but let you guide him deeper, until the water came up to almost his knees. It was much colder than he expected it to be.Â
âDo you want to sit down and get used to the waves?â You asked, squeezing his hands for a second.Â
âYeah,â Riki mumbled, and you pulled him down.
The waves lapping at your waists, not even touching his ribs yet.
He watched the way the water moved, the way the waves rolled in and out.Â
He felt ridiculous sitting there, but he didn't want to move further in. This was already as bad as it could get; it didn't matter that he knew how to swim now.Â
You glanced at him, then at the water. "Youâre doing well," you said. "Just⊠let it happen."
He nodded and tried his best to relax.
But his body didnât want to let go of the tension.
It was getting embarrassing.
He opened his mouth to say something, to tell you he wanted to move, to tell you he wanted to go back to the shore.
But before he could do that, a wave knocked him out.
It wasn't big, but it was enough to knock him off balance. He went under for a second or so, the water surging over him, the cold hitting him all at once.
He panicked. For a second, he didnât know what to do; water was stinging his eyes, filling his ears and nose. He quickly got up, his feet finding the sand, and when he heaved himself upwards. Your hand shot forward, pulling him up with you as he got up on his own.
He reached for you, grabbing your shoulder for stability, heaving. âShit.â
âYouâre alright. Itâs fine. Nothing happened,â he felt your fingers on his face, brushing his drenched hair out of his face.Â
He tried to blink at you, but his eyes were still stinging from the salt.Â
You took a step closer, one of your hands now wrapping around his biceps.Â
It was only a moment later that he realised how close they were.
His chest was almost pressed to yours, his arm still wrapped around your shoulder, and he could feel the warmth of your body through the wet fabric of your swimsuit. Your hand was still on his face, brushing water from his cheeks, and he could feel the heat of your palm against his skin.
Riki moved backwards, pulling you out of the water with him.
You said nothing for a second, just letting him calm down before you gave him a soft smile.Â
"Okay," you said, your voice soft. "That was a bad demonstration of the ocean not being scary."
He chuckled dryly, still gripping your shoulder. "Yeah."
You smiled, your thumb still brushing water from his cheek. "I'm sorry."
He didn't say anything.
He just moved towards the beach, not letting go of your shoulders.
He felt ridiculous.
He felt like a kid.
He felt scared.
But he also couldnât let go of your shoulder until he was back on land.
When he deemed the two of you safe, he let go of your shoulder, wiping the water from his eyes and face, trying to get his racing heart to calm down.Â
đŒ â.Ë đ đ đĄâ.Ë đŒ
The two of you ended up going to his house, which was closer to the beach than yours, and you would have come over later anyway. You, Jay, Jake and Riki wanted to watch a movie today, Jake begging you to finally watch Village in the Mist. His brother had immediately agreed, and Riki didnât really care; he had seen the movie in the cinema and then plenty of times after Jay had bought the VHS. He was just wondering why you agreed. The movie was in Korean, and as far as he knew, you couldnât understand Korean.
The Rubik's Cube he had been playing with since you had started to shower had a few of its colourful stickers lifting off from the plastic. He would have to buy a new one soon, but he didnât know what else to do while he waited for his turn.Â
âHey Riki!â Your voice startled him. âCould I borrow pants and a shirt from you? I donât wanna wear a dress later.â
âOh,â he got up, looking around his room for a second before he got going. âYes! Iâll bring you some.â
He rummaged around his closet, searching for something that would fit you and then decided that you probably wouldnât care. âIs long pants okay?â
âSure thing!â your voice drifted through the closed door.Â
The pants he ended up choosing were some he had worn so many times, the black colour had faded to a dark sort of grey from being washed one too many times. They were soft and a bit too short for Rikiâs liking now, but he had loved them when he was younger, so he couldnât get himself to leave them in Korea.Â
He knocked on the door to the bathroom, and it opened a few seconds later. Your hair was still dripping wet, and the towel he had given you was wrapped tightly around your upper body, stopping just over the swell of your breast, revealing enough that he could see the lighter skin that the sun rarely got to touch. He quickly averted his gaze and focused on your face, your hair.Â
âThanks,â you said, and he could feel his smile widening.
âNo problem.â He handed you the clothes, his fingers brushing yours on purpose. âDo you need a hair dryer? Your hair is very full ofâŠwater? There is a word for that,â he frowned. âIts âwetâ in Korean, but I donât remember the English word.â
You nodded and scrunched your nose. âWet?âÂ
âWet,â Riki repeated and watched droplets falling from your hair against your skin and the tiles in the bathroom. âYour hair is wet. So do you need hair dryer?â
âNo, itâs fine. Iâll let it air dry. Do you have gel, though?â You scrunched your hair slightly, and your usually so bouncy curls just straightened out again.Â
âGel?â He tilted his head. âLike hair gel?â
You nodded, and he hummed. âYes. It smells weird.âÂ
âThatâs fine,â you grinned at him and opened the door a bit further to let him into the room. The bathroom was small, steam hanging in the air. He never understood how some people could take hot showers even in the summer, but you apparently liked it. Riki opened the middle drawer of the bathroom cabinet, rummaging to find Jayâs hair gel. He rarely styled his own hair at the moment, mostly leaving it flopping around his face, or stealing one of his mom's headbands when it was annoying him.Â
âHere,â he handed you the tube and let you go to the mirror again.Â
âThank you!âÂ
Instead of walking out and leaving you to do your thing, he just stayed and watched your reflection work the gel into your hair. Your fingers worked almost methodically, squeezing gel out of the tube and then spreading it throughout one part of your curls, scrunching it and recurling singular stands.
He frowned a bit. âIsnât your hair going to turn hard?âÂ
You glanced at him in the mirror. âNot really. Itâll be scrunched out later.â
He stepped closer, just enough to invade your space without actually touching you. His eyes followed the way your fingers moved through your hair, then dropped to your neck, then back up to your eyes. Before his head could catch up with what his hands were doing, he had already reached forward, taking one of the wet stands in between his own fingers. He was careful, slow, twirling it around his finger with deliberate tenderness.
Your eyes followed the movement in the mirror, but you didnât do anything to stop him.
âIt feels weird,â he mumbled, taking another stand, your hair wet and slimy at the same time. It felt heavy against his fingers.
âYeah,â you agreed and resumed styling the other side of your hair.Â
Riki slightly tugged on your hair, wanting to see your reaction.Â
Your eyes narrowed a bit and flickered from your hands back to his reflection. âRiki, if you do that again, I will let you drown the next time a wave hits you.â
He pulled the strand again, then grinned like a cat that had just caught a bird. âYou like me too much to do that.â
You turned around and leaned your hip against the sink, crossing your arms, raising your eyebrows. âWatch me, Park.â
He twirled the strand back into a curl, letting it fall against your bare shoulder, his knuckles grazing your skin.
âNishimura,â he corrected, his voice dropping lower, almost a purr. âMy last name is Nishimura.â
You looked up at him, seemingly confused at that. âYou didnât take Jayâs dadâs family name?â
âNo.â He took another strand, his fingers lingering near your neck. âI wanted to keep my dadâs.â
âNishimura Riki,â you repeated his full name, still looking up at him, and Riki felt bold enough to get even closer to you, almost caging you against the sink.
âYeah,â he nodded and crooked his head to the side. âMy Korean name is Oh Cheol-soo. But I really hate that name.â
âMhm,â you hummed, your eyes flicking to the side, as if you were thinking about something. âJake is Jaeyun, right? Why didnât you choose one that was closer to your original name?â
Riki shrugged. âMy mom chose it for me.â
âOh, well then, why didnât she?â
âMy dad chose my Japanese name,â Riki shrugged. âMy parents werenât on good terms when they got separated. I think she wanted to finally give her only son a name she chose, you know?â
âWouldnât it be easier to go by Cheol-soo here in Australia? Riki Nishimura is a mouthful,â your gaze followed his finger as he wrapped strand after strand around them.Â
He grinned and pulled on one of them when he noticed what you had said. âOh yeah, it is.â
You laughed and hit his chest lightly, but he caught your wrist before you could pull away, holding it there for a second too long. His thumb brushed over your pulse point, slow and deliberate.
âHow the hell do you know dick jokes but forget how to use proper grammar sometimes?â you asked. âWhatâs wrong with you?â
He only gave you a crooked, infuriating grin and shrugged again.
âIâm just built fun,â he said, then leaned in a little closer.Â
You blinked.
His fingers were still on your wrist, his thumb tracing slow circles over your skin.
âAnd you,â he added, eyes flicking to your lips and back up to your eyes, âare just too old to be fun, apparently.â
You exhaled with an exhausted laugh and shook your head. âGet your head out of the gutter, Nishimura. I might be older, but Iâm still capable of being fun.â
âRight,â Riki winked at you and pulled back, letting your hair fall against your shoulder. âIâll let you alone. Call me when youâre done.âÂ
đŒ â.Ë đ đ đĄâ.Ë đŒ
The stairs creaked under his weight when Riki walked downstairs after his shower. You had already made your way downstairs, standing in the kitchen together with Jake and Riki's mother, while Jay was sitting on the sofa, his head resting on the backrest with his eyes closed. Riki almost pounced on his older brother, genuinely excited to see him.Â
It was weird how empty the house felt with his parents and his brother at work. Riki hated how he had missed Jay three days in a row, sleeping when Jay left and coming home from the dance studio or hanging out with James and his group of friends when Jay was already sleeping. He had almost yearned to see his brother, to tell him about his day, to tell him how he was finally having fun.
Jay groaned when Riki landed on him. âRiki, you are heavy.âÂ
âAm not,â he retorted, but let go of Jay, only to box into his side. âIâm just excited to see you, and you donât even appreciate my love.âÂ
âI appreciate your love if it doesnât include you throwing yourself onto my poor, fragile body,â Jay huffed, but a smile grew on his face while he pushed at Rikiâs arm. He gave up after a second and let Riki squeeze himself next to him on the sofa, half on top of him, half dangling off the armrest. âYou had a good day?â
âNo,â Riki answered, both of them switching to English. âI got drowned by a wave and will never get close to the ocean again.âÂ
âYou didnât drown, Riki.â Your voice drifted in from the kitchen, and you appeared behind the sofa, a bowl of popcorn in your hands, while Jake carried a pitcher of what looked like very cloudy lemonade.Â
âI did,â Riki assured, raising his eyebrows. âShe convinced me to try swimming in the ocean, and a wave came and drowned me.âÂ
âWe were sitting in the shallow end, and there was one, one, wave with a bit more force, and Riki lost balance for like a second,â you clarified, when you saw Jayâs questioning facial expression. âI promise, Jay, I didnât let your baby brother drown.âÂ
Jake set down the pitcher and let himself drop onto Riki in a very similar fashion to how he had done with his brother before. âMove Riki, if you didnât drown, that means I get a sofa space, and you go on the floor. I actually had to work today. Iâm exhausted.â
âHey, I had English classes, I also exhausted. Am. I am also exhausted!â Riki tried his best to shove Jake off him, but his cousin just wedged himself in between him and his brother.Â
âI donât care, go to the floor,â Jake insisted.Â
âSit on the floor, Riki,â Jay said in Korean. âShe is also gonna sit on the floor.âÂ
His head shot up, and Riki caught his brother's eye. âWhat?â
âActually, no, stay here,â Jake tried to get up from the sofa. âI do not want to see you hopelessly flirting with Y/N all evening.âÂ
Riki felt heat rush to his face, and he blinked at Jake. âIâm not-â
âJake, shut up.â Jay hit his cousin's head and pulled him closer, holding him so Riki could escape to the floor.Â
âWith how much youâre talking in Korean, I should be taking a Korean course instead of Riki doing the English one,â you said, your hands on your hips while you watched the three of them wrangle around on the sofa.Â
âYes!â Riki said and let himself drop to the floor, sitting between his brother's legs. âKorean is easy.âÂ
âItâs not,â Jake shook his head, but let Riki take the space on the floor. âItâs shit to learn.âÂ
âYou, Jaehyun Sim,â you pointed at him, âshould not be saying that. Your parents only talk to you in Korean, and you went to a Korean church, so itâs not shit for you to learn if you know most of the stuff.â
Jake shrugged. âItâs still shit.â
âWhatever,â you shrugged and let yourself drop to the floor next to Riki, sitting similarly to him, in between Jake's legs.
Riki always thought it was so interesting how the two of you were this close, but werenât dating. Jake had told him that it was just like this, that the two of you were friends since day one and how he loved you in the way he loved his brother. Riki had just nodded and changed the topic, hoping Jake didnât catch on.
âRiki,â Jay nudged his head with his knee. âCan you put in the tape?â
He groaned but got up, searching for the VHS tape before pushing it into the TV and rewinding it back, before hitting play.Â
Riki made himself comfortable between Jayâs legs, Jayâs hands automatically finding their way into his hair out of habit, and you seemed to do the same, but instead of watching the TV, you turned towards him, opening a book he hadnât noticed before.Â
âAre you going to read?â he tilted his head at you.
You pursed your lips. âI wanted to spend time with Jake, and he wanted to spend time with the two of you watching a âvery cool movieâ that I wonât understand, so yeah, Iâm gonna read.â
Riki just nodded, a small smile tugging at his mouth.Â
đŒ â.Ë đ đ đĄâ.Ë đŒ
Around the middle of the movie, his stomach gave a quiet but very audible rumble. He pressed his hand against it, willing the grumbling to stop, but it didnât help, and a minute later the sound came again.
You looked up from your book. âAre you hungry?âÂ
âYeah, a bit,â Riki hummed.Â
âDo you wanna cook something? We only ate fries at the beach,â you put your book down, giving him all his attention.Â
âNot really?â Riki pursed his lips and leaned back, nudging Jayâs thigh with his head. âHyung, do we still have sushi?âÂ
âSushi?â Jay asked. âI think, yeah?â
âOkay, cool,â Riki shrugged and nodded at you. âDo you want sushi?â
âSure?â
âOkay,â he got up, using Jay to push himself up, and lending you a hand to pull you up. âCome on, then.â
You followed him into the kitchen, the house quiet now except for the faint sound of the movie drifting from the living room.
Riki opened the fridge, scanning the insides for the sushi he knew his mom had made for dinner yesterday. He found the container buried underneath an unhealthy amount of cream cheese, which he decided not to question.
âDid you eat sushi before?â He asked while he cracked the lid open, peering inside the box.Â
âI donât know,â you said, settling against the counter behind him, watching him as he unboxed the uncut rolls. âI think I ate something similar at Jakeâs? His mom packed kimpap for school a lot. Is it similar?â
Riki hummed and nodded, stepping beside you to get a cutting board and a knife.Â
âGimbap,â he corrected your pronunciation and cut into the first roll. The seaweed was a bit soft, now that it had been wrapped around the rice for hours. âItâs the Korean version? Maybe? Sushi is fish and gimbap with meat, and eggs and vegetables.âÂ
âOh,â you shrugged. âI donât really like the green thing on the outside, or at least as a child I didn't, and I gotta be honest, I haven't eaten it in a while.â
âDo you want to try now?â Riki asked, holding a piece he just cut up for you.Â
You nodded and reached forward, taking it from his fingers and putting it into your mouth. He watched you chew and popped the end of the roll into his mouth.Â
You shrugged and hummed. âIâm not sure if I like it.âÂ
âWait,â Riki turned around to the fridge, pulling out soy sauce and wasabi. âTry together.âÂ
âTry it together,â you repeated the sentence, but obediently did as told, blinking rapidly, your face scrunching together as soon as you chewed it once. âFuckâ
Riki belatedly realised that he had given you the amount of wasabi he liked, which might have been a lot for you if youâd never had it before. âIs it spicy?â
âYeah?â You nodded, rubbing your nose. âOkay, I think Iâll stick to the normal one.âÂ
âIâm sorry,â Riki apologised and handed you another piece.
You sniffed and shook your head. âItâs fine. Iâm just horrible with spice. Your aunt always cooks a very, very mild version of whatever dish sheâs making for me.â
Riki laughed at that and gave you another piece, before plopping one into his own mouth. Â
You leaned back into the counter, holding a hand in front of your mouth while you yawned. Your hair caught his attention. It was different now, crunchy from the gel, stiff where it had been soft and wet before.
His fingers twitched. He wanted to touch it again.
âWhatâs the movie about?â you asked, leaning back on your hands.
Riki shrugged, taking your dishes and putting them into the dishwasher. âItâs about a village that gets fog, and people start disappearing. Some ghosts, some weird stuff.â
You nodded, watching him. âHave you seen it before?â
âYeah,â he crossed the room again, settling against the counter, so he could look at you. âMany times. With my friends. With my brother.âÂ
âDo you like it?â Your eyes stayed on him, mustering his figure.Â
âItâs okay,â Riki made a âso-soâ gesture with his hand. âIs your hair dry now?â
âMy hair?â You asked, surprised, one of your hands wandering to your hair, as if you had to check if there was still any moisture within the strands. âAlmost?â
He reached forward, his fingers finding a strand of your hair. He curled it around his index finger slowly, watching your reaction, waiting to see if youâd pull away.
You didnât.
The strand was crunchy now, stiff from the gel, and he could feel it clearly against his skin. He gently tugged on it, watching as your hair jumped back to a curl. âItâs hard now.âÂ
âA bit,â you said, scrunching your nose. âItâs gonna be scrunched out later. Then itâll be fluffy.â
He curled the strand around his finger again, slower, deliberate. âIâve never seen hair like this before. In Asia.â
His eyes were on your face, watching the way your lips moved, the way your gaze flicked to him and then away. âDo you like it?â
He pulled the strand slightly again, letting it bounce to a curl, before straightening it again. âVery much.â
You sighed, but there was a smile tugging at your mouth. âI wanted to get a perm soon. I really like the fluffy hair. But it would damage it even more. My hair is already in a bad shape from all the sun and the salt water.â
He pursed his lips, his fingers stopping in your hair. âThen donât. Youâre already pretty.â
You clicked your tongue, narrowing your eyes at him. âAre you flirting with me?â
He pretended not to know the word, tilting his head like he was genuinely confused. âFlirting? Whatâs that?â
You opened your mouth, before closing it again, leaning forward a bit, coming closer to him. âWell, Nisihmura,â you said, like you were about to explain something obvious. âItâs when someone is being all suggestive and annoying on purpose because they want attention.â
He hummed, slow and teasing, like he was really thinking about it. Then his mouth curved.
âAh,â he said. âThen yes.â
Your eyebrows lifted.
âYes, I am flirting. Thank you for noticing.â
You looked almost scandalised, but there was amusement in your eyes. âThatâs too sad for you, honestly.â
He let out a quiet laugh. âWhy?â
âBecause your tries are useless.â
He put a hand to his chest as if you had wounded him. âUseless?â
You nodded, looking far too pleased with yourself. âIâm not dating younger.â
He blinked once, then leaned a little closer, just to annoy you. âOh? Are you sure?â
You didnât move away.
Instead, you leaned forward too, your voice dropping as you looked right at him.
âYeah, Nishimura Riki. I am.â
The way you said his full name made something in his chest flip, stupid and warm and way too fast.
Then you leaned back, turning away from him.
He stared after you for a second, a small exasperated laugh escaping him.Â
You were halfway out of the kitchen when you paused in the doorway, turned back, and looked at him over your shoulder.
âAre you coming?â
He grinned immediately, slipping off the counter.
âObviously.â
In the living room, the two of you settled back onto the floor, but this time you were closer than before, close enough that Riki could feel the warmth of you even without touching. You rested your head against Jakeâs leg in a similar fashion as he was to Jayâs, opening up your book again.Â
Riki watched you.
He didnât even try to hide it.Â
He just stared at the way your hair caught the light, the way your fingers moved over the pages, the way you kept glancing up at the screen even while you read.
Jay nudged his head, breaking his focus.
âCreepy,â he muttered in Korean, voice low.
Riki just shrugged, lips still curved, and finally looked away from you. He was pretty sure that you were not so sure about what you had said before, considering the small smile on your face.Â
đŒ â.Ë đ đ đĄâ.Ë đŒ
Rikiâs backpack felt heavier than it usually did. His feet felt like they were made out of concrete, every step requiring more energy than usual. He was looking forward to falling into his bed, sleeping for a couple of hours and then annoying Jay into cooking curry for him. James had convinced him to go to the gym yesterday, and Riki might have overdone it a bit, his body sore in places he didnât know he had muscles.
He was halfway home when he spotted you sitting on his front porch.
You were tucked into the shade, one leg bent, a magazine open in your lap like you had been waiting there for a while. He slowed down, then stopped completely, eyebrows lifting as he looked at you.
âWhat are you doing here?â
You glanced up, not seeming half as surprised as he was.Â
âRiki!â Your face lit up. âYou got picked to go grocery shopping with me.â
He blinked. âI did?â
You nodded like this was the most obvious thing in the world, then folded the magazine shut and stood, holding it under one arm. âMy momâs birthday is tomorrow, so Iâm in charge of groceries. Dad wonât let me cook, and Mom has very specific ideas for the decorations, so Iâm the official shopper.â
Riki stared at you for a second, trying to take in what you just said. He was aware that your mother was going to celebrate her birthday, but he didnât understand why he was involved.Â
âAnd Iâm⊠helping?â
You hesitated just a second, pressing your lips onto each other, your gaze flipping to the side for a second before you gave him a look that was almost shy. âI knew you were free, and we havenât had time to hang out for like two weeks. So, I was wonderingââ, you shrugged, pretending like he couldnât see your cheeks flush slightly. âif you wanna⊠come along?â
He felt his mouth twitch.Â
Right, his tries were useless.Â
It wasnât a coincidence that the two of you hadnât seen each other; he wanted to see if his feelings were wronging him, if you were really uninterested, or if it was like Jay said, just a hard pill to swallow that you were having a more or lessâŠunconventional crush.Â
âSure,â he said slowly, nodding.
You looked relieved, and he only grinned wider at that. âGive me a second, Iâll drop my bag inside.â
âOkay, yeah, do that,â you bit your lower lip and smiled,d and Riki had to physically stop himself from cooing. He didnât know where his sudden boldness came from but he loved it, the way you seemed to finally carve in.
After getting rid of his bag and changing into shoes that did not reek from sweat, after dancing in them for hours, he followed you towards your car.
âOh no,â he said, frowning with exaggerated suspicion as he climbed into the passenger seat. âDo I have to fear for my life now?â
You shot him a glance. âI am a very reliable driver.â
âSure,â he said, reaching for the grab handle and holding on with mock seriousness. âWhatever you say, Y/N.â
You started the car, and the two of you pulled out of the driveway with the afternoon sun warm through the windshield.
đŒ â.Ë đ đ đĄâ.Ë đŒ
Rikiâs new favourite thing was going to be watching you drive.Â
You were slightly bobbing your head with the rhythm of the music coming from the radio, your hair flying around your face with the wind, one of your hands loose on the wheel as you glanced at him.Â
âHow are your English classes?â you asked, seeming genuinely curious. It had been almost a full three weeks since his classes started, and he had to admit that they were a lot more useful than he had originally thought they were going to be. He actually enjoyed the routine, going to class, meeting with James and JJ and the rest of their friends. It felt good, as if he finally started to find his place here. Â
âGood?â He tilted his head. âTheyâre really helpful.â
You nodded, smiling. âYour English does sound a lot better.â
âMan, donât overexaggerate.â
âIâm not!â You sounded genuinely offended. âLook, youâre just doing the grammar more naturally now. Which is so nice.â
He rolled his eyes, but there was a smile tugging at his mouth. He did, and he was very pleased with himself that he did, and hearing that youâve noticed as well made something like pride swell up in his chest.Â
Before he could say anything else, maybe even thank you, you gasped and startled him, your hand almost darting forward, turning the volume up. Riki recognised the familiar melody of your favourite song.
âThe Beach Boys!â You exclaimed excitedly, and your voice immediately joined in.
Riki grinned. He had listened to this song so much that he knew the lyrics by heart. He sang along with you, hitting the harmonies on âSurfing, U.S.A.â, not taking his eyes off you. It was as if he was hypnotised, enthralled to just take you in whenever he had the chance to. He knew he was fully and totally infuriated by you, and it should be worrying him, but he also didnât care. He loved this, being around you, making you laugh, teasing you, blatantly and shamelessly flirting with you.Â
You were still singing when he suddenly noticed something, laughing before he grinned at you. âYouâre surfing Australia.â
âYeah,â you said, not even pausing. âAnd I have a blond updo.â
His eyes flicked to your hair for a second. âI like it.â
You laughed, a little amused, and then it clicked. âI know you like my hair, you told me so.â
He didnât even try to deny it and shrugged. âIt is pretty.â
Your smirk widened. âYouâve mentioned that.â
âYeah,â he said, voice low and easy. âBecause it is pretty. I love the blond, it fits you.â
You rolled your eyes, but it seemed almost affectionate. âItâs just blonde because Iâm in the sun and in salt water a lot. My natural hair is a lot darker.â
He didnât stop looking at you. He was just watching, the way your hair caught the light, the way your mouth moved when you spoke, the way you kept glancing at him even when you were trying to focus on the road.
âStop staring,â you said, though there was no real heat in it.
He turned more toward her, crossing his arms on the seat. âWhy should I? Iâm trying to imagine you with dark hair.â
You laughed in disbelief, but there was a smile on your face. âYouâre risking me driving us into a ditch by accident. Youâre distracting me.â
He leaned closer, putting his arm on the middle console, his voice dropping to something softer, more deliberate. âOh, do I distract you, Y/N?â
âYeah,â you said, and you pushed his face away with one hand, still laughing.
He leaned back again, grinning wickedly at you.
đŒ â.Ë đ đ đĄâ.Ë đŒ
The grocery store was a lot colder than it was in your car, and Riki had to suppress a shudder as you walked down the refrigerated section.
He was pushing the trolley, leaning onto his forearms, following you around. The dress you were wearing gave him a good view of the top part of your tattoo. He felt a bit like a creep staring at it, but he also couldnât stop; his fingers had been itching to trace the curved lines, the small flourishes that ran along your spine. Every time he saw it, he couldnât take his eyes off it.Â
You were scanning the shelves, murmuring the names of things as you checked them off, your finger tapping the paper as you moved from item to item.
âRiki, do you think we should just get one more can?â Your voice snapped him out of his daydreams as you held up a can of tomatoes. âI mean, three should be enough, but just in case?â
He blinked at you. âWhat?â
âFor the layered taco salad. Do you think three cans are enough? Weâre making a huge batch after all,â your voice trailed off as you read over the list in your hand again.
âMaybe,â Riki shrugged and came closer to you, peeking over your shoulder to pretend to be helpful, but the handwriting of your mother looked like chicken scratch to him and even if he wanted to, he couldnât read what was written there. âHow many bowls will we make?â
âThree? Four?â You glanced up, pursing your lips. âI donât know.â
âOkay, well four bowls,â Riki reached over your shoulder to grab another can, âfour cans.â
You hummed and shrugged. âThen we should get another can of beans. Can you go and grab one?â
His eyes flickered to the already full cart, searching for the cans of beans you had already put in there before nodding and walking down the aisle to grab another one.
You kept moving, and he kept following you, always a half-step behind.
After a while, you came to a halt in front of the snack display and even before you could reach for anything, Riki had already tossed three bags of his favourite chips, tossing them onto the never-ending pile in your cart.Â
When you turned around, a look of surprise on your face he just shrugged. âThey are my favorite.âÂ
âWell, but shouldnât we get some variation?â You grabbed a pack of onions and sour cream. âMaybe we should also get those. They are popular, right?â
Riki wrinkled his nose. He had tried those once and never again, the taste being disgusting enough that he had to get a chaser afterwards.
âNo,â he said, reaching past you for another packet of salted chips. âThis oneâs better.â
You frowned. âBut this is popular, too.â
Riki just shook his head, dropping the pack he was holding before wrapping an arm around your shoulder, pulling you into him and away from the shelf. He was honestly a bit surprised at how easy it was, how you just let him do it and didnât stop him or make any indications of pulling away.
âRiki,â you rolled your eyes. âNot everyone has the same taste as you.â
âYeah,â he said, grinning. âBut Iâm right. Everyone would hate it.â
âThey would not. And youâre not right.â
âI am.â
âNo.â
âYes.â
You shoved his chest lightly. âDick.â
âI do have a dick, yeah,â he said, and his grin grew even bigger on his face.Â
You rolled your eyes again, but you didnât push him away, pushing the cart while his arm stayed wrapped around your shoulder. It was a bit awkward, but he wouldnât dream of moving away.
đŒ â.Ë đ đ đĄâ.Ë đŒ
The next day, Riki came over to help with the preparations for the party. He didnât have much of a choice, his mom waking both Jay and him at the crack of dawn, informing them that they would be helping your mom. Not that Riki was complaining.
Your mom had greeted the three of them enthusiastically and immediately gave everyone a respective task. Riki had been chosen to help prepare the taco salad, together with no one else but you.
The kitchen was already a little chaotic when he got there. Bowls were all over the place, something was shimmering on the oven, and you were standing at the counter, dumping a can of beans into a sieve over the sink. He stopped in his tracks.
Your hair was straight.
The stands were longer than usual, coming down to your waist, curling up slightly at the bottom. It was swaying with the rhythm of your body. Riki realised belatedly that you were dancing and singing along to the music coming from the living room.
He shook his head and came up behind you, doing his best to walk as quietly as possible.Â
âThose look disgusting,â Riki said close to your ear. You flinched, almost dropping the sieve, your eyes widened when you turned around.
âRiki!â
âHi,â he grinned like a cat, tilting his head to the side. âYou good, Y/N?â
âI-â you blinked at him, before swallowing and shaking your head, looking back at your hands. âYeah, I am good. What about you?â
âYeah, also good, even better now that Iâm here,â he hummed, his eyes not leaving your figure even as he settled against the counter next to you. âHowâs your experiment going? Everything still alive?â
You glanced up from the sink, giving the beans one last shake. âEverything is still alive and looking great. Pass me that bowl?â
Riki hummed and reached behind him, passing you the bowl. You moved to unceremoniously dump the contents of the sieve inside.
âI thought the anemones would react more strongly to the chemicals, but they didnât, and they were doing well,â you said, already moving to the next can, popping it open with practised ease. âBut then I checked the pH levels, and they were off, like, way off, so I had to recalibrate everything.â
âIs it an issue for your thesis?â Riki asked, frowning slightly. You had been stressing over the experiment for weeks now, not receiving the results you anticipated and redoing it twice already. He felt bad for you, and at the same time, he felt a little bit stupid for only having to worry about his English course, but he had come to the conclusion that he hated your job, and Jakeâs and Jayâs. He hated being in offices or having to do research. Riki belonged in the studio, on the stage, dancing, singing, performing.
It was what made himâŠhim.
You shrugged and dumped the can into the sieve, letting the water drip down. âMaybe. I donât know. Iâll see.â
He passed you the second bowl before you could even ask, setting it down in front of you.Â
âIâm a bit worried about the coral samples,â you continued, âthey were supposed to show a decrease in growth rate, but they didnât, so I think the chemical concentration was too low, or maybe the water temp was too stable, which is weird because I changed it, but then I checked the logs andââ you paused, finally looking at him. âI donât know. It's whatever, I just want it to be over.â
He felt a smile growing on his face; despite the fact that you seemed genuinely upset, he couldnât stop himself.
âYouâre so cute when you talk about that,â he chuckled.
You huffed immediately, rolling your eyes, while washing your hands and drying them on the back of your pants. âIâd rather be a mad scientist than cute, to be honest. Maybe then my experiments would finally work.â
He tilted his head, grin widening. âWell, I donât really see you being mad while rambling about weird glibbery corals.â Riki scrunched his nose and wiggled his eyebrows. âYou do look really cute, Miss crazy mad scientist.â
You made an offended noise and moved to the kitchen island with one of the bowls of salad in your hands.
âIâm not cute,â you muttered, your lips coming out in a little pout, and Riki nodded indulgently, laughing under his breath.
âObviously very serious and not pouting like a little child.â
âRiki,â you whined again, huffing in annoyance as you turned around again. He grinned at you and handed you the other two bowls.
âY/N,â he tilted his head to the side mockingly, letting you set down the bowls before stepping away from the sink, right into your personal bubble.
He reached for your hair, his fingers sliding through the straightened strands. It was rougher than he expected. He tugged lightly on one piece, just to see your reaction, and your jaw tightened, but you didnât stop him.
Turning toward him, you leaned against the kitchen island, crossing your arms over your chest. âStop it.â
âStop what?â He pulled again.
âI thought you were here to help me, not annoy me,â you clicked your tongue.
âAm I not?â He let go of the strand, twirling another one around his finger like he usually did, a bit disappointed when it just fell back straight against your shoulder. âWhy did you straighten it?â
Your eyes flickered to his hands, and you hummed. âI wanted to look a bit more put together and elegant.â
He hummed, low and thoughtful, and then took a step closer. You had to tilt your head slightly to keep looking at him. âAre your curls not professional?â
You huffed and shrugged. âI donât know. Since mine are natural and not a perm, maybe?â
âI love your curls,â he muttered, and his hand came up to your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly along your jaw. For a second, he thought you might stop him, pull away or make him pull away, but you just took a deep breath and grinned up at him, raising your eyebrows. âI didnât know, wow such a surprise, Nishimura.â
âYou know,â he dipped his head forward a bit, âitâs cute that youâre always using my last name when youâre flirting, Y/L/N.â
Your eyes flickered from his eyes to his lips and back. âWho says Iâm flirting?â
He tilted his head to the side and pretended to think. âWhat did you say is flirting again? Being all suggestive and annoying on purpose because they want attention.â He hummed and tangled your face up a bit. âI think youâre flirting.â
Your breathing changed, coming out heavier, deeper against his skin. He could feel your pulse jump under his thumb, the way your body shifted slightly toward him. You werenât the only one affected by the proximity; his heart was going haywire in his ribcage, loud and fast and completely unhelpful.
He wanted to kiss you.
He wanted to embarrass himself.
He wanted to see if youâd let him.
He could feel your fight slipping, the way your eyes kept dropping to his mouth before flicking back up again.
Then you whispered, âRiki, we canât.â
âWhy?â he asked, voice low.
You looked at him, then away, and back at him again, and when you answered, it was against his mouth, so quiet he almost didnât catch it.
âBecause youâre twenty and Iâm twenty-three. We canât do that.â
His mouth curved a little, not because he was amused, exactly, but because the way you said it sounded a lot more like a warning to yourself than to him.
He tilted his head mockingly. âIâm not mature enough?â
Your eyes narrowed, but you didnât move away, staying just a breath away from him.
âY/N,â he whined playfully, letting your name stretch out. âIs that the issue?â
You didnât answer right away.
His thumb was still on your cheek. He could feel your breath, uneven now, could see the way your chest rose a little faster than before.
He smiled, small and calm. âI can assure you I am very reliable and responsible. There is nothing to worry about.â
You let out the tiniest breath of a laugh, but didnât move away, and Riki took that as a good sign. He leaned forward. The second he didâ
The kitchen door swung open.
Jake stumbled in carrying one of the food warmers, looking completely unbothered until he saw the two of you standing there, way too close, frozen in the middle of whatever this had been.
âOh,â he said, blinking once. âHey.â
Riki straightened so fast it was almost embarrassing.
You stepped back just as quickly. âIâuhmâhi Jakey.â
His eyes flickered between the two of you, and his mouth twitched like he was trying not to laugh.
âIâll go and see if my mom needs help,â you turned to Riki. âYouâre good with the salads, right?â
He blinked at you, but before he could even think of an answer, you had nodded and patted his arm. âPerfect, thank you!â
And with that, you squeezed past his cousin and disappeared out of the kitchen.
Jake burst out laughing the second you were gone.
Riki turned on him, his face scrunched up in annoyance. âYou ruined it.â
Jake laughed harder. âSorry, Ki. I didnât mean to interrupt.â
Riki made a noise of pure frustration. âJake.â
âWhat?â Jake asked, already grinning now.
Riki dragged a hand down his face. âWhy did you have to come in right then?â
Jake lifted the warmer slightly. âBecause I am supposed to wear this thing? Maybe donât try making out in a public space, and there will be no interruptions.â
âI was not about to make out with Y/N.â
âYou absolutely were.â
Riki groaned, covering his face with both hands. âI hate you.â
Jake just kept laughing, and Riki stared after where you had vanished.
đŒ â.Ë đ đ đĄâ.Ë đŒ
The party had officially started a few hours later, and the backyard was alive with music and laughter. People were spilling out of the house, groups forming around the pool, the food table, the drinks. Riki stood near the edge of it all, helping his mom with the drinks, a plastic cup in one hand, a ladle in his other.
The punch your mom had made was sticky and smelled so strongly of alcohol that he had decided to skip it totally, nursing a beer in between filling and refilling guests' cups.
He was slowly getting sick of smiling and pretending not to be annoyed by all of this, having to have small talk with random people his mom introduced him to.
Riki was busy staring at you.
You hadnât come up once to get some of the punch or anything else to drink.
You were busy being everywhere else. Laughing near the snack table. Talking to a group by the pool. Grinning up at a boy he vaguely recognised as Jamesâs brother, stealing his cup from time to time.
It felt like you were ignoring him.
It wasnât obvious. But you stayed as far away as you possibly could, when you usually stayed around him, even in bigger settings like this, occasionally checking in with him.
Riki knew it was foolish and childish to want your attention when this was your mother's birthday and half of the town was invited, but he was annoyed and frustrated and had to do his best to cover it up with a smile every time someone approached him.
When he couldnât, he just gave Jake the death stare.
âWhat happened to you that made you look this pissed?â His brother's voice startled him enough that Riki dropped the ladle into the fruit punch.
âJake happened,â Riki grumbled.
Jay followed his gaze across the yard, then let out a quiet laugh.
âAnd what did Jake do, aside from getting piss drunk right now?â
Jay raised his eyebrows.
âJake,â Riki said, taking a deep breath, âcame in the kitchen and ruined my chances with Y/N.â
Jay raised his eyebrows even higher and then turned around towards their mother.
âMom, can Riki and I grab something to eat? Are you good here for a while? Some of my friends just came, and I want to introduce him.â
His mother swivelled around, and Riki realised that he might have stayed away from the punch, but she had had plenty of it. Her cheeks were a bit flushed, and her grin stretched over her whole face. âJay, my son!â
She wrapped her hands around his shoulders and pulled him down into a hug, causing Jay to stumble a bit. Riki's hand shot forward to stabilise the two while he snorted. âMom, how much did you drink?â
Before Riki could react, her arm wrapped around him as well, and he pulled him into the hug, low enough that she could press her face between them.
âI love you so much,â she said, and they both laughed, a little surprised. âI am so proud of you. Look at you, finding your place here in Australia, finding friends, working a proper job.â
Riki laughed again and patted his mom's back. âMom, are you okay?âÂ
âYes, Riki,â she let the two of them go and nodded. âGo and eat, have fun, I will make your father help me.â
Jay leaned down and ripped one of the water bottles from the six-pack he had just brought. âMom, drink some water first, huh? You seem a bit drunk.â
âOh Jongseong!â She pulled him into another hug, suddenly switching to Korean, and Riki snorted, laughing openly at the state his mom was in. âYouâre such a good son, even if I didn't birth you, youâre my son. Understood?â
Jay helplessly looked up at Riki while he patted his motherâs back. âYes, Mom. I love you, too.â
âDrink some water,â Jay said, again, taking a step back, grabbing Rikiâs arm, who was busy trying to stop laughing.
âYeah, yeah,â she said, waving them away.
Jay did his best to pull Riki towards the food tables, escaping another potential crushing hug, before he slung his arm around his brother's shoulders. âSo what did Jake do to deserve you looking at him like that?â
Riki shrugged and told Jay just why Jake was deserving of that, with his voice low. âY/N and I almost kissed, but Jake got in between, and now sheâs ignoring me.â
Jay seemed genuinely surprised for a second. He looked at Riki, then at the sky and laughed.
Riki whined, voice lower than before. âWhy did Jake have to come in? I was so close.â
He pouted, and Jay laughed harder at him.
âJake probably thought it was just as awkward as you did,â Jay said. âAnd he was embarrassed afterwards.â
Rikiâs eyes narrowed. âHe did not. Y/N was, she basically running away. And now she isnât even looking at me. What if I read this all wrong?â
Jayâs head turned in your direction. He watched you for a second, then looked back at Riki and laughed again.
âMaybe,â he said. âBut she didnât push you away, right?â
Riki whined again, louder this time. âBut now sheâs ignoring me.â
Jay shoved him a bit, still laughing.
âBro,â he said. âSheâs not ignoring you. Sheâs just⊠thinking.â
Riki made a noise that was half frustration, half disbelief.
Jay laughed again, shoving him one more time.
âJust wait,â he said. âSheâll come back.â
đŒ â.Ë đ đ đĄâ.Ë đŒ
The fire on the beach was low but warm, the orange light flickering against the dark water and the sand. The house was still visible up the slope, a small group of people his age clustered near the steps, music drifting down from the party. The fire crackled softly, sparks rising in thin spirals before vanishing into the night. He was sitting close to it, close enough that the heat pressed against his skin, but not enough to make him sweat.
Martin was talking loudly about something, his voice carrying over the low hum of conversation and the distant slap of water against the shore. Riki wasnât listening. He wasnât even pretending to. His shoulder was angled toward the fire, his gaze half-lidded and unfocused, a beer bottle cold in his hand. The condensation made his fingers slick.
He was leaning back on one arm, his palm flat on the blanket, his body angled slightly toward the edge of the group, so when he heard laughter coming from the path to the beach, he didnât even have to move his head to see who was coming.
If he were honest, he didnât have to look at all. He knew it was you, as pathetic as he thought it was, he would recognize your voice everywhere. He still did and caught a glimpse of you and Jake coming towards the small bonfire, drinks and a few snacks in hand.
When you were close enough that he could actually make out some of your features, he turned his head back to the fire, willing his head to listen to his friend's story.
He tried his best to ignore how you handed out the bowls of salt chips and gummy bears, biting the inside of his cheek. It was embarrassing how much he hated all of this right now, the fact that he couldnât even look you in the face because he did something so stupid.Â
He should have just taken you seriously. You had told him several times to just give up, but he had to be stubborn, and now he potentially destroyed a friendship because he couldnât keep his feelings in check.
Much to his surprise, you ended your snack round with Jay, who was sitting next to Riki and let yourself fall onto the blanket next to Riki.
He didnât say anything.
He didnât know what to say.
âHey Y/N, sorry that I tried to kiss you and have been continuously flirting with you, can we just forget that? Thank you.â Riki shook his head and took another sip of his beer when he suddenly felt your hand brushing his.
It happened so softly he almost didnât notice it at first. Just the light press of your fingers against his, the warmth of your palm sliding over his skin.
He turned to you slightly, looking down.
You didnât look at him.
You just closed your hand over his, fingers warm, steady, deliberate.Â
He opened his mouth, then closed it again.
He was confused.
What were you doing?He shifted his posture slightly so he wasnât leaning on that hand anymore, wanting to pull away, but your fingers curled around his.
He didnât move away. For a moment, he wasnât sure if anything inside of him was moving, his chest, his heart, anything.Â
You were facing the fire, your profile against the low light, the orange glow catching the edges of your face, the curve of your jaw, the line of your neck. The firelight made your skin look softer, warmer, and his eyes flickered over your face without him realising it. He watched the way your breath moved, the way your hair fell against your shoulder, the way your hand stayed on his.
He could feel the heat of your hand on his skin. He could feel the weight of it. He could feel the way your fingers tightened, just a little, when you squeezed.
He wanted to say something.
He wanted to ask what this meant.
He wanted to ask if you were done ignoring him.
But you didnât look at him.
You just squeezed his hand, a quiet, firm pressure, and he looked away, right into Jamesâs face.
Jamesâs eyebrows were raised. His eyes flickered between the two of you, then landed on Riki with an accusing look that made Rikiâs mouth open.
He paused.
He closed it again.
James frowned for a second and just kept watching, his expression shifting from suspicion to something more like amusement.
Riki looked back at you.
You still werenât looking at him.
đŒ â.Ë đ đ đĄâ.Ë đŒ
Niki was in his parentsâ pool, sunk into the shallow part with his eyes closed, letting the cool water take the heat out of the afternoon.
The house was quiet.
Everyone else was at work.
There was only the soft slap of water against tile and the distant hum of traffic.
He had just come home from his classes, spent from just going there and having to use his full brain capacity to even take part in the conversation and slipped into the pool.
The silence was broken by the creak of the garden gate opening.
He sat up at once, water sliding down his arms, his heart giving one sharp jump before he even looked over. For a second, he thought maybe it was Jay or Jake, maybe they had wrapped up work earlier today.
Then he saw you.
âY/N?â
You stood by the gate for a beat, almost tentative, and then you smiled at him. Not the big, easy smile you usually had on your face, but a soft, almost tentative one.Â
âHey.â
He watched you come closer, watched you slip off your flip-flops, and then the dress you were wearing. You folded it carefully before sitting down on the edge of the pool, across from him, your feet dipping into the water. The surface trembled around your ankles.
For a moment, neither of you said anything.
Then, at the same time:
âWhy are you here?â âHow was your day?â
You blinked at each other.
He frowned a little, still trying to catch up. âGood. But why are you here, Y/N? Did we have something scheduled?â
You looked away, biting your lip before shaking your head. âNo. Do we have to?â
He shook his head too, still blinking at you in confusion.
âNo.â
You hummed and slid into the pool, swimming towards him, the water parting around your body, and by the time you stopped in front of him, you were close enough that he could feel your warmth even through the cold water.
Riki swallowed, his breathing growing a bit faster at the proximity and his heart racing. He didnât know what to do, what to think. You had been avoiding him, ignoring him almost for the last week. So he thought he had gotten the message, but now with you being here, being this close to him, he wasnât so sure anymore.
He stayed quiet, watching you carefully, waiting.
You looked shy in a way he hadnât seen much of before. Not nervous exactly. Just⊠careful.Â
Then you asked, âHave you come to like Australia more now that youâve been here longer?â
He let out a short laugh.
âYou already asked me that.â
You spluttered a little, embarrassed. âYeah, but now itâs been a while, and you found the studio and James andââ
He cut you off, not unkindly. âYeah. I do like Australia.â
Your expression softened immediately. âIâm glad.â
The two of you went silent again. It wasnât uncomfortable, but weird.
He hated this, hated how he had not been able to stop thinking about the party. About your hand in his at the beach. About the way you had almost let him kiss you, and then about the way you hadnât looked at him after. About the way you had ignored him all week.
Riki looked at you, really looked at you, and felt his confusion turn into something else he couldnât place. Anger, disappointment, maybe.
He didnât know if you had come here to talk. He didnât know why you were being so tentative now after being so bold at the beach.
He didnât want things to go back to just being friends with you, but it seemed like you wanted to pretend nothing had happened.Â
You pushed yourself off the wall, floating a few meters away from him, and asked, "You think you're good at swimming now?"
He blinked. "What?"
"You know swimming," you said, and he heard the tease in your voice, that little edge of challenge. "Do you think you're good at it now?"
He shook his head in exasperation. "Yeah, you know that."
"I know that you're able to not die in the water," you said, and he could see the smirk forming even before you said the next part. "I broke my personal best at the water gym today. I was wondering if you'd be quicker."
He laughed. "You wanna race?"
"I never said that," you shrugged, feigning innocence.
Niki clicked his tongue and nodded.
Seemed like he was wrong.Â
There was no pretending Saturday hadn't happened.
He pushed off the wall, coming close to you, towering over you a bit, the water shifting around you both.
"Okay, let's see if I'm quicker," he said, and then he started swimming.
He laughed and dived into the water first, fast and clean. You were right behind him, but he was faster, his arms pulling harder, his legs kicking with more power.
You hit the end of the pool a second later, breathless.
âShit,â you said, shaking water from your hair. âI didnât think youâd actually be faster than me.â
He floated back, smug. âIâm just better.â
âYou cheated.â
âI didnât cheat.â
âYou started before I did.â
He grinned wider. âYeah. I did.â
You shoved his chest, but he didnât move. âYouâre so annoying.â
âYeah,â he said, and he was still smiling. âBut Iâm fast.â
You rolled your eyes again. âI had to get up early. I was already in the water before you even woke up.â
âNo,â he said, and he was laughing now. âI have English classes today.â
You frowned. âYeah, but what could you have done that was so hard in English class today?â
He reached forward, fingers finding your wet hair, and twisted a strand around his finger, slow and deliberate. He loved your hair. âWe were reading short stories. Some of them were horrible. I had to put all of my head into it because they were from Shakespeare.â
You hummed, looking up at him, your eyes half-lidded. âBecause that pretty head of yours canât comprehend the art Shakespeare is.â
He laughed, loud and bright. âCan yours?â
You tilted your head. âIt can. I love love stories, even if Shakespeare wrote them.â
He raised his eyebrows, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. âOh, pretty mistress, I bethought thee didnât date.â
You hit his chest, hard enough to make him grunt. âIâm just not dating younger.â
He came closer, his voice dropping, his eyes dark. âAre you sure about that?â
Your eyes flickered between his eyes and his mouth, and you hummed, a soft, unsure yeah.
He hummed back, a mhm right at you, and then he reached out, pulling your hair again, leaning forward so close he could feel your breath on his face. âI think youâre lying, Y/N. And we both know it.â
Your breath hitched.
You clicked your tongue, and your hand came around his waist, pulling him even closer.
He was actually a bit caught off guard, his chest tightening, his pulse jumping, but before he could do anything else, you had pressed your lips against his, and you were â you were kissing him.
For half a second, Riki just froze, his brain not registering what was happening, until your hand buried itself in his hair and pulled slightly.
A groan escaped Rikiâs mouth, and he was finally spurred into movement. His arms wrap around your waist, pressing you closer against his body, the water around you sloshing against your upper bodies as he walked you backwards against the pool wall. You gasped into his mouth when your back hit the rough material of the stone, but Riki didnât care. He kept moving his lips against yours, keeping you as close as possible, feeling your heat coming off you in waves.
You separated from him, trying to get a breath of air before he was back at your lips. âAn exception, Nisihimura,â you leaned up again, pressing your lips against his. âYouâre an exception.â
Thank you so much for reading!
Lots of Love,
Patty
â YAP! â ââââ for this fic, I tried to work on my writing a bit more, for some it might be very inner monologue heavy, but I do like how it turned out! It's inspired by Jenny Han and Emily Henry, hihi! Feel free to tell me if you enjoyed this, I'm curious!
Say youâre writing an article about how to drive a man away. Say he reads it, and decides to turn you into a bet. Sunghoon isnât supposed to fall. Youâre not supposed to care. But somewhere between stolen looks, sharp words, and lines crossed on purpose, the rules blur. You stop pretending first. He confesses last. Everything explodes. And when the truth comes out, when the article goes live and hearts hit the floor, youâre left with one final choice: publish the ending⊠or burn it all down for him. A game of control. A collision of pride. And one very bad idea that turns into something dangerously real.
genre: Enemies-to-lovers âą Fake Dating âą Romcom with Teeth âą College AU âą Emotional Slowburn âą Messy Feelings âą Slightly Unhinged Romance âą Smut âą Angst
pairing: football captain!Sunghoon x school editor!reader
warnings: Cocky reader and cocky Sunghoon playing mind games.
Manipulation, gaslighting, toxic flirting, fake dating, hurt feelings.
Crack energy, angst, lots of yearning, and an asshole in love (he just doesnât know it yet), family PTSD, drinking, bets, parties, hurt/no comfort, language, rough kissing
warnings (smut): Explicit sexual content âą multiple sex scenes âą make up sex âą consensual intercourse âą oral sex (f receiving) âą fingering âą nipple play âą missionary âą belly bulge âą creampie âą praise kink âą dirty talk âą multiple orgasms âą aftercare âą emotional vulnerability during sex âą unprotected sex (they're fictional you're not) âą breeding kink undertones âą love confessions mid-sex âą sex when drunk (consensual)
cameos: Heeseung, Jay, Jake, Riki (from Enhypen) as Sunghoon's friends/teammates. Manon (from Katseye) as Reader's bestfriend. Keeho (from P1Harmony) as Reader's bestfriend. Sunoo (from Enhypen) as Reader's bestfriend. Sophia (from Katseye) as a supporting character.
inspired by: How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days
word count: 40.9k
Sam: a big thank you to the loml @si3rren (for helping me with motivation and deciding between Hoon's personality) and my other loml @siyalogue for reading it, i love you so! chat⊠K⊠if you ever read this, no you didnât. This is definitely not inspired by you and your aggressively affectionate relationship, which I secretly think is hella cute but will deny under oath.
[Better Than The Movies] [Masterlist]
PING!
HOW TO LOSE A GUY IN 10 DAYS!
An Incomplete Guide to Emotional Repellence, Strategic Chaos, and Why Men Fear Commitment
Spoiler: itâs easier than you thought.
If youâre reading this, congratulations.
You are either:
A woman who has just realized that modern dating is a psychological endurance sport,
A man who clicked this link out of spite, curiosity, or misplaced confidence, or
Someoneâs roommate, best friend, or lab partner who was forcibly sent this article with the caption âTHIS IS YOU.â
Welcome.Â
Letâs establish something immediately: this is not a how-to guide for the weak-hearted, the romantically hopeful, or anyone who still believes that âcommunicationâ fixes things. This is a social experiment, a field study, and, if weâre being honest, a public service announcement.
For years, weâve been fed the same recycled advice: Be chill. Donât text first. Play hard to get. Donât scare him away.
But what if⊠hear me out⊠What if we did the opposite?
What if instead of shrinking ourselves into palatable, low-maintenance versions of human beings, we leaned all the way in? What if we became everything men claim they want, just⊠all at once?
This article exists for one reason and one reason only: To answer the age-old question: How hard is it, really, to make a man leave?
(Spoiler: not very.)
Consider this your cheat sheet. Your cautionary tale. Your "do not try this at home... unless you're me, and you're petty, and you have a Substack deadline."
THE HYPOTHESIS
Men love the idea of romance.They fear the practice of it.
They adore:
mystery,
independence,
âcool girls who donât ask for much.â
They panic at:
emotional availability,
expectations,
a woman who remembers what they said last Tuesday and asks follow-up questions.
Thus, the experiment. Over the next ten days, I will attempt to drive one (1) willing male participant away using nothing but socially accepted behaviors that women are constantly told to suppress. No manipulation. No cheating. No cruelty. Just⊠too much honesty, too much affection, and too much presence.
I'm calling it: How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.
DISCLAIMERS (PLEASE READ BEFORE YOU GET MAD)
This is satire. If you feel personally attacked, thatâs between you and your conscience.
Names will not be used (unless you deserve it).
If this article ends your relationship, that relationship was on life support already.
If youâre a man reading this and thinking âThat wouldnât work on meââ
thank you for volunteering as our control group.
WHY THIS MATTERS (UNFORTUNATELY)
Dating culture is obsessed with control.
Who cares less. Who texts slower. Who âwins.â
But women are still penalized for wanting:
clarity,
effort,
reassurance.
Weâre told to relax, be patient, stop overthinking, while men are praised for doing the bare minimum with a straight face and a podcast microphone.
So instead of asking, âHow do I make him stay?âI asked a better question: How fast will he run if I stop pretending I donât care?
THE STRUCTURE
This is not a step-by-step manual. This is an incomplete guide, updated in real time, because frankly, watching this unfold is more fun than finishing it.
Each day introduces one strategic behavior designed to test a manâs emotional endurance.
Think of it as exposure therapy.
For him.
DAY 1: OVERSHARE IMMEDIATELY
Men say they want âemotional depth.â What they mean is: selective vulnerability, delivered slowly, with breaks for football.
On Day 1, we ignore that. Meet cute at a bar/coffee shop/dog park (pro tip: always pick a venue where escape routes are visible).Â
Objective: Establish emotional intimacy before heâs decided whether youâre âseriousâ or âcasual.â
Methods may include:
Mentioning childhood trauma on the second date. Not "my parents divorced," but "my dad left when I was seven because he said my mom's emotional unavailability was contagious, and honestly, I've been chasing unavailable men ever since, hey, therapy is expensive, but patterns are free!"
Casually referencing your abandonment issues before the appetizer arrives.
Using the phrase âIâve never told anyone this beforeâ while maintaining unbroken eye contact.
Expected reaction:
Initial concern.
Followed by quiet panic.
Followed by a sudden, very urgent need to wake up early tomorrow.
Notes from the field:Men claim they want honesty.
They just donât want it unscheduled.
Bonus points: Cry prettily while stirring your iced latte. Mention how you've already named your future cats after your exes (for closure). Watch his eyes glaze over like he's calculating the nearest exit.
DAY 2: BE TOO INVESTED
This is where we separate the boys from the men, and then watch both groups back away slowly.
Objective: Remove the illusion of low stakes.
Recommended tactics:
Ask about long-term goals unironically. Text him good morning at 6:47 a.m. Follow up at 6:52 with "miss u already đ„ș."Â
Mention baby names âas a joke.â By noon, casually mention you've been thinking about baby names. "If we have a girl, I'm leaning toward Seraphina Moonbeam, it's celestial but grounded, you know?"
Say âwhenâ instead of âif.â
Examples:
âWhen you meet my parentsââ
âWhen we live togetherââ
âWhen this becomes something realââ
Important: Do not laugh after saying these things.
Confidence is key.
Expected reaction:
Nervous laughter.
Statements like âLetâs not rush things.â
A sudden interest in âseeing where things go.â
Translatorâs note:âSeeing where things goâ means hoping you forget you said that.
Pro move: Call him "babe" in front of his friends. Refer to yourself as "your girl" in the third person. "Your girl was thinking we should do couples' yoga this weekend. Namaste, right?"
DAY 3: VIOLATE PERSONAL SPACE (CONSTANTLY)
Men love physical affection.
They just want to schedule it.
Show up unannounced at his gym/work/happy hour with "surprise!" energy. Bring homemade cookies shaped like hearts (bonus if they're slightly burnt, shows effort). Hug him from behind while he's mid-conversation with colleagues. Whisper, "I just couldn't wait to see you."
Objective: Remove his sense of autonomy without technically doing anything wrong.
Suggested behaviors:
Sitting too close.
Touching his arm while heâs mid-sentence.
Leaning your head on his shoulder unprompted.
Holding his hand in public for longer than socially necessary.
If questioned, smile and say:
âWhat? I just like you.â
This phrase is lethal.
Expected reaction:
He will say itâs âcute.â
He will not mean it.
Invade every boundary like it's your birthright. Sit in his lap at a bar stool built for one. Steal his phone to take selfies together ("for the 'gram!"). Text his mom from his phone: "Hey Mrs. [Last Name], [His Name] talks about you all the time. Can't wait to meet the woman who raised such a catch! â€ïž"
If he pulls away, pout and say, "I thought we were moving fast. You said you liked spontaneous!"
(He never said that. But gaslighting is just foreplay for the emotionally unavailable.) And that's just the warm-up.
PRELIMINARY OBSERVATIONS
After only three days, patterns begin to emerge.
Men are remarkably consistent in their responses:
They retreat when confronted with certainty.
They resist when desired openly.
They crumble when expectations are voiced out loud.
And yet, they insist women are âcomplicated.â
FREQUENTLY ASKED QUESTIONS
Q: Isnât this manipulative?A: No more than pretending not to care about someone you do.
Q: What if he likes it?A: Then congratulations. Youâve found a statistical anomaly.
Q: What if I accidentally fall for him?A: That is not covered under this study. Seek help.
WHAT COMES NEXT
Days 4 through 10 will explore:
Public embarrassment,
Strategic clinginess,
Jealousy induction,
Emotional availability at inconvenient times,
And the psychological impact of being loved on purpose.
Updates will be posted as the experiment progresses.
Until then, remember:
If a man leaves because you asked for too much,he was never planning to give you anything.
â
Yours truly,Xoxo
The first sign that something has gone terribly, beautifully wrong is the sound.
Not screaming. Not alarms. Not even the frantic slap of shoes against dorm hallways.
Itâs the ping. One phone vibrates. Then another. Then a dozen. Then the entire Decelis University network lights up like someone dropped a match into gasoline and stood back to admire the flames.
Screenshots travel faster than facts ever could.
By 9:07 a.m., the Decelis Uni Gossip Site crashes, not once, but twice. Someone screenshots the headline before the servers go down. Someone else screenshots the screenshots. By the time the site limps back online, the comment section has already evolved into a living organism with opinions, grudges, and a frightening amount of self-recognition. âIS THIS ABOUT JAKE???â ânah bc why does this feel personalâ âmen are already crying in the repliesâ âWHO LET HER COOKâ
Someone posts the headline, just the headline, on the Decelis Uni Gossip Site at 12:03 a.m., and by 12:05, itâs everywhere. Group chats with names like ECON101 SURVIVORS, DECELIS WAG CIRCLE, FOOTBALL FAM, DO NOT OPEN AT 3AM, all erupt at once. The article link is shared so aggressively it almost feels personal, like an accusation.
How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days. People donât even need to open it yet. The title alone does the damage.
By 12:10, screenshots of the opening paragraphs are circulating, highlighted, underlined, annotated with âNAHHHH đâ and âTHIS IS FOULâ and âWHO WROTE THIS???â in increasingly unhinged fonts. Someone zooms in on Spoiler: itâs easier than you thought like itâs a crime scene clue.
By 12:17, the comment section is unusable. Men are arguing with men who are arguing with women who are arguing with men who claim they âdonât even careâ but somehow typed six paragraphs anyway. Someone drops a Thinkpiece Thread explaining why the article is âharmful to modern dating,â complete with bullet points and a misuse of the word gaslighting. Someone else responds with a screenshot of Day 1 and the caption: if this applies to you, seek therapy.
It is chaos. Academic, romantic, existential chaos. By morning, itâs no longer contained.
Girls read it out loud in the dining hall, choking on their iced lattes between laughs. A table near the windows reenacts Day 2 verbatim, complete with fake baby name suggestions and dramatic hand gestures. Someone prints it out, actually prints it out, and pins it to a dorm bulletin board like a manifesto.
Guys pretend not to read it. They fail. They scroll in class, phones angled carefully behind laptops. They read it on the treadmill. In bathroom stalls. One of them snorts so loudly during a lecture that the professor stops mid-sentence and asks if everything is alright. He nods too fast, face red, phone face-down like it might bite him.
They react in three predictable stages:
Denial
Rage
âThis is satire but also sheâs evil actuallyâ
No one can agree on whether itâs funny or dangerous. Which, historically, is how you know youâve done something right. Professors are worse.
They donât acknowledge it, officially. They maintain the thin, polite illusion that nothing scandalous has happened on campus, that academia exists in a vacuum untouched by gossip and satire and emotional warfare. But you see it anyway.
A literature professor clears her throat before class and says, âSome of you seem⊠distracted today,â and then pauses just long enough for the room to vibrate with unspoken understanding. A sociology TA assigns a reading on modern dating dynamics that absolutely was not on the syllabus yesterday. A communications professor changes an entire lecture slide to include the phrase âviral rhetoricâ and definitely doesnât look at the back row when she says it.
The article becomes unavoidable. A shared language. A weapon. A joke. A mirror. The gossip site slaps a red banner on top of the article:
EDITORâS PICK â TRENDING
And somewhere between outrage and fascination, people start asking the real question: Who wrote this? Not in the curious way. In the reverent way.
The answer spreads slower, but when it hits, it hits clean. The school editor. You.
Oh. Of course itâs you. The realization settles like a chill.
You arenât just funny. You arenât just bold. Youâre precise. Youâre the kind of person who knows exactly how much damage a sentence can do, and writes it anyway. By noon, your name is being said with a mix of admiration and fear. By evening, itâs legend. And the thing is, you have no idea any of this is happening. Youâre in the shower.
Steam fogs up the small bathroom mirror, blurring the world down to soft shapes and muted sound. Your phone is abandoned on your bed, vibrating itself into exhaustion, screen lighting up over and over with notifications you canât hear over the rush of water.
You hum absently, some stupid catchy tune stuck in your head, shampoo dripping down your spine as you tilt your head back. Thereâs no drama in the moment. No grand awareness. Just warm water, clean skin, and the satisfaction of having finally hit publish on something youâve been sitting on for weeks.
When you step out, towel wrapped loosely around you, the world is still quiet.
Then you pick up your phone. Itâs hot to the touch. You blink at the lock screen, missed calls stacked like a to-do list, messages previewing in fragments.
DECELIS GOSSIP SITE: 99+ mentionsMom: ARE YOU INSANESophia: THIS IS EVERYWHEREVice-editor (DNI!!): PLEASE TELL ME THIS IS A JOKE
fentanyl eyelash extensions (groupchat):MMWICKEDWITCH: IâM SCARED OF YOU (AFFECTIONATE)
Sunoobiteme: THE FOOTBALL TEAM IS LOSING IT
Keehovirus: THE COMMENTS?????
You scroll. And scroll. And scroll. Your reflection stares back at you from the darkened screen, hair damp, expression unreadable, mouth quirking just slightly at the corners as the reality settles in.
Oh. So it landed. You dry off slowly, deliberately, like youâre not standing in the epicenter of a social earthquake. You pull on clothes with the same unhurried precision you use when editing a sentence for maximum impact. By the time you sit at your desk, towel draped over the chair, laptop opening with a soft click, you look exactly like what everyone has decided you are.
The school editor. Not the title they hand out. The one you earn. You open the gossip site and watch the numbers climb in real time, views ticking up, comments refreshing faster than you can read them. You donât respond. You never do. Your silence has always been part of the brand, whether you intended it or not.
People think that makes you untouchable. Theyâre right. You lean back in your chair, scrolling through the chaos you set loose with a calm that borders on dangerous. Somewhere on campus, friendships are being tested, egos bruised, arguments ignited. Somewhere else, men are reading your words and seeing themselves in ways they deeply resent.
And you? You just hum again, softer this time, already thinking about the next update. You have ten days to finish the experiment. And apparently, the entire university has decided to watch.
The hallway is alive in that specific way it only ever is when something has happened.
Not the usual class-change chaos, bodies slamming into each other like pinballs, backpacks swinging wildly, voices overlapping in a desperate bid to be heard before the next bell. Not the end-of-day relief either, when exhaustion settles over everyone like fog and people shuffle toward exits with the slow relief of prisoners released for the afternoon. This is different. This is buzzing, electric, threaded with whispers that slice off the second you pass by. The air feels thinner, pressurized, like everyone is holding their breath and pretending theyâre not staring.
You donât notice at first. Youâre laughing, actually laughing, the real kind that starts in your stomach and bubbles up without permission. Head tipped back slightly, strands of hair sticking to your lip gloss from the humidity that always clings to these old university corridors no matter how many windows they crack open. Earbuds in, music loud enough to drown out the world. Something upbeat and stupid and perfect is playing, maybe that one indie track everyone pretends they discovered first, the one with handclaps and a chorus that begs to be screamed in a car at 2 a.m. It makes your steps lighter, shoulders loose, hips swaying just enough that you feel invincible.
Your phone is in your hand, screen lit up with notifications youâre very deliberately not opening. The little red badges stack like accusations: 47, 82, 119 and climbing. You already know whatâs in them. You published. It detonated. That partâs done. Right now, youâre just walking. Carefree. Untouchable. Exactly the way people imagine you are when they scroll through your byline and picture someone who never second-guesses, never flinches, never cares.
You turn the corner without looking, why would you? The hallway is muscle memory at this point. Four years of the same route between the media building and the east quad, same chipped paint on the lockers, same faint smell of burnt coffee drifting from the student lounge.
And collide, hard, with something solid. No. Someone. The impact knocks the breath from your chest in a sharp, involuntary thud that echoes louder than it should. Your earbuds slip loose, one dangling against your collarbone like a broken promise, the music cutting out mid-chorus so abruptly the silence feels violent. Your phone nearly flies out of your hand, your heart lurches with it, but a reflexive grip saves it at the last second, knuckles whitening.
âShââ you start, already ready to snap, heat rising fast behind your ribs like a match struck, then you look up. And up. And, oh. Park Sunghoon stands in front of you like a brick wall someone sculpted shoulders onto and then forgot to add mercy.
Heâs fresh from football practice, and it shows in every infuriating detail. Black hair damp with sweat, pushed back messily with careless fingers like he didnât bother finding a mirror, or didnât care to. Strands stick to his forehead in dark, rebellious pieces. A gray duffel bag hangs from one shoulder, heavy enough to pull the fabric of his white practice shirt taut across his chest, outlining muscle that shifts subtly when he breathes. The sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, forearms corded and glistening faintly. His jaw is set, lips pressed into a thin line that suggests he was already in a bad mood long before you existed in his path.
He smells like effort. Like heat radiating off skin, clean cotton soaked through, the sharp bite of cedarwood body wash undercut by something rawer, adrenaline, maybe, or just the particular scent of someone whoâs spent two hours running drills until their lungs burned. Youâve seen him before, obviously. Everyone has. Football captain since sophomore year. Campus golden boy who somehow manages to look bored even when heâs breaking records. Untouchable in the way men whoâve never been told no often are, girls stare, guys want to be him or hate him, professors give him extensions without asking. But seeing him this close is different.
Too close. His gaze flicks down to you, cool and assessing, dark eyes scanning your face like heâs already decided something and is just waiting for the rest of the world to catch up. Thereâs a flicker of irritation there, brief, tightly controlled, before it smooths out into something unreadable. Almost bored. Almost. Silence stretches, thick and deliberate.
You straighten immediately, spine snapping into place, chin lifting on instinct. If he thinks for even a second that youâre going to apologize like you ran into him, âWatch it,â he says flatly, voice low, edged with the kind of exhaustion that comes from pushing your body past its limits and still having to deal with people afterward.
You blink once. Then smile. Not sweet. Not apologetic. Sharp. Polished. The kind of smile you use right before you dismantle someone with words so clean they donât even bleed until later. âMaybe donât walk like the hallway owes you space,â you shoot back, slipping your remaining earbud the rest of the way out and letting it dangle from the cord. âItâs a public university, not a runway.â
A couple of people nearby very obviously slow down, phones half-raised like theyâre waiting for the next viral moment. Someone whispers your name, your byline, really, like itâs a spell.
Sunghoonâs eyebrow twitches. Just once. The smallest crack in the armor. Like he didnât expect that. Like he expected contrition, or at least a stammer. His eyes drop briefly, to the phone still clutched in your hand, screen still glowing with unread notifications, to the way youâre standing your ground without even realizing how deliberate it looks, before returning to your face. Something shifts. Not softer. Sharper. Interested, maybe. Curious in the way predators sometimes are when prey doesnât run.
âDidnât realize bumping into people was part of your editorial process,â he says coolly, voice carrying just enough to make sure the eavesdroppers catch every syllable. Ah. So he knows. Of course he does. You laugh, not because itâs funny, but because the timing is impeccable, almost cinematic. You glance around exaggeratedly, like youâre searching for hidden cameras, then look back up at him with mock innocence. âWow,â you say, drawing the word out. âYou read it. Iâm flattered. Truly.â
âI didnât say I read it.â
âYou didnât have to.â Your eyes flick to his face pointedly, lingering on the tight set of his mouth, the faint flush high on his cheekbones that could be leftover from practice or something else entirely. âMen who havenât read it donât look this personally offended.â That earns you a reaction. Not a smile. God, no. But the corner of his mouth tugs upward, barely there, like a secret he hasnât decided to share yet. His grip tightens on the strap of the duffel bag; the muscles in his forearm flex under tan skin.
You hate that you notice. Hate that your pulse skips once, traitorously. âCareful,â he says then, voice dipping just enough to make it feel private despite the growing semicircle of onlookers pretending to tie shoelaces or check nonexistent texts. âYouâve got a reputation now.â
âOh, I had one before,â you reply easily, tilting your head so your hair falls over one shoulder. âPeople are just paying attention this time.â His gaze holds yours for a long second. Too long. Thereâs a strange weight to it, like heâs measuring something, testing balance, pressure, the exact distance between insult and invitation.
You feel it then. That tiny, traitorous flutter low in your stomach. Annoying. Inconvenient. Completely unacceptable. He tilts his head slightly, studying you like youâre a puzzle he didnât expect to enjoy solving. When he speaks again, his tone has changed. Lighter. Almost amused, though the amusement feels edged with something darker.
âStill might want to be careful,â he says.
You arch a brow, slow and deliberate. âIs that a threat?â
âNo,â he says, and then, there it is. That shift. That unmistakable change in energy, like someone flipped a switch behind his eyes. His voice drops, smooth as sin, quiet enough that only you can hear the next part. âAdvice.â He steps closer. Just one step. Barely anything. But the hallway suddenly feels smaller, like the walls have leaned in to listen, like gravity has tilted toward him. Youâre acutely aware of the height difference now, how you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes, how his presence eclipses the fluorescent light overhead, casting you in soft shadow. You refuse to move. Refuse to give him even that small victory. He leans down just enough that his breath brushes your temple, warm and faintly mint-scented from whatever gum he chews during cooldowns.
âWho knows,â he murmurs, lips curving into something dangerous, private, devastating. âMaybe yours truly will write another article about me.â He winks. Actually winks, one slow, deliberate drop of those stupidly long lashes. Then he straightens, already moving past you like this interaction was nothing more than a footnote in his day. The duffel bag shifts against his shoulder with the motion. His steps are unhurried. Confident. Untouched. He doesnât look back.
You stand there, frozen for half a heartbeat longer than youâd ever admit, heart doing something stupid and arrhythmic in your chest. Irritation and adrenaline tangle into something hotter, something that feels suspiciously like excitement. You hate that it worked. Hate that your fingers tighten around your phone until the case creaks.
Hate that your mind is already racing, not with insults or comebacks or the perfect tweet to clap back later, but with possibilities. With the way his voice dropped when he said advice. With the way his eyes lingered on your mouth for one second too many before he walked away. The whispers start up again behind you, louder now, phones clicking as people capture the aftermath like itâs evidence.
You exhale slowly through your nose, force your shoulders down, force your expression back into cool indifference. But your pulse wonât settle. Down the hall, around the next corner where no one can see, Park Sunghoon lets the smallest, most private smile curve his lips. He adjusts the strap of his bag, feels the ache in his quads from sprints, feels something else entirely, a spark, a challenge, a game he didnât know he wanted to play until right now.
He already knows your next article wonât be the last. And heâs already certain this was never going to be just an article. Sunghoon doesnât look back when he leaves you in the hallway. He keeps walking like nothing happened, like his pulse didnât spike the second your shoulder hit his chest, like your voice isnât still lodged somewhere under his skin, sharp and bright and irritating in a way he canât quite shake. Like the way you lifted your chin and smiled that razor-edged smile didnât just rewrite the rest of his afternoon.
The double doors to the athletic complex swing shut behind him with a heavy pneumatic sigh. The corridor noise fades, whispers, footsteps, the faint echo of your laugh still ringing in his ears, replaced by the familiar roar of the locker room. It hits him like a wall of sound and smell the moment he pushes through.
Metal lockers slamming in rapid-fire succession. Laughter ricocheting off the white-tiled walls like loose change. Someoneâs blasting a drill playlist from a cracked iPhone propped on a bench, probably Heeseungâs, because only he still thinks 2010s trap is motivational, bass rattling through the benches, vibrating up through Sunghoonâs cleats. The air is thick, humid, heavy with the unmistakable cocktail of fresh sweat, old sweat, Axe body spray someone over-applied, and the sharp chemical bite of disinfectant that never quite wins against the funk.
Itâs chaos. Controlled chaos. His territory. He drops his duffel bag onto the floor with a dull, satisfying thud that cuts through the noise for half a second. Rolls his shoulders once, twice, loosening the knots still pulled tight from two hours of sprints, suicides, and Coach screaming about footwork like theyâre prepping for the goddamn Super Bowl instead of a mid-season conference game against a team.
Normally, this is where his mind settles. Replays the film in his head: that missed block on third-and-long, the way Ni-ki over-pursued on the edge, how Jayâs route-running looked lazy in the red zone. He catalogs mistakes, files them away, moves on. Captain shit.
Today, it doesnât settle. His brain keeps rewinding to the hallway. To you. To the way your earbud cord dangled like you couldnât be bothered to fix it while you dismantled him with six words. To the way your eyes didnât flicker when he stepped closer. To the way your perfume, something clean and citrusy and annoyingly memorable, cut through the post-practice haze like a blade.
âYo, Captainâs late,â Jake calls from across the room, grin splitting his face so wide it looks painful. Heâs already half-dressed, towel slung low around his hips, hair dripping onto the bench. âThought you got lost in the media building or some shit.â
Sunghoon doesnât answer. He reaches for his locker, number 17, bottom row because heâs never been one for theatrics, spins the dial with the same precise flick heâs used since freshman year. 14-32-7. Click. Another voice pipes up. Louder. Way too amused. âMore like Captain got distracted.â That gets his attention. He glances over his shoulder slowly, expression flat, eyes narrowed just enough to make the room feel ten degrees colder. âSay it,â he says, voice low and even. âWhatever it is you think youâre being subtle about.â
The room erupts. Whistles. Hoots. Someone, probably Jungwon, does an exaggerated wink so dramatic he nearly falls off the bench. Phones are already out, group chat notifications pinging like popcorn. âHallway,â Jake says, not even trying to hide the shit-eating grin. He leans forward, elbows on knees. âYou and the school editor. Full rom-com collision. We all saw the stories.â
Sunghoon freezes for half a second. Not outwardly. Not enough for anyone to screenshot and meme later. But inside, something sharp twists, annoyance, mostly. The fact that they noticed. The fact that the entire east wing probably has shaky vertical videos of the moment by now. The fact that he noticed how your lips curved when you fired back. âI didnât know you were into journalism now,â Jay adds from his locker two down, pulling on a hoodie. His tone is casual, but his eyes are sharp, watching. âThought your type was⊠quieter. Less likely to write think pieces about your entire personality.â
Sunghoon shuts his locker a little harder than necessary. The metallic bang echoes. âShe ran into me,â he says coolly, like that closes the subject. âSure,â Ni-ki snorts, lobbing a balled-up sock in Sunghoonâs direction. It bounces off his shoulder. âLooked more like you ran into *trouble*. She didnât even flinch, bro. Just smiled like she was about to drop another article titled âWhy Football Captains Should Stay in Their Lane.ââ
Laughter explodes again, louder, rowdier. Someone mimics your tone perfectly, throwing out a fake sarcastic line thatâs uncomfortably close to what you actually said: âMaybe donât walk like the hallway owes you space.â The room loses it. Sunghoon exhales through his nose, slow and controlled. He shouldnât care. He really shouldnât. He hates gossip. Hates how fast it spreads on this campus, like wildfire through dry grass. Hates how people take one thirty-second interaction and turn it into campus lore by dinner. Heâs spent four years keeping his name clean, his image disciplined. Captain. Leader. Untouchable. The guy who shows up early, leaves late, wins games, and doesnât give anyone ammunition. And yet.
The article flashes in his mind uninvited. How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days: A Campus Guide to Dodging the Golden Boy Trap. He hadnât planned on reading it. Hadnât wanted to. But the link was everywhere, pushed into the team group chat at 11:52 a.m., screenshotted in the defensive lineâs Snapchat, joked about between sets on the squat rack like it was harmless banter.
He read it anyway. Not all of it. Skimmed. Enough. Enough to recognize the voice behind the words. Sharp. Calculated. Funny in a way that cut without drawing blood right away. The kind of writing that didnât beg to be liked, it dared you to keep up, and then laughed when you couldnât. It dissected the archetype, the charming, talented, slightly arrogant athlete who gets everything handed to him, and pinned it to the board like a butterfly.
It shouldnât have bothered him. But it did. Because it wasnât stupid. It wasnât sloppy. It was intentional. Confident. And worse, it assumed something about men like him that hit a little too close to home. That they expect adoration. That they crumble when challenged. That they never see the trap coming.
âYou shouldâve seen his face when she clapped back,â Heeseung says now, snapping him back to the present. Heâs leaning against a locker, arms crossed, smirking. âShe didnât even blink. Just hit him with that editor stare, like sheâs already drafting the follow-up in her head.â âThat girlâs got teeth,â Jake adds, shaking his head in mock awe. âCampus is eating it up. Twitterâs on fire. Someone already made a thread called âSunghoon vs. The Pen: Round 1.ââ
Sunghoon finally turns fully, eyes sweeping the room in one slow arc. The laughter falters, not because he looks angry, exactly, but because he looks⊠thoughtful. Dangerous. âEveryoneâs eating it up,â Jay says carefully, quieter now. He zips his bag. âYou good, man?â Sunghoon considers the question. He thinks of the way you didnât back down an inch. The way your smile was a weapon, not a shield. The way that last exchange felt less like banter and more like the opening move in something bigger. The way your eyes held his for that extra second, like you were daring him to make the next play.
He huffs a quiet laugh before he can stop himself. Itâs low, almost private, but the room hears it anyway. Everything goes silent. âThat bad?â Ni-ki asks, eyebrows raised. Sunghoon reaches for his water bottle, black Hydro Flask with the team logo scratched off from too many dropsâtakes a slow drink, eyes fixed somewhere past the wall like heâs seeing something no one else can. When he lowers it, his voice is calm. Steady. Almost conversational. âShe thinks sheâs in control,â he says. A beat. The room leans in.Â
âAnd?â Jake presses, grin widening like he already knows whatâs coming. Sunghoon sets the bottle down with deliberate care. âIf sheâs trying to lose a guy in ten days,â he says, evenly, like heâs stating tomorrowâs practice schedule instead of lighting a match in a room full of gasoline, âIâll make her fall for me in five.â Silence crashes into the locker room like someone cut the music. Then, explosion.
 âWhat?!â
âNo fucking way.â
âCaptain, youâre insane.â
âThatâs the school editor. The one who writes the tea. Sheâll bury you.â
âThatâs straight-up suicide, bro.â
âBro said five days like itâs a warm-up drill.â
Sunghoon just shrugs, unbothered, already turning back to his locker. He pulls out a clean black hoodie, movements smooth, unhurried. Like this decision doesnât feel seismic. Like it isnât already rearranging something inside his chest, pride, curiosity, a flicker of something hotter he refuses to name yet. âBet?â Riki asks, half-laughing, half-serious, eyes gleaming with chaos.
Sunghoon doesnât hesitate. âBet.â The word lands heavy. Not about money. Not about bragging rights. Not even about proving his teammates wrong, though theyâll never let him live it down if he fails. Itâs about pride. About someone daring to write a narrative that doesnât include him as the hero, or even the villain, really. Just a trope to be dissected and discarded. About assuming heâd react the way everyone else does: defensive, loud, predictable.
He wonât. He pulls the hoodie over his head, fabric catching briefly on damp hair. The laughter resumes behind him, louder now, charged with anticipation. Plans are already being made. Timelines guessed. Odds debated in the group thatâs blowing up faster than post-game memes. âDay one: eye contact in the quad,â Jake announces like heâs commentating a fight.
âDay three: she blocks him on everything,â Jay predicts, laughing. Sunghoon tunes it out. He zips his bag, slings it over one shoulder. All he can see is you in that hallway, chin lifted, eyes sharp, completely unaware that you just painted a target on your own back. Five days. He smiles to himself, just barely, small, private, dangerous.
This is going to be interesting. He pushes out of the locker room, the door swinging shut on the chaos behind him. The hallway is quieter now. Empty. But he can still feel the echo of your voice. Game on. The library is supposed to be quiet. Thatâs the lie everyone agrees to uphold, the one printed in pastel posters above the turnstiles and whispered by every RA during orientation like gospel. In reality, itâs just a different kind of loud, pages snapping shut like gunshots, chairs scraping tile with the violence of someone whoâs failed three midterms, the soft but aggressive machine-gun tapping of keyboards as students pretend theyâre annotating Foucault instead of doomscrolling the fallout of your article in real time.Â
You sit at one of the long oak tables near the back stacks, the ones nobody claims because the overhead lights flicker like theyâre possessed. Posture perfect. Legs crossed beneath the chair like youâre posing for a Vogue spread. Reading glasses perched on your nose, clear frames, slightly oversized, the kind that scream âI could destroy your GPA and your ego in the same breath.â Highlighter uncapped. Notes aligned with military precision. Pen poised like a scalpel.
The picture of composure. If anyone were watching closely,and they are, they might notice the way your jaw tightens every time a group two tables over whispers your name too loudly. Or the way your phone stays face-down on the wood, vibrating intermittently like a trapped hornet begging to be crushed. You ignore all of it. Youâre mid-sentence in something dense and academic and blissfully unrelated to modern dating warfare, some Foucault-adjacent drivel about power structures in institutional discourse, when the air changes.
You donât hear him approach. You feel him. A shadow falls across your open book. Large. Intentional. Blocking the sickly fluorescent light just enough to make the words blur. The scent follows, clean sweat, cedarwood cologne, the faint metallic bite of adrenaline that clings to athletes like second skin. Completely out of place among old paper and recycled HVAC air.
You sigh without looking up, turning a page with exaggerated slowness. âIf youâre here to ask me to take it down,â you say calmly, eyes still scanning the text, âthe answer is no. Save your breath. And your ego.â Silence. Heavy. Pressed close. The kind that makes the hairs on your neck stand up. Then,âBold of you to assume Iâd ask for anything.â You freeze. Youâd recognize that voice in a blackout now. Low. Controlled. Annoyingly steady, like heâs narrating his own highlight reel.
Slowly, deliberately, you lift your gaze. Park Sunghoon stands there like he personally requisitioned the entire fifth floor. Backpack slung carelessly over one shoulder. Sleeves of his black compression shirt rolled up just enough to show forearms still corded and veined from whatever sadistic circuit Coach ran today. Expression unreadable, but his eyes, dark, focused, locked on you like youâre the only thing in the building worth seeing.
The football captain in a library feels like a felony. You tilt your head, letting your lips curve just enough to be dangerous. âAh,â you drawl. âIf it isnât my favorite demographic. Come to mansplain why men arenât the problem?â A muscle in his jaw ticks, once, sharp.
âYou turned dating into a game,â he says flatly. No preamble. No polite buffer. You blink at him through your glasses. Once. Twice. Slow. âAnd men turned relationships into a joke long before I put pen to paper,â you reply, voice velvet over steel. âGuess weâre even. Or are we keeping score already?â A couple of students at the next table glance over, phones half-raised like theyâre waiting for the live-tweet moment. You donât care. Let them watch.
Sunghoon steps closer. One step. Then another. He stops directly in front of your chair, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to keep eye contact. He braces one hand on the table beside your notes. The wood creaks under the pressure of his palm. You can see everything now, every ridge of muscle shifting under his shirt, the way his abs tense when he leans in, controlled and deliberate and infuriatingly calculated.
âPeople are laughing at me,â he says. Quiet. Dangerous. âYou like that?â You lean forward just enough to close another inch of space. âI like accuracy,â you shoot back. âIf they see themselves in it, if you see yourself in it, thatâs not my fault. Thatâs physics. Cause. Effect. Mirror.â His eyes flick to your mouth. Back to your eyes. Quick. Intentional.
âMen arenât lab rats,â he says. Your smile widens. Sharper. Brighter. âMen deserve to be studied,â you counter. âExtensively. With citations.â That does it. Something in his expression finally cracks, not anger, exactly. Not amusement. Something vicious and glittering in between. A smirk ghosts across his lips, slow and knowing, like heâs already three moves ahead.
âThen study me.â Your breath catches, just for a second. You hate that he notices. Before you can fire back, he reaches out. Two fingers. Light. Precise. He hooks them under the bridge of your reading glasses and lifts them off your face like heâs removing a crown he never asked permission to touch. Like this isnât wildly inappropriate in the middle of a public library. Like you wonât drive your highlighter through his hand for it.
Your breath stutters. Audibly. You hate that even more. The world sharpens without the lenses, his face suddenly closer, too close. You can count every individual eyelash now. See the faint white scar slicing through the tail of his left brow. The steady, infuriating calm in eyes that should be furious but look⊠hungry. He sets the glasses down on the table beside your notes with deliberate care. Almost gentle. Mocking.
âYou donât get to hide behind words,â he murmurs, voice so low it vibrates against your skin, âwhen you start a fire like that. Not with me.â You stand abruptly. Chair scraping loud enough to earn three shushes from nearby tables. Now youâre face to face. Chest to chest. Height difference glaring, you have to look up, but you make it look like youâre doing him a favor. You refuse to step back. âCareful,â you say quietly, sweetly. âLibraries are full of witnesses. And I have a very good memory.â
âIâm counting on it,â he replies. No hesitation. His hand moves, fast, gripping the edge of the table beside your hip, caging you in without touching you. The proximity is suffocating. Intimate. You can feel the heat rolling off him in waves, smell the faint mint on his breath. âThis whole thing,â he continues, voice dropping to a near-whisper, âyou think youâre in control.â You scoff, soft, dangerous. âI am in control.â
âThen prove it.â The challenge hangs between you like a live wire, humming. âWhat do you want, Sunghoon?â you ask, using his name like a blade for the first time. It feels good. Sharp. His gaze doesnât waver. Doesnât blink. âA deal.â Your laugh is breathless, incredulous. âI donât make deals with men who think intimidation passes for personality.âHe leans in, slow, deliberate, until his lips are near your ear, breath warm against the shell. âGood,â he murmurs. âI donât want you comfortable.â
You swallow. Against every screaming instinct, you say, âTalk.â He straightens just enough to meet your eyes again. âYou need a subject for your next piece,â he says. âSomeone willing. Someone visible. Someone who wonât fold after day three like the rest of them.â Your pulse kicks hard against your ribs. âAnd you need?â you ask, voice barely above a whisper.
âTo prove you wrong.â He pauses. Lets it sink in. âCompletely.â The silence stretches. The library seems to hold its breath with you. You consider him. The discipline in every line of his body. The arrogance thatâs earned, not assumed. The undeniable, maddening appeal of turning the campus golden boy into your personal experiment, the one variable that thinks he can rewrite the hypothesis.
âPublicly,â you say slowly, testing the words, âweâre dating.â He nods once. Sharp. âPrivately,â you continue, leaning in until your lips are a breath from his jaw, âthis is a war.â A real smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, small, vicious, thrilled. âDeal.â You extend your hand between you. He takes it. The handshake is brutal. Fingers locking. Grip crushing. Both of you refusing to yield even a millimeter. Your knuckles ache white-hot. His doesnât show it, but his eyes flicker, dark and impressed and something dangerously close to respect.
You lean in closer, close enough that only he can hear the poison wrapped in silk. âI will ruin you,â you whisper sweetly. âI will take you apart piece by piece and publish every shard. And youâll thank me for it.â He squeezes harder, enough that you feel it in your bones. âIâm counting on it,â he murmurs back. âAnd when I win, when youâre the one begging, Iâll make sure the whole campus knows exactly how loud you scream my name.â
You release each other at the same time. Palms stinging. Hearts hammering. The overhead lights flicker once, like the building itself just felt the shift. Somewhere in the distance, the end-of-hour bell rings. Students exhale. Books snap shut. The world resumes its pretending. And just like that, the experiment begins. You sit back down. Pick up your glasses. Slide them on slowly, like armor re-donned. Sunghoon doesnât move. Just watches you with that same unreadable intensity.
âDay one starts now,â he says quietly. You meet his eyes over the rim of your frames. âTry not to cry too early.â He smirks, full, devastating. âTry not to fall too fast.â Then he turns. Walks away. Doesnât look back. You watch him go. Your pen is still in your hand. But for the first time in weeks, you donât write anything down. Because some things are better left unwritten. Until theyâre screaming.
Ten days. Thatâs what you agree on. Not because ten is symbolic, or neat, or poetic in some rom-com way that would make you gag. Not because it matches the title of the piece youâre already mentally drafting. But because Sunghoon says it like itâs already written in stone, like anything longer would be indulgent, like anything shorter wouldnât give him enough time to watch you unravel thread by thread.
Youâre standing just outside the lecture hall in the narrow corridor that always smells faintly of stale coffee and desperation, backpacks brushing, bodies angled too close for people who supposedly canât stand the sight of each other. The fluorescent lights overhead buzz like theyâre judging you both. A group of freshmen scurries past, eyes wide, already pulling out phones like this is live content.
Sunghoonâs voice drops so low it feels like a private secret being pressed directly into your ear, warm breath ghosting the shell. âTen days,â he says. âYou get your article. I get the truth.â You scoff, sharp, immediate, chin tilting up so youâre looking down your nose at him even though you have to crane your neck. âThe truth about what, exactly?â His eyes flick down, deliberately, slowly, tracing the line of your throat, the dip of your collarbone where your shirt gapes just enough, then dragging back up to lock on your face like heâs cataloging every micro-expression.Â
âAbout how much of thisââ he gestures between you with a lazy flick of his wrist, ââis an act. And how long it takes before you crack first.â You donât hesitate. You never do. âPlease,â you drawl, letting the word drip with mockery. âMen crack first. Always. Itâs practically biological. Testosterone makes you impulsive. Youâll fold by day four, tops. Iâll have receipts.â Thatâs when he smiles.
Not wide. Not warm. Just sharp enough to be dangerous, the kind of smile that belongs in crime documentaries right before the twist. The handshake that seals it is violent. Not playful. Not teasing. Itâs fingers lacing tight, palms grinding together like youâre both trying to assert dominance through bone and pressure alone. You swear he squeezes harder when he feels your grip doesnât falter, when your nails dig half-moon crescents into the back of his hand and you donât blink. Your knuckles ache white-hot. Your pulse jumps traitorously against his thumb where it presses over your wrist.
For a split second, neither of you lets go. Youâre both breathing a little harder than the moment warrants. Then he releases you first. You make a mental note of it, file it under advantage: you. The rules are simple, laid out like landmines between you while the hallway slowly empties around the two of you. You write the article in real time. Each day, a new âstrategyâ from the original playbook, updated, weaponized, personalized. Each day, he participates. Fully. No half-assing. Publicly, youâre dating, affectionate in public, disgustingly couple-coded, the kind of PDA that makes people screenshot and send to group chats. Â
Privately, nothing is off-limits except actual confession. No âI love you.â No âthis feels real.â No drunk 3 a.m. texts that cross the line. No backing out, no matter how vicious it gets. And most importantly, your non-negotiable condition, he doesnât read the updates until they go live. Sunghoon agrees anyway. Shrugs like itâs nothing. Like heâs not handing you the detonator to his own ego. âFine,â he says. âI like surprises.â
You hate how much that pisses you off. The day he cornered you in the library, the day you âdate,â the campus notices immediately. Because Park Sunghoon does nothing quietly. He shows up after your last class, Media Ethics, third floor, the one that always runs ten minutes over because the professor loves hearing himself talk, like he owns the building. Football jacket slung over one shoulder, sleeves pushed up, hair still damp from the locker room shower, dark strands sticking to his forehead in that effortlessly devastating way. Jaw set in that infuriating line that makes people straighten their posture without realizing why.
Your friends, clustered near the stairwell like theyâre waiting for the after-lecture debrief, go dead silent the second they clock him. Sunooâs eyes go comically wide. âIs thatââ Keeho gasps, actually gasps, like this is a soap opera reveal. Someone else whispers your name like a warning shot. Sunghoon doesnât break stride. He walks straight through the scattering crowd like theyâre background extras and stops directly in front of you.
âReady?â he asks, voice casual, like this is something youâve done a hundred times before. You raise an eyebrow, slow and deliberate. âFor?â He doesnât answer with words. He just steps in, close, too close, hands sliding to your waist with the kind of firm, practiced confidence that screams Iâve done this before and I know exactly how it lands. Then he lifts you.
Not bridal. Not gentle. Not cute. He hoists you up just enough that your feet leave the floor in a clean, controlled motion, your breath stutters out of you in a shocked little sound you immediately hate yourself for making, and suddenly youâre eye-level with him, nose to nose, mouth to mouth if either of you moved a fraction of an inch. The hallway erupts. Wolf whistles slice through the air. Shouts. Laughter. Someone, probably a frat guy two doors down, yells something absolutely obscene about the football captain finally getting ruined by the school editor. Phones are out everywhere, vertical videos already rolling, flash on, no shame.
You feel it all like heat pressing against your skin, but Sunghoon blocks it out effortlessly. His focus never leaves your face. Not once. His mouth doesnât go for your cheek. Doesnât go for your lips. He presses a slow, deliberate kiss to the sharp line of your jaw instead. It lingers. Just long enough to feel obscene. Just close enough to the corner of your mouth that it feels like a threat wrapped in velvet. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket before you can stop them, gripping hard, knuckles brushing the warm skin of his collarbone through the open zipper. Your nails dig in just enough to leave crescent marks heâll see later in the mirror.
His lips brush skin like a promise he has no intention of keeping, slow drag, faint exhale, the barest graze of teeth. When he finally sets you down, his mouth is right by your ear, voice so low only you can hear it over the chaos. âSmile,â he murmurs. âTheyâre watching.â You do. God help you, you do. Itâs sharp. Polished. The same smile you use when you know youâve already won the room. But underneath it, your pulse is hammering so hard youâre sure he can feel it where his thumb still rests against your waist.
He steps back, slow, deliberate, gives the crowd a lazy once-over like heâs daring anyone to say something. No one does. Then he walks you out. Hand low on your back. Possessive. Public. Perfect. That night, the article updates. It goes live at 11:47 p.m., the exact time stamp of your original piece, because youâre nothing if not theatrical. People refresh like itâs oxygen.
PING!
How to Lose a Guy in 10 DaysÂ
An Incomplete Guide to Emotional Repellence, Strategic Chaos, and Why Men Fear Commitment
Spoiler: sometimes, the guy volunteers.
Todayâs update is simple. Brutal. Delicious.
Yours truly has found herself a boyfriend!
No details. No names. Just one carefully cropped photo, taken from behind by a very cooperative friend (thank you Manon) who was hiding behind a pillar, showing the unmistakable navy sleeve of a football jacket, broad shoulders filling the frame, and your hand fisted in the fabric like youâre holding on for dear life.
The caption beneath it reads:
Day 0: Acquisition phase complete. Let the games begin.
The comments explode within minutes.
âWAIT IS THIS ABOUT SUNGHOON???â Â
âno way she actually bagged himâ Â
âthis is either the best revenge arc or the messiest situationship of the semesterâ Â
âheâs cooked broâ Â
âsheâs gonna eat him alive and weâre all invitedâ
Sunghoon doesnât read it yet. Heâs probably in the athletic center weight room or sprawled on his bed scrolling through play breakdowns, completely oblivious to the digital fire you just lit under his name. But you know. You know heâll see it tomorrow morning, probably over black coffee and pre-practice film, right before the group chat starts blowing up with screenshots and laughing emojis. Tomorrow? Tomorrow is Day One.
And neither of you is planning to lose. You close your laptop. Smile at the dark screen. And whisper to the empty room, âGame on, golden boy.â
Sunghoon doesnât look back. Thatâs the first rule. You donât look back after a move like that. Not when the entire point is dominance, optics, control, narrative. Still, the feeling follows him. It starts at the base of his spine, a heat that doesnât belong to post-practice adrenaline. It crawls upward, slow and invasive, like something claiming territory. The hallway behind him is chaos, voices overlapping, laughter ricocheting off concrete walls, someone shouting his name like itâs a punchline.
His. Yours. Paired together. He keeps walking. He shouldnât feel anything. That was the point. A calculated move. Controlled. Clean. He lifted you because he knew the cameras would eat it alive. Kissed your jaw because it was intimate enough to sell the lie, distant enough to keep the upper hand. Not your lips. Never your lips.
Except, you grabbed his jacket. Not reflexively. Not shy. Not surprised. You grabbed it like you expected him to stay. Like the story wasnât over yet. Thatâs the part that wonât let go. By the time he reaches the locker room, the rush is gone, burned off too fast, leaving something sharper behind. The door slams shut with a metallic echo, lockers rattling like they felt it too. The noise follows him in, teammates talking over each other, grinning, already spinning it into legend.
âCaptainâs got game now?â
âSchool editor? Bro, youâre finished.â
âDid you see her faceââ
He drops his duffel onto the bench harder than necessary. The sound cuts through them, but only for half a second. âShut up.â They donât. Someone makes an exaggerated kissing noise. Someone else laughs too loud, trying to provoke him. Jay leans against the lockers, arms crossed, eyes sharp in a way that says I saw something.
âSo,â Jay says casually, too casually. âIs she as scary up close as everyone says?â Sunghoon reaches for his water bottle. His hands are steady, annoyingly so. He twists the cap like this is just another night, another practice, another rumor heâll outlast. âSheâs not scary.â The room quiets just a fraction. He takes a long drink before finishing the thought. âSheâs calculated.â
That lands. Because Sunghoon doesnât talk about people like that unless they matter. Unless theyâre a threat. Or an equal. Someone whistles low. Another mutters, âDamn.â His mind betrays him then, replaying the moment with cruel precision. Your chin tilted just enough, not submissive, not defiant. The way your smile didnât flicker even with a hundred eyes burning into you. The way you didnât blush or pull away or try to soften it with a laugh. You met him. Worse, you enjoyed it. Sunghoon exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tightening. Thatâs when the realization hits, sharp and unwelcome. You didnât lose control. You let him think he had it.
The kiss wasnât the problem. The lift wasnât the problem. The whispers, the rumors, the inevitable fallout, that was all manageable. The problem was the moment after. When he pulled away. When he set you down. When he expected relief, distance, detachment, the clean satisfaction of a move well-played, and felt none of it. Instead, there was the urge. Sudden. Reckless. To do it again. Jake whistles. âYo, Sunghoon, donât tell me youâre already whipped.â
The word irritates him more than it should. He bends forward, unlacing his cleats with slow precision, giving himself a second to clamp down on the impulse crawling up his throat. The line leaves him anyway. Not planned. Not rehearsed. Pure instinct, pride snapping into place like armor. âIf sheâs trying to lose me,â he says calmly, not looking up, âIâll lose her first.â
Silence. Then absolute chaos.
âYouâre insane.â
âPut money on it, right nowââ
Sunghoon finally straightens, tossing one cleat aside. His expression is unreadable, carved into that familiar, untouchable calm that made him captain in the first place. But inside? Something is already shifting. Because somewhere between the hallway and this bench, heâs realized something else too. This isnât just a bet. This isnât just reputation management. This isnât about winning. Itâs a challenge. And the way your fingers curled into his jacket, tight, intentional, like you were anchoring him there for half a second longer than necessary? That wasnât fear. That was interest.
His phone buzzes in his locker. Once. Then again. He doesnât check it. He already knows. Sunghoon smiles to himself, small, controlled, dangerous. Yeah. He underestimated you. And for the first time in a long time, heâs not just prepared to lose control. He wants to see what happens when he does.
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Decelis University.The field is the campus. The crowd is feral. And tonightâs matchup?
Park Sunghoon vs. Yours Truly.Ten days on the clock. Egos on the line. Loser falls first. Whistle blown.
Live from Decelis University, folks, strap in.
The campus wakes up to a notification like itâs kickoff night. Not a gentle buzz. Not a casual ping. A collective one.
PING!
How to Lose a Guy in 10 DaysAn Incomplete Guide to Emotional Repellence, Strategic Chaos, and Why Men Fear Commitment
The group chats explode first. Dorm halls echo with laughter. Someone reads the title out loud in the cafeteria and nearly drops their tray. And then:
DAY 1: CLINGY OVERLOAD
Men love independence. So naturally, today we do the opposite. Text constantly. Appear unannounced. Make his personal space a shared resource. If he survives Day One, congratulations, youâve found a keeper. Or a fool.
â Yours truly, xoxo
If this were a match, the crowd would already be roaring. You read it once. Twice. Then you lock your phone and grin, slow and satisfied, stretching your arms over your head like youâre warming up before the real work begins. Because this isnât theory anymore. This is application. Sunghoon said study me. You intend to annotate.
8:03 a.m.
You text him.
You: Good morning :) Did you sleep well?
You donât wait. Waiting implies doubt.
8:05 a.m.
Sunghoon: Did you dream about me or is that too much for Day One? lol
You picture him reading it, jaw tight, shoulders already braced like heâs about to take a hit. The thought makes you bite back a laugh in the middle of your lecture.
8:07 a.m.
You: I had a dream about you. You were less grumpy.
You stop there. Not because youâre out of ideas, but because restraint is part of the game. You want him checking his phone, wondering when the next oneâs coming. Five minutes later, it buzzes.
Sunghoon: Donât you have class?
You hum quietly to yourself. Deflection. Control attempt. A man pretending this isnât getting under his skin. You reply instantly.
You: I do. But multitasking is hot.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear. Oh, thatâs good.
Sunghoon: Youâre doing this on purpose.
You donât even hesitate.
You: Always.
You put your phone away like you havenât already won the exchange, like your pulse hasnât picked up just a fraction. Scoreboard in your head updates.
You: 1Sunghoon: 0
By noon, half the campus knows youâre âdating.â By one, people are whispering your name like itâs part of a headline. By three, youâre standing at the edge of the football field with an iced coffee in one hand and your bag slung over your shoulder, casual, comfortable, unmistakably present. Practice is chaos. Whistles slicing through the air. Shouts. Pads colliding. The sharp rhythm of discipline and aggression. You spot him instantly. Park Sunghoon, center of gravity, movements precise, expression locked down like a fortress. He looks untouchable out there. He notices you when he turns to grab his helmet. He freezes.
Not enough for anyone else to see. Just a fraction of a second, shoulders tightening, focus flickering like a bad signal. You lift your hand and wave. Bright. Cheerful. Almost domestic. He groans. You hear it from here. You walk closer, every step deliberate, ignoring the stares, the murmurs, the is she serious? energy crackling around you. His teammates are already clocking it, nudging each other, grinning like theyâve just been handed front-row seats.
You stop at the barrier. âHi,â you say warmly. âI brought you coffee.â
âI didnât ask forââ
âYou didnât say no either,â you cut in sweetly, holding it out. âOat milk. No sugar. You look like youâd judge me if I got it wrong.â
Someone laughs outright. Sunghoon takes the cup. Your fingers brush. It shouldnât matter. It does. For half a breath, his guard slips. His eyes drop to your hand like heâs registering the contact too late. âWhy are you here?â he asks, voice low, careful.
You tilt your head, innocent. âSupporting my boyfriend?â The word lands heavy. Boyfriend. You watch it hit, how something dark flickers behind his eyes, how his mouth twitches like heâs fighting a smile he absolutely refuses to give you. âYouâre enjoying this,â he says.
You lean in just enough for him to catch your perfume, just enough to make it personal. âOh,â you murmur, âthis is just the warm-up.â Coach shouts his name. Sunghoon steps back, reluctant despite himself, eyes lingering on you like heâs trying to decide whether youâre a distractionâŠ
âŠor a challenge heâs already losing. You sit on the bleachers anyway. You cheer when he scores. Loud. Unapologetic. You call his name like it belongs to you. His teammates lose their minds, wolf whistles, hoots, someone yelling something about rings and registries. Sunghoon pretends not to hear. He does not pretend not to look. Every time his gaze finds you, you smile, calm, certain, like youâre exactly where youâre supposed to be.
That night, you text him again.
You: You played really well today.
A pause. Then:
Sunghoon: You donât have to come to every practice.
You reply instantly.
You: Of course I do. Thatâs what girlfriends do.
Three dots. Gone. Reappear.
Sunghoon: Youâre impossible.
You grin, lethal, thumbs flying.
You: And yet, you havenât told me to stop.
You set your phone down before he can respond, heart thudding a little louder than youâd like to admit. Across campus, Sunghoon stares at his screen longer than necessary. He tells himself itâs irritation. Disruption. Strategy fatigue. He tells himself youâre exactly as advertised, clingy, calculated, relentless.
So why does the locker room feel quieter without your voice? Why does he replay the way you said boyfriend like it wasnât a joke at all? He locks his phone, exhales, presses his palms briefly to his face. Day One isnât supposed to matter. Still, somewhere between the coffee, the cheering, and the texts that didnât stop, the match clock starts ticking. And for the first timeâŠSunghoon isnât entirely sure whoâs leading.
END OF DAY ONEScorecard:You: 1Sunghoon: 1(He wonât admit it.)
That night, as youâre tossing and turning,plotting your next move, your phone lights up in the dark.
Sunghoon: Are you alive or plotting?
You smile into your pillow despite yourself.
You: Both. Multitasking, remember?
Three dots appear almost instantly.
Sunghoon: You didnât write what tomorrowâs strategy is.
You roll onto your side, staring up at the ceiling like youâre considering mercy.
You: Whereâs the fun in spoilers?
The pause stretches. Longer than last night. Long enough that you imagine him lying there, phone heavy in his hand, jaw clenched. Preferably shirtless.
Sunghoon: I donât like surprises.
You type carefully. Slowly. Like each word is placed with intent.
You: Thatâs funny. You looked like you enjoyed yesterdayâs.
Silence. Then, another notification.Â
Sunghoon: Get some sleep.
It shouldnât sound gentle. It does.
You: Goodnight, captain.
You wait. He never corrects the pet name.
Sunghoon: Gnight ;)Â
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to Decelis University, where pride meets pressure, reputations crack under fluorescent lights, and the audience is merciless.
The notification hits at breakfast. Not quietly. Not privately. Phones light up across tables. Someone gasps. Someone laughs too hard. Someone reads it aloud like a prophecy. PING!
How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days
An Incomplete Guide to Emotional Repellence, Strategic Chaos, and Why Men Fear Commitment
DAY 2: PUBLIC EMBARRASSMENT
Privacy is a manâs comfort blanket. So today, we rip it away. Excessive affection. Infantilizing pet names. PDA so loud it echoes. If he blushes, youâre winning. If he smiles through it? Run.
â Yours truly, xoxo
You sip your coffee slowly, watching the campus react in real time. The whispers start immediately. Heads turn. Someone across the hall mouths thatâs her like theyâve spotted a celebrity. You donât correct them. Sunghoon comes prepared. Thatâs the first thing you clock. Heâs crossing the main quad like itâs hostile territory, jacket immaculate, expression cool, posture sharp enough to cut. Jay and Jake flank him, Riki trailing with that dangerous grin like he knows something is about to go wrong. Sunghoon looks⊠braced. Ready. That should worry you. You tighten your grip on the coffee tray. Three tablespoons of sugar. Measured. Intentional. You step directly into his path.âSunghoonie!â The name detonates. Jay coughs like heâs choking. Jake straight-up freezes. Riki makes a sound halfway between laughter and disbelief.
You smile sweetly, lashes lowered, eyes razor-sharp beneath it. You hand Sunghoon the cup with both hands like itâs ceremonial. âI got you coffee, baby,â you say brightly. âI know how much you love sweet things.â Thereâs a ripple through the crowd. Phones come up. Someone gasps like this is reality TV. Sunghoon looks down at the cup. Looks back at you. Then, he drinks. Winces. There it is. You log it instantly.
You: +1
But then, he smiles. Not tight. Not polite. Real. And before you can recalibrate, he bends down and presses a kiss to your cheek. Slow. Intentional. Warm enough that your brain blanks. âThank you, baby,â he says easily, turning that smile on his friends. âYouâre the best.â Your stomach drops. Your cheeks burn. That wasnât supposed to happen. Jay stares like heâs witnessing betrayal. Jake lets out a low whistle. Riki actually laughs, delighted.
Sunghoonâs arm slides around your shoulders like it belongs there. Like itâs muscle memory. âWalk me to class?â he asks. You nod because speech has temporarily abandoned you. He doesnât loosen his hold. If anything, he pulls you closer. Your shoulder fits too well against his side. His thumb traces absentminded circles against your arm, small, unconscious, devastating. The quad is silent in that way crowds get when something important is happening.
You retaliate. âThatâs my good boy,â you coo softly, patting his chest. âBeing so patient with me.â
Jay chokes on air. Sunghoon doesnât even blink. âAnything for you,â he replies smoothly. âYou know Iâm sensitive.â Sensitive. Your lungs forget how to work. He glances down, voice dropping just for you. âYou okay?â There it is. Not performative. Not loud. Concern.
You glare up at him, pulse tripping. He smiles back, smug, infuriating, entirely too aware. You lean into him anyway. âOf course I am,â you say sweetly. âI just love how affectionate you are. Itâs very⊠reassuring.â His hand tightens briefly on your shoulder. âYou bring it out in me.â That one lands sideways. Too honest. Too close to the bone.
By the time he drops you off outside your building, your head is spinning. He presses a kiss to your temple, soft, almost reverent, and murmurs, âSee you later, sweetheart.â Sweetheart. He walks away without looking back. You stand there, stunned, heart thundering like you lost track of the rules mid-play. You open your notes app immediately.
Scorecard â Day 2:
Public embarrassment: initiated.
Subject adaptation speed: alarming.
Counteroffensive via authentic affection.
You hesitate. Then add:
Possible vulnerability detected.Response appeared⊠unguarded.Further testing required.
Across campus, Sunghoon exhales, fingers brushing his lips like heâs grounding himself. He knew exactly what you were trying to do. And the worst part? He didnât fake it. Did he?
END OF DAY TWOScorecard:You: 2Sunghoon: 2(The crowd canât tell whoâs bluffing anymore.)
Sunghoon reads the update with a towel draped around his neck, hair still damp, water tracing slow lines down his collarbone before disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. He shouldnât be reading it like this. He tells himself that as he scrolls. Tells himself itâs reconnaissance. Film review. Pattern recognition. Knowing the enemy has always been his strength, anticipating moves before they happen, identifying pressure points, exploiting hesitation. This is no different.
Except it is. His thumb stills when he reaches the line about unexpected counteroffensive via affection. He exhales through his nose and looks up at his reflection in the locker room mirror like it personally betrayed him. âYouâre an idiot,â he mutters. The mirror offers no defense. He looks the same. Calm. Composed. Captain carved out of discipline and routine. Same sharp eyes. Same posture that never slouches, even alone. But his jaw tightens anyway.
Because his body remembers before his pride does. The way you said Sunghoonie like you wanted him to hear it echo. The deliberate sweetness in your voice. The coffee, too sweet on purpose. The way you watched him drink it, already tallying the outcome like a win. And the worst part? He let you. No, worse than that. He enjoyed it.
Sunghoon drags the towel through his hair harder than necessary, the friction grounding and irritating all at once. He tosses it onto the bench and leans forward, bracing his hands on the sink, shoulders tense as he studies his own face like heâs searching for a fault line. This was supposed to be simple. A bet. A challenge. A controlled descent into your own trap. He was supposed to dismantle you slowly, with restraint, with patience. Let you exhaust your own rules. Let you blur the line between performance and reality until you forgot which side you were playing for.
Instead, heâs here. Heart beating faster than it should. Pulse loud in his ears. Actively replaying the way your breath hitched when he kissed your cheek. That part wasnât strategy. That part was instinct. And thatâs new. He straightens abruptly, irritation flaring hot and sharp. âGet it together,â he says aloud. The words echo off tile and metal, too loud in the empty room. And then, because today apparently exists solely to test him, his brain starts planning. Not reflexively. Not defensively. Intentionally. What if he shows up first tomorrow? What if he escalates before you can? What if he stops reacting and starts dictating? The idea settles in his chest with dangerous ease.
He imagines leaning into the clinginess, not mocking it, not resisting it, but weaponizing it. Turning it inside out. Being too attentive. Too present. The kind of affection that stops being funny and starts being⊠unsettling. Texting first. Waiting outside buildings. Remembering things he shouldnât care enough to remember. The kind of behavior that makes people whisper heâs down bad instead of sheâs doing too much.
His lips press together. Since when the fuck does he think like this? Sunghoon has never been the guy who rearranges his routine for someone else. Football first. Discipline above everything. Emotions filed neatly away where they canât interfere. And yet, here he is. Standing in front of a mirror with half-dry hair and a restless pulse, wondering what youâll try next like itâs Christmas Eve.
That realization unsettles him more than anything youâve done so far. He reaches for his phone, thumb hovering over your contact. Stops. Control. Always control. The phone buzzes anyway. Not you. Jay.Â
Jongseong (DNI if you cherish your braincells): didnât know youâd call a girl sweetheart in front of the entire quad, but okay
Sunghoon scoffs softly, the sound sharp and humorless. His reply is immediate.
Sunghoon: Shush. You literally cried for your girlfriend when she broke up with you over a meme.
Three seconds pass.
Jongseong (DNI if you cherish your braincells): that was a deeply emotional meme
He almost smiles. Almost. Then his phone buzzes again. This time, itâs you. Your name lights up his screen like a provocation.
You: be prepared tomorrow :D
Just that. No context. No strategy reveal. Just a smiley face that feels like a threat wrapped in sugar. Sunghoon stares at it longer than he should. Then he laughs. Quiet. Disbelieving. A single breath of sound that escapes before he can stop it, surprised not by you, but by himself.Â
âOh, I fucking am,â he murmurs. He doesnât reply. He locks the phone, slips it into his pocket, and lifts his gaze back to the mirror. Thereâs something different there now. Not panic. Not doubt. Interest. Something sharp. Awake. Almost eager. He tilts his head slightly, studying it, this version of himself that looks like heâs already stepped onto the field. He shakes his head once, slow and resigned. He knows exactly what heâs gotten himself into. And God help him, heâs already anticipating the opening move. Day Three isnât just another round. Itâs escalation. And for the first time since this started⊠Sunghoon isnât playing defense.Â
You donât sleep. Not really. You drift in and out of something shallow and restless, sheets twisted around your legs, ceiling fan ticking like a countdown you canât shut off. Every time you close your eyes, your mind betrays you. Sunghoonâs smile, too easy, too real, pressed warm into your cheek. The casual thank you, baby like it wasnât supposed to land that hard. The way his arm felt around your shoulders, solid and infuriatingly comfortable. And the text.
be preparedÂ
It loops until it stops feeling smug and starts feeling personal. So you do what youâve always done when something threatens to slip past your defenses. You plan. You lie there until the sky lightens, until your pulse slows back into something manageable. By the time morning arrives, your eyes are sharp, your thoughts aligned, your heart tucked neatly back where it belongs, behind your ribs, locked down, under control. Sunghoon Park is not a problem. Heâs a variable. And variables can be managed.
Manon clocks it immediately. She doesnât even look up from her coffee. âYouâre awake-scheming,â she says flatly. âWhat did he do?â
âNothing,â you reply, too fast. Sunoo snorts from across the table. âThatâs never a good sign.â
Keeho leans back in his chair, arms crossing, already suspicious. âOkay. Context. Why do I feel like Iâm about to be weaponized?â You smile. Slow. Sweet. Dangerous.
âSo,â you begin, folding your hands neatly on the table like a general addressing her officers, âhypothetically, if one were to induce mild psychological distress via jealousyââ Sunoo lights up instantly. âOh my God. Oh my God. I love where this is going.â
Manon groans, rubbing her temples. âI already donât.â Keeho blinks. âWhy am I in this sentence?â âBecause,â you say calmly, âyouâre charming, non-threatening, and tragically underutilized.â Keeho stares. ââŠthatâs the nicest insult Iâve ever received.â
You lean in, voice dropping. âThe plan is simple.â You lay it out with surgical precision. Laugh a little too loud. Touch his arm, casual, friendly, linger half a second too long. Stand too close. Tilt your head. Smile like youâre enjoying yourself. âHave I ever flirted like this before?â you ask rhetorically. Sunoo slaps the table. âNo.â
âShould I?â
âOH FUCK YEAH!â
Manon levels you with a look. âYou realize this is going to provoke him.â âThatâs the point.â
Keeho exhales slowly. âI just want it on record that if the football captain murders me with his bare handsââ
âIâll write a beautiful article about your sacrifice.â
Sunoo grins. âWorth it.â You pinky swear. Dramatic oaths. Over-the-top seriousness like youâre planning a heist instead of social sabotage. Then, just like that, you scatter. Different buildings. Different schedules. Normal expressions. Normal lives. Like nothing happened.
You spot Sunghoon ten minutes later. Of course you do. Heâs crossing the quad like heâs entering hostile territory, jacket zipped, posture locked, gaze sharp and scanning. Jay is talking animatedly beside him. Riki laughs too loud. Jake keeps glancing around like he knows somethingâs coming. You donât look at Sunghoon. Thatâs the key. You laugh instead. Too loud. Too bright. Keeho says something stupid, on purpose, bless him, and you throw your head back like itâs the funniest thing youâve ever heard. Your hand lands on his arm, fingers curling briefly, familiarly.
Sunghoonâs head turns. You feel it before you see it, the shift in gravity, the air tightening like itâs been pulled taut. You lean closer to Keeho, murmuring something conspiratorial. Your smile softens. Interested. The kind of smile that suggests history, or at least possibility. Youâve never done this before. Youâre excellent at it. Keeho plays his part flawlessly. His hand brushes your back. His posture is relaxed, confident. He looks comfortable. Like he belongs there.
Thatâs what makes it lethal. When you finally glance up, Sunghoon has stopped walking. Heâs not smiling. His jaw is tight, eyes dark, unreadable. Jay is mid-sentence, frozen. Jakeâs eyebrows have disappeared into his hairline. Riki looks between you and Sunghoon like heâs watching a live match. You hold Sunghoonâs gaze for exactly one second. Then you look away. Checkmate.
Your phone buzzes five minutes later. You donât open it. Not yet. You finish the conversation. Laugh again, quieter this time. Keeho leans in, whispering, âHe looks like heâs deciding whether to murder me and how exactly to do it.â
âGood,â you murmur. âYouâre doing amazing.â When you finally check your phone, the message is waiting.
Sunghoon: Whoâs your friend?
No emoji. No softness. Just plain directness and blatantness. You smile. Oh. He noticed. You reply slowly, deliberately.
You: Oh, Keeho? Heâs just someone I enjoy spending time with.You: Why?
A beat. The response comes immediately. Too immediately.
Sunghoon: Just curious.
You scoff softly. Liar. Across campus, Sunghoon exhales through his nose, hands flexing at his sides. He tells himself itâs nothing. Tells himself this is part of the game. Tells himself he doesnât care who you laugh with. And yet, that image wonât leave him alone. Your smile, real, unguarded. The one that was not directed at him, one thatâll never be directed at him. Your hand on someone elseâs arm. The way you didnât even look at him. Something ugly coils in his chest.
He hates it. He also recognizes it. Jealousy. The realization hits harder than he expects. He hasnât felt this in years. You walk into class steady, composed, heart thrumming but controlled. You take notes. You participate. You act like your entire morning wasnât a carefully staged provocation. Your phone buzzes again. This time, you donât smile.
Sunghoon: Donât play dumb.
Oh. You glance around the lecture hall, imagining him somewhere nearby, jaw tight, shoulders tense, control and patience fraying like a thin, overused, old rope. You type back.
You: Iâm not playing anything, baby :)
Three dots. Gone. Reappear. His brain probably short circuited.
Sunghoon: You didnât look at me.
That stops you. You stare at the screen longer than you should. Then:
You: Was I supposed to?
Silence. Long. Heavy. Charged. When his reply finally comes, itâs clipped. He could probably imagine the innocent look on your face, lips curling upwards as you bat your lashes across your face.
Sunghoon: We need to talk.
Your pulse spikes. You refuse to show it.
You: About what?
Another pause.
Sunghoon: Later.
You lock your phone. Exhale. Your fingers tremble just a little. Wondering what it was that he wanted to say.Â
That night, you sit at your desk, laptop open, fingers hovering over the keys. You type. Delete. Type again. The article drafts itself like muscle memory.
DAY 3: JEALOUSY PROTOCOL (UNOFFICIAL)Sometimes, the fastest way to lose a guy⊠is to make him realize he already thinks he owns you.
You stop. Your heart stutters. That wasnât part of the plan. You stare at the words, then close the laptop without publishing. Not yet. Somewhere two blocks down, Sunghoon lies awake, staring at the ceiling. He tells himself heâs irritated. Disrupted. Strategizing. But his mind keeps drifting back to you, laughing with someone else, deliberately out of his reach. His phone buzzes. Jake.
Jakey: so are we not gonna talk about how feral you looked today
Sunghoon doesnât reply. Another buzz. Was it really that obvious? God. The last thing he needed was the whole campus thinking he was whipped for the school editor. Which⊠might not be half a lie.
Jakey: bc you almost dropped a man with your eyes
He exhales, rolls onto his side, stares at his screen. Pinching the bridge of his nose as he sighs and finally types:
Sunghoon: Stay out of it.
Jake responds instantly.
Jakey: too late chat. youâre cooked.
Sunghoon shuts his phone off. He closes his eyes. Fails to sleep.
By the time Day Three officially drops, both of you are already in too deep. And the scariest part? Neither of you wants to stop.
The campus is louder today. Not in sound, in attention. Whispers skim across the quad like static. Phones are out. Eyes linger a beat too long. Ever since Day One, the articleâs been circulating faster than class notes, and people have started treating you like a live experiment. Or a ticking bomb. One wrong move and someoneâs getting carded.
PING!
Your phone vibrates in your palm.
How to Lose a Guy in 10 DaysAn Incomplete Guide to Emotional Repellence, Strategic Chaos, and Why Men Fear Commitment
DAY 3: JEALOUSY TEST
Men claim they donât get jealous. They lie. Jealousy doesnât announce itself. It leaks. Flirt, casually. Laugh, softly. Touch like itâs accidental. Make it look unintentional. Make it look harmless. If he doesnât react, he doesnât care. If he does? Youâve hit something tender.
Sunooâs already there, leaning against a pillar, thumbs flying over his phone like heâs deep in a text war. Manon pretends to retie her shoe for the third time, eyes flicking up every few seconds. Crowd control. You spot Keeho near the steps, laughing with someone before they peel away. He looks relaxed. Approachable. Safe. You slide in beside him like itâs coincidence.
âKeeho,â you say warmly. âWow. You look⊠painfully charming today.â He startles, then laughs. âYouâre terrifying, you know that?â
âRelax,â you murmur, tilting your head. âJust be yourself.â You donât overdo it. Thatâs the key. You laugh, not loud, not showy. Just close. Intimate. You lean in when he speaks, brows furrowing like you care about every word. When you gesture, your fingers brush his wrist and linger, just long enough to feel his pulse jump under your thumb.
Like it doesnât mean anything. Because the trick is, it always looks like it doesnât mean anything. Around you, the quad keeps moving. Students slow. Some stop outright. A couple of girls whisper behind their hands. Sunoo glances up from his phone. Then stills. Manon straightens. You feel it before you see it. The air tightens. Like pressure dropping before a storm. You look up. Sunghoon stands across the quad with Jay and Jake, frozen mid-step. Jayâs mouth is halfway open like he was in the middle of a joke. Jakeâs brows knit together slowly, eyes tracking the scene like heâs watching something unravel.
Sunghoon doesnât move. Doesnât blink. His face is calm, too calm, but his eyes are locked on you. Not Keeho. You. You meet his gaze. Hold it. Then you turn back to Keeho and smile. Sunghoon moves. He doesnât storm over. That would draw attention. Instead, he walks, measured, deliberate. Each step controlled like heâs counting them. Shoulders squared, posture perfect, like heâs heading into a match he refuses to lose. Jay mutters, âHoonââ
Sunghoon doesnât slow. Jake stops walking entirely, eyes flicking between you and Sunghoon like heâs already calculating damage control. Sunghoon stops in front of you. Keeho straightens instinctively, sensing the shift. âHey,â Sunghoon says, to you, voice smooth enough to fool anyone who doesnât know him. You tilt your head, all sweetness. âHey, baby.â The word lands like a dropped glass.
Keeho goes rigid. Sunghoonâs jaw tightens, just a fraction. âDidnât know you were busy,â Sunghoon says, gaze flicking to Keeho for half a second before snapping back to you.
âOh,â you reply lightly, âwe just ran into each other.â You slide your hand into Sunghoonâs jacket pocket. Like it belongs there. Like you belong there. The fabric is warm. âSo,â you add, looking up at him, lashes batting. âThat okay?â Sunghoon covers your hand with his. His grip is firm. Too firm.
âThatâs fine,â he says evenly. Then, quieter, so quiet only you hear, âBut we need to talk.â
Your smile widens. Hook. Line. Sink. âYou said that yesterday too, didnât you baby?â He doesnât ask. Sunghoon guides you away with a hand at your lower back, polite enough to pass as affectionate, possessive enough that Keeho lets out a breath he didnât realize he was holding. Behind you, Sunoo exhales softly. Manon mouths holy shit.
The moment youâre out of sight, Sunghoon stops. His hand drops like it burns. âThat wasnât accidental,â he says flatly. You cross your arms. âWhat wasnât?â âYou flirting with him.â You tilt your head, innocence perfected. âI flirt with everyone.â âNo,â he snaps, and there it is. Sharp. Immediate. Unfiltered.
âYou donât.â The silence that follows crackles. Sunghoon drags a hand through his hair once, like heâs trying to reset something thatâs already gone wrong. His breathing is heavier than it should be. His eyes donât leave your face. âIs this part of the article?â he asks.
You meet his gaze, unblinking. âDoes it bother you?â A laugh escapes him, short, disbelieving. âYou think I care who you talk to?â You step closer. Slow. Deliberate. âThen why are you clenching your jaw like that?â Thatâs when he steps into your space. Not aggressive. Not loud. Dangerously quiet. âDonât do that again,â he says. Your heart stutters. âDo what?â
âPretend you donât know what youâre doing.â The air between you is too tight. Too charged. Like one wrong breath would set something off. You swallow. âYouâre breaking character.â His jaw flexes. âSo are you.â For a second, just one,you think he might say more. Instead, he exhales, steps back, and the composure slides back into place like armor snapping shut. âNext time,â he says evenly, âwarn me.â
You blink. âAbout what?â He looks at you like youâre the only thing in the world worth looking at. âAbout when youâre trying to make me jealous.â Then he turns and walks away. Doesnât look back. You stand there longer than you mean to. Your chest feels tight. Your phone buzzes. You open your notes app instead.
Scorecard â Day 3:Jealousy confirmed.
Subject reacted emotionally.
Loss of composure observed in controlled environment.
Reaction stronger than predicted.
Sunghoon finally exhales. His hands are shaking. He hates it. Hates that he cared. Hates that he noticed. Hates that the image of you smiling at someone else twisted something hot and ugly in his chest. Hates that he wants to pull you in and kiss you stupid. This was supposed to be a bet. But bets donât usually feel like this.
END OF DAY THREE
Scorecard:You: 3
Sunghoon: 2
(And now everyone knows who flinched first.)
Oh. This is where the game breaks. The message comes when you least expect it. The sonâs bright, you can hear the familiar chitter of people walking and chatting, shoes scuffing the pavement as sunlight streams through your window unfiltered. Today is supposed to be Day 4, and you're halfway through rereading Day Threeâs draft, trying to decide if reaction stronger than predicted sounds too clinical, when your phone vibrates.
Mom.
You donât open it right away. Your stomach sinks before your brain catches up, like it already knows. Like it remembers every other time. You read it once. Then again. Then a third time, slower, as if maybe the words will rearrange themselves into something kinder if you stare hard enough. They donât. Itâs not loud. Itâs not dramatic. Itâs worse. Disappointed. Cutting. Familiar. The kind of hurt that doesnât yell, it erases.
Your smile fades mid-breath. Something hollow opens up in your chest, sudden and deep, like the floor dropped out from under you and forgot to warn the rest of your body. You set your phone down carefully, because your hands are shaking too much to trust them.
Manonâs gone, shopping trip, three unread messages about shoes you never replied to. Keehoâs with her. Sunooâs out, location shared hours ago with a heart emoji and a miss u you didnât answer. Youâre alone. You sit there for a full minute, staring at the wall, trying to logic your way out of the ache. It doesnât work. Your throat tightens. Your eyes burn. You swipe angrily at the first tear like it personally offended you, but that just makes it worse.
You stand up. Grab your jacket. And before you can overthink it, before you can remind yourself this is a bad idea, a rule violation, a catastrophic mixing of variables, youâre already on your way. Because there is exactly one person who knows you exist right now. Sunghoon is in the middle of setting his keys down when the knock comes. He frowns, confused, he isnât expecting anyone. Practice ended early, teammates scattered, apartment quiet in that rare, precious way he usually appreciates. He opens the door. And freezes.
Youâre standing there like you ran straight out of a storm, hair slightly tangled, jacket half-zipped, eyes red and glassy like youâre holding yourself together by muscle memory alone.
You donât even get a word out. Sunghoon drops everything. Keys clatter to the floor. His bag slips from his shoulder. Heâs already reaching for you before his brain finishes processing why youâre here. âWhat happened?â he asks softly. Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. Thatâs all it takes. His expression changes instantly, guard down, edges gone, that cold composure evaporating like it never existed. He steps forward and pulls you into him without hesitation, one arm wrapping around your shoulders, the other pressing your head gently against his chest.
You break. The sob rips out of you, ugly and raw and completely unedited. Your hands fist into his shirt like youâre afraid heâll disappear if you donât anchor yourself. Sunghoon holds you tighter. Itâs instinctive. Protective. Solid. âItâs okay,â he murmurs, voice low and steady, like heâs grounding both of you. âIâve got you. Youâre okay.â You shake your head against him. âIâI didnât know where else to go.â
âThatâs fine,â he says immediately. âYou came here.â Like that answers everything. He presses his chin lightly against the top of your head, hand smoothing down your back in slow, reassuring strokes. No teasing. No smugness. No games. Just presence. You breathe him in, clean laundry, faint cologne, something warm and familiar, and the ache in your chest eases just enough to keep you standing. Minutes pass like that. Neither of you moves. Sunghoon doesnât ask questions. Doesnât push. He just lets you exist there, folded into him, until your breathing evens out and the tears slow to quiet hiccups.
When you finally pull back, embarrassed and exhausted, he cups your face gently, thumbs brushing under your eyes without comment. âYou donât have to explain,â he says. âBut you can. Whenever you want.â Your throat tightens again. This wasnât supposed to happen. This wasnât part of the article. Or the bet. Or the rules. But standing there, wrapped in his arms, you realize something terrifying and undeniable.
This isnât a strategy. This is real. And Sunghoon, Park Sunghoon, football captain, emotionally unavailable nightmare, is looking at you like you matter more than the game ever did. Somewhere in the back of your mind, the scorecard flickers. Then it disappears entirely. Because for the first time since Day One, no one is winning. And neither of you wants to be the first to let go.
Ladies and gentlemen⊠the playbook is on fire.
The article goes live at 12:04 a.m. By morning, itâs everywhere. Screenshots in group chats. Whispers in lecture halls. A few people laugh when they see you pass, like theyâre in on something youâre pretending not to notice. Day Four. You donât reread the rules this time. You already know them by heart.
PING!
How to Lose a Guy in 10 DaysAn Incomplete Guide to Emotional Repellence, Strategic Chaos, and Why Men Fear Commitment
DAY 4: EMOTIONAL OVERSHARING
Men fear emotions they canât fix. So give them everything. Overshare. Unpack trauma like itâs casual conversation. Cry if necessary. Make it messy. Make it real. Make it inconvenient. If he pulls away, success. If he stays? Abort mission.
â Yours truly, xoxo
You stare at the screen longer than usual. Not because youâre nervous. Because something in your chest feels⊠tender. Exposed. Like the armor youâve been wearing all week finally has a crack in it. This isnât flirting. This isnât strategy. This is you. And that makes it the most dangerous test yet.
You donât remember how you end up outside Sunghoonâs place. Only that at some point your legs start shaking, and the night air feels too sharp against your skin, and suddenly heâs there, closer than you expected, concern already written across his face. âYou donât look okay,â he says. And for once, you donât pretend. Sunghoon doesnât ask before he lifts you.
One second youâre standing there, hollowed out and swaying, and the next his hands are under your thighs, steady and sure, like this decision has already been made somewhere deep inside him. You gasp softly as he hoists you up, instinct taking over, your leg wraps around his waist, fingers clutching at his shoulder for balance. He adjusts immediately. Like heâs done this before. Like he knows exactly how to hold you.
He carries you inside without a word. The door clicks shut behind you, sealing off the hallway, the noise, the eyes, the game. His apartment greets you with quiet, clean lines, neutral colors, the faint scent of laundry detergent and something unmistakably him. Order. Control. Restraint. He sets you down on the couch gently, like youâre something fragile, something heâs afraid might splinter if he moves too fast. âYou okay?â he asks, voice low. You nod. Itâs automatic. Itâs a lie. Sunghoon sees right through it. He kneels in front of you anyway. Not towering. Not imposing. Just there. And that, more than anything, undoes you. The words donât come all at once.
They trip over each other. Stumble out half-formed. You start small. Safe. A weak laugh. âMy mom used to say I was too sensitive.â You shrug like it doesnât matter. Like itâs a punchline. âSheâd say it like it was a joke,â you add, glancing away. âBut it never felt like one.â Sunghoon doesnât interrupt. Doesnât rush you. So you keep going. You talk about growing up feeling like affection had fine print. About learning early how to read moods, how to adjust yourself to keep the peace. About the way praise always came with expectations, and how silence, long, heavy silence, felt worse than being yelled at.
Your voice shakes. You laugh at the wrong moments. You hear yourself and think: this is too much. This is exactly how people decide youâre exhausting. This is how you lose them. Thatâs the tactic. Thatâs the point. You sneak a glance at Sunghoon, bracing for the moment his expression tightens. For the polite withdrawal. The subtle step back. It never comes. He watches you like heâs listening to something important. Like heâs memorizing it. His jaw is tight, not annoyed, but controlled, like heâs holding something back. His eyes soften every time your voice wavers, and when your hands twist together in your lap, he reaches out without thinking, thumb brushing over your knuckles. Warm. Solid.
Grounding. When your voice finally breaks, it surprises you. You press your lips together, breathing uneven, staring at the floor like it might save you. Sunghoon shifts closer. Doesnât touch you more than that, just enough to let you know heâs there. When the silence stretches, he doesnât fill it. He waits. Finally, you let out a weak, breathy laugh. âSorry. I didnât mean to dump all that on you.â âDonât,â he says immediately. Not sharp. Not commanding. Gentle.
âYou donât have to apologize for being honest.â Something twists in your chest. You swallow. âMost people get uncomfortable.â He shrugs slightly, eyes never leaving your face. âMost people arenât worth your time.â The words hit harder than anything youâve said tonight. You look at him, really look, and for the first time, you see it. The restraint isnât arrogance. Itâs practice. The control isnât coldness. Itâs survival. Someone who learned early how to hold things in until they hardened. Someone who knows exactly how heavy unspoken feelings can get. Sunghoon leans back against the couch, careful, giving you space, but his arm settles around your shoulders anyway. Not possessive. Just⊠there.
You hesitate. Then you let yourself rest against him. Just this once. No article voice. No scorecard. No audience. Your breathing slowly evens out. He doesnât say anything. Neither do you. Outside, the world keeps moving, bets, whispers, rules, expectations. Inside, something fragile and unplanned settles into place. Later, much later, youâll realize this was the moment the game stopped being theoretical. Because Day Four wasnât about oversharing. It was about staying. And neither of you walked away.
END OF DAY FOUR
Scorecard:You: â
Sunghoon: â
(Game suspended due to unforeseen emotional impact.)
Itâs too late for the building to still feel alive. The overhead lights are dimmed to that after-hours glow that makes everything look softer, less real, like youâre trespassing in a version of the day that doesnât belong to you. The kind of lighting that turns study rooms into confessionals. Youâre supposed to be reading. Your laptop sits open between you, a paragraph half-highlighted, notes scattered in the disorganized way that pretends to be productivity. You havenât scrolled in ten minutes. He hasnât blinked at the screen in longer.
You sit too close. Not intentionally. Not at first. But close enough that when you shift in your chair, your knee brushes his. Itâs nothing. Itâs everything. âOh, sorry,â you say too fast, already pulling back like youâve been burned. âItâs fine,â he replies too quietly, like the words werenât meant to travel. The silence that follows isnât awkward. Itâs heavy. Pressurized. You fill it because you always do. You start talking again, too much, too quickly, about something adjacent to the point you were trying to make. You gesture with your hands like you can carve the feeling out of your chest if you explain it well enough. You laugh in the wrong places. Your voice wobbles and you barrel right through it.
Sunghoon watches you unravel with an expression you canât read. Not pity. Not discomfort. Focus. When your words start looping, when you hear yourself circling the same fear with different phrasing, his hand moves. Not fast. Not dramatic. His fingers close gently around your wrist mid-gesture, stopping you like a soft wall. âHey,â he murmurs. The room stills. Itâs subtle, but you feel it, the way the air seems to settle, like everything just leaned in to listen. Your breath catches, uneven now that youâre aware of it. His thumb presses once against your pulse, grounding, steady. Are you okay? Iâm here. Slow down.
All without words. You nod because itâs easier than speaking. But your eyes give you away. Theyâre shiny. Too full. You look down before you can stop yourself, throat tight, embarrassment blooming hot and unwelcome. Sunghoon doesnât let go. Instead, he shifts closer, barely an inch, but itâs enough that you feel the warmth of him at your side. He looks at you for a long moment. Really looks. Like heâs committing something to memory. The tension in your jaw. The way your shoulders are drawn in. The practiced calm cracking at the edges.
When he leans in, itâs slow. Careful. The kiss happens like an accident. Barely there at first, his lips brushing yours as if testing the reality of it, as if heâs giving you time to pull away, to laugh it off, to say this is a bad idea. You donât. Your lips part on a quiet inhale, and something inside him shifts. The world narrows. No lights. No notes. No rules. Just warmth and quiet and the faint hitch in his breath when your mouth moves against his. His hand tightens around your wrist just a fraction, like heâs losing a battle he didnât plan to fight.
Itâs not rushed. Itâs not hungry. Itâs reverent. Like heâs afraid to take too much. You pull back first. It costs you more than you expect. âThis doesnât count,â you whisper, forcing a smile that feels brittle the moment it leaves your mouth. âItâs⊠for the experiment.â The words hang there, thin and unconvincing. Sunghoon doesnât smile. He studies you, jaw tight, eyes dark with something unsettled, something that looks suspiciously like restraint stretched too far. Like heâs deciding whether to let you have the lie.
You turn to leave before he can answer. Before he can say something that makes it real. Your fingers barely make it an inch away from his hand before he catches you. Not rough. Not desperate. Certain. The second kiss is different. Slower. Deeper. Intentional. Thereâs no hesitation this time. He pulls you back like heâs done pretending this is incidental, like heâs accepted whatever line this crosses. Your breath stutters when he shifts, lifting you onto his lap with an ease that steals the air from your lungs.
You fit there too easily. Like this has always been where you were meant to land. His lips trail from your mouth to your jaw, down the curve of your neck, unhurried, almost reverent. Not marking. Not claiming. Just there, like heâs grounding himself through you now. Your hands curl into his sweatshirt, knuckles pressing into solid warmth. His hands slide along your sides, steady and warm, thumbs tracing small arcs that feel like questions. His fingertips brush skin as they slip beneath the hem of your shirt, and you shiver, not from the touch itself, but from the care in it. Like heâs checking in with every inch.
Like heâs waiting for you to say stop. You donât. You breathe his name instead, barely audible, like a secret youâre not supposed to keep. He stills. Just for a second. His forehead rests against your shoulder, breath uneven now, like heâs anchoring himself before this tips into something neither of you can undo. His hands stay where they are, present, warm, restrained. This isnât losing control.
This is choosing not to run. The room feels impossibly quiet around you, like itâs holding its breath. And somewhere in the back of your mind, the game flickers, rules, scorecards, outcomes, but itâs distant now. Muffled. Less important than the way heâs holding you like something fragile and worth protecting. You know this is the moment everything changes. You also know youâre not ready to name it yet.
So you stay. Just like this. For one more heartbeat. Before anything else begins. His lips trail from your mouth to your jaw, down the curve of your neck, unhurried, almost reverent. Not marking. Not claiming. Just there, like heâs grounding himself through you now. Your hands curl into his sweatshirt, knuckles pressing into solid warmth. The fabric is soft from too many washes, still carrying the faint cedar-and-fabric-softener scent thatâs become stupidly comforting over the last few days. You tug once, small, needy, and he makes a low sound in his throat, not quite a groan, more like permission granted.
His hands slide along your sides, steady and warm, thumbs tracing small arcs that feel like questions. His fingertips brush bare skin as they slip beneath the hem of your shirt, and you shiver, not from the touch itself, but from the care in it. Like heâs checking in with every inch. Like heâs waiting for you to say stop. You donât. You breathe his name instead, barely audible, like a secret youâre not supposed to keep. He stills. Just for a second.
âTell me if itâs too much,â he murmurs against your collarbone. Voice rough. Honest. âAny second. I stop.â You nod once, throat tight. Then you tilt your head back just enough to catch his eyes. âI know,â you whisper. âI trust you.â The words land heavier than you expect. His gaze flickers, something raw flashing through the dark before he swallows it down.
He exhales slowly through his nose. Then his hands move again. Slow. Deliberate. Palms flat against your ribs now, sliding upward under the cotton of your shirt, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra. He doesnât rush. Doesnât grope. Just maps you like heâs memorizing every dip and curve for later. You lift your arms without being asked. He pauses, gives you one last searching look, then peels the shirt up and over your head in one smooth motion. Cool air hits your skin. You feel exposed in a way that has nothing to do with being half-naked and everything to do with the way heâs looking at you. Not hungry. Not triumphant. Awed.
Like youâre the first real thing heâs seen in years. He drops the shirt somewhere behind him without looking. Doesnât care where it lands. His hands return immediately, cupping your waist again, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin just above the waistband of your jeans. Then higher. Tracing the line of your bra straps. The dip of your sternum. The soft swell above the lace. Every touch is followed by a kiss. Soft. Open-mouthed. Lingering. First the hollow of your throat. Then the slope of your shoulder. Then the top of one breast, right above the cup, where skin meets fabric. You gasp, quiet, involuntary, and his mouth curves against you in the smallest smile.
âStill okay?â he asks, voice wrecked. You thread your fingers into his hair, damp at the ends from earlier practice, and tug just enough to make him look up. âKeep going,â you say. No sarcasm. No game. Just truth. He does. He kisses lower, slow drag of lips across the swell of your breast, then the other, until he reaches the edge of the lace. His tongue flicks out, just once, teasing the boundary, and your back arches on instinct, pressing yourself closer. A low, appreciative sound rumbles in his chest.
He hooks one finger under the strap of your bra. Pauses. âMay I?â You nod, fast, desperate now. He slides the strap down your shoulder. Then the other. Reaches behind you with practiced ease, fingers finding the clasp, and unhooks it in one smooth flick. The bra falls away. He doesnât stare. Doesnât leer. He just looks, like heâs seeing something sacred. Then he leans in and kisses the center of your chest, soft, reverent, right over your heart. You feel the beat of it against his lips.
His hands come up to cup you, gentle at first, thumbs brushing over already-hard peaks, and you whimper. The sound surprises you both. He groans against your skin. âFuck,â he breathes. âYouâre soââ He doesnât finish the sentence. Instead he takes one nipple into his mouth, slow, warm, tongue circling, and your head falls back against the wall with a soft thud. Pleasure spikes sharp and bright down your spine. He switches sides, same careful attention, while his hand kneads the other, rolling the peak between thumb and forefinger just hard enough to make your hips jerk forward.
Youâre suddenly aware of how wet you are. How empty. How badly you want him inside you. âSunghoon,â you gasp, half plea, half demand. He releases you with a soft pop. Looks up, eyes blown dark, lips shiny. âTell me what you want,â he says. Voice gravel. âAnything.â You swallow. Drag your nails lightly down his neck, feeling him shiver. âEverything,â you say. âI want everything.â He exhales a shaky laugh against your skin. Then heâs moving.
Hands sliding to your hips, lifting you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. He carries you the few steps to his bed like you weigh nothing, lays you down like youâre made of glass. He doesnât climb over you immediately. He stands at the edge of the mattress for a second, just looking. You feel the weight of his gaze like a physical touch. Then he reaches behind his neck, yanks his sweatshirt off in one fluid motion, tosses it aside.
The sight of him, broad shoulders, carved chest, the faint red lines your nails left earlier on his collarbone, makes your mouth go dry. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his sweats. Pauses. âYou sure?â he asks one more time. You sit up, reach for him, fingers curling into the elastic. âVery,â you say.
You tug. He lets you. The sweats slide down. Boxers follow. Heâs hard, painfully so, and the sight of him makes heat flood your core. He kneels on the mattress. Crawls over you slow, caging you without trapping. Forearms braced on either side of your head. His mouth finds yours again, deeper this time. Hungrier. Tongues sliding, teeth grazing, both of you breathing hard through your noses. One of his hands slips between your bodies, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your jeans, then your underwear, finding you soaked.
He groans into your mouth when he feels how ready you are. âJesus,â he mutters against your lips. âAll this for me?â You bite his bottom lip, sharp enough to sting. âFor you,â you confirm. He circles your clit once, slow, testing, then again. And again. Until your hips are rolling up into his hand, chasing the pressure. âNeed you,â you gasp. âInside. Now.â
He doesnât tease. He pulls your jeans and underwear down in one go, tossing them off the bed, then settles between your thighs. He notches himself at your entrance, slow, gives you time to adjust to the stretch. You both exhale at the same time when he pushes in, inch by careful inch, until heâs buried to the hilt. The fullness is overwhelming.
Perfect. He stills, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged. âYou okay?â he whispers. You nod, clenching around him on purpose just to hear the choked sound he makes. âMove,â you breathe. He does. Slow at first, long, measured strokes that drag against every sensitive spot inside you. Then faster. Deeper. His hand finds yours, fingers lacing tight, and he pins it beside your head. The other slides between you, thumb finding your clit again, rubbing tight circles that match the rhythm of his hips.
Youâre climbing fast, too fast, pleasure coiling tight and hot in your belly. âSunghoonââ Your voice cracks on his name. âIâve got you,â he murmurs. âLet go. Iâve got you.â You do. The orgasm hits like a wave, sharp, blinding, your back arching, thighs clamping around his hips, his name spilling from your lips in broken gasps. He fucks you through it, slowing only when your tremors start to ease, then picks up again. Chasing his own.
You feel him thicken inside you, feel the stutter in his rhythm. âWhere?â he grits out. âInside,â you say without hesitation. âPlease.â That undoes him. He buries himself deep, one last hard thrust, and comes with a low, guttural groan, pulsing inside you, face pressed to the side of your neck. You hold him there, arms wrapped around his shoulders, legs still locked around his waist, while his breathing slowly evens out. He doesnât pull out right away.
Just stays, softening inside you, kissing your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. Soft. Lazy. Like he has nowhere else to be. After a long minute, he lifts his head. Looks at you, really looks. And whatever he sees makes his expression soften in a way youâve never seen before. âNo rules tonight,â he says quietly. You swallow. Nod. âNo rules,â you echo.
He kisses you again, slow, sweet, lingering. And for the first time in days, neither of you is keeping score. The quiet afterward settles over you like a shared secret. Not the awkward kind. Not the kind that begs to be filled with noise. The kind that wraps around both of you and stays.
Sunghoonâs thumb traces slow, absentminded patterns along your waist, the motion unthinking, muscle memory more than intention, like his body hasnât realized yet that the world still exists beyond the room. Each pass of his thumb is lazy, grounding, a silent check-in he doesnât even know heâs making. Your fingers drift through his hair in return, nails grazing his scalp in slow arcs until his breath stutters, a sound caught somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, chin tipping back against the pillow.
You smile to yourself, all lazy satisfaction, and press your cheek deeper into the hollow of his collarbone. His skin is warm there. Solid. Real. âWow,â you murmur, voice soft but smug in that way you know gets under his skin. âSo this was part of the experiment?â He huffs, the sound vibrating through his chest beneath your ear. âAbsolutely not.â
You tilt your head just enough for him to feel your grin against his skin. âLiar.â His head angles down, eyes half-lidded and sleep-heavy when they meet yours, that familiar glint of cocky amusement slowly creeping back in like heâs easing into an old role. âYouâre the one who came up with emotional oversharing as a tactic,â he says. âI just⊠adapted.â
âOh, you adapted,â you echo, dragging your fingers through his hair again, slower this time, deliberate. âIs that what weâre calling it now?â His hand tightens at your waist for half a second, possessive, reflexive, like his body reacts before his brain can stop it, then relaxes again, thumb resuming its lazy path. âCareful,â he murmurs. âYouâre gonna start acting like you ruined me.â You hum, pleased, smug curling warm in your chest. âI did ruin you.â A low laugh escapes him, fond and helpless, like heâs already lost the argument and doesnât mind. âYouâre unbearable.â
âAnd yet,â you say lightly, words already blurring at the edges as exhaustion creeps in, âyou screamed my name like it was a lifeline.â He groans, tipping his head back against the cushion, eyes squeezing shut. âI hate you.â âMm,â you reply, already drifting, âyou love me.âÂ
Silence stretches again, longer this time. Comfortable. Earned. The kind that doesnât demand clever comebacks or defenses. His fingers slow, drifting from your waist to your back, tracing the curve of your spine before sliding up to your hair. He strokes gently now, reverently, like heâs handling something fragile. The bravado drains out of him with every second, confidence ebbing away until whatâs left is just⊠him. After a moment, quieter, careful, he asks, âHey. You okay?â
You nod against him, eyes closed, voice soft with sleep. âYeah. Iâm good.â Something in his chest loosens at that. He smiles to himself, small and private, like he doesnât want you to see it. âWho knew,â you mumble drowsily, words slurring just slightly, âthe guy who hates gossip would end up dealing with the gossip queen.â He chuckles, low and warm, pressing a kiss to the top of your head without thinking about it. âOccupational hazard.â Your breathing evens out, deep and slow, your weight melting fully into him like thatâs exactly where youâre meant to be. Like youâve done this a hundred times before. And thatâs when it hits him, the ache, sharp and unwelcome, blooming in his chest without warning.
Because this isnât just flirting. It isnât just chemistry. And it definitely isnât just a stupid bet he can laugh off later. He stares at the far wall, jaw tightening as he watches you sleep against him, trusting, unguarded, completely unaware of the storm in his head. He knows, knows, how this ends. Knows heâs going to hurt you. Knows heâs already halfway to hurting himself.
This is the part he was supposed to avoid. This is the line he swore he wouldnât cross. And still, when you shift in your sleep, brow furrowing for just a second, he tightens his hold on you instead of pulling away. His arm curls more securely around your back. His chin dips, resting against your hair. No rules tonight, heâd said.And for the first time in days, neither of you is following them.
You go home alone. Not because he asks you to leave, he doesnât, but because if you stay one more minute, you might forget why this started in the first place. You slip out while heâs half-asleep, fingers still loosely hooked into your sleeve like he expects you to come back, and that alone nearly ruins you. The walk back is quiet. Too quiet. Your phone feels heavier in your hand, like it knows what youâre about to do.
Day 4 waits for you like a confession you werenât supposed to publish. You shower. You change. You sit at your desk with damp hair and a racing pulse, staring at a blinking cursor that feels accusatory in its patience. For a long moment, you donât type. You replay instead, his voice, the way he didnât interrupt, the way his arms had closed around you like it was instinct instead of strategy. Trauma dump as a tactic, you remind yourself, like itâs a spell that might undo the weight in your chest.
Your fingers finally move. You write about showing up unannounced. About expecting resistance and finding quiet instead. About how some men donât flee when things get heavy, some just sit with you in it. You donât name him. You donât have to. Anyone who knows you knows. The words come smoother than you expect. Honest in a way that makes your throat tighten. You frame it like a win, like progress, like a clever maneuver in a game youâre still pretending you control. And then, because this whole thing has rules, you scroll to the bottom.
SCORECARD
You hover for a second longer than necessary. Day 4: Emotional Oversharing Result: Unexpected Loss of Composure
You sigh, sharp and resigned, and type it anyway.
You: 3Sunghoon: 3
Balanced. Tie game. Your finger hesitates over publish. Then you press it. The article goes live with a soft click that feels louder than it should. The screen refreshes. The world doesnât end. Your heart still thuds like itâs waiting for consequences. You drop your phone onto the bed and stare at the ceiling, one arm thrown over your eyes. Three to three. A dead heat. Except it doesnât feel like a game anymore. It feels like standing in the middle of a frozen lake, hearing it creak beneath your feet, realizing a little too late that youâre not sure which direction is safe.
Your phone buzzes. Once. Then again. You donât check it right away. You already know who it is. You know the tone before you read it, because you know him now in ways you werenât supposed to. Finally, you look.
Sunghoon: You gave me a point.
You smile despite yourself.
You: Donât get used to it.
The reply comes almost instantly.
Sunghoon: Too late.
Then, a pause. Another message.
Sunghoon: Sleep. Weâre tied. Means tomorrow matters.
You swallow, chest warm and aching all at once. Tomorrow matters. You set your phone down again, this time face down, and let the ceiling blur as your eyes close. Three to three. And somehow, for the first time since this all started, youâre not sure who you want to win.
Because nothing destabilizes a man faster than pretending you already belong in his life.
Ladies and gentlemen, history has been made. For the first time since this experiment began, you donât knock first. Instead, you wake up to it. Three sharp raps against your door cut through your sleep like a refereeâs whistle. The sound slices clean through whatever dream you were half-clinging to, jolting you upright with a groan. You roll over, face buried in your pillow, eyes still closed, fully prepared to ignore it on principle, until the knocking comes again.
Slower this time. Measured. Intentional. Familiar. Your stomach drops before your brain catches up. You drag yourself out of bed, limbs heavy, hair an absolute disaster, mind foggy in that disoriented way that makes everything feel a half-second behind reality. The hallway outside your room is quiet. Too quiet. When you pull the door open, Sunghoon stands there like he owns the hallway. Hands tucked casually into his pockets. Hoodie slung low on his hips like he threw it on without thinking. His hair is still slightly damp, darker at the ends, curling just enough to suggest he showered recently, and not in a rushed way. With intent. With time.
His expression is calm. Thatâs what sets off every internal alarm you have. Not smug. Not irritated. Not flustered. Just⊠steady. Eyes sharp, unreadable, mouth set in a line that feels more deliberate than relaxed. âEnough of your surprises,â he says, voice even. Controlled. A pause. Long enough to make your pulse stutter. âNow itâs my turn.â
You blink. Once. Twice. For four days, youâve been the instigator. The architect of chaos. The one showing up unannounced, rewriting his routines, poking at his composure just to see what gives. This, him here, in your space, uninvited, short-circuits your internal playbook entirely. âDid you justââ you start, then stop, brain catching up too late. âAre you⊠kidnapping me?â His mouth quirks, barely. âPut on shoes.â And then he turns around and starts walking down the hall like there was never a question you wouldnât follow. You donât know why you do. Actually, you do.
And thatâs the problem. You grab your shoes, tugging them on without socks, door clicking shut behind you as you trail after him. He doesnât look back to check if youâre there. He doesnât need to. That confidence, quiet, assumed, settles under your skin in a way that feels dangerous. The walk is silent. Not awkward. Just⊠loaded. You keep stealing glances at him, trying to read his posture, his pace, anything that might give away what heâs planning. He keeps his gaze forward, shoulders relaxed, steps unhurried. Whatever this is, heâs already decided how it goes.
ââŠThis is your big move?â you ask, incredulous. Sunghoon reaches for a cart without looking at you. âRelax. Itâs research.â You snort. It slips out before you can stop it, real laughter, unguarded, bubbling up from your chest instead of your throat. You donât remember the last time something caught you this off-balance. Domestic simulation. You hate how fast it works. He walks beside you down the aisles like itâs second nature. Like this is something youâve done together before. The cart rolls between you, metal clinking softly as he steers it with one hand.
You reach for a familiar cereal at the same time he does. âAbsolutely not,â he says immediately. âYou donât even know which one I picked,â you argue. He glances at the box in your hand. âThatâs exactly why.â You roll your eyes and toss it into the cart anyway, just to be annoying. He doesnât take it out. That feels⊠significant. You wander produce. He inspects fruit like it personally offended him. You steal grapes when heâs not looking. He notices anyway. âYouâre supposed to wash those,â he says. âYouâre supposed to mind your business.â He hums, clearly unconvinced, and drops a bag of apples into the cart like this argument has happened before. Like it will happen again.
At some point, you stop performing. You forget to angle your body just right. Forget to keep track of how close youâre standing, whose arm brushes whose, whoâs watching. Youâre laughing too easily now, leaning into him when he mutters something dry under his breath, fingers brushing when you pass items back and forth. He reads labels. You mock him for it. âI donât trust anything with more than five ingredients,â he says mildly. âThat explains so much about your personality,â you shoot back. âYouâre insufferable,â he says, fondly. And then freezes. Itâs subtle. Just a hitch. A half-second too long of silence after the word leaves his mouth. Like he didnât mean to say it that way. You pretend not to notice.
He explains something patiently. You interrupt him. He corrects you without condescension. You realize, too late, that youâre not doing this for the article anymore. This isnât loud. This isnât messy. This doesnât feel like a tactic. And that terrifies you more than any of the other days combined. That night, the article updates quietly. No fireworks. No scandal. Just truth wrapped in observation.
PING!How to Lose a Guy in 10 DaysAn Incomplete Guide to Emotional Repellence, Strategic Chaos, and Why Men Fear Commitment
DAY 5: DOMESTIC SIMULATION
There is a very specific kind of intimacy in shared mundanity. Grocery lists. Inside jokes. Knowing how someone takes their coffee without asking. Simulate a future. Not the dramatic kind, the boring one. If he runs? Youâve won. If he stays, and laughs like he belongs there? Youâre in trouble.
A draw. No winner. Yet again, so who really wins this stupid game? 5 days in. You close your laptop with a quiet click and lean back against your bed, heart thudding for reasons that have nothing to do with strategy. Lying on his bed, Sunghoon is probably doing the same thing, replaying moments that werenât supposed to matter. The cereal box. The apples. The way you didnât pull your knees away. And for the first time since this began, neither of you knows exactly how to break the other tomorrow. Which makes Day 6 dangerous. Sunghoon does not journal. He has never needed to. Thoughts are meant to be handled internally, sorted, categorized, dismissed. Writing things down feels like an admission that something canât be controlled otherwise.
So the fact that heâs staring at a blank document at 1:47 a.m. feels like a personal failure. The cursor blinks at him. Once. Twice. Again. He exhales through his nose and leans back in his chair, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck. His room is quiet except for the hum of his laptop fan and the distant sounds of someone laughing outside, too carefree for the hour. His hoodie, the hoodie, is draped over the back of the chair, still faintly smelling like grocery store detergent, cheap coffee, and your pretty scent.
He should wash it. He doesnât. Instead, his brain does the thing itâs been doing all evening: rewinds. The time he knocked. He hadnât planned to knock like that. Too sharp. Too deliberate. Heâd stood outside your door for a full thirty seconds beforehand, debating whether this was crossing a line or finally drawing one. Heâd almost walked away. Almost. The look on your face when you opened the door flashes through him again, sleep-soft, disoriented, hair a mess. No guard up yet. No strategy active. Just you. That had nearly ruined him right there.
He closes his eyes briefly and exhales. Focus. This was supposed to be a countermeasure. A recalibration. You destabilize someone by rewriting their expectations, he knows that. Youâd been doing it to him all week. Showing up where you shouldnât be. Acting like space and boundaries were optional. Dragging him into emotional territory heâd spent years neatly fencing off. So he adapted.
Domesticity is a known psychological trigger. False familiarity. Routine simulation. People get uncomfortable when you skip ahead too fast. When you act like a future already exists. The grocery store had made sense. What hadnât made sense was how easy it felt. How his hand had reached for the cart automatically. How heâd fallen into step beside you without thinking. How heâd noticed, immediately, when you reached for cereal you always buy, like heâd been mentally cataloging your habits without permission. Thatâs the part that bothers him.
And worse, he remembers not taking it out. He types a single line before he can stop himself. Day 5 was not a win. He stares at the sentence like it might argue back. By all measurable standards, it should have been. You didnât score a point. Neither did he. A draw keeps the experiment stable. Predictable.
But his chest had felt too full walking back across campus. Heavy in a way that had nothing to do with anxiety and everything to do with attachment formation. Thatâs dangerous. He scrolls down and types again. Domestic environments accelerate emotional bonding through repetition and shared low-stakes tasks. Clinical. Detached. Better. But even that feels insufficient.
Because this wasnât repetition. This was implication. You hadnât asked if he wanted apples. Youâd just assumed. You hadnât hesitated to sit down with him after. Youâd leaned into the quiet like it was yours to claim. Like he was. Sunghoon rubs at his face, frustration creeping in. This was supposed to make you uncomfortable. Instead, it had made him⊠careful.
He remembers the moment he called you insufferable. The exact second the word slipped out, softened by affection before he could stop it. He remembers freezing, not because you noticed, but because he did. Affection is a tell. He doesnât do that. He scrolls again, fingers hovering. Observation: Subject responds positively to shared routine. Risk: High.
He snorts quietly despite himself. Subject. Right. You are not a subject. Youâre the girl who stole grapes when you thought he wasnât looking. The girl who mocked his ingredient paranoia and then leaned closer anyway. The girl who didnât pull her knees away, even when the table was small enough that it wouldâve been easy. Youâre his girl. His girl that he fell in love with. Thatâs the part that keeps replaying.
Not the flirting. The comfort. Sunghoon closes the laptop halfway, then opens it again with a frustrated sigh. He knows avoidance when he sees it. Heâs lived on it for years. Across campus, your article exists. Public. Polished. Controlled chaos masquerading as insight. His isnât. His is this, private spirals and late-night realizations and the uncomfortable awareness that he is no longer reacting to you. Heâs anticipating you. Thatâs worse. He types again. There was no exit strategy today.
He hadnât planned one. That realization hits harder than he expects. Every other day, heâd known how it would end. A goodbye. A retreat. A reset. Today had just⊠drifted. From aisle to aisle. From coffee to studying. From pretending to something dangerously close to real. He presses his lips together. This is how people get hurt. He knows that. Knows how quickly lines blur when you let yourself believe in mundane futures. Grocery lists turn into shared apartments. Study dates turn into expectations.
And expectations turn into disappointment. Sunghoon leans back, eyes fixed on the ceiling. You donât know the ending. Thatâs the worst part. Youâre playing to win. To prove a point. To finish the article with clean hands and clever conclusions. Heâs playing defense against something he wasnât supposed to want. He scrolls to the bottom of the page and hesitates.
Then, against his better judgment, he types one last line. If Day 6 escalates, I will need to draw a boundary. The cursor blinks beneath it. He doesnât believe himself. Sunghoon closes the laptop without saving, the quiet click too loud in the stillness of his room. He stands, crosses to the window, and stares out at the dark campus below. Somewhere out there, your lights are probably still on. Or maybe youâre asleep, blissfully unaware of the damage done by apples and cereal and shared silence. He exhales slowly.
No rules tonight, youâd said yesterday. He hadnât argued. Tomorrow, heâll have to be smarter. Sharper. Less⊠human about it. Because if Day 5 taught him anything, itâs this: Heâs not afraid of losing the experiment. Heâs afraid of winning, and realizing too late what it cost. You wake up like youâve been shoved out of a dream. A sharp inhale. Sheets twisted around your legs. Your heart stuttering so hard it almost hurts. For a second, you donât know where you are, just that your skin feels too warm and the room feels too empty.
Then it hits you. Not all at once. In fragments. Sensations before images. The memory of his hands, steady, impossibly warm, anchoring you when everything inside you had been unraveling. The way his thumbs had moved without thinking, slow and grounding, like he was reminding your body where it existed. The weight of his presence behind you, solid and sure, not crowding, not overwhelming. Just there.
You squeeze your eyes shut. Itâs not even the kiss that gets you this time. Itâs everything around it. How careful heâd been. How heâd paused like he was giving you space to change your mind, and how you hadnât. How afterward, when the moment softened instead of exploding, he hadnât pulled away. Heâd stayed. Thatâs the part that makes your chest ache now. You turn onto your side, staring at the faint glow of your phone screen on the nightstand. 2:31 a.m. The world quiet in that fragile way it only gets when everyone else is asleep and youâre left alone with your thoughts.
You remember his voice, lower than usual, close enough that youâd felt it more than heard it. The way heâd surprised you, showed up first, planned something gentle instead of strategic. The way that alone had knocked you off balance. Youâre used to being the one in control. The instigator. The girl with the plan and the punchline and the exit already mapped out. You werenât supposed to like being caught off guard.
Your fingers curl into the sheets as another memory surfaces, him asking, quietly, if you were okay. Not as part of the experiment. Not as a move. Just⊠asking. You swallow, throat tight. This is bad. Worse than bad. Because attraction is manageable. Tension can be played with. Even longing can be weaponized if youâre clever enough. But safety? Being seen without having to perform? Thatâs not something you know how to fake. You sit up, dragging a hand down your face, breath shaky now. Somewhere between Day 1 and Day 5, the rules blurred. Somewhere between teasing and touching and shared silence in a grocery store aisle, something shifted off its axis.
You werenât counting points tonight. Neither was he. And that realization lands heavy. Heâs afraid of winning, and realizing too late what it cost. The thought settles in your chest like it belongs there. Like itâs been waiting. Because if he wins, he loses the distance heâs been hiding behind. And if you win, you lose the version of yourself who could walk away clean.
You swing your legs over the side of the bed and stare into the dark, pulse finally slowing, but your mind still racing. Tomorrow is Day 6. There will be plans. Counters. Smiles sharpened into strategies. But lying here, alone in the quiet, one truth curls uncomfortably close to your heart: You donât know how to make this hurt less. And for the first time since the experiment began, youâre not sure you want to. You tell yourself it was a one-time thing. You have to. You cling to the sentence like itâs a life raft, repeating it until it starts to sound less like a lie and more like a hypothesis you could defend if asked. One time. An accident. Contextual.
You swing your legs back onto the bed and sit there, spine curved, elbows on your knees, hands hanging uselessly between them. The room smells faintly like laundry detergent and the vanilla candle you forgot to blow out earlier. Normal things. Safe things. Things that have nothing to do with the way his hands felt, felt, past tense, done, finished, when you were unraveling and didnât know where to put yourself.
It was pity, you decide. Thatâs the cleanest explanation. The least dangerous one. He saw you raw and shaking and half-broken by a message you hadnât meant to show anyone. Heâs disciplined. Heâs decent. Of course he stayed. Of course he touched you gently. Of course he kissed you like that, slow, careful, like he was trying not to spook something wounded. Pity makes sense. You nod to yourself, like youâve cracked a code. Youâre the gossip queen, after all. The experimenter. The one who studies men like specimens under glass. If anyone could misread compassion as chemistry, it would be you. You were emotional. Vulnerable. Of course you projected.
Of course you did. The thought should settle you. Instead, something tightens under your ribs. Because pity doesnât explain the way his breath changed when you shifted closer. It doesnât explain the pause, that infinitesimal second where he couldâve pulled away and didnât. It doesnât explain how his hand didnât hover, uncertain, but stayed, sure and grounding, like he knew exactly where it belonged. You press your lips together.
No. Stop. Youâre rewriting the memory. Romanticizing it. Thatâs what you do. You spin narratives until they sparkle and cut at the same time. He felt sorry for you. Thatâs all. But even as you think it, thereâs a dull, unexpected ache in your chest, sharp enough to make you inhale a little too fast. Because pity means obligation. It means he didnât want you, he endured you.
The idea shouldnât matter. Youâve built an entire reputation on not caring what men want. On being untouchable, clever, above it all. So why does the word sit so badly in your mouth? You lie back down, staring at the ceiling, tracing cracks in the paint like constellations. You tell yourself that tomorrow youâll wake up and this will feel smaller. Manageable. A footnote in the article. A scandalous aside you can laugh about later.
Youâll frame it right. You always do. But your mind betrays you, drifting back, not to the kiss, not to the heat of it, but to what came after. The way he didnât rush you. The way his thumb traced slow, absent-minded patterns like he wasnât even aware he was doing it. The way his voice softened when he asked if you were okay, like the answer actually mattered.
Pity doesnât sound like that. You roll onto your side, hugging a pillow to your chest, annoyed at yourself for the small, traitorous sting behind your eyes. Get a grip. This is a bet. A game. A ten-day experiment designed to prove a point about men and control and emotional incompetence. Youâre not supposed to feel things. Youâre supposed to observe them. And yet. The thought of him touching you out of obligation makes your chest ache in a way that feels suspiciously like disappointment. Which is ridiculous. You donât want his desire. That would complicate everything. So you cling harder to the lie. It was pity. It was situational. It meant nothing.
You repeat it until your breathing evens out, until the night quiets around you again. But somewhere, beneath the practiced logic and carefully stacked excuses, a softer truth presses back, unwelcome and stubborn and terrifying in its simplicity: If it really had been pityâŠit wouldnât hurt like this.
When the audience enters the arena, the game stops belonging to the players.
Ladies and gentlemen, please fasten your seatbelts. The article goes live at 7:02 a.m., sharp enough to feel intentional. You donât even reread it this time. You already know exactly how it sounds.
PING!How to Lose a Guy in 10 DaysAn Incomplete Guide to Emotional Repellence, Strategic Chaos, and Why Men Fear Commitment
DAY 6: MEDIA PRESSURE
If one man wonât break, let everyone else do the work. Introduce an audience. Encourage opinions. Frame the narrative so loudly that silence feels like failure. Men donât fear commitment, they fear humiliation. Letâs test that.
â Yours truly,
xoxo
You hit publish and sit back, phone warm in your hand, heartbeat steady in that way it only gets when youâre about to detonate something. The first notification lands before youâve even locked the screen. Then another. Then five more. By the time youâre brushing your teeth, your phone is vibrating like itâs possessed.
DECELIS UNI GOSSIP â POLL POSTEDđłïž Will Park Sunghoon survive Day 6?âą Absolutely. Heâs built different.
âą Heâs already gone.
âą I give him 48 hours.
âą Who cares, Iâm invested either way.
You choke on toothpaste. Someoneâs already screenshotting the poll and dropping it into group chats with crying emojis and football references. Someone else adds a slow zoom edit of Sunghoon from last nightâs practice with dramatic music. A professor you definitely have for media ethics likes the post and then, very obviously, unlikes it. The experiment isnât just yours anymore. Itâs entertainment. By the time you leave your dorm, the campus feels different. Charged. Like youâre walking through the aftermath of something loud and public and slightly illegal.
People glance up when you pass. Some grin. Some whisper. One girl actually salutes you like youâre a general going to war. Someone mutters, âSheâs insane,â and it sounds like admiration. You should feel powerful. You mostly feel⊠aware. You scan the quad automatically. Old habit. You donât see him. Not by the fountain where he usually waits between classes. Not by the steps where his teammates loiter. Not cutting across the grass with that easy, controlled stride like the world never asks him to rush.
Your stomach tightens, just a little. Get it together. You head inside, weaving through the morning rush. Every other conversation sounds like static until your name slices through it.
ââdid you see the pollââ
ââI swear he looked pissed yesterdayââ
ââno because if he folds Iâll lose my mindââ
You take the stairs two at a time, jaw set, pulse ticking faster with every landing. Where are you? You find him by accident. Or maybe instinct. Heâs standing in the corner of the hallway outside the lecture wing, half-shadowed by the tall windows. Not leaning. Not scrolling. Not talking to anyone. Waiting. His duffel bag hangs loose from one shoulder. His hoodie is zipped all the way up like armor. His jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle jump when someone laughs too loudly nearby. And his eyes, dark. Focused.
Locked straight onto you the second you look up. The air between you goes sharp. Everything else fades: the foot traffic, the murmurs, the stupid buzzing of your phone as another notification rolls in. Itâs just the two of you, suspended in a moment that suddenly feels very, very real. You slow without meaning to. He doesnât move. Thereâs something different about him today. Not anger, not exactly. Itâs restraint. Pressure held too long. Like heâs standing still only because heâs chosen to.
You stop a few feet away. For a second, neither of you speaks. Youâre acutely aware of how exposed this is. Of how many eyes could be watching even if none of them seem to be right now. Of the fact that your article is open on half the phones in this building. âYou made it public,â he says finally. His voice is low. Even. Dangerous in its calm. You lift your chin. âYou knew that was coming.â âI knew youâd write,â he says. âI didnât know youâd turn it into a spectator sport.â
You bristle. âThatâs rich, coming from the campus golden boy.â Something flickers across his face at that. Not offense. Recognition. âYou put a poll up,â he continues, stepping closer. Not invading your space, just enough to remind you of the height difference. Of the weight of him. âDo you know what that does?â You do. You just hadnât wanted to think about it this early. âIt pressures the subject,â you say coolly. âThatâs the point.â His mouth curves, humorless. âYouâre not studying anymore.â âAnd you are?â you shoot back. âBecause last I checked, you agreed.â
âI agreed to an experiment,â he says. âNot a referendum.â The word lands harder than you expect. Around you, someone laughs. A phone camera clicks. The world keeps spinning, blissfully unaware that something fragile is stretching thin. You glance past him, just for a second, see two girls pretending not to stare, see a guy very obviously texting with his phone angled your way.
When you look back at Sunghoon, his expression has tightened further. âYou like the attention,â he says, not accusing. Observing. You open your mouth, ready with something sharp and clever and dismissive, and stop. Because you donât. Not like this. You like control. You like authorship. You like knowing where the line is. This feels like the line is moving without asking you.
âYou donât get to rewrite the rules now,â you say instead, quieter than before. âNot because people are watching.â His gaze drops, just briefly, to your mouth. Then back to your eyes. âThatâs the problem,â he says. âTheyâre not watching you.â Your pulse kicks. âTheyâre watching me lose.â The words sit between you, heavy and undeniable. For the first time, the scorecard feels irrelevant. For the first time, the experiment feels like itâs outgrown its margins. You straighten. âIf you want outââ âI donât,â he cuts in. Fast. Certain. That should reassure you. It doesnât. âThen donât glare at me like that,â you say, forcing lightness back into your tone. âIt ruins the brand.â
His lips twitch despite himself. Just barely. âYouâre playing a dangerous game,â he murmurs. âAnd youâre not the only one who gets hurt when it spirals.â You swallow.
âI can handle it.â He studies you for a long second. Really looks. Like heâs trying to decide whether thatâs true, or whether he believes you even if it is.
Then he steps back. Just one pace. Enough to reintroduce space. Enough to remind you that this is still pretend. Still public. Still a performance. âThen donât disappear on me today,â he says. âIf weâre doing this, we do it clean.â You nod, sharper than you mean to. âFine.â He turns to leave, then pauses. Without looking back, he adds, âAnd stop pretending you donât feel the weight of it. Youâre better than that.â Then heâs gone, swallowed by the crowd, the whispers, the polls and predictions and stupid edits with dramatic music. You stand there longer than necessary, heart thudding, phone buzzing again in your hand.
DECELIS UNI GOSSIP: Poll Update: 62% say Sunghoonâs already emotionally compromised.
You exhale slowly. Day 6 has begun. And for the first time, youâre not sure who the audience is rooting for anymore. He ignores you the entire day. Not dramatically. Not cruelly. Not in a way that invites confrontation. Which is worse. He doesnât look at you in the hallway. Doesnât slow when you pass. Doesnât text. Doesnât send one of those clipped, annoyingly precise messages that always sound like heâs three steps ahead of you. When you sit two rows behind him in lecture, he doesnât turn, not once. His posture is perfect. His attention fixed forward. Like you donât exist. By noon, your confidence has started to fray. You tell yourself itâs strategy. A counter. He warned you heâd draw a boundary, this must be it. A withdrawal maneuver. Starve the experiment of reaction and wait for you to crack.
Fine. You can play that game. You laugh louder than usual with Manon at lunch. You let Keeho steal fries off your plate and donât scold him like you normally would. You post an innocuous story, just coffee, sunlight, a caption that reads working on something dangerous, and watch the views climb.
Nothing. No reaction. No message. No subtle acknowledgment that heâs even seen it. Your chest tightens in a way that has nothing to do with competitiveness and everything to do with dread. By late afternoon, youâre restless enough to go looking. You tell yourself itâs for the article. Continuity. Optics. You canât write about a subject you havenât observed all day.
Thatâs the excuse you use as you walk toward the athletic building, heart ticking too fast, fingers curling and uncurling at your sides. You hear it before you see it. Laughter. Low. Female. You slow, instinct screaming. And then you see him. Sunghoon is backed against the brick wall near the side entrance, the quiet one, the one no one uses unless theyâre trying not to be seen. His duffel is on the ground at his feet. His hands are on someone elseâs waist. Sheâs pretty. Of course she is. Soft hair, short skirt, fingers threaded into his hoodie like she belongs there. Sheâs on her toes, pressed close, like she knows exactly what sheâs doing.
And heâs kissing her. Not hesitant. Not distant. Mouth moving against hers like itâs muscle memory. Like itâs easy. Like it means nothing. The world tilts. You stop short, breath punching out of you as if someoneâs landed a blow you didnât see coming. Thereâs a sharp, cracking sensation in your chest, too sudden to be dramatic, too deep to be ignored.
Oh. So thatâs what that feels like. Your mind scrambles, grasping for footing. Logic. Narrative control. Anything to explain this away before it finishes breaking something important. Itâs strategy, you think wildly. Media pressure. Optics. Heâs reminding the audience heâs unattached. Proving the poll wrong. Reasserting dominance. You almost laugh.
Because none of that stops the way your throat tightens when his hand slides up her back. Or the way your stomach drops when she smiles against his mouth, pleased, chosen. He pulls back just enough to murmur something you canât hear. She laughs. Your vision blurs at the edges. You take a step back before you even realize youâre moving. Then another. Your heel scuffs against the concrete, loud in the sudden silence of your head.
Sunghoon looks up. For half a second, nothing happens. Then his eyes meet yours. Whatever expression he was wearing, easy, casual, detached, vanishes. Itâs replaced by something sharp and unreadable. A flicker of⊠something. Surprise? Guilt? Calculation? You donât wait to find out. You turn and walk away. Not run. You refuse to give him that. You keep your spine straight, your pace even, like your heart isnât splintering with every step. Like the sound you just heard wasnât something inside you cracking open. You donât check your phone. You donât look back.
You make it halfway down the block before the first tear slips free, hot and humiliating. You swipe it away angrily, jaw clenched. Stupid. This is stupid. You did this. You invited this. You turned intimacy into an experiment and then forgot that experiments have variables you canât control. He doesnât owe you anything. The thought is rational. Clean. Correct.
It also hurts like hell. By the time you get back to your dorm, the campus noise feels distant, muffled, like youâre underwater. You shut the door behind you and slide down it, breath finally breaking as you press your forehead to your knees. Your phone buzzes in your hand. A notification. You donât have to look to know what it is.
DECELIS UNI GOSSIP: SPOTTED: Sunghoon looking VERY alive on Day 6.
Your chest caves in. So this is how he wins, you think dully. Not by breaking. But by reminding you that he never needed you in the first place. You laugh once, softly, the sound edged with something dangerously close to a sob. Fine. Game on. Even as your heart lies in pieces at your feet, one brutal truth settles in, clear and unavoidable: This wouldnât hurt this much if you werenât already losing.
You donât go to your next class. Or the one after that. Or the one after that. You sit on your bed with your phone face-down like it personally betrayed you, legs pulled up to your chest, hoodie sleeves tugged over your hands. The world outside your door keeps going, footsteps, laughter, someone arguing loudly on the phone, but you opt out. For once, you donât feel like being observed.
Your phone buzzes anyway. Once. Twice. Again. You donât look. You already know itâs him. You imagine the texts without opening them, measured, probably. Annoyingly calm. Something like We should talk or This isnât what it looked like or, worse, Are you okay?
That one would ruin you. So you donât give it the chance. You flip the phone over and slide it under your pillow like that might muffle the existence of Park Sunghoon entirely. It doesnât. Five minutes later, thereâs a knock. Then a familiar voice through the door. âOkay, before you say no, we brought snacks.â Manon.
You sigh, defeated. âCome in.â The door opens like a storm. Manon barrels in first, dramatic as ever, carrying two iced coffees and a paper bag like sheâs delivering emergency supplies. Keeho follows, already mid-sentence about how he knew athletes were a disease, and Sunoo trails behind them, shutting the door softly, eyes scanning your face in one quick, devastating sweep.
âOh,â Sunoo says quietly. âYeah. Thatâs bad.â You scoff weakly. âHello to you too.â Keeho drops onto the floor cross-legged like heâs settling in for a war council. âI just want you to know,â he says seriously, âthat if violence were legal, I would already be in jail for you.â Manon shoves a coffee into your hands. âDrink. You look like youâve been personally victimized by a man with good bone structure.â That does it.
You laugh. It comes out broken and surprised, but itâs a laugh, and suddenly your chest loosens just enough to breathe again. Sunoo sits beside you on the bed, close but not crowding, knees tucked up neatly. âOkay,â he says gently. âStart talking. Before Keeho starts hexing people.â Too late. Keeho is already pacing. âIâm just saying, hypothetically, if all his teeth fell out tomorrowââ ââhypothetically,â Manon cuts in, deadpan, âI would thank the universe.â ââand then he tripped,â Keeho continues, warming up, âand fell into, say, a pool of battery acidââ You snort. âKeeho.â âIâm not saying Iâd push him,â he says quickly. âIâm just saying Iâd hold the ladder.â
Sunoo pats your arm. âWeâre workshopping curses. Itâs therapeutic.â You shake your head, smiling despite yourself, and finally, finally, your eyes sting. âI saw him,â you admit. âWith someone else.â The room stills. Manonâs expression sharpens instantly. âWhere.â âKissing,â you add, before anyone can ask. âLike it was nothing.â Keehoâs jaw drops. âOh, absolutely not.â Sunoo frowns. âThatâs⊠wow.â You stare at your coffee. âI know he doesnât owe me anything. I know this is technically part of the game. But it stillââ You gesture vaguely at your chest. âIt still sucked.â
âThatâs because,â Manon says, sitting on the arm of the chair like a queen about to pass judgment, âyouâre a human being with feelings. Tragic flaw, I know.â Keeho points at you. âYou are allowed to be upset. You are encouraged to be upset. I, personally, am upset on your behalf.â Sunoo nudges your shoulder lightly. âYou didnât imagine it. It mattered.â Thatâs the one that lands.
You swallow hard. âI feel stupid,â you confess. âI built this whole thing. I made it public. I turned it into content. And now Iâm acting like I didnât know this could happen.â âThat doesnât make you stupid,â Sunoo says softly. âIt makes you honest.â Manon nods. âAnd brave, honestly. Messy, sure. But brave.â Keeho flops back dramatically onto the floor. âAlso, for the record, heâs an idiot.â
You huff. âYou were literally praising his jawline last week.â âThat was before he emotionally compromised you,â Keeho replies. âNow heâs dead to me.â You sit there with them, coffee cooling in your hands, snacks forgotten on the desk, wrapped in the strange comfort of chaos and loyalty and people who donât need you to be sharp right now. Your phone buzzes again under the pillow. You ignore it.
Manon notices anyway and grins. âGood. Let him sweat.â Sunoo leans his head against your shoulder. âYou donât have to decide anything today.â Keeho lifts his head from the floor. âBut if you do decide to ruin him, I have ideas.â You laugh again, this time steadier, even as the ache lingers beneath it. Heavy and light at the same time. For now, you let yourself be held up by caffeine, bad jokes, and the knowledge that even if the experiment is spiraling, youâre not alone in the fallout.
Sunghoon realizes he fucked up about three seconds after it happens. Not when her mouth is on his. Not when her hands slide up his chest like theyâve done it before. Not even when he kisses her back. Itâs when his brain supplies the wrong face. Yours. The kiss is warm, familiar in the way all meaningless things are. Easy. Automatic. He knows exactly what heâs supposed to do, where to put his hands, how long to linger, when to pull back just enough to make it look real.
Thatâs the problem. It looks real. But the only thing he can think about is the way you look when youâre trying not to cry. The way your mouth quirks when youâre pretending youâre not affected. The way youâd gone still when he touched you, not startled, not unsure, just present.
He breaks the kiss first. Too fast. The girl blinks up at him, confused, lips parted like sheâs waiting for a line he doesnât have. He gives her something polite. Vague. Safe. A smile that doesnât reach his eyes. She says something, he doesnât catch it. He nods anyway. She leaves.
And the silence that follows is brutal. Sunghoon drags a hand down his face and stares at the brick wall like it personally betrayed him. His heart is beating too fast for something that was supposed to be nothing. His chest feels tight in a way that has nothing to do with arousal and everything to do with panic. He doesnât know her name.
That realization hits harder than it should. He replays the last ten minutes in his head, searching for it, something, anything, but comes up blank. No name. No detail. No imprint. Just a placeholder where a person should be. Thatâs when it clicks. He didnât kiss her because he wanted to. He kissed her because he wanted you, and thought denying that would make it go away.
It doesnât. It makes it worse. He thinks of your face when you saw him. The way you stopped like youâd hit a wall. The way your eyes went distant before you turned away, pride intact even as something fragile shattered behind it. His stomach drops. Fuck. This wasnât strategy. This wasnât optics. This wasnât media pressure management or some calculated move to reassert control. This was cowardice.
Heâd told himself you were a bet. Clean. Contained. Ten days, a winner, an ending he could live with. Heâd framed you as a variable he could manipulate because that was safer than admitting you were a person who got under his skin in ways he didnât have language for. And he knows, knows, that to you, heâs a game too. A challenge. A headline. Something to win and walk away from with a clever conclusion and clean hands.
Youâre both pretending. The difference is, heâs losing control of the pretense. He leans his forehead against the wall and exhales slowly, trying to steady the chaos in his chest. He thinks about the way youâd laughed in the grocery store. About how easy it felt to stand beside you. About how unnatural it now seems to imagine not doing that again. He thinks about your silence today. The way you didnât answer. Didnât show. Didnât perform.
That scares him more than the poll ever did. Because silence means youâre hurt. And hurt means this isnât just an experiment anymore. Sunghoon straightens, jaw tight, heart heavy with a truth he didnât plan for and doesnât know how to undo. You are a bet to him. He is a game to you. And somehow, against his better judgment, against every rule heâs ever lived by, heâs falling for you anyway.
The article goes live late. Not because you hesitate. But because cleverness feels dangerous right now, and you donât trust yourself not to bleed through the margins.
You reread it three times before posting. Not to polish. To make sure it still sounds like you. Detached. Observant. Sharp enough to cut without revealing where the blade came from. It does. Thatâs the problem.
PING!How to Lose a Guy in 10 DaysAn Incomplete Guide to Emotional Repellence, Strategic Chaos, and Why Men Fear Commitment
DAY 7: THE WITHDRAWAL
When a man no longer responds to provocation, remove yourself entirely. No confrontation. No explanation. No spectacle. Nothing destabilizes control like the absence of reaction. If he notices, you mattered. If he doesnât, you already have your answer.
â Yours truly,
xoxo
You stare at the screen for a long moment after it posts. The scorecard sits below it, blank and waiting. You donât look. You close your laptop instead, the quiet click sounding louder than it should, and lie back on your bed with one arm flung over your eyes. Your chest feels tight. Not panicked. Just⊠bruised. Like somethingâs been pressed on for too long and hasnât been released yet.
Withdrawal is strategy, you tell yourself. Distance is control. Silence is power. You sleep badly anyway. The next morning, campus feels⊠watchful. Not loud like yesterday. There are no polls shoved in your face, no notifications popping up every five seconds, no one loudly reading excerpts out of context. Itâs quieter than that. Thinner. Taut. Like the air itself is waiting for something to snap.
People look at you longer than usual. People look past you, too, toward wherever Sunghoon might be. Manon links her arm through yours the second you step outside, like sheâs anchoring you to something solid. âI swear to God,â sheâs already saying, voice sharp with righteous fury, âif one more man tells me heâs âemotionally unavailableâ like thatâs a personality trait and not a warning labelââ You hum noncommittally, eyes scanning the quad without meaning to. âYouâre dating men who think liking one sad playlist counts as depth.â
âEXACTLY,â she snaps, vindicated. âTheyâre just⊠not enough. None of them are. Iâm bored. Iâm spiritually underwhelmed. I want someone who ruins my life a little.â You snort despite yourself. âThatâs a dangerous desire.â âWorth it,â she says immediately. âMen are either too much or not enough. Thereâs no in-between.â Youâre smiling when you see him. Not because youâre happy. Because your body recognizes him before your mind catches up.
Heâs across the quad, duffel slung over his shoulder, walking with his head slightly bowed like heâs arguing with himself. He looks tired. Not rumpled, Sunghoon is never that, but worn around the edges. Like sleep didnât stick. Like somethingâs been gnawing at him since yesterday. Your chest tightens. Instinct screams at you to slow down. To look again. To confirm heâs really there. You donât. You keep walking. Keep talking. Keep nodding at Manonâs story about a disastrous date involving a man who thought negging was a personality.
âAnd then he said, get this,âYouâre intimidating, but in a hot way,ââ she scoffs. âImmediate ick.â âImmediate,â you agree, voice steady enough to fool even yourself. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Sunghoon stop. Not hesitate. Stop. His gaze snaps up, sharp and searching, finding you too late. Youâre already passing him. Already mid-laugh. Already moving on like heâs not the gravitational center of your week.
You donât turn. You donât acknowledge the shift in the atmosphere. And everyone clocks it. Whispers ripple like a wave. Phones tilt subtly. Someone actually gasps, hand flying to their mouth like theyâre watching live television. âWait,â Manon mutters under her breath, finally clocking it. âAre we⊠are we ignoring him?â âYes,â you say lightly. âWeâre discussing your love life.â âOh,â she says, delighted. Then, louder, âANYWAY, I just think men need to try harder. Like, if you canât emotionally devastate me a little, whatâs the point?â
You hear it then, the soft scuff of footsteps behind you. Sunghoon catches up easily. Too easily. âHey,â he says. Your name follows, quieter. Careful. Like heâs afraid it might break if he says it too loudly. You donât respond. Manon does, though. She beams like sheâs just been handed front-row seats. âHi! Oh my God, youâre the football guy.â Sunghoon doesnât look at her.
âCan I talk to you?â he asks. You keep walking. âAbout what?â you ask, not looking at him. The tone is polite. Distant. Impeccably controlled. He falters. Just for a second. âAbout yesterday,â he says. âThereâs nothing to talk about,â you reply smoothly, still angled toward Manon. âDid I tell you about the part where he split the bill?â Manon clutches her chest. âOh, donât get me started.â Sunghoon reaches out, then stops himself inches from your arm. âI messed up,â he says, low enough that only you can hear.
Thatâs the first crack. Your steps slow despite yourself. Manon feels it instantly. She squeezes your arm once. âIâll⊠go terrorize someone else,â she murmurs, already backing away. The look she gives Sunghoon is lethal. âTry not to traumatize her.â And then youâre alone with him. The quad suddenly feels too open. Too exposed. Like the world has zoomed out just to watch this happen. Sunghoon steps in front of you, not aggressive, not blocking, just enough that you have to stop. Up close, the signs are impossible to miss. The tension in his jaw. The faint shadows under his eyes. The way his hands keep flexing like he doesnât know what to do with them.
âI didnât do it to hurt you,â he says. You laugh once, sharp and humorless. âCongratulations.â âI mean it,â he insists. âI wasnât thinking.â âThat much is obvious.â He exhales, frustration bleeding through his control. âYou didnât even let me explain.â âYou kissed someone else,â you say, finally looking at him. Your eyes donât soften. âWhat explanation could possibly improve that?â His throat bobs. âI thought I was doing what you wanted.â
The words hang there. âWhat I wanted,â you repeat quietly. âYes,â he says. âDistance. Detachment. Proof that Iâm notââ He cuts himself off, jaw tightening. âIt doesnât matter.â
âNo,â you agree. âIt doesnât.â Something breaks across his face. âThatâs not true,â he says softly. You step closer before you can stop yourself. Close enough to feel his warmth. Close enough that the noise of campus fades again, like it always does when itâs just the two of you. âFor days,â you say, voice low and shaking despite your best efforts, âyou let me believe this was⊠something. And the second it got hard, you proved exactly why I wrote the article in the first place.â
âThatâs not fair.â âNeither was watching you kiss someone else.â Silence crashes down between you. His gaze drops to your mouth, just briefly. Instinctive. Uncontrolled. Your heart stutters. For one terrifying second, it feels like he might say it. Like he might close the distance and ruin both of you completely. âI think about you,â he says instead. Quiet. Barely there. âMore than I should.â
Your breath catches. This is it. This is the almost. Footsteps cut through the moment, loud, rushed. âHOON! COACH IS LOOKING FOR YOU.â
The spell shatters. Sunghoon blinks like heâs waking from something dangerous. His shoulders square. His mask slams back into place. âIââ He stops. Swallows. âIâll see you.â You snort once, the sound is bitter and ripples straight from your chest. âYeah,â you say. âMaybe.â
He hesitates, then turns away, disappearing into the crowd like something monumental didnât just fail to happen. You stand there long after heâs gone, hands trembling slightly at your sides. Almost confessed. Almost kissed. Almost honest. You pull your phone out, not to text, not to spiral, but to open the article draft. Not to write. Just to remind yourself this is still an experiment. That youâre still in control. But your chest still aches. Youâre not sure what youâd do if he actually said the words out loud.
You donât hear him call your name at first. The hallway outside the gym is chaos, lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking against tile, someone laughing too loudly like theyâre trying to prove theyâre not exhausted. The air smells like sweat and cheap deodorant and floor cleaner. Itâs all noise, all movement, all distraction. Youâre tuned out.
Walking shoulder to shoulder with Manon, your brain is still stuck somewhere between the quad and that moment where Sunghoonâs mouth hovered too close to yours and then didnât cross the line. Your body feels wrong, too aware, too tight, like it never got the memo that youâre supposed to be detached now.
âIâm serious,â Manon is saying, waving her water bottle like sheâs making a point in court. âMen are just⊠disappointing. Like, why do they all think bare minimum deserves applause?â You hum in agreement, eyes straight ahead. âManon, baby, youâve been talking about this since the morning.â She groans and mutters something incomprehensible under her breath. Probably cursing your bloodline for being right. You do not look to the left. But you feel him.
Itâs not subtle. It never is with him. Thereâs a shift, like the air itself tightens, like conversations falter half a beat too late. From the corner of your eye, you catch movement: Sunghoon peeling away from Jay, Jake, and Ni-ki mid-conversation. He doesnât explain himself. Doesnât slow. His duffel hangs loose on one shoulder, practice jacket unzipped, hair still damp at the nape of his neck. Heâs coming straight for you. Manon clocks it instantly. Her grip tightens just a little around your arm. She keeps talking, louder now, deliberate. âI mean, if I wanted emotional whiplash, Iâd go to an amusement parkââ âHey,â Sunghoon says. He sounds breathless. Not like he just finished practice, like heâs been holding something in for too long. âCan we talk? We didnât finish earlier.â
You donât answer. You donât even turn your head. You keep walking. The hallway notices. Thereâs a very specific kind of silence that follows, not total, not dramatic, just⊠attentive. Curious. Hungry. Like a dozen people have decided, collectively, to pretend theyâre not watching.
Manon glances at you, eyebrows lifting in a silent oh. But she keeps pace, loyal to the bit. Sunghoonâs jaw tightens. You can see it without looking at him. âI just need a minute.â Nothing. You pass the science wing. The vending machines hum. Youâre almost at the stairs when suddenly, your wrist is warm. He grabs you. Not hard. Never hard. Just enough to stop you. Enough to say please without using the word. âSunghoonââ Manon starts.
âIâll bring her back,â he says quickly, already steering you sideways, his hand still firm around your wrist like heâs afraid youâll vanish if he lets go. Manon doesnât fight it. She just tilts her head and calls after you, sweet and venomous, âDonât commit crimes!â The janitorâs closet door opens and closes in one sharp motion.
Click. The sound echoes. The space is small. Too small for two people who are already wound this tight. Cleaning supplies line the walls, mops, buckets, bottles with half-peeled labels. The air smells faintly like soap and dust and something industrial. The light hums overhead. Sunghoon is right there. Too close. Breathing hard. Chest rising and falling like he ran here instead of walking. His eyes are dark, not angry, not gentle, just overwhelmed, like heâs been holding himself together with sheer force of will.
âWhat is your problem?â he snaps. The words are sharp, but his hands are shaking. You laugh, short and breathless. âWow. Straight to that?â âYou wonât answer me,â he says, frustration bleeding through now. âYou wonât even look at me.â âGood observation,â you reply lightly. âYouâre learning.â He swears under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair. âYou canât just ignore me like this.â
âWatch me.â Thatâs when something in him breaks. He steps forward, crowding you back against the shelves. The bottles rattle softly behind you. His hands come up automatically, bracketing your waist, not rough, not gentle, just desperate, like he needs to anchor himself to something solid. And then he kisses you. Itâs not sweet. Itâs not careful. Itâs frustration and longing and restraint snapping under pressure. His mouth is warm and insistent, like heâs trying to say everything he never did without using words. Like heâs been waiting for permission he finally decided to take.
You gasp against his lips, fingers curling into the fabric of his practice jacket. âSunghoonââ He kisses you again. Shorter. Slower. Like he realizes what heâs doing even as he does it. âYou donât get to do that,â you whisper, voice unsteady. Another kiss, lighter now. Almost reverent. âYou donât get to act like nothing happened.â
A kiss to the corner of your mouth. Your jaw. Everywhere except where youâre trying to speak, like heâs avoiding the argument and the truth all at once. âI hate you,â you breathe. He stills. Forehead resting against yours, eyes closed, his hands remain at your waist, thumbs moving without thinking. When he speaks, his voice is wrecked.
âNo,â he says quietly. âYou donât.â Your heart is pounding so loud youâre sure he can hear it. Youâre sure he feels it. âThis is a game,â you say, forcing the words out. âFor both of us.â His breath stutters. âI know,â he admits. âAnd Iâm losing.â The door rattles suddenly, someone passing by too close, and reality slams back into place like cold water. Sunghoon pulls away just enough to really look at you. To take you in like this, flushed, breathing hard, eyes bright with something neither of you wants to name. His expression is wrecked. Guilty. Wanting. Terrified. âI meant what I almost said earlier,â he murmurs. âIââ
Footsteps stop outside. Someone clears their throat. Sunghoon lets out a shaky, bitter breath. âOf course.â You donât let him finish. You slip past him before he can reach for you again, fingers brushing the door handle. Before you leave, you glance back, just once. Heâs standing there, surrounded by mops and cleaning supplies and the consequences of his own hesitation. âFigure out what you want,â you say softly. âThen come find me.â And then youâre gone. The door clicks shut.
Sunghoon stays there long after the hallway noise fades back in, staring at the spot where you stood, chest aching with the realization settling deep and unwelcome in his bones, this was never just a point on a scoreboard. The door clicks shut behind you. Thatâs all it takes. Sunghoon exhales a laugh that sounds wrong even to his own ears, too sharp, too breathless and then heâs sliding down the wood like his bones forgot how to hold him upright. His shoulder hits first. Then his spine. Then heâs sitting on the floor with his knees pulled in, fist buried in his hair like if he grips hard enough he can rip the thought of you out by the root.
He laughs again. Bitter. Broken. Almost hysterical. âUnbelievable,â he mutters to no one, staring at the opposite wall like it personally betrayed him. He told you. He actually told you.
Seven days, a week, of pretending this was a game. Four days of rules and schedules and sarcasm and controlled distance, and then tonight, one stupid crack in his armor, one look at you standing there too close, and suddenly his mouth was spilling confessions like theyâd been waiting for permission. The way he watches you when youâre not looking. The way your laugh sticks to him hours after it fades. The way this fake thing stopped feeling fake sometime around Day Two. You hadnât said anything. Thatâs the part that hurts most.
He presses the heel of his palm into his eye, breathing through it, jaw clenched so tight it aches. Somewhere down the hall, he hears voices, yours, shaky and distant, and Manonâs sharp disbelief. âWhat the fuck was that?â she asks. Sunghoon doesnât hear your answer.
He doesnât need to. Because he knows the sound of you when youâre unraveling. Heâs memorized it without meaning to. The way your steps drag. The way your voice goes thin, like youâre holding something fragile together with bare hands.
His head tips back against the door. âIdiot,â he whispers. To himself. Always to himself.
You donât remember getting to your room. You remember your hand on the wall, steadying yourself. You remember Manon saying your name twice before giving up. You remember the click of your door, softer than it shouldâve been. Now youâre on your bed. Still in your clothes. Still breathing like you ran a mile. The bottle on your nightstand is tipped just slightly on its side, amber catching the light, half-drunk and forgotten until now. You donât remember opening it, but the burn in your throat says you did. Your eyes sting. Not crying. Not yet. Just⊠glassy. Red-rimmed. Empty in that too-full way.
You stare at the ceiling, replaying his voice over and over like your brain doesnât know how to stop. I donât know when it stopped being a joke. I donât know why itâs you. I tried not to feel this. Your fingers curl into the sheets. You hadnât been ready for honesty. Not his. Not like that. Outside your door, the hallway is quiet again. Somewhere else in the apartment, Sunghoon is probably still sitting on the floor, head in his hands, laughing at himself for breaking the rules first. And here you are, wide awake, half-drunk, heart pounding too loud for a fake relationship, thinking about the way his voice shook when he said your name.
Thinking about how real it sounded. Thinking about how neither of you knows how to undo it now. You donât let yourself think. If you do, youâll talk yourself out of it, convince yourself itâs the alcohol, the exhaustion, the humiliation of being seen too clearly. So you donât think. You move.
Coat over pajama shorts. No bra. Flipflops slapped on with shaking hands. Phone left behind. Dignity already gone, so why bother packing it. The hallway is too bright. The elevator takes too long. Every step toward Sunghoonâs dorm feels like treason against the version of you who promised to keep this fake. By the time you get there, your heart is trying to claw its way out of your throat. You knock.
Sharp. Loud. Once. Inside, Sunghoon is standing in the middle of his room with a half-folded hoodie in his hands. The bed is a mess of clean laundry. His eyes burn. He swiped at them not even a second ago, annoyed at himself for being like this, for letting it get to him. The knock makes him flinch.
âJake,â he calls, voice hoarse, not even bothering to hide the irritation, âplease fuck off, I already told youââ He opens the door. And freezes. Youâre standing there in pajama shorts and flipflops like you forgot how to be a sensible human being. Hair messy. Coat too big. Eyes still red, still glossy, still ruined in a way that makes something inside his chest snap.
ââŠoh,â he breathes. Thatâs all he gets out. Because you grab him by the collar of his t-shirt and yank him forward, hard, like youâre afraid if you hesitate for even half a second youâll lose your nerve. Your mouth crashes into his. Itâs not gentle. Itâs not clean. Itâs heat and frustration and four days of restraint going up in flames. Your lips are chapped, tasting faintly of alcohol, and Sunghoon makes a sound low in his throat that surprises both of you. For a split second, his hands hover uselessly at his sides. Shock. Disbelief. Fear.
Then instinct takes over. He grabs you back, one hand fisting in your coat, the other cradling your jaw like heâs afraid youâll disappear if he doesnât anchor you. He kisses you like heâs been starving, like this is something heâs rehearsed in his head and never thought heâd get. You gasp against his mouth, breath hitching, forehead knocking against his as you pull back just enough to breathe. âI couldnâtââ you start, then stop, shaking. âI couldnât sit there anymore.â
Sunghoonâs forehead drops to yours. âYou shouldnât be here,â he says quietly, like a confession. Like a plea. âI know.â Your hands slide up his chest, fingers curling into fabric, grounding yourself in the solid proof of him. You look wrecked. He knows it. He looks wrecked too, eyes red, lashes wet, lips swollen already from kissing you like that. âSay it again,â you whisper. âWhat you said earlier.â
His jaw tightens. âThis isnât fair,â he says. âI donât care.â Silence stretches between you, heavy and trembling. Sunghoon exhales, shaky, defeated. âI meant it,â he says finally. âAll of it. And if you walk out after this, I donât know if I can pretend again.â You swallow. âThen donât.â Thatâs all it takes. He kisses you again, but this time itâs slower, desperate in a different way, like heâs trying to memorize you. Like this is no longer about impulse, but choice.
Outside, the hallway stays quiet. Inside, the rules are officially dead. He doesnât break the kiss when he moves. The door gets kicked shut behind you with his heel, hard enough to rattle the frame, and that sound is what finally makes this real. Not a mistake. Not a drunk spiral. A decision with weight.
Sunghoonâs hand stays firm at your jaw as he backs you up, guiding without asking, like he already knows where this is going. You stumble once, breath hitching, fingers clutching at his shirt, and he steadies you instantly. âCareful,â he murmurs, voice low, wrecked. The room blurs past you. Desk. Chair. The stupid folded laundry on the bed he never finished because he couldnât stop thinking about you. And then, the bed. The same one. The realization hits you both at the same time. You feel it in the way he stills, the way his grip tightens just slightly, like heâs bracing for something heavier than desire. âThis isââ you start.
âI know,â he cuts in, quietly. He doesnât let you finish because if you do, you might both stop. He turns you, guiding you down, following you without hesitation, like muscle memory pulls him forward. The mattress dips beneath your weight, familiar in a way that makes your chest ache. This bed has already seen you stripped bare once, seen the lie of just for the bet, just for the experiment. Sunghoon hovers over you, hands planted on either side of your head, breathing hard.
âThis is where it happened,â you whisper, not accusing. Just stating the truth. His eyes search your face like heâs looking for permission, absolution, damnation, anything. âYeah,â he says. âAnd thatâs why you should tell me to stop.â You donât.
Instead, you reach up, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth where your kiss left him swollen and red. âI came here,â you say softly, voice shaking but sure, âbecause I donât want to pretend this didnât matter.â Something breaks in his expression. He closes his eyes for half a second, forehead dropping to yours, breath shuddering out of him. âFuck,â he whispers. âYouâre going to ruin me.â
You smile sadly. âToo late.â He kisses you again, slower than before, deeper, like heâs sealing something sacred and doomed all at once. His hand slips into yours, fingers lacing tight, grounding, intimate in a way that feels worse than anything reckless. The room goes quiet around you. No audience. No rules. No experiment. Just the two of you, back where it started, this time knowing exactly what youâre risking. And neither of you pulls away.Â
He doesnât rush. He never does when itâs like this, when the pretense has cracked open and thereâs nothing left to hide behind. His free hand finds the hem of your shirt again, knuckles brushing your stomach in a slow, deliberate sweep. He pulls back just enough to look at you, really look, eyes dark and searching. âCan I?â he asks, voice low, wrecked.
You nod. Lift your arms. He peels the shirt off you like itâs something fragile, something heâs afraid to tear. Folds it once, habit, stupidly tender, before setting it on the nightstand. Then his hands are back on you, palms sliding up your bare sides, thumbs tracing the underside of your ribs like heâs counting every breath. Your bra follows next. He reaches behind you, fingers deft but careful, unhooks it without looking away from your face. The straps slide down your arms. He catches the lace before it falls, sets it aside with the same quiet reverence.
When youâre bare from the waist up, he exhales like the sight of you hurts him. âGod,â he mutters, almost to himself. âLook at you.â He leans in, kisses the center of your chest, soft, open-mouthed, then trails lower. Slow kisses across the swell of one breast, then the other. Tongue flicking once over a nipple, gentle, testing, until it pebbles under his mouth. You arch, small, involuntary, and he groans against your skin. âFuck, baby,â he breathes. âYouâre so fucking perfect.â
He kisses his way back up, jaw, cheek, temple, then finds your mouth again. Deeper this time. Tongues sliding lazy and hot, like heâs trying to taste every corner of you. His hands move to your jeans. Button. Zipper. He hooks his fingers into the waistband, pauses. âStill with me?â he murmurs against your lips. âAlways,â you whisper back. He pulls them down, jeans, underwear together, slow enough that you feel every inch of fabric dragging over your thighs, your calves. He kneels to tug them off your ankles, presses a kiss to the inside of one knee, then the other. Worshipful. Unhurried.
When he rises again, heâs still fully dressed, sweatshirt, sweats, everything, but the outline of him is unmistakable. Hard. Straining. You reach for the hem of his sweatshirt. He lets you pull it off. The sight of him shirtless still steals your breath, broad shoulders, carved collarbones, the tight, ridged planes of his abs flexing with every breath. You drag your nails lightly down the center of his stomach, watching the muscles jump under your touch. âJesus,â you breathe.
He huffs a quiet laugh, but itâs strained. âKeep looking at me like that and this ends before it starts.â You smile, small, wicked, and pull him down on top of you. He settles between your thighs, weight braced on his forearms so he doesnât crush you. Kisses you again, slow, filthy, tongues curling, while one hand skates down your body. Over your breast, your waist, the soft curve of your hip. Then lower.
He cups you, palm warm, possessive, then slides two fingers through your folds. Finds you already slick, swollen, aching. âFuck,â he swears softly. âYouâre soaked.â âFor you,â you gasp when he circles your clit once, light, teasing. He groans. Kisses you harder. Slips one finger inside, slow, careful, then another. Crooks them just right, pressing against that spot that makes your hips jerk. âLike that?â he murmurs against your mouth.
You nod, frantic, nails digging into his shoulders. He works you open like that, slow, steady pumps, thumb rubbing tight circles over your clit. Kissing you the whole time, lips, jaw, throat, like he canât bear to stop tasting you. âYou feel so good,â he whispers. âSo fucking tight around my fingers. Canât wait to feel you on my cock.â You whimper, high, desperate. He kisses the sound away.
When your thighs start trembling, when your breath hitches every time he curls his fingers, he pulls them out, slow, brings them to his mouth and licks them clean while holding your gaze. The sight of it, his tongue dragging over his own fingers, tasting you, makes heat flood your core all over again. He reaches between you, shoves his sweats down just enough. His cock springs free, heavy, thick, already leaking at the tip. He notches himself at your entrance. Pauses.
âLook at me,â he says, voice rough, pleading. You do. He pushes in, slow. Inch by torturous inch. You both exhale at the same time when he bottoms out, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling. âFuck,â he chokes out. âYouâreâshit, youâre perfect.â
He doesnât move right away. Just stays buried deep, letting you adjust, letting you feel every thick inch of him stretching you open. Then, slowly, he rolls his hips. Long, languid thrusts that drag against every sensitive spot inside you. You wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him deeper. He swears under his breath, low, broken, every time you clench around him. âGod, baby,â he groans. âYouâre gonna kill me.â
He kisses you through it, messy, open-mouthed, swallowing every gasp and moan you make. One hand finds yours again, fingers lacing tight, while the other slides up to cup your face, thumb stroking your cheek. He fucks you like heâs making love. Slow. Deep. Unhurried. Every thrust deliberate, measured, like heâs trying to imprint himself into every part of you. You feel the coil tightening again, hot, bright, overwhelming.
âSunghoonââ Your voice cracks. âI know,â he murmurs. âIâve got you. Come for me, pretty girl. Let me feel it.â He angles his hips just right, grinding against your clit with every roll, and you shatter.
The orgasm rolls through you slow and shattering, waves of pleasure that make your toes curl, your back arch, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer. He fucks you through it, slow, steady, drawing it out until youâre trembling, oversensitive, clinging to him. Only then does he let himself go. A few more deep thrusts, harder now, chasing, until he buries himself to the hilt and comes with a low, guttural groan. Pulsing inside you, hot and endless, face pressed to the side of your neck. He doesnât pull out.
Just collapses over you, careful not to crush, arms wrapping around your back, holding you close. You stay like that, sweaty, tangled, breathing hard. He presses soft kisses to your shoulder, your throat, the corner of your mouth. âStay,â he whispers against your skin. âJust⊠stay.â
You thread your fingers through his damp hair. Nod. âIâm not going anywhere.â He exhales, shaky, relieved. And for the first time since the hallway collision, since the bet he still hasnât told you about, he lets himself believe, maybe, just maybe, this could be real. Even if the truth is still waiting to burn everything down. The room feels different once itâs over.
Not quiet, just⊠rearranged. Like the air itself has shifted and hasnât decided what it wants to be yet. Sunghoon is the first to move. He sits up, dragging a hand down his face, breath evening out, the familiar armor already clicking back into place piece by piece. When he speaks, his voice is lighter. Easier. Almost practiced. âWe should probably,â he says, exhaling a short laugh, âget back on track.â
You donât respond right away. He glances at you, catching the way youâre staring at the ceiling instead of him, lashes clumped, mouth parted like youâre still somewhere else. âI mean,â he adds, softer but still careful, âwe agreed. Going soft now wonât exactly help. Someoneâs gotta finish the article, right?â
There it is. The word article lands between you like something dropped and sharp. You turn your head slowly to look at him. Heâs already halfway back to being Sunghoon. The confident one. The one who knows how to compartmentalize. Who knows how to survive by pretending things donât touch him as deeply as they do. Your chest tightens. âSo,â you say quietly, âthatâs what this is now?â
He frowns, just slightly. âThatâs not what Iââ
âItâs fine,â you cut in, sitting up. The sheet slides down your shoulder, but you donât bother pulling it back. âNo, seriously. Youâre right.â That seems to throw him off more than anger wouldâve. You swing your legs off the bed and stand, ignoring the way your knees feel weak, the way your body still hums with something unresolved. You cross the room and start gathering your clothes, slowly, deliberately, like each piece is another choice being made.
Sunghoon watches you, confusion creeping in. âHey. What are you doing?â You donât look at him as you tug on your shirt. âGoing back to normal,â you say. âIsnât that what you want?â âThatâs notââ He stops himself, jaw tightening. âYouâre twisting this.â
You finally face him then, fingers curling around your jacket. âAm I?â you ask, not loud, not dramatic. Just honest. âBecause five minutes ago you were telling me things you donât say to anyone. You kissed me like you were scared Iâd disappear. And now youâre talking about optics.â
Silence. He opens his mouth. Closes it. You laugh, but itâs brittle. âWow. That answers it.â You pull on your coat, shove your feet into your shoes without bothering to sit. Your hands shake, and you hate that he can see it. âI came here because I thoughtââ You stop yourself, swallowing. âDoesnât matter.â He stands abruptly. âYouâre overreacting.â
Thatâs the wrong thing to say. You straighten, something cold settling into place. Familiar. Protective. âRight,â you nod. âMy mistake.â You walk past him toward the door. He reaches out, fingers brushing your wrist. âDonât do this,â he says quietly.
You pull your hand back. âFine,â you say, voice flat. âIf thatâs what you want.â The door opens. Before you leave, you glance over your shoulder one last time. Heâs standing in the middle of the room, bare feet on the floor, expression torn between frustration and something dangerously close to panic.
âYou donât get to have it both ways,â you tell him. âNot with me.â Then youâre gone. The door shuts behind you with a soft, final click. And Sunghoon stands there, staring at the empty space you left behind, realizing, too late, that pretending this was just part of the game might be the one move he canât recover from.
Because emotional whiplash is still a strategy.
You go home. You shower. You donât cry, that would imply softness. Instead, you change. Something short. Something low-cut. Something that says Iâm fine in a way thatâs obviously a lie. Lip gloss instead of balm. Jewelry you donât need. You look at yourself in the mirror and practice the expression until it sticks: bored. Untouchable. Dangerous.
By the time you step onto campus, youâre already back in character. Sunghoon sees you before you see him. You know because his stride falters. Because his eyes drop, then snap back up like heâs been burned. You give him nothing, no pause, no glance, not even the satisfaction of pretending you didnât notice.
You walk past him like heâs furniture. By mid-morning, youâre unbearable on purpose. You interrupt him in class just to correct something trivial. You lean back in your chair when he talks, arms crossed, mouth tilted like youâre amused by how seriously he takes himself. You laugh a second too late at things Jay says, make eye contact with Jake for half a beat longer than necessary.
Sunoo clocks it immediately. Youâre walking to class together when he bumps your shoulder lightly. âWow,â he says, grinning. âWho hurt you?â You smile sweetly. âNo one.â He snorts. âLiar. Youâre radioactive.â Good. Lunch rolls around. You sit alone. You donât invite anyone. You donât look at Sunghoon even when you feel him hovering three tables away, tense, watching. At exactly 12:43 p.m., you publish. No hesitation. No edits. Just a quiet click and a rush that feels like stepping off a ledge.
PING!How to Lose a Guy in 10 DaysAn Incomplete Guide to Emotional Repellence, Strategic Chaos, and Why Men Fear Commitment
DAY 8: MOOD SWINGS
If intimacy makes him comfortable, unpredictability will keep him awake. Todayâs lesson is simple: Pull back. Dress sharper. Smile colder. Be everything he canât categorize. Men love to believe they understand the women theyâre involved with. Disrupt that narrative. Remind him that access is temporary, affection is conditional, and attention is a privilege, not a promise. If he asks what changed? Say nothing. If he looks unsettled? Perfect. Distance isnât disinterest. Itâs control.
â Yours truly, xoxo
You donât add a score. You donât need to. He already knows whoâs winning. Across the cafeteria, Sunghoon reads it on his phone. You see the exact moment his jaw tightens. The way his thumb stills. The way something dark and wounded flickers across his face before he schools it back into indifference. He looks up.
Youâre already standing. You grab your bag, toss your hair over your shoulder, and walk out like you donât feel the way your heart is trying to claw out of your chest. Behind you, the game keeps pretending itâs still a game. And you keep pretending that doesnât hurt. By afternoon, itâs not subtle anymore. You donât just ignore him, you provoke. You brush past his shoulder in the hallway like heâs in your way. You answer his questions in class with lazy, amused indifference. When his friends talk, you laugh at the wrong moments. You look incredible doing it.
Jake notices first. âDamn,â he says, not quietly. âSheâs on demon time today.â Riki snickers. âHoon, what did you do?â Sunghoon doesnât laugh. He hasnât all day. By the time practice ends, his patience is shredded. His friends are still joking about it, about you, about the article, about how whipped he looks, and something in him finally snaps.
Youâre at your locker when a shadow falls over you. âHey,â he says, low. âMove.â You donât. You just glance at him lazily. âDidnât know you were waiting for your turn.â Thatâs when he does it. He steps in close, too close, one arm braced against the lockers by your head. The metal rattles softly. The hallway noise fades, replaced by the sound of your own breathing.
âYou think this is funny,â he murmurs near your ear. His voice is calm. Too calm. âYouâve been poking me all day like you want to see how far Iâll go.â Your smile sharpens. âAm I wrong?â âYou think youâre funny,â he murmurs, voice low, rough around the edges. âParading around like you didnât leave claw marks on my back last night.â
You arch a brow. âPublic image, remember?â His laugh is quiet. Not amused. He leans in further, lips almost brushing your ear now. âYouâre gonna make me forget myself,â he says, softer still, threaded with something dangerous. âKeep acting like this and I swear Iâll lose my grip completely.â
Thereâs an ache, fast, traitorous, pooling heat low in your stomach. You press in anyway, just enough that he feels it. His jaw tightens. He leans in even closer, breath warm, words meant only for you, dark, dangerous, deliberately obscene in implication if not detail. Itâs not about what he says as much as how he says it: slow, controlled, like heâs painting the picture just to watch it wreck you.
âYouâre gonna make me drag you behind the arts building right now,â he says, quieter still, almost a growl. âPin you against the wall. Shove that little top up and suck those pretty nipples until youâre begging. Then fuck you stupid against the bricks while everyone walks by.âÂ
Your pulse betrays you anyway. Heat curls low in your stomach. Your thighs press together under the skirt despite yourself, already feeling the slick forming there. You donât back down. You step closer.
âSo scary,â you whisper, sweet as poison, stepping even closer so your chest almost brushes his. âBecause your boys are right there. And youâre too chicken to actually do it in daylight.â For half a second, you think he might grab you. His hand twitches, then curls into a fist. âKeep pushing me,â he says, eyes locked on yours, voice rough now. âSee what happens the next time weâre alone.â
You hold his gaze. Smile wider. âLooking forward to it.â You duck out from under his arm and walk away like your knees arenât shaking. Behind you, his friends are still laughing. And Sunghoon is standing there realizing, you didnât just get under his skin.
You lit a match. You donât follow him. Thatâs the mistake. You turn the corner, heart still buzzing from the lockers, pulse loud in your ears, telling yourself you won that exchange, told yourself you meant every sharp word. Youâre almost gone when voices drift down the hall. Familiar ones. Laughter first. Loud. A little too loud. Then Sunghoon. Heâs angry. You can hear it immediately, the edge in his voice, the way itâs pitched lower than usual, clipped and reckless.
âGod, sheâs impossible,â he snaps. You stop. Your body freezes before your brain catches up. âWhatâd she do now?â someone asks, Jake, maybe. It doesnât matter. Sunghoon exhales hard. âPlays me in front of everyone. Acts like Iâm just some headline she hasnât finished exploiting yet.â
A pause. Someone whistles. âThat bad?â âShe knows exactly what sheâs doing,â he says. âEvery look, every outfit, itâs all calculated. Itâs literally a bet to her.â The word hits wrong. Your stomach drops. âA bet?â another voice repeats. âYeah,â Sunghoon scoffs. âWhole thing started as an experiment. How fast she could get me invested. How much she could mess with my head.â
You feel it then, your shoulders locking, breath stuttering like your lungs forgot the rhythm. âThatâs brutal,â someone mutters.
âDonât act surprised,â Sunghoon says, bitter. âShe never cared. Iâm just content.â Thereâs more. You know thereâs more. Context. Something youâre missing. But your ears start ringing. âSheâs not even subtle about it anymore,â he continues, voice sharp with humiliation. âWakes up, chooses violence, writes another article about how men are stupid for falling for it. Guess Iâm todayâs cautionary tale.â A laugh, uneasy. âYou okay, man?â
âYeah,â Sunghoon says quickly. Too quickly. âIâm fine. I knew what this was.â Thatâs the line that ruins you. Because you know heâs lying. Your vision blurs at the edges. You swallow hard, but it doesnât help. Your chest tightens like someone cinched a wire around it. You step back before anyone can see you. Before he can turn around. Before your face gives you away. You walk. Not fast. Not slow. Mechanical. Like if you stop moving, youâll fall apart in the hallway. Itâs a bet to her. She never cared. I knew what this was.
Your room feels too quiet when you finally get there. You shut the door. Lock it. Slide down against it until youâre sitting on the floor, knees pulled to your chest, breath uneven and embarrassing. You stare at nothing. Maybe you didnât hear everything. Maybe you werenât supposed to. But the damage is done anyway.
You wipe at your eyes angrily, like thatâll erase it. Like youâre not shaking. Fine. If thatâs how he wants to frame it, if thatâs the story heâs telling now, you wipe your face, stand up, and open your laptop. The cursor blinks in the draft like itâs waiting. You straighten your shoulders. You harden. You double down. If this is just a game to him now, then youâll make sure you win it.
And this time, you wonât hesitate. The worst tactic yet. You expect him to walk away. Thatâs the whole point of today, burn it down so thoroughly that thereâs nothing left to stand on. No tension. No longing. No almosts. Just scorched earth and an exit wound.
So you make it ugly. You donât avoid him this time, you perform. You laugh too loud in class. Sit too close to someone else. Let your hand linger on a forearm that isnât his. You publish the article mid-morning, sharp and venomous and dripping with implication, the kind that turns private moments into public speculation without naming names. You feel it working immediately.
The looks. The whispers. The way people glance between you and him like theyâre watching a slow-motion collision. By afternoon, your phone is buzzing nonstop. You ignore all of it. You donât ignore him. Because he doesnât leave. He finds you outside the library just before sunset, when the sky is bruised purple and gold and everything feels like itâs holding its breath.
âAre you done yet?â he asks. No greeting. No restraint. You turn slowly. Smile like a blade. âWith what?â âThis,â he says, gesturing between you and the world. âWhatever the hell this is.â âOh,â you say lightly. âYou mean the experiment?â His jaw tightens. âDonât.â âYou hate when I call it that in public, right?â you press. âRuins the illusion?â
âThatâs not what this is,â he snaps. You laugh, short, sharp. âFunny. Because itâs exactly what you called it.â Silence. It stretches. Tightens. âWhat are you talking about?â he asks, but thereâs something wrong in his voice already. Something wary. You step closer. Close enough that the air between you hums.
âI heard you,â you say quietly. âThe other day. With your friends.â His face drains of color. âYou were talking,â you continue, calm and deadly. âAbout how this was a bet. A game. Content. How I never cared. How you âknew what this was.ââ
âThatâs notââ He stops himself, drags a hand through his hair. âYou donât know the fullââ âI donât need the full truth,â you cut in. âI heard enough.â He exhales, sharp and frustrated. âI was angry.â âSo was I,â you fire back. âFunny how only one of us gets forgiven for that.â
âI didnât mean it like that.â âBut you said it like that,â you say. âAnd thatâs what matters.â People are staring now. You donât care. âYou think I didnât know?â you go on, voice shaking despite yourself. âYou think I didnât clock what this was from the start?â
His brow furrows. âThen whyââ âBecause I thought,â you interrupt, heat flooding your chest, âthat maybe if I played along long enough, youâd stop treating me like a fucking case study.â That lands. Hard. âYou donât get to act betrayed,â he says, voice rising now. âYou started this. You wrote the rules.â
âAnd you volunteered,â you shoot back. âYou leaned in. You let me believeââ âWhat?â he snaps. âThat I was falling for you?â âYes,â you shout, finally breaking. âThat you were choosing me anyway.â The word choosing hangs there, raw and dangerous. For a second, he looks stunned. Then angry.
âYou think this hasnât been destroying me?â he demands. âYou think I donât wake up every day wondering which version of you Iâm getting, the girl who laughs with me in a grocery store or the one who turns my life into a headline?â
âThen why didnât you walk away?â you cry. âWhy are you still here?â Because thatâs the question, isnât it? Thatâs the one neither of you can outrun. âI donât know,â he admits, voice rough. âBut I tried.â âYou kissed someone else,â you say bitterly. âYou called me a bet.â
âI fucked up,â he says. âI know that.â âYou donât get to âfuck upâ when youâre playing with someoneâs heart,â you spit. âNeither do you,â he throws back. âYouâre not innocent here.â âI never said I was,â you whisper.
Your chest hurts now. Your throat burns. Youâre shaking, hands clenched at your sides like if you let go youâll collapse. âI knew,â you say suddenly. The words rip out of you before you can stop them. âI knew the whole time.â He freezes. âI knew I was a game to you,â you continue, voice breaking despite your efforts. âI just thought, if I won, maybe it would stop being one.â
The silence after that is deafening. His anger falters. Cracks. âYou⊠thought I was playing you?â he asks slowly. âYou said it yourself,â you snap. âTo your friends.â
He stares at you like the ground just shifted. âThat wasnât the truth,â he says hoarsely. âThen what was it?â you challenge. âBecause from where Iâm standing, you only ever defended yourself. Never me.â He opens his mouth. Closes it. You laugh, hollow. âThere it is.â You turn to leave. He grabs your wrist. Not hard. Desperate. âDonât,â he says. âYou donât get to end this like that.â
âOh, but I do,â you reply, yanking free. âThatâs the only control I have left.â âYouâre wrong,â he says, voice breaking now too. âI didnât stay because it was a bet.â âThen why?â you demand, tears finally spilling. âWhy are you still here?â He steps closer, voice shaking. âBecause I couldnât stop wanting you.â
The confession hits like a punch. Your breath stutters. âThat doesnât erase what you said,â you whisper.
âI know,â he says. âBut walking away wonât either.â You stare at each other, wrecked, exposed, furious, aching. This is the moment everything could end. Or explode. And for the first time since Day One, neither of you knows which outcome would hurt less. Truth, vulnerability, choice. You donât sleep. Not really. You lie on your bed staring at the ceiling, the dark slowly paling at the edges, your thoughts looping back to the same moments like bruises you keep pressing to see if they still hurt. The grocery store aisle. The lockers. His voice, angry, breaking, honest in all the wrong moments. The way he didnât walk away when you gave him every reason to.
Your laptop sits closed on the desk. Itâs been closed for hours. The draft is already written. Itâs been written for days, actually, hovering, unfinished, changing every time you reread it. Every time you remember something that doesnât fit the narrative you built so carefully at the beginning. At 7:42 a.m., you sit up.
You swing your legs over the side of the bed. Your feet hit the floor. Cold. Grounding. This is it. You open the laptop. The title blinks at you, familiar and foreign all at once.
How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days: Final Results!
Your fingers hover over the keys. You donât rewrite the whole thing. You just⊠stop lying.
PING!How to Lose a Guy in 10 DaysAn Incomplete Guide to Emotional Repellence, Strategic Chaos, and Why Men Fear Commitment
DAY 10: FINAL RESULTS
This experiment was supposed to be simple. Create emotional instability. Trigger attachment. Force retreat. The hypothesis was that men fear commitment when confronted with intensity, that given enough vulnerability, they will choose distance over discomfort. I believed that. I built a framework around it. Rules. Days. Tactics. A scoreboard. I told myself control was the same thing as clarity.
It isnât. Somewhere between provocation and pretending, something went wrong. Or maybe something went right.
Because instead of leaving when it got complicated, he stayed. He argued. He got angry. He made mistakes. So did I. And somewhere along the way, the experiment stopped being an experiment and started being⊠real. I canât tell you when exactly that happened. Only that by the time I noticed, it was already too late to undo. So here are the results, honestly reported: The experiment failed. Or maybe I did.
Because it turns out you canât quantify chemistry. You canât score genuine care. And you definitely canât âwinâ when feelings get involved, only decide whether youâre brave enough to keep choosing the same person after the rules fall apart.
This was never about losing a guy. It was about discovering what happens when you stop protecting yourself with irony and start telling the truth.
And the truth is, I donât know how this ends. But for the first time in ten days, Iâm not trying to control it.
â Yours truly, xoxo
You stare at the screen after you post it. No edits. No qualifiers. No scorecard. Your chest feels raw. Exposed. Lighter in a way that scares you. Your phone buzzes immediately. Notifications stacking. Messages you donât open. Opinions you donât read.
You close the laptop. Outside, the campus is waking up. Somewhere out there, heâs going to see it. Read it. Realize thereâs no punchline waiting at the end. This time, thereâs no tactic left. Only choice. And for once, youâre willing to let him make his. It happens at night. Of course it does.
He texts you once, Can we talk? and for the first time in ten days, thereâs no edge to it. No anger. No bait. Just exhaustion. You meet him outside his dorm. No crowd. No witnesses. The air is cool, sharp enough to keep you awake. He doesnât waste time. âThere was a bet,â Sunghoon says. Just like that. No easing into it. No defense mechanism. His voice is flat, stripped bare. Your stomach still drops anyway.Â
âHow much?â you ask quietly. He swallows. âThat I wouldnât last the ten days without falling for you. That Iâd either walk away, or ruin myself trying not to.â You laugh once, hollow. âAnd?â âAnd I lost,â he says. âAlmost immediately.â Silence stretches between you, heavy and aching.
âSo you admit it,â you say. âIt started as a game.â âYes.â That word lands harder than any insult he ever threw. You nod slowly. Your hands are steady now. That scares you more than shaking would. âI figured,â you say. âI just didnât know when youâd be brave enough to say it out loud.â His head snaps up. âYou knew?â âI suspected,â you reply. âThen I overheard enough to stop giving you the benefit of the doubt.â
He winces. âI said things I didnât mean.â âI know,â you say. And thatâs the worst part, you do know. âBut I also know when I stopped pretending.â His breath catches. âWhen?â âDays ago,â you admit. âBefore the grocery store. Before the almost-confession. Before the night I couldnât write without thinking about you.â He looks at you like that confession hurts worse than his own.
âYou shouldâve walked away,â he whispers. âSo should you.â Neither of you did. The fight doesnât explode this time. It collapses. You argue anyway, quietly, viciously, with truths instead of accusations. You talk about control. About fear. About how you both hid behind games because honesty felt like free-falling. At some point, you both go silent. Thereâs nothing left to say that wouldnât break something. He doesnât reach for you. You donât ask him to stay. Eventually, you turn and walk away. And this time, he lets you.
You donât cry when you get home. You donât drink. You open your laptop. The article is still live. The comments are still coming. People still think this was entertainment. You stare at the title for a long time. Then you do the thing no one expects. You open a new draft. And you tell the truth again, louder this time.
PING!How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days
FINAL ADDENDUM
How I Lost the Bet, and Fell Anyway
I said the experiment failed. That wasnât the full truth. The truth is, there was more than one bet being placed. One of them wasnât mine. Yes, this started as an experiment. Yes, there were rules. Yes, someone underestimated what would happen when feelings got involved.
But somewhere along the way, the score stopped mattering. I stopped pretending first. I stopped writing for shock value. Stopped provoking for reaction. Stopped wanting to âwin.â I stayed because I wanted him. He stayed because he couldnât leave.
That doesnât excuse the hurt. It doesnât erase the mistakes. It doesnât magically turn this into a fairytale. But it does mean this wasnât fake. So hereâs the final result, no irony, no performance:
I lost the bet. And I fell anyway. Whether that makes me foolish or brave⊠Iâll let you decide.
â xoxo
You publish it. Then, because this part is just for you, you delete the entire series. Every tactic. Every scorecard. Every headline that tried to make love into something measurable. The site goes quiet. Your phone buzzes once. Not notifications, none that matter anyway. Just him.
Sunghoon: I read it.
You donât reply right away. You close the laptop. You breathe. For the first time, there is no experiment left to hide behind. Only two people. Two choices. And whatever comes next, honestly. He doesnât even knock.
Your phone buzzes once, Where are you, and then thereâs pounding on your door so frantic it rattles the frame. You barely have time to stand before it swings open. Sunghoon looks wrecked. Hair a mess. Eyes red. Breathing hard like he ran the whole way. He takes one look at you and whatever he was holding together completely gives out. He drops. Actually drops, knees hitting the floor with a dull thud, hands bracing on your carpet like he canât stay upright anymore.
âIâm sorry,â he says immediately, voice breaking on the first word. âIâm so fucking sorry.â Your chest tightens painfully.
âSunghoonââ
âNo,â he cuts in, shaking his head hard. âLet me say it. Please.â He looks up at you, eyes glassy, jaw trembling in a way youâve never seen before.
âI turned you into something small when you were never that,â he says. âI talked about you like you were disposable because I was embarrassed that I wasnât.â
You donât move. You canât.
âI started it as a bet,â he continues. âI did. I wonât lie about that ever again. But I swear to you, by the time I realized I was losing, I was already in too deep to know how to stop without getting hurt.â
Tears spill over now, uncontained. âAnd instead of choosing you out loud, I hid behind my pride. I let you think you were just⊠entertainment.â Your throat burns. âI hated myself for it,â he whispers. âEvery day.â Silence fills the room, thick and shaking. Finally, you sink down in front of him too. Not above him. With him.
âIâm sorry too,â you say quietly. His head snaps up.
âI was so obsessed with control,â you admit, voice trembling. âWith winning. With proving I could walk away first. I didnât realize how cruel that made me.â
You swallow hard. âI used irony like armor. I kept hurting you just to feel like I still had the upper hand.â His face crumples. âI stopped pretending days ago,â you confess. âBut I didnât know how to stop performing. I didnât know how to just⊠be honest without feeling like I was losing myself.â
You both sit there, two people kneeling on the floor, stripped of every strategy you ever used to survive. âI donât want to win anymore,â you whisper. âI donât either,â he says instantly. âI just want⊠a chance to do this without games. Without bets. Without spectators.â
You exhale shakily. âI donât know how this ends.â
He nods. âMe neither.â A beat. âBut I know I donât want to walk away,â he says. âNot now. Not like this.â You reach out then, slow, careful, and cup his face. He leans into your touch like itâs instinct, like heâs been waiting for permission. âThen we choose,â you say softly. âNot because itâs safe. Not because itâs clean.â
âBecause itâs real,â he finishes. You rest your forehead against his. No headlines. No scoreboards. No experiments left to hide behind. Just two people, finally, terrifyingly honest, deciding to stay. And for the first time, it doesnât feel like losing at all.
You donât know who moves first. Maybe itâs you leaning in. Maybe itâs him rising from his knees just enough that your breaths collide. Itâs clumsy at first, foreheads knocking, noses brushing, like neither of you remembers how to do this without defenses in the way. Then his hands find your waist. Not gripping. Not claiming. Just there, thumbs warm through the fabric, like he needs the contact to stay upright.
âCan Iââ he starts. You donât let him finish. You kiss him. Itâs not sharp or demanding. Itâs slow, almost reverent, like youâre relearning his mouth now that thereâs no audience, no script. His breath stutters against your lips, a sound halfway between relief and disbelief. He kisses back like heâs afraid youâll disappear if he doesnât.
One hand slides up your back, hesitant at first, then more certain when you melt into him. He sighs into your mouth, a broken sound, like weeks of tension finally giving way. âIâm here,â you murmur against his lips. Thatâs all it takes. His composure fractures. The kiss deepens, not frantic, not rough, but heavy with everything unsaid. His thumb brushes your jaw, your cheek, like heâs memorizing you. Like heâs afraid this is the last time heâs allowed to touch you.
You pull back just enough to breathe, foreheads pressed together, both of you shaking a little. âTell me to stop,â he whispers. You donât. You kiss him again, longer this time, pouring every apology, every confession, every stay into the way your mouth moves against his. This isnât about winning. Itâs about choosing. And when his arms finally wrap fully around you, pulling you close like heâs done running, you let yourself believe him. He doesnât speak for a long minute.
Just holds you, face buried in the crook of your neck, breathing you in like youâre oxygen after drowning. Then he pulls back, only far enough to look at you. âIâm so fucking sorry,â he says again, quieter this time. Raw. âI never shouldâve, God, the bet was the stupidest thing Iâve ever done. I didnât think it would⊠become this. Become you.â You cup his face, thumbs stroking the sharp line of his cheekbones.
âI know,â you whisper. âI read between the lines a long time ago. But I stayed anyway.â His eyes flutter shut like the words physically hurt. Then he kisses you again, soft, grateful, and starts walking you backward toward the bed. Clothes come off slowly. No rush. Your shirt firstâlifted over your head, his lips following the path of exposed skin. Your bra, unhooked with trembling fingers, set aside like something precious. Jeans next, yours, then his, until youâre both bare, skin to skin, heat bleeding between you.
He lays you down gently. Covers you with his body like a shield. Kisses trail from your mouth to your throat, down the center of your chest. He pauses at your breasts, takes one nipple into his mouth, slow swirl of tongue, gentle suction, while his hand cups the other, thumb rolling the peak until you arch beneath him.
âSunghoon,â you breathe. He hums against your skin, vibration straight to your core. Then he moves lower. Kisses your stomach, soft, open-mouthed, tracing the faint line where your abs tense. Lower still. He settles between your thighs, shoulders spreading you open. Looks up at you, eyes dark, reverent. âGonna take my time with you,â he murmurs. âWanna taste every second of this.â
He doesnât dive in. He starts slow, long, flat licks up your slit, savoring. Tongue circling your clit without direct pressure, teasing until your hips lift, seeking more. When you whimper, he finally gives it, lips closing around the swollen bud, sucking gently while two fingers slide inside you, curling just right. You moan, loud, broken, hands fisting the sheets.
He groans against you when you clench. âFuck, youâre so sweet,â he mutters between licks. âCould do this forever.â He eats you out like heâs worshipping, slow, thorough, unrelenting. Fingers pumping steady while his tongue works lazy circles, then flicks, then sucks again. Building you higher without ever rushing. When your thighs start trembling, when your breath turns ragged, he doesnât let up.
âCome for me, baby,â he whispers against your clit. âLet me feel it.â You do, hard, shuddering, back arching off the mattress, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer. He works you through it, soft licks, gentle fingers, until youâre boneless, panting. Only then does he crawl back up. Kisses you deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
You reach between you, wrap your hand around him. Heâs thick, hot, leaking against your palm. He hisses, hips jerking forward. âNeed you,â he breathes. âPlease.â You guide him to your entrance. He pushes in, slow. You both moan when he bottoms out, foreheads pressed, breaths mingling. He stills for a second, just feeling you around him, warm and tight and perfect.
Then he starts moving. Slow rolls of his hips, deep, measured thrusts that drag against every sensitive spot inside you. You wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into his lower back, pulling him closer. He groans, low, wrecked, every time you clench. âFuck, baby,â he pants against your mouth. âYou feel so good. So fucking good.â
His abs flex with every thrust, hard ridges pressing against your stomach, creating that delicious pressure, that faint bulge you can feel every time he bottoms out. You drag your nails down his back, light enough to leave faint red lines. He shudders. âYou see that?â he murmurs, voice rough. âSee how deep I am? How perfectly you take me?â
You look down, see the outline of him moving inside you, and whimper. He kisses you again, messy, desperate, while one hand slides between your bodies, thumb finding your clit. He rubs slow circles, matching the rhythm of his hips. Youâre climbing again, fast.
âSunghoonââ
âI know,â he breathes. âIâve got you. Always got you.â
He kisses your neck, your jaw, your mouth, soft, endless. âYouâre the best thing in my life,â he whispers against your skin. âThe absolute best. Nothing comes close.â You smile through the haze, breath hitching.
âBetter than football?â you tease, voice shaky. He groans, deep, guttural, thrusts slowing to a torturous grind. âTen folds,â he says without hesitation. âBetter than football. Better than my friends. Better than anything Iâve ever had.â
Another deep thrust. âBetter than winning,â he continues, voice cracking. âBetter than every trophy, every cheer, every fucking thing.â You clench around him, hard, at the words. He swears, low, broken.
âFuck! Gonna come,â he warns. âGonna fill you up, baby. Gonnaââ You nod, frantic, nails digging into his shoulders. âInside,â you gasp. âPlease.â
That undoes him. A few more deep, stuttering thrusts, then he buries himself to the hilt, groaning your name as he spills inside you, hot, endless pulses that make you feel claimed in the best way. The sensation tips you over. You throw your head back, moaning loud and shameless, as you cream around his cock, walls fluttering, milking him through every aftershock. He collapses over you, careful not to crush, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breathing ragged. You hold him there, arms wrapped tight, legs still locked around him, while the world slowly rights itself.
He presses soft kisses to your collarbone, your throat, the corner of your mouth. âI love you,â he whispers, quiet, like a confession heâs been holding too long. You thread your fingers through his hair. Smile against his temple. âI know,â you murmur. âI love you too.â
He exhales, shaky, relieved, like heâs finally home. And this time, when he kisses you again, itâs not goodbye. Itâs beginning. He doesnât pull out right away. He never does when itâs this raw, this real. Instead he stays buried deep, softening inside you, hips still pressed flush to yours like heâs afraid the space between you will swallow everything you just rebuilt. His chest rises and falls against yours, slow, heavy breaths that match the lazy thrum of your pulse where your bodies connect.
One arm snakes under your back, cradling you closer; the other hand comes up to cup the side of your face, thumb stroking the apple of your cheek in slow, absent circles. He presses his lips to your temple, soft, lingering, then your forehead, the bridge of your nose, the corner of your eye where a stray tear escaped earlier without you noticing.
âYou okay?â he murmurs, voice gravelly and wrecked in the best way. You hum, too blissed-out to form full sentences yet, and nod against his shoulder. He exhales a shaky laugh, the sound vibrating through both of you. âGood,â he whispers. âBecause Iâm not letting you go for at least the next hour.â
You smile into his neck. âPromise?â
âSwear on every championship ring I donât even wear.â
He finally eases out,slow, careful, so you donât feel empty all at once. You both hiss softly at the loss. He presses one last kiss to your mouth, gentle, apologetic, before rolling to the side and pulling you with him so youâre tucked against his chest, legs tangled, his heartbeat steady under your ear. For a minute itâs just quiet breathing and the faint hum of the city outside his dorm window. His fingers trace idle patterns on your bare back, lazy figure-eights, then little hearts he probably doesnât even realize heâs drawing.
âStay right here,â he says quietly. âDonât move.â
You feel him shift, careful not to jostle you too much, then the mattress dips as he reaches for the nightstand. A moment later heâs back, warm washcloth in hand. He sits up just enough to kneel between your thighs again. His touch is impossibly tender as he cleans you, slow swipes, gentle pressure, checking your expression every few seconds like heâs terrified of hurting you even a little.
âToo much?â he asks when you flinch slightly at a sensitive spot. You shake your head. âFeels nice.â He smiles, small, relieved, and keeps going until youâre both clean. When heâs done he tosses the cloth toward the hamper (misses, doesnât care), then grabs the soft throw blanket from the foot of the bed and drapes it over you both. He lies back down, pulls you half on top of him so your cheek rests over his heart. One hand cards through your hair, fingers gentle at your scalp, while the other settles low on your back, palm flat and warm, grounding you.
âYouâre shaking a little,â he notices after a while. âAftershocks,â you mumble. âAnd maybe⊠everything else.â He tightens his hold. Kisses the top of your head. âIâve got you,â he says again, like itâs the only promise heâs ever sure he can keep. âAll night. All tomorrow. However long you need.â
You tilt your head up to look at him. His eyes are soft in the low light, none of the sharp edges he used to wear like armor. Just him. Open. Yours. âWater?â he asks. You nod. He reaches again, this time for the half-full bottle on his desk. Unscrews the cap one-handed, brings it to your lips. You drink slowly; he watches like itâs the most important thing in the world. When youâre done he takes a sip too, then sets it aside.
âBetter?â
âMm-hmm.â He pulls you back down, tucking your head under his chin. His fingers resume their slow path through your hair.
âTell me if you get cold,â he murmurs. âOr if you want food. Or if you just want me to shut up and hold you.â You laugh softly, muffled against his skin. âI want all of it,â you say. âBut mostly this.â He exhales, long, contented. âThen youâve got it.â Minutes stretch into comfortable silence. His heartbeat slows under your cheek. His breathing evens out, but his arms never loosen.
Eventually you feel him press another kiss to your hair. âI love you,â he whispers, like heâs still getting used to saying it out loud. âSo fucking much.â You turn your face up, brush your lips against the underside of his jaw. âLove you more,â you reply. He huffs a quiet laugh. âNot possible.â You settle back against him, limbs heavy, heart full.
He keeps stroking your hair. Keeps you close. Keeps whispering little things against your temple when he thinks youâre drifting off, how beautiful you are, how sorry he still is, how heâs never letting go again. And when sleep finally pulls at you, itâs with his heartbeat in your ear, his arms around you like home, and the certain knowledge that this time, neither of you is running.
Time doesnât erase the mess. It teaches you how to live with it, how to step around the sharp parts without flinching. The newsroom still smells like burnt coffee and ambition, like toner and old arguments that never quite leave the walls. The hum of fluorescent lights buzzes overhead, constant, familiar. Thereâs a comfort in it now. Once, it used to feel like a battlefield.
Some things never change. You have. Youâre perched on the edge of your desk, one heel hooked lazily around the chair leg, scrolling through a shared folder of freshman submissions. The cursor blinks at the top of a document titled, of course:
Situationships Are Modern Tragedies (And I Am Hamlet).
You close it without opening. Across from you, Keeho lets out a long, theatrical sigh, slumping dramatically against the filing cabinet like heâs about to pass away from emotional exhaustion. âIâm just saying,â he announces, waving his pen like a conductorâs baton, âif one more freshman submits a thinkpiece about how eye contact is a binding contract, Iâm filing a formal complaint. With God.â
âYou say that every semester,â you reply, not bothering to look up. âAnd yet, here you are. Still alive.â
âBarely,â he mutters. âI blame you.â
You hum noncommittally. Manon is sprawled across the couch, boots kicked up on the armrest, legs draped unapologetically over Sunooâs lap as she flips through the latest issue. She pauses, squints, then clicks her tongue. âThis oneâs good,â she says, clearly annoyed by it. âAnnoyingly good.â
You finally glance up, a small smile tugging at your mouth. âIâll take that as praise.â
âIt is,â she sighs. Then, sharply, âBut I hate that youâre good at this and happy now. Pick a struggle.â
Keeho snaps his fingers. âYes! Exactly! Whereâs the suffering? Whereâs the chaos?â
You lean back against the desk, folding your arms. âOh, I have struggles,â you say lightly. âI just donât publish them anymore.â Thereâs a beat. Sunoo looks at you, head tilted, expression thoughtful instead of teasing. âThatâs⊠actually huge.â
Thatâs the difference. The office still buzzes. Deadlines still loom. Headlines still matter. But the desperation, the need to perform pain, to provoke reaction, to win at all costs, has eased into something steadier. Quieter. Something that doesnât demand blood for proof. Youâre still editor-in-chief. And your subordinate still hates you. Definitely, thinks youâre the worst thing thatâs happened since the office coffee machine broke and no one took responsibility. Youâre just not bleeding onto the page anymore. Your phone lights up on the desk. You donât have to look to know.
Sunghoon: Practice just started. You coming or what?Â
Your thumb hovers for half a second, out of habit, not hesitation, before you type back one-handed.Â
You: Only if you donât pretend youâre cool about it.Â
Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
Sunghoon: No promises.
Keeho watches your face soften and makes a loud, offended gagging noise. âI hate this era for us.â Sunoo grins. âI love it. Character development.â Manon finally looks up from the magazine, eyes narrowing. âWait. Hold on.â She points at you accusingly. âThis is also your fault.â
You blink. âWhat is?â She gestures vaguely at the pile of submissions, the inbox notifications, the collective emotional oversharing of an entire incoming class. âAll of this.â Keeho gasps. âSheâs right.â Sunoo nods solemnly. âItâs the butterfly effect.â
You frown. âExplain.â Manon smirks. âYour stupidly famous âHow to Lose a Guy in 10 Daysâ article?â Keeho groans. âThe manifesto.â âThe emotional terrorism,â Manon continues, delighted, âyou unleashed on campus? You made freshmen think self-sabotage was a personality trait.â You open your mouth. Close it. ââŠOkay,â you admit. âMaybe I influenced the discourse.â
âInfluenced?â Keeho laughs. âYou ruined it. People cite you like scripture.â Sunoo pats your knee. âLegacy is complicated.â You groan, grabbing your bag. âIâm leaving before you revoke my tenure.â
The field is loud when you arrive. Whistles cut through the air. Shouts echo from one end to the other. Cleats hit turf in dull, rhythmic thuds. The late afternoon sun hangs low, washing everything in gold like itâs trying very hard to romanticize football practice.
Manon immediately kicks your foot. âThere,â she mutters. âYour menace.â You look up, eyes sparkling, ignoring the three ambiguous groans beside you. Sunghoon is mid-drill, barking instructions, posture, all command and confidence. Captain through and through. The same presence that once made your chest tight with frustration, longing, and everything you refused to name back then.
He spots you instantly. Of course he does. His face lights up, grin wide and unguarded, and he blows you an exaggerated kiss across the field like heâs thirteen and trying to embarrass you on purpose. You groan, rolling your eyes so hard itâs a miracle they donât fall out.
Your heart does backflips anyway. From the sidelines, Jay sighs like a man who has seen too much. Jake shakes his head. Riki squints, then mutters, âIâve seen this movie. Itâs sickening.â
Manon groans dramatically. âUGH. GODDAMN COUPLES, MAN.â Keeho smirks. âYouâre just jealous, darling.â Sunooâs eyes sparkle. âI mean, Keeho is offering, Manon. If I were you, Iâd take it.â
âI will end you,â Manon says flatly, glaring daggers at the back of Sunooâs head. The four of you dissolve into laughter. Sunghoon watches from the field, smile softening as he takes it all in. The chaos. The comfort. The fact that this, you, exists in his life without conditions now. It still amazes him. When practice finally wraps up and the sun dips low enough to stain the sky pink, he jogs over, towel slung around his neck, hair damp and pushed back. He looks tired. Grounded. Real.
âYou came,â he says unnecessarily. âYou summoned me,â you reply. âVery imperiously.â He grins. âOccupational hazard.â You tilt your head. âCaptain complex?â âEditor attitude.â
You bump his shoulder as he walks you toward the bleachers. Itâs easy now. Casual. Still charged, but no longer sharp enough to cut. âHow was the meeting?â he asks. âProductive,â you say. âNo emotional devastation. A personal best.â He laughs, warm and unforced. âProud of you.â You glance at him. He means it. That still gets you.
The article pings later that night. Youâre curled up on his bed, laptop balanced on your knees, the room dim and quiet. Sunghoon is half-dozing beside you, one arm slung lazily around your waist, thumb tracing absent-minded circles like itâs muscle memory. âYou posting something?â he mumbles.
âMm. Just a brief.â Your finger hovers over publish. Old habits whisper. Old versions of you wait, curious. Then you do it anyway.
PING!Breaking News
Park Sunghoon Survived.
There were many predictions made this year.
Some were statistical.
Some were emotional.
Some were very loudly wrong.
Despite early speculation, public scrutiny, and one ill-advised experiment that spiraled wildly out of control, Park Sunghoon remains:
â Captain of the team
â Annoyingly resilient
â Still here
No bets were won. No scorecards kept. Just two people who learned, loudly, that pretending not to care is much harder than telling the truth.
More updates soon. (Probably.)
â Editorâs Note
You close the laptop. Sunghoon squints at you. âWhat was that?â
âNothing,â you say innocently. He reaches for your phone. You yank it away, laughing. âAbsolutely not.â
âEditor privilege?â he asks.
âExactly.â He studies you for a moment, then presses a kiss to your temple. Soft. Unshowy. Just for you. âHey,â he says quietly.
âYeah?â
âThanks for not turning me into a cautionary tale.â
You smile. âYou survived. Thatâs headline enough.â He exhales, content. Outside, the campus hums on. Inside, everything is still. No experiments. No bets. No pretending. Just choice, made daily, imperfectly, honestly, somehow, thatâs enough. And as you finally stretch out beside him, letting the quiet sink in, letting the mess exist without needing a punchline⊠you think, not for the first time, that maybe surviving is its own art form.
Against all logic, you still remember exactly how to do it. How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days.
TFW you want to continue writing your fic that's almost done and you already know how it's going to end but your brain just won't let you write... is this a slump?
You've always seen Soobin as one of your best friends - just a kid your mom's friend introduced to you as a playmate on a random hot, summer day. But what happens when that thin line between friendship and something more starts to blur? A few years and 20cm later you ask yourself : maybe he wasn't just the boy next door you have been playing with ever since you were seven.
genre: rom-com, coming-of-age, slow burn, angst, fluff, no villains just fate.., Soobin being a D1 yearner, sunshine reader
wc: 14k+
playlist: 20cm - txt, forty-one winks - txt, polaroid love - enhypen, all my poetry - close your eyes, heaven - txt, too close, - txt, sleep tight - enhypen, understand - keshi
disclaimer : english isn't my first language so i apologize for any grammar mistakes..
July 2008
7 years old
It was a nice summer day, you were busy watching your show on tv wearing a t-shirt and shorts lazily enjoying an ice popsicle. The fan helped cooling you down from the sticky summer heat.
Your attention shifted from your tv to your house door when the doorbell suddenly rang. You didn't mind at first though since your mom was eager to open the door.
But it seemed like you weren't going to be able to continue watching Winx Club since your mother excitedly called you over from the front porch "Y/n, love come over here, there's someone waiting for you".
You just took one last lick of the popsicle you were eating and threw the sticky and empty stick in the bin with haste, curious at who might be waiting by the door for you. Last time you checked, you weren't really going to meet up with your other friends from the neighborhood.
When you arrived at the door there was a nice looking lady around your mother's age talking to your mother.
"Hello", you smiled greeting her warmly. "Hi Y/n it's Mrs Choi remember me? I used to change your diapers when you were little. Oh Y/n-nie, you've grown so much since i last saw you. You look just like your father" This made the you pout. As much as you loved your father, you wanted to look like your mother. "No, I look like my mom". This blatant statement made both women laugh.
Then you realized, that this strange woman didn't come alone and was accompanied by another child - a little boy, who was sheepishly peeking out from her legs with wide curious eyes. "Come Soobin, don't hide, they wont bite" The lady teased her son who still didnât budge still too shy.
Being an extroverted child you merely smiled, excited to meet a new potential playmate.
"Hi!" you chirpily greeted "I'm Y/n, nice to meet you" You tried to meet his gaze but they were glued to the pebbles on the floor. Although you didn't mind and just waited patiently for a response.
His mother then crouched to his level and rubbed his back whispering sweet reassurances you could only hear snippets of. Something along the lines of "new playmate", "sweet girl" and "have fun".
In response the boy reluctantly introduced himself, nervously fiddling with his fingers. He was a cute chubby little boy and a tad bit shorter than her. "I-i-m SoObin" he answered quickly covering his mouth with both of his hands, cringing when he heard his voice crack.
This made you giggle. Hearing this made the boy shrink behind his mother's legs.
"Why don't you go and play in the backyard?", the boy's mother suggested and your own mother nodded in approval. "We'll call you when food is ready"
Eager to play you didn't want to waste precious time to get to know and play with this new boy
"Mom can i take Soobin to my tree house?" This made Soobin's ears perk who also waited for both your mothers' "yes", forgetting his initial reluctance.
"What do you think, baby?", Mrs. Choi asked her son. She just let out an endeared laugh when Soobin was already looking at her with wide expectant eyes already curious about the aforementioned tree house. Seeing this, you took it as a sign to take the boy's hand and pull him outside eager to show him your tree house.
"C'mon, i'll take you there. I promise you'll love it" You smiled looking back at him as he wordlessly followed you, not minding your impulsiveness and persuasiveness. He even found it interesting and fun
In a few seconds you arrived at your destination. You started to climb up but then noticed after climbing for a short while that the boy wasn't following you anymore.
You turned around while latching onto the ladder and saw his unsure expression. The boy kept fiddling with his fingers like before and seemed skeptical about the stability, since he keeps on looking at the treehouse's flooring. Having sensed his doubts, you didn't hesitate to reassure him
"Don't worry, my dad built this and he's an engineer. It's very safe, watch this"
To prove your point you jumped on the structure and it barely moved. He could only the clicking and clanking of your worn out flip flops against the wood. This seemed to reassure the boy who now slowly climbed up.
The treehouse embodied anything a child could want in one. It may be small but it was sturdy. His eyes immediately caught the two irresistibly comfortable looking red big bean bags on the floor, a wooden table with a pitcher filled with water and a lemon, accompanied by two empty glasses and a volume of "Detective Conan", not to mention a small radio. He was also intrigued by the balcony with a ship's steering wheel. After giving it a few playful spins, he continued his little inspection and found a rope that led to the roof, but he didn't dare climb up yet.
This treehouse also had two windows. One gave you a view of the garden and one overlooked the neighborhood's street, which was currently empty other than the postman who was on his bike riding through the neighborhood to deliver everyone their mail.
"Hi Mr. Kwan!", you called out to him. The mailman already knew where to look and waved back, nodding at the new curious boy beside her.
"That was Mr. Kwan, our mail man." "He seems nice" "Yeah, he often gives me a lollipop whenever im the one who picks up the package."
The two kids then threw themselves on the bean bags and basked in a few seconds of comfortable silence.
"May i have some water?", he politely asked parched because of the hot and humid weather. "Of course! Make yourself feel at home!" She then poured him and herself a glass of water clumsily spilling a few drops onto the table.
Feeling curious she then asked "When did you move here? I've never seen you before until today and im friends with most of the kids here on our block - you should definitely play with us sometime, we'll have a blast." noticing she drifted away from the topic she circled back to her initial question "Okay but back to the question. When did you move here?"
"W-well, my family just moved next door recently today."
"Ahh you probably were the ones who brought that big white truck from this morning right? I passed by it when i went to buy breakfast from the corner shop" She tapped her chin remembering little details she probably dismissed as unimportant before. The boy only nodded in response.
Before the two knew it they were fondly exchanging little personal details or experiences, the way little kids do and started bonding through shared interests like Detective Conan or Pac-man. As their conversation flowed naturally, Soobin's sheepish demeanor slowly faded.
"Why don't we go to an arcade together? I saved a bit and can buy us a few tokens" she enthusiastically. The boy nodded eagerly in response. "I can also ask mom for some pocket money. Then we can buy more tokens!" "Sounds like a plan".
Then Soobin's eyes darted towards the nerf guns tucked under the table. "Are those Nerf Guns?" he pointed "I've always wanted one but my mom says they'll only be a mess and a waste of money" he ranted, his wide eyes glued to said toy.
"Ah, i often play with these and battle with my friends. It's really fun" She said taking one gun and crawled over towards a stray box a few meters from the bean bag she's sitting on, which stored the soft plastic bullets. "Wanna play?" she grinned at him with a challenging look as she reloaded her gun. After finishing, she handed him the box with the left over bullets so he can reload the other nerf gun. "You're on!" he smiled, showing off his dimples, hastily reloading.
June 2011
10 years old
"Hurry up the others are already waiting at Beomgyu's houseee" You urged the boy who was already sweating buckets to ride his bike faster.
In his defense he wore a backpack filled with water guns and packs of water balloons. You were already meters ahead of the boy which made him call out
"Wait for me - i'm- i'm coming!" Soobin grit his teeth and pedaled faster and faster, fighting his way through exhaustion trying to catch up to you.
Soon enough you both arrived at Beomgyu's home. "Hi Mrs. Choi!" you greeted your friend's mother, who smiled seeing your familiar face behind the door. "Where's Soobin" she asked. This confused you since you thought the boy was still behind you
"Um.. he's-"
panting with his skin sheen with sweat, the poor boy finally reached their destination albeit a few minutes later.
He couldn't catch his breath and placed his hands on both his knees trying to regain some stamina. His hair sticking to his forehead. "Mrs- Mrs- Ch- Ch-oi" he weakly raised one hand to politely say hello. He still remembers his manners, even when he's breathless.
This earned him a tug by you who was impatiently waiting for him eager to play with their other friends "C'mon 'Bin hurry i wanna playy!!"
It's been a year since you were first introduced to each other and it's been a year since you first brought him to your treehouse and became friends with each other.
It didn't take long for him to be a part of your little friend group and it certainly didn't take long for you to be comfortable with each other, developing small habits like you dragging him anywhere you want and him mindlessly following.
"Finallyyy what took you two so long?" Beomgyu whined seeing his two best friends walk into the garden with a backpack filled with water fight goodies.
"Easy for you to say.. You didn't have to haul all these water guns, balloons and snacks UPHILL " Soobin muttered while handing out the water guns feeling annoyed.
"You could've asked Y/n to carry a few - her backpack is almost empty!" Yeonjun chuckled, while taking a water gun from Soobin's hand.
Soobin paused. Right. He could've just given Y/n a few more things, but he didn't really mind carrying them all for her. She'd keep on complaining anyway, saying how it's hindering her from riding, âfaster than the windâ
Come to think of it, he was used to doing things for you even though you don't really ask for it.
He always saw his father do similar things for his mother, so he's pretty sure it's normal. Besides, you never objected.
July 2013
13 years old
You sprung out of bed today. Well, why wouldn't you? It's your birthday.
Running down the stairs of your home you were greeted by your mother who was still busy making breakfast
"Awake so early?" She teased. "I haven't even finished your breakfast, love"
Your mother always made you stacks of pancakes according to your age - this year it will be thirteen and you just can't wait to stuff your face.
It's also your first year being a teenager. It's practically a grown up you thought. You looked forward to living your teenage life the way High School Musical promised you. Maybe even find the Troy to your Gabriella.
//
After finishing your breakfast you immediately headed out to hang out with your best friends. Surely they won't say no.
well... you first asked your one and only ride or die who lived closest to you.
"Binnie, you wanna hang out?" You asked your friend who looked like he'd seen a ghost "Hang out? uh- you know today might be a bad day to play because um.." His eyes darted everywhere but towards your eyes and he couldn't stop fiddling with his hands. "Well you see-" "Sorry y/n we're busy. We'll go out tomorrow okay?" Yeonjun finished the sentence for Soobin, who couldn't find the words. "Yeonjun?" you were so confused. "what are you-" "bye." Yeonjun then slammed the door shut at you.
This was perplexing.. You couldn't remember if you did something wrong. Okay, maybe it's because you and Beomgyu pranked the two yesterday, splashing a bucketful of water on them while they took a nap in the treehouse, but they usually never really stayed mad at you for long....
As you contemplated the possible reasons for their weird behavior, you could hear snippets from behind the door. It sounded like Soobin's voice and he sounded timid and regretful. "Wasn't that a bit too mean?". "Oh, come on " Yeonjun answered "It was necessary, now let's not waste any more time "
After that fiasco you decided to ask your other friend Taehyun, who conveniently lived right across Soobin's home. When his mother opened the door for you, you saw Taehyun carrying an air pumper and a blue plastic bag, concealing its contents.
"Taehyun, Y/n's here" his mother called out but hearing this the boy rushed to his bedroom and shut the door. "Tell her i can't right now mom"
His mother looked just as perplexed as you are. Wasn't he literally just here carrying an air pump and a plastic bag? You bit the inside of your cheek, swallowing your disappointment.
Now you decided to try one more time and marched towards Beomgyu's home.
On the way you saw Kai who was riding his bike towards Beomgyu's house. You saw how Beomgyu was already outside waiting for Kai. It seemed like they already had something planned.
Well, you didn't think hanging out without you was a crime. But it felt like they were actively pushing you away.. Or maybe you were just imagining things, overthinking. Yeah that's probably it right?
You then made eye contact with Kai who visibly stiffened. The startled boy then started to rapidly tap Beomgyu's shoulder who seemed to be busy loading the basket on the back of his bike with what looked like colorful paper bags.
You were too far to actually see what he was loading on his bike. Hesitating for a second you jogged towards the two.
"Go, go, go " Huening ushered Beomgyu who started to ride his bike. Weirdly enough he was taking the path away from the others (others being Yeonjun's, Taehyun's, Soobin's) and his home.. Weird. you thought. Who else would Beomgyu hang out with that way..
Now you awkwardly stood there alone with Kai, who kept looking away and then back at you pursing his lips tightly.
He then laughed awkwardly. "Y/n... what's- what's up?". You tried to inspect his face and tried to read his expression. "Why are you guys all acting so weir-" "WEIRD? us? who? what do you mean? im TOTALLY normal, i don't know about the others though." He interrupted, frantically waving his hands. It was a pretty sorry attempt to deflect, but hey, A+ for effort.
You just continued to look at him suspiciously. "Well, i guess it's just us then.." you muttered. "What? Do you not like hanging out with me?" Kai teased. You just grinned in response and pushed him playfully - well maybe a bit too hard for it to be playful since Kai almost lost his footing "HEY!" he scolded suppressing a grin trying to stay stern, but alas he wasn't really mad. This was normal in your friendship. But what wasn't was the others suddenly acting so distant. The thought made you frown.
"You okay?" Kai asked. "Why are the others acting so weird? Did i do something? We were all fine when we played yesterday and i don't remember doing something really bad" You said, looking at your playmate wearing a face filled with undeniable disappointment, confusion and before you could spiral Kai touched your shoulder pulling you out of your thoughts. "Nu-uh, you didn't do anything-" Before he could continue you heard a static sounding "Popping Star is ready to pop"
"Is that a walkie talkie?" You asked baffled by the random sound. Kai just smiled widely and shook his head, his hair comically flying around from the motion. He excitedly then tugged you along. "Lets go, you'll see in just a minute"
Kai brought you to your treehouse in your backyard. You were confused, you saw the others' bikes but couldn't hear them. Usually it'd be as loud as a zoo, but now it's radio silent.. Today is such a weird day you thought. But as you reached the top.
POP
POP
POP
"SURPRISEEEE!!" three different voices shouted while holding party poppers, which were the ones responsible for the loud noise.
You felt ecstatic and tears welled up in your eyes. "Oh my god" you squealed. You have celebrated your birthday with them before, but this was the first time they surprised you with a small party with just he six of you.
The treehouse was meticulously decorated with balloons and paper streamers all in your favorite colors. On the table you then saw five different colorful paper bags.
"Oh my god is this what you brought over?" you laughed asking Beomgyu who nodded frantically in response
"I managed to fit them all in that tiny basket behind my bike" He proudly stated "You should properly thank me, you know, i had to take a detour which made me ride like 10 minutes longer than i would've had to, because you just appeared out of nowhere. You know I had to drive by Ms. Han's home and her ugly dog literally chased me for two blocks" He whined, shaking your arm, begging for some sympathy (and an extra reward, preferably your mother's cookies).
Well, now it made sense why he drove the other direction after Kai frantically tapped his shoulder (which was actually borderline hitting, Beomgyu added).
"And Huening kept HITTING my shoulder while i was packing the gifts in the basket, he was starting to piss me off"
"HEY, i was just warning you and you didn't really answer me and i was panicking okay? What if she saw and we blew the cover"
While those two bickered you looked around and realized a certain someone wasn't there.
"Guys where's Soobin?", you asked looking around, but then Yeonjun who was already grinning widely started counting down
five
six
five
six
seven
eight
"Happy Birthday to you"
They started to sing and Soobin slowly moved out of his hiding spot which was behind a wall by the balcony area.
"Happy Birthday to you"
Soobin walked towards you holding a birthday cake, strawberry shortcake you figured, with squiggly handwriting that says Happy Birthday, the H was significantly bigger than all the other letters that seemed to get smaller and smaller towards the end, but it still looked cute. Simple but cute and utterly on brand for them. And all for you.
"Happy Birthday Dear Y/n, Happy Birthday to you"
Soobin smiled at you, dimples evident.
"Make a wish"
You just stared at him, how could you not, his dimpled and smile, the way his face glowed because of the candles. He looked so pretty-
Wait.
Hold on.
This was your best friend you were calling pretty, the one who is still scared of bugs and cries whenever someone shows him a picture of IT or any clown in that sense.
no he's not pretty. he's not pretty. he's not pret-
"C'mon Y/n, make a wiisshhhughh" Beomgyu whined impatiently, eager to eat cake. She then realized she completely zoned out.
Closing your eyes and clasping your hands you silently made your wish.
"I wish we could all stay together forever"
and then you blew your candles.
//
Having eaten the cake it was finally time to open your gifts. You all made yourself comfortable on the main area of the treehouse, having established spots after all these years.
Taehyun and Kai started off first. (They both scrounged up their pocket money to buy their gift dor you)
"We asked 'Bin for tips and he told us you really liked this book series so i bought you the newest part of the saga" Taehyun scratched the back of his neck while explaining. "Hope you like it"
You smiled enthusiastically at the two and moved towards them to give them a hug, "Thanks guys, i've been wanting it for a while"
Then came Yeonjun
"When we went to the mall you said you wanted a tnmt t-shirt sooo i got you one, your favorite turtle of course" He grinned already knowing he ate with his gift.
"LEONARDO" you squealed instantly wearing the slightly oversized t-shirt "I love it 'Jun thank youu" you jumped out of your seat and hugged him as well.
"Ooooh looks like someone has competition" Beomgyu teased wiggling his eyebrows at Soobin who just furrowed his brows and scowled at the latter shoving him. "Shut up"
Beomgyu just giggled, finding it fun to press Soobin's buttons. "Anywho, it's my turn. You'll definitely love my gift more than Yeonjun's" Beomgyu cockily proclaimed throwing his imaginary long hair back.
"No, you didn't"
"Yes i did"
"NO WAY"
You then frantically stood up and hugged Beomgyu jumping up and down with him laughing maniacally.
"YOU GOT ME A LITTLEST PET SHOP TOY YOU KNOW ME TOO WELLL"
The others watched you two with amused smiles, already accustomed to your antics. See, before Taehyun, Kai, Yeonjun and Soobin, you've always been awfully close with Beomgyu. Both of your parents grew up together. Both of you grew up together. Both of you are always together at the crime scene. Both of you are two peas in a pod.
Amidst the crackling atmosphere of joy and jubilee a certain someone started to fiddle with his fingers, eyes focused on the cracks of the treehouse's floor. His face overflowing with doubt he tried to suppress.
"You good?" Yeonjun's question pulled him out of his thoughts. Soobin wordlessly nodded. Undoubtedly reading his mind, Yeonjun reassured his friend.
"Don't worry, im sure she'll love yours too" This helped Soobin regain a handful of confidence. He then silently thanked his friend with a nod and smile, grateful for his sincerity.
//
Soobin decided to give you your gift when everyone left. He offered to stay back and help you clean up the mess.
"You didn't have to stay" you said carefully taking down the paper streamers hanging on the walls and beam of the treehouse.
"It's okay.. Besides i was one of the people who made this mess" He reassured taking the other decorations you were holding and placed them on the empty box.
You then crouched down to pick up stray confetti from the ground.
"Thank you though.. I thought i did something wrong when everyone avoided me and acted all weird..." You admitted while absentmindedly folding, scrunching and tearing a piece of confetti you picked up.
You then felt Soobin's presence behind you. "I-i'm sure it's not much but.."
You turned around and stood up to face him. You tilted your head confused at what he was talking about and saw the small paper bag he was holding.
You curiously opened it and saw a thin red bracelet, with one big green bead carefully positioned between a few pink beads. He took it from the flimsy packaging and gently slipped it on your wrist tugging on the two strings to adjust the bracelet's size to your wrist.
He smiled when he tightened the bracelet admiring the way it looked on you. You on the other hand were flustered. The way his hands delicately held your arm, so soft and so warm yet so electric and addicting.
Your heart was practically beating out of your chest, the fairy lights which was your only source of light, alongside the full moon, dimly lit his face. The way the light contoured his features, made you realize an undeniable fact.
Your friend Soobin was indeed pretty. Very, very pretty.
And seeing him smile so boyishly at your wrist, which was adorned by his bracelet filled your stomach with butterflies. But these unfamiliar and overwhelming feelings confused, startled and scared you all at the same time.
Not knowing what to do with yourself, you cleared your throat and swiftly pulled your hand away from his hold, tugging on your left ear and vehemently avoided his gaze. If you hadn't you would've seen Soobin's smile slowly fade and head sink.
"i-it's pretty" you whispered. "Huh?" Soobin raised his head up he almost got whiplash thinking he misheard your words. "I SAID IT'S PRETTY" you repeated a bit too loud. Making Soobin take a few steps back, looking flabbergasted. You felt your cheeks burn but you still somehow had the confidence to look at Soobin which proved to be fruitful since he was also very red.
He nervously chuckled and rubbed his neck. "That's good", he softly said, but not long after the poor boy then started to babble and overthink.
"I was worried it wasn't enough, since you know that others had crazy good gifts, i mean i was the one who suggested some of them, but i guess i forgot i had to give you one too so i didn't know what to-"
Then he felt someone hug him tight. "Thanks Bin, i love it" you whispered into the crook of his shoulder.
Soobin stayed still his arms moved around awkwardly, not knowing what to do. Should he hug you back? Place his arms around you? Is he being too stiff? He must be so uncomfortable to hug.
Come to think of it, this wasn't really the first time you hugged, you always hugged each other whenever you said hello, you always hugged whenever you said goodbye and this definitely wasn't the first time since you also always hugged everyone when saying thank you. But those barely lasted two seconds. This one felt special. This one wasn't just a casual one. This one lasted longer - like a lifetime. He felt like he was floating and couldn't stop smiling, his cheeks started to hurt.
When she let go, he let out a breath he didn't even know he was holding.
She smiled at him and bid him goodbye for the night.
"See you tomorrow!"
Soobin could only smile crookedly and sheepishly wave back. He watched you climb your way down, walk towards your home, open your back door and get inside.
//
When he got home, Soobin did his night routine as usual. He washed his face, brushed his teeth, got his pajamas on and tucked himself in his bed. His bedroom window reflected the moons soft glow, which was comfortably accompanied by his star shaped nightlight.
But underneath the comfortable silence in his room with only the sound of the cicadas chirping and his electric fan whirring, the sound of his heart beating a thousand miles an hour sounded louder, louder than before in a way he couldn't ignore anymore. He could've sworn that his whole house could hear. But most of all, he was scared that you, his best friend next door would hear it too.
Little did he know, that next door, you were wrapped like a burrito under your covers, face bright red whilst trying to calm your racing heart down as well.
The bright and full moon was the only witness of your awkward yet endearing reactions.
February 2014
Rriinngggg
Cheers echoed from classroom to classroom, the sound of chairs collectively grating from people abruptly standing up, because everyone - students and teachers alike - were eager to finally get out of school.
"C'mon, let's go get tteokbokki!" Beomgyu waited jumping on his heels eager to meet up with your other friends, who were in the classroom next door.
"Wait, wait, let me pack my stuff-" you should've known better than to ask your friend to be patient when his patience was just as long as a kid during Christmas.
"You pack too slow, c'mon" Beomgyu shoved your pencil case, books and pens messily into your bag and carried it himself already wanting to get a move on.
You couldn't finish your sentence because time seemed to move slower. And before you realized you tripped over your own feet, a loud smack did the realizing for you as you face palmed the floor. Your four other friends (along with your other amused classmates and exasperated teachers ) circled around you commenting on the situation.
"OH CRAP-"
"Beomgyu you're so dead."
"She'll have your head for sure now"
"HAHAHAHA"
"OMG Y/N IM SO SORRY - well technically it's not my fault since no one asked you to run and catch me but-"
Whilst laying on the ground contemplating your friendship with a certain someone you lifted your head up and just blankly stared at your friends who just stared back not knowing how to assess the situation without angering you more than you already are.
"Y/n, your nose is bleeding.." Huening pointed out the slow dribbling red fluid from your nose, that started to drip onto the floor.
.
.
.
.
"CHOI BEOMGYU"
Your piercing and echoing scream was one of the last things your classmates and teachers heard before they left the school, besides their polite and friendly farewells.
//
As damage control, the others collectively agreed to sit the two of you far away from each other Beomgyu sat on one edge of the couch with Taehyun to his left and you sat on the floor, with a rolled paper tissue stuffed inside one of your nostrils, on the other side of the couch next to Soobin.
You all ate your tteokbokki in silence, still feeling awkward from the incident in school. If someone were to come in they'd only be met with chewing sounds, the whirring of the refrigerator and the hum of the air conditioner. A rare silence for a friend group like yours.
Breaking the silence Kai proposed playing Tekken, already pulling the CD out of the shelf, already expecting a collective approval (he was right about that).
He popped the CD in the console and connected the controllers.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, I Hueningkai, welcome you to our weekly - if not daily - Tekken Tournament" He announced, trying to make his voice sound deeper and more mature, mimicking your atypical showbiz host.
" Our first contestants.. Kang Taehyun vs Choi Beomgyu "
Taehyun walked forward dramatically towards the controllers, chest puffed out bowing to the others, who (except his opponent of course) were clapping
"Thank you, thank you, i appreciate your support, my dearest fans"
Then it was Yeonjun's turn for a show stopping entrance. He just turned around nodding his while holding the tip of his hat and then dramatically threw it towards somewhere in the living room. Opening his arms confidently he introduced himself
"It is I Choi Yeonjun, who will definitely win and dominate this tournament" He then smiled charmingly and winked at Kai who than acted flustered, holding his heart and playfully fawned over him
ohmygoshohmygoshohmygosshhh" Kai squealed in a high pitched voice "I'll be rooting for you Yeonjunnieee".
And so the Tekken Tournament started. You all fell to your usual rhythm, the one you all were too accustomed to. It felt so easy, so liberating. Like eating cotton candy in a fair, or swimming in the lake during the summer. It was the epitome of peak childhood. One that was too perfect, even for the movies.
You were all screaming, smashing those buttons for combos like there's no tomorrow, alliances were formed, so some of you even started sabotaging the opponents of the party you were rooting for.
Yeonjun started tickling Hueningkai when Taehyun was playing against the latter.
"HEY STOP TRYING TO MAKE ME MESS UP" Kai screamed while trying to swat Yeonjun's hands away and keep his character alive. Taehyun just cackled whenever Huening missed his combos or couldn't block.
after a while you were now finally in your finals. You vs Beomgyu.
Taehyun was giggling and trying to pinch your sides while you were playing against Beomgyu
"TAEHYUN DON'T BETRAY ME LIKE THIS" You squealed tilting your body in an awkward way just to protect yourself from his relentless attacks. "SOOBIN DON'T LET HIM SABOTAGE ME, HELP ME" Soobin just snickered but still complied trying to wrap his arms around the flailing Taehyun to successfully pulling him back.
"YAH, that's so unfair, why do you always help Y/n?" Taehyun complained, it was such an offhand and playful comment but it hit Soobin right where it was sensitive. He felt his ears burn and he cleared his throat. "YEAH, YOU ALWAYS TAKE HER SIDE" Beomgyu pointed at Soobin, whilst pouting when he lost the game.
You unaware of the chaos just celebrated after officially winning your little tournament.
"In your face losers" you stuck your tongue out making a little victory dance jumping around with a wide grin.
Beomgyu grimaced at you still complaining about how unfair everything was, Taehyun and Kai were splayed on the floor trying to block out Beomgyu's persistent whining, Yeonjun was already browsing through their dvd's to see what they could watch.
But Soobin found himself admiring you, the way your hair flowed when you jumped, your little victory dance he has come to grow accustomed with through the years, your smile, the way your nose scrunched and-
"OooOOhHH Soobin's got hearty heart eyes for Y/n"
he didn't even realize he was staring at her with hearts in his eyes until Beomgyu pointed it out. This made you stop in your tracks, you looked at Soobin, who seemed petrified.
Meanwhile, he felt like his heart stopped. He wanted to be buried alive, why the hell did Beomgyu have to be so fucking loud? He wanted to just stuff used socks in his mouth so he wont be able to utter anything else.
Soobin didn't dare meet your eyes. Instead he just flipped Beomgyu off rolling his eyes, playing it cool. Luckily Yeonjun proposed watching Hunger Games and made you forget about Beomgyuâs words. You shifted your attention and helped Yeonjun set up the TV.
"I'll get the snacks" Soobin announced standing up from the floor oblivious about how Taehyun silently got on his feet and followed.
After rummaging through the cabinets Soobin was ready to go back to the living room and join the others, but was startled when Taehyun was just standing behind him all this time and he never noticed.
"AACK" Soobin shrieked loudly. He flailed his hands to protect himself from the nonexistent threat, dropping the snacks in his hands in the process
"TAEHYUN? WHAT THE HELL YOU SCARED ME" Soobin smacked his friend's shoulder while wearing a distressed expression.
"You like her don't you" Taehyun said blatantly and so casually, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Soobin stood still, unresponsive as if the words haven't fully landed in his brain yet.
.
.
.
.
Once realization kicked in, Soobin laughed hysterically slapping Taehyun's shoulders. It was like his friend just said the funniest joke known to mankind.
"AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH Taehyun you can't be serious, that's like saying im going to be the leader of some successful boy group - IMPOSSIBLE"
After wiping his nonexistent tears, Soobin made his way back to the living room after picking up the stray snacks he dropped earlier. Taehyun was left in the kitchen with a raised brow.
"Oh well"
March 2017
16 years old
knock knock knock
"Y/nie sweetie, are you up yet? Soobin is already waiting for you to come down for school"
meanwhile..
you were snoring peacefully unbothered, still used to your sleeping schedule during your break.
knock knock knock
this time the knocks were more insistent. "LEAVE ME ALONE UGH" you groaned covering your face with your pillow trying to drown the noise.
"YAH!" Soobin screamed pulling your blankets the voice too deep and too loud to be your mothers.
Feeling the warmth of your blanket rudely stolen from you, you let out a squeal. "HEY, SOOBIN WHAT THE FUCK?" You glared at him (which was barely threatening since your hair was even worse than a birds nest and your cheeks were still puffy)
Soobin only rolled his eyes at your remark, used to your corning crankiness "Bro get up or we'll be late for school. Your mom's been literally trying to wake you up for a while, weâre talking about 15 minutes and counting"
Your eyes widened at this - fuck, you literally forgot to set your alarm for today. First day back at school and it's already going shitty.
"OH CRUD - WAIT FOR ME I'LL BE BACK IN A BIT" you threw yourself out of bed, some of your poor plushies falling at the sheer force and speed.
Soobin just snickered and went downstairs grabbing the sandwich your mom made for your breakfast.
//
While rushing down the stairs, you buttoned your uniform up and hastily tied your hair up quickly. You then grabbed your bag near the couch and waved your mom goodbye.
"Bye Mom, see you later !"
Soobin waited for you to unlock your bike and you both made your way to school.
//
Luckily, you still got to school in time. "Thanks for waking me up 'Bin" you grinned at him whilst taking your shoes off to swap them for the indoor ones. Soobin just shrugged "Someone had to wake your lazy ass up - were you up late again? You were sleeping like a log" Upon hearing this, your smiled dropped in an instant. "I take my gratitude back"
Soobin just snickered at your reaction and closed his shoe locker. He then wordlessly handed you the sandwich your mom packed. You just stared at it.
"What? You need an invitation?" Soobin raised a brow grinning "Never mind, thank youu Soobinnn" you said in a sing song voice accepting the sandwich and stuffed it in your bag.
The two of you had to part ways since you were in separate classes. On your way to class you noticed a meek girl who looked lost and in a verge of tears.
"Hey" you gently tapped her shoulder , making her shriek startled by your sudden touch. This made you jump back taken aback. "Woah, im sorry for scaring you but um.. are you lost can i help you?" you offered nicely, you found her cute though the way she was all fidgety it reminded you of Soobin when you were younger.
"H-hi, im new at this school and i really underestimated how huge the campus is" she stuttered, her head hanging low.
"No worries! I'll help you!" you grinned "Where do you have to go? Which class are you in?"
"2-C" the new girl answered. "2-C - Oh i have friends that go there tooâ you rambled "well um, 2-C's classroom is right up ahead" you pointed at the other end of the hall. "You wont miss it since there's a sign hanging up near the door - don't worry" you heard the girl sighed softly and murmur "how did i miss those signs.." this made you laugh making the girl blush. "Huh?" she felt confused why you suddenly burst out laughing.
"Nothing, it's just you remind me of a friend of mine - it's nothing bad though don't worry" you reassured "Im y/n, what's your name?" you asked, curious to know more about this interesting person you met. "I-im Elizabeth - but you can call me Lizzy" she introduced giving you a sweet crooked smile. "Thanks for helping me.. i appreciate it"
after giving you one last wave Elizabeth quickly made her way towards her classroom.
//
Class was about to start in a few minutes and you were sat beside one of your best friends - Kai, behind you was Beomgyu and an empty seat.
"Oh c'mon now thats just unfair." Beomgy whined. "Why am I the one who has to sit alone?" "because you and i somehow always had class together since grade school." you rolled your eyes "and i wanna sit next to Huening - he's nice" you side hugged Kai who just smiled in response leaning into your touch and stuck a tongue out at Beomgyu glare at him playfully squaring up "you trynna fight?!" Beomgyu stood up, his chair scraping leaving a shrill sound. He glared down at Kai. But once the latter stood up and towered over him Beomgyu felt himself shrink. "You sure you wanna fight?" Kai grinned. You just snorted at their antics "Oof, he got you there 'Gyu - he got you there" you clapped praising Kai, relishing in Beomgyu's pouty face. Deciding that the humilition isnât worth it he decided to sit down crossing his arms and pettily refusing to look at both of you. "Hmpf - im moving to the others class since im clearly not wanted here"
You were about to tease him again when your teacher silently walked in the classroom, her demanding presence and stern aura was enough to silence the bustling classroom. Students rushed to their seats and stopped conversing with each other in an instant.
"Good Morning class." She greeted, with a calm voice. The teacher turned around and wrote her name on the board. Miss Kim it said.
"I hope we have a highly educational and prosperous year, i have high expectations for every single one of you. Now before we begin, a new student will be joining us in our academic journey this year - come in "
A tall, slender figure appeared. He walked in with a straight posture, his hands resting on his sides
"Good morning, im Jungwon. I hope to have a nice year with you all" his voice was chirpy, and his visuals were undeniably breathtaking, especially those dimples that were hard to miss. It didn't take long for your classmates to start gushing and whispering about him.
"He looks like he'd never cut corners"
"He's definitely a teacher's pet"
"Oh my god he looks so cute - look at his dimples!"
"He kinda looks like he'd ask the teacher why we didn't get any homework" Beomgyu whispered to you and Kai.
Ms. Kim shushed the class, clearly disdained about the hushed whispers in her classroom.
"Sit next to Choi Beomgyu" She gestured towards your now frozen friend.
Upon hearing this, Beomgyu pointed at himself with wide eyes feeling baffled. This made Kai snicker "She must've heard him" You tried to suppress a laugh, not wanting to get in trouble and playfully shoved Kai.
"Make sure you help Jungwon get used to his surrounding and show him around the campus - it's easy to get lost if you're new" Your teacher added leaving no room for discussion.
//
Class seemed to drone on. Even though it was just the first day Ms. Kim didn't hesitate to start torturing you with math.
Someone in the back was playing on his phone hiding it behind his book, two girls near your seats were whispering about something and you only counted down the minutes, until the bell rang.
After what seemed like eternity, the bell blared loudly setting every student free from the shackles of their tedious lessons.
"Ahh FINALLY" Kai sighed beside you slumping on his desk "I swear im good at math, but honestly i think i left that genius last year."
Beomgyu just let out a snort "Riightt, says the one who didn't know that the square root of 121 is 11" Kai's lips tugged into a small pout as he felt his pride get trampled on "HEY I WAS SLEEPY OKAY"
You just shook your head chuckling softly to yourself. Amidst the chaos a silent figure waited patiently behind Beomgyu his hands tucked into his pockets. You nudged your friend silently reminding him of his responsibility he seemed to have forgotten. But Beomgyu was too engrossed in complaining about Ms. Kim's strict teaching methods.
But when Beomgyu stayed unresponsive due to his selective hearing, so you decided to take matters in your own hands
"Sorry Jungwon, you see Beomgyu over here is a bit slow" you gave Beomgyu a warning glare as if saying "get it together now and treat him nicely" to which Beomgyu just rolled his eyes at. Jungwon on the other hand let out a small chuckle. "It's the first day of school i'll cut him some slack"
Beomgyu feeling ganged up on murmured "Well, i'll see you later in the cafeteria" unenthusiastic as he lead Jungwon towards the door.
//
When you and Kai arrived in the cafeteria, you found your friends in your usual spot. It was the table near a corner, the gigantic ceiling to floor window reflected the sunlight and displayed the blooming trees that scattered across your school's yard.
"Hii guys - how was class?" you asked as you arrived at the table hugging them one by one. "We're so lucky we have Mr Jeon as our class teacher" Taehyun's statement made you envious, Mr Jeon was an English teacher who always made class so much more tolerable, picking out interesting themes making his lessons less monotone unlike Ms Kim. "Luckyyyy" you groaned, as you sat down next to Taehyun.
"Where's Beomgyu?" Soobin curiously asked, who was sat opposite of you and was busy munching on carrots. "He has to give the new kid a tour of the school" Kai stated as he took a seat as well, setting his tray on the table.
"Oh speaking of new students, we also have one" Yeonjun added, as he slurped his noodles "what's her name again?" "Elizabeth" Taehyun answered. And as if the world knew you were talking about her, you then saw her walking awkwardly through the crowd, sheepishly looking for a free table.
"LIZZY!" you called over, waving your hand to catch her attention. Her eyes immediately flicked towards your direction, instantly recognizing your voice. She smiled as she held eye contact with you "Come sit with us" you beckoned her over patting the empty spot next to you.
After settling down, Kai didn't waste time to greet her "Hi there, names Kai" he smiled brightly at her "Whats up, im Yeonjun" Yeonjun introduced himself flashing his usual grin, finding it amusing when she avoided his gaze and her cheeks reddened.
"Don't scare her now" Beomgyu, who has finally arrived, with Jungwon tagging alongside him. "Scooch over" Beomgyu said while pushing Yeonjun to make some space for him. The sudden action made Yeonjun accidentally shove Soobin who was next to him. The latter who was about to sip some of his soup scolded him "YAH- you almost made me spill my soup"
"Can't you guys be normal for once?" Taehyun pinched his nose sighing deeply. Beomgyu just rolled his eyes "Why is everyone so dramatic" He then took the opportunity to introduce their new classmate "anyway this is our new buddy Jungwon "
"Hi, nice to meet you all" Jungwon then flashed a warm smile, his gaze flickering towards Elizabeth a beat too long. He didn't hesitate to take the spot next to the meek girl, who visibly stiffened and gripped on her chopsticks tighter than before. Noticing this you asked her in a whisper " You okay?" She sunk her head low, cheeks burning "Y-yes im fine" she said in a meek whisper.
It didn't take long for everyone to find their rhythm and find conversations to partake in, amidst the chewing and slurping.
"Hey 'Bin, did you know 'Won also loves playing ball. At first I didn't like him since he looked like someone who'd tell the teacher about forgetting homework, but he's actually a fun guy-" Beomgyu, droned on and on about how Jungwon would be the perfect gaming buddy. You were animatedly conversing with Jungwon who was laughing at the story and Elizabeth who was listening intently. while Yeonjun was telling Taehyun and Kai about that squirrel he almost ran over on his way to school.
And simply like spring, your friend group started to grow along side the blossoming flowers that are growing out of the supple and dewy grass.
April 2017
Ever since school has been eating your free time, you didn't have much time to spend with your friends after school. So when the opportunity finally came Beomgyu didn't hesitate to invite everyone out to his home. What better than playing video games while scarfing down greasy pizza.
"Soo is everybody ready for our traditional Tekken tournament??" Kai screamed enthusiastically. Everyone hooted and hollered in agreement. The air was charged with competitiveness especially since the winner and second runner up will get a 5x-packet of ramen.
And as the lineup was formed, the battle begun.
First up - Jungwon against Beomgyu.
"Im sorry Kai - i know we're friends but, all is fair in love and ramyeon" Beomgyu faked a sympathetic tone, but Kai just smirked in response unaffected "We'll see, we'll see"
As their characters intensely fought and dodged, they immediately set the bar high with their skills.
"Woah - Kai is keeping up with Beomgyu - who would've thought?" Yeonjun chuckled amused by how the game was progressing
With how cocky Kai answered Beomgyu's bluff, you would think he would at least have some skill right?
"NOOOOO" Kai wailed throwing his body on the ground, as he failed to block Beomgyu's avatar's punch. Meanwhile his opponent sprung up doing a celebratory dance his hands flailing around "I swear, how can you still be so bad after playing so long?". Kai just grumbled in response And to think this was just the beginning of an intense round of Tekken.
Everyone has their turn and night has fallen in a blink of an eye, but the sound of teenagers screaming and cheering loudly didn't seem to waver. The once full pizza boxes were now empty and discarded haphazardly across the floor accompanied by cans of various sodas.
You were seated on the floor alongside Elizabeth and Jungwon who were too caught up in their own world, having a hushed conversation about something you couldn't catch, Yeonjun was laying on the floor already feeling bored after having lost at round 3, while Kai was making Ramen with Taehyun and Soobin was lying on the couch, scrolling mindlessly on his phone.
But even though everyone's attention was already drifting away - the one deciding who would be worth enough to get that pack of ramen. To make this better (or worse, depending on how you would see it) the last ones standing were you and Beomgyu.
The tension was palpable and everyone was at the edge of their seats as you and Beomgyu relentlessly smashed those buttons as if they had insulted you and your bloodline in its past life.
You were too engrossed on the screen you didn't realize Taehyun who has come back from cooking, creeping up behind you.
"GAAH" you screamed loosing your concentration because of Taehyun's tickling - dirty tactic. The benefactor (Beomgyu) only cackled loudly boasting how "VICTORY IS MINE"
Soobin who was previously engrossed with his phone tilted his head up, lips tugging up at the familiar sight of his friends bickering. "That tactic is so lame" he said standing up, ready to step in.
But before he could reach out, someone else was quicker. Jungwon was quicker.
"HEY - NO" Taehyun complained letting out a string of laughter as he was forcefully ripped away from you. Finally free of distraction you could still hit those combos and successfully Ko-ed Beomgyu's avatar
"YESSS" you sprung up celebrating "in your face you cheating loser" hugged Jungwon as you both laughed while jumping in circles.
Beomgyu just pouted "You don't have to rub it in" not feeling any sort of remorse rubbing in your victory and stuck your tongue out, eliciting collective laughter from across the room. But one person's smile didn't reach up towards his eyes.
Soobin felt an uncomfortable tug in his stomach, but before he could dwell on it further he shook his head dismissing it and walked towards you. "Mind sharing that with me?" Soobin grinned ruffling your hair. "Duh" you answered still riding that high of successfully beating your friend.
It was nice to forget about your responsibilities and just have fun with all of your best friends.
The weekend was gone within a blink of an eye and now you were back trapped behind the scorching gates of hell - school.
Sipping on your milk carton you watched your friend Lizzy fumble with her fingers, looking so nervous you'd think she was on death row. Raising your brow you called out her name snapping her out of her trance.
Elizabeth visibly stiffened but then meekly asked "C-can i tell you something?" this caught your attention, Elizabeth has always been a shy and nervous person, but right now it's like 10 times worse than usual.
"Sure" you answered, without hesitation. Taking a deep breath, Elizabeth shakily whispered something you couldn't get. You asked her to repeat it again but it was still too hushed. "Can you repeat that i couldn't-" "I LIKE YANG JUNGWON" she said it a bit louder than you expected, that other passing students looked at the two of you with weirded out expressions.
"YOU WHAT?" you stood up excitedly from the bench but Elizabeth who was redder than a tomato just hushed you trying to pull you back down to your seat, embarrassed about the growing whispers and judging looks around you due to the commotion.
"Don't - please don't tell anyone i just- i just i wanted your help for something, but you better promise not to laugh okay?" you nodded impatiently waiting for her to explain herself.
"I want your help to write a love letter for Jungwon" You couldn't refuse such a tender request, besides you were quite confident in your cupid abilities. The years of consuming cheesy hallmark movies and dramas will definitely pay off.
Taking out a piece of paper and a pen, you started to brainstorm with your friend.
"What do you want to write to him?"
no response.
Elizabeth seemed to short circuit - her brain seemed to be full of Jungwon but empty at the same time. "How about this, what do you like the most about him ? Lets start with that"
Elizabeth who was sheepish before started to shamelessly count down things she found endearing about Jungwon. "I love his dimples, oh god they just look so beautiful whenever he smiles - like his smile alone is enough to melt me but since it's paired with those dimples UGH im dead" You smiled fondly as you watched your friend be hopelessly in love while writing down the points she mentioned. You totally understood why she found Jungwon's dimples, because whenever Soobin flashes that dimply smile, you feel that tingle in your stomach as well and-
"Y/n? are you still with me?" Elizabeth giggled finding you spacing out funny. "I thought i lost you there for a second"
You cleared your throat feeling heat creep up your neck. "I was just- um.." the thoughts you just had.. why did they suddenly pop out, you were supposed to be thinking about how to help your friend write a love letter not Soobin - what does he have to do with this.
"Don't mind me - what else do you wanna add?" you tried to switch the topic, luckily Elizabeth didn't press further.
As you both counted down things to write in this letter you were suddenly interrupted by the one who was not supposed to see it.
"Hi guys!" Jungwon chirpily greeted you two, his gaze lingering towards Elizabeth a tick too long. Reacting quickly you stuffed the letter inside your notebook hoping he didn't see or suspect anything.
"''won whats good?" you greeted back with a nervous laugh. Lizzy on the other hand was frozen ears red.
"Are you okay Liz?" Jungwon asked worried placing a hand on the girl's shoulder. "IM OKAY" Lizzy answered standing up abruptly and before Jungwon could ask why the hell you two were so weird the bell rang.
"Oh would you look at that, lunch is over we wouldn't want to be late to class right Yn?" Elizabeth said her voice an octave too high. You didn't have time answer since you were hastily dragged away your bag barely on your shoulders, leaving a very confused Jungwon behind.
When school ended Jungwon tried to find where Yn went after his cleaning duty. Seeing Beomgyu and the others passing by he chose to ask them
"Have you guys seen Yn?" Jungwon asked
"She's probably in the library" Kai answered not lifting his head from his game console.
"No -it's Thursday she doesn't have library duty today" Taehyun corrected.
"Just look for Soobin - it's much more convenient" Beomgyu waved off "He's taller" this made the others snort. Jungwon was a bit baffled by the weird suggestion but still decided to try it out. After thanking them he made his way towards the bike parking area and surely enough, he immediately saw Soobin and surprise, surprise, Yn was right behind him.
Maybe Beomgyu was right, this was more convenient.
As he jogged towards the two of you, Jungwon called your names making you turn around towards the sound.
"Jungwon, what's up?" Soobin greeted him. "Can i borrow Yn for a second, it wont take long promise" Jungwon nudged you, waiting for your answer. You looked at Soobin who just nodded reassuringly "Take your time, i'll wait"
After agreeing you let Jungwon whisk you away. "So what's this about?" you asked. Jungwon scratched the back of his neck smiling awkwardly "You see, I wanted to ask you before at lunch, but you see.. I- i need your help". You raised a brow feeling your lips tug into a grin.
Well that just sounded all too familiar "Let me guess, you want me to play cupid" "Yes- i mean - wow - how did you know?" Jungwon was surprised at how you completely read him. "Im not too obvious aren't i?" the boy felt now self-conscious "Don't worry, i got your back what should i help you with?"
After you walked away with Jungwon, Soobin was left all alone with your bikes and most of all his thoughts. He felt his grip on your bikes' handles tighten. What did Jungwon want to talk to you about, that he wasn't supposed to hear? The curiosity was gnawing at him as he checked his watch every few seconds. What could you possibly be talking about that's taking so long?
But when he saw you come back, he felt his shoulders relax. This is silly, he thought, you were his best friend after all. You'll always be by his side just like he'll stay by yours.
"Sorry for the wait" you apologized, taking your bike back and mounting it. Soobin shook his head and reassured you that it was not a big deal.
Even while you drove home he still couldn't help but still feel that spark of curiosity, and he couldn't stop himself from asking, surely you'd tell him right? "What'd Jungwon talk to you about?" he asked trying to sound casual. You just shrugged him off with a growing smile "It's nothing, you'll find out soon enough though" Your answer wasn't what he was expecting at all. He felt his shoulders tense and gripped his bike's handle tighter.
"Last one up has to make ramyeon!" you declared speeding up. Your sudden challenge made Soobin forget about anything else and he just grinned accepting your challenge. This wasn't the first time after all.
When you got to Soobin's room you immediately threw yourself onto his bed burying your face into one of his pillows. "Why can't we just have spring break now" you groaned. Soobin rolled his eyes in response, a grin making its way up his lips. "You're here to study, not slack off" He playfully scolded you. He then threw you a small pack of salted peanuts - your favorite brain snack. Happily accepting his offer you sat up and opened the pack popping a few peanuts in your mouth, instantly feeling energized.
"Then lets get working"
You pulled your stuff out your bag and made yourself comfortable on the floor, snagging Soobin's bed tray table.
The next few hours were filled with comfortable silence. Once in a while one of you asks the other about some equation or topic you didn't understand.
Feeling your legs get numb and your throat dry you stood up to recharge. But you accidentally knocked down the flimsy bed tray table spilling all your papers and pens.
Soobin turned around from his desk because of the commotion. "Shit - whatever i'll pick it up later." you muttered "You want anything from the kitchen?" you asked Soobin who just shook his head in response.
When you left Soobin made his way towards the mess you made, letting out a small endeared chuckle "You'll never stop being clumsy, will you?" he said to no one in particular.
As he tidied up, a piece of paper caught his eye.
Things i like about you:
"Your dimples - oh god they just look so beautiful whenever you smile. like your smile alone is enough to melt me but since it's paired with those dimples UGH im dead"
Soobin held his breath - was this a letter for someone you admired? Can he dare hope you were you talking about him? He couldn't stop his smile that kept on growing. Dimples? cute? his hands subconsciously drifted towards his cheeks, tracing that familiar dip in his cheek.
"I didn't know you could be this cheesy Yn" he giggled. Despite his attempts on keeping calm he couldn't deny his racing heart that was about to leap out of his chest.
"And when you play basketball, the way you keep the team together and how you always shoot clean shots"
An amused chuckle slipped from his lips - since when did he play basketball? Oh, right. He doesn't.
he doesn't play basketball.
and this letter isn't for him.
Soobin froze the letter suddenly feeling heavier than a bag filled with stones. But before he could swallow that lump in his throat he heard you shuffling up the stairs. He hastily shoved that damned piece of paper in one of your notebooks. And as he heard his door creak open he tripped on his way back to his desk, face planting on his carpet.
"You good?" you snorted, finding the situation funny, when Soobin was in fact trying to hold his cracking heart together.
"It's fine - i'm okay" Soobin blurted, trying to gather his jumbled thoughts.
You just raised a brow as you sat back down on your spot. "Weirdo" you snickered.
Soobin only awkwardly laughed in response, trying to shift his focus back to his studies. But no matter how hard he tried, his mind drifted towards that letter against his will. Letting out a quiet sigh he leaned against his chair while sneaking a small glance at you before forcing himself to focus on his paper.
The endless abyss of practice equations has finally taken its toll on you leaving you exhausted and sleepy.
You couldnât help the drooping of your eyes. Just one second you thought, just oneâŠ
Soobin who was also starting to feel a strain in his neck wanted to take a break. A little ramyeon break wouldnât hurt right?
Taking his headphones out he turned around to ask you if you were hungry as well but instead of seeing your concentrated face he was met with your peaceful figure, slumped on the bed tray table, hair messily tied in a ponytail that was almost undone.
The sun had long set, the sound of cicadas and his electric fan whirring were the only things that filled the silence.
Soobin couldnât help but feel drawn to you and before he realized it he was already kneeling before you.
âAlways so hard working.â he muttered voice laced with admiration. His eyes trailed at the stacks of paper you had completed, but then his gaze flickered towards your face.
He had seen you sleep multiple times before, heck heâd seen you drool and snore in your sleep. And each and everytime he whispers the same thing to himself.
âEven in your sleep, you still look beautifulâ
Soobinâs lips tugged up as his hand reached for the stray strands of your hair that obscured his full view.
His touch was feather light, but it left a blazing trail of warmth in itâs wake making you shift in your sleep.
Soobin froze, his breath hitching. But when you didnât show signs of waking up he relaxed once more.
But the longer he stared, the louder his doubts grew. He felt his restraint crumbling, so he reluctantly pulled his hand away, already craving that familiar touch not even a second later.
You werenât his to hold, you made that clear in that letter. He should stop before things spiral out of control.
When Soobin went downstairs, you let out the breath you didn't realize you've been holding. You didn't let yourself dwell on his words and hastily packed your things.
You felt like you couldn't breathe.
Out.
You needed to get out.
As you reached the staircase you mentally prepared yourself, taking in a deep breath. You'll just sneak out, quietly through the front door, since you guessed Soobin would be in the kitchen - easy peasy right?
wrong.
Your hands already hovered above the front door's handle, when you suddenly heard Soobin's voice behind you.
"Where are you going? I thought you were asleep." Soobin asked his hand still holding onto a pack of ramen. Shit - was he making you dinner?
"I thought we'd still eat, since you know, i lost earlier" he softly chuckled. You bit your lip, feeling ashamed at running away. But staying felt like willingly jumping in cold water.
"I- i wasn't feeling hungry" you said "besides, i don't want to intrude any longer" you winced as that lame excused left your tongue. This house was basically your second home - you had your own slippers for heavens sake. Soobin must've caught that too but he didn't press and wished you good night, hugging you goodbye.
This made you tense up, harder than a rock. Why did it suddenly feel so different. You always hugged Soobin. Clearing your throat you pulled away and wished him good night as well.
Weirdly enough your walk home was calm, you unlocked your house door and slipped off your shoes making your way up to your room just like how you do it everyday. But when you closed your door you leaned against the frame, your shaky hand reaching towards your chest.
badum badum badum
Your chest felt tight, and your stomach felt like a rollercoaster. Sliding down you covered your mouth, the warmth on your neck and cheeks was enough to burn.
Your best friend likes you.
No - this can't be. Soobin has always been your best friend, a constant in your life ever since that summer when you were seven.
How could that just change because of a few words? This was too much - too fast that your head felt like it was spinning.
You curled further into yourself.
"What's happening to us?"
It has been a few days since that night and you've managed to keep yourself in wraps whenever you were in Soobin's vicinity. He hasn't said anything about it yet so you assumed he's never noticed
"Right now's not about me" you thought "I have to help someone now." you thought to yourself as you opened the door.
The cafe was just as Jungwon described. Cozy and inviting. Industrial pendant lights that hung low littered the ceilings, their warm light giving the cafe a certain glow. And despite being in your townâsshopping district it wasnât all too busy.
On the table near the cashier was one student surrounded by piles of paper and on the spot near the window a man was working on his laptop, his coffee getting cold on the table.
After scanning the room you finally spotted Jungwon who seemed to be zoning out as he sipped on his frappuccino.
âHeyâ you tapped the boyâs shoulder who jumped in surprised, abruptly pulled from wherever his thoughts were drifting.
âHey to you tooâ he greeted.
âYou ready to win Lizzyâs heart?â you asked accepting the drink he had bought for you. But Jungwon just fiddled with his rings. You found it cute how your two friends were too oblivious about their crush on each other, but playing cupid was fun.
âwhats up with you? Youâve been zoning out before i even got hereâ you nudged Jungwon who sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. âI just.. I donât wanna mess it up you know - i donât want to make her uncomfortable.â
You shook your head suppressing the urge to reveal the truth. They deserved to hear it from each otherâs lips. Instead you took his hand into yours. âHey, the way youâre being so considerate of her feelings just shows how sincere you are. Besides thatâs why im here - your personal cupidâ Jungwon seemed to feel lighter after hearing your words, his shoulders straightening and his eyes regained its sparkle.
You spent the past half an hour brainstorming possible proposals and it has been quite fruitless. Jungwon turned out to be pickier than you thought
âhow about this one - itâs simple and romanticâ
âitâs just tacky..â
Another half an hour passed and you still havenât found a solution.
âThis is hopelessâ Jungwon groaned, slamming his head on the table. When the sound of your laughter rang in his ears Jungwon just pouted âHey, this is a serious issue you knowâ You just shook your head taking a sip of your drink âNo, itâs just you just reminded me of Soobin - You know, he often does that tooâ Jungwon raised his brow âone time he was stuck on a math problem and smacked his head on his paper and when he raised his head, his forehead was covered in equations. You shouldâve seen his face. I had to help him scrub the ink off and by the end of it his forehead was so red. He looked so cute and-â
wait.
Frozen like a deer in headlights, you felt your heart beat out of your chest, Because you couldnât believe the words that slipped from your lips without meaning to. And the way Jungwon was looking at you with a growing grin, didnât help the blush that was creeping up your neck.
You could already feel what Jungwon was about to say next so you interrupted him before he shattered the illusion
"He's just my friend" you retorted
But something inside you ached when you called Soobin as just your friend. It used to be the most normal thing in the world, you've introduced him to other people like that for as long as you can remember. But now it leaves a bitter taste in your mouth
Why were you thinking about Soobin in that way? The Soobin, youâve been friends with since you were seven, the one who canât sleep without a night light or remember his timetable?
You found yourself shrinking into the chair covering your flustered face. You couldn't trust yourself to speak right now. And Jungwon seemed to understand, smiling softly.
But maybe, your eyes have finally started to notice what has been in front of you all this time
Unbeknownst to you a certain someone spotted you and Jungwon chatting while passing down the street.
âWell are you going in or not?â Startled by the strangerâs sudden presence, Soobin let out a yelp. âU-um- yeah i was just-â The customer just shook his head and went in annoyed. After contemplating for a few more minutes he swallowed his pride and whispered to himself
âIâll go out after a minute, im just making sure sheâs okayâ
it didnât sound convincing at all.
He decided to sit a few tables back, just enough to see you but not enough to hear you.
Why didnât you tell him about it? Is this why you've been acting weird ever since your study session?
Why were you laughing like that? What did Jungwon possibly say to make you laugh so hard, he's got you throwing your head back?
He noticed how the two of you were close but he didn't realize you were this close. Was this perhaps... a date?
He clenched his fists, the sting of his nails digging in his palm felt nothing like the flickering flame in his chest. âSheâd definitely prefer the amusement parkâ he huffed in disapproval.
The longer he watched a barista approached him intending to take his order. He blindly picked out a drink not even checking what it was, his eyes were too busy trying to gauge what you were talking about.
When his drink arrived he took a quick sip, but the sharp and unpleasant taste brought him out of his trance.
Then he saw it, your flustered self shrinking into the chair. The way you covered your face and how Jungwon was softly smiling at you.
He felt something inside him break. He'd always prided himself into knowing you the best out of anyone else in this world. Besides he wasn't the only one who thought that way - everyone around you seemed to agree.
He'd seen you when you lost a competition you've poured your heart and soul in, he's always the first to know when something big happens like when you got accepted into this one program you were dying to get in to. So why?
why wasn't it him sitting across you right now, relishing in your flustered and unguarded self?
Soobin clenched his jaw - he couldn't stay any longer. Before he could dwell on it any longer his legs already moved on their own, exited the cafe and headed towards his actual destination along dragging his heavy heart along.
As you conversed with Jungwon your eyes caught one particular customer who left swiftly, as if running away from something. The only proof of him having been there was the high pitched ringing of the door chime.
When Jungwon tapped your shoulder, asking why you just spaced out, you just shook your head - it couldn't have been him.
Maybe it was your mind playing cruel tricks on you.
some things will never change he thought as he went in that familiar place, one he has spent hundreds of hours in since childhood.
Minutes blurred into hours. Countless rounds and five packets of chips later, the three decided to have an ice cream break at the convenience store nearby. The owner greeted them with a sense of familiarity. It was inevitable though, having seen them as tiny gremlins that have slowly grown into teenage zombies, that were now at least a head taller than him.
"Mr. Hannn" Beomgyu called out in his usual chirpy voice, placing their orders on the counter. The older man just glared at the boy scolding him "Keep it down - always being so loud tsk" but if you looked closely you would notice the slight curve of his lips.
Meanwhile Yeonjun and Soobin waited for Beomgyu outside, relishing in the cool spring breeze. Maybe it was the stillness and the comfort of it all that made Soobin suddenly ask.
"Can you teach me basketball?" Yeonjun turned to him a grin appearing in his face "Since when did you like basketball?" he was expecting some sort of jab but instead of teasing him back Soobin just shifted his gaze back to the empty street muttering a small never mind. " I was just joking man, let's meet up tomorrow by the court after school." Yeonjun smiled at Soobin reassuringly playfully nudging his shoulder. And this time Soobin smiled back.
"WHOSE READY FOR ICE CREAMM" Beomgyu's loud shrill broke that soft atmosphere, replacing it instantly with his typical chaotic one.
Yeonjun just snorted saying something about how Beomgyu was a megaphone in his past life, the latter pouting in response leaning on Soobin for help.
And so the boys fell into their usual routine, one that has somehow weaved itself without them realizing.
Just three boys who sat in front of the convenience store, eating ice popsicle during a spring night, while they chatted over anything and everything.
And just as promised Yeonjun fulfilled Soobin's strange request.
"When you throw, your hands should drop down like a snake - STOP why are you pushing it like you're about to give it a high five? This is a basketball court not a volleyball court-" Yeonjun mentored strictly, Soobin started to regret asking the vice captain of the schools basketball team for training.
Soobin just waved him off with a grin "That was a fluke i was just warming up" Yeonjun's eyes almost rolled to the back of his head after hearing his friends ridiculous reasoning
Even after Yeonjun's incessant drilling and corrections, Soobin barely managed to shoot a single shot.
Yeonjun couldn't stifle his exasperated laugh. Pinching his nose he tried to figure out if his mentoring wasn't good enough or Soobin simply didn't have an athletic bone in his body. It was most likely the latter...
"All that height, and you can't manage to score" Yeonjun cackled as Soobin missed another shot, hitting the board making the ball bounce straight into his face.
"OW" Soobin tumbled back holding onto his nose. Yeonjun just let out a loud laugh, sensing the growing hopelessness for he situation. "Maybe you should just give it up".
"No."
Soobin's refusal came out a bit too quick for his liking. Trying to play it cool, he acted unaffected and crouched down to pick up the ball, not wasting anytime to continue practicing.
Yeonjun sat on the side of the court and watched his friend silently. After every missed shot, he could see the way Soobin's shoulder tensed, growing stiffer after every failed attempt.
He couldn't help but notice something off about Soobin's sudden determination.
"Taking five wouldn't hurt you know?" Yeonjun teased, but his eyes carefully watched his friend's reaction.
"Why can't I just throw a ball into a fucking basket?" Soobin cursed too consumed by his failed attempts, to hear his friend.
Seeing no other way to catch his attention Yeonjun pried the ball out of Soobin's hands asking him while looking him dead in the eye.
"Whats up with you?" Soobin didn't meet Yeonjun's gaze, resorting to fiddling with his fingers instead. Seeing how his friend wouldn't budge he continued "Staying quiet won't do anything you know?"
The silence hung heavy in the air when Yeonjun uttered those words.
But from the distance both of the boys saw a familiar figure headed towards them. "I'll grab something from the convenience store - be back in five" Yeonjun nudged his friend leaving him in the basketball court.
Soobin couldn't respond, his friend's words having struck a chord inside him.
But when he felt your arms around him, he felt the heavy weight in his chest press harder.
"'What brings you here?" He asked after pulling away, clearing his throat.
You explained how you were on your way to Lizzy's house and then saw him. You started to ramble about that cat you saw on your way, and how you tripped on a pot hole. But Soobin was only half-listening, only answering with an occasional oh and hm.
He should get himself together, he didn't know why Yeonjun's words had stuck with him as much as they did. He should just-
"Bin?" He hadn't realized you were calling him until you nudged him "I'm sorry - i was just - what were you saying?"
You let out a soft chuckle, it was not uncommon for Soobin to be three planets away on a random day so you didn't think much of it.
"I was just telling you how i tripped on that pot hole near my house - what about you? Are you playing basketball? " pointing at the ball in his hands. Soobin felt himself hesitate as he nodded in agreement.
"Wow, Soobin and basketball - who would've thought" you teased, playfully nudging him.
Those words sounded like chalk scratching on a board. Soobin couldn't help but poke his cheek with his tongue as he felt his grip tightening on the ball, that his veins started to show.
"Okay, and?" he huffed, his tone was sharp and cold "A guy can't try new things now?" The words left his tongue before he could fully process them.
The air between you was suddenly thick, no one dared break the silence. His jab didn't feel like his usual playful ones. It felt.. charged.
The afternoon breeze suddenly felt too cold, the sound of laughing children didn't feel warm. You then asked yourself, did you say something wrong? Maybe he was just in a bad mood and caught him at the wrong time... right?
Pursing your lips together, you gave him a weak smile not wanting to inconvenience him further "Well, im just- im just gonna get going now" you slowly backed away headed to your original destination.
Soobin didn't move. It wasn't until you turned at the corner that the dam he had so desperately tried to keep sealed came crashing down. His grip on the basketball grew tighter, as if he wanted to make it explode. His mind was reeling his thoughts in disarray, that he didn't know what to do with himself.
And like a kettle reaching its boiling point Soobin finally let out a loud scream hurling the ball against the backboard.
"You're such a fucking asshole, Choi Soobin"
The object bounced back with just as much force, hitting him directly in his chest. Wincing at the impact he got on his knees curling himself into a ball.
"You're such an asshole Choi Soobin" he repeated, but this time it came out as a defeated whisper.
Tick. tick. tick.
Time passed and the moon was at its peak. Everyone has drifted towards dreamland, but here he was, wide awake. Why couldnât he just get that stupid letter out of his head? Why was he acting like this? Heâs always had everything under control, his studies, his routine, his feelings - so why did he lash out like that? It wasnât even your fault.
The sight of your hurt face as you retreated and how your voice grew quieter, were enough to make his heart twist uncomfortably.
You have always been sunshine, reeling people in by just smiling. God your smile, was his favorite trait of yours, besides your cute cheeks or was it how youâre much shorter than him -
Soobin sighed curling further into the sheets. For fucks sake why canât he just get you out of his head and be a good friend. Your best friend. But the more he tried to convince himself that it was enough, the tighter his chest felt.
âGod whatâs wrong with me?â Soobin sighed as he lay on his bed, safely tucked in, but ironically enough he has never felt so exposed before.
You were free to like anyone you wanted to. Who was he to tell you to not like someone?
The weather was perfect for grilling, which was why Yeonjun proposed a BBQ at his home.
You initially hesitated, since you knew he'll be there too. Even though a week has passed, you were still confused about everything. You thought Soobin felt the same way you did, but after that outburst you weren't so sure anymore.
You sighed heavily at Lizzy's pleads to accompany her. "C'mon pleeassee we'll have fun together promise - besides you shouldn't let those doubts stop you from bonding with your friends" She reasoned, and you knew she wouldn't give up anytime soon. The moment you got to her house last week, you immediately told her everything, from your realization to Soobin's sudden shift. But she has done nothing but support you. Feeling indebted to her, you swallowed your pride and reluctantly nodded. "I'll be ready in 15"
When you got there you were instantly greeted by your friends. You silently thanked Lizzy for making you come. She was right. You shouldn't let Soobin stop you from bonding with the rest of your friends.
As you helped Taehyun and Kai with the grill, you initially didn't notice Soobin's arrival.
Yeonjun dabbed him up pulling him into a hug "Glad you came"
Soobin just flashed him a practiced smile, one that didn't feel warm. Yeonjun didn't seem to notice or at least had enough conscience to keep quiet. Soobin couldn't dwell on it for long since his eyes already wandering around as if he were looking for something - or rather someone.
Soobin was brought back to reality when Beomgyu slapped his back with such force, he let out a small 'oof'.
"Nice to see you 'bin - i thought you weren't coming since Yn only came with Lizzy" the latter commented as he took a sip of his soda. And as if on cue you both caught each others' gaze, momentarily forgetting where you were and blocking the noise around you.
You broke the eye contact first, as an attempt to soothe the growing ache in your chest. You didn't want to make him uncomfortable again.
Meanwhile Soobin's gaze lingered, until he was dragged by his friends to help with the drinks.
After the meal preparations, you could all now finally kick back and relax. You played games and sharing stories with laughter ringing in your ears. It felt perfect - well almost perfect. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't ignore the way Soobin's eyes always drifted towards you more often than you would've liked to admit. His gaze growing more and more intense.
When the others complained at how the drinks were low, you immediately volunteered to grab them from the kitchen desperate to just be alone and gather your thoughts.
What you didn't realize was Soobin trailing behind you.
"Calm down" you whispered to yourself as you grabbed seven bottles from the freezer "Get yourself together Yn" When you turned around you suddenly rammed against something -
you looked up and saw
"Soobin."
you immediately avoided his eyes, holding the ice cold bottles closer than necessary as a poor attempt to ground yourself.
The silence was deafening - the whirring of the refrigerator and the distant sounds of your friends' chatter didn't make it less suffocating
"You need something?" you asked, your voice careful not wanting to make him feel uncomfortable..
Soobin hands clenched into fists, he wasn't used to this - You being overtly cautious around him. It wasn't new to him, he had since this version of yourself a handful of times, but he was never on the receiving end of it.
Meanwhile you felt like you were at the brink of shattering the bottles with how tight you were holding them. Why did Soobin follow you? What did he want?
You waited and gave him a few seconds to explain himself. But Soobin just stood there, stiff as a board his fists clenched firmly. It reminded you of your last encounter. Maybe you were making him uncomfortable again and he was hinting for you to leave?
"Well, i guess i'll just get going now" you were about to make your exit when you felt someone's hand clasping yours.
You turned around and saw Soobin his eyes wide as if he didn't expect to this either. Both of you stood like that for a while until Soobin finally opened his mouth.
"Don't leave yet-" he pleaded, but he slowly loosened his grip on your hand giving you an opening. But when he noticed you weren't leaving he felt a wave of emotions surge through him as a lump formed in his throat.
Ever since that day, he replayed that scene over and over again like a broken record. Pondering and losing himself in endless what-ifs and should'ves.
"I just-" he swallowed, feeling the words get stuck in his throat, his breathing uneven.
Multiple scenarios ran through his head - what if he messed up again? what if you don't feel the same?
"Soobin, look at me" you whispered softly as you taking his hand into yours making him raise his head to look at you.
Seeing your encouraging expression, he felt the weight that had been previously crushing him lift off his shoulders. Now - now's the time his heart screamed.
"About last week - i'm so sorry i was just - so overwhelmed and- my feelings they-"
You held your breath, as you felt your anticipation building up. Was this it? Was he finally going to say it?
But as Soobin finally gained the courage to utter those words -
"What's taking you guys so long?" Kai's voice echoed through the halls, his footsteps getting closer.
Your bubble shattered, the two of you didn't know what to do about the elephant in the room.
Seeing you two standing there awkwardly, with your faces as red as tomatoes Kai froze.
"Umm.. haha on second thought-" "I'm bringing them out now" you interrupted, your voice a pitch higher than normal, unable to stay there any longer.
Soobin on the other hand just took a deep breath, sighing heavily.
"I interrupted something didn't i?" Seeing how his friend's pitiful expression he shook his head and pat Kai's shoulder "It's fine - let's just get going the others are waiting."
When an almost-confession gets interrupted, what's the best way to handle it? To talk it out of course..not. But as the spring formal nears and love seems to bloom out of every corner, concealing feelings that have been brewing since you were seven have started to become harder to ignore and burrow. Maybe it was time to let them grow - or maybe they have always been growing and it's about time you saw the first petals.
warnings: angst with payoff, fluff, midnight confession, Soobin being stupid and clumsy climbing up your window, they both yearn for each other, two emotionally constipated people who feel too much
wc: 8k+
-> disclaimer : english isn't my first language so i apologize for any grammar mistakes..
part two of 20cm
part one
May 2017
The morning was cool and the sun's rays felt like a warm kiss against your faces. When Soobin rang your doorbell waiting for you downstairs you hesitated - maybe you should just call in sick for today, say you have a fever. But you knew that'd be too obvious so you ultimately decided against it.
Taking a deep breath you collected your thoughts and tried to calm your racing heart as you opened your door.
"Hey"
"Hi"
As you both made your way to school, it should've been just like any morning but the tension was palpable, i felt like it was about to suffocate you both.
"So about yesterday-"
Soobin froze. He thought he could just ignore yesterday, he even debated about it last night and has come to the conclusion to act like it never even happened. He told himself he'd just pick you up and go to school together just like you always have and just continue the way you were right now. A much as it hurt, he thought that maybe it was for the best.
"I just wanted to apologize for lashing out yesterday - i didn't mean it i was just -"
totally jealous of Jungwon for having a date with you?
pissed at the fact he was getting a personal letter from you, praising him about how he's so pretty and athletic?
about to pour out his innermost feelings about you that he'd desperately tried to bury and ignore?
"-stressed" he continued "Im sorry about that. You didn't - you didn't deserve that"
His head hung low, as he bit his lips fearing what your reaction would be.
"It's okay, don't worry" you said reassuringly. Though you weren't sure if it was just directed towards him.
The rest of your walk was silent with both of you fearing that the other would hear your loud and intrusive thoughts.
You tried to suppress them, you really did. You didn't want to prod any further but that edge of curiosity was gnawing out of your chest.
"Was that all you had to say?" you blurted out, so hushed, he almost missed it - but he didn't.
You looked directly at Soobin stopping in your tracks.
This is it a part of him screamed, she's giving you a chance to say it. But another part held him back, If you tell her then what? What if she doesn't feel the same?
And that part won.
Soobin cleared his throat trying to regain his composure "Yeah. That's all."
You tried to ignore the disappointment you felt from his words. But before you could dwell on it, you have already reached the school gates.
//
Your school was buzzing in excitement, whispers about the upcoming spring formal next month. Gossips about who's going with who, proposals left and right, some with a cheesy poster others with a small bouquet of flowers - they were everywhere
Even during lunch you couldn't escape the "spring fever", as Beomgyu called it. You were in the cafeteria with your friend group, just minding your own business and all the sudden there was this one huge proposal, the soccer team's golden boy Sim Jaehyun asking the cheerleader captain Mina to be his date.
Cheers and loud squeals erupted from the cafeteria as he held up a poster spelling "will you bee mine at the spring formal?" as he bit on a rose when Mina walked in.
Upon hearing this your ears perked as you shot Jungwon a knowing grin. "Speaking of proposals-" This earned you a swift kick in the shin. "OW" you winced as you rubbed on the are he hit, glaring at Jungwon with no real malice at all. "Serves you right" he muttered unable to stop the heat from crawling up his neck.
This small interaction didn't go unnoticed by Soobin who was carefully observing the two of you. Was that supposed to be an inside joke? What was it about? He was torn out of his trance when Beomgyu then asked the others if they were planning on asking anyone out - well he was specifically interested at Soobin's answer.
"Soooooo Soobin, you have anyone in mind?" Beomgyu asked wiggling his eyebrows as he not-so-subtly hinted at you with his eyes. Soobin felt himself tense at the question, clenching his fists under the table.
This question seemed to catch your attention as well. You didn't want to admit it but you felt your heart race. Hoping for a certain answer.
Your eyes then caught Soobin's and you saw how his breath hitched. But he quickly looked away and stared at his lunch drilling holes in them.
"I'm not interested in anyone - besides, i don't think im going anyway" Soobin grunted as he stuffed his face with kimchi.
You felt your heart drop to your stomach after hearing your friend-not-actually-friend's answer. But the world doesn't cease to turn and your group's conversation didn't halt there. It wasn't until Lizzy called out your name (after a few unsuccessful attempts), did you realize that you were spacing out. Able to read you like a book, she quietly asked you if you were okay. You merely nodded in response.
//
The sounds of shoes squeaking and balls bouncing made you want to rip your hair off.
Honestly, after the emotional rollercoaster you have been forced to ride, you just wanted to go home, curl into your sheets and gobble some ice cream. But it seems like your best friend had other plans. If someone told you a few weeks ago that the girl you befriended, the one who used to be so shy and hesitant actually turned out to be a very enthusiastic and incredibly persuasive person, you'd just dismiss them with a small chuckle.
But you couldn't have been wrong.
"C'mon, pleeaasssee it'd be so obvious if i go there alone" Elizabeth begged you.
Since Jungwon was part of the team, she wouldn't want to miss out on a chance to cheer on him even if it's just a team practice.
You took a deep breath and pinched your nose, you couldn't really downright refuse your friend when she was being excited especially when she was giving you her best puppy eyes.
And that's exactly how you ended up in this predicament.
"WOOH GO JUNGWON" Elizabeth cheered as Jungwon scored another point. When he looked back at her, with his signature smile, she seemed to freeze and malfunction for a second before going back to normal.
"Isn't his smile so beautiful?" she asked fully dazed. You smiled bittersweetly and nodded finding it beautiful how she could openly show her affection towards the one she liked and vise versa - if only they knew it wasn't one sided.
If only you could say the same.
If thereâs one place you could recharge and relax in, it would be your local craft store.
Cute stationary, notebooks and all those knick-knacks? You name it, they've got it.
Even though you were here to gather materials for Jungwonâs springposal, it didnât make it less therapeutic.
After gathering your supplies you rode back home with your bicycle meeting Jungwon on the way.
âSo weâre basically just going to spell âWill U Be my Spring date?â on the poster and make a yes or definitely box for her to tick?â you recollected your ideas.
âYep - and donât forget to help me with the flower crownâ Jungwon added as he placed two bottles of coke on your desk - for the energy boost he claims.
As your playlist filled your living room, the two of you naturally fell into a rhythm, productively creating the posters and flower crowns. You occasionally had to scold Jungwon for being too aggressive when connecting the flowersâ stems, but he eventually managed.
It was all going smoothly until -
âOH MY GOD IM SO SORRY-â Jungwon profusely apologized after knocking the paint water on your floor. You just gasped dramatically dipping your finger in paint to smear it on his cheek â Yang Jungwon, how could you be so clumsyâ
After realizing what just happened Jungwon didnât hesitate to take revenge, generously taking a handful of paint from the palette.
âNO- NO DONâT! YOUâRE WASTING IT ALLâ you screamed trying to contain your laughter and failing as you tried to run away from Jungwonâs insistent attempts to smear your face with paint.
Luckily the doorbell saved you from being turned into smurfette. After sticking your tongue out to Jungwon who just showed you a grimace in return, you opened the door. But what you werenât expecting was Soobin standing behind it.
â âBin? What brings you here?â you asked trying to look as presentable as you could with your paint clad clothes and face.
Amused, Soobin took your messy look in, cute he thought.
âDid you try to catch a rainbow? Or why is it that youâre more colorful than the milky way itself?â
You felt yourself choke on your spit at his words - Soobin always teased you but you couldnât help the blush forming on your cheeks from his words. It doesnât mean anything Yn. calm down
The sound of Jungwon greeting Soobin from behind you seemed to pull you out of your thoughts.
âHey Soobin, whatâs upâ he casually greeted him, dapping him up.
âHey.. Jungwon, nothing much - just wanted to bring Yn lunchâ The way he said Jungwonâs name came out a little strained, as if saying it was like licking sandpaper.
When he was about to step in Y/n stopped him, making him raise a brow.
âItâs just uh- you donât have to go in- i mean- i can do it myself â fuck, why were you stuttering so much? For heavenâs sake it just food.
Soobin carefully read her expressions - this could only mean one thing couldnât it?
When you left for the kitchen he noticed the unfinished flower crowns on the floor along with paint and poster paper.
âBeing crafty i seeâ he joked but it didnât sound light at all. Jungwon slowly nodded, noticing the shift in Soobinâs tone.
âYeah- Yn loves being crafty-â
âI know.â
Because of that swift and stoic response Soobin wanted to kick himself in the shin - so much for staying unaffected.
âDonât worry man â you see, itâs for-â
âItâs fine - i donât care, take care of her for me will youâ Soobin waved him off unable to stay any longer, leaving a confused Jungwon behind.
On his way home a harsh scoff left his lips and his jaw tightened.
If you needed someone to make them you couldâve just called him. Wasnât he the one you have been asking to make them with since you randomly started hyperfixiating on flowers whenever spring came since you were 12?
Besides heâs made more flower crowns than Jungwon could even count. He'd make you hundreds of them if you asked.
His mind drifted to all these things you seemed to keep from him. That letter, your secret coffee date and now you even brought Jungwon inside your home doing things you adored and god knows what.
He pressed his lips together, trying to stop those images from forming in his head as he unlocked his front door.
Once he got in his room he threw himself on his bed, his anger diffusing into something more dangerous.
Defeat.
So he ultimately decided to do one thing.
let you go.
(it was for your good after all,  wasnât it?)
It's been a day since you had helped Jungwon with his springposal and a day since Soobin started to act weird around you.
It first started when he picked you up on your way to school. At first you didn't think much of how his responses have turned curt and dry. Maybe he was just groggy?
But then lunch came and he barely reacted to the small stories you told - not even an acknowledging hum or a simple "what happened next?". He didn't even bother sparing you a glance - well it wasn't like you needed him to look at you, it just felt.. different that's all.
But maybe he was just having a bad day right?
As the day dragged on, the excuses you found to comfort your heavy heart slowly ran out.
And what tipped you over the edge wasn't how he seemed to avoid you like the plague or how he said he couldn't walk home with you today because "something came upâ.
It was how he was still so carefree around your other friends.
You were on your way home and when you passed the basketball court you immediately recognized Yeonjun, Beomgyu with their other friends. Wanting to greet them, you jogged towards the court until you saw him.
Laughing with his whole chest at something Beomgyu said.
You felt yourself halt in your steps.
Every chuckle, every laugh Soobin let out was something you cherished and loved about him - especially if it was because of you.
But now, it made you shrink back. Was he really just having a bad day? If so why was he still like his usual self with the others, but not with you? Did you do something wrong? Was it something you said?
You tried to rack your brain about your interactions with Soobin for the past few days, but none of them added up to how he was acting right now.
Letting out a shaky breath you turned away from the court and made your way back home.
Had you looked back a second later, your eyes would've met Soobin's and you'd realize - his happiness wasn't as genuine as you painted it to be.
April 2017
After that day you and Soobin seemed to have found a new routine, away from each other.
It didn't happen all at once, it changed so slowly you almost didn't catch it - almost.
It started when he inconsistently picked you up to go to school together and then eventually stopped, it started when he didn't give you small snacks throughout the school day anymore or how he didn't wait for you to finish your library shift.
You tried to pick him up instead, but whenever you knocked on his door, his mom always said he'd already gone to school earlier.
You tried to wait for him to finish his classroom duty which he had every Tuesday, but then his classmate told you, he switched.
You tried to give him snacks during the break, but he always refused saying he was full.
Not even a few minutes later, you'd see him stealing a bite from one of your friends' lunch
And the gap between you grew wider and wider, that the chances of crossing it seemed smaller as time passed by.
June 2017
Loud cheers of support echoed through the gymnasium and colorful banners hung from the bleachers. Today was the long anticipated basketball tournament.
You and Elizabeth were sat on the bleachers holding your own posters as you loudly cheered for your school team - especially for your friends Jungwon and Yeonjun.
It was a close match -with both of the teams' skills on par with each other. By the 4th quarter the points were 85:86 with the opposing school in the lead.
With only a few minutes left, your team was fighting with their blood sweat and tears to catch up but the other team was just as persistent, still defending wildly like machines.
And when the situation seemed hopeless, Jungwon managed to throw the ball before the buzzer rang.
The way the ball circled the rim had you all at the edge of your seats and then-
the ball went in.
Cries of victory rang in your ears
You and Elizabeth hugged each other, overflowing with pride and joy. Jungwon on the other hand was being celebrated by his team mates, ruffling his hair and carrying him on their shoulders.
//
As team captain and MVP Jungwon had to give a small victory speech thanking the faculty that made this game possible and also the students that had come to support them.
"..I would also like to use this opportunity to ask a very special person a very special question" and looked directly at Elizabeth.
This confused the students and the faculty. But the people in on it (his teammates and you) were smiling cheekily.
"W-what? What's going on?" Elizabeth asked perplexed, her heart racing in anticipation.
You wordlessly applied her signature lipstick and nudged her to go down towards Jungwon.
Every one of his teammates were holding a specific poster with letters that spelled "Will U be my Spring date?",
Meanwhile the words yes or definitely were written on either one of his cheeks. Jungwon then poked his cheeks with his pointer fingers "mind kissing the box?" he winked making Elizabeth cover her face to hide the blooming redness of her cheeks. When she got down on the court, she then pecked his cheek that said "definitely" giggling even harder when Jungwon placed a flower crown on her head - daisies, her favorite.
The whole student body was endeared by this proposal and you were no exemption, since you helped make it happen.
Seeing your friends finally meet each other halfway made you feel ecstatic, especially after seeing and helping them build their courage and take their first steps towards each other up close.
But seeing them finally be openly affectionate towards each other was like having a taste of something you could never have.
You swallowed your disappointment, trying to simply be happy for your friends. Even scolding yourself since this isn't about you. Still, it didn't numb the ache that burned in your chest.
The music blared through the speakers that were scattered across the schoolâs gym, reverberating from the walls. Ms Kim who was your teacher notoriously known for being uptight was smiling brightly as she took pictures in the photo booth and your friends were in their own bubble dancing the night away, filling the room with laughter and joy along with the other students who were just as jubilant.
Despite the atmosphere being light you couldnât find it in you to bask in its warmth, for your heart still felt heavy in your chest - you felt.. incomplete.
Sighing heavily, you downed your second, or was it your third fruit punch and leaned against the wall in a random corner. You decided itâd be best to just stay here and watch your friends from afar, fearing youâd ruin the fun atmosphere by your brooding. But it seemed like Kai had other plans. When you two had caught each otherâs gazes, he beckoned you over inviting you to join them. Being the stubborn boy that he is, he wouldnât take no for an answer and walked towards you.
âWhy so broody?â He joked, playfully nudging your arm in which you responded to with a small huff âNot feeling like dancingâ. He observed your expressions for a while and took your hand in his. âNope. Youâre coming with us - no sadness allowed tonight, tell her to go to sleep or somethingâ His terrible Inside Out reference made you laugh and about your initial disappointment. âFine - but just one songâ
One song turned into two and two turned into three. Before you knew it you were fully enjoying yourself, joining your friendâs carefree bubble. Away from your heartache, away from your worries, away from Soobin.
//
Soobinâs room was pitch black, his curtains shut - not even his night light was turned on.
It was just him, and him alone with his thoughts and no one else. He couldnât bring himself to go to school.
Not today.
Not when Jungwon was finally going to ask you out for the spring formal, especially since he knew he wouldnât be able to hold himself back at the sight of you hugging someone else so tenderly, maybe even sneak a cheeky peck.
He reminisced how he overheardJungwon asking his teammates to help him with a springposal in the locker room yesterday.
He shuddered at the thought, curling further into his sheets.
His mother left him chicken soup on his night stand to help with his âfeverâ, but itâs been a few hours and it had already gone cold.
He didnât think itâd help his ache either way.
Before he could let himself doze off and feel a semblance of peace, someone knocked aggressively against his front door, accompanied by the agitated calls of his name.
âSOOBIN, YAH - COME OUT HERE THIS INSTANTâ
Yeonjun.
He mentally debated whether to let him in or not, but the neighborhood was small and although it had its perks, one downside would be how fast news travels. So before weird rumors start circulating as to why he wouldnât open his door for his best friend, he reluctantly dragged himself to let the latter in.
Soobin couldnât even get a word in and heâs already getting shoved against the wall.
âI really tried to stay quiet and not intervene - but you canât keep doing this to yourself âBinâ Yeonjun chided.
He has had to sit still and watch his friend walk through a path of self destruction under the guise of protecting someone - when in reality they were both already drowning.
Soobin deliberately avoided Yeonjunâs gaze, trying to downplay the latters words. The silence hung heavy in the air and Yeonjunâs grip slowly loosened.
âIf thatâs all you have to say, you can leaveâ Soobin already had his back turned from his friend, ready to go to his room and wallow in self-pity, stuck in a cycle where he claims everything he does is for your good and-
âShe isnât with anyoneâ
Yeonjunâs words made him stop in his tracks - You werenât with anyone?
âi thought sheâd be with Jungwonâ he muttered his head still hanging low.
Yeonjun scoffed, the statement sounding terribly absurd in his ears.
âall this time - you were avoiding here because you thought she liked Jungwon?â
Soobin merely shrugged. âI didnât want to make things weird.â
âbut you did.â
That revelation alone was enough to knock the air out of him.
No - what he did was for the best and it was all to protect what you hadâŠ
right?
Soobin then sees fragments of interactions between the two of you. The way you looked at him when Beomgyu asked him if he was taking someone out for the spring formal, maybe he really wasnât imagining the way you were looking at him as if you were expecting something specific from him or during your get together in Yeonjunâs backyard when you were getting the drinks and he almost confessed everything, when you leaned closer giving him time to tell you what was plaguing his mind.
Seeing him piece the once stray pieces of the puzzle together, Yeonjun pats his friendâs shoulder.
âGo.â
It was all Soobin needed to hear, before he ran towards the school not even bothering to change.
//
Soobin ran as fast as his legs took him, his lungs burned but he pushed himself through it all, his doubts unable to catch up for the moment.
Within a blink of an eye he finally reached the bustling and colorful gymnasium, the music bleeding from the walls.
When he felt the lights on his face and saw the huge crowds of students and some teachers it all he froze. What was he doing? Standing in his pajamas in the same place he told himself he wouldnât go to. Some were looking at him weirdly but he couldnât care less - not now.
It doesnât take long for him to find you. Like muscle memory he always knows where you are in a room full of people.
There you were dancing your heart out, with a smile he felt was only a distant memory to him . He let out a shaky sigh as he took one slow step forward.
But it only took one look from you to lock his limbs in place. In an instant, his body wasn't his to control anymore. And then he saw how your bright and carefree smile slowly dropped upon seeing him.
The gymnasium suddenly felt like it was closing in on him, ghe loud chatter and music seemed to be muffled.
Only the doubts, he thought he had finally left behind, were the only things he could hear, as they finally caught up to him.
You on the other hand were startled, you didnât expect Soobin to come. Especially not in his pajamas and hair in disarray that suggested he had been curled up in bed before this. You couldnât wrap your head around the situation.
Why was he here after he explicitly said he wouldnât be?
Why is he looking at you like you were some puzzle he needed to solved?
Why was he taking a step back?
Why is he leaving?
âSoobinâ you called out hating your voice cracked
But no matter how often you called him he only seemed to run faster.
âSoobin STOPâ you cried out
This made Soobin falter and stop in his tracks.
You were somewhere near the school gates, far from the gymnasium, away from the rowdiness that couldnât compare to the emotional turmoil you were both stuck in.
âWhy did you come?â you asked trying to sound composed, ignoring the way your hands were visibly shaking.
When Soobin refused to turn around and speak, you felt yourself unable to hold your tongue. Your emotions that kept on piling up because of his behavior, the ones you desperately tried to keep in bay started to trickle out, until they all came crashing down.
âWhy do you keep doing this?â
âWHY WONâT YOU LOOK AT ME?â this time your voice came out sharper than intended but you didnât care anymore you pulled his arm to face you, but he was still cowering.
It was exhausting
You could finally have some fun, smile and dance without having to think about him. And he just took that away with just his presence - without an explanation.
The silence felt like felt heavy, crushing you both with no remorse.
Your grip on his arm started to loosen - you couldnât do it anymore.
Trying to hold onto someone who didnât want to be held.
Someone who seemed to slip through your fingers like sand.
Accepting your fate you let out a tearful whisper. âYouâre so cruel, Choi Soobinâ
Those words felt like a slap to Soobinâs face All he did was for your own good, to let you be happy even though it was without him - was he so wrong to do that?
Each clank of your footstep felt like someone kicking him to the curb over and over again.
he was losing you
the one person he had always stuck with ever since he was seven, the one who took him in her treehouse with no hesitation
the one he had been utterly and irrevocably in love with before he even knew what love was.
He couldnât breathe, the air was stuck in his lungs. Why wouldnât his feet move - just MOVE goddamnit, you were getting further and further away and he still wonât - canât move.
Was this how it ends?
//
Right after that confrontation with Soobin, you couldnât bring yourself to go back to the party and pretend you were fine. Pretend like you didnât just leave your heart with Soobin.
Your walk home was tense. Each step you took seemed to be heavier than the last.
When you got in your room you ripped your dress off and snatched the first hoodie you could grab and threw yourself in your sheets.
Letting out a shaky exhale you closed your eyes trying to focus and think about anyone but Soobin.
Then you realized whose hoodie you were wearing. The familiar scent of sandalwood, that has started to fade, haunted your senses.
Before you could stop it your tears started to fall - violently so. You couldât hold it in anymore.
You hated it.
You hated how Soobin made you felt.
how he kept on leaving you in the dark.
how he was everywhere in your room.
And most of all,
You hated how you still loved him nonetheless.
Sniffling you grabbed your pillow and threw it across your room, it hit your vanity knocking down your things but you couldnât care less.
Between sobs your eyes caught the familiar red bracelet you have consecutively worn since it was gifted to you.
You had always worn it with pride and a fluttering heart - but now it served as a painful reminder of what you couldnât have.
As if it had been burning you, you frantically pulled it off of your wrist throwing it against the wall.
You donât know when you fell asleep, but the damp thumping of pebbles against your window tore you away from your peaceful slumber.
Standing up, you groggily made your way towards your window, your eyes barely open.
But seeing who was down there, felt like someone just poured a bucket full of ice over your head.
Soobin.
You scoffed at the sight, you couldnât care less - you shouldnât. Not after he kept on hurting you over and over again with no explanation. He canât just come and go whenever he pleases.
Going back to your bed, you tried to ignore the incessant pebbles knocking against your window. Let the neighbors think what they want to think, let them gossip. Itâs none of your business anymore - at least thatâs what you tried to convince yourself.
And then the pebbles stopped.
Of course they would - heâd given up.
Just like he always did whenever things got serious.
You shouldnât have expected-
knock knock knock
You turned towards your window shocked to see Soobin hanging on to that tree branch by your window for dear life with a terrified expression.
âWHAT THE HELL?â you whisper shouted - you knew your friend was stupid, but not this stupid
Rushing towards your window, you opened it and let him in. You just didn't want to be responsible if he falls and breaks his leg - that's all it was. But then again you weren't so sure about that anymore.
You let Soobin in, who fell onto your bedroom floor with a loud thump - you prayed your parents didn't hear.
But that was actually the least of your worries at the moment.
The silence that hung in the air was thick and none of you dared to make the first move.
Soobin seemed to quietly gauge your reactions, treading carefully afraid one wrong step would cost him everything. It wasn't until you broke your silence did he let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
"You disturbed me at what - 12 am just to stare ?" you scoffed arms crossed, not finding it in you to even try to be considerate. And maybe you were just hoping he wouldn't see your tear stricken face especially because of your mascara.
Soobin frantically shook his head "N-no of course not i just- i-"
"You what?" your angry voice felt like a thorn in his side. He'd never seen or heard you be so angry before. And it was all because of him.
But then he saw it - the way you clenched and unclenched your fists and how your eyes were glossy under the moonlight, you weren't angry - you were trying not to cry.
He'd seen you cry a handful of times, when you failed an exam you studied so hard for, when you lost your favorite plushy after a long trip or when the two of you were watching those sappy movies you insisted on watching.
But never - never in his life had he been the reason for your tears and he didn't expect it to hurt this much.
Feeling a lump forming in his throat he tried to avert his gaze away from you and by chance his eyes caught that faint red bracelet carelessly thrown on the ground.
Kneeling down he took it in his hands and admired it fondly, a flood of memories crashing through him.
He was so used to feeling like he was about to drown, whenever he was about to tell you his feelings - but now? He felt at ease.
no doubts, no what ifs
just ease
"You know i was struggling when i made this bracelet?" he chuckled at the memory of his younger self. Your eyes were glued to the floor.
"I asked mom to help me make this - i've always been terrible in arts and crafts. It took me days to understand how to tie the loops" he traced his fingers across the beads he had carefully picked at the time, which have now worn out throughout the years.
"She asked - 'Soobin-ah why don't you just let me tie it for you?' or ' How about we make something else - something easier?'" he chuckled.
"But for some reason, i refused over and over again - i had to make it myself"
"Do you want to know why?" he asked softly, feeling less tense after finally meeting your eyes.
"You always gave others handmade accessories, necklaces, bracelets you name it and i just- i just wanted to be the first one"
he then took one step
"to give you something"
and another step
"that was only"
until he was now in front of you
"and truly mine"
You felt like your heart was about to explode - these were the words you had been dreaming about, but they didn't fill the void in your chest.
"You ignored me Soobin, you kept on making me chase you - you can't just-"
Finally looking at him properly, you wished you never let him in the first place.
"You can't just walz back in pretending everything is fine" you wanted to push him away, just like he did you, you wanted to sound angry but you hated how your voice cracked instead.
Soobin's hand went to reach out for you, but was left hanging when you pulled away.
You absolutely hated how you couldn't stop your tears from falling, or how you started breathing erratically, that everything started to spin.
You quickly rubbed your eyes with much more force than necessary, as if willing to push your tears back. You felt helplessly frustrated at how you couldn't even feel the slightest bit of anger. And before you knew it you were letting out a string of sobs.
"I didn't even know what I did wrong 'Bin - i tried- i tried to understand but i just couldn't"
As if moving on instinct, Soobin's arms instantly wrapped around yours, the moment he heard your first sob. It made you punch his chest, desperate to push him away. But he refused to let go, holding you tighter instead
"Every time - every time i thought you felt the same - or- or when you-"
another punch
"WHY? WHAT DID I DO WRONG?" your scream coming out as a broken rasp.
Soobin felt a piece of him break after each sentence.
Your punches were nothing compared to each sob you cried each tear you shed and each word you threw at him.
He had been silently hurting you all this time, when all he wanted was to let you go and be with the person he thought you'd liked.
He had been foolishly thinking, that he was the only one carrying the burden of unrequited feelings.
He thought he was making things easier when he was the reason everything had turned complicated.
"I'm sorry" he croaked
"I'm so so sorry" he repeated over and over again his own tears soaking your hair as his arms wrapped impossibly tighter around you.
"I thought i was doing the right thing - letting you be happy" his own body shook against yours "I didn't realize i was doing the exact opposite."
Soobin couldn't fight the dam he'd been desperate to hold together as all his pent up and buried feelings finally met the surface.
"i thought- i thought you were with Jungwon and- the letter, your cafe date, when you were at home together - painting"
Soobin mindlessly babbled all of his assumptions, finally letting his innermost worries lay bare in front of both of you.
You were now able to piece all the memories together, his temper, avoidance, his words - It all made sense now.
You felt your grip on Soobin's shirt loosen your face showing an unreadable expression.
That's the reason? Were you hearing this correctly?
But then you let out a chuckle
then another one
and before you knew it you burst out laughing.
Soobin tilted his head, perplexed by your unusual reaction "What's so funny?"
You then looked up at him and cupped his cheeks, your eyes glassy, but this time they weren't just sad tears.
"You meant to say - we've been missing each other halfway, because you thought i liked Jungwon? You didn't even bother asking if it was true, you just saw things and ran with it"
Soobin stilled - you were right. This was all unnecessary, it could've been prevented if he had just had the guts and asked.
Still busy with his thoughts, he didn't process anything else until a warm pair of lips connected with his. Frozen in place he couldn't move any of his limbs, fully at your mercy.
You pulled away for a second, pressing your forehead against his and whispered fondly
"Soobin, you're such an idiot"
and this time Soobin answered.
"Yes, i guess i was" smiling affectionately and cradled your cheek so tenderly in a way it felt like a ghost's touch.
The two of you couldn't help but smile giddily into the kiss, unable to mask the amount of joy you felt.
As giggles slipped out your lips Soobin couldn't help but squish your cheeks temporarily breaking the kiss.
"You don't know how long I waited for that"
You just held him tighter, tip-toeing to peck the tip of his nose
"I think we've done enough waiting"
As you gazed into each other's eyes, you felt nothing but complete.
December 2017
17 years old
Today was Soobin's birthday - and also his first birthday as your boyfriend.
Even though it had already been months since that night, referring to him as your partner was something you can't seem to get used to.
"What's got you so distracted?" an all too familiar voice called out from behind you.
"Since, i had to look extra handsome for my beautiful girlfriend"
you tried to ignore the way his words made your heart flutter. Soobin on the other hand seemed to relish in your rosy cheeks, knowing it wasn't just because of the cold.
When you finally reached your destination, you made your way to your usual seat - the one you claimed ever since you first started going here, which is the one near the glass window, where you had an unobstructed view of the passerby.
You stayed back to order and from your seat Soobin couldn't help but admire you. Although he already has the privilege to be able to gaze into your eyes and look at your face from any distance he desired, nothing compared to just being able to see you do mundane things, whether it be brushing your hair or just ordering your usual drinks.
He didn't even bother hiding it when you came back.
"What are you looking at?" you huffed, a small smile tugging up your lips as you sat down and took a sip of your coffee humming at the sweet taste.
"You."
His brazen answer made you choke on your drink.
"Hey - you're never going to stop being clumsy are you?" Soobin stood up from his seat reaching out for the napkins and handed them to you.
When he looked at you with genuine worry you almost felt bad cursing him out in your head - doesn't he know what he's doing to you? He's definitely doing it on purpose, because there's no way.
"Im fine" you waved him off, hoping he doesn't notice how your neck was red - spoiler alert he did, but at least he had a semblance of remorse and didn't comment on it.
Calming down you then pulled out your phone to take pictures of your drinks.
As you took the photo Soobin then invaded the frame so you took a picture of him instead, making you laugh.
"What was that?"
"Just thought you needed something prettier on the frame" he shrugged as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. You just shook your head endeared by his antics.
//
The air was so cold, a small puff of smoke escaped your lips after each breath, but as you walked with your hand safely tucked inside the pocket of Soobin's jacket, it felt comfortably warm.
Walking along the familiar streets of your neighborhood, everything felt different while it all looked the same. The same cat that always wandered, being fed by every household it entered, no one really knew who it belonged to. There was also the same flickering lamppost that never gets repaired. It was all still the same.
"Where are you taking me?" Soobin asked, as if he wouldn't follow regardless where it was.
"You'll see"
Then you arrived at the treehouse by your backyard.
Soobin raised a brow but still climbed up to follow you. And when he got there.
pop
pop
pop
"SURPRISE"
all your friends were in that decorated treehouse, wearing party hats and holding party poppers.
Gifts were strewn on the table alongside a cake with candles that said "Happy Birthday Soobin"
Soobin's face lit up realizing what this was and looked at you
"You did this?" he asked, his eyes twinkling. You nodded in response.
Soobin didn't waste time to pull you into his arms pressing his lips against the crown of your head as he whispered a small thank you.
"Hey, she wasn't the only one who did the work" Beomgyu teased - of course he did. Yeonjun only smacked the back of his head scolding him "Yah, let them be sappy - it's a hundred time better than them being emotionally constipated" Everyone else in the room (except the two of you) hummed in agreement.
"We're still here you know" you squinted your eyes at your friends but didn't disagree.
Jungwon lit the candles and handed you the cake.
"Happy birthday to you" you all sang
"Happy Birthday to you"
you walked towards him eyes focused on the cake, careful to not accidentally drop it. His on the other hand, were only focused on you.
"Happy Birthday, dear Soobin" he watched you walk closer to him
"Happy Birthday to you"
Everything seemed to fade in to the background, and it was only you and him. The way the candle's light highlighted your features just right, your concentrated face - Nothing can get better than this. He didn't seem to register the congratulatory cheers from his friends, at least not until you nudged him.
"Make a wish" you whispered.
Nodding Soobin clasped his hands together and closed his eyes.
"i wish for us to stay together forever" and blew the candles.
The once spacious treehouse, now felt cramped especially since there were now two new people inside. But it hasn't lost its charm.
After opening his gifts, Kai pointed out the careless carvings on one of the treehouse's beam.
"Hey look, let's carve our heights again - when was even the last time we did it?"
//
July 2015
14 years old
You all felt hot and sticky - you couldn't even stay indoors since there was a power outage. Luckily you seemed to remember that you had a treehouse. Being a teenager, hanging out in one seemed uncool so the place had been collecting dust until today.
The air felt cool and accompanied by your mother's fresh pressed ice lemonade, you didn't need an AC anymore.
"I'm so boreedddd" Beomgyu groaned as he played with a yoyo. Yeonjun who was just playing with a pocket knife which was a girft from his dad suddenly had an idea.
"What if we carved our height with our names on that beam over there -"
"Cheeessyyyy" Beomgyu teased but didn't outwardly refuse.
"It's fun" Kai defended Yeonjun
"Why not" Taehyun shrugged
"That's actually really cute" you agreed getting up from the beanbag you were previously sitting on - Soobin followed not long after.
The six of you then gathered around your chosen beam and carved your names one by one.
After Yeonjun finished carving his name he handed the knife to Soobin who only shook his head
"I'll write mine later." he blushed
This made Yeonjun's raise a brow skeptically, but he didn't prod any further.
The others then carved their heights along with their names, teasing the shorter one relentlessly.
After you carved your name and height, you prided yourself for being the third tallest in your group. When you were about to hand the blade to Kai but before it could even land on the his palm, Soobin had already snatched it and carved his own name alongside his height beside yours.
"What was that about?" Kai tilted his head "You'll get your turn" he continued.
"Yeah but it won't be next to Yn" Beomgyu snickered high-fiving Yeonjun who was also just as, if not more amused, while Taehyun just nodded in approval.
This made you blush and Soobin tried to stay unaffected (which was useless his neck was already red).
//
"Are you sure using a butter knife is the way to go?" Yeonjun pinched the bridge of his nose as Beomgyu carved away.
"You wanna go downstairs and pick up a better one?" Beomgyu retorted.
Yeonjun just rolled his eyes and pulled out his pocket knife.
"That works too" Beomgyu pointed and dropped the knife in his hand.
And so the six of you refreshed your carvings while also adding Jungwon and Elizabeth's names and heights - now labeled as your honorary treehouse members.
Tracing your fingers through the old and new carvings you felt how much time has passed and how much you have all grown.
"I forgot how much shorter you were back then" you teased Soobin, shoving him lightly with your shoulder. Remembering how you used to tower over him (it was a mere 5cm and it didn't last long since his growth spurt was brutal)
"Haha so funny" he laughed sarcastically "look who's taller now?" Soobin flashed you a grin motioning at your current height distance.
You only rolled your eyes in response. "It's literally just around 20cm - it's not that serious" feeling salty even though you were the one that started the argument in the first place
Your boyfriend just flashed you a boyish smile as he bent down to your height to ruffle your hair
"20 cm or 5 it shouldn't be much of a problem - we'll always meet each other halfway" he stated and before you could think about what he meant he placed a chaste kiss on your lips.
Beomgyu then just loudly shrieked in disgust, reminding you how you weren't alone in the treehouse eliciting fond laughter from your other friends.
Soobin couldn't have wished for a better way to spend his birthday.
//
As time passed, the laughter that filled your precious treehouse died down and it was time for the others to go home.
You and Soobin stayed behind to clean up.
After finishing you threw yourself on the bean bag letting out a satisfied yet exhausted exhale, it was the first time you experienced some peace and quiet after coming here to celebrate Soobin's birthday. But it seemed like the latter had different plans and threw himself on you, rather than the lonely and empty bean bag beside you.
"Soobin what the-"
"Nope - no complaining it's my birthday" he interrupted as he nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck as he wrapped his arms around your frame. Not finding it in you to scold him, you gave in and thread your fingers in his hair.
The sound of cicadas and the distant sounds of cars that passed by your street by occasion filled your ears as Soobin shifted to lay his head on your chest and absentmindedly played with your bracelet.
"Happy Birthday 'Bin" you looked down at him. He met your eyes and thanked you with a smile, showing off the dimples you loved so much
"Oh that reminds me" you then excused yourself for a second, quietly chuckling to yourself when you noticed Soobin pout as he lost the familiar warmth of your body on his.
"Close your eyes"
When Soobin's view was covered you then pulled out the small rectangular gift box you had prepared for today.
When you then let Soobin open his eyes you were already standing before him holding out your present.
"Open it" you ushered him, unable to contain your excitement.
When Soobin opened the box his breath hitched. A red beaded necklace with one pink bead in the center sandwiched between two green ones.
"Surprise" you beamed at him.
Soobin felt a lump in his throat form. You made this. For him. Just for him. And it matched the one he made for you.
Feeling a wave of emotions rush through him he couldn't hold his lips back from wobbling and not soon after tears trickled down his cheeks.
Cooing at his wholesome reaction you placed held him close, a hand on his head and the other one on his back.
"You're such a sap 'Bin" you softly teased.
Soobin didn't bother retorting and held you impossibly closer, sniffling in your embrace.
It was at that moment you knew - all those tears, those years and the wait was worth it.
a/n: yaayy we finally finished 20cm. This is my first long fic ever and my first angsty one. I loved writing the slow burn and it was overall such a fun experience for me i might write more fics like these. I also want to thank you for your support, your notes, reblogs or comments mean the world to me. It helped motivate me write too. I hope you enjoyed reading this story ^^
SUMMARY: Sunghoon was an up-and-coming figure skater with a bright future, but he threw it all away to marry you. Thirteen years later, your marriage has failed, the kids donât respect him one bit, and all his friends are wildly successful in life except him. He gets a chance to correct the mistakes of his past and change his life when he is miraculously transported back in time, before he even met you. But changing the past might cost him everything.
A/N: This took me so long to finish y'all I started considering actually taking ice skating lessons. PLEASE read for my sake. (Some scenes inspired by the movie 17 Again!)
thirteen years ago.
Sunghoon took a deep breath as the chill air of the rink, even from where he sat in the locker room, sent shivers down his spine. His thin black blouse with rhinestoned sleeves did nothing to shield him from the cold.Â
He should have been used to it by now. But today would be the most important skate of his life.Â
The World Championships. The event that would decide his place at the next Olympics.Â
Just a few years ago, he had missed out on competing completely due to a knee injury. Sunghoon was determined this time to make his dreams come true. His seniors always said that Olympic ice felt different, more real. This would be it. His last chance before the younger, more talented skaters took his spot later down the line.
He was picking at his nails with his teeth, a habit he so desperately needed to let go of. Even with ten competitors ahead of him, Sunghoon was already on edge. You, his good luck charm, had not arrived yet. It wasn't typical of you. In your three years of dating, you never missed the opening skate of any competition he'd been in.Â
Itâs where you first met. You had been in the stands, taping your phone number onto a penguin plushie heâd caught after his award-winning skate. Since then, it's been tradition for you to sit in the same exact seat during local competitions.
His left leg bounced impatiently as he sat on the locker room bench. Sunghoon has sent about 16 texts to your phone already. He shook his head, unlocking his phone for the umpteenth time. Crickets. His phone screen photo of you blowing a kiss into the camera was taunting him now.
Where the hell were you?
Coach Jung patted him on the shoulder. âDonât think too much. You're gonna psych yourself out.â
âI'm not nervous,â Sunghoon replied, unconvincingly. âIt's just cold.â
Coach Jung rolled his eyes.
âYou're not new to this, kid,â he doubted the young man. âYou're gonna do great out there. This is what you've been dreaming of. Just don't mess it up.â
Sunghoon didn't know if that was meant to be motivating or not, but when Coach Jung left, he felt a pit in his stomach start to form. It's been years in the making. Blood, sweat, and tears were poured into this. The time he could've spent going on longer dates with you all went to extra hours practicing quads in the rink. He couldn't let his sacrifices go to waste. It would be a disservice to both of you.
He put his hands to his face and repeated a mantra of self-affirmations.
âYou got this, you got this, you-ââ
âHoon?â He heard your sweet voice call out. Your head poked through the locker room door before entering cautiously. Audience members werenât typically allowed in here, but you always managed to sneak your way in.
He dropped his hands immediately, a wave of relief washing over him.
âThere you are,â Sunghoon whispered to himself, rushing to you as fast as he could with skates on the carpet. You let out a small sound as he picked you up by the waist, spinning you around like a princess.
âWhere have you been?â Sunghoon sighed happily, setting you down with a kiss to your temple. âI was blowing up your phone! I thought you died.â
You smiled, but he noticed how tight it looked. The light didn't quite reach your eyes, and your lips twitched as if it was almost painful to maintain. He brushed a stray hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear.
âEverything okay?â
You nodded, resting your hand on his as his thumb drew small circles on your cheek.
âIâŠâ you trailed off. You were looking at the ground, at the ceiling, and even at the trash cans. Anywhere but him. âI want to talk to you about something.â
He raised a brow. Your fingers were quivering, and he noticed redness in the whites of your eyes. Were you crying?
âOf course, baby. You can tell me anything.âÂ
Sunghoon is worried now as he took both of your hands into his. He felt how cold they were, even more so than his.
âCan the remaining five acts please be on stand-by?â the overhead speaker blared into the locker room. That was him. He was one of the last five.Â
He pursed his lips as he looked towards the door and back at you. Your mouth opened, just as flustered by the announcement.
âLet's wait,â you said in a rush, noticing the sweatiness of his palms. âIt can wait.â
Sunghoon shook his head. Your voice faltered. He knew better now not to let these things linger.
âNo, [Y/N]. Tell me what's wrong.â He stood his ground. Your eyes were watering, his gaze unmoving from yours. As you spoke, it was like the world around him went still. His chest felt heavy, throat so constricted he thought he would choke.
âI'm pregnant.â
No, he thought. It canât be.
âH-how? We neverâ Thatâs impossibleâ We always use-â
His voice trailed off, afraid that if he said anything out loud, it would become more real. You pursed your lips, biting your top lip so hard that it drew blood.Â
âDonât you remember?â
two months ago.
You were laughing, he was laughing. You both looked insane, obnoxiously cackling at nothing, in the dimly lit streets that led to his apartment. You were drinking with the guys at a new bar, underestimating the power of tequila compared to the usual shots of soju.
Sunghoon's arm was wrapped around your waist, putting his weight on you to prevent himself from faceplanting on the ground. He had lost too many hands in poker with Jay and Jake, and instead of betting money, he took an extra four shots as punishment. It was a big mistake.
âThey got lucky,â he blabbered, âIf we played Go Fish, I would have wiped the floor with them.â
He was hiccuping, and that sent you into a further spiral of giggles. Sunghoon was always so darn cute when drunk, so different from his icy exterior. His cheeks were tinged with red, and his pupils dilated. You weren't doing all that well either, with your body so warm from the alcohol that you had shed your jacket on the ground just a few minutes earlier. Where that jacket was now is lost on you.
âHoon!â you exclaimed, pointing at his apartment gate. âWe did it!â
Sunghoon stumbled to get his keys from his pocket. Opening the gate and then going up the steps felt like an hour-long operation with how you two struggled. When he slid down the wall by the entrance of his apartment, you collapsed with him.Â
The two of you, by his coat rank, staring into each other with heavy-lidded gazes and too far gone to even turn the lights on. By then, your movements were already out of your control.Â
You traced the moles on his face like divine art, cradling his jaw with such care. Even in the drunkest of states, he looked so heavenly. He was so pretty in the moonlight.Â
You pressed your lips against his, slowly at first, tugging at the rolled-up sleeves of his button-up shirt. Sunghoon made a noise of shock before deepening the kiss, hands roaming everywhere until they met your waist. His lips were so plush against yours, hungry to taste every inch of you. Your tongues danced with an urgency you've never felt before. Nipping at your bottom lip, he coaxed small sounds out of you.Â
Sunghoon lifted you, firm hands on your bum to sit you atop him.Â
He broke the kiss to bury himself in the junction between your neck and shoulder. Sunghoon's lips found your pulse point, suctioning around it like he was drawing your heartbeat out of your body. You gripped his soft hair and tilted your head back to give him better access. He lapped at your neck, your collar bone, anywhere his tongue could access. He was addicted to the taste of your skin, to the taste of you. You always smelled so good, had him so riled up even in the most unassuming of moments. He remembered how you looked in the bar with this sparkly red dress. Remembered how it rode up every time you sat down next to him. Fuck.Â
You felt him then. The tent of his pants and the friction of his hips as they hopelessly jut up to meet yours.
You whined at the contact. He was palming your ass now with both hands, massaging as he moved you up and down on the tightness of his jeans.
âHoon,â you gasp. âNot here-â
He lifted his head to look at you, eyes so dark and full of lust. He wasnât having it; you could see it in his face. His deliciously tense jawline. The bead of sweat running down his temple. You felt yourself clench around nothing just at the sight. How could a man be so gorgeous?
âCan't wait,â he hummed. âNeed you now.â
He pushed your dress up your body, the material bunched at your waist.
You purse your lips in anticipation. Heâs rock hard by now, and you canât help but take it as an invitation to feel him. Your hands find his bulge, ghosting over his form. It jumped in response when you finally took hold, squeezing cautiously. Your cheeks warmed at the sight of the front of his jeans already damp with your fluids. Sunghoon enjoyed the view just as much as you did, his head tilted back to relish in your ministrations. He couldnât hold back any longer.
Sunghoonâs hand, large and veiny, moved your panties to the side impatiently.Â
"Hoon-" you gasped at the skin-to-skin contact.
His fingers traced the slit of your folds up and down, covering his digits with your slick. You found his swollen lips again to suppress your whimpers, saliva running down your joined mouths as you unzipped his painful-looking jeans. He was already prepping you for him, index finger cautiously pushing its way inside your plush walls. He groaned at the feeling of your fluttering warmth. Already, you were sucking him in.
âAlways so fucking wet,â he muttered on your lips. You couldnât help but grind down on him, a roundabout way of telling him to apply more pressure. To go harder. Rougher. To ruin you. He chuckled at your frustration. Needed to see more of it, more of you begging.
Sunghoon tested the waters and pushed in a second. Your moans were drowned out again by his merciless mouth. Tongues shoved so far down each other's throats, you swore you could feel him at the back of your neck.
He was fucking you onto his hand now, his palm making contact with your clit after every thrust. His forearm was tense, pace so relentless. Animalistic. You were practically bouncing on him, hands digging into his shoulder blades to chase your release. He loved the sight, wanting to hear you come undone just from his measly fingers in your dripping pussy.
âSo desperate,â he hummed into your mouth. âWho's making you like this?â
Sunghoon was never this mouthy during sex, usually because he didnât want the apartment next door to hear through the thin walls. But he had let go of all his inhibitions, the tequila still sitting fresh in his stomach.
âYou, Hoon,â you cried out, legs shaking from the harsh pace of his fingers and your incessant grinding. âPlease-â
You didn't know exactly what you were begging for, but you knew he could give it to you. Knew he was the only one who could. Your mind was filled with Sunghoon and Sunghoon only. The effects of the alcohol had made you a bumbling mess, pleading and begging for more. Your back arches to meet his fingers better, but it wasnât not enough.
He added a third to relieve you, watching as your mouth opened into a silent scream.
âHoonâ Need itâ Pleaseâ I needââ
You couldn't find the right words, couldnât even keep yourself upright without his support. Sunghoonâs hands roamed up your body as one made its way to the back of your neck. With his thumb, he pressed down gently on the pulse point he was nipping at just earlier. His eyes were heavy on you, watching you so intently. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, as your airways slowly constricted, as his thumb pushed against you. God, you loved the feeling.
âEnjoying yourself, baby?âÂ
Lightheaded, you were practically gripping his bulge at this point. The sounds between your legs were borderline pornographic, his fingers drawing out every wet squelch as they sank and twisted in and out of you. You felt so full of him, three fingers so deep inside you. But you could take more; you wanted to take more.
âSpeak up,â he drawled, his voice slurring from the tequila. âTell me what you want, or I'll stop.â
You sobbed, clawing at his clothed chest as he let go of your neck to let you talk. You gasped for air as you let yourself fall onto him.
âNeed you inside me,â you cried as he pistoned his fingers into you harder. You wished he could just rip your underwear so you could feel his rough palm grind onto your bare clit. âPlease, please, pl-â
"I am inside you," he teased. And all you could do was wail, shaking your head out of distress.
"Hoon-"
Your movements were forced to stop as Sunghoon's free hand gripped your thigh. His fingers were curved into you, stroking that spongy spot that he always managed to find. He massaged your G-spot at a steady pace, anticipating your climax. You wanted to move, but he held you down roughly. Your eyes were forced to look into his, and you felt the floodgates of your release start to open.Â
âNo-,â you whined.Â
You were close, so close. But your mind was made up. Well, at least what was left of it.
âWanna cum with you. Can I, Hoonie? Please?â you beg.
âFuck-â
His grip on you loosened. His hand slowly left your tight folds, and he admired the slick that coated his long fingers. He brought them to your mouth, motioning you to taste the juices he coaxed out of you. With your doe eyes looking straight at him, you swallowed around him. Tongue flattened and bringing him in deeper.
His other hand reached into the back of his pocket, fiddling around to find his emergency condom. The one that became a necessity to bring around you.Â
Sunghoon's mind was all over the place. Your tongue lapped at his fingers, sucking them so harshly. He'd have given anything right now to see your lips wrapped around his cock instead.
He'd almost grabbed the condom until you pulled his boxers down. Your mouth released his fingers with a small âpopâ as his painfully hard member slapped his stomach. You positioned yourself closer, adjusting so that his thickness slid against your soiled, clothed pussy. You cursed your stupid underwear for getting in the way again.
âB-baby-â Sunghoon stuttered out as you moved your panties to the side once more, his raw cock lined up to your aching hole. âJust give me a second-â
His hand tried to reach for his wallet again, but you interlocked them with yours instead. You shook your head, grinding against him cautiously. You don't know what's gotten into you. It's like the tequila was letting you act out your deepest, darkest dreams â ones of him fucking his cum so deeply into you that you were dripping wet with his fluids.
âPlease?â you asked hopelessly. Your breath hitched. His cock met your clit, his precum spread all over your folds. Fuck it. You were too far gone. âI-I wanna feel you.â
Sunghoon would like to think he had self-control. Would like to believe that he was calmer than most. But the way your pleading eyes looked at him, and how your legs trembled in excitement. His intoxicated brain couldn't tell right from wrong. He wanted to give you everything you asked for.Â
âFuck, are you sure?â he groaned as you aligned his cock to your entrance, pushing down slightly to envelop his tip. He lets out a hiss, teeth gritting from the feeling. You were so tight, so fucking perfect for him.
âMhm,â you mustered, wrapping your arms around his neck as his large hands met your ass again. âIt's okayâŠâ
You were sinking onto him now, his head buried into your neck from the sensation. You two had never done it without a condom before, always so careful. But he wondered, as his large cock was slowly sucked into your soaked pussy, why he'd never fucked you raw before. Sunghoon swore under his breath as he felt you clench around him. Fucking you with a condom was ruined for him forever. He could never put one on again.Â
âFuck, baby,â he willed himself not to move too fast. The stinging stretch of him had you withering above him, but you didnât care. Not one bit. You clutched his hair as you impaled yourself on him, so lost in the feeling of him penetrating you so slowly.Â
He was fully sheathed inside you now. Sunghoon needed a second to recuperate, but you were making it so difficult for him.
"Fuck-" he inhaled sharply as you grinded down on his pulsating cock. You were so impatient, already so worked up from his fingers. Â
You were suctioning him, trapping him in your walls like you would never let him go. His grip on your hips tightened as he growled into your collarbone.
âBaby,â he said sternly this time, finding some semblance of sanity. âDon't.â
You whined, your hips stuttering through his tight grip on your ass cheeks. You wanted him to plow into you like you were his personal toy. Was there anything wrong with that?
âWhy?â you drawled out, desperate for movement, for anything. Your eyes met his, and even through your drunken haze, you understood. He was close, already so on edge from feeling your raw pussy. And that made you want him even more.
You swore your hips moved on their own. You lifted yourself, shallowly thrusting yourself against him as he tried to hinder your attempts.
âN-no,â he grunted. âToo soon-â
You giggled as his hands were on your back now. Despite your protests, he did not stop you in any meaningful way.Â
His grip on your ass was replaced with him pulling the straps down of your dress and bra to free your bouncing tits. He cupped them as you raised yourself higher, until just the very tip of him was left inside you. You took a deep breath, pushing yourself down on him without assistance. You moaned, feeling his heaviness in your lower stomach.
âFuck-â he cried through clenched teeth. Sunghoonâs head was against the wall now, hands massaging your breasts so eagerly.Â
He tugged at your nipples, pinching them between his index finger and thumb. Such a sight for sore eyes, seeing him so fucked out underneath you as you bounced on his cock. You wished you could engrave this in your memory. His parted lips and glistening forehead.Â
You grinded your hips so helplessly against him, hands on his knees as you squeezed him through every downward thrust.Â
âBaby, s-slow down.â
You're determined now, even as you start to feel that fluttering ache in your core. You wanted to do good for him, wanted to make him lose control like you would whenever he had you pinned to the bed and crying.
âHoon, speak up,â you teased, mimicking his earlier words. âTell me what you want or I-â
You couldn't finish your sentence as his hand meets the back of your neck, crashing his lips onto yours. His hands traveled down to your thighs, squeezing them roughly.
He thrusted up into you harshly, his grip on you guiding his movements. His pace was even more merciless than yours, not giving you time to catch your breath as you felt your inner walls contract around him.Â
No!Â
He needed to cum first. It was always you who came undone before him. You just needed to hold out, just for a few more seconds-
And in perfect timing, he found it. That part of you that had you practically screaming into his mouth. He smirked against your lips and hoisted you closer, fucking up into you as his fingers pressed firmly into the flesh of your thighs. Your insides churned with a tingling feeling, like something needed to be released. You pulled yourself away from his lips.
"No⊠Hoon-"
"Take it," he grunted. "You want it, right?â
You cried as his thrusts grazed your G-spot over and over again, his tip kissing your cervix at the right angles.Â
âSo fucking take it."
Your eyes roll back, the sensation was stronger and stronger until-
"Oh my god-"
Your climax hit you like a ton of bricks, crashing down on you so unexpectedly that your walls wanted to hold his raw length in place. Sunghoon continued his thrusts, not caring for the tears that threatened to spill from your eyes. You had your fun. Now, let him have his.Â
His hands spread your ass cheeks apart, guiding you down onto his painfully hard cock with fervor. Sunghoon felt his high inching closer as he pumped in and out of your wetness, ignoring your cries of overstimulation.
âSo fucking tight,â he groaned into your neck. He's there. He felt it. You braced yourself for his sweet release.Â
âNeed to pull out...â
Your eyebrows furrowed, expression laced in devastation. As if on instinct, you clenched around him. You wanted it. Whatever âitâ was.Â
âIn me,â you babbled through strained moans. âPlease, Hoonie?â
He grit his teeth. That damn pet name. You were evil, so fucking evil. With your pretty tits and batting eyelashes. Who was he to deny you? His thrusts were erratic, admiring as your breasts bounced to the rhythm of his thrusts.Â
âFuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fu-â
His hips stuttered up into you. White, hot spurts met your cervix as you reached another orgasm from the sheer feeling of his release, mouth wide open. Your hips gyrated against his, easing both of you through your releases. His head rolled back, jaw clenched, and eyes wired shut as he felt you milk his cock of everything he was worth.Â
You watched as a white ring formed around his cock was buried deep in you, still a little hard. You rested your body against his. Your eyelids were heavy, so content and warm in ways that only Sunghoon could bring out in you.Â
âI love you,â he sighed into your hair, his own lethargy getting the best of him. âSo fucking much.â
âI love you too.â
And as ridiculous as it sounds, the two of you slept in that position for hours. Two bodies connected at the entrance way of Sunghoon's studio apartment. When the sun came up and you realized what was done in your drunken states, you two panicked for the wrong reason. Did the neighbors hear? What happened to your jacket? Were you gonna get a UTI?
Sunghoon's cheeks reddened from the memory. It had to have been that night.
âA-are you sure?â he stuttered.Â
You nodded solemnly. You knew it wouldn't be good news for him. It wasn't for you either.Â
You were almost done with university. Itâs supposed to be the year you figured out what you wanted out of a career. So when your first wave of morning sickness hit you just a week earlier, you knew every plan that you had would be forever ripped from your fingers.Â
To travel the world. To start new hobbies. It would all have to wait. This would be your life now.
When you told your mother, tears streamed down her face. She called you everything underneath the sun. But she knew what it was like to carry a life unexpectedly, so she hugged you through it. Your dadâs reaction was worse. He hadnât spoken to you yet.
âTwo months along,â you whispered. Though he could never regret that night, he realized now how stupid it must have been to ignore the alarm bells in his head. He knew better. You knew better. Why the fuck did it end up like this?Â
âSoâŠâ He gulped. He didnât know what to say. âWhat now?â
âIâŠâ you started. Heaving a deep breath, you felt him tense up.Â
âI want to keep the baby,â you swallowed. Sunghoonâs mouth was parted, and his eyes were blank of emotion.Â
It made you anxious, his lack of response.Â
When he didn't reply, you started again. âWhat should we-â
âSunghoon Park. Sunghoon Park. Please be on stand-by,â the overhead speaker rang out. He didn't mean to, but like muscle memory, his hand let go of yours. Guilt crashed over him, and he couldn't bring himself to look into your wavering eyes as he walked past you.Â
The competition. This was his last chance. Coach Jung's voice resounded in his head. Don't mess it up.
âHoon-âÂ
Your voice fell on deaf ears. His hands covered his face again, trying to refocus. He couldn't throw this away. Years. It took him years to get to this point. He couldn't. He had to skate.Â
Tears spilled over as you watched his back retreat away from you. You should have waited to tell him, but he had asked. He said he wanted to know.Â
Your back slumped against the wall of lockers, clutching your stomach as you cried. You couldn't bring yourself to go to the stands and watch him perform.
You knew it was dumb. You werenât ready, not even close. But still⊠You wanted to try.
But him. Sunghoon.
You leaned your head back against the cold wall, breath faltering through your tears. What did you even expect? That he'd be happy? Excited?
You let out a shaky laugh.
Of course not. It's not like you were either.
You stood up, dusting yourself off.
You'd figure out a way to do this, you convinced yourself. If it meant that you were by yourself, that was fine. He didn't have to be there. He had big dreams, ones that predated you. You understood, even though it hurt.Â
âNext to skate, representing the People's Republic of Korea. Sunghoon Park!âÂ
The cheers that ensued soon after made your chest constrict just a little more. You just couldnât bear to watch him skate now. It was all too much.
You trudged towards the ice rink's exit, arms crossed around you like you were holding yourself. You were proud of him, so proud. He worked so tirelessly for an opportunity like this. Missed sleep and took a gap year from college to pursue this. He wanted it so bad, and though it was heartbreaking to watch him walk away, you knew why. You could talk later, you convinced yourself.
But the thoughts still echoed in your head.
A professional figure skater couldnât be a fatherânot now, not at his age. You knew that. God, you hated that you knew it so well. His life wasnât what most people imagined. There was no glamor in it.Â
It was practices at the crack of dawn in freezing rinks and endless flights to cities he barely saw beyond hotel rooms. He could only fund basic living expenses with what little he earned from winning. He had a part-time job working the graveyard shift at a convenience store to even afford competition fees and dates with you.Â
He gave everything for this dreamâhis body, his sanity, his youth.Â
But he tried. In everything he did, he tried. That was the worst part.
Because even with all that trying, you still knew. That there would be no space in his life for the tiny heartbeat inside you.
You knew he'd have to quit. There was no way around it. Raising a child takes too much time away from the rink.Â
If he stayed, if he chose to be in this child's life, he'd have to give it all up.And it would be because of you.Â
But this was your life too. Your body. Your future. And no matter how tightly you clung to the image of him at your side, holding your hand in the delivery room, learning how to hold a newborn with trembling fingersâyou had to be honest with yourself.
You wanted this baby. Even if it meant letting him go, even if that meant standing alone with a life you never planned for, youâd do it.
Because you knew that if it ever came down to choosing between his dream and you, it would always be-
â[Y/N], wait!â
You stopped in your tracks, stunned to hear his voice so close. Like he was here and not on the ice. You didnât even notice that music stopped permeating the walls of the rink, that the announcer had moved on to the next contestant. He was running to you, socks thumping on the ground like he had taken his skates off only a moment before.Â
No. It couldn't be.Â
He reached you, his arms wrapped around you from behind. You heard his shaky breath against the back of your head. His thumb rubbed your forearms, planting a small kiss on your hair.
âWe'll figure it out,â Sunghoon blurted out when he felt like the silence between you two was suffocating. âTogether.â
You turned around to face him, panicked.
âSunghoon, no,â you tried to push him away, but he pulled you in closer. âYou need to go-â
âNo.â
You looked at him, pain etched in every part of his beautiful face.
âBut that's your future,â you cried out, mustering everything in yourself to not melt in his embrace. He was making a mistake. He'd hate you for the rest of your life if he-
âNo,â he said again, much clearer. More determined. âItâs you.â
His hand drifted to your stomach, and he smiled this time as he looked into your teary eyes.
âYou're my future.â
You shook your head incessantly. âHoon, you're not thinking straight. I should've waited to tell you. You're not in your right mind. You need to go back and-â
He silenced you with his lips, so softâlike it might break you if he were any less gentle. You fell into his touch, unknowingly pulling him closer. He kissed you again and again, hands holding yours until your tremors faded with his touch.
âI love you,â he would say between each peck. âI'm not letting you do this alone.â
And you smiled, a real, genuine smile.
âI love you too.â
You moved in with him in that tiny studio apartment, shortly after, sharing a bed that barely even fit his tall frame. The cradle he built took up the majority of the living area.
But it was nice, waking up with him every day. He talked in his sleep, would whisper your name in that sweet voice of his so lovingly. Some days, Sunghoon wouldn't let you lift a finger, would insist that you needed as much rest as possible before your due date. You had to convince him that your job as a receptionist was certainly not so physically taxing that he had to follow you to it every day.
You also got married. It was simple. Just Sunghoon and you in a courthouse with Jake and Jay, trying not to stifle their laughter as witnesses to your marriage ceremony. You wore the white dress your mother wore, and Sunghoon wore his best suit, tie tied by you.
âSay cheese!â Jake chimed as you two posed with your signed certificate. The two of them cooed at your growing belly.
You were showing now, a small bump that Sunghoon admired each time he saw you do your online classes on the kitchen counter. He never got around to buying a desk, even though he was also back in school full-time.Â
He had that dreaded conversation with Coach Jung beneath the dim lights of an empty rink. Sunghoon told him quietly, almost like an apology, that heâd be hanging up his skates until further notice. He wanted to be there for you at every step of the pregnancy. If he was going to stick beside you, he was going to do it right.
Coach didnât yell. He didnât need to. The disappointment on his face said everything.Â
And so Sunghoon hadnât touched the ice since.
He couldnât bear to set foot in that rink anymore. Not when he knew heâd only be watching from the stands.
Not when the sound of blades carving through the ice was coming from someone elseâs skates.
Not when he used to relish in the cold air passing through his body. Now, the only wind on his face came from passing cars as he biked to his second job.
He picked up a shift at a nearby restaurant. Just as a server. The kind of job that reminded him how painfully ordinary he was without his skates. Sometimes, when no oneâs looking, heâll shift his weight just right and practice his landings in the break room, arms out, knees bent.Â
Other times, he scrolls through YouTube during his graveyard shift at the convenience store, searching up his own name with trembling fingers, watching old performances through a phone screen. Reading comments. Trying to remember what it felt like to matter to people he never met.Â
You noticed, probably more than you let on. You just tried not to pry. He would get distant when you mentioned it, like that part of himself needed to be tucked away and out of his sight. You knew he was afraid, terrified to look back and see everything he gave up.Â
But when Sunghee was born, it was like his world started to make sense again. He held her like she was made of glass. Sobbed so loudly the first time he saw her, you thought he was in pain.Â
But no, he was just overwhelmed. Taken by the way her tiny hand curled around his finger, how her cries quieted the moment he held her close.
Heâd protect her, he swore to himself. That thisâherâwrapped up in the pink hospital blanket, was his life now.
And maybe, for a moment, he believed that was enough.
But the thoughts never stopped. His eyes would flicker toward the old duffel bag in the closet, where his skates were still packed away. He gave that up. For you. For her. And heâd never say he regretted it. But you knew.
You understood what he was grieving. Because you grieved too.
That girl who used to dream of making art, she felt like a ghost now. Someone you used to know.
Your passions, the things that once lit a fire in you, now sat gathering dust. All shelved quietly the moment your body became a home for Sunghee.
And your parents. You were still trying to reassemble the broken pieces of your relationship with them. Your mother tried to be there for you in her own way, but her disappointment was loud in the quietest moments between you two. And your father⊠well, he still hadnât really looked you in the eye since the day you told him.Â
And though she was born healthy, Sunghee came into the world screaming. She was a loud baby, inconsolable most nights, and the exhaustion had tested Sunghoon and you.
You took turns because you had to. Heâd rock her until sunrise, then stumble to his classes. He started falling asleep during his breaks at work, cheek pressed against cold metal tables.
He didnât care much for his own health, but the bags beneath your eyes pained him. Your face, once bright and curious, had dimmed under all the sleepless nights and rising costs of diapers. You were both burnt out.
He dropped Sunghee off with his parents for one night and dragged you out to see your friends. It was Jake's going-away dinner.
âItâs so hard to meet nowadays,â you sighed. âFeels like Iâve been nursing a migraine for the past three months.â
Jake laughed.
âSad I wonât get to see her grow up,â he said as he poured himself a beer. âMake sure to bring her to Australia one day. She deserves to see her coolest uncle play football.â
Niki rolled his eyes.
âNo oneâs paying for that long-ass flight to see you benchwarm,â Niki mumbled, chewing on some chips. âHave her come see me dance instead. At least Iâll be in the center.â
Jake smacks his friend on the back of the head.
âNo need for any of that,â Jay chimed in. âShe wonât have time for either of you. Papa bear here probably already has her future all mapped out. Skates on before she can walk.â
An awkward silence filled the room. The joke was lighthearted, but it landed too close to a wound no one had dared to touch in the past year. Sunghoon gave a quiet laugh, a hollow one without warmth. He brought the bottle to his lips and didnât look at anyone when he spoke.
âYeah... sheâll be a star.â
He eyed the ceiling, pondering what she would look like. Maybe just like him. Graceful. Passionate. âOlympic-worthy. Could probably win gold if we find the right coach early enough.â
You pursed your lips and stared at the condensation running down your glass.Â
Sunoo cleared his throat, noticing the tense atmosphere. He raised his glass with forced enthusiasm. âTo our beautiful Sunghee,â he cheered. âAnd to Jakeâs success!â
Sunghoon smiled, but not really. He was happy for his friend, sure. But behind his facade, envy sat heavy on his tongue.
âThis night could have been for you. They could have been congratulating you. And you gave it all up. Now look at you. Youâre a nobody.â
You couldnât help but watch him throughout the night as he grew quieter, his sips of beer more like chugs now. You rubbed circles on his back like you always did when he got like this, hoping to bring him back into the conversation. But his eyes stayed glued to the back corner of the bar.
As you patted him, he pulled your wrist away. Not harshly. Not angrily. Just a simple tug. He set your hand back on your lap, his gaze straight ahead and away from you.
âIâm okay,â he assured you, but you didnât believe him. Not then.Â
Not ever, really.
Though time passed, life never got easier. The weight of responsibility pressed harder on your shoulders with each passing year. And while you both smiled through milestones and made do with the small hiccups in your relationship, you were content with this life. Doing laundry on lazy Sundays, Sunghoon singing nursery rhymes to Sunghee before school.
But after the birth of your second child, Sungjae, it had all started to rot.
Sunghoonâs longing for his old life never faded. It stewed in him, creeping into his thoughts at his corporate job after finishing university, haunting him on bus rides home.Â
The bills piled higher. Your patience wore thinner. Conversations turned into quiet disagreements and tired sighs. You no longer fought. You didnât even have the energy for that. Just two ghosts of your former selves moving through the same rooms, sleeping in the same bed, wondering what couldâve been.Â
thirteen years later. the present.
Sunghoon adjusts his tie, furrowing his brows as he sees how crooked it is from the reflection of the mirror. He gives up halfway through. Fuck it, it would be a no-tie kind of day. He exits the bedroom, his footsteps making loud echoes on the way down the spiral staircase and towards the all-marble kitchen. He inhales slowly as he smells the fragrance of smoked spices dancing around his nostrils. It was enough to make his mouth water.
âWhat's cooking, good-looking?â he says, entering the kitchen with a wide grin on his face.
âEw,â a voice rang out, soft and disgruntled. Sunghoon turns the corner and almost laughs at the sight.
âShut up,â Sunoo scoffs, clad in an apron and silk pajamas. âDonât say corny shit like that in my house until you get your act together.â
Sunghoon takes a seat on the barstool of the kitchen counter. He watches Sunoo maneuver the wide expanse of the kitchen like an expert.
âI'm a dad,â Sunghoon sighs out. âThatâs kind of our thing.â
âYeah, one going through a divorce,â Sunoo snaps back, monitoring his frittata closely on the stove.
Sunghoon's shoulders slump. Of course, the only friend willing to let him stay for an indefinite amount of time was the one most critical of his life choices. Sunoo insisted, in fact. Said his place was âfeeling emptyâ anyway.
âSo,â Sunoo coughs, acknowledging he might have taken it too far with his earlier comment. âAny word from her about the court date yet?â
Sunghoon shrugs, eyes on his watch as it nears 8:30 a.m. He'd have to leave soon to get to work. His boring, dull job as a fiscal manager at blah blah blah corporation. Even he barely knows what he does for a living.
âCan I borrow your car?â Sunghoon asks, ignoring his friend's question. He doesn't like to talk about it. Doesn't want to speak anything into existence, even if it was already happening.Â
You asked for it two weeks ago. A divorce.
He's been living with (mooching off of) Sunoo since.
âWhich one? The Bugatti or the Ferrari?â
Sunghoon gives Sunoo a side-eye, and the younger fails to stifle a laugh. He never wastes a second to flex on his friend, the only one out of their friend group who worked at a 9-5 job in total and absolute misery.
Heeseung's a streamer, Jay took over as CEO of his father's company, Jake was still playing football in Australia, Jungwon started his own Taekwondo studio, and Niki was traveling the world as a choreographer. And of course, Sunoo wound up in a big old mansion with his modeling career.
Sunghoon thought he'd end up like them. He got the right experience after university to find a stable job that didn't involve slaving away at customer service gigs like he did before.
He thought he'd move up higher in his company by now. Have a team to call his own, like Jungwon had, or make âsmall, high-impact decisionsâ like Jay claims he does. But none of that ever came. His heart was never in it.
Sunghoon sighs.Â
âWhatever gets me from Point A to Point B,â he mutters. Sunoo cuts a piece of frittata from the skillet and plates it. He slides it over to his older friend and tosses a key from his pocket.
âTake the Kia Soul.â
Sunghoon groans. âYou're fucking with me.â
âMr. Park,â his coworker chirps into his ear. âI was wondering how your KPIs were this weekâŠâ
Sunghoon lets him drone on as he types on his computer. No private office, just a cubicle by the elevators. He hates how people tend to gravitate towards him for small talk. He's not very good at it. Never has been. It was a common joke within his family that he skated more than he spoke growing up.Â
You dragged him out of his shell when you met, cracked him open with your bright-eyed gazes and addictive laughter. Heâd planned to keep his head down when he was younger. No distractions and no detours. Just figure skating.
But how could he not fall in love with you?
He shakes his head, trying to push the thoughts aside before it settles in too deeply. He reminisces too much.
Itâs like the past is all his mind drifts off to these days.
He leaves work on time. Gets stuck in traffic, like usual. And drives to the home you two once shared. A routine he's used to by now.Â
He sees your car in the driveway and groans. He knew if he sees you, you'd bring up the papers again. Those stupid fucking papers.
âHey, kiddo,â he says as he enters the once-familiar home. You've made changes to it since he's been gone. He squints to get a better look. In just two weeks, the kitchen's completely repainted with a soft green instead of gray. The living room was completely rearranged, and family pictures were taken down from the walls.
Sungjae is sitting on the couch, playing with his iPad. He only looks up for a second before he gets back into whatever is playing on his device. Sunghoon knew he should have hidden that thing before he left. Or, he guesses, before you kicked him out.
âWhere's your sister?â he asks, practically into the void.
As if on cue, Sunghee walks down the stairs. Her eyes are already rolling, and she's still wearing her pink pajamas and bunny slippers.
âGet dressed, princess. We're gonna be late for your practice!â
Sunghee tsks.Â
âC'mon,â Sunghoon adds with a forced smile. âYou missed the last two practices already. You're gonna fall behind-â
âDad, I already told you I want to quit,â she cuts in. âCan't you just take a freaking hint?â
Sunghoon stares blankly at his daughter, trying to hold back the irritation bubbling beneath the surface. Sunghoon doesnât know where she gets the attitude comes from. It's like when Sunghee hit the age of 13, she morphed into a walking stick of dynamite with a terribly short fuse.
âWell,â he begins, voice tight but even. âWhy don't we push through it for today, hm? You know, back in my day, I wasn't always up for the challenge, but-â
âWe get it dad!â she groans. â'Back in my day' this, 'if I were you' that. No one cares!"
It stings him more than he cares to admit.Â
"Sunghee," he says, slower this time, the edge creeping into his voice.Â
She just scoffs at her father's serious expression. She's never been scared of him when he's angry. That was always your role.Â
"Iâm not going," she stands her ground, crossing her arms. "You can't make me. If you wanna go so bad, then go to that stupid ice rink by yourself.â
Sunghoon inhales sharply, planting his hands on his hips to seem more assertive.
From the couch, seven-year-old Sungjae snickers.
âListen here, young lady-â
âListen here, young ladyâŠâ Sungjae mocks, in a tone much like his father's. Sunghoon whips his head to his iPad kid.
âAnd you, young man-â
âSunghoon,â you say sternly as you appear at the staircase. âI already called to cancel. Indefinitely. Even if you take her now, she won't even be able to join the other kids.â
Sunghee sticks her tongue out at her father, prancing to the couch to pinch her younger brother's cheeks.
He blinks, brows knitting together. âWhat? Why would you do that without telling me?â
"Sorry, was that a decision that needed your approval?" you ask sarcastically. "You can't make her do something she doesn't want to do."
Sunghoon scoffs, pointing an accusatory finger at you. But he stops himself. His gaze flickers to the kids, who pretend like they're not watching from the living room.
He swallows down whatever instinct tells him to argue right here, right now. You two never fought in front of them, an unspoken rule. Even if you were technically separated, he would not break that now.Â
âLet's talk in our room,â he whispers closely, and you roll your eyes.
âMy room,â you correct, already turning to head back up. You donât see it, but he tries not to flinch at your harshness.
He closes the door behind you two, the air thick with tension. He starts again.
âWhy are you making decisions without me already?â he asks, trying to keep his tone level. âYou cancel her figure skating classes and repaint the kitchen? Why are you-â
You sigh, already tired.
âWe've been talking about repainting that ugly kitchen for years, Sunghoon,â you sigh. "You never wanted to actually get started on it. Sorry, I actually make time for the things I want."
So this is the direction you wanted the conversation to go in? Fine. He can be passive-aggressive, too.
"And Sunghee? Didn't you think to run that by me when Iâm the one that pays for those lessons?"
You grit your teeth. He sees where Sunghee gets it from now, your hands crossed over your chest in disdain.
"Have you tried listening to her about practices? She gets injured all the time! Coach Jung is horrible to her. Sheâs miserable-â
His jaw tightens. âYou don't think I was too? Half the time, I hated skating! But thatâs what it takes. You think greatness just feels good all the time?! And the kitchen was fine. I donât get whyââ
"She's not trying to be great, Sunghoon!" you cry exasperatedly, your hands thrown up into the air. "She's not trying to be you."
You point your finger at his chest. âAnd you always think everything's fine. Until it's too late.â
Your words hung in the air, his eyes meeting yours.Â
âWhat the fuck is that supposed to mean?â he says finally, quieter this time.Â
You retract your hand, nervous under his gaze. Itâs intense, familiar in a way that still sends sparks throughout your body, even now. Even after everything.
âStop trying to force your dreams onto her,â you finally let out, and you see his eyes waver. "Just because it didn't work out for you doesn't mean you can try again through her."
âThat's not what-â
âLook,â you interrupt him, turning away from him to face the wall. âAll I'm saying is that maybe this is your wake-up call. Things change. Not everything that you want is going to happen. Maybe learn to change with it.â
He scoffs.
You turn back around to face him. He's angry, but his face doesnât give it away. Itâs his trembling hands, how his posture straightens just a little too stiffly.
âA little too late to change when my whole life was already laid out for me,â he says through bated breaths. âItâs not like I ever had a choice where Iâd end up.â
Your heart sinks. âAnd it's all my fault, right?â
Sunghoonâs eyes flicker, his gaze softening at your hurt expression.
âI didn't say that-â
âBut it's what you think, right?â You try to look strong. You think of all the nights he lay awake replaying his old skating clips in the glow of his phone screen. The way he cheered for Sunghee during competitions, like his voice alone could ignite the passion she didnât have. The muffled sniffles from the shower after the last Winter Olympics ended. You saw it all. You always did.
Sunghoon is silent, and you fight the sting in your eyes.
âI never asked you to marry me,â you say as low as a whisper, cutting through the silence.
âBut I did,â Sunghoon says quickly. Desperately. âAnd I wanted to.â
You draw out a laugh, bitterness dripping through.
âI'm so sorry, Sunghoon,â you say, sarcasm spilling over your lips. âI'm sorry this isn't the life you wanted. But newsflash: you're not the only one living with regrets. â
He steps forward, but you move back. The weight of everything presses against your chest now that the words are out. Now that itâs not just his pain taking up space in your relationship.
âYou act like youâre the only one who lost something,â you say, softer now. âBut I gave up things, too. I had dreams too.â
You donât mean it cruelly, and he doesnât take it that way. But it hurts, still.
"And I'm done walking on eggshells around you just because you can't stand the fact that you aren't living the life you wanted.â
You take a deep breath and continue.
âIf I knew this was how we'd end up, we should have never even met-"
His hand hovers over your cheek. His lips, so dangerously close to yours. âStop it.â
His voice is shaky.
âDonât say things you donât mean.â
You don't pull away, but your gaze does not waver. âI mean it. Genuinely.â
You donât see Sunghoonâs heart break at that moment. But he feels it. Feels the tightness in his chest, the way his throat closes up, like your words were enough to kill him.
âWhen did you become so cruel?â Hurt laced his voice.
âAnd when did you start resenting me?â you bite back, but the words barely escape your throat.Â
He doesnât answer, just leans in and kisses you. And you let him.
Because maybe this is the last time youâll feel him like this. Maybe this is the last tender moment you two will share.
His hand lingers at your jaw, thumb brushing gently over your cheek. You feel your own breath catch, and for a second, you almost melt into him.
âI love you,â Sunghoon says, but it sparks nothing in you.
Instead, you hear everything he didnât say. He didnât say no or that you were wrong. So maybe he really does, you thought to yourself.
His kisses almost make you forget. Almost enough to blur out the long winters and how distant he gets. How painfully silent he is at the dinner table, eyes always somewhere else.Â
His lips guide you through it all, each kiss igniting a memory.
How his shoulders sagged the day he started that full-time job. How his smile, once so quick to bring out of him, turned into something you had to search for. How the light in his eyes, so blinding when he was on the ice, dimmed, little by little.Â
His hands trail under your shirt now as he peppers kisses down your throat.Â
âI miss you,â he sighs.Â
How heâll wake up in the middle of the night and leave without a word, how youâll see his location is at the ice rink, probably watching the Zamboni circle around. But he'd never bring his skates with him.
His lips meet yours again, deeper this time. His knee finds its way in between your legs.
You couldnât do this anymore. Itâs been far too many times, letting him wiggle his way back into your good graces. This was it. You would choose yourself this time.
Your fingers close around his wrists, gentle but firm. The warmth of his skin against yours nearly breaks your resolve, but you force yourself to meet his eyes. Even though it hurts.
âI think you should leave.âÂ
You release yourself from his hold. Sunghoon's expression is unreadable, but you know by now it's a facade.Â
You could not carry his pain with you any longer. You needed him to let you go, just as much as you needed to let him go.
âBaby...â he starts, voice fragile.
âDon't,â you say quickly, lips pressed tight. âYou can't call me that anymore, Sunghoon.â
His heart aches. He was supposed to be Hoon to you. Your Hoon. When did that change?
But he doesn't ask. He just watches you, eyes dark and full of all the things he never figured out how to say until it was already too late.
âThe papers...â you pause, swallowing hard. You see a flicker of panic flash across his face.Â
âThey're on the kitchen counter. Take them before you leave.â
Sunghoon did not take the papers.Â
In fact, just like Sunghee suggested, he went to the so-called âstupidâ ice rink by himself.Â
He sits in the highest row of the stands, arms crossed, jaw clenched. The kids glide around the ice below. Parents he used to talk to are filming on the sidelines, their laughter echoing faintly off the cold, hard walls.
Envy coats his skin.
Coach Jung is barking commands at the kids. He sneaks glances up at Sunghoon every so often, trying to be subtle. But he knows what that look means. Itâs pity.Â
At one point, Coach Jung had pulled him aside to tell him that Sunghee wasn't built for the sport. Not like Sunghoon was. She was too stiff, too in her own head about spinning in the air. She never cracked a smile when she was on the ice. She always kept her head low and movements small, as if it was still scary for her after years of practicing.
It's not like Sunghoon didn't notice, but he always thought sheâd come around to it. He was pushed into figure skating by his parents, much like he was doing for her. It wasnât like his passions ignited overnight. âIt could be her dream if she let it be,â he thought to himself.
Why couldnât she let it? Why wouldnât she even try?
Sunghoon sits in the stands, even after the kids pour out one by one and the lights start to dim. Coach Jung offers one last, forced smile before disappearing into the locker rooms. Sunghoon stays until heâs the only one left under the lights.
The Zamboni comes in, shaving and washing the ice to be used for the next day. When the machine finishes, the driver climbs out and heads up toward the stands. He's in his early twenties with blonde hair and dark eyes. He's moving towards Sunghoon with a smile.
Sunghoon stands up, a little intimidated by the younger man. His back turns to go up the stairs and to the exit, wanting to avoid a conversation.
âYou're always here at night, sir,â the guy calls out. âDo you have a special connection to this place?â
Sunghoon stops in his tracks. He used to get recognized all the time. On the streets and in this very place. He used to mean something.
He turns around and gives a polite smile to the young man. He points at one of the many banners that hang from the ice rink walls. âPark Sunghoonâ was in bright gold colors on each one.Â
âI used to train here,â he says, with a hint of pride. âNational champion for ten straight years, from when I was 11 up until I was 21.â
The guy whistles softly, impressed.
âWe could use you, you know?" he says. "I think theyâre looking for a new coach. Heard the old one's retiring soon.â
Sunghoon flinches. âCoach Jung? He hasn't told me yet. My daughter trains with him.â
He can't bring himself to use the past tense with her just yet.
The young man just nods. "I think he's planning to announce it after the next competition."
Sunghoon feels his chest constrict. He shakes his head. Another person leaving.
âI guess everythingâs changingâŠâ he whispers, but it did not fall on deaf ears. The stranger moves closer to him. "We're all so old now."
The stranger sighs. âYouth can be so cruel, can't it?â
Sunghoon, in his confusion, scoffs.
âThe opposite, actually,â he argues. âLife's easier when you're young. Anything was possible back then.âÂ
He takes a second to continue.
âAnd it all can be taken from you,â he mutters, more to himself. âBefore you even realize it.â
âThat's the worst, isn't it?â The young man chimes in. He's sitting where Sunghoon was earlier. âWhen you wonder what could've beenâŠâ
Sunghoonâs mouth twists into something like a smile, but it doesnât reach his eyes.
âThat's all I think about,â he said, surprised at himself for opening up to a stranger. And it's true.Â
What if he hadnât stopped skating? What if you hadnât gotten pregnant?
He sits back down, next to the Zamboni driver.
âWe all have regrets,â the young man says, looking ahead, voice soft.
Sunghoon stares up at the ceiling and lets out a breathless laugh through the silence. Flashes of you overcame his vision. Nights of hushed arguments and facing away from each other on the bed. Nothing went his way after the World Championships. He lost it all. His passion. His dreams. You.Â
âWhy does it have to be that way?â he asks no one in particular.
A silence fills the room. The blonde turns his head to face him. âMaybe you could live a life without one, Park Sunghoon.â
He stills for a second.
âHow did you know my na-â And as Sunghoon turns to face the stranger, he is met with nothing. Like the man was never there in the first place.
He's driving in that ugly, neon green Kia Soul, making his way back to Sunoo's egregiously large mansion.
Sunghoon's grip on the steering wheel tightens every time he checks the rearview mirror. He canât shake the feeling like heâs being watched. That guy⊠the way he talked, like he knew him. Not just his name, but everything underneath.Â
But screw that guy and whatever cryptic bullshit he was spouting. Screw his perfect friends, rich and successful. Every time they reunite, itâs like a reminder of everything Sunghoonâs not.
And screw the way Sunghee and Sungjae donât even look at him like he matters. He tries. God knows he does. But they donât know him. Don't know who either of you were outside of being their parents.
And you know what? Screw you and those damn papers too-
SCRREEEEE.
In an instant, his world is spinning out of control. Airbags deploy as Sunghoon jostles in a car that tumbles with him. The last thing he remembers is flashing lights and the loud sound of a crash. A sharp pain shoots through the left side of his body, and he feels as if he is coming in and out of consciousness.Â
Sunghoon's eyes blink open, but he's not lying where he thinks he should be. Itâs not the inside of a casket, nor is it a hospital room ceiling. He lies there with a cold and familiar feeling.
Ice.
Instead of the wrinkled suit he threw on that morning, heâs wearing sweatpants and a fitted black top. Not a scratch on him. No blood, no bruises.Â
Was he dead?
âIs just one axel hard for you now, kid?â a voice calls out.Â
He recognizes it almost immediately. Coach Jung. Sunghoon sits up, yanking his gloved hands from the coldness. What the fuck was happening?
âGet your ass back up and do it again,â Coach Jung shouts from the sidelines. The music starts again. Sunghoonâs eyes flutter shut, and he swears it's muscle memory. He knows this routine. The one from that night. The night he met you.
He moves. Instinct takes over. Jumps, spins, the sharp sound of his blades cutting clean into the ice. Every turn and landing exactly where it should be. Heâs smiling from ear to ear now, almost childlike.
And if he were dead and this was the last thing he'd ever experience, then maybe dying wasn't so bad. Heâd stayed off the ice for years, terrified that if he felt this weightless feeling again, that his regrets would consume him.Â
âPerform like that and you'll win no matter what,â Coach Jung calls out as the music fades. Even breathless, Sunghoon felt like he could do ten more spins across the ice. His heart was racing. Everything felt so real. The soreness of his muscles, the cold air against his skin, the echoes of Coach's voice.
âWhat day is it today?â Sunghoon asks abruptly. "And what year?"
Heâs pinching his wrist now, nails digging in and almost drawing blood. He flinched. It hurt like hell. Was this not a dream?
âKid, did you hit your head when you fell?â Coach Jung laughs.Â
And when he says the exact date, Sunghoon's confused. It wasnât like today was anything special. Just a random Tuesday. So why would this moment, 16 years ago, be where he ended up after crashing his car?Â
Looking at the reflection of his younger, more athletic self in the mirror, he just couldn't believe it. No matter how much he slapped his face or banged his head against the locker room door, he was still here. In this younger body.
He's walking home from practice now. His phone buzzes in his pocket of the boysâ group chat, the old one they used to fill with dumb inside jokes before you and the other significant others joined the group. But your name is yet to be in his contacts.Â
And then he remembers. Itâs three days before youâre in the stands of the smaller national competition he won many years ago.Â
Heâs not one to panic, but his thoughts are running in circles. Did he actually go back in time, or is this all in his head?
He sees someone in his periphery. A man around his age, standing near the curb, waving. Casual. Like theyâve met before. And they have.
The Zamboni driver.
He has a sinister smile, one that sends shivers down Sunghoonâs spine. Sunghoon doesnât hesitate. He marches forward and grabs him by the collar. âWho the fuck are you? Is this happening because of you?â
The man smirks, clearly amused.
âYou wanted to try, right? A life without regrets?â
Sunghoon glares at him, confused. âWhat?â
âPark Sunghoon,â the blonde says sternly. âThis is your last chance. Use it wisely.â
Before he can respond, the man shoves him back.
âWhat are you talk-â
And as he blinks, the stranger disappears. His head starts throbbing uncontrollably, and ringing sets in his ears. He hears a voice then, yet he canât recognize it.
âWhat will you choose in this life?â
Even as the reality of everything he left behind starts to settle, he feels a strange sense of calm wash over his grief.
He knows what to do.
three days later.
Sunghoon sees you in the corner of his eye as heâs tightening his skates. Youâre sitting with your friends, ones who had encouraged you to come and watch him. Back then, he was all anyone on campus could talk about. The quiet freshman with Olympic dreams who just missed his opportunity last year. He was skating harder than ever, pushing himself to the edge. Skipping classes. Shutting out everything but the rink.Â
Until you came along.
He remembers your first date. He'd asked awkwardly, âHow come you like me?â because he genuinely didnât understand.
Itâs not like the plushie you threw was the first with a phone number taped to it. Not even the tenth. He got plenty of confessions growing up, but he wanted to know why. What made anyone interested in an introverted and one-track-minded guy like him? He had no hobbies outside of figure skating, no real conversation skills that went past awkward greetings.
Yet, you teased him with that Cheshire grin of yours.Â
âHow could I not?" you say so casually as his heart bloomed. "Iâve never seen someone pour so much love into what they do until I met you. You know what you want. I admire that.â
Your words stuck with him. Heâd never forgotten it. And even now, those words echo in his chest as he skates to the center of the ice.
The music starts, and he lets himself get lost in the rhythm. As he glides across the ice, there is nothing on his mind. He just takes it all in. The roar of the audience. The sound of skates hitting ice. Itâs all he ever wanted.
The routine, like in the past, was met with a standing ovation. The screams of those in the stands overwhelm him. He goes to each section of the rink, bowing as tears threaten to spill over. Itâs all too much. And not enough.
Then, he reaches yours. Sunghoon finds you in the sea of people like he did before. Your hair is down, and your face is softer. He chokes back on his tears, so enthralled by your beauty. He couldnât take his eyes off you.Â
He bows, more deeply than to the other sections.
You throw that stuffed penguin through the air at the perfect time as it lands by his feet. And as Sunghoon rises from the bow, your eyes are on him again. Expectant.Â
You donât know him yet. Not really. You aren't aware of the pain to come. The fights. The distance. The way heâll drain all the color from your life.Â
As he turns to move to the final section, he catches a flicker of sadness in your eyes. A frown is present on your beautiful face. He wants to make it go away, but he canât. Not in this life.
And so the penguin sits on the ice, lifeless, as he skates off the rink.
That night, he skips the afterparty. He goes straight to his shitty studio apartment, the one with the thin walls and peeling paint, and collapses on the bed.
He buries his face into the sheets, the fabric dampening his sobs. The crowdâs cheers still ring faintly in his ears, but now it all sounds hollow. He screams then, into the mattress, at the thought of Sunghee and Sungjae. His babies. The only pieces outside of you in his old life that made it worth fighting for. Would they ever exist in this version of his life?
He tries to steady himself. Tells himself this was for the best. That your life would be easier without him as your words echoed in his head.
"If I knew this was how we'd end up, we should have never even met."
No years wasted, no sacrifices stacked on top of each other until they became resentment. No nights spent worried about bills or appeasing your parents, who never really quite liked him.
He wants to believe heâs doing you a favor.
But the tears donât stop. Not when he thinks about the weight of Sunghee in his arms the first time he held her. Not when he remembers teaching Sungjae how to read with his tiny hands clutching the book, his eyes lighting up at each new word.
Heâs letting it all go. All of it.
This was supposed to be his second chance. To live his dream without regrets. To see what it felt like.Â
And it felt like hell.
The next few nights were abysmal. Practice became unbearable. He wasnât eating. He wasnât sleeping. His body hit the ice harder whenever he missed a spin, which was every time at this point. Coach Jung eventually pulled him aside, clearly frustrated.
âGo home, Sunghoon. Straighten yourself out and get the hell off my ice.â
But home didnât feel real. None of this did.
He couldnât do it. He couldnât keep skating like this, not when every turn reminded him of you.
Sunghoon had to see you. Just once. Just enough to know you were okay. He told himself the kids would still exist somehow, even if your love story started differently in this version of life. That thought was the only thing holding him together.
He freshens himself up to go to campus, not having touched his backpack in weeks. He remembers your route like the back of his hand. Morning coffee at the cafe just off campus, right before your 9 AM. He will intercept you here, at this corner of the street.
Sunghoon's in a black turtleneck, wearing the glasses you would always steal off of him. The one that made you squirm under his intense gaze. The air was chilled, and his hands were buried deep in his navy jeans. He sees you coming into view, and he almost extends a hand to wave.Â
But he sees him, too.
Beomgyu. Your ex. The one who would ask your friends how you were doing, knowing full well that you were married with kids. The one who eventually became a guitarist for a band he would pretend not to like. Sunghoon had asked you to block him from everything before, and you complied. It hurt to admit that his insecurities were still present even now, in another life.
Sunghoon hides behind a tree as he watches you two struggle through the cold. Your shoulders are close but not quite touching. He feels his heart rate accelerate, his lips pursed to prevent himself from saying anything that would compromise his hiding spot.Â
âBeomgyu, you donât have to walk me to class,â he overheard you say with a laugh. âIâm okay, really.â
Sunghoonâs hands balled into fists. Why did your voice sound an octave higher than it usually does?Â
Beomgyu had the nerve to laugh, and it took Sunghoon everything in himself not to jump out.
You once told him that Beomgyu was your first love. Your high school boyfriend. You had ended things on good terms at the end of high school to find yourselves in college.
âGood,â Sunghoon once said. âBecause you found me.â
And now here you were, looking happy. Grinning from ear to ear. What was there to smile about?Â
âDoesnât this remind you of old times? You used to stuff your hands in my pockets-âÂ
And though Sunghoon almost wills himself to leave the spot behind the tree, he doesnât. Because he needed to watch this. Needed to watch you live the life you wouldâve had without him. The easier one.Â
He sees it now in the way your nose would scrunch to laugh at Beomgyuâs jokes. How you playfully hit the boyâs shoulder and hide your giggles with the sleeve of your puffer jacket.Â
Maybe thatâs why the stranger had chosen this year. To taunt him.
Look how happy someone else could make her. Was he the only reason why you were miserable? How much did he really hold you back?Â
And so Sunghoon steps aside, shoving his hands back in his jeans. The icy wind cuts through his reddened cheeks. He asked for this. And heâll have to live with it in this life.
Sunghoon turns around to give you one last look. But he also sees Sunghee, in her Elsa costume for Halloween. Sungjae asking for a mountain of kimchi at every restaurant. Your hand reaching for his across the dinner table.
Heâll have to live with it.
In the next three years, Sunghoon put his all into skating. He is consumed by it. Throws himself into it like itâs the only thing keeping him alive.
His professors have to send him emails to remind him not to neglect his studies. His mother scolds him for missing holidays at home because he travels so much for competitions. But Sunghoon doesnât care.
He loves figure skating. Loves the endless cheers from the crowd when he lands a clean program. Loves the headlines, the trophies lining his apartment shelves, the constant buzz of being "the nation's pride." Itâs everything he knew he wanted.Â
But, thereâs always that one seat in the stands. The one you used to sit in during his competitions, holding up a handmade banner and shouting his name louder than anyone.Â
Now, the face in that seat changes all the time. Some new fan. Some stranger holding a sign that doesn't mean anything to him.
He tells himself the past doesnât matter. That this version of you, the one who laughs in cafes with Beomgyu, whoâs always posting photos from new cities, new hobbies, new lives, wouldnât even recognize the girl he remembers.
The girl who used to sit cross-legged on his couch, studying while he iced his ankle. Who wept with joy the night he won first at an international competition.
Now youâre in a photography club. A painting class. Pottery? Really?
You travel more now than you two ever did in your 16 years together. He scrolls past your updates with a numb thumb, telling himself heâs glad. He guesses that he did the right thing.Â
And every time he walks past you with Beomgyu, smiling with all your teeth, it lingers. Those damn words are repeating in his head again.
"If I knew this was how we'd end up, we should have never even met."
Now he gets it. He guessed that he held you back from so much. Look at you with your wonderful friends and the amazing life you live without him! He scoffs. You deserve it.
You adjusted to him and his demanding training schedule, canceling plans with people so that you could maximize the time you had with him in the rare chance that he was in town. Maybe Beomgyu never wouldâve asked you to sacrifice like that. Maybe he wouldâve waited for you to come home from your clubs, instead of dragging you to cold rinks and rushed meals together in between practice sessions.
Sunghoon's fine. He swears on it.
Wake up. Go to class (if he feels like it). Skate for hours. Push through the pain. Go home. Cry into his pillow. Rinse and repeat.Â
The Olympics are a year away. The World Championships are in two months.
And the night you two conceived Sunghee is tomorrow. Â
tomorrow.
He wills himself to stay home, even when the boys suggest he hit up a few bars and clubs. It's the weekend after all.Â
But Sunghoon is used to making excuses by now. Blames it on his training schedule, his diet, Coach Jung. Whatever would get Jake off his back.Â
So when Sunghoon hears a knock at his door, and three boys pull up already reeking of alcohol, heâs surprised that he finds himself in that exact bar where he promised himself he wouldnât be.
Itâs just like before. Same music, same sickening smell of spilled tequila and too much cologne from Heeseung. And, as always, heâs bad at poker. Worse than he remembers. Heâs downing a shot after every loss until his head is spinning and he canât remember the rules anymore.
âIâm gonna⊠go⊠peeâŠâ he tries to say, but his words get lost in mumbles and drooping eyes. He miraculously stumbles towards the restroom and does his business in the urinal. Heâs dousing his face with water after barely washing his hands, and he smiles at his reflection. God, why didnât he want to go out again?Â
Sunghoon exits the restroom, shaking his wrists to expel the water from his hands. And his breath catches. He sees you.
Your backâs to him at first, your sparkly red dress riding up on the stool just like it was that night. Youâre laughing at something the bartender says. And he swears for a second, time stops.
Maybe itâs the alcohol. Or maybe itâs the years of missing you bottled up too tight. But he starts walking over before he can stop himself.Â
âHey,â he says plainly, elbow hitting the bar. You turn towards him, eyebrows raised in curiosity.Â
He'll be different in his first impressions this time. More experienced and confident than the shy fool he was when he met you. He'd match this new version of you, too. Show you what you were missing out on.
Thereâs a confused smile on your face.
âHi.â He looks at you more clearly, his vision impaired from leaving his glasses at home and the tequila shots in his system.
âYou come here often?â Heâs too out of his senses to stop himself from saying it. But he doesnât regret it because you laugh. He does too.
âYou say that to every girl, Park Sunghoon?âÂ
His heart skips a beat. âYou know my name?â
You roll your eyes, taking a sip of the cocktail that the bartender just handed you.
âCall me a fan,â you smile up at him, and he swears he could have melted right then and there. âYour face is everywhere.â
Sunghoon licks his lips, his mouth suddenly dry.
âI wish I could see more of yours,â he grins. âI think Iâd skate ten times better if I saw you in the crowd.â
You scoff jokingly. âAnd here I thought winning was enough for you.â
It should be. It was supposed to be.
He promised himself he wouldnât do this. That heâd leave you alone. He would let you go about your life, forget him, and be who you wanted to be. Who you should have been before he came to your life.
But here you are, impossibly close, and every part of him is begging not to let you go.
"You... you single?" he asks, trying to be casual. But his voice catches at the end. He wants to know. Needs to hear from your own lips if you actually chose Beomgyu in this life.
Relief washes over him when you shake your head.
"Wouldn't be talking to you if I was," you say with a teasing grin. Electricity shoots through him as he watches you. Too bright, too much. This short conversation, one he never planned on having, could never satisfy him. He could never get enough of you.
âDo you wanna get out of here?â he asks before he could stop himself, arm outstretched for you to take. Your face stiffens, and he almost thinks youâd say no until your fingers wrap around his arm.
âWhere to?âÂ
You barely make it past his front door before he has you up against it. His hands hold yours above your head, pinning your body against his. Sunghoonâs lips move against you ferociously, an unending battle between your tongues. You try to match his movements, but he is starved beyond belief.
You have no idea how badly he missed this.
Three years since he last heard you speak to him. Three years since heâs felt your lips. And the last time was when you asked him to pick up some stupid divorce papers from the kitchen counter. He needs this. Needs this more than breathing, more than eating, more than skating.
Sunghoon lifts you to wrap your legs around his middle. His hands find your bottom, giving a gentle squeeze that has you arching into him. He didnât want to scare you, but he couldnât will himself to stop. Your scent was too intoxicating for his mouth to ever leave yours.
You tap at his chest to push him away softly. With bruised lips, you whisper, âCan we go to your bed?â
He could almost moan just from the sound of you. His sweet, beautiful wife. Still so perfect for him.
His grip on your ass tightens as he maneuvers you through the studio apartment you once shared, laying you softly on the bed. Sunghoon wonders why you two just went at it like animals at the entrance way when the bed was only a few steps away back then. This time, he would savor it. Savor you.
He follows you down as he trails kisses on your neck. You crane it for him like you used to, giving him access to your most sensitive spots. His hands trail underneath your dress, teasing the hem of your panties. He looks up at you, silently asking for permission. All you could do was nod, opening your legs wide for him to continue. His dick twitches in his pants. You drive him insane.
Sunghoon peppers a few more kisses on your collarbone as his index finger prods carefully at your clothed pussy.Â
âAlready soaked,â he whispers into your skin, pressing the pads of his fingers onto your underwear. Liquid courage still very much in his system.
He feels bold right now, eager to impress. He doesn't know who you've been with in this life, but he'll make you forget them all. Fuck you so good that you forget those experiences. Remind you that he's your husband for a reason. His fingers hook the side of your ruby red panties, gliding them down your plush thighs.
âI bet Iâd go in so easily, huh?â his drunken voice slurs out. "So fucking wet."
When you nod again, he tsks. So silent, and for what? His fingers find your clit, ghosting over it. You arch to lean into his touch, but his hand retracts.
âUse your words, baby,â he says darkly. âWhatever you want, I can give it to you.â
You groan, eyes shut in frustration. âCanât you just fuck me?â
He laughs. Always so uncharacteristically vulgar when horny. He loves it. He loves you.
âCanât I get a taste first, baby?â he says, his face already inching downwards. He pulls your dress all the way off you, so that your breasts are finally exposed. Your satin red bra matched your panties like they were made to be seen tonight. He didnât know why that fired him up so badly.Â
Would another man have you like this if he didn't make a move?
He dips his head between your thighs, latching his mouth onto your clit. You gasp at the suddenness, not knowing how much youâve angered him just from your underwear choices. His tongue moves downwards, lapping at your folds like a man dying of thirst. His hands pinned your legs to open even wider, and you writhed underneath him.
âPlease-â you beg, hands gripping his hair as his tongue plunges into your wetness. Sunghoonâs eyes roll to the back of his head at the sensation. He could never, ever forget this taste.Â
He pushes his tongue in and out as deeply as he can with his curled tongue, grinding against the mattress for any semblance of stimulation.
He would make love to you tonight. Until you remember who he was. Until you remember the life you built together.
His tongue does one agonizing lick all the way up to your clit, and your back arches just to feel him better. Heâs sucking it harshly, tongue flicking at it in all the right ways.
âSunghoon-â you cry out, your feet digging into the mattress to push your hips up to meet his ravenous lips. He pulls away and glares up at you. Your hips fall.
âWhyâd you stop?â you whine, pushing his hair back down to your core. It takes everything in him not to laugh. He adores you like this. Desperate for him. Needy for him. Shaking in pleasure for whom? Him.
âDonât call me that,â he whispers into your inner thigh, nipping at it slightly. He chuckles at your confused expression. âHoon. If youâre gonna moan my name while I fuck you, I need you to say it properly.â
Your cheeks warmed. Heaving out a groan, you nod your head anyway.Â
âH-hoon,â you test out. âCan you please continue?â
He smiles mischievously. âWith what?â
You huff out in frustration. âI swear if you donât fucking make me cum right now Iâm going to-â
And his lips smash down on yours to shut you up. His hands replace his tongue as his middle finger draws figure-8s on your clit. He pulls your slickness from your folds and up to that sweet spot, relishing in the indecent noises between your legs.
Your moans are muffled by his tongue, body twitching underneath his. You taste yourself, so sweet on his lips as he caresses the most inner parts of your mouth. So dirty and so wet. He knew every part of you. Knew what made you cry, knew what made you scream. And fuck, he will make you scream.Â
He pulls away from you to admire his ruthless pace on your clit.
You are clenching around nothing as your nails dig into his shoulders. He coaxes a gasp out of you as a coil in your stomach starts to form.
âWant me so fucking bad, don't you?â he teases, his other hand on the nape of your neck. Sunghoon tilts your head down to show you the mess you were making.Â
His sheets are stained with your arousal, and his fingers are drawing circles on your bundle of nerves with such fervor. You catch a glimpse of his painfully clothed member.Â
He was right. You wanted him so desperately, wanted to feel him inside you at that very moment. Your breath hitches. Fuck. You felt something building.
Your hips start to rise again, and itâs hard to formulate a sentence.
âHoon! Oh my godâ Fuck itâsâ Itâsââ You cry out as Sunghoonâs pace quickens, motivated by the sound of your moans. His other hand tries to anchor your thighs down. You feel it as you start to lose vision in your eyes. His thumb is rubbing so intensely that it draws a whine right out of you.
The coil inside of you snaps.
âFuuuckâŠNghâŠâ
A wave of pleasure washes over you, and you feel your juices coat your folds, dripping more than before.Â
You're squirming underneath him, thighs twitching from the stimulation. He slows his pace, drawing out your orgasm for as long as possible.
His cock was in pain, desperate for it to make contact with any part of you. In this life, one thing he developed over the past three years of watching you in the shadows was patience. And you had none.
âGod, just put it in,â you groan so casually, resting your forearm to shield your eyes away from him. You were so fucked out. Hair splayed all over the pillow in messy waves. Lips bruised, your cherry gloss staining your chin and his cheek.
So eager to just have him take you. If he were a weaker man (maybe Beomgyu), he would have listened. But like he said earlier. He would savor this.
His fingers travel down to your folds, one dancing at your entrance to tease you. Sunghoon smirks as you whimper. He pushes a finger in and bites his lip at the feeling. He hasnât felt you, or anyone for that matter, in ages. In these past three years, he couldn't bring himself to even talk to another woman who wasn't you. It didn't feel right.
All the lonely, and frankly sad, nights touching himself to thoughts of you. Fucking himself on his wrist as he remembers all the nights youâve shared in your 13 years of marriage. He had plenty of material to work with, with all of your past escapades, but it was nothing like the real thing. Nothing like feeling you again.
âSunghoon, stop teasing me-â
His finger stilled, and you thought about cursing him out. He pulls your forearm away from your eyes, forcing you to look into his.
âWant to try that again?â he says, threateningly slow. The darkness of his gaze was enough to have you pliant and doe-eyed.
âHoon?â He smiles, kissing you on the forehead softly.
âGood girl.â And just like that, he dips another finger in, scissoring them into you with precision. Youâre a mess underneath him, overstimulated beyond belief, but he honestly couldnât give less of a fuck. He needed you to be ready for him. His heaviness was throbbing painfully just thinking about how you'd take him after all this time.
How long would it take you to adjust to his size?
Sunghoonâs fingers squelch with each thrust, finding the soft spot he was so familiar with. Heâs obsessed, drinking in the sight of your eyelashes fluttering, your hands gripping at his shoulders like your life depended on it. You were so wrapped up in your own pleasure, fucking yourself onto his fingers. Grinding up at him without a care in the world.Â
âLook at you,â he laughs. âSo needy.â
Sunghoon pulls his fingers out of you before he brings them to his lips. He hums, relishing the taste. Heâd have to go down on you again later tonight. Taste you after his cock has had its fill.
You watch him in anticipation as he takes his pants off. You follow his lead as you unhook your bra, throwing it across his floor, sighing at the feeling of cool air hitting your nipples. Sunghoon pulls his throbbing member out of his briefs, pumping himself languidly.Â
Sunghoon's eyes meet yours for a second before they go back to your cunt. He's churning something in his mouth, and you almost ask him what he was doing until he positions his mouth just above your folds.Â
With sultry eyes directly gazing up at yours, Sunghoon lets his saliva drip down onto your pussy.Â
You throw your head back on the pillow from the sight. Fuck, that was hot. He moves back up to you, guiding his hand to spread his spit with the tip of his leaking cock.
His dick smears your joined liquid in an up-and-down motion, pushing in ever-so-slightly. You gasp and clutch his chest, nails digging in enough to get his attention. He stops.
âIâm not on birth control,â you mutter, like youâre scared to tell him.Â
âShould I stop?â he asks, even with his tip pulsing so desperately between your folds. You avoid eye contact, though he doesnât know why.Â
âLook at me.â he growls.
Sunghoon tilts your chin to face him, and with glossy eyes, you shake your head. He smiles, and a tinge of sadness hits him. You look so soft underneath him, so fucking beautiful.
Heâs spent three years stuck in this version of his life, crying over you to avoid this very moment. But he just wanted you so bad. Wanted to feel you at least once again. Then, heâll let go, he swears. This will be the first and last.
âUse your w-âÂ
You interrupt him with a kiss, wrapping your legs around him to push him deeper into you. He groans, collapsing onto his elbows. You dig your heels into his back as you pull him in deeper. Sunghoon's lips leave you to lay his forehead against yours. His breathing grows heavy, so lost in how your hole sucks him in.
âSo fucking tight,â he groans, testing the waters with a small thrust after bottoming out. You squeak in response. âFuck, baby.â
He wraps you in a tight hold, propping his knees underneath your thighs into a mating press. He fucks into you at an agonizing pace. It's so slow, you could feel every part of his rigid cock. His large size. His thick veins. The soft pulsing. It's so slow that you almost flip him over to ride him instead. But the desperation in his eyes stops you. His head buries deep in your hair, and you could hear the shakiness of his breath as he pulls out of you and plunges back in.
Sunghoon relishes the way you clench around him, your tight warmth pulling him deeper and deeper with each thrust. He drives himself into you with languid, but strong thrusts. He wants to engrave his place inside you so that you are ruined for anyone who might come after him. And again, he angers himself.
"You only this good for me?" he asks, searching your eyes for reassurance. But you aren't listening. You meet his thrusts, grinding yourself onto him. You want more. More of his touch. More of his length. Just more of him.
âFasterââ you whine, thighs pushing into his sides with each hard thrust. He was reaching the deepest part of you, your cervix kissing his tip ever so deliciously. Sunghoon doesnât abide, so you take what he gives you.
"You this desperate for everyone, baby?" he whispers into your ear darkly. You shake your head, tears forming in your eyes.
"No..." you muster out. "Just you."
And even through all the tequila and the self-restraint not to jackhammer into you, he believes you.Â
His hands are on your tits now, catching them as they bounce with the strength of his slow thrusts. He twists a nipple between his fingers, coaxing a moan out of you. He tugs and pulls, and it's enough to have you moaning underneath him.
You feel that familiar fire build inside of you. An ember that burned in your lower stomach and traveled down to the very tip of your toes.Â
âHoon! Please- Fuck- I need... I need-âÂ
You couldnât form full sentences. His thrusts were so harsh and still so painstakingly slow. His eyes never left your face. He basked in the way your brows furrowed for him. How your lips formed silent screams as he hit that certain spot within you. Again and again.
âTell me what you want,â he whispers hoarsely, his lips so close to yours. âTell me who you need.â
âYou!â you cry out. "Only you!"
He smashes his lips against yours as he finally thrusts into you hard and fast. His hands on your breast travel down to your waist, locking you onto the mattress as he fuck into you.
You feel something pooling, feel the tingling of your toes intensify with his breath against your face. His moans are just as loud as yours, grunting in your hair like a beast.
âYou feel so fucking goodââ his hips piston forward, brushing against that spot with every movement. Your chest is pressed into his as you claw at his back. The sensation builds and builds as your stomach starts to tighten.
âHoon- Oh my god- Iâm-Angh!â
Your second orgasm rips through you, the tension within snapping like a chord. It's so much stronger than your first one. It hits you in waves as you weep through it, your hips grinding up to meet his unending thrusts. You were so sore, so sensitive, but his pace stayed so relentless.Â
âCloseâ So fucking close, babyââ he moans into your hair.
He clutches your hips, driving into you with reckless abandon. Even if you had no idea who he was, he would have your body remember him. Sunghoon, in this life, would be your best one-night stand. He swears on it.
He grunts as he feels you clench around him harder, his hips stuttering against yours.
âIâm gonnaââ He tries to pull out, tries to push you away. Tries not to repeat the same mistakes. But your arms pull him downward as legs wrap sternly around his waist. You push him in deeper.
And he comes. Hard.Â
âFuck-â
Sunghoon plants an open-mouthed kiss on your lips, drowning out his sweet noises as he feels his raw cock twitch deep inside. His hot cum spills deep inside you with thick spurts. Your lips parted at the warm feeling, and he could tell you enjoyed every bit of milking him dry.Â
Sunghoon pulls away from you with a soft groan. He watches as his cum spills out of you. He brings his finger to your folds, pushing his fluids into you.Â
As he meets your eyes, heâs shocked to see how concerned you look. Because unbeknownst to him, there were tears streaking down his face. And before he can fully sober up and stop himself, he says it.
"I love you."
Youâre gone before he wakes up.
Sunghoon screams into his pillow, recalling his words like a bad nightmare. Stupid. So stupid. This was supposed to be different. He was supposed to be different.
That stranger, whoever he was, said this was his last chance. And what did he do? He threw away three years of silent pining just to chase you down on the very night the troubles in your relationship had begun.
Was he a fucking idiot?Â
You never even said goodbye, never even replied to his confession last night. Didnât even leave a trace of what last night meant to youâif it meant anything at all. He mustâve looked insane.
Sunghoon grips the back of his neck, exhaling hard. You donât know him. You arenât the same girl from his past life. You're different now. Three years. Thatâs how long youâve had to become someone else.
And him? He hasnât changed at all. Heâs still chasing ghosts. If it wasn't figure skating in his past life, it would be you in this one.
He sighs and sits up. Practice. He should go to practice.
two months later.
âAre you messing around, kid, or do you actually want to win this thing?!â Coach Jung shouts after Sunghoon falls on his ass for the umpteenth time. His palms sting from the fall, but he barely feels it.Â
The World Championships are in a week, and he hasnât heard a single peep from you since you left his apartment. Hasnât seen you on campus in his usual routes to watch you from afar. He knew he had reached a new level of patheticness when he actually went up to Beomgyu to ask how you were.
Turns out, you two weren't even as close as he thought you were. He smiled to himself after that, but frowned when he realized that it truly was as if you had disappeared.
âSorry,â he huffs, out of breath from the demanding routine. âOne more time?â
Coach Jung pinches the bridge of his nose. âHow about ten more, you punk? Get your act together.â
Coach mutters something under his breath and storms off, leaving Sunghoon alone with the cold silence of the rink. He tries again. Falls again. He smacks his gloved hand against the ice, hard enough that the sharp sting shoots up his arm. He shouldâve known. The moment he got a taste of you, he knew this would happen.Â
No matter when or how, he would always bother you. He would always lose himself. He would always manage to ruin everything.
âAre you living the life you wanted, Park Sunghoon?â a voice echoes behind him. He spins on his skates.Â
There he is again. The blonde prick. Somehow, heâs in his sneakers and standing still on the ice. His hands are smug in his coat pockets.
Sunghoon doesnât take the time to question it until heâs skating at breakneck speed towards him.
He swings at him, but the stranger disappears into smoke.Â
âOr do you still have regrets?â the voice is behind him again. Sunghoon turns around to the stranger, giving him that annoying, shiteating grin.Â
âI want out,â Sunghoon says with a strained jaw. âBring me back. To Sunghee. To Sungjae. To her. Now.â
The blonde laughs. âYou havenât even done what you set out to do yet. Wasn't this what you wanted?â
Sunghoon lets out a bitter sigh, chest tight.
âI get it, okay?" he says with wavering breaths. "I was selfish. I asked for too much. I get it now. So just... please. Please, send me back.â
The boy steps forward. His sneakers make no sound on the ice. Inches away from Sunghoon now, just a little taller than him.Â
âYou donât always get what you want in life,â the stranger says with that sick, twisted grin. It sends a rush of dread through Sunghoon's body.
âI thought you would have learned that by now.â
the world championships.
Heâs in the locker room. His left leg is bouncing up and down, nail splitting as he gnaws at it incessantly. Only ten contestants ahead of him, but he has the time to panic. Just like he did before.
Coach Jung pats him on the shoulder. âDonât think too much. You're gonna psych yourself out.â
Sunghoon shakes his head, unlocking his phone to check the time. The lockscreen, snow falling past a dark streetlight, holds his gaze longer than it should. He sighs.
âI'm not nervous,â Sunghoon replies, unconvincingly. âIt's just cold.â
Coach Jung rolls his eyes.
âYou're not new to this, kid,â he doubts the young man. âYou're gonna do great out there. This is what you've been dreaming of. Just don't mess it up.â
And when Coach Jung shuts the door behind him, Sunghoon puts his hands to his face. And instead of self-affirmations, he is trembling. Barely breathing, he replays the memory again. Of him spinning you in his arms. Of your kind smile.
Sunghoon told himself not to expect you. In this lifetime, you'd only met once. Only fucked once. But he still thought... maybe the universe would be kind. Maybe youâd show up like you did back then.
âCan the remaining five acts please be on stand-by?â the overhead speaker blares into the locker room. That's him. He's one of the last five.Â
Thereâs no one to hold him back this time. No distractions. Just an aching in his chest.Â
Sunghoon's by the stands now. He watches with shaky hands as the crowd âoohsâ and âahhsâ at his competitorsâ routines. He hates watching before his turn.Â
His eyes naturally fall on a seat in the stands. He blinks, rubbing his eyes to check if he was hallucinating.Â
Someone sits there. Not a stranger. Not this time. It's you. Your brows furrowed like you were forcing yourself not to enjoy his competitorâs performance. Wearing the same outfit. He huffs a laugh under his breath. What are you doing here?
As the routines passed one by one, he could not take his eyes off you. Even from afar, your eyes glisten so beautifully. The same eyes that once glowed, helping the kids with homework. The same eyes that looked at him across the table after long days and short tempers. His wife. The mother of his children. The version of life he gave up for this one.
Now, he would have to settle for this. Longing stares and a heartbeat he could hear in his ears.
âNext to skate, representing the People's Republic of Korea. Sunghoon Park!â
He steps onto the ice with a big smile on his face. He forces it out, forces himself to act fine when you cheer at the sound of his name. He takes his pose at the center of the ice.
The music begins. His edges wobble, nerves bleeding into the blade. He practiced day and night, no distractions. Not even you. So why⊠Why was this happening?Â
He takes in a deep breath as he prepares himself for the first spin. Heâs skating backwards, building up momentum. He pushes off the ice. Toe pick hits.
Sunghoon rose high. He spots himself. One. Two. Three. Almost fourâ but his shoulders tilt, the axis too loose. The rotation slows. A half-second of weightlessness gives way to gravity, and heâs tumbling onto the ice hard.Â
Gasps echo through the arena, and then applause as he brushes himself back up and onto his skates again.
He gets up. He keeps going. Muscle memory takes over. The rest of the routine is clean. Almost perfect, but not enough.Â
The first quad... He fucked it up. He bows, head down, as if apologizing for even trying.
And when the score is announced while he's sitting on the sidelines, his body is limp. He barely reacts, face blank with emotion.
He could blame you for it. Pretend you were the reason why his routine didn't score high. But the truth is, he stopped believing in excuses a long time ago.
Years of hating himself led here. All this time, resenting the path he took, only to fuck this one up, too.Â
Sunghoon had to laugh. He deserves it. Of course he did. The low score. You leaving him. The heartache.Â
Everything he thought he was capable of, everything he pushed aside to have this moment. None of it mattered without you.Â
As he rises from his seat on the floor, he searches for you in the endless crowd of faces. The other competitors pass by him with pity; he sees it in everyoneâs faces. But they don't matter.Â
Because you're gone. Your seat is empty.Â
"Kid-"Â
He pushes past Coach Jung without looking back. There's nothing left to say.
Sunghoon pulls his skates off skillfully, breaking into a sprint towards the exit. He runs with only socks separating him from the floor.Â
Then he sees you, clutching your stomach and moving toward the exit. His breath catches. Somehow, he knows. He's seen it all play out before.
â[Y/N], wait!â
You stop in your tracks, hands trembling. You turn around, and he is already clutching your face, kissing you so deeply. You would have every right to push him away, to call him a creep and spit every insult at him. But you donât, and he doesnât understand why.
Instead, you lean into his touch, fingers fisting the thin fabric of his blouse. Heâs the first to pull away, forehead resting against yours.
âWhy are you here?â he asks. Itâs not the only question he has, but itâs the first that comes out. Youâre crying now, eyes wide, mouth parted. But why?
âI was justâŠâ You try, but you fail to find the right words. âI just came to support you?â
Sunghoon shakes his head. He doesn't buy it. Not for a second. Your voice faltered. He knew better now not to let things linger.
âYou came to tell me something,â he says knowingly, replaying the scene of the past in his head as it happens right in front of him. He smiles sadly, wiping a stray tear from your cheek. âWhat is it?â
You flinch.
âI canât,â you whisper, the first barrage of tears falling down your face. âIt'll ruin you.â
He laughs then. Quiet. Tired. Even in this life, you were so selfless. He doesnât deserve you. Never did.
âYou always say that. Even now.â
He takes your hands into his.
âAre you pregnant?â he asks, taking the words right out of your lips. Your mouth opens in shock.
âHow did you-?â
âWe'll figure it out,â Sunghoon interrupts softly. He was smiling now. Sunghee was here. She was growing inside you. âTogether.â
For a moment, something shifts. You search his face like youâre looking for confirmation. And just like that, you pull away. What? It stings.Â
This didn't happen before. Why were you-
âYou went back," you say. "Didnât you?â Your voice sounds foreign now, laced with hurt. Itâs his turn to look confused.Â
âWhat do you mean?â he asks, hands reaching for yours again. You avoid them, and he feels a sharp pain in his chest. âWhat are you talking about?â
âYou⊠You went back in time like I did, right?â Sunghoonâs eyes widened. âThatâs how you knew.â
He freezes.
It clicks. Like cold water hitting his skin. He remembers the first time he saw you in this life. How carefully he avoided you. How he left the penguin plushie behind, just like before. How badly youâd looked at him after that. It all makes sense now.
âI didnât want to avoid you,â he musters. âI had every intention of finding you again. I passed by that damn cafe every day just to see you-â
You shake your head, but he keeps going, vomiting out word after word.
âI even tried to talk to you, but you looked so happy. All I could think about was the last time we spoke. How you said you regretted us. Watching you with Beomgyu, or whatever his name is-"
âSunghoon-âÂ
âI was fucking miserable-â His voice cracks.
âSunghoon-â Youâve never heard him talk this much. Never seen him look so broken.
âAnd I couldnât even fight the guy who dragged me into this mess. I was stuck. Thinking about you. About us. About Sunghee. Sungjae. God, I missed you all so fucking much it hurt to breatheââ
âSunghoon, pleaseââ
âAnd I shouldâve just caught that stupid penguin. I should've just relived our memories together. I shouldâve been a better man, a better husband, a better father. But I just keep fucking it up. Every single time, even now-â
âHoon!â you shout, grabbing his face with your hands. His words die off. He finally breathes. You donât look angry, not at him at least.
âI know,â you say quietly. âBecause I didnât put my number on the penguin.â
His mouth parts slightly. "Wha-"
"I thought I was the one who messed it all up," you confess. âWhen you didnât pick up the plush, I thought it was because of me. Because I tried to change things.âÂ
You swallow back your tears as he listens to you intently, your hands sliding to his chest.
âI thought youâd be better off without me, too.â
You let out a bitter laugh.
âI tried to fill the space,â you continue. âTried to pick up things I couldn't before. But all I think about was Sunghee and Sungjae."
Your eyes waver, lips pressed together tightly.
"And you," you breathe out. "I saw you skating, training so hard, and you looked happy. I couldnât bring myself to take it away from you again.â
You pause, lips trembling.
âSo I made a plan. I thoughtâif I could just get Sunghee back, maybe one day Iâd find you again for Sungjae.â
You both let out a shaky laugh.
"So then I went to the bar," you sigh. "I wore that red dress and I just hoped you would find your way to me again-â
âOf course I would,â Sunghoon interrupts, kissing your temple. âI always do.â
âAnd it worked.â You look at the ground like you're ashamed. âThe test was positive. I wasnât planning on telling you.â
Sunghoon takes your hands, forcing you to look at him. His eyes assure you.
âAnd then you fell during your routine,â you whisper, a sad laugh slipping out. "I thought⊠I avoided you all this time for nothing.â
He laughs too. âI wasnât even going to win anyway.â
Sunghoon pulls you back into a hug, stroking your hair ever-so-softly.
âIâm sorry,â he whispers. âFor making you ever feel like I regretted choosing you.â
And you didnât know you needed to hear those exact words until you sob into his chest.
Sunghoon soothes you. Heâs had enough crying. All he is now is grateful. The pain, the mourning. It all led him here.Â
âThis time weâll do it right,â he assures you. âI love you. Iâm not letting you do this alone.â
You pull away from him, eyes wet but smiling.
âI love you too.â
And you tilt your head as he reaches down to kiss you. With your eyes both closed, the world around you spins. Just you and him. In each otherâs arms. His lips are soft against yours.
And a voice unfamiliar to both of you echoes in the air.
âI hope you can live a life without regrets.â
Sunghoonâs eyes open groggily, pain shooting through his spine almost immediately. All he sees are sterile hospital walls and Jay and Sunooâs concerned faces.
They hover over the foot of his bed, their faces a mix of worry and irritation.
He blinks, scanning the room. Wires. A blood pressure cuff. An IV drip. Another bed. Then your eyes flutter open too.
âYou know, with how the divorce is going, we thought you two crashed into each other on purpose,â Sunoo chirps, unempathetic to the dazed state of his friends. Jay smacks him on the shoulder.
âYouâre lucky I managed to get you both a private room,â Jay mutters. âThe nurses kept whispering about you two in the ICU.â
Sunghoon turns his head slowly, wincing. Youâre awake now, alert, your expression matching his. His chest tightens. And almost in a panicked daze, his head snaps back to his friends.
âSunghee and Sungjaeââ he strains out, pain shooting through his lungs. âWhere are they?â
Jay furrows his brows.
âThey werenât in the car with [Y/N], if thatâs what youâre worried about,â he starts. âTheyâre looking for a vending machine with Heeseung and Jungwon-â
You both let out a shaky breath. For a second, relief replaces pain. Your eyes meet his for just a second before the door bursts open.
âMom! Dad!â Sunghee's voice cries out. Sheâs running towards you two now, but Heeseung stops them.
âWhoa there, princess. Theyâre fragile.â
Her eyes are red, as if she had just finished crying. Sungjae's behind Heeseung, tugging at his jacket, worry etched across his little face.
âYou didnât do it on purpose, did you?â Sunghee blurts in your direction. Sunghoon has to bite the inside of his cheek to stifle a laugh. âThey donât have it on camera, but they said your car hit Daddyâs!â
He feels something warm bloom in his chest. Itâs been a while since Sunghee sounded so protective of him.
You shake your head frantically. âNo, darling. My brakes stopped working! I could never hurt your dad. He and I love each other very much-â
You stop yourself, but it's too lateâcheeks already warming at the shifting gazes of the four grown men in the room. Jungwon fakes a cough.
âLove? As in, present tense?â he teases.
Sunghoon has the biggest grin on his face, and Sunoo scoffs as his eyes pivot between the two of you.
âDid you both hit your head in the accident?â
Heeseung clears his throat. âSo, why donât we take the kiddos to dinner, hm? Looks like Mom and Dad have some catching up to do.â
Sungjae nods excitedly. âPlease! They're so icky.â
The adults usher the kids out, and Jay gives one last wink to the two of you before the doors close. The room falls quiet except for the not-so-steady beeping of the monitors. Sunghoon is the first to speak.
âSo... when do you want me to pick up the papers again?âÂ
You laugh softly.Â
âOh! I guess if you want to go through with itâŠâ
âNo!â Sunghoon shouts, eyes huge. 'Heâs so cute when he doesnât mean to be,' you think to yourself.
You tilt your head, smiling. âThen donât even think about getting them.âÂ
Your bed is near enough for you to inch your hand towards his forearm. Your touch is featherlight against his skin. It takes all of his strength to intertwine your fingers with his.
âSo what does this mean for us?â you say through bated breath. He ponders for a second.
âIt means⊠maybe I can build you an art studio in our garage?â he says cautiously. âAnd maybe I quit my job? Become a figure skating coach? How does that sound?âÂ
You let out a stronger laugh this time, one that aches in your ribs but still feels good. And in this version of you, older and wiser. He still thinks youâre so beautiful.
âI donât resent you,â he whispers. And your heart skips a beat, in a way that it hadnât in a long time. You smile at him. And finally, you find the courage to say it in this life too.
âI love you.â
He brings your fingers to his lips and plants gentle kisses on your knuckles.
In every lifetime, Sunghoon knows. He could be standing on the Olympic stage, the roar of thousands echoing in his ears. He could have everything he ever thought he wanted. But none of it would matter. Not if you werenât there.
âI love you too," he replies, quietly.
And in every lifetime, he will always find his way back to you. And he will choose you. Over and over again.
epilogue.
Sungjae is on the garage floor, legs crisscrossed as he watches something on his iPad. Sunghoon is installing shelves for your future artist corner while Sungjae's video is strangely on mute.
âWhat you watching, son?â he asks, trying to distract himself from the tight pull in his lower back.
Sunghoon nearly drops the shelf on his eye. âW-what?â
Sungjae shrugs.Â
âLooks interesting,â he mutters. âWish I could fly like that.â
Sunghoon sets the shelf down carefully, then crosses the room to crouch beside Sungjaee. On the screen, a much younger version of himself soars across the ice. He remembers that routine. His first national win.
âDidn't think you'd be into it,â he ruffles his sonâs hair.
Sungjae shrugs again, but pink tinges his cheeks.
âYou never asked.â
The words hit him. He never really did. Not even with Sunghee.
âDo you want to try?â Sunghoon asks slowly. âFigure skating?â
Sungjae finally looks up, eyes wide. âCan I?â
Sunghoon feels tears well up in his eyes, and he coughs them away. What was up with him and crying these days?
âOf course, son,â he says, pulling him into a gentle side hug. âYou'll be my first student.â
summary â Sunghoon is good at exactly two things: gaming and being ridiculously, unbelievably hot. Nothing matters to him more than leading the school's esports team to victory at regionals this year, but a certain summer course is getting in the way of all his practice time. Luckily, he thinks he's found himself the cheat code to an easy A and a clear schedule: you, a project partner so easily flustered by his presence that you'll happily take on all the work.
18+ mdni â ïž smut with plot, humour, very mild angst, college au, slowburn, sunghoon pov, in which his face card is the only thing saving him, valorant, e-sports, gaming terms used, toxic gaming culture, emotional manipulation, morally grey characters, misogynistic themes & language, extremely possessive!sunghoon, objectification, sex as an apology, corruption kink, loss of virginity, virgin!reader, dom!Hoon, verbal consent, size kink, big dick hoon (couldn't help myself sorry), big dick=big ego, begging, multiple smut scenes, multiple positions, multiple orgasms, handjobs, fingering, p in v, unprotected sex (pull-out method), oral (f receiving), rough sex, hair pulling, light choking, scratching, slapping, spanking, heavy praise kink, light degradation, please guys do not lose your virginity like this
FEAT. hyung line as roomies
wc â 30.7k
a/n â ah, what a treat it was to return to my comp sci major sunghoon roots. i love writing about losers and uh... i kinda went insane with this one. this is inspired by a comment left by @m-hypen on my other fic ⥠takes place in the same au but this is entirely a standalone. i might make more for the rest of the hyung line eventually? but weâll see. happy reading!
"Sunghoon!"
Headshot, headshot, assistâthat's all that's being processed when the front door bursts open hard enough to rattle the empty energy drink cans on Sunghoon's desk. He doesn't blink, even as one of them falls over, rolling around on the floor. He doesn't even stop to think about the remaining drop left in the can that's probably leaking onto the carpet somewhere.
"Sunghoon, get your ass out here!"
He's in game mode, and nobody stops him when he's like that. Not even his roommates, whose approaching footsteps he fails to register. The only thing that matters is the screen in front of him as he lines up his next shot, just waiting for the remaining enemy teammate to peek around the corner. His prey is right there. Right behind that wall. All they have to do is walk into his trap.
Just peek already, you little pussy bitchâ
"Sunghoon!"
He yelps when a hand clamps on his shoulder. His arm jerks, aim twitching, and the enemy peeks at that very moment, landing a clean headshot on him. His teammates start cursing at him in the voice chat. A lovely, overlapping chorus of "kill yourself" and "delete the game" as if he hadn't carried them for the past two rounds.
Sunghoon mutes the mic and pulls his headphones down around his neck, glaring behind him at Heeseung, who is practically dragging him up from his seat. He tries to yank his arm away, but then another pair of hands is hauling him out of his seat. He directs his glare back at Jay.
"What the fâ"
"Don't act surprised. I literally told you we needed your help an hour ago. It's your fault for queueing a ranked game," Jay states, patting his shoulder. Sunghoon is now on his feet, blinking at him. Annoyed, but... ultimately unable to argue back, given he had ignored all his texts.
"Can't you just get Jake or something?" He mutters.
Jay is already leaving his bedroom, and Heeseung nudges him forward, forcing him to follow. Sunghoon rolls his eyes, a heavy sigh escaping him. He moves with begrudging footsteps out into the hallway.
"It's a four-man job. Turns out my grandma's coffee table is heavy as shit."
"Your grandma's coffee table...?"
He's not exaggerating. The thing is solid oakâmasterfully crafted, intricately carved, and so extremely fucking heavy that by the time they've wrestled it through the front door, all four of them go down, collapsing to the couch. Jake, already muttering something about needing a drink, Heeseung describing his physical decline in real time, and Jay, heaving in silence.
Sunghoon sinks into the cushions, and his vision blurs, wondering which is more to blame for it: the summer heat or the fact that he's been skipping the gym to play ranked and living off microwave ramen for the past few weeks. His headset is still around his neck, and he can hear his teammates losing without him. He doesn't care. He can't feel his arms.
"Fuck, I'm gonna feel that in my back for weeks," Heeseung announces to the ceiling, then his head lifts, "but look at thatâreally ties the place together, right?"
He gestures to the room. Sunghoon's eyes glaze over the sight. Bare white walls, curtainless windows, a TV that sits directly on the floor, and a trash bag in the corner full of takeout containers and red solo cupsâand of course, now, the beautiful table, sticking out like a sore thumb amid the room's college-boy barrenness.
"We've lived here a whole year now," Sunghoon starts between breaths, not enough energy in him to glare at his roommates. "Not once has any one of us said, 'Oh no, where will I put my cup of coffee?'"
"Who says we have to use it for coffee?"
He blinks. He doesn't know when Jake left the room, but he's now returning with a six-pack of beer, setting it down on the new table. He cracks one open immediately, settling next to him on the couch.
"My grandma's downsizing." Jay reaches forward, patting the table's surface with genuine affection. "She gave it to us for free. You don't say no to a free coffee table."
"Well, it looks stupid." Sunghoon folds his arms, "Really helps the whole we have nothing aesthetic."
"Come on. We're adults now." Heeseung perks up, "Adults have coffee tables. It's about presentation. Besides, I heard chicks dig it. Something about owning real furniture and bed frames just does it for them."
"None of us are bringing girls home," Sunghoon starts, looking at each of them. He sees Jake's mouth open to protest, "And no, your weird situationship does not count."
"Maybe that's 'cause we didn't have a coffee table before," Jay shrugs.
"Yeah, tell the ladies all about your grandma's furniture. I'm sure they'll start lining up the block."
Sunghoon feels a headache starting behind his left eye, and when he hears the game end through his headset at his shoulders, he rips the device from his neck, shoving it to the cushion at his side.
"Shitty ass game," He mutters.
A sweat had gathered at his brow, and he now moves to wipe it as he's reaching for a beer, cracking it open and taking a large gulp like it's water.
"Rough match?"
"Nah. Would've been an easy match," Sunghoon replies, groaning, "Just stressed. Coach has been pressuring me, plus there's that stupid course I have to retake this semester."
"Tough life being Captain of the E-sports team, huh?" Heeseung jokes, "Or what is it you were called that one time? The school's biggest virgin?"
Captain of the E-sports team. A title Heeseung delivers like a punchline. Most people do. Sunghoon, on the other hand, wears it with pride, and had long since stopped trying to explain himselfâboth the fact that being the best player in the whole school is a legitimate accomplishment, and the fact that he is not a virgin. Effectively explaining either of those things would require Heeseung to actually care, which he doesn't.
Sunghoon had spent his whole life refining his skills for that sort of recognition. He shoots with precision and wins. He reads his opponents to filth, predicting their every move, and annihilates them with ease. He plays Valorant at a level that makes his teammates worship him like a god, and the enemy team start inventing new slurs to type in the chat. That is to say, he was very, very good at it. And very serious about it.
It's precisely why he doesn't have time for moving coffee tables. Or sitting around like this. Orâ
His phone buzzes.
His is summer course. Right.
The one he'd failed last semester, that his academic advisor had gently but firmly informed him he needed to retake if he wanted to graduate on time. He'd registered for it in a fog of dismissive irritation back in March, figuring it would be easy enough. And then the syllabus had dropped with the word group project, and he'd been assigned a project partner who had emailed him four times before the first week of classes had even ended, asking about meeting up weeks before the deliverable due dates.
He reaches for his phone, scrolling through the feed of missed notifications from you: One shared document link, more than a couple missed messages, andâhe squintsâa voice memo. Who the fuck sends voice memos about code?
"Is that the project partner you keep complaining about?" Heeseung leans over his shoulder, snatching the phone away, "She sends voice memos. How adorable. Don't tell me you're ignoring those?"
"Give it back."
He doesn't; instead, he hits play, raising the volume to the max so the whole room can hear it.
"Hey, Sunghoon. How are you? Um... I'm here at the library now. I know we agreed to meet at three o'clock, but I got here a little early," he hears you laugh a bit nervously through the speaker. You have one of those that's just a little too sweet, a little too apologetic for no reason in particular. "I booked a study room, so text me when you're here. And... that's all for now. Bye, Sunghoon."
The boys sit there in silence. Glaring in disbelief at their friend.
"Oh my god," Heeseung groans, "Sweet Jesus, your partner sounds like this, and you've been ignoring her?"
Jay snatched the phone, glaring at it, then glaring at Sunghoon, "She sounds like an angel. What the fuck is wrong with you? Like, medically. What kind of mental illness does a guy have to have to end up like this?"
"That's the long-term psychological damage of being a Valorant player," Jake scoffs, and Sunghoon rolls his eyes.
"Play it again," Heeseung demands, and Jay rewinds it a bit, just to hear the breathing and that nervous little laugh through the speaker, a smile forming on his lips, "Is she cute? She sounds cute. She's got the voice. You know the one that some girls have, that makes you think about what other noises they couldâ"
"I don't know. I haven't even met herâyet." Sunghoon snatches the device back, "She's annoying. She sends like twenty messages a day."
"Twenty messages a day," Heeseung looks at him, "From a girl who sounds like she whimpers when she's nervous. You know what I'd do with twenty messages a day? I'd be jacking off to the typing indicators."
"That's disgusting. Keep that shit to yourself."
"What's disgusting is you having a girl sending you personalized audio content, saying your name like that, and choosing to ignore it."
"Bet he's got it all in a folder somewhere," Jay snorts, "Keeps it hidden away, playing on loop while he queues ranked. Jacks off between rounds."
"I've never even listened to any of these," Sunghoon says flatly, "She sends so many. Seriously. She's like an organized freak. The kind who start projects early and shit."
"Oh, so she's one of those girls?" Jake grins, "super nervous, apologizes for nothing... You know the type?"
"I don't." Sunghoon deadpans, feeling like his friend is about to start describing a porno category rather than an actual person, given the smirk on his face.
"The type that acts all innocent and sweet on the surface," Heeseung nudges him, "you know what they say about them, right? That they're total freaks in bed. Shit, if a girl like that booked me a study room I'dâ"
"Actually finish your degree and graduate?" Jake offers.
"I'd graduate with honours."
"She's probably been waiting in the library for how long, now?" Jay shakes his head, "She got there early. Early. She's probably sitting there with her little notes and highlighters and her 'bye Sunghoon' voice, checking her phone every thirty seconds, and you're here drinking beer and complaining."
Today. The meeting was today. He checks the timeâforty minutes ago.
"Shit," Sunghoon's on his feet, sprinting towards his room, "Shit, shit, shit."
He starts digging around for his backpack in his room, under piles of laundry, and nearly trips on the can he forgot to pick up on his floor.
"Guys, the library!" he calls out in a panic, "I'm supposed to be at the library. I need a ride. Now. Jay?"
"Not my problem."
"Jake?"
"Nope."
Sunghoon grabs his bag and stumbles back to the living room, bracing himself against the doorframe. Heeseung is already looking at him with that slow, insufferable smile, sprawled on the couch like he's been waiting for this exact moment.
"I dunno," Heeseung says, stretching his arms over his head with a theatrical groan. "I'm feeling pretty tired. That table was heavy."
"I helped."
"You complained the whole time."
"I did notâ"
"And you kept voice memos hidden from me. From all of us. That's a betrayal of household trust."
"I didn't hide anything. You're just a nosy degenerate." Sunghoon's grip tightens on the doorframe. "Are you driving me or not?"
"Hm." Heeseung taps his chin. "Maybe if you ask me nicely..."
Sunghoon takes a breath. Swallows his pride.
"Heeseung." He says through gritted teeth, "Can you please drive me?"
"Ah, I like the sound of that." Heeseung pushes off the couch and brushes past him with infuriating slowness. "Fine. But you owe me. I wanna hear more of cute-girl's voice notes, so be nice to her."
"Okay. Whatever, you fucking pervert." Sunghoon scoffs, watching him snag his keys off the hook by the door. "Just drive."
The library's fairly empty. It's expected, given it's the middle of summer on a weekend, but it's still jarring as ever to walk past empty tables where people would go to war to get a spot during finals season. And, for the first time in a while, he's thankful to be in an air-conditioned building.
"Hi Sunghoon!" you greet him as soon as he enters the room, seemingly startled by the suddenness of his arrival. He watches you for a moment, how your back straightens, and your immediate, almost rehearsed smile.
She's got the voice. Heeseung's words ring in his mind as he takes you in, you know the one that some girls have, that makes you think about what other noises they couldâ
"Hi," he answers, slipping into the seat next to you, "Sorry for making you wait. Roommate stuff. Had to move a coffee table. Very adult."
You laugh a little too quickly, and he notes the way your hands tremble in your lap. He also notes the way you refuse to meet his eyes.
"That's okay," you glance towards your phone, which was still face-up with its messages open. You fumble with it, tucking it away. "I was just worried maybe, like, you got lost or something."
Lost? He has to resist the urge to scoff. He's late, and instead of being upset, you decided to make up lousy excuses for him.
He looks you up and down again. You're cute, like you sounded over the phone. A nervous-looking mess. The type of thing his roommates would call endearing. Sunghoon, on the other hand, finds it frustratingly pathetic.
"So." You're already turning your laptop to face him, "I've been working on the backend structure. I commented everything, so it should be pretty straightforward. Here's the API setup, and the database schema..."
You click through files as you talk, your voice picking up speed, and he doesn't listen. He tries to. He swears, he does. But his eyes instead follow your posture, and how you sit uptight, spine straight. Your hands fumble around, twitching like you can't keep them still, and your knees bounce under the desk like a nervous habit.
Good god, you look like you'll crumble to pieces any moment. He can feel a headache creeping up on him already. It's exhausting just looking at you.
"...What do you think?"
"Huh?" He blinks, taking in whatever you're pointing to on your screen. You're looking at him all bright-eyed and earnest, as if his opinion would add any sort of valuable insight here. "I... think it looks good. You did well."
"Really?"
"Yeah, I mean," he shrugs, "Why do you sound so surprised?"
His question catches you off guard. He suspected it would, that's why he asked it. Not that he was trying to prod around in your anxious little head. Just that you seemed predictable. Now he knows you are.
"I just..." You're tapping the desk now. "I wanted it to be up to your standards. I didn't want to disappoint you."
"My standards?" He repeats. Then, unexpectedly, he laughs. Not at youâwell, maybe a little at you. But mostly at the absurdity of the most competent person in the room, asking for his approval. "You're something else, you know that?"
You blink. "What does thatâ?"
"Here," He's still smiling. The headache from earlier has faded. He's not sure when. "Let me show you what you're working with."
He opens his laptop and spins it toward you. His frontend code sits there in all its tragic gloryâbare bones, placeholder text, a CSS file with plenty of questionable styling decisions. Your take it all in, and for a split second, you forget to hide the horrified expression on your face.
"See? Trash. Actual garbage. I don't even show up to class. I'm not the guy whose 'standards' you should be worried about. Besides..." He leans back. "You're probably the best student in the whole class."
"I'm sure I'm not," you say, almost bashful, brushing it off as if it were a compliment. It wasn't. He was stating a fact. But you're too self-deprecating to know the difference, he supposes. "And your code isn't trashâ"
"It is. We both know it's ass. You don't have to be polite."
"It's... disorganized. And a little rushed..." You hesitate, "Were you busy with somethingâ?"
"Oh my god, you have no idea," he tilts his head back, a sigh of frustration leaving him almost immediately. "Regionals. Scrims every night. Coach breathing down my neck. I'm pretty sure I heard someone call for a flank in my dream last night, and I don't even think I was asleep. Or maybe that was just my roommates fucking with me again..."
You nod along as if you understand, though you definitely don't. You probably don't even know what half those words mean, but you're listening, and for some reason, that's less annoying than it was ten minutes ago.
"Anyway. I know it's rough. But like I said. Don't worry your head over anything else. I'll get to it, I swear."
"I'm not worried. I trust you. We still have another week, so it's not like it's last-minute. We just need to clean up some things here," You nod sweetly, then angle the screen toward him and lean in, your shoulder nearly brushing his. "The class labelling in the HTML is messing with the CSS styling. If you restructure the divs here, it should resolve most of the layout issues. And then here..."
You start explainingâspecificity, nesting, the cascade. Your voice is steady now, in your element. You point at the screen with a capped highlighter like a tiny lecturer. He catches maybe sixty percent of it.
What he catches more of is your instinctive forgiveness. He shows up an hour late with half-done work that looks like a middle schooler's first project, and you're already pivoting to reassurance mode. It's okay. It's a good start. We can fix it.
It's spineless. A little sad, honestly.
It's also nice. You're a nice person. No bite, no sarcasm, no passive-aggressiveness, just pure, unearned kindness.
He sighs, leaning back in his chair, settling in as you continue. He makes himself comfortable as best he can in his plastic library chair, and subconsciously, his legs spread, his knee drifting outward until it presses against yours under the table.
It wasn't intentional, and he's about to mutter a quick apology and draw his leg back, but then you pause completely. Your mouth is still half-open around whatever you were about to say, but nothing comes out. Your eyes drop to the table. Your fingers freeze over the trackpad.
He notices. He absolutely notices all of it. The way you swallow, the way your lip trembles trying to find your next word, the way you glance at him from the side in a panic, checking to see his reaction.
She gets flustered when I touch her, he thinks, filing the thought away like data, interesting.
He doesn't move his knee. Doesn't say anything or make any sort of face. He just watches you scramble, suddenly feeling a lot less bored than he'd felt a few seconds ago.
"Iâ" You shake your head, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. "Sorry, what was Iâthe bullet points. Right. I'll email you."
You clear your throat. Find your place in your notes again, though your hands are fumbling slightly, your crisp efficiency gone. You're scrambling to recover, to be useful again, to reassert the order you're using as a crutch.
"Anyway," you manage, "That's everything from my end. We're in good shape."
You're already packing up. The laptop closed with a decisive click. Highlighters swept into your bag in a single motion. Notebook stacked on top. The organized girl, reassembling her armour. Trying to pretend the last thirty seconds didn't happen.
"You in a hurry?" He has to hold back a teasing grin as you scramble for your words.
"No! I meanâyeah. Just. Gotta go, so... yeah. See you next week. Or something."
"Yeah. Or something."
He doesn't move. He's thinking about the bus. The long, slow route across campus. The forty-minute wait. Maybe Jay will pick up if he calls. Maybe Heeseung will text him something unhelpful, like walk it builds character.
You're standing, bag over your shoulder, then you pause, noticing he hasn't gotten up. "You're staying?"
"Hm? Just deciding if I want to beg my roommates for a ride, or suck it up and take the bus."
"Oh..." you adjust the strap of your bag, watching him thoughtfully.
Your hand is already at the door, ready to go. But you don't. Your mouth hangs open slightly, hesitating on your next word.
"Do you maybe want a ride? I have my car. If you want."
He looks at you. Still shrinking yourself. Still avoiding direct eye contact. And you're offering him a ride he didn't ask for. You're offering favours for himâa stranger you don't know. He files that fact away, too.
"Yeah." He stands, slinging his bag over one shoulder. "A ride would be great, actually."
You smile like he's the one doing you a favour, and he smiles back. Not for the same reason. Just because he's feeling really fucking lucky that his project partner is this nice to him.
What a stupid, stupid idea. Really, what on earth were you thinking? Having him, of all people, in your car? In your passenger seat?
Park Sunghoon. You'd read the name about a hundred times in email threads and shared documents. Now that same man is here, in your car, looking out the window with his jawline catching the late afternoon light like it's trying to blind you. Your blood pressure is rising by the second, trying to keep your focus on the road, while your heart threatens to beat out of your chest.
Admittedly, you were annoyed at first. You'd spend an hour in the library, checking your phone, re-reading the room booking confirmation, composing and deleting increasingly pathetic messages. Hey, just checking in! No rush!
You even practiced in your head the polite-but-firm speech you'd planned to deliver. It's a new thing you've been trying to do where you don't let people walk all over youâwhere you set boundaries and explain that your time is valuable.
Then he'd walked in.
To call him hot would be an understatement. That man right there is not simply hot. Hot is a word for attractive people who still seem human. Sunghoon, on the other hand, looks like someone photoshopped a male model into your web programming course as a prank.
His hair is dark and slightly messy, like he just rolled out of bed and somehow falls perfectly into place. His jawline, so sharp it could kill you, and when he flashed that dimpled smile at youâthat lazy, unbothered, gorgeous smileâyour brain had performed a full system shutdown.
You don't offer people rides. You don't even like having your friends in your car. You get stressed by the thought of someone else in your space, watching you drive, listening to your playlist. And now he's in the passenger seat of your car, looking so gorgeous that you're wondering if he's even real, and you're freaking the fuck out.
His knee bounces idly as he stares out the window, and your eyes snag on the movementâthe way his hand, large and sprawled out, rests loose on his knee. You snap your gaze back to the road.
Deep breaths, you tell yourself, sparing him another glance from the corner of your eye. Stop thinking about weird stuff. Stop being weird. Just make conversation or something.
"So," you manage, and the fact that you manage to say it while sounding almost normal is a small victory. "You said you were busy? With, like, a summer internship or something?"
"Nah." He's still looking out the window, nodding his head slowly to the music. You don't even know what song you have playing. The sound of your own thoughts is too loud for you to notice, but a warmth floods your cheeks at the mere idea that he's enjoying your music. "E-sports. I'm on the school team. We've got regionals coming up."
You blink.
E-sports. You suppose it makes sense. He is in computer science, like you. Most guys in your program are into the whole video gaming thing. It's just hard to imagine him as one of them.
You try to picture it in your head: The E-sports team. A group of socially awkward loners who sit in darkened rooms with headsets, shouting at each other. And then thereâs Sunghoon who, beneath the old hoodie and messy hair, looks like he's one photoshoot away from a skincare campaign.
"That'sâ" You search for the right word. "Cool. I didn't realize the school had an E-sports team."
"Most people don't." He shrugs, glancing over at you. "It's not exactly a spectator sport. But we're good. Made regionals last season. Coach says if we podium this year, we might actually get real funding."
He says it less with arrogance, and more in that matter-of-fact tone he seems to always have. There's something about the way he doesn't perform humility or pride, how he states his truth and moves on. It seems easy. You admire that. You also find it deeply unfair that his voice is making you feel all sorts of things while he's just... talking.
"What game?" you ask.
"Valorant. The shooter. With the agents and the abilities?" He glances at you. "You've heard of it?"
"Oh! My younger cousin plays." You think back, laughing a little at the recollection of the time he made you download it to your laptop. "I'm terrible at it. Like, genuinely embarrassingly bad. I panic and shoot at the floor."
He laughs. It's a real laugh, short and surprised, and a heat creeps to your cheeks. "Everyone's bad at first. It's all just practice."
"Right. Practice." You're smiling now, "I'll add it to my schedule. Between the project and avoiding my parents' calls."
"Your parents?"
"Strict. They mean well, but..." You shake your head, letting your words trail off.
You feel the weight of his stare, a soft hum leaving his lips. The intersection ahead goes yellow. You slow to a stop, grateful for the excuse to look away from him.
"So." You pivot, "E-sports. You must be practicing a lot then, right?"
"It's a lot of pressure," he says, and his voice has shifted slightly. Less casual. His brows scrunch together, and he's looking out the window again, passing streetlights catching the angles of his sharp, beautiful profile. "Coach says if we don't podium, our funding might get cut. Again. So I've been practicing nonstop. Scrims every night. VOD reviews."
Scrims. VOD reviews. Words that do not exist in your vocabulary, but you nod your head along like you understand. You think you get the idea, anyway.
"And then there's this course." He gestures vaguely at you, at the car, at everything. "This bullshit that I have to retake it."
"You failed web programming?"
"I was carrying the team through the playoffs. Sacrificed my homework for practice." He rubs the back of his neck, and your eyes track the shift of his shoulder, the way his fingers press into the muscle there, the brief glimpse of his collarbone where his hoodie shifts. You look away before he catches you staring. "Didn't think I'd end up failing, but. Here we are."
You think about his half-finished frontend. The skeleton components. The CSS file, full of god knows what. He'd shown it to you with the sheepish shrug of someone who knew exactly how bad it was and hated it. He hadn't tried to convince you it was better than it looked.
"But it's okay. It's worth it to make it to regionals." He's smiling to himself, "I'll fucking destroy those losers. They won't know what hit them."
You laugh, but he doesn't. You realize it's not a joke very quickly, and so you clear your throat instead.
"And I'll get my work done, of course," he tips his head towards you, his posture shifting. "Can't guarantee my portion will be as good as yours. But you can blame it on me in the group review doc."
"I'm sure you'll do great," you hear yourself say. "Not just the project. The tournament, too."
He turns to look at you. The late afternoon light catches the side of his face, and you have to force your eyes back to the road.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." You clear your throat. "I mean, I don't know anything about E-sports. But you're the captain, right?"
"Yeah."
"So you must be good. Like, actually good."
He doesn't answer right away. When you glance over, he's not looking at the roadâhe's looking at you, head tilted slightly, like he's trying to figure you out.
"I am. I'm the best player on the team." He says it with that matter-of-fact tone again.
You pull up to his place. It's a student housing unitâone of those rundown ones that nobody cares about enough to fix up. Someone inside is yelling, the way guys yell when they're playing video games. You shift into park.
"Thanks," he says, unbuckling his seatbelt. "For the ride. And for... You know. Not being pissed about the code. Or the being late thing."
"It's fine," you smile. "Really. Don't worry about it."
He pauses with his hand on the door. Looks at you. There's something in his expression you can't read, the hint of a smile that you think might be lazy amusement, though you're not sure what he's amused by.
He stops. Shakes his head slightly. "See you soon?"
"Yeah! I'll send the invite. And the notes."
He smiles. That damn smile. And then he's gone, walking up the path to his door, and you're sitting in your parked car with your heart doing something stupid in your chest.
You watch him disappear inside.
You're warm all over, and there's no good reason for it either. All he did was sit there and talk to you like a normal person, and yet you're here, feeling a deeply humiliating sort of heat forming in your lower stomach the more you think about it.
Through the front window, you can see movementâsomeone on a couch, the blue glow of a TV. His roommates, probably. You wonder if he'll tell them about you. You wonder if they even know you exist.
Then you realize you're still parked outside his apartment, staring at his front door like a creep, and you pull away from the curb.
You have to drive all the way back to campus. It's a route you know by heart, familiar enough that your brain has permission to drift. And drift it doesâback to the study room, the way he'd leaned back in his chair, the way his knee had pressed against yours. You'd frozen. Completely, mortifyingly frozen. You'd forgotten your own sentence and stammered through the recovery.
And then he'd smiled at you in the car. And now you're smiling.
You're smiling at a red light with no one else in the car, like an idiot, and you can't stop.
It's late, past two in the morning, and the place has gone quietâHeeseung retreated to his room hours ago, Jake's been dead to the world the moment he got home from his summer job, and Jay's probably doomscrolling, given the amount of Instagram reels he keeps sending to the roommates group chat. The only light is the fridge, a dull white glow illuminating Sunghoonâs tired gaze.
Sunghoon stands in front of it, scanning the contents inside, none of it looking particularly enticing, but he just lost a ranked game, and he needs to eat his feelings.
Leftover takeout. Someone's half-eaten burrito. A case of energy drinks. He grabs a container that looks decent enoughâday-old noodles, probably Jayâs because nobody else in the house bothers to cook. Deciding that dealing with the aftermath of stealing his food is a problem for tomorrow, he shoves it in the microwave.
"Sup."
The floorboards creak behind him, and Sunghoon turns around to glare. Heeseung. Of course.
The microwave beeps, and Sunghoon grabs the container, shoving his chopsticks around. Itâs still cold in the center.
"Why do you always choose to enter the kitchen when I'm here?"
"Because we run on the same sleepless schedule," Heeseung moves to the sink, waterbottle held under the faucet and turns on the tap. His hair is a disaster, his shirt inside-out, and he watches Sunghoon eat Jayâs leftover noodles straight from the container, too lazy to comment on it. "And 'cause I wanna hear about your little library date. Was she cute?"
"Not a date."
"She drove you home. So it clearly went well." He turns off the tap and fastens the cap back on the plastic bottle. "Were you nice to her?"
"I was nice."
"You better have been. Most women would've called you a loser for being a grown ass man with no driver's license."
"Whatever."
"No, not whatever. I can't believe you." Heeseung points the water bottle at him, frowning, "I can't believe what I'm hearing. She waited an hour for you. Then she gave you a ride home.â
"I know. Real nice of her, right?"
"Too nice of her." Heeseung stares at him, watching him shove noodles into his mouth. "Jay's right. We really should do a scan of your brain. Admit you to a psych ward or some shit."
He doesn't want to talk about it. He doesn't want to think about it. But his brain, unhelpfully, is already thinking about it.
The project. He should really start working on the project. That's the thought he keeps trying to hold onto. Not because he actually wants to do it, but because of you.
You'd been kind. Genuinely kind. You'd asked about regionals like you gave a single shit. You'd nodded along while he talked about Valorant, even though you don't understand any of it.
Then there was his codeâhis shitty ass code that he knew was trash, that you knew was trash, too. There was no lecture. No guilt trip. Not even a hint of disdain. You just showed him how to fix it. Carefully explained it, even sent him an email after with an organized bullet-point list of all the steps he needed to implement.
An angel. That's what you are. Or a doormat. Itâs the same thing, in his mind.
A worse person would take advantage of that, wouldn't they?
His phone buzzes on the counter: One new email. An attachment. Then a second notificationâa voice memo.
Heeseung's eyes immediately drop to the screen.
"Is that her?"
"Can you notâ?"
Heeseung snatches the phone. Again. Sunghoon is too tired to fight him.
"She sent you another voice memo. At 2am." Heeseung's thumb hovers over the play button. "You know what girls send voice memos at 2am for, right?"
He's grinning as he presses play, and Sunghoon digs his chopsticks further into his noodles, ignoring his crude commentary.
"Hi, Sunghoon. Um. Okay, so I was thinking about earlierâabout the whole esports thing, and how stressed you seemed about the tournament? And I just... I had some extra time, so I finished up the code. It wasnât a big deal, really. Only took a few hours.â Thereâs a nervous laugh, then a pause like youâd forgotten your next words, âHopefully, this helps? So you can focus on practice and not have to worry about the project on top of everything else⊠yeah. Just. Let me know if you have questions. I'm always happy to help. Okay. This is getting long. Sorry. Bye, Sunghoon.â
Heeseung sets the phone down on the counter, the movement slow and careful, like heâd just handled a sacred artifact.
"Dude."
"I know."
"This is insane."
"I know."
"You've got a girl doing all your work for you. At two in the morning. Because you mentioned you were stressed about a Valorant tournament. Said sheâs always happy to help."
"I said I know. She's nice. Now leave me alone."
"No, I don't think you understand. Do you even realize what this is?" Heeseung is pacing now, the kitchen too small for his indignation. "This is the literal definition of pretty privilege. You literally just sit there, and sheâs doing things for youâHoly shit, it's like when Jake was doing some hot chick's homework for an entire semester 'cause he was begging for a crumb of pussyâ"
"Jake was manipulated." Sunghoon sets his leftovers down. "I'm not manipulating anyone. I didn't evenâI never asked for this."
"Yeah." Heeseung stops pacing and looks at him. "But you could've. That's the fucked up part. You could  ask her to come over right now and do your dirty laundry, and she'd say yes. She'd probably bring her own detergent."
Sunghoon wants to retort that, but... You would, wouldn't you? He drags two hands down his face, sighing as his roommate's mouth continues to run.
"Life's so unfair." Heeseung throws his hands up. "I send a girl one message. One. And she leaves me on read for three days. You ignore a girl for a week, and she's doing your homework, giving you rides home, and sending you audio porn. What is wrong with the world?"
Sunghoon's looking at his phone.
He should type something. Thanks, maybe. Or sorryâsorry youâre doing his work at 2am, sorry he didn't do it himself, sorry he's probably going to keep disappointing you. His thumb hovers over the keyboard.
thanks. you didn't have to do that.
Deletes it.
seriously thank you. i owe you.
Deletes it.
He pockets his phone and walks past Heeseung, leaving the leftovers container behind.
"Where are you going?"
"Bed."
"You're not going to respond? You're just going to leave her on read?" He half-calls out, "You're really gonna act like you're not interested at all?"
He shuts his door. Sits on the edge of his bed, the room dark except for the blue glow of his monitor in sleep mode and with a heavy sigh, he opens the voice recorder. A hand runs through his hair, and he clears his throat, feeling like an idiot. Then he presses record.
"Hey. Got your email. Thanks. You seriously didn't have to do that." A pause. He doesn't know how to end these things. Your voice memos always ended with âbye Sunghoon,â all soft and hesitant-sounding, but he thinks something like that would just sound awkward in his own voice. He then realizes heâs still recording and stammers, "I'llâyeah. I'll make it up to you. Goodnight."
He hits send before he can delete it and stares at it for longer than he should.
Girls like that shit, right? The whole voice memo thing. He's not sure. He just felt like you deserve a little more than a thank-you text for doing his work for him.
He tosses his phone onto his nightstand and lies back on his bed, long limbs stretched out from a long day of doing mostly nothing (apart from moving that damn coffee table).
His brain, unhelpfully, drifts back to the library. The way you'd frozen when his knee touched yours. The way you'd stammered through the rest of your sentence and then offered him a ride anyway. The way you'd looked at him in the car, wide-eyed and nervous. It's been a while since he'd seen anyone look at him like that.
Not that he's inexperienced with womenâunlike what his roommates' constant teasing would imply. It's a lack of interest, something he had discovered about himself in high school with his first whopping three-month-long relationship. He'd gotten bored of her in the first month, and when she asked him to choose âme, or your stupid game,â it really wasnât a difficult choice to make.
Then there was the odd fling here and there in his first year of college. Again, never lasted long. He didn't have the time or energy to commit. In his defence, he was upfront about his intentions. It's not his fault they never listened.
He stopped bothering after that. Girls are drama. They get clingy and weird. They pout and whine over not getting enough attention, trying to drag him away from his game. That shit is annoying. And he doesn't put up with annoying shit.
A part of him wonders if you'd be the same. You're cute, but insecure. The type to get attached too quickly, he'd assume. But you also listened when he talked about his game. You did his code so he could practice more and asked for nothing in return. That's maybe the most supportive any woman has ever been of his future E-sports career.
You could probably ask her to come over right now and do your dirty laundry, and she'd say yes.
He scoffs at Heeseung's voice in his head. Then, a much crueller thought enters his mind:
I could probably get her to do the whole project, too.
It's sharp and invasiveâso much so that he's rolling over with a groan, burying his face into the pillows.
Sunghoon's a lot of things. A shitty project partner being somewhere near the top of that list, but he is not a freeloading whore.
He'll be grateful and move on. He'll do his work, he'll win regionals, and when the semester is done, he'll never see your face again.
Sunghoon did not, in fact, do his work.
He tried toâif opening up an empty file and staring at it for five minutes before queuing another ranked Valorant game counts as trying.
Bless your heart, you even sent him reminders. Texts of encouragement with little smiley faces, offers to help, to which he replied with empty promises. Don't worry, I'm working on it tomorrow. I've got it. All good.
All of that, until he woke up the next week with a calendar notification:
deliverable 2 meeting today
It's a weekday, which means Jay took his car to work. Which means he has to take the bus to the library. Which means he won't have time to string something together at the last minute for when he's supposed to meet you.
Sunghoon: can we meet at my place?
Sunghoon: got no ride today
You: sure :)
He grins at the text. Perfect. That's perfect. All he has to do is sit down, write some bullshit, and hope that you offer to fix itâwhich he's sure you will. You're nice like that. You're understanding.
But then he's at his computer, and he's looking at the Valorant icon in the corner of his home screen. And then he's queuing another game. Then another. And another... andâ
The doorbell rings.
Hours. He'd just spent hours playing instead of doing his work like a fucking idiot. And now he's in the middle of a ranked game, clutching up another round.
"Heeseung!" He yells, "Get the door!"
No response. Of course, there's no response.
Luckily, the last remaining enemy peeks, and he finishes the round with another win. With that, he's sprinting to the door. Swings it wide open. A wave of muggy outdoor air hits him, the summer sun beaming down, and you're there smiling slightly, hands gripping the strap of your bag. He doesn't have time to process you.
"Come in," he gestures, sprinting back towards his room. He calls out over his shoulder, "Sorry, I'm in a game. Ranked. Can't leave. Make yourself at home."
He's sliding back into his seat, and your footsteps follow tentatively behind him.
âRanked?â
âLike, if I leave, Iâll be penalized and lose ranked points.â
âAh.â
You stand behind him, a polite distance away, still gripping your bag. You shift your weight where you stand, squinting at the screen.
"I'll be done soon, don't worry. These guys are easy."
"Okay..." You sound a little confused, leaning over his shoulder, watching him move through the map.
Somehow, the feeling of your eyes on him as he plays feels like a power boost. And something in him feels the urge to show off just a little bit. You watch him easily take out two enemies with precision, and he smiles, cockily.
"Told you. Easy."
A voice perks up in the lobby chat. The enemy team. "Reported for aimbotting. This is fucking bullshit."
Sunghoon presses the button on his mic to talk, "Nah. I'm just better."
The voice on the other end proceeds to start cussing him out, mouth close enough to the mic that it cuts out every few words, calling him every slur and cuss word under the sun and from the corner of his eye, he sees your face drop in horror. He mutes himself for a second.
"It's just trash talk. Don't worry. Happens all the time."
"All the time?"
âGaming culture. Itâs not for the weak.â
He gets another headshot, and another voice joins in, "Yo, asshole, how does it feel being a basement-dwelling, virgin?"
"Wouldn't know.â Sunghoon quickly unmutes again, firing back, âWhy don't you tell me about it?"
A third voice, "Don't bother with him. This guy probably jerks off to his own highlight clips. I guarantee he's never felt the touch of a woman."
Sunghoon's about to respond, but then you're leaning forward in one confident stride.
"Oh? You guarantee that?"
The mic picks up your voice loud and clear, and the lobby explodes. Both the enemy team and his own.
"NO WAY."
âWHO IS THAT?"
"Bro has a whole woman in his room, and he's playing Valorant right now."
"She sounds hot as fuck."
"Dude, I'll forfeit if you get her to moan in the mic."
"Can we get a whimper if we win the next round?" His teammate says.
âFuck off,â He says immediately, glancing over at you. Youâre shifting your weight, your arms around yourself, looking incredibly embarrassed, but youâre grinning proudly. He grins right back, unable to resist the urge to rub this moment in on every other loser in the lobby. âSheâs a little busy under the desk right now.â
Your eyes go wide at the implication, and the voice chat explodes.
âWHAT THE FUCK DOES HE MEAN BYââ
The whole lobby talks over each other, and when he gets his final shot, VICTORY printed across his screen, he leans back in his chair.
"Anyway, sheâs waiting for me," He glances over at you, his voice terribly smug, and you visibly embarrassed. "Later incels."
The post-game stats load, and finally, there is silence in his headset. He lets it fall to his neck, still grinning.
"Sorry." You start, "I didn't mean toâ"
"Sorry?" He raises a brow, "Sorry for what? That was badass. You just destroyed them. Now those guys have to cope with losing and being bitchless. They're gonna be crying over it for the next year, at least."
"Well... good. They deserve it." You say a little proudly, watching him report the guy who called him slurs for bullying. "I don't understand. How can people get so mad over a game?"
"Sore losers," he says simply, "they're mad because they're bad."
"Or they're mad because you're really good," you offer a smile, "I didn't see you miss a single shot. How is that possible?"
He opens his mouth to answer, but the words don't come. Instead, heâs blinking, really taking you in for a moment, because if his eyes donât deceive him, you actually seem⊠impressed. Genuine admiration. The kind he only gets from his teammates and other losers in game.
"Practice," he starts, letting his gaze drop, taking you in. The skirt that rides up your thighs, your hands clasped in your lap, and those wide, attentive eyes of yours. "Years of aim training. Game sense. Good instincts."
Something stirs in him, and suddenly heâs thinking about how good youâd look underneath him, making that same wide-eyed expression for an entirely different reason. How nervous that little voice of yours would sound making other kinds of noises for him, what youâd actually look like if you were under his desk on your knees.
You'd give in so easy.
âAnyone can learn it.â He finally says, the intensity of his gaze half-wiped, replaced with something more polite. âIt just takes dedication."
"I'm a lost cause with this stuff. Trust me," you laugh, "Anyway. We should probably get to the project."
Ah. The project.
The thing he has nothing to show for on his end because he didn't do anything.
âThere's a lot more ground we have to cover this time. There are a lot more features that need to be implemented this time and..."
You ramble on as you seat yourself at the edge of his bed, opening up your bag, and Sunghoon gulps.
He could rip off the band-aid and admit it right now. "Sorry, I'm an idiot, and I played ranked instead of doing my work, but I'll get it done in the next week, I swear."
But you already did his work last week. Already spent a whole week sending him reminders and sending sweet little voice notesâall of which he'd responded to with empty promises. He swears he never meant for those promises to become empty. He planned on doing his work. He just... didn't.
Instinctively, he stands, and mid-sentence, he's placing his headset on your head, adjusting it. You freeze up like last time, and look up at him with the most helpless gaze, all train of thought just gone. His train of thought is rather lost, too, if he's being honest.
"Better idea," he says, "What if I teach you how to play?"
"Butâ"
"You defended my honour in a Valorant lobby. That kind of bravery deserves a reward.â He pulls out his chair for you, "Sit."
You hesitate. He can see the war happening behind your eyesâthe good, responsible side of you trying to fight the flustered one that wishes to give in.
"Just one game. For me?" He reaches out and nudges your shoulder. He lets the touch linger a second longer than it needs to, and he watches your breath hitch.
"Just one.â
The gaming chair swallows your frame, and he pushes it in, hovering just a little too close as he leans over you. He puts you in practice mode to start.
"Alright. Basics first. This is how you move." He guides your hand to the keyboard, his fingers deliberately brushing yours. "WASD. Forward, left, back, right. You know that already?"
You nod weakly, moving around, not quite with ease, but at least you know how to do it. He laughs a little at the jerky movements, and your flustered demeanour from him being this close. He's enjoying this.
"Good. Now shooting." His hand covers yours on the mouse. "Left click. Aim for the head."
The bot appears. You click. Miss entirely. Click again. Hit the shoulder.
"See? You're already better than half my ranked teammates."
"Don't make fun of me."
"I'm not, I swear."
He lets you get comfortable with the practice range. You're clumsy but getting the hang of it, your movements less awkward, your aim less panicked. By the time he queues you into a real matchâcomms and text chat both disabled, he's not having a repeat of earlierâyou're at least facing the right direction.
He drags a chair from the kitchen and sits next to you.
"Real game now. Real players. They're going to be better than the bots."
The first few rounds are rough. You die early in the first. Then the second. By the fourth round, you've done exactly zero damage, and the enemy team is up 3-1. Your teammates are probably flaming you. He's glad he muted them before the round started.
"See? I told you I'm terrible."
"No talking. Just play."
Round five. Your teammates are dropping around you. It's a disasterâyour teammates rushed in too soon, leaving you behind. And then it's just you. One versus two.
"Stay behind the corner," Sunghoon says, his voice low near your ear. "Wait for them to come to you."
"But our team is supposed to be attacking, right?"
"Yeah, but these players are stupid. They're playing too aggressively. They'll come to you."
His hand lands on your shoulder, and your hands are trembling slightly on the keyboard.
"Keep your crosshair at head level. Right there."
He adjusts your mouse, and you nod. In your ears, you hear footsteps. Then, the enemy peeks. You click. The headshot sound is unmistakableâa clean, crisp dink that echoes through the headphones. One enemy down. Pings explode from your dead teammates.
"Holy shit!" Sunghoon leans forward, grinning. "Look at that! You got a headshot!"
"IâI did?"
"You did. One tap. Clean as hell," he's beaming, "Now, don't lose focus yet. One more to go."
You're staring at the screen like you can't quite believe it. Your hands are still trembling, but you're smiling nowâa real smile, wide and bright and unguarded.
Though you donât have time to celebrate, because a body shot hits from behind you, not enough to kill you, but enough that you scream. You move behind the wall, frantically moving the mouse around.
"Don't panic. They're coming to you. Just waitâ"
The enemy appears, and you click, your bullets spraying clumsily, and by some miracle, you outlive them with barely any health leftâbut you won. You won the 1v2.
"That's my girl!" He's grinning wide, "You're a natural, you see that?"
You play terribly the rest of the game, but your team locks in, their hope reignited by your clutch up, and carries you to a win. VICTORY. It appears in big letters across your screen.
You take off the headset, your smile unwavering, your cheeks warm. "That was... actually kind of fun."
"See? Told you."
"I still mostly did nothing."
"You won. Stop being humble." He nudges your shoulder, allowing the touch to linger. "Most people don't win their first game. Bet I can help you win your second, too."
"Sunghoon." You laugh, gently moving his arm away as he tries to queue another game. "We have to do the project."
"We can do that another time."
"We can do this another time. We need to work."
"Do we really need to?"
"Yes."
He pauses a moment. A beat of silence passes, and your gaze lingers on him.
"Sunghoon," you say again, gently, carefully. Like you already understand where this is going, "If your work is a little messy like last time, I don't mind. I just want to make sure we're on the same page."
"I just..."
He looks at you. Still in his chair, still wearing his headset around your neck now, and the way you're looking at himâhalf-flustered, half-stubborn, trying so hard to be responsible and even going so far as to push backâmakes him realize he'll have to try harder than he thought to distract you.
"I just think with you, it's always: Project this. Project that. You work so hard. You know it's okay to relax sometimes, right?"
"Iâ"
"You know what your problem is? You worry too much. Whenever I see you, you're always worrying. What's up with that?"
He leans back in his chair, arms folded over his chest. Your eyes follow them, how his biceps strain in his shirt, and his knee bumps yours. He stays watchful, analyzing the way your breathing picks up. The way your eyes go wide again.
"I don't know... I've always been..." you manage, shaking your head, "My parents were strict growing up, so..."
"I don't see your parents anywhere."
"Right. I know it's silly, but sometimes it's like I still hear them in my head," you laugh nervously, avoiding his gaze, "it was always study, study, study. No fun, no friends, no boysâ"
"No boys?"
All of a sudden, it clicks for him. The shyness. The stuttering. The way you'd frozen in the library when his knee touched yoursânot just flustered, but genuinely short-circuited, like your brain had no protocol for what to do. The way you'd offered him a ride, even though you could barely look at him. The way you'd defended him in voice chat, fierce and uncalculated, with no idea of the attention it would bring.
It all makes sense now. Every single thing.
You're not just anxious or sheltered. You're completely, profoundly inexperienced. He's likely the first guy who's ever been this close to youâand youâre here, in his room, wearing his headset. Every reaction you've had, every flush and stammer and nervous laugh, it's all because you've never done this before.
He smiles, enjoying the thought more than he should. A lot more.
"No boys," he repeats, and his voice comes out slow and deliberate. "What does that mean, exactly?"
"It means no boys. Like." You're flustered already, and he hasn't even moved. "No dating. My parents were really strict about it, and I justâI never reallyâ"
"Never really what?"
He knows exactly what you're trying to say. He just wants to hear you try to say it.
"Never really... dated?" he offers, tilting his head. "Never really had a boyfriend?"
You shake your head, barely a movement.
"Never really..." He lets the pause stretch. Watches you squirm. "...anything?"
You can't manage another word, so you don't speak. You don't have to. The silence speaks for itself.
"You've never done anything?"
The question hangs in the air. He watches you process itâthe implication, and how you canât hide from it.
"Never even been kissed?"
"No." There it is. The confession, small and brave. "It's embarrassing. I know. I never reallyâ"
"It's cute, actually."
You look at him, wordless. Maybe he should feel bad. He should feel guilty for prying this out of you, for enjoying how uncomfortable you are and filing all of this away as useful information. Some distant, rational part of his brain knows that. Instead, he's thinking about how nobody has ever touched you. How heâs the first one now to have been close enough to see you all flustered and vulnerable and completely unguarded.
His hand finds your knee. It's innocent enough, not drifting any higher than above it, his thumb moving in slow circles, and he watches in real time as your mind goes completely blank.
He's going to kiss you. Honestly, he knew he was going to kiss you the moment he understood what "no boys" meant, and while part of him is still trying to distract you from the project by getting you all hot and bothered like this, another part of him wants to do it just because he can. Just because you're there, in his chair, looking at him like that, reacting to his touch like this. That kind of power is a drug. It only makes him want to see just how far he can push you.
"Sunghoon," Your voice comes out thin, breathless. Your hand flutters up, not pushing him away, just hovering, like you're not sure what to do with it. "The project. We really need toâ"
"The project." He says it flat, like the word itself is a chore. "The project will be fine. It'll get done. Right?"
He tilts his head, lets the implication hang there: You did the last one. You'll do this one, too.
Your mouth opens, but whatever argument you'd prepared dissolves the second his hand moves. It slides up from your knee to the edge of your skirt, his fingers tracing the hem where it brushes your thigh, and you go absolutely still beneath his touch.
"You look cute today, by the way." His voice is low, and his eyes look you up and down. "I like this."
He toys with the hem of the fabric, his knuckle grazing bare skin. Your thighs press together involuntarily, and he catches it. The movement. The sharp little inhale. The way your hands grip the armrests, fingers curling into them.
A sound escapes your throat, something small and embarrassing. A whimper you clearly didn't mean to make. His eyes flick up to your face. Your lips are parted, and you're looking at him like you've forgotten how words work.
"That's it," he murmurs, "You'll be good for me, right?"
Your eyes drop to his lips. You nod. It's a tiny, helpless movement, and the last of your resistance crumbles.
His free hand comes up to cup your chin, tilting your face toward his. He's close enough now to feel your breath, shallow and uneven. Close enough to know that no one has ever touched you like this before, and you're terrified, but you're not pulling away.
He leans in, slowly inching forward, closer and closer andâ
"Sunghoon!" The door bursts open, "Have you seen my charger? I think..."
Heeseung's voice trails off as he takes in the sight. You. Sunghoon. The proximity between you. His hand on your thigh. Valorant open on his PC.
"Well, well, well..." he grins, leaning against the doorframe, "do my eyes deceive me, or is that a girl? In your bedroom? Sitting on your throne?"
"Leave."
"And you're making the poor thing play your stupid game. That's no way to treat a lady," he gestures around, then looks to you, "You. Don't tell me you're pretending to be impressed by his KDA ratio?"
You shrink under his gaze, looking like you wished to flee any second.
"Listen, I get it.â He raises his hands in surrender, âHe's a good-looking guy. But his personality?" He shakes his head, "Heâs a walking red flag. And not in the hot bad boy way. In like, a discord-moderating, redditor way."
"Seriously, get out."
Sunghoon is on his feet now, jaw tight. But you're already up, already grabbing your bag, already not looking at anyone.
"Actually, I should go."
"You don't have toâ"
"I'll see you soon." The words tumble out.
You duck past Heeseung, out of the bedroom, into the hall. Your footsteps go fastâpast the living room where the coffee table sits in all its carved, solid-oak glory.
Heeseung follows you as far as the hallway, leaning against the wall with the lazy confidence of someone who knows he ruined something, but has no idea what.
"Wait!" he calls after you. "Before you leave, what do you think of the coffee table? Real craftsmanship, right?"
The front door slams. Hard enough to rattle the empty energy drink cans still scattered on Sunghoon's desk.
Heeseung turns back to the bedroom doorway, where Sunghoon is standing rigid, hands at his sides.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Sunghoon spits.
"Me? What's wrong with you?" He strides on into his room, taking his lost phone charger from the port near his bedside. The one he took yesterday without asking, "You steal my shit, you get cockblocked. Sorry."
"You know that was my project partner, right?"
"I know who it was." Heeseung wraps the cord around his hand, watching Sunghoon with an expression that's sharper than before. "The one with the voice. The one who did your work at two in the morning. I guess now she comes over to stroke your ego too, huh?"
"I was this close toâ"
"This close to what?" Heeseung quips, raising a brow. "Finish the sentence."
"This close to... to taking her mind off of worrying. She's a chronic worrier. It's annoying. It's..." his voice trails off.
Silence. Sunghoon notices the look in his roommateâs eyes: disapproving, doubtful.
"You know what I think?" Heeseung says slowly, "I think you're getting a little too comfortable with the amount of kindness she gives you."
"I don't know what you mean."
âThe walls are thin, and Iâm nosy. I know what I heard,â he scoffs, heading toward the door. "Youâre pushing your luck. And trying to tongue your project partner so she can do your work for you is a new low. Even for you."
Sunghoon then gapes at the offensive, downright defamatory implications his roommate is making towards him.
"I didn'tâ" Heeseung leaves before he can defend himself. And Sunghoon stumbles to the hallway, calling out after him. "I didn't do anything wrong!"
Sunghoon slams the door shut on him, taking a second to breathe. There's a ping on his phone. A new voice note. He clicks it immediately, your voice rushed, the sound of your car running in the background.
"Hey Sunghoon. Sorry for leaving like that. I got kinda nervous when your roommate walked in. But I had a really good time with the game! And with you. And... oh, and about deliverable 2." You pause, then a sigh escapes youâheavy, but hesitant. "I've thought about it, and I know your tournament is coming up really soon, so I don't mind taking it off your hands. Anyway, goodbye for now, Sunghoon."
Sunghoon sinks into his gaming chair. Relief morphs into glee, a short laugh escaping him. He canât believe it. He canât believe you.
Whatever guilt Heeseung was trying to make him feel fades instantlyâeasily. Too easily.
He queues another game.
The basement is quiet. Still. Peaceful. Just Sunghoon, the ironing board, and his team jersey, steam hissing in the silence.
His gamer tag stares up at him from the back of the jersey, crisp and clean. Tomorrow he'll be wearing it on stage. Tomorrow it's game time. Tomorrow, he's locked the fuck in, with his team at his side and everyone there to watch him take that victory.
He's in the zone. Has been all night. Showered, prepped, head clear. No distractions. No thoughts about the final project deliverable due next week that he definitely hasn't started, or thoughts about Heeseung's accusations, or thoughts about you, and your wide eyes, and the way you looked at his lips right beforeâNope. Heâs not thinking about it.
The basement door groans open, followed by footsteps. Sunghoon doesn't bother turning around. He knows itâs Jay, judging by the heaviness of the tread, and because heâs the only one of them who regularly uses the washer instead of letting clothes pile up until they smell.
"Game's tomorrow?"
"Yep." Steam hisses. Sunghoon runs the iron along a sleeve. "You're still driving me, right?"
Thereâs a pause. Too long a pause. Sunghoon turns. Jay's standing by the washer, suddenly fascinated by the lint trap.
"Jay."
"Huh?"
"The tournament," Sunghoon says it slower this time, the iron forgotten in his hand. "The thing I gave you the date for a month ago. The thing you swore you'd drive me to. Ringing any bells?"
"Right, right." Jay shuts the washer door. Doesn't meet his eyes. "Well."
"Jay."
"Thing is," Jay scrubs the back of his neck, "my grandma's moving. Already told my mom I'd help tomorrow morning."
âDude.â Sunghoon blinks, gaping at him, "You promised me first."
"Sorry, man. Grandma over you."
"I gave you a month's notice."
"And my grandma gave me twenty-two years of birthday money." Jay shrugs, already turning toward the stairs. "Can't put a price on that."
Sunghoon sets the iron down with a little more force than necessary. "You could've said something before tonight."
"It's not the end of the world. Just take the bus."
"It's an hour drive. Longer by bus. On a Sunday. That'sâ"
"Tough luck."
"Jay." Sunghoon's voice sharpens. "This is the biggest day of myâ"
But Jay's already halfway up, and the basement door clicks shut behind him. The washing machine hums into the silence. Sunghoon stares at the empty staircase.
The bus is not an option. Absolutely not. He didn't grind all season to show up to regionals late, all sweaty from sprinting across a transit terminal because the Sunday schedule runs once every forty-five minutes if he's lucky.
And his teammates? He could squeeze into someone's car, knee to chest, listening to them argue about team comps and whose mom packed snacks. He'd rather walk.
But⊠there is another option.
Someone who's given him a ride before. Someone who is always happy to help. Someone who did his code, who defended him in a Valorant voice chat, who can't resist him, no matter how many times he's proven himself incompetent.
He pulls out his phone.
It seems like a shitty thing to do. He knows that. But, it's mutually beneficial, isn't it? He gets a favour, you get to see him. It's a win-win, really.
Besides, it's not like he's only calling for the ride. He genuinely does like the idea of you there, front row, cheering his name. Watching him destroy the enemy team live instead of from his bedroom. You'd get all confused, trying to follow the game, and then he'd win, and you'd be proud even though you don't really understand what you're proud of andâhell, maybe he'd finally get to give you that kiss. Maybe more.
It's been on his mind too much lately. Your eager, parted lips, your thigh tense beneath his touch, the way you leaned into it like a good little plaything. Always so desperate to pleaseâyou'd make him feel like a real champion, wouldn't you? All nervous and untouched and entirely his. His prize, his to guide, his to take.
It's a perverse fantasy. It's also not entirely impossible. Though, he shakes his head at himself, not erasing the thought, but putting it back on the shelf.
The ride. That's the priority now. Having a pretty girl at his arm is just a bonus.
You press submit.
Deliverable two, done. Your portion, pristine, commented, tested, and complete. His portionâthe portion you told yourself you wouldn't doâalso complete. Also entirely yours.
You close the laptop and sit there in the dark of your dorm room.
This is getting out of hand. You know it is. It's been out of hand, actually, ever since the library and the first deliverable that you fixedâthe thing you shouldâve never done in the first place but did anyway.
He didn't do his work again, and this time he didn't even try to pretend otherwise. He just looked at you with those eyes, said âIt will be fine,â and you let the subject drop because his hand was on your thigh, your brain had stopped working, and the only thing on your mind was not wanting to let him down.
But what about him letting you down? Itâs happened twice now. Not enough times to call it a pattern of behaviour yet, but enough to imply something about his character and where his priorities lie. He's unreliable. Lazy. Probably manipulative, if your best friend's theories are true. That's not the kind of guy you want. That's not the kind of guy anyone should want. You should be furious, actually. You should send him a firm email. You should stand your ground.
Heâs hot, though, your brain unhelpfully reminds you. Stupidly, impossibly hot, and he almost kissed youâyou think. Sometimes you replay it in your head, and you're certain of it. Other times, you wonder if you imagined the leaning in, the pause, and the way his voice dropped when he said you'll be good for me, right?
You sigh, hand twitching against your thigh. When you close your eyes, it's like you can still feel him touching you there. Every time you think about it, your whole body goes hot, and you think about it a lotânot just about what happened but what could've happened if his roommate hadn't walked in. You can't even keep track of the amount of times you've lied awake, drenched in your own sweat, thighs pressed together, just thinking about his hand slipping further up your skirt and relieving you of the torturous, wound-up feeling that's had you in a chokehold all summer.
Your phone buzzes.
Incoming video call: Sunghoon
You stare at the screen, still recovering from your fantasy. It takes you a minute to actually process that it is, in fact, him calling you and not a figment of your imagination. He's never called you before. Not once. All summer, it's been voice memos and texts and the occasional thumbs-up emoji.
It rings again, and you fumble reaching for it, nearly dropping it on the floor. You pick up, and as soon as you see the FaceTime video loading, you click to turn off your camera.
Your eyes are glued to the screen as you take in the sight of him. He's lying in bed, his hoodie pulled up over his head, shadows cutting across his jaw, and his hair falls over his eyes. You're almost pissed at the fact that someone can look that good so casually.
"Hey." His voice comes through your earbuds low and rough, and it travels down your spine. Your whole body shivers.
"Hi," you manage, small and a little breathless.
"How's my girl doing?"
My girl. That's the second time he's called you that. The first was during the game, when you landed the headshot. You'd assumed it was adrenaline, or a reflex. Something guys said to their duo partners, like "my man" or "my guy". But he's not gaming now. He's in bed. Talking to you.
"I'm goodâfine." You swallow. "What aboutâ?"
"Can I see you?"
"See me?" You glance down at yourself. Old t-shirt. Not a trace of makeup. Yeah. That's not happening. "I'm in bed. It's dark. There's nothing to see, so..."
"Hm," he sighs, and you hear the rustling of fabric as he adjusts himself. "Too bad."
"What's up?" You're trying to sound normal, clearing your throat, "Why'd you call?"
"Just wanted to chat."
His free hand finds the drawstring of his hoodie, twisting it idly around one finger. Your eyes follow the movement, staring at the veins, the size of his hand, the length of his fingers andâyou drag your eyes back to his face.
"About?"
"You free tomorrow?"
He shifts again, and the camera jostles, this time a light groan escaping him.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow you haveânothing. You have absolutely nothing. And even if you did have something, you'd still say you have nothing because it's him who's asking. Your heart skips a beat, a stupid smile breaking on your face.
"Yes," you say, immediately trying to downplay the eagerness in your voice. "Yeah, I'm free. Why?"
"And you can drive?"
"Sure. Whyâ?"
"Good." He ignores the question again. "Then I'm taking you out."
Your heart does a full stop. "Where?"
"Surprise.â Â He smiles. âJust wear something cute, m'kay?"
Wear something cute.
What does that mean exactly? Cute how? Cute like a dress? Or is a dress too much? Maybe a skirt. He said he liked your skirt last week. He toyed with the hem and said I like this and you made a sound you're still embarrassed to remember.
"Sleep well," he then says, breaking the long, silent pause with a slight chuckle, "See ya."
And before you can get another word in, he's gone. The reflection of yourself stares back at you in the darkened screen.
Maybe you should call him back and ask what 'cute' means. What kind of 'cute'? Dinner cute? Coffee cute? Hanging out at his house, cute? But after a long time of staring at his contact, debating how to even ask, you decide it's too late.
You shower, scrubbing every inch of yourself. Exfoliate. Shaveâyou shave everythingâcarefully, methodically, in places you don't normally bother with because usually you're thinking "who's going to see?" But if his hand travels further than it did last time, you do not want to be stuck in your own head worrying about it, so you do it just in case. Just to be prepared.
Then you stand in front of your closet for forty minutes trying on everything you own, trying to decide what feels like too much, and what feels like not enough. You don't know.
Eventually, you settle. A skirt you usually avoid because it rides up your thighs too much. A top that's nice without trying too hard. You look at yourself in the mirror. You feel pretty. Normally, you feel clean, or presentable, or fine. But today, you feel pretty.
It's a dangerous feeling. You're getting dressed up for a boy who hasn't done a single assignment all summer. You're shaving your legs for him when technically you're still not sure what "taking you out" implies. But your heart is racing, and your cheeks are warm, and you find yourself smiling at your reflection in the mirror like an idiot, anyway.
So what if you dressed up for him? You're allowed to feel pretty. You're allowed to want him. You're allowed to hope.
You're shaking when you pull up to his place. Not visibly, at least, as youâre gripping the steering wheel hard enough to hide it.
Youâve been talking to yourself under your breath for the last three blocks. Be normal. Be cool. Which would be a lot easier to do if this weren't the first time a boy had asked to "take you out" and youâve been alone with your own anxious thoughts for so long now that you're starting to dwell on what that might mean again.
Dinner, maybe? The thought simultaneously makes your heart flutter and your stomach churn. You're so nervous, you're not sure you could hold down any food. What if he asks why you're not eatingâ?
You're getting ahead of yourself. Maybe he's right. You do worry too much. You don't even know where you're going yet, and you're already jumping to conclusions.
Predictably, you're early. Of course you are. You'd left your dorm with an extra twenty minutes because you couldn't stand to pace around your room anymore, and now you're pulling up at the curb feeling like an idiot. But, to your surprise, he's already waiting on the porch.
He spots your car before you even have time to honk, jogging down the steps, and you roll down the window, smiling bright and stupid and probably too eager. Then...
Then your eyes drop to his chest.
The jersey. The school's E-sports team jersey, to be precise. You know what it looks like because you've stalked the team's Instagram page about a hundred times just to stare at the photos of him on there until they were permanently burned into your retinas forever.
"Hey," he says, pulling open the passenger door. "Right on time."
"Hi," you swallow, smiling politely. "What are you wearing?"
"Team gear." He slides into the seat, dropping his bag at his feet. "Regionals are today. Didn't I tell you?"
Your blood runs cold.
No. No, he did not. He said I'm taking you out. He said to wear something cute. He said it was a surprise.
"Regionals," you repeat. "Right. The tournament."
"Yeah. It's at the convention centre. About an hour drive." He's buckling his seatbelt, "Coach said we could bring anyone we want. Figured I should bring my number one supporter, right?"
So it's not a date. Not at all what you were thinking when he called you late at night with his voice all low and asking if you were availableâasking if you could drive.
Still, you smile. You smile because even if your heart has sunk into your stomach, you know it's your own fault for thinking this would be anything more than it was.
And, well, this matters to him. This is the thing he's been neglecting the project for. The thing he told you heâd been practicing for, talking about it in the car that first day you met him. Heâs choosing to bring you to his thing. That alone must mean something... right?
"That sounds fun," you say, and the words feel like they belong to someone else. "I've never been to an E-sports thing before."
"You'll love it. You'll finally see me play for real. Not just some ranked lobby."
"Yeah." Your smile starts to hurt your cheeks. It strains and fails to reach your eyes. "Can't wait."
The drive is an hour. You spend most of it listening. He talks about the bracket, the teams they're facing, and some enemy team player who's been trash-talking him online. He talks about comps and strats and something called a meta. You nod, you smile. You ask questions. You try to seem engaged.
In a way, you are a little. Not because you care about the game, but because it's hard not to feel warm in the face when you see him like this. He's barely able to sit still in the passenger seat, gesturing with his hands, more animated than you've ever seen him, smirking with the kind of confidence you'd expect a star player to have. This is his thing. This is what he's good at. He invited you.
That has to mean somethingâyou're certain of it now. Even if it's not what you thought. Even if you spent an hour getting ready, shaving everywhere and trying on countless different outfits just to sit in a convention centre folding chair.
You glance down at your skirt and your pretty top. All that effort you put into looking like you hadn't put in effort now feels wasted.
Maybe people dress up nice for these things, you tell yourself. You've never been to an E-sports tournament, so you wouldn't know.
At least, that's what you tell yourself, refusing to believe that he chose those words on purpose, knowing how they'd come across, knowing how they'd affect you.
"You look pretty, by the way."
Your head snaps toward him. He's looking out the window, and the words slipped out of him so casually that you almost don't catch it. Your heart furiously pounds in your chest, all doubt in your mind momentarily forgotten.
"You too." The words tumble out before your brain can catch up, and immediately you want to grab them and shove them back in your mouth. You too? "I meanâyou look good. The jersey. It suits you."
There's a hint of a smile on his lips, and yours tug into one tooâsomething small and hopeful.
You keep driving, trying to focus less on the quiet ache in your chest and more on the fact that he is here right now, in your car, bringing you into his world.
The convention center is freezing, the kind of cold that seeps through your thin top and settles into your bones. The air conditioning is blasting, likely to prepare for the body heat of the crowd that'll pack this place in a few hours. But right now, it's just you and a handful of other early arrivals and staff members scattered across folding chairs, listening to the distant sound of someone testing a microphone.
He didn't introduce you to his team. Didn't even glance back. Just pointed at the front row and said, "Sit there," and then he was goneâswallowed by a cluster of matching jerseys and equipment bags. You'd stood there for a moment, awkward, watching him disappear, arms wrapped around yourself against the cold.
That was hours ago. Hours in a hard plastic chair, scrolling through every app on your phone until you'd seen every post, every story, every notification that wasn't there. You got up once to buy an iced coffee from the convention center cafeâwatery, gone in ten minutes. It did nothing to quiet the growling in your stomach.
You're cold. You're hungry. You're bored. You're wearing a skirt and a cute top in a convention centre full of strangers who smell like they don't shower, and you feel stupid. So, so stupid. But when he jogs over to you, twenty minutes before the tournament starts, everything brightens. Like you're not freezing to death where you sit. Like it all makes sense now, why, against your better judgment, you decided to stay.
He's got his headset looped around his neck, and his eyes have that focused, sharp kind of intensity you witnessed the first time you saw him play in his bedroom. He carries himself like heâs already won. Itâs the kind of easy confidenceâor arrogance, ratherâthat others would call obnoxious. To you, however, itâs captivating.
"Hey!" He squeezes your shoulder, just once. The warmth of his hand cuts through the chill. "Still awake?"
You blink up at him, smiling before you can stop yourself. Your head is foggy from too much fluorescent light and not enough food, but suddenly none of that registers.
"Barely.â You laugh, âBut still alive. What about you?"
"Iâm ready." He grins, that cocky, unbothered grin. "More than ready, knowing that you're here."
Your breath catches. Stupid. It's such a small thing yet the warmth that blooms in your chest catches you off guard, and for a moment you forget about the miserable afternoon you've just had. You just smile back at him, helplessly.
"Don't get too sleepy. I want to hear you cheer. Loud."
"I will." You say without hesitation.
"Good."
He flashes you one last smile, and then he's gone, slipping back toward the stage. You call after him, "Good luck!" He doesn't turn around. Just raises a hand in acknowledgment.
You sink back into your chair, still smiling, still warm from the brief press of his fingers on your shoulder. It's pathetic, honestly. You know it's pathetic. One touch, one sentence, and suddenly the hours of waiting and the overpriced coffee and the cold that's still seeping through your clothes don't feel like such a big deal anymore.
When the tournament starts, you come to realize you know a lot less about this game than you thought. There's a lot of terminology that flies past your head. Strategies you donât understand. Names you donât recognize. But you know enough that you understand when his team is winning, and when he's the last one alive on his team, wiping out the enemy team like they're nothing, and you definitely understand why the crowd cheers loudly when he clutches a 1v5.
They win. Easily. Itâs not even close, and when the final round ends and the casters are screaming, and his teammates are out of their chairsâyou're on your feet too. Clapping until your hands sting. Cheering, though you're certain you'll lose your voice for it.
He finds you the moment his team filters off the stage. One second you're standing alone, scanning the crowd of jerseys; the next, his hand is at your waist, fingers curling against the fabric of your top, pulling you into his side like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like he's done it a hundred times. His palm is warm through the thin material, his thumb pressed just above your hip, and he's wearing the world's biggest grin.
The hall is chaosâpeople talking in every direction, the music playing too loudly, a coach yelling something across the room. You can't really hear what he's saying, just the rumble of his voice near your ear, the occasional word breaking through: ...killed it... ...see that clutch?... You nod, smiling, hyperaware of the heat of his hand and the way his fingers tighten whenever someone jostles past. He steers you toward his teammates with that grip on your waist, guiding you through the crowd like you're an extension of his victory.
The other boys are clapping him on the back, shouting over each other. Every time someone congratulates him, his hand flexes against your hipânot quite pulling you closer, but not letting you drift either.
"...You good with sushi?"
"Hm?" You furrow your brows, not quite catching his words still.
"Post-game celebration. Coach is treating us," he leans in right next to your ear this time, his words a little clearer. He grabs your arm. "Let's go."
The sushi place is in a strip mall across the parking lot from the convention centre. Laminated menus, lighting that's too bright for a celebration, and employees who look like they're regretting every life choice that led them to this shift. The sheer amount of noise coming from the table doesn't help.
The team has been going around making speechesâthanking the coach, thanking their friends, thanking Sunghoon, their number one captain and player. He soaks it up like a sponge, leaning back in his chair with the ease of a star player who knows he killed it. The table goes a little quieter when itâs finally his turn.
"I'd like to thank my team, of course, for putting their best foot forward. Coach, for keeping us in line. But most importantly..." He turns to you. His arm slides from the back of your chair to your shoulders. "I'd like to thank this one right here. For the support. For cheering me on louder than anyone." He squeezes your shoulder. "You made my life a hell of a lot easier this semester."
Easier.
You're not sure why that choice of words doesn't sit right. Maybe because it felt too cold, or detached. He could've said you made his life better, brighter, happier⊠and maybe you're reading too much into it. Youâre probably overthinking it and jumping to conclusions that arenât there, like you always do. But easier implies convenience, nothing else, and you donât really like the way that makes you feel.
He's being nice, you tell yourself. Heâs thanking you in front of everyone. It's a good thing.
"Oh, and I got you something." He reaches into his bag and pulls out a jersey. Identical to his own. "My spare jersey. Since you know. I couldn't have done it without you."
You take it, the fabric stiff and unfamiliar in your hands. You open your mouth to say somethingâthank you, maybe, or you didn't have toâbut nothing comes out.
"Put it on."
You do, and the shirt swallows your frame, the hem only a few centimetres above where your skirt ends. His gamertag is printed in bold letters on the back, and on you, it feels like a brandâa mark of his claim. You hold your breath, too overwhelmed by the scent of him, and your stomach does that flipping thing it always seems to when he gives you crumbs of affection like this, except this time with a newfound heaviness resting uncomfortably somewhere within you.
"Looks good," He hums, pleased, nodding to the rest of his team, "Right guys?"
The team cheers, someone whistling while the guy sitting next to him claps his back, and he takes it all in with pride, while you look down at your lap.
"Hey. Don't be shy." He leans in, voice dropping just for you. His knee bumps yours under the table. "I meant it. You do look pretty today."
The heaviness lifts. Just a little. Just enough to put on your brave face again, and the wait staff starts serving up whatever platters they ordered earlier. The boys descend like hawks, piling their dishes high, chopsticks clacking. Two of them fight over the remaining spicy salmon rolls, and someone orders another round of sake; meanwhile, Sunghoon is already talking about the next tournament.
You stare at your plate.
You were hungry earlier. Starving, actuallyâyour stomach had been growling through the final matches, but now you just poke at a piece of nigiri with your chopsticks, turning it over and over, watching the rice fall apart.
This isn't exactly what you had in mind when he said he was taking you out⊠but he thanked you in front of the team. Gave you a jersey. Called you pretty. And his knee keeps bumping yours under the table, making an embarrassing flush creep to your cheeks every time.
He wants you here. That should be enough. That should make you happy. So why do you still feel so hollow?
"Excuse me," a voice appears behind you both. You and Sunghoon turn to face him. "I'm with the school paper. Mind if I grab a few quotes?"
A guy with a press badge and a notebook is standing beside the table. You'd seen him earlier, sitting in the same section near the front as you. Reserved seating. It makes sense. Regionals are a big deal for your school; this is probably the most interesting story they've had in years.
"Yeah, sure."
"Just a few questions about the match. The clutch in finalsâwhat was going through your head?"
"Oh. Easy. I locked the fuck in," he breaks into a smug grin.
Sunghoon talks about game sense. Instincts. Reading the enemy. The reporter scribbles notes, asks a few more questions. Asks about his training schedule, the responsibilities of being the team captain, and the pressure.
You continue to poke at your food, assuming none of it involves you, until he glances at you.
"And I see your girlfriend is here. How does it feel to have that kind of support showing up for you?"
Your heart skips. Sunghoon glances at you, but his gaze isn't nearly as panicked as your own
"Oh. She's not my girlfriend." He says it casually. Like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Like the idea had never even occurred to him.
Suddenly, the table is a little quieter, like everyone had hushed their conversations just to overhear. Feeling the weight of everyone's eyes, your fingers tremble around your chopsticks.
"Ah." The reporter looks at youâthe jersey, the arm around your shoulderâthen offers an apologetic smile, "Sorry, I just assumedâ"
"She's more like..." He tilts his head, considering. "My lucky charm."
Lucky charm. Not a girlfriend. Not a friend. Not even my project partner, who gave me a ride here and did all my work for me. A lucky charm. Something you carry around for good fortune and toss in a drawer when you no longer need it.
"Or maybe," he starts again, "She's like my prize. You know, you win the tournament, you get the trophy. She's kind of both. Good luck and a good reward. You know what I mean?"
You hear a snicker from across the table, and he laughs too. He laughs. His arm is still around your shoulder, heavy and warm, and his thumb is tracing idle circles against your sleeve like nothing is wrong. Like he didn't just reduce you to an object in front of a reporter and his whole team.
"I'm just teasing. But, really, the closer I keep her, the easier my life becomes. So, you asked how it feels, right? I'd say it feels pretty damn good," he pulls you closer for a second, giving your shoulder another squeeze, "I was telling the whole team earlier. It's all thanks to her."
"Wait, so she's single?" One of his teammates leans over, "Dude, you've been gatekeeping her all nightâ"
"Fuck off." He snaps, turning back to the reporter, "Next question."
The interview fades to background noise.
Lucky charm. You want to laugh. Or maybe cry.
As if luck had anything to do with it. The only reason he's here, celebrating, getting interviewed, is because of the labour, time and energy that you freely offered him like a fool. And now he's calling it luck.
You sit there in your seat, his arm heavy around you like he owns you. You realize only then that it means nothing. Absolutely nothing.
You slide out from under it. "Bathroom," you murmur, already on your feet.
He doesn't look up. His hand drops to the back of the empty chair without pause, and the reporter is already asking the next question.
You walk toward the door, and the bell chimes as you leave.
The parking lot is hot. The heat, humid and suffocating, rises off the asphalt, and the air feels thick in your lungs. Your car is at the far end. Too far away, you think, as you make your way. You walk fast, the jersey still hanging off your shoulders, and it feels like the weight of it is slowing you down. You hate that you're still wearing it.
Behind you, the restaurant door opens, and heavy footsteps follow. "Hey! Hey, wait upâ"
You don't wait. Obviously. But he catches up very easily, hand on your shoulder to halt your frantic steps.
"What's going on?" He catches up, slightly out of breath. "You just left. What gives?"
You spin around. "I'm a lucky charm? A prize?"
"What?" His expression shiftsânot guilty, but confused. Like he genuinely doesn't understand. He takes a moment to gather himself. "Yeah. Like, it's a compliment. Like, I'm lucky to have you here with me. I mean, what did you want me to say? Project partner? Female friend?"
"Listen." Your voice is shaking. "I'm happy for you. You won. Congratulations. But I want to go home now."
"But why? We were having fun, right? And the team loves youâ"
"No." You cut him off. "Your team loves you."
"Yeah, and you're with me."
"I'm with you?" The words catch in your throat. "What is that supposed to mean?"
Your heart thuds, watching him carefully. You hold your breath, hopingâdesperately, patheticallyâto hear something other than a lucky charm this time. Something meaningful. Something more.
"It means..." his voice is careful, processing every word in his head before he decides to say it, "You're wearing a shirt with my name on it, and I'll be the one taking you home afterâ"
A laugh escapes you. Not because any of this is entertaining, but because you truly cannot fathom how that is the best response he could come up with.
"You're taking me home?"
"You know what I mean."
"Sunghoon." Your voice drops. The frustration is bleeding out, leaving something softer behind. Something that hurts more. Your hands are trembling. "You told me to wear something cute. You said you were taking me out."
"So that's it?" He asks. You donât know when he moved closer, or how you allowed him to, but suddenly his hand is at your shoulder again. He rubs it as if to comfort you, and his words tumble out, a little more frantic than he usually sounds, "You wanna go out? We can go out. We can go out right now. Just tell me where you want to go. I'll take youââ
"We aren't going anywhere." You say a little firmer this time, brushing his hand away. "I'm leaving."
You walk toward your car, but he doesn't relent. He came here with you, and his ride is standing in front of him, keys in hand, about to disappear. He can't let that happen.
"Wait."
He grabs your arm, his hand warm and familiar. You hate that it still makes your breath catch.
"Please." His voice is different now. Lower. The arrogance is goneâor maybe just hidden. "Don't go. I'm sorry. Okay?"
"Sorry for what?"
"For..." He runs a hand through his hair. "Calling you a lucky charm? And not taking you on a date? Whatever I did. Just⊠don't leave me here. Please."
"You don't even know what you're apologizing for," You hiss, your hand curling tighter around your car keys.
"Yeah. Because I'm confused." He tries, "I was being nice all night. I gave you the jersey. I don't know what I did wrong, so tell me. I'll do whatever you want. I'll fix it."
"Sunghoon," you frown, taking in a breath. You're going to do it. This is the moment where you stand your ground. "I am not some doll that exists to give you free rides whenever you want. Or do all your work. Or sit through your gaming tournaments and make you look good in front of your teammates."
"You're notâ" his brows furrow, "That's not what you are."
"Then what am I?"
You try to step back, but your back meets your car door.
Now you're cornered, and he still hasn't answered. Instead, his hand comes up. Hesitant, not quite sure if he's allowed, or if it's the right choice to make currently in the heat of the moment, but he does it regardless. His fingers brush your jaw, featherlight, just tracing it and his thumb settles under your chin. Everything else around you ceases to exist.
"Tell me what you want me to say." His voice is rough, and he tilts your face up, "What do you want from me? I don't understand what you want."
"Sunghoonâ"
"I keep thinking about last week," He exhales, something between a laugh and a breath. His other hand finds your hip, fingers curling into the fabric of the jersey. "What we never got to finish. I know you think about it too."
His forehead nearly touches yours. His thumb still rests under your chin, holding you in place, and his eyes drop to your lips.
"One last time," he asks, "What do you want?"
You realize he's doing it again. The thing where you try to talk about something seriousâthe project, the way he's been treating youâand weaponizes his irresistibility against you. You wonder if he even realizes that he's doing it.
Regardless, you canât help how you stare. He's just so... beautiful. So incredibly irresistible. The warm press of his body, caging yours to the car. The intense look in his eyes. His height, and how he towers over you. It's too much.
"You know what I want,â your voice comes out smaller than you intended.
There it is. The part where you give in. You always do. How could you not? Youâre just a girl, caged between the hottest man you've ever seen and your car door.
Your eyes drop to his lips.
"That's all you had to say," he murmurs.
He kisses you. Your first kiss. It's not gentle. It's hungry, desperate, his hand sliding into your hair, his body pressing against yours. Your brain shuts off entirely. Your hands come up to his chest, and instead of pushing him away like you should, you're gripping his jersey, pulling him closer. You have no idea what you're doing, but the feeling of his tongue in your mouth and his hands all over you has you whimpering under his touch, melting into his arms.
"You're with me." He says against your lips, rough and unrelenting. "Stay here with me."
His hand slides from your hip to the car door behind you.
"Let me make it up to you. I'll treat you so well. I promise."
Your whole body is trembling. He's so close and so warm, and you've wanted this for weeks andâfuck, who are you kidding?
The back seat of your car is cramped, but he doesn't seem to mind. He's above you, his body a warm weight, kissing you, worshipping you with his tongue and his mouth, kissing along your neck. He takes his time, letting you get familiar with the shape of him atop you, his hard cock pressed against your thigh through his pants.
You're embarrassed with the amount of slick between your legs and how your skirt has ridden up all the way at your hips to reveal it all. If you thought you could ever try to hide what he does to you before, you certainly canât do it now.
"Look at you," he murmurs against your mouth. His fingers find the hem of the jerseyâhis jersey. "You look so good in this. So fucking good."
You can't speak. Your voice is gone. His hand slides up your thigh, pushing the jersey higher. Then he pauses. Looks down. A slow grin spreads across his face. His hand traces over your underwear, smooth skin separated by thin fabric.
"You prepped for this?" Your face burns. "All this?" His fingers thumb the lace edge of your panties, "For me?"
"I didn'tâI wasn'tâ"
"You were expecting something." His voice is teasing. "Weren't you? All dressed up. All smooth." He kisses your throat. "Fuck, that's so cute."
A sound escapes youâa whimper you didn't mean to makeâand he chuckles, the vibration of it travelling down your neck. His hand is still on your thigh, thumb tracing idle circles against bare skin just above the hem of your skirt. You can feel the heat of his palm, the way his fingers splay wide like he's claiming territory. Your hips shift without permission, angling toward him, chasing the pressure he isn't giving you.
Then his hand retreats. Slides back to your waist. His lips capture yours in another open-mouthed kiss, and you make a frustrated little sound against his mouthâhalf protest, half plea. Your fingers wrap around his wrist and guide it back down, pressing his palm right where you need it, your thighs parting in invitation.
âHm?â Â He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyebrows raised, lips still slick. There's genuine surprise underneath his evident amusement. "You wantâ?"
âMore.â
The word comes out sounding more certain than you expected. His expression flickers, both taken aback and deeply, thoroughly pleased, then his hand resumes its position, palm pressing flat against the lace of your underwear. He doesn't slip beneath the fabric, rubbing only slow, deliberate circles over it, letting the friction build until your hips are rolling into his touch.
It's a lot. The pressure, the heat, the way he watches your face the whole time like he's studying you. You're so sensitive that even just his hand over fabric has your breath catching in your throat.
"Like that?" he murmurs.
You nod, not trusting your voice. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his sleeve, holding on.
"I've neverâ"
"I know." There's a teasing lilt to his voice, his lips curving against your throat. He likes this. Likes the way you're coming apart beneath him, all trembling and flushed and brand-new. His fingers don't slow. "You want to stop?"
It's a dare. He already knows the answer. His thumb presses down just a little harder, drawing another broken sound from your lips.
"No." The word is torn from your throat too fast.
Stopping is actually the opposite of what you want. You've been dreaming of his touch all summer. Even if he's a complete asshole, he's a beautiful asshole, and the ache between your thighs knows where its priorities lie.
"Yeah?" His voice drops, words brushing against your ear, "Then tell me what you want."
"Sunghoon..." you trail off, his thumb still circling your clit over your underwear, "I don't know. Just touch me more, please."
âBegging already?â He smiles against your mouth, and then his hand slides back down, dipping beneath the waistband of your panties. His fingers are warm as they brush through your slick folds, gathering the wetness that's been building since he first kissed you. He doesn't push in yetâhe circles your entrance lazily, teasing, letting you feel the pressure without the invasion. "You're too good to me."
It's been a while since he's done any of this, but he's always been good with his hands. Itâs like facing an opponent: The technique is muscle memory, and the strategy is played by ear. He just has to watch you, learn your weaknesses, and exploit them until he wins. Though when it comes to you, he's learning that you're weak to pretty much everything he does, watching your lips part and your brows scrunch together without his fingers even inside you yet.
âSo wet. So worked up. You really wanted this, didn't you?" he whispers, "Don't worry. I've got you."
He pushes one finger inside youâslow, deliberate, sinking deep until his knuckle presses against your entrance. Your back arches, a sharp gasp escaping your throat, and he watches your face as he curls that finger, searching, finding the spot that makes your eyes flutter shut.
"That's it," he breathes. "That's my girl."
He adds a second finger, stretching you, and the wet, slick sound of your body accepting him fills the foggy car. He pumps them in and out, his thumb pressing circles against your clit, and you feel yourself clenching around him, your hips rolling to meet his rhythm. Your hands grip his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.
"Feels good?" His voice is in your ear, low and rough. You nod, unable to respond. Breath catching in your throat because you can barely breathe, think or do anything coherent. "Is this all you wanted? Needy girl just wanted my attention?"
In the midst of the fog, it catches your eye again. His cock, hard and untouched in his pants. You want to see him. All of him. And you reach out for the waistband, desperate to feel the weight of him in your hands.
"Wanna touch you, too," you manage, and his fingers slow inside you for a moment.
"Yeah?" He grins, watching you pull the waistband down and palm him through his boxers. He just watches you fumble around, looking up with that awestruck, wide-eyed gaze. "You sure?"
You pull him free anyway. And then you stop, staring for what you're sure is way too long. Because he'sâwell. He's big. Not that you have any real-life experience to compare him to, but still. It didn't take a genius to figure out that he's impossibly, unfairly big. So much that it makes you wonder if the universe just decided to give him everything: the face, the hands, the voice, and now this. Maybe you should've expected that the literal embodiment of the genetic lottery would have a pornstar cock.
"What's the matter?" He laughs, propping himself up on one elbow to get a better view of your face. "Nervous?"
âNo.â You swallow, still staring. "You're just reallyâ"
"Big?" He says it for you, clearly enjoying himself. "Yeah. I know."
The bigger the dick, the bigger the ego, huh?
You watch him grin down at you, and you really do want to pretend like you're not affected by it, but it's actually kind of terrifying and a lot more than you bargained for.
âDonât think about that right now,â He takes his free hand and encloses it around yours, around him, not showing you how to do it. Just guiding you. âIâm enjoying this.â
Your fingers are gentle and trembling and completely unsure, but he doesn't mind. He takes in the sight, watching you try to please him with your hand while you fall apart on his fingers. You clench around him as he presses inside, finding the right spot that makes your eyes roll back, and you can't help the cry that leaves your parted lips.
"Thatâs it," he murmurs. "Good girl. Just let go."
You unravel around his fingers, back arching off the leather seat, and he has to press his free hand flat across your hipbones to keep you from bucking against his palm. Your thighs clamp around his wrist, trembling, and his name, broken and breathless, catches in your throat. Itâs the most beautiful sound he's ever heard you make. He watches it happen, watches your mouth fall open, and your lashes flutter, watches the tension seize through your body and then release, all at once, around his fingers.
When you come back to yourself, you're still gripping him. Your fingers are wrapped around his cock, loose now, your palm slick with the precome that's gathered at the tip. He's still hard and aching. His breathing is ragged, his chest heaving, and for a long moment, he doesn't moveâjust stares down at the way your hand looks wrapped around him, your delicate fingers against the flushed, heavy weight of his length. Then his jaw tightens, and his hand closes over yours, repositioning your grip.
"Like this," he guides you, pumping your hand up and down his shaft. He tries to show you the rhythm, the pressure, the speed. And to your credit, you're trying. You are. And if he were in the mood to be a little more patient, he'd let you play with him. But currently, he doesn't have it in himself to torture himself any longer.
He closes his fist around yours, harder. Then he's moving, fucking into your hand with short, desperate thrusts. The sound of it fills the cramped car, skin on skin, his hips snapping forward in a rhythm that's too fast, too ragged to be anything but pure need. You watch him, still dazed from your own release, still sprawled across the back seat with your skirt bunched at your waist and his jersey twisted around your torso. Your chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, and your eyesâwide, glassy, utterly fixed on where his cock slides through your palmâare the only thing he can look at.
"Fuck, look at you," he groans. His head drops forward, hair falling into his eyes, but he forces himself to keep watching his length disappear and reappear through your grip. "All spread out for me. My cute little reward. My prize. All mine."
His rhythm breaks. His hips stutter, and then he's spilling across the jersey with a low, broken groan, something primal and possessive curling in his gut at the sight. You lie there, still catching your breath, wearing his name and his release.
He braces himself above you, breathing hard. His forehead nearly touches yours. The windows are fogged opaque, sealing you both inside this cramped, humid quiet.
Your skirt is bunched at your hips. The jersey is twisted around your torso, damp and clinging to your sweat. You don't move. Don't speak. Just lie there beneath him, wearing the evidence of what just happened, still recovering.
He exhales, long and slow, and his eyes trace over you.
"Shit," he breathes, sounding almost in awe. "You're really something, you know that?"
You don't answer. You're still catching your breath, floating somewhere between the high and the slow, creeping return of reality.
He doesn't notice. He's too busy looking at you and the jersey he's made a mess ofâat the way you're sprawled beneath him with something between satisfaction and wonder. All of his doing.
"So," he murmurs, propping himself up on one elbow. His free hand traces a lazy line down your arm. "You forgive me?"
"Hm?" Your eyes finally meet his, blinking up.
"The tournament. The project. The stuff I said. Or did." He presses his lips to your jaw, peppering kisses until he meets the shell of your ear. His thumb draws a slow circle on your hip. "You're not still mad, right?"
Your chest rises and falls, not quite finding the words just yet.
"Because I meant what I said. You're with me. Thisâ" he gestures between you, "âthis thing we have. I like this."
His eyes are on youâhis unfairly beautiful eyes.
It would be so easy to forget the whole night ever happened. Your hands twitch where you hold onto him, warm and solid, and the part of you that's still deeply infatuated with the sight of him like this wants so badly to pull him back down and discover all the other ways he could take you to heaven and back.
But then you look down at the jersey. His jersey. At the stain already drying on the fabric. He'd marked his territory and tried to present it to you as a gift, and you think the worst part of it all is that he really, truly does believe it's something to be grateful for.
He presses a kiss to your forehead, and you close your eyes. Your throat tightens. For a moment, you almost let it go. You almost fall back in.
"Also, like... youâll still drive me back, right?"
Your eyes snap open.
You glare up at him. At his perfect, oblivious face. At the faint smile still lingering at the corner of his mouth. He's still braced above you, still warm, still inside the afterglow you were both supposed to be sharing. And for a moment, you wonder whoâs more stupid: him or you.
"Get out."
He lifts his head, "Huh?"
"Get out of my car."
"We justâhold on," He pushes himself up, still dazed. "I made youâyou literally justâ"
"You made me cum. Great job." You shove at his chest until his back hits the door, and he fumbles with his pants. "Youâre still an asshole. Now get out of my face."
"You're kicking me out?" He gapes, "You canât do that to me.â
"There's a bus stop nearby."
Your hand reaches for the door behind him, shoving him out, and he stumbles onto the asphalt. His brows furrow.
"I'm not taking the fucking bus."
"Not my problem." You yank the jersey over your head. Ball it up. Throw it at his chest, and he catches it on reflexâhis own name, crumpled, damp, ruined. "Find your own way home."
You slam the door and climb into the driver's seat, ignoring the way he pleads outside the window, knocking on the glass. He's frantic, still recovering from the whiplash, but you don't stop.
You start the engine and back out of the parking spot, speeding away and in the rearview mirror, he's still standing there. Jersey in one hand, watching you disappear.
The ride back to your dorm is quiet. Radio off. Just you and your thoughts, the sun bleeding orange across the horizon.
People always say your first kiss is supposed to be special or that your first time is supposed to mean something. Meanwhile, your first kiss was followed by getting fingered in the backseat of your car in a strip mall parking lot with a boy who treats you like trash, wearing his cum-stained E-sports jersey.
It's a tale as old as time: a girl who doesn't know any better gives everything to a boy who couldn't care less. Maybe you should feel used or ashamed. Maybe it should feel wrong, or cheap, or degrading. Yet, it doesn't really. Because honestly? You'd wanted it all summer. His hands on you, his voice in your ear, touching you in places you've never been touched before. It wasn't special. It wasn't romantic. But it was yours, and you took it.
There is a heaviness in your chest. You can't deny that. But there is something else that shines brighter, that courses through your veins, head to toe.
Satisfied. You feel satisfied. A little giddy, even.
Park Sunghoon. Brilliant esports player. Terrible project partnerâand terrible person, really. But fuck, if he wasn't good with his hands. And body. And words. And face.
You grin to yourself at the memory of it all, free of the anxiety that used to cripple you every time you thought of him. All those hours you'd spent wondering what he thought of you, if he liked you back. You don't give a shit what he thinks anymore.
He debated for a while who to call. Not Jay, obviously. Jay would take one look at the crumpled fabric in his hand and drive in the opposite direction. He could've called JakeâJake wouldn't judge him for his sexual failures, given his pathetic history with women, but Jake would certainly judge everything else about the situation. Also, thereâs no way he would drive an hour out on a whim just to pick him up.
That left Heeseung. The one most likely to actually pick up, only because heâs a nosy little shit and he'll absolutely never let Sunghoon live it down.
Sunghoon finds himself sitting in the passenger seat, jersey crumpled in his lap, staring out the window, and Heeseung takes a loud, dramatic sniff.
"You smell like jizz." He glances at the jersey. "The fuck did you do with that?"
"None of your business."
"None of my business, my ass." Heeseung pulls out of the lot. "I'm doing you a big favour. Think I deserve to know."
"I don't get it. I mean, I don't get her. I was doing everything right. I gave her the jersey. I told the team I couldn't have won without her. I made her feel good. Really good. Like, screaming-my-name kind of good." He pauses. "Not to brag. But I blew her fucking mind. And then suddenly it's 'get out of my car,' and she throws the jersey at my chest and drives off."
He turns to Heeseung, genuinely bewildered. "What am I missing?"
"Let me get this straight," Heeseung changes lanes. Checks his blind spot. "She drove you to your game? On top of all the project shit she did for you?"
"She wanted to."
"Did she?"
"...Well, she wanted to see me." He folds his arms, "She had a good time. So I don't get the problemâ"
"Sunghoon. Dude." Heeseung sighs, "The whole seduction manipulation thing you're trying to do? It only works if you're hot and smart enough to pull it off. You're just hot."
"I'm not manipulating her."
"Sure you're not."
"I'm not. I'm just trying to keep her happy. Which, judging by how hard she came, I thought I was doing my job right."
Heeseung snorts. "Your job?"
"What?"
"You're treating her like a resource. Like a side quest. Keep her happy, get the rewards. She's a human being, not an NPC, dumbass."
"That's notâ" The denial dies halfway out of his mouth. Sunghoon stops, brows furrowing at his roommate's words. "That's not what she is. No, she's nice to me. Like, genuinely nice." The corner of his lip tugs, almost involuntary. "She's fun to be around. Laughs at my jokes. She listens when I talk about Valorant. She has this look, like she's all impressed, even though she probably doesn't understand any of it. And man, you should've seen the way she cheered for me. It was like... the best feeling in the world."
He stops a moment, sighing, the memory of you beneath him in the car resurfacing itself. You, falling apart for him.
"She's cute," he says, and the words feels a little too innocent for what he actually means, but he probably shouldn't say anything more in front of Heeseung anyways. "She's really cute."
He stops. Blinks. His own words catch up to him, and suddenly the inside of the car feels very small.
Suddenly, he feels warm. These days, he always seems to feel that way when he thinks about you. It's annoying. It's distracting. It'sâ
"Hold the fuck on." The car comes to a screeching halt at a red light, and Heeseung turns. "You like her."
"What?" It comes out too fast. "Yeah, right. You know I don't do dating. Or any of that bullshit. It's a waste ofâ"
"I didn't ask if you wanted to marry her. I asked if you liked her."
Sunghoon looks out the window, streetlights passing.
He thinks about you. Your laugh, your smile, the voice notes you always leave and how he sometimes finds himself listening to them late at night when he has nothing better to do. He thinks about the way you looked in the crowd, sitting there for him. The way you always show up when he needs you and let him treat you like trash.
For a while, he told himself he was only getting close to you for convenience. Though thereâs nothing convenient about the jittery feeling in his stomach right now, is there? He shoves it back down.
"No," he folds his arms. "Obviously no."
Heeseung gives him a long look. A very long look. Then he turns back to the road.
"Then stop bothering the poor girl and do your damn project."
Heeseung turns up the radio. The highway hums beneath them.
Sunghoon stays silent. The jitteriness in his stomach fades into something new. Something that aches. A terrible feelingâan awful one. He wonders how you might feel right now. Worse than him, he's sure.
"I will," he suddenly says. "I'll stop."
He'll do his work. He'll make things right. And next time, when you inevitably come back around, he'll apologize properly.
Sunghoon opens the project folder. Stares at the empty files, the frontend he never built. The CSS that's still mostly placeholder comments.
This should be easy. He'd always told himself I could pass this class in my sleep if I actually tried. But now he's trying, and his brain is a blank wall.
He types a line, deletes it, types again. Wrong syntax. The error at the bottom of the screen glares red and refuses to explain itself. He opens google, checks Stack Overflow, which presents and answer he doesn't understand. He copies the code anyway, slots it in, and five more errors bloom where one used to be.
This is bad. Severely bad. If he fails this course again, his GPA risks dropping below the minimum threshold for athletic eligibility. No GPA, no team. No team, no playing next season. And if Sunghoon canât play next season, the team loses the tournament, and they lose funding. No funding means the program folds, which means he can kiss his E-sports career goodbye.
His hand twitches toward his phone. It's become a reflex nowâreach for you the moment something goes wrong, except now you wonât help him. Because he fucked that up and asked for too much too quickly and made you feel used. And now heâs stuck, watching the errors keep piling up, knowing the deadline is three days away.
Leave the poor girl alone.
He grabs his phone anyway.
He can't do it without you. He doesn't know the syntax, doesn't know the structure. You were always there, filling the gaps, smoothing the edges, making it look easy. And he let you. He counted on it. He counted on you, and he didn't even realize it until you were gone.
He needs you. He opens your chat and looks at his messages. Still unanswered. Still unread.
Sunghoon: hey. i'm sorry.
Sunghoon: i know you're mad but
Sunghoon: idk how to do this without you
sent three days ago
Sunghoon: hey
Sunghoon: i donât wanna bother you again
Sunghoon: but i really am trying
Sunghoon: and im stuck
Sunghoon: please
sent two days ago
"Hey. It's me. I don't know if you're listening to these anymore." He clears his throat, eyes on the timer of the voice recording. Heâs sent a lot of these over the past few days, and heâs long since stopped hoping youâll respond. He treats it almost like a confessional instead. "I'm sorry. For everything. I really am. I tried to do the project. Like, actually tried. And I can't. I don't know how. I never went to class, and I neverâI know it's all my fault. And that I've dug my own grave. Just... I hope you know I'm trying. And..."
A long silence. The recording meter ticks.
"...I miss youâfuck. Sorry. Just. Yeah. Sorry"
He hits send, immediately shoving the device aside and burying his face in his hands. He keeps telling himself he doesn't want to bother you. That he can figure this out on his own. That he should leave you alone. But the cursor's still blinking on an empty file, and his phone's still dark, and the lie is getting harder to hold onto every time he reaches for it. He needs you.
Sunghoon waits outside the lecture hall.
He's never even been to this building before, even had to look up the room number, the time, and the building itself. But now heâs there, leaning against the wall, hood pulled over his head, arms crossed, watching the doors like he's holding an angle. Students trickle out in pairs and clusters. He scans every face.
Then he sees you.
You're near the back of the crowd, and you're not alone. Some guy is walking beside youâboring and forgettable. He's leaning in as you talk, nodding at whatever you're saying, and smiling at you, and Sunghoon wants to call him pathetic, but you're smiling back at the guy. His jaw tightens.
You haven't noticed him yet. You're still talking, gesturing with one hand, your bag slung over your shoulder, looking strangely relaxed. You never looked like that with him. He only knows you as the flustered girl who froze in the library when he knee touched yours. You, who melted into his touch in the backseat of his car. Not... this.
The guy says something, and you laugh, making Sunghoon's fingers dig into his own arm.
Then your eyes sweep the hall, landing on him. You hold for half a second before immediately looking away, starting to walk faster. You brush past him like he doesnât exist, but Sunghoonâs already pushing himself off the wall, falling into step beside you.
"Hey." His hood falls back over his shoulders. "Can we talk?"
"I have somewhere to be."
"Five minutes. Please."
"Pretty sure she said no," The other guy frowns, then looks at you. "Everything okay? You know him?"
"She's my project partner," Sunghoon practically seethes, not looking at him. His eyes are on you. "Now leave us alone."
"Think that's up to her to decideâ"
"She's with me." Sunghoon's voice is flat and final. "Right?"
You stop walking. Your shoulders square and you turn to face him, chin lifting, and for a split second, there's something almost amused flickering at the corner of your mouth. Like you'd been expecting this. Still, your eyes are cold, your jaw set. Youâre pissed. Heâs never seen you truly, completely pissed. You always hid it beneath a smile.
"It's fine," you say to the guy, your voice calm. "I'll catch up with you later."
The guy hesitates. Looks at Sunghoon, then back at you. He's probably weighing his options, and Sunghoon watches him do the math in real time.
"Yeah. Okay." He scoffs, walking off, "Later."
Sunghoon turns back to you immediately, his jaw still tight from watching that guy disappear around the corner.
"Who was that?"
"Classmate." You say it flat. Youâre already walking again, your pace hurried.
"Yeah, right." He scoffs, falling into step beside you. "Does he know that? That he's just a classmate?"
"Why does it matter to you?"
"You're ignoring my messages." He avoids the question.
"Okay." You don't slow down. Don't even glance at him. "And?"
"And I'm kind of desperate here," His voice is rising now, frustration bleeding through the cracks. "I've been trying to reach you for days. I need your help."
You stop at the stairwell door, hand on the push bar, and finally, you look at him. Your expression is unreadable, but there's something almost pitying in the tilt of your head.
"You always need things, don't you?"
He blinks, and you're already pushing through the door, your footsteps echoing up the concrete stairwell. He hesitates for half a second, one hand braced against the doorframe, watching you climb, and then he's following, the door slamming shut behind him.
"You're greedy, Sunghoon. I've already given you so much."
"I know." His own footsteps fall heavy behind yours. "I know I don't deserve anything."
"Then stop wasting my time." You snap back.
You shove through the fire door at the top of the stairs, and suddenly you're both outsideâthe heat hitting him like a wall after the stale cool of the lecture hall, sunlight glaring off the sidewalk. You cut across the quad, weaving between clusters of students without slowing, and he stays on your heels like a shadow. You know heâs there, but you keep walking. Past the fountain. Past the library.
By the time you reach your dorm building, you're both breathing harder from the pace, and when you push through the glass doors into the air-conditioned lobby, he slips through behind you. Slowly, you turn.
"Why are you still following me?" Your frown cuts deep, brows furrowed. "Seriously, this is stalker behaviour."
Sunghoon doesn't flinch. Doesn't even have the decency to look ashamed.
"I won't leave until you help me."
"I dare you to tell that to campus security." You retort, chin tilted up, eyes locked on his.
Then you exhale through your nose, sharp and dismissive, and turn on your heel toward the elevator. You jab the call button with your thumb, harder than necessary.
"I dare you to call campus security." Suddenly, he stands beside you, hands in his pockets, shoulder nearly brushing yours, a ghost of that infuriating smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You won't."
The elevator dings, soft and cheerful, utterly indifferent to the tension coiled in the tiny space between your bodies. He steps in and stands close enough that you catch the familiar scent of him, and the doors slide shut, sealing you both inside.
"Because you don't scare me," you say, prodding a finger at his chest. He glances down at it, then back up at you, eyebrow raised. "You're like a whiny little toddler. Throwing a tantrum just because I won't give you what you want this time."
He doesn't step back. If anything, he leans into the prod, just slightly, letting your finger press into the fabric of his hoodie.
"Please," he says, and his voice has shiftedâlower, stripped of the smirk. "The project is due in three days. None of my code works. I tried. I actually tried. I wanted to do better. But I don't know how to do this. I never learned, because you were alwaysâ"
"Always doing it for you." You stare at the elevator doors. "Yeah. I know."
"I'm sorry, okay? I know I fucked up. The tournament. The jersey. The lucky charm thing. All of it." He huffs, a short, humourless laugh at his own expense. "It wasn't very feminist of me. I shouldn't have treated you like an object, or something."
"No." Your voice is flat. "You shouldn't have."
The elevator dings, and you step out fast, keys already in your hand. Still, he's right behind you. His footsteps fall heavy on the carpet, matching your pace, refusing to give you even a stride of distance.
"Stop following me." You say again, firmer this time.
"I told you I won't."
"Well, you can cry in the hallway, then. I'm not dealing with this." You reach your door, and the keys jingle sharply as you slot them into the lock, missing the first time because your hands are not quite steady. You twist the knob and slip inside, already rolling your eyes, already swinging the door shut. "Byeâ"
His hand catches it. Palm flat against the wood, fingers curling around the edge, arm braced. The door stops dead, half-open, and you're left gripping the handle on your side.
You stare at his hand. Then at him.
He pushes, though not very hard, and he steps through the gap, his body filling the frame and then clearing it. The door clicks shut behind him, and he leans back against it, his chest rising and falling with breaths that are just a little too fast to hide, like heâs equally as shocked as you are that he just forced himself inside your dorm room.
Your keys are still in your hand. Your knuckles are white around them, and you back up a few steps. Your chest is rising and falling to match his now, and the room feels suddenly very, very small.
âListen, I just want toââ
"Get the fuck out of my room, or I swear to god I will actually call security."
"What do you want from me?" His voice comes out raw, louder than he meant. He pushes off the door, one step forward, then stops himself. "I apologized. I've tried to do my work. I'm trying to make things right. You want me to get on my knees and beg? 'Cause I will. I'll fucking do it."
"Sunghoonâ"
He drops.
The movement is sudden and unceremonious. His knees hit the carpet with a dull thud, and for a second, he just stays there, head bowed, hair falling forward into his eyes, probably in need of a haircut. Then he looks up at you from the floor, hands clasped together.
"Please." His voice cracks. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."
You stare down at him, distraught. A little horrified. Kind of cringing to yourself, honestly. And for a moment, you just watch him apologize over and over again. He mutters the same things he texted you about already. Missing you. Wanting to be better. Wanting to fix things. Needing to pass the class.
You drop your keys on your bedside table. The clatter breaks the rhythm of his apologies, and he goes silent. His head lifts, tracking the sound, tracking you as you take a step toward him. Then another. He doesn't move. Doesn't breathe, it seems like.
Stopping just in front of him, his clasped hands loosen, fingers uncurling, and then he's reaching for yours insteadâslow, uncertain, like he's not sure he's allowed. His palms are warm, a little clammy. His fingers wrap around your knuckles and squeeze, and you can feel the tremor in his grasp. You think this is the first time you've ever seen this man experience any sort of real fear.
You lift his chin with your free hand, fingers pressing into his jaw, tilting his face up. The movement isnât gentle or kind, as if the frown on your lips wasn't indicative enough of your displeasure with whatever this display is.
"You're pathetic."
"I know."
"You're an entitled, egotistical, manipulative loser."
"I know."
"Get up."
He does, and now you're the one craning your neck to look at him.
"For the last time." You say it slowly, "Leave me alone."
He doesn't move. His eyes trace your face. Your throat. The line of your collarbone. Your lips, still pulled into a tight frown.
"I can't do that." A silence follows. "You don't want me to do that either."
"I do."
"Maybe you do," he clarifies, hand finally reaching out until his fingers meet your throat, grazing your skin until they meet your chin. You lean into the touch. Itâs your weakness. Your fatal flaw. You can say whatever you want, but when he has his hands on you, you crumble in his grasp. "But your body wants something else."
His thumb brushes your lower lip. Your mouth parts without permission.
You hold his gaze. Your breathing is shallow, your pulse hammering at the base of your throat where his fingers just were. You hate the way you can't pull yourself away.
âTell me what you want,â He rests leans in closer, his voice rough. "I can make it up to you. I'll make you forget what you were even upset about. You just have toâ"
You kiss him. Hard enough to shut him up. Hard enough that he makes a small, surprised sound against your mouth before his hand tightens in your hair and he kisses you back.
It's different from the parking lot. Slower, a little hesitant because you're still learning how this all works. Desperate still, but less immediately urgent. His hand cradles the back of your head, and his lips work yours like they have something to prove. Your hands come up to his chest, and this time you don't push him away.
When you break apart, you're both breathing hard. His forehead presses to yours, his eyes dark and a little dazed. The look of someone who knows they're about to get exactly what they wanted. You despise it.
"Are you really whoring yourself out for grades?" Your voice comes out breathless, undermining the bite you'd intended.
He laughs, low and warm against your mouth.
"If I'm whoring myself out for anything, it's forgiveness." His hand drops to your waist, his thumb tracing the curve of your hip. "I meant it when I said I missed you."
"Oh, I'm sure you do." You laugh bitterly, but his lips are already trailing down your jaw. "I'm sure you miss the way I did all your work and drove you around andâ"
"I miss when you were mine." He says it against your throat, the words vibrating against your skin. His hand tightens on your hip. "And not laughing at some other asshole's jokes."
You can feel the shift in him, his possessiveness bleeding through the charm.
"Seriously, who was that guy?"
"Told you. Nobody." Your head tips back as his mouth finds the hollow beneath your ear. "Just a classmate."
"Did you do anything withâ?"
"No. Obviously, no." The sigh that escapes you is half-frustration, half-surrender. "Just you. You know it's just you."
"That's right." He pulls back just enough to look at you, and there's satisfaction in his eyesâwarm and smug and entirely undeserved. "Just me."
His hand slides from your hip to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him.
"What we did in the parking lot was just the start." His lips brush your ear, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. "I can do so much more for you. You know I can."
Your back suddenly hits the mattress. You didn't feel him walking you thereâdidn't register the steps, the turn, the careful way he lowered you down. But now he's above you, braced on his forearms, looking at you with a kind of hunger and hope.
"Let me apologize properly." He squeezes your hand, his thumb brushing your knuckles. "Will you?"
You look up at him. At his jaw. His mouth. His dark, beautiful eyes. You nod without questioning it.
His lips find your throat first. Soft. Slow. He traces the line of your pulse with his mouth, feeling it flutter beneath his attention. Then lowerâyour collarbone, the hollow at the base of your throat, the warm skin just above the neckline of your shirt. He pushes the fabric aside, just enough, and presses a kiss there. Then another. Then lower.
His hands move with the same precision he brings to his game, but slower. Like he's memorizing the landscape of you as he strips you of your clothes. His mouth traces a slow path down your stomach. Youâre near-bare when his fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear, and he pauses, looking up at you through his lashes.
"Just lay back."
You nod again, not trusting your voice.
He pulls the fabric down. His breath is warm against the inside of your thigh. Then his mouth is thereâgentle at first, testing, learning what makes you gasp and what makes you go still. His hands hold your hips, thumbs tracing circles into your skin, steadying you.
"Too much?" He murmurs against you, the vibration of his voice sending a shiver up your spine.
"No," You swallow. "Don't stop."
With that, he's grinning, lowering himself between your thighs.
He takes you apart slowly. Thoroughly. His tongue works in patterns you can't track, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh of your thighs, his voice a low murmur of praise against your skin. So good for me. So pretty. Just like that.
When he feels you getting close, he doesn't speed up. He holds the rhythm steady, deliberate, drawing it out until your hands are fisted in his hair and your back is arching off the mattress and his name is the only word left in your vocabulary.
"Who's making you feel this good?" His voice is rough, muffled against your skin. "Tell me."
"Sunghoon."
"Say it again."
"Sunghoonâpleaseâ!"
You shatter. The wave crashes through you, and he works you through every second of itâhis mouth never stopping, his hands grounding you, holding you together even as you fall apart. When the last tremor leaves your body, you're gasping, your fingers still twisted in his hair.
He kisses his way back up. Your hip. Your ribs. The curve of your shoulder.
"All mine," he murmurs against your skin, pressing the words into you like a claim.
Finally, his lips find yours. Still slow, none of that frantic hunger that had him pressed against you before you could think in the back of your car. His hand comes up to cradle the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone, and his mouth moves against yours like an apology he doesn't know how to put into words.
But you're not done with him yet. Not even close.
Your hands drop from his chest to his waistband, fingers finding the drawstring and tugging. You fumbleâtoo eager, too impatientâand the knot catches, your knuckles pressing into the hard plane of his stomach as you work at it. His abs tense under your touch. He pulls back, eyes wide, lips still swollen.
"What are you doing?" His voice is rough, caught between surprise and something else. His hand hovers over yours, but doesn't stop you.
"Want you." You meet his eyes and hold them, your chin tilting up. "Inside me."
He nearly groans at the sound of that, dick twitching in his pants. But, for the first time, he hesitates. Even nowâeven with you laid out beneath him, even with the taste of you still on his lipsâthere's a flicker of concern in his expression. "You sure?"
"You want forgiveness." Your voice is steadier than you feel. "Show me how sorry you are."
He stares at you for a beat. Something in his expression shiftsâsurprise giving way to something darker, more amused, thoroughly impressed. A low chuckle escapes him, warm and rough, and he shakes his head like he can't quite believe you.
"You want it that bad, huh?"
You push his hoodie up over his shoulders, suddenly self-conscious of how much skin youâre showing compared to him. He finishes the job for you, peeling off the hoodie and shirt beneath it in one motion, and then heâs reaching for the waistband.
You barely notice how his sweatpants are gone in a single impatient shove, too focused on him; the broad sweep of his chest, the tight lines of his stomach, the way his arms flex as he braces himself above you. Your hands flatten against his chest without second thought.
"How the hell are you so..." You trail off, too stunned to finish.
"Gym. Sometimes." He shrugs, "What? I'm not a complete loser."
"You're worse than a loser." You retort, but your words betray your actions as you find the waistband of his boxers.
"I am?" He's grinning now, watching your hands fumble, "You don't seem to mind."
He shifts his weight as you pull them down, and then you have himâhard, bare and intimidating, grinding against the inside of your thigh. Your breath catches.
"I'm serious, though." His voice drops. His forehead presses to yours, and his hips still. "You sure you want this? It feels sort of wrong. Like..."
"Like what?"
He doesn't answer right away. His thumb traces a slow line along your hip, grounding himself, grounding you. Like you should save it for someone else, he thinks. Someone more deserving. The thought makes him shudder. He can't stand itâthe image of someone else's hands on you. Someone else seeing you like this, all flushed and open and unguarded. He's too obsessed with the way you react to his touch. Too greedy to give it up.
"Sunghoon," you sigh, "I literally don't care. Just put it in."
He sucks in a breath.
"Well, I care." He presses closer, and you feel him at your entrance. He doesnât push in yet, just rests there, heavy and warm. His eyes find yours. "So tell me if it hurts. Tell meâ" He pushes in just barely, just the head of him, and your mouth falls open. "âfuck, you're gorgeous."
He's not fully in yetâjust working his way inside, pausing to let you adjust to each inch. His thumb strokes the back of your hand in slow, soothing circles. And yet stillâ
"So big," you whimper, glancing down between your bodies, almost disbelieving. You already feel so impossibly full of him. Your fingers squeeze around his, your other hand gripping the back of his neck. "So much..."
"I know." He whispers it, and you catch the corner of his mouth twitchingâtrying not to smile too smugly, trying not to let it get to his head. But he's still just a guy, and the way you're looking at him, all wide-eyed and overwhelmed, is doing things to his ego he can't quite suppress. "Too much for you?"
You shake your head in denial, your nails pressing little crescents into his shoulder blade as he sinks in deeper. The stretch is intense, almost too much, but the thought of him stopping is worse.
"I know it's a lot." There's a trace of that smugness in his voice now, but it's tempered by something softer. Something almost tender. "But it feels good when you get used to it, angel. I swear."
He's fully in now. You feel him everywhereâa deep, satisfying fullness that borders on overwhelming. His palm presses flat against your lower belly, and you watch his jaw go slack as he feels himself there, buried inside you, just beneath his hand.
"Fuck," he breathes, almost to himself. "Feel that? That's me. Right there."
You can't speak. You can only nod, your breath coming in shallow gasps, your body still adjusting to the size of him.
You feel him in your guts, an almost unbearable fullness that borders on pain before it tips into something else. When he starts moving, shallow and careful, it's like your whole body shakes with the sensation. Want. Need. Anticipation. You've wanted him so badly. All summer, every night, every time his knee brushed yours or his voice dropped low. And now here he is inside you, above you, finally, and you're barely able to handle it. The frustration prickles at the edges of your bliss.
A strained sound escapes you with each shallow thrust. Your face is still tight, your body still struggling to accommodate him, but you are so, so determined.
"More," you manage, the word half-demand, half-plea. "You can go harder. Faster. I won't break."
He just laughs, Low and warm.
"Not yet." He purrs. "Not this time. You'll take it like this."
He fucks you slow and deep. His thumb finds your clit and circles it in a lazy rhythm, matching the roll of his hips. The discomfort lingers at the edges from the stretch of him that still borders on too much, but then he shifts, angling your leg slightly higher, and something inside you ignites.
A raw, involuntary noise escapes you, and he catches it immediately.
"Right there, huh?" He does it again, same angle, same depth. You bite back a cry. "Feels good?"
"So good." Your nails rake down his back. "Fuck, itâs soâ"
You don't finish the sentence. You cum around him, rather abruptly, a broken cry on your lips, your back arching. He groans, low and strained, and rocks you through every pulse of it, his hips rolling gently, letting you ride out your high.
When your eyes blink open, hazy and unfocused, you stare up at him. At the sharp cut of his jaw. His mouth, still slightly parted. The dark hair falling over his gorgeous eyes. He looks like a fucking pornstarâit's actually unbelievable. Every inch of him is perfect, and it just makes you even more pissed.
And he hasn't finished yet. Still hard. Still inside you. Still watching you with that smug, knowing look, like he's got all the time in the world.
That also makes you pissed.
With a single-minded focus, youâre pushing him to his back, mounting him, your legs still shaking from the aftermath of your orgasm.
âWhat are youââ His voice is genuinely startled. His hands come up to your hips on instinct, not guiding, just holding, like he's bracing for impact. His eyes are wide, fixed on your face.
You lower yourself onto him, slowly. Sinking down until youâre fully seated there. Itâs a lot. A lot more than it was trying to take him from just lying down. You feel all of him, even deeper than before, filling you to the brim, and your eyes squeeze shut, trying to swallow the slight discomfort that still lingers.
âI donât know if you shouldââ His voice is strained. He's trying to be decent. Trying to hold still. You can feel the tension in his thighs beneath you, the effort it's taking him not to thrust up into the heat of you.
You start to move. Mostly to shut him up. Thereâs no rhyme or rhythm. No technique. Only directionless desire. Your hips rock in a shallow, uneven pace because you can't really handle what you're trying to takeâthe angle is different, and every downward stroke punches a gasp from your lungs. Your thighs burn with the effort. Your balance wavers. But you don't stop.
"Fuck." The word tears out of him, strangled and reverent. He's leaning back against your pillows now, propped on his elbows, watching you with helpless awe. "Just take it. Take what you want. It's yours."
Your nails drag down his chest, leaving angry red lines in their wake. The sting makes him hiss, but he doesn't stop youâdoesn't grab your wrists, doesn't flip you over. He just watches, enthralled, as you claw at him like you're trying to leave a mark he'll feel for days.
You're cursing at him under your breath. Asshole. Entitled. Selfish. Using me. Words he can't quite catch but definitely deserves. Your rhythm stutters and breaks, your hips faltering as the pleasure builds too fast, too intense, and you can't keep the pace steady when every nerve in your body is screaming.
Maybe he should feel terrified that you're clawing at him like an animal, cursing his name with the same breath you use to moan it. But he's captivated. He's never been more attracted to anyone in his life. Your lips are parted, your chest bare and heaving, and you're riding him with zero grace and a summerâs worth of pent-up fury and sexual frustration.
"Shit," he breathes, his hands sliding up from your hips to your waist, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above your hipbones. "Look at you. So fucking hot when you're mad. Maybe I shouldâ"
You slap him across the face.
As hard as you can.
It shocks you, even.
Itâs not very hardâhe's basically a wall of muscleâbut the sting is real, and the crack of it echoes in the room.
For one suspended second, he doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. His head is still turned from the impact, a faint pink bloom already rising on his cheek. Still trying to wrap his head around the fact that youâthe girl who stutters over her words and whimpers from a single touchâjust slapped him across the face while riding him.
His eyes find yours.
"Shut the fuck up." You hiss.
He should probably feel pissed, right? Offended, maybe? He's never been slapped in his lifeânot by a girlfriend, not even by his roommates, though heâs sure sometimes they want to. And yet the sting on his cheek is radiating down his neck, into his chest, settling low in his gut where it twists into something insatiable.
His dick twitches, and a sound he's never made escapes himâwhich he does not have the time to unpack currently. He'll think about it later, probably, when he's alone and confused and trying to figure out what the hell just happened to him.
A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"Make me."
You slap him again, and his smile only widens.
His cheek is definitely pink now. He can feel the heat of it, the slight throb, and it's doing something to him. His hands tighten on your hips, not to restrain you, just to keep you there, like this. Steadying your hips.
You're breathing hard, staring down at him, the stretch of him wearing you thin. He splits you open in a way that borders on too much, your body still struggling to accommodate the sheer size of him even now, even after everything. Every inch is a presence you can't ignore, and for a dizzying second, you wonder if this is what it feels like to be completely consumed. Still, you take him. You take what you want.
You finish with a broken cry, your rhythm shattering completely. Your hips stutter, lose their pace, and then you're collapsing forward, forehead pressed to his chest, your whole body seizing and releasing around him in waves that don't seem to stop. His hands find your hips and hold you steady through it, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above your hipbones, grounding you while you shudder apart on top of him.
For a moment, he lets you rest there. His hand cradles the back of your head. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek. He's still hardâachingly, painfully hardâand the feeling of you fluttering around him, spent and trembling, is almost enough to finish him right there.
But not quite.
He flips you onto your back.
It's fast. One arm wraps around your waist, and then the world tilts, and suddenly you're beneath him again, your back sinking into the mattress, your legs falling open around his hips. He doesn't give you time to adjustâdoesn't give himself time to think. He just drives back into you, burying himself to the hilt in one desperate thrust.
"Hoonâ!â
"Take it," he chokes out, hand reaching for your neck, "Don't tap out on me, now. Fucking take it like a good girl."
The pace is different now, a lot less considerate. He's been holding back all nightâletting you adjust, letting you set the rhythm, letting you take what you wanted. But now he's wound too tight, every thrust driven by a pure, animalistic need.
His breath goes ragged. His jaw clenches so tight it aches. The hand around your neck tightens, not enough to choke you, but enough to keep you in place, and he fucks into you like he's trying to outrun somethingâthe guilt, the fear, the dawning realization that this isn't just about getting off anymore and that it probably hasn't been for a while.
"I'mâ" His rhythm breaks, stutters, and then he's pulling out at the last possible second. His hand wraps around himself. He finishes on your stomach with a low, broken groan that sounds like it's been dragged out of him against his will, and he stares at the image of it all: You, covered in his cum. Finally his again.
He stays there for a moment, braced above you, his arms trembling. His head hangs low, breath coming in ragged gasps. The mess between you is warm and slick, pooling on your skin, and neither of you moves to clean it up. Not yet, anyway.
The room goes quiet, the two of you only breathing.
He blinks down at you. At the mess. The way you're still catching your breath, still flushed, still looking up at him with those wide, unreadable eyes. Something flickers across his faceâsomething almost tender, almost frightenedâand then it's gone, replaced by the ghost of that infuriating grin.
"Shit," he breathes, and it comes out half-laugh, half-apology. "Come here."
He kisses you. Soft. Gentle. Nothing like the desperate, driving intensity of a few minutes ago. This kiss says something differentâsomething he can't quite put into words and isn't sure he's ready to. His lips linger on yours for a beat longer than necessary before he pulls back.
"You got anything to clean up with?"
You point him to the drawer at your bedside, and he reaches over. A pack of wet wipes. He cleans you up with careful, methodical hands, wiping the mess from your stomach, between your thighs, his touch efficient but gentle. Like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like he's done it a hundred times.
He tosses the wipes toward the garbage bin in the corner. It lands short. He doesn't pick it up. Instead, he climbs back onto the bed and lies down beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours.
"Does it hurt anywhere?" He turns his head on the pillow to look at you. His hair is a disaster, still damp with sweat at the temples. "I was trying to be careful, but you were kind of intense. You were a virgin, like, two hours ago."
"A little sore." Your voice comes out hoarse. "I'll survive."
"You sure? I can get you Advil." He's already half-propped up on one elbow, ready to go searching through your bathroom cabinets. "I don't know where you keep your Advil."
"I'm sure."
He nods, settling back down. His arm finds its way around your waist, pulling you closer until your head rests against his shoulder. His hand traces idle patterns on your hipâslow, absent shapes, like he's not even aware he's doing it.
"You're staying?"
He looks down at you. The question catches him off guardânot the words, but the way they sound to him. Soft and Uncertain, like you're bracing for him to leave. Clingy already, he thinks, but the thought makes him smile, rather than feel annoyed.
"Come on." He presses a kiss to the top of your head. "I'm not a complete asshole."
"You're not?"
"I'm staying." Another kiss, softer this time. "I'm not going anywhere."
You hum, a sigh leaving your body, head settled against his chest. His heart does something inconvenient in his ribcageâa flutter, a stutter, something he refuses to name. He pulls you a little closer anyway.
"I mean it," he says, and the words start coming faster now, tumbling out in a ramble he hadn't planned. The afterglow loosened something in his chest. "I'm gonna make it up to you. For real this time. Not like the parking lot. I know I said that then, but I mean it now. I'm gonna take you out. An actual date. No tournaments. No sushiâunless you want sushi? But a nicer place than that one. Just you and me. A real restaurant. Not some strip mall junk."
You're quiet, your thumb drawing lazy circles against his chest. It's a soothing, steady rhythm that has his eyes growing heavy.
"And I'll stop calling you a lucky charm or prize or whatever. That was stupid. I shouldn't have said that. I don't even know why I said it. I was justâthe reporter was there, and I was still hyped from the match, and my teammates were all listening." He presses another kiss to your hair. "You're not any of that. You're good to me. Really good to me."
Still no response. Your thumb keeps tracing those slow circles, but you haven't looked up at him. You must be tired. Poor thing.
"Oh, and I'll teach you," he adds, a chuckle escaping him. "How to ride me. Properly. Not that I'm complaining. It was cute watching you struggle up there."
A yawn cracks his jaw. He tries to smother it, but it's too late. His body reminds him that he got zero sleep trying to work on the project, and that he just made you finish three times. The adrenaline is gone. What's left is heavy, dragging exhaustion. Almost peaceful.
"Anyway," he mumbles, eyes closing. "I'll be better. I swear. Actual date. No name-calling. Riding lessons. Sunghoon 2.0. The redeemâ" Another yawn. "The redemption arc."
You turn your head on his chest. Your voice cuts through the haze of his exhaustion.
"Sunghoon."
"Mm?"
"What did I say about shutting up?"
He blinks. The question catches him off guard, and then a laugh bubbles up from somewhere deep in his chestâgenuine, surprised, a little bit giddy. A laugh only you seem to be able to pull out of him.
"Yes, ma'am," he says, grinning. "Shutting up now."
You settle back against his chest. Your hand resumes its position over his ribs, but the circles have stopped. He doesn't notice. He's already sinking, the warmth of you pulling him under.
He closes his eyes. The weight of you against his chest is warm and solid and real. His, some quiet, possessive part of him whispers. And the taste of you still lingers on his lips, tasting a lot like victory.
It's been two weeks. Sunghoon has learned a few things about you.
He's learned that you're insatiableâand that Heeseung was right when he said something about the innocent ones being the freakiest in bed. He's learned that you like it when he pulls your hairânot hard, just enough. He's learned that you like to pull his hair and dig your nails into him and cuss him out, while begging him to go harder and faster.
He's also learned that you still won't let him take you on an actual date. And trust him, he's tried.
"Let me take you out," he'll say, and you're cutting him off with your sweet, irresistible lips.
"I'm serious," he'll insist, and your hand is down his pants, teasing him for being hard already.
"I'll buy you dinner. Anything you want," he'll try, and you're sinking to your knees, taking his dick down your throat like itâs nothing.
Then he forgets whatever he's arguing about.
It bothers him. Not the sex part, obviouslyâhe enjoys that more than he's ever enjoyed anythingâbut he doesn't want you to think that's all he wants. He's been trying to prove otherwise. Trying to show you that he actually gives a shit. That he's not an asshole. That he's changed.
You don't seem to believe himâthat's the only reason he can think of why you keep avoiding his advances, anyway. Every time he brings up a real date, you dodge, distract and deflect with your hands and your mouth and the warm press of your body.
He's determined to prove you wrong.
Today is no different. You're in his bed, head pressed into the pillows as he fucks you from behind, and he's covered in a layer of sweat.
"Shit," he seethes, watching himself disappear inside you, your greedy cunt taking all of him. "So fucking gorgeous."
"Faster," you whine, predictably. He almost laughs.
"Let me take you out." He slows deliberately, his cock dragging along your walls at an agonizing paceâso slow you can feel every inch of him, the thick ridge of his head catching on just the right spot before he pulls back again. "Tomorrow. Dinner. Real restaurant."
"Sunghoon." His name is muffled against the pillow, half-moan, half-protest. Your fingers twist in the sheets.
"Somewhere nice." He rolls his hips, just barely, just enough to make you gasp. "No sex. Not before. Not after. Not even a little. Just talking."
"You're already talking right now." You push back against him, trying to take him deeper, but his hands tighten on your hips, holding you still. "And it's very annoying."
"I'm serious."
"So am I. Now faster."
"No."
A squeal escapes you as his palm connects with your assânot hard, just a sharp little crack that makes you jolt forward. The sting blooms warm across your skin. He rubs the spot immediately, his palm soothing over the heat he left behind, and the contrast makes you shudder.
"Just say yes." He leans over you, his chest brushing your spine, and you can feel the heat of him, the slick slide of his skin against yours. His lips find the shell of your ear. "Lemme hear it, and I'll fuck you right."
His hips rock forwardâbarely an inchâand you moan at the shallow stretch. Then he pulls back again, leaving you empty and aching.
"Fine," you huff, "Maybe."
He stops moving entirely. You wait for the next thrust, the next tease, but nothing comes. Then he's pulling out completely, his hands leaving your hips, and the sudden absence of him is so jarring you actually whimper.
"What are youâ?"
"No date, no dick."
You crane your neck to glare at him over your shoulder. He's kneeling behind you, cock slick and ready, one hand wrapped lazily around himself. He strokes himself, just watching you squirm.
"That's not fair."
"It's completely fair." Trying not to grin, seeing the look of frustration on your face, "Seriously, what am I, a piece of meat to you?"
"Yes," you don't even hesitate, "So put your dick back inside me and stop talking."
"So demanding," he raises a brow, hands leaving his cock to return to your hips. You whine when you feel the tip of him tease along your slick heat, absolutely dripping for him.
You huff, dropping your forehead to the pillow. Your body is aching. Empty. You can feel how wet you are, how ready, and he's just kneeling there, smug and gorgeous and utterly infuriating.
"Please." Your voice drops, softening. "Please give it to me."
He bites his lip, hands gripping your hips tighter as he grinds against you. The begging. You know he can't resist the begging. He sucks in a breath. Donât give in, donât give in, donâtâ
"Want it so bad." You push back onto your elbows, arching your back, presenting yourself to him. "Need you inside me. Need you to fill me up. Please, Sunghoon. Please."
"Fuck." He stutters and lines himself up, the head of him pressing against your entranceâjust barely, just enough to make you gasp and push backâand then he sheathes himself in one brutal, devastating thrust. "So fucking needy."
You cry out, face buried in the pillow, your whole body jerking forward as he sheathes himself to the hilt. He doesn't give you time to adjust, nor does he give himself time to be careful. His hand presses flat between your shoulder blades, pinning you to the mattress, and his other hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise.
The headboard slams against the wall in a frantic rhythm, his pace punishing. Your fingers curl into the sheets, twisting the fabric, trying to anchor yourself against the force of him. Every thrust punches a broken sound from your throatâhalf gasp, half moan, muffled by the pillow. He watches himself disappear into you, the slick glide of his length, the way your body stretches to accommodate him, the way you push back against him even now, even pinned, even helpless.
"That's it," he grits out, his voice wrecked. "Take it. Take all of it."
You're babbling something into the pillowâhis name, maybe, or just incoherent pleading. He can feel you tightening around him, your walls fluttering, the telltale tremble in your thighs. He reaches around, finds your clit, and the sound you make when he touches you there is almost enough to finish him on the spot.
"Come for me," he breathes, his rhythm stuttering as his own control starts to fray. "Let go. I've got you."
You shatter. He feels itâthe clench, the pulse, the way your whole body seizes and releases. Your cry is muffled by the pillow, but he hears it anyway, feels it in the way you grip him, in the way you shudder beneath him. He fucks you through it, chasing his own release now, and when it hits him, a low, broken groan is torn from his chest as he spills inside you.
He collapses forward, bracing himself on his forearms so he doesn't crush you. His forehead presses to the space between your shoulder blades, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your damp skin. Beneath him, you're still tremblingâsmall aftershocks rippling through you. The room is quiet now, just the sound of breathing and the distant hum of his PC.
He stays there for a long moment, letting his heart rate settle, letting the sweat cool on his back. Then he shifts, pressing a kiss to the center of your spine. Then another, higher. Then another, at the nape of your neck. He works his way up slowly, reverently, like he's memorizing the landscape of you.
"Come here." His voice is wrecked, barely more than a rasp. He eases out of you gently and tugs you down onto the pillows with him, pulling your back against his chest. His arm drapes across your waist, heavy and warm. His nose brushes the curve of your ear. But then heâs watching you slip from the bed, and he canât help but frown. The sheets pool around his waist as he sits up, reaching for you. His fingers catch your arm before you can stand.
"Where are you going?"
"Back to my place?â
âWhy?â
âBecause.â You break from his grasp, âIâm busy.â
"With?"
"Studying. Work. Social life." You're pulling on your clothes with that efficient, no-nonsense energy he's come to recognizeâunderwear, shirt, the quick twist of your hair into something presentable. "Some of us care about our lives."
He ignores the jab, tugging you back toward him. You stumble, one knee landing on the mattress, and he takes the openingâhis mouth finding the curve of your neck, pressing slow, deliberate kisses along your throat.
"Sunghoon..." Your voice wavers, a warning and a surrender all at once.
"I want to take you out." He murmurs it against your skin, his hand sliding up your arm. "Wanna do more than just this. Wanna do this right."
You pull back just enough to look at him. Your expression is hard to readâsomething between exasperation and something softer you won't name. "This is fine. I like this."
"I know. I like it too." His thumb traces your jaw. "Butâ"
"I have to go." You lean down and kiss him. Brief. Almost dismissive. Then you're pulling away, grabbing your bag, and he's left in the bed, still warm from your body, still tasting you on his lips.
He groans, dragging himself upright. Hastily, heâs tugging his sweatpants on, and throwing a hoodie over his head, and he follows you down the hallway, catching up just as you reach the living room.
The usual suspects are in positionâHeeseung on the couch, Jake in the armchair, Jay sprawled on the floor doing something on his phone that's making him smirk. Three heads lift in unison as you pass.
"Leaving so soon?" Heeseung calls, not looking up from his phone. "Not even cuddling? Sunghoon, man, don't tell me you fumbled that bad?"
"I have places I need to be," you reply simply, not breaking your stride, "Bye, guysâ"
He catches you at the door. His hand finds your waist, spinning you back toward him, and then he's kissing youânot the brief, dismissive peck you tried to give him in the bedroom, but something a lot more intentional.
He ignores the wolf whistle from the couch and the âget a room!â comment, his fingers curling into the fabric of your shirt at the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. His tongue traces the seam of your lips, and when they part on a surprised breath, he deepens the kiss without hesitation.
You make a sound against his mouthâhalf embarrassment, half something elseâand he grins into the kiss, pleased with himself.
"Sunghoonâ" You pull back, hand pressed to his chest.
"Next time." His voice is low, meant only for you, his forehead nearly touching yours. "I'm taking you out. Even if I have to keep my hands to myself the whole night."
"Sure," Your smile is unreadable, but you don't pull away. "Next time."
Then you're gone. The door clicks shut, and Sunghoon turns to face the room. Three stares bore into him.
"Bro," Jake says, "That was disgusting."
"Downright pornographic," Jay agrees from the floor.
Heeseung just shakes his head slowly, "You're down bad. Like, down bad, down bad."
"Catastrophically down bad."
"You guys don't get it." Sunghoon flops onto the couch. "She's perfect. Like, actually perfect. She's smart, and she's funny, and she puts up with my shit. And..." he cracks a smile as he gestures to his bedroom, "You know."
"We know," the three of them say in unison, flatly.
His head falls back, and he sighs, the scent of your perfume still lingering on him. The one trace of you that stays behind whenever you leave too soon.
"But," He pauses, his brows scrunched, "I don't think she believes me when I say I want more. I think that she thinks that I'm just trying to get in her pants."
"To be fair," Jake says, "you have been in her pants. Multiple times."
"And you literally spent the first half of the summer ignoring her while she did your coursework," Jay adds.
"And you made her take you to your E-sports tournament, then came on herâ" Heeseung starts.
"I know. I did a lot of shitty things I regret." He stares at the ceiling. "Itâs different now. I want to show her I actually care. That I'm not using her for her body or something. But every time I try, she changes the subject. Or distracts me. Orâ"
"Distracts you with sex?" Heeseung raises an eyebrow. "That must be terrible for you. Imagine that? Trying to take a girl out for dinner, and she just wants one order of your load down her throat instead. How awful."
"Iâm serious."
"Sunghoon." Heeseung puts a hand on his shoulder. "You're complaining that a girl who's hot and smart and good in bed won't let you take her to Olive Garden. Do you hear yourself right now?"
"She's got you whipped," Jay says, not looking up from his phone. "Never thought I'd see the day. The guy who once said 'relationships are a debuff' is now begging for a dinner reservation."
"I'm not whipped." He retorts. "I just want her to know that I care. That's all."
"Simp," Jake coughs.
Sunghoon's head snaps toward him. "Oh, you did not just say thatâ"
"Right message, wrong messenger," Heeseung interrupts him, "You are objectively a simp now. You, the guy who famously chose video games over his last relationship, who once said 'dating is a distraction from the grind'â"
"The grind is still important."
"âis now begging a woman to let him buy her overpriced appetizers."
Sunghoon would normally fire back with some well-aimed jab about Heeseung and Jay's own nonexistent love life or Jake's shit show of a dating history. But he's distracted. Thinking about you. About next time. About how he's finally going to convince you that he means it.
"I am," he says simply, a smile on his face, "I'd buy her everything on the menu if she asked me to."
A beat of horrified silence passes, the three boys sharing glances with each other.
"Seriously, what happened to him?" Jay whispers to Jake, who shrugs in response, matching his look, "This is terrifying."
"I'd almost rather hear him screaming at his ranked teammates."
"Or cry over a broken Nintendo Switch controller."
"Or talking to himself in the mirror before games. 'You got this, Sunghoon. You're him. You're cracked.'"
"It's hard to believe," Heeseung says, lowering his head between them and pulling them into an impromptu huddle, their voices dropping to stage whispers, "but maybe love really did change him."
"He's not in love," Jake rolls his eyes. "He's in heat or something."
"Yeah, well, it's the closest he's gotten to love in like, what, years?" Heeseung replies, "Look at what he's wearing. That's a brand new hoodie. Clean, pristine condition, not a single stain or wrinkle. When's the last time you saw him in something that didn't come out of the laundry pile?"
"Itâs like when male birds start doing those weird dances to impress the females," Jay shudders, "Puffing up their chests. Spinning in circles. Except it's Sunghoon doing it. Which just feelsâ"
"Gross?" Jake offers.
"Unnatural.â
"Wrong.â
"A crime against nature."
"You know I can hear you guys, right?" Sunghoon deadpans. "Literally everything."
"We know," Heeseung says without turning around. "We donât care. Go back to daydreaming."
Sunghoon opens his mouth to fire back, but his phone buzzes on the cushion beside him. A notification. He glances down, expecting your name on the screenâa text, maybe, or one of those voice notes he's learned to listen to the moment they arrive. His lips quirk up. Then he reads it.
Transcript Updated:
Summer Semester â Web Programming
Final Grade: F
The smile freezes on his face like a video paused on a single frame.
"What?" Heeseung leans over, trying to see the screen. "What's that face? You look like you just watched your favourite vandal skin get vaulted."
Sunghoon doesn't answer. He opens the grade portal. Opens the project submission page. There it is: The final project. Submitted. Your name, alone. His? Nowhere to be seen.
"I failed." His voice is small, hollow. "The class. She took my name off the project." Silence.
Then Jay starts laughing. A sharp, incredulous bark. Heeseung joins in, his shoulders shaking. Jake sets down his controller with the slow deliberation of a man who wants to fully savour what's about to happen.
"No way," Heeseung manages between breaths. "She didn't."
"She did."
"Oh, this is beautiful." Jay wipes his eyes. "This is the most beautiful thing I've ever witnessed."
âSo dicking her down didnât get you anywhere after all,â Heeseung is grinning widely, âTried to use her for grades, then caught feelings.â
"That's notââ
"You thought you had it all, huh? The A, the tournament win, the girlâ" He wheezes, "You thought you were out here playing her, and she played you."
"I told you it wasn't like thatâ"
"Bro." Jake sets down his controller. "It was exactly like that."
Sunghoon stares at the screen. At the F. At your name, alone on the submission page. His chest feels strange. Hollow. Like someone reached in and scooped something out and left a Sunghoon-shaped shell on the couch. He doesn't even have the energy to fight his roommates anymore.
He stands up from the couch, words dying on his lips. One moment heâs there, staring at his phone, and the next heâs walkingâfeet carrying him down the hallway toward his room. The laughter of his roommates fades behind him, muffled by the closing door.
His room is dark except for the blue glow of his monitor. The Valorant home screen stares back at him, waiting for a queue that wonât come. He sits at the edge of his bed and stares at the transcript notification again, as if looking at it long enough might change the grade.
His thumb hovers over your contact. The last message from youâa short, simple text from earlier that day. On my way. He'd smiled when he read it then.
He presses the call button.
"Sunghoon." You pick up after a few rings, "What's up?"
"What's up?" His voice comes out strangled. "You failed me. You took my name off the project. I thoughtâI thought we wereâ"
Thereâs a laugh on the other line.
"You thought what?" You ask, clearly amused. "You really thought that because you fucked me, suddenly I'd decide to let you keep your name on a project you didn't contribute to?"
"No, Iâ" He's stammering. "Not like that. But you made me thinkâ"
"I didn't make you do anything."
"You let me believeâ" He runs his hand through his hair, pacing. "Had me under the impression we were good. With each other. That things were fixed. That I apologized and you forgave me."
"Oh? Do you feel misled?" You tease, a content sigh, then leaving you, "I never promised you anything, Sunghoon. It's not my fault you assumed things."
His stomach drops. He sits there, in the middle of his dark room, phone pressed to his ear, and the silence stretches long enough that he's not sure why you havenât hung up on him yet.
"I like you." The words tumble out before he can stop them, earnest and vulnerable and nothing like how he usually is. "I wasn't just trying to get in your pants. I want to take you out. I've been trying to take you out for weeks. I wanted to show youâ"
"Oh, I know. You made that very clear."
"Then whyâ"
"But I'm sorry to break it to you," you continue, "I don't date guys who can't fix their own broken code."
He swallows, phone trembling in his grasp.
"Call me when you want to fuck again, 'kay? That's all you're really good for." You say. Itâs not smug or cruel. Itâs just honest. "Bye, Sunghoon."
note â°.á this work exists in the same au as this fic here
genre+warnings. exes to lovers, small town au, slightly aged up characters, dual timeline, maximal angst in this one i'm sorry guys... but a lot of fluff too dw, smut (MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!), deceased parent, sick grandparent
word count. 28,773
a/n. here we fucking finally are lmaoo if you were wondering why i haven't posted in 10 months, this is why !!!!!!! this is a very very long time in the making, i def had my ups and downs writing this, so i hope it will be worth it and you guys will enjoy lol pls pls pls let me know what u think, it would mean even more than usual !!!!!! and as always massive thanks to @zreamy for freaking out over hometown jay with me and for betareading this behemoth... ur such a ride or wtv it is british people say!
âOf those we love, of those we have loved, something always remains. A sensation on the skin, a barely-there fluttering. Love is a bird, as fragile as it is capable of reaching the stars. Of those we love, of those we have loved, remains always a light, akin to the sun that perseveres under the lids when you close your eyes.â
Laurine Roux, Le souffle du puma [rough translation]
.
.
Watching the scenery flash by as he drives down the highway, Jay wonders if itâs normal to feel so little sadness about leaving oneâs hometown behind. Oh well. It isnât like thereâs anything left for him in Seoul.
Heâs still surprised his father insisted on helping him pack. He didnât bother when Jay, 20 years old back then, moved all the way to France, but then again, his mother had been around to do it. Still, this is a four-hour drive down the country, and Jay has already hired a mover to bring down his bigger pieces of furniture, so the silent, tense afternoon they spent in each otherâs company packing up Jayâs clothes, books, and all sorts of stuff really couldâve been avoided.Â
He supposes he should be grateful for the attention, but after twenty-five years of not receiving any and resigning himself to that fact, itâs hard to suddenly backtrack and welcome it with open arms. Not even his motherâs death managed to change thingsâwhy would they change now?Â
After the last of his things found a place in the overflowing trunk of Jayâs BMW, he and his father stand next to the car, avoiding each otherâs eyes and saying nothing. Jay doesnât even know what heâs waiting for. Some words of encouragement? A sign of affection, no matter how meager?Â
âGuess you should go now. I donât think this is an actual parking spot,â his father offers instead after thirty excruciating seconds, gesturing to the general area in front of Jayâs apartment.
âRight. Well, thanks for helping.â
His father nods rapidly. Jay has never seen him do that. âOf course.â He crosses the distance separating them in a few steps, and places a heavy hand on his sonâs shoulder. âTake care, Jay.â
Tears prick at the back of Jayâs eyes, but he is used to not letting it show. âI will. You too, dad.â
His father looks at him then, and again in his eyes there is a glint of something unfamiliar to Jay. He canât figure out what it means, or maybe he doesnât want to. âAlright. See you around,â he says, like his son is an acquaintance he might or might not meet again.
Jayâs feet stay planted on the pavement as he watches his dad walk back to his own car a few meters down and drive away, thinking, Isnât he the one who should be watching me go away?
Heâs on his way now, and it might just be due to the speed of his car, but his heart feels light. He left Seoul for the first time five years ago, and he is leaving again today. The city he loved so dearly his entire childhood and adolescence is now full of reminders of things heâd rather leave behind. Despite its impressive size, he feels as though something is out to get him at every street corner. Here is the tteokbokki and sundae restaurant at which he always used to eat with the middle school friends he hasnât contacted in years; here is the bus stop at which heâd wait after every hospital visit to his mother; here is the fountain at which the two of you agreed to meet for your first date.
Itâs a very spontaneous, borderline irrational decision that Jayâs made, but he canât handle living in Seoul anymore. Not just the constant whiplash from memories heâs been experiencing lately, but everything that comes with city-living has been getting on his nerves. The relentless honking, the crowded streets and public transport at every hour of the day, the god-awful odors wafting from the sewers, the list could go on and on. He used to be indifferent to it all; now he wants nothing more to escape it.
This will be his second time ever in Sojuk-ri. The first time was just over six months ago, when his mother asked him to take her there. Theyâd driven there and back in the same day because her cancer had already reached a stage that meant she couldnât leave the hospital for too long. The doctors had only agreed to let go because having reached that stage also meant that it wouldn't make such a difference.
The brightness of the clouds is blinding through the windshield. Jay has a good feeling about this.
.
.
âTwo tofu bibimbaps and one kimchi stew!â
âGot it,â you say, taking the handwritten kitchen order ticket from Yeonjuâs hands and clipping it above the stove. She usually walks right back into the front of house, but you feel her lingering at the doorway, her gaze heavy on the back of your head. âWhat?â Youâre usually one to mind your manners, but manning a kitchen alone during rush hour is reason enough to let politeness slip slightly.
âTheyâre not happy about the all-vegetarian menu.â
âWhoâs they?â
âEveryone, Y/N! Iâve been asked four times why thereâs no pork in the kimchi stew.â
Itâs a good thing youâre not facing herâif your sister-in-law-slash-waitress saw the smile on your lips, the knife resting on the counter might be used to cut something other than carrots.
âThatâs what they get for getting so drunk and breaking a chair last week.â
âThat was just that one group of old men. I already told off Mr. Kim and Mr. Choi when they came in yesterday. Youâre punishing our entire clientele for five stupid drunkards.â
You stir the soup base, pretending to ponder her words. âLet them think of it as a group project. If one party does poorly, everyoneâs grade goes down.â
She groans. âIs that how Iâm supposed to explain it to our customers? This isnât Seoul. The people here need their meat. Actually, Iâm not even sure this would fly in Seoul.â
âSounds like their problem,â you say, shrugging. Yeonju groans again but finally walks back out.
From her seat on an overturned crate at the other side of the kitchen, cooling herself down with a paper fan, your grandmother chuckles and you exchange smiles. âYou tell âem, honey. Back in the day, Iâd ban them for a month if they got too rowdy. This is more fun.â
You sigh. âIâm just tired of this happening. No matter how often we tell them this isnât a drinking place, thereâll be people going overboard once every few weeks. The bar is just a few doors down, I donât know why itâs so hard to go there after eating.â
âMmh.â You glance at your grandmother. Her eyes are closed, and that unsettling serenity has made its way back to her features. Youâve lost her, it seems. But that doesnât keep you from rambling away.
âI guess we could stop selling soju altogether, but that would make us lose a pretty significant part of our revenue. And after work, Yeonju and I would have to actually go to the convenience store to buy it instead of grabbing it from the fridge here, so thatâs out of the question. Have you ever seen Mrs. Kangâs face when you buy alcohol from her? She looks at you like a criminal as if she isnât the one selling it. Sheâd be an awful drug dealer. Anyways, Iâm glad there isnât anyone here handing out drugs. Not that I know of, at least.â
Your grandmotherâs smile stretches ever-so-slightly, so you take it she might be listening after all.
âI also thought we could close a little earlier. No one comes in at nine thirty to eat. Rush happens at what, six, seven p.m.? If we closed around nine rather than ten, Yeonju and I would have more free time and it wouldnât make a big difference financially. How does that sound, Grandma?â
Yeonju walks in at that time, empty dishes stacked on her arms. âThatâs a good idea, actually,â she says. âYour brother has been saying he wishes I was around more.â For some reason, she thinks itâs funny to punctuate her words with a suggestive wiggle of her eyebrows.
âGross. Can you not refer to him as my brother when youâre talking about your sex life, please?â
âWeâve been married two years. Youâll have to get used to it at some point.â
âI wonât be used to it even when youâre celebrating your twentieth anniversary.â
âIâm glad you have that much faith in us,â she says, grabbing side dishes from the fridge and walking back out into the front of house. You wait for her to be gone to chuckle so she canât hear that her joke made you laugh.
Todayâs lunch rush ends earlier than usual, probably due to a smaller amount of customers. Fine, youâll put meat back on the menu. Starting tomorrow. They can suffer a little longer.
After cleaning the kitchen and taking count of your stock, you close up store. The three of you walk the short way back to your familyâs house, your grandmother in the middle, you and Yeonju flanked on her sides, each holding one of her arms. Your legs ache, and youâre immensely grateful for the few hours of rest ahead of you.
Once in a while, it happens that when you reach your bedroom, you feel inexplicably pulled to your bookshelf. There, you take out a familiar novel, and let it open naturally onto the page bookmarked by a picture, its edges frayed and worn with time. You donât know how long you stand there, staring at the two happy faces immortalized by one of your friendsâ phone camera, a sad smile on your lips. With your thumb, you trace the outline of the man standing by your side, a beer in his hand, his other arm around your waist, rosy cheeks visible even in the dimness of the room.
In the silence of your own room, you whisper, âHow are you now?â
.
.
It happens in the blink of an eye.
Chef Lee, todayâs mentor, has already started her presentation. No time to lose hereâno ice-breakers or long welcome speech or going around the classroom introducing themselves one by one. Lee gave two introductory sentences and went straight into the first lesson of the year, a basic overview of the different cuts theyâll have to master for every dish. Everyone is giving their undivided attention. If it wasnât for Chef Lee's monotonous drawl, a pin could be heard in the large, white room. That is, until the door suddenly opens and you barge in, out-of-breath like you were just running, eyes wide, not unlike those of a deer caught in headlights, Jay thinks.Â
Youâre unbelievably pretty.
But youâre also late, and judging by the look on Chef Leeâs face, that is a barely tolerable offense.
âAnd who are you?â she says.Â
âIâm Y/L/N Y/N, Chef. Iâm so sorry for being late, I got lost in the subway.â
A few snickers are heard around the room, undoubtedly a reaction to your countryside dialectâbased on the conversations he had with his new classmates before Chef Lee arrived, Jay gathered that most people here were from Seoul. Thankfully, their teacher seems to feel the same way about mockery as tardiness, and gives the culprits a harsh glare.
âPlease familiarise yourself with Seoulâs public transport as soon as you can, Miss Y/L/N,â Lee says, clearly already bored with this interaction. âYou might find that it will come in handy.â
âYes, Chef,â you say in a quiet voice and head to the nearest â and only â available station. Jay isnât aware he is still staring at you until your eyes meet. From across the room, you smile at him, and it sends his heart into a frenzy.
Until this exact moment, he was readying himself to spend a year in a cutthroat, competitive environment. And he still isâbut he thinks heâs found something thatâll keep him going.
.
.
Jay looks around the bleak room. It clearly hasnât welcomed a human being in a while now. Yellowing paperbacks fill dusty bookshelves, the ones that have fallen to the floor open at random pages. Heâs been told that since the sudden passing of the previous owner, no one has come to clean the place upâheâd been a widow for years already, and his two children lived abroad. Ignoring the real estate agentâs worried glances, Jay picks one up and brushes the dust off. Heâs hoping for serendipitous words, confirmation that heâs doing the right thing, some good omenâanything will do.Â
The book is in Russian. Jay does not know Russian. Heâs not sure what kind of sign this is supposed to be, and so puts the book back down and resumes his tour of the room.
âI know itâs not in great shape right now,â the agent says as Jay inspects the tubes of unknown function that run up one of the walls between two old bookshelves. This place seems to be all bookshelves. âBut I promise itâs all just clutter. One good sweep, and itâll look good as new,â he adds with an unconvincing chuckle.
Jay walks to the one window that isnât hidden behind a piece of furniture. The room is dark now, but with some rearranging, it could become very lively. Warm, golden sunlight filters through the white-paneled window, making visible the dust that floats in the air. Heâd appreciate its beauty more if it wasnât making the agent sneeze so much.Â
At the back of this main room, an archway leads to a kitchen. Some tiles on the floor and on the walls are broken, and the oven looks like something Jayâs great-grandmother wouldâve owned. Thereâs an awkward empty spot where the fridge should be, mold staining the ceiling, no corner that hasnât been claimed by spiders and cobwebs. Jay wonders whether this room even has access to running water and electricity. Its only real attribute is its size, spacious enough to hold a few more kitchen appliances and for two or three people to work in.
âIâll take it,â he announces.
âReally?â the agent exclaims, eyes almost bulging out of their sockets. But he remembers his job here, and quickly regains his composure. âI mean, thatâs fantastic to hear, Mr. Park. Did you want to see the apartment upstairs?â
Jay smiles genuinely for the first time today and acquiesces.
The stairs lead directly from the kitchen into a one-bedroom apartment thatâs about as rundown as the rest of the place. Fully furnished, too, although Jay suspects heâll have to change out the sofa and the bed frame that look about a century old.
âI told you this one was a bit of a fixer-upper,â the agent says, eyeing Jay nervously as if he might suddenly go back on his words.
The young man bites back a laughâtalk about a euphemism. He doubted that in its current state, this place was at all inhabitable. But he didnât mind, it meant he could truly redo it to his whimsy. âThatâs alright,â he reassures the agent. âDo I sign the papers now?â
A few minutes later, the two men stand outside, shaking hands. âPleasure to have done business with you, Mr. Park.â Jay wonders if the relief on his face has anything to do with the fact that this sale comes after seven unsuccessful visits. What can he say? He has standards.
âCall me Jay, please. Weâll be neighbors, after all,â he says, nodding his head to the real estate agency a few storefronts down the street.
âRight,â the agent says, smiling. âIâll see you around, then, Jay. Let me know if you need help with the renovations, I know a guy.â Checking his watch, he adds, âOh, and since itâs lunchtime, I highly recommend you try this restaurant right here. The true gem of our small town. The best japchae youâll eat in your life.â
The mere mention of the dish tugs at Jayâs heartstrings, and a smile that only he understands the meaning of appears on his lips. He doesnât say, I doubt that. Instead, he says, âThank you. Iâll try it out.â
With a last nod of his head, the agent heads back to his office. Jay turns to the restaurant, and upon seeing its name in big, red LED letters â either turned off during the day, or broken â has to squash his hopes down. A restaurant called Kimâs Kitchen that serves japchae in a small seaside town, what are the odds? But the Korean coastline runs for thousands of kilometers, Kim is the most common name in the country, and japchae is practically the national dish.Â
The smell of soy sauce, sizzling meat and burnt sugar hit his nose as soon as he walks into the tiny, homey place, as well as the cheerful noises of businessmen off on their lunch break, clinking glasses of beer and soju at 12:30 p.m.. Lucky for him, thereâs one spare table in the corner, where he sits and waits for someone to notice him. It only takes a minute for a woman to approach him, black hair tied in a low ponytail â just like you used to wear, he thinks despite himself â and white stained apron over a pink t-shirt. She smiles at him in that polite but tired way that restaurateurs have about them before wiping his table and setting down cutlery and a plastic jug of water.
âYouâre a new face,â she says matter-of-factly.Â
Jayâs eyebrows shoot up. Does she usually recognize every face that walks through here? âI am, yes.â
âBut youâre not a tourist.â She speaks in such a strong dialect that Jay wonders, perhaps naively, whether sheâs exaggerating it. The chatter at the tables around him has dwindled down, other clients shamelessly eavesdropping on their conversation and staring at him.Â
âWell, welcome to Sojuk-ri,â she says. The chatter picks back up; he must have been deemed not interesting enough by the curious eyes and ears around him. âAnd welcome to Kimâs Kitchen. We always serve japchae and bibimbap with beef or with the seafood catch of the morning. This weekâs specialty is abalone porridge, because my husband got sick, again, and we thought we might as well make some for everyone,â she says, sighing. âOur side dishes today are cucumber kimchi, soybean sprouts and steamed eggs.â
âCould I get one serving of japchae and one of porridge, please?â
âComing right up.â
As she walks away, Jay goes to retrieve his phone from his coat pocket. âOne japchae and one porridge, Y/N,â he hears the waitress shout in the direction of the kitchen, and he freezes.
âOn it,â a voice shouts back. The wind is knocked out of him.
To hear your voice again after five years is like waking up and realizing that the terrible nightmare he was having was just thatâa terrible nightmare.
He whips his head up in the direction of your voice, although heâs not sure he could handle the sight of you right now. Knowing you were in the next room, breathing the same air, hearing the same sounds, was already a lot. Too much, even. He has half a mind to slip his coat back on and feel the harsh September wind on his face, but his brain and his legs seem to have stopped cooperating. His feet stay planted on the ground as if glued there. The noise in the restaurant has faded away. All he can hear is his deafening heartbeat.
Thereâs a screen made of thin wooden slats that hides the kitchen from view. He catches a glimpse of someone â you? â wearing blue jeans and the same apron as the waitress when she steps into the kitchen. What would you do if you saw him?
Scratch that, Jay thinks. What will you do when you see him, your new neighbor, your old friend?
The only way to escape this now is to annul the contract he signed five minutes ago and to flee Sojuk-ri, never to come back again.
Jayâs mind goes through every possible outcome as he waits for his meal. He could march up to you and demand an explanation. He could march up to you, fall to his knees, wrap his arms around your hips, and cry. He could pretend not to have seen you. He could pretend heâs forgotten all about you. He could tell you not a single day has passed without you haunting his thoughts. He could ask if you still think things really are better off this way. He could ask if you, too, have not had a momentâs peace since you last saw each other.
The waitress walks back out, holding a tray full of steaming food, and he gets another glorious glimpse of you. Because it really is youâyour hair falling in a braid down your back, something heâs never seen before, holding up a spoon to your lips, your left hand ready to catch any drop that might fall.
Do you regret it?
Jay stares at the screen in front of him as the waitress sets down his plate and bowl, lightly saying, âEnjoy.â
Tears prick at his eyes as he chews on the glass noodles. If he wasnât one hundred percent sure that it was you behind that screen before, he is now.
The agent was rightâtoday and five years ago, it really is the best japchae heâs ever had.
.
.
Tears muddle your vision as you pack your belongingsâwell, âpackingâ is a pretty word for something that looks more like frantically stuffing things into your one large suitcase, backpack and tote bag. In September, youâd sulked at your family for not driving you up to Seoul; now, youâre grateful there were only so many things you could bring on the train with you.
Just yesterday, you were laughing and eating delicious jjajjangmyeon, tangsuyuk and fried pork dumplings at a Korean-Chinese restaurant with your friends and boyfriend. There were many things to be happy aboutâthe end of your mock exams, Jayâs upcoming birthday, Jaemin finally getting a text back from the girl he had a crush on in high school, the nearing results for the numerous internships and stages your school offers worldwide.
You think of the concentration on Suminâs face (and the annoyance on everyone elseâs) as she takes precise photos of your food for her Instagram account, claiming the camera eats first; of the dramatic expressions and sounds Jake makes whenever he bites into something he likes; of Jaeminâs voice, louder than everyone else, as you sing Happy Birthday to Jay, joined by all the other restaurant-goers and the waiters who bring out pandan cake, two candles forming the number 20 alight.
You think of Jayâs hand squeezing yours under the table, of all the not-so-discreet glances throughout dinner, of the food he places on your plate instead of focusing on his, of the silent but comfortable walk back home in the chilly April weather, his jacket on your shoulders.
All it took was one frantic phone call for it to feel like a lifetime ago. Your motherâs words on the other side of your cell (âYour grandma fellâ Sheâs in the hospital nowâ The doctors canât tell us when sheâll wake upâ) created a gap between the life you led up until 7 am this morning and the life you lead now. The girl who imagined travelling the world to visit her friends at their high-end, starred workplaces sometime in the near future isnât the same girl drafting an email to her school to inform them sheâs dropping out of the course and therefore withdrawing her application for a stage in one of the most reputed fine-dining restaurants in Paris, and therefore, in the whole world. The girl who watched her boyfriend blow his candles last night and thought, âThis is the first of many birthdays weâll be celebrating together,â isnât the same girl bursting into tears at the sight of a hoodie he purposefully left on her bed for her to cuddle on the rare nights they spent apart. Now, she has to deal with the heartbreak of wondering whether itâs better to take it with her as a keepsake or to give it back to its rightful owner.
Youâve even remembered to change the reservation at a fancy restaurant in Seoul for Jayâs birthday from a party of two people to fourâheâll celebrate with Sumin, Jake and Jaemin rather than with you. Another thing you hope Sumin will agree to take care of in your stead.
Perhaps the hardest part will be telling Jay. You have to, if only because there are things in his apartment you need to collectâalthough, truth be told, itâs not like your life depends on having any of them. But even if youâre leaving in a rush, you canât not see him before leaving at all, itâs just the idea of sitting him down and letting him know whatâs going on is too much. So, once youâre done here, youâll head over to his, pick up everything you need, get him up to speed in a couple of sentences, and leave. You wonât kiss him, or hug him, or even look at him, because if you do, thereâs a high chance you wonât be able to leave at all.Â
You canât think about what youâre doing right now. You can only do, do, do. Youâll take the time to think once the damage is done, once youâve hit that no-return point that leaves you with no possibility to fix changes, only regret.
Because you know part of you has been regretting this since youâve decided to do it. Part of you pictures being back home, taking care of your grandmother, running her restaurant, daydreaming of Paris and sleek kitchens and Michelin stars and all the people you left behind.
Of the one person you left behind.
.
.
Nothing should come as naturally to a grown adult as breathing. And yet, as Jay stands outside your restaurant the next day, he can hardly remember how it goes. Inhale, exhale. With a trembling hand, he opens the door. A bell resounds through the empty room. Weâre not open yet! a voice, yours, calls from the kitchen. Inhale, exhale.
The screen is drawn back. He has no time to steady himself as you appear in the doorway, beautiful as ever. Your mouth opens, your eyes widen. What was it again? Right. Inhale, exhale, but his breathing is unstable, embarrassingly shaky.Â
He canât breathe and think and talk at the same time. So he stands there, barely breathing.
âJay?âÂ
You look like youâve seen a ghost. Maybe he is, to you.
But you also look as unbelievably beautiful as you always have. You look just as you do in Jayâs memories of you, and yet entirely different. Five years arenât quite enough to say youâve aged, but there is still something new in your features, something Jay only notices because he wasnât there to witness the years gradually leave their mark on your face. Seeing you like this is a brutal reminder of the time since he last saw you, five years, four months and nine days to be exact. Three days before his twentieth birthday.
Yesterday, he fled before you could notice him scarfing down the food heâd ordered. Something about the blend of spices, the chewiness of the noodles, the crunch of the vegetablesâit was all so distinctly you. Jay is usually one to savour every bite of his food, but in that moment, he felt like a starved man. He ate quickly and on the table left two ten-thousand won bills that more than covered for his meal.
Walking into the restaurant again, he knows what to expect. You, on the other hand⊠Youâre surprised, that much is clear. Jay is scared to find out whether heâs a good or bad surprise.Â
âHi,â he says, but his voice comes out strangled. He clears his throat and tries again. âHi.â
âHi,â you reply. Neither of you speaks for a few moments. Itâs not until your gaze drops to the glass Tupperware in his hands that he remembers what he came here forâor rather, what his excuse is for coming here.Â
âI, uh, Iâm moving into the old bookstore across the street. Iâm going around giving rice cakes to, you know, introduce myself to the neighborhood, so, yeah, hereâŠâ Step by step, he bridges the distance between the two of you until heâs close enough to hand you the Tupperware. When you take it from him, you look down at it and scratch your ear like youâve never seen rice cakes in your life, while he lets his arms hang limply by his side, too painfully aware of himself, of you, of your shared surroundings.
âThanks,â you simply say, staring some more at the container before setting it down on the table next to you. You finally look at him again, and the confusion on your face is clear, but thereâs a lingering sadness there that Jay feels deep in his bones. You havenât gotten any better at hiding your emotions, he notices. âThe old bookstore, you said?â
Jay amazes himself with the steadiness of his voice and his ability to keep his knees from buckling. This is a normal conversation between two people, he has to remind himself continuously, just a normal conversation. Although it doesnât really helpâstanding in front of you after all this time, he feels like a tearful reunion or grand declaration of feelings should be occurring, not a normal, almost banal conversation.Â
He mirrors your smile to the best of abilities. âI fell in love with scones in London. No turning back since thenâŠâ
Your eyebrows shoot up. âYou were in London?â
For a moment, Jay forgot that he lives in a world where you arenât aware of something as crucial as his place of residence for the past two years.
âYeah. After Paris,â he explains, unable to hide the guilt in his voice, especially as the gray cloud of a bad memory passes through your eyes.Â
You nod, and he thinks thatâs the end of that. But then, you ask, âDid you see the Queen?â
âOh, of course,â he says after a pauseâheâd needed a second to realize you were joking with him. As if you were friends on good terms. As if being in the same room after five years of distance and no-contact was normal. âI was on a first-name basis with all the Buckingham Palace residents.â
You scrunch your nose, your way of biting back a smile at a stupid joke. Jay is thrown back to a time when the two of you barely knew each other, and you still hadnât admitted to yourself â or to anyone, for that matter â that you found him funny.
âHow cool.â
âI know,â he says, smiling too widely.
You nod to the tupperware, filled to the brim with square rice cakes. âCan I have one of those?â you ask, as if only now that the ice has been somewhat broken, you could eat food made from his hands.
âOf course, theyâre all yours,â he replies immediately. âI sprinkled powdered sugar, cinnamon and crushed hazelnuts on top.â
âOf course you did.â
Jay is vaguely aware that it is odd to be staring at someone this intensely, but he canât help himself. His heart beats uncontrollably as he stands a few feet away from you, watching as you take a bite into the rice cake and smile. Your expression turns flustered when you notice his staring, and he remembers himself enough to take a step back and focus his gaze on something else.
âJay?â
Thereâs white sugar at the corner of your lips. He discards the thought that he could wipe it away with his thumb.
âHow come youâre not surprised to see me?â
His gaze snaps from your lips to your eyes. All of a sudden, theyâre glossy, your eyebrows furrowed. Jay isnât sure what heâd do if you started crying. Cry too, probably.
âI mean, you walked in here like itâs just another day. I donât remember ever telling you I was from here. Did you-â
âI didnât know. I ate here yesterday and saw you, but before that, I had no idea.â He wants to reach out to you, feel the warmth of your hands against his. He wants to tell you that he always knew the universe would find a way to bring you back to him. Instead, he says, âCrazy coincidence, right?â
You take a deep breath, processing his words. âYeah, crazy coincidence,â you say in a tone that Jay canât quite decipher, something heâs not used to when it comes to you.
Thereâs a small silence, unspoken words hanging heavy in the air, weighing down Jayâs tongue in his mouth. In the kitchen, a timer goes off. Your head swivels in its direction. âI should probablyâŠâ you start, but donât move. Jay gets the message nonetheless.
âRight. Yeah, of course. I wonât keep you any longer. Hope you like the rice cakes.â
âThanks.â
His hand is on the door handle when you call out his name, sending electricity down his spine. He turns around with embarrassing haste.
Your voice makes Jay jump. Heâs been alone for at least three hours now, and with the sun having set, the classroom is plunged in darkness, save for the streetlights outside and the bright lamp above his prep station. When he turns around, youâre walking towards him, and he can just make out a mix of surprise and amusement in your smile as you step into the light. Thereâs some concern, there, too, heâd like to think.
âI am. And youâre sneaking up on someone holding a very sharp knife.â
You reach his prep station, rest your lower back against the counter. âIâve seen your chopping skills, Park. Iâm not afraid of you.â
Playfully, he rolls his eyes. Is it just him, or have those jabs you like to throw at each other started to feel less sharp, less rough around the edges lately? Like a dull knife, âa knife thatâs been loved too much,â his mother always used to say. You still use it because itâs familiar, but itâs not as efficient anymore.
âIâm not the one who showed up to a cooking course not knowing what a julienne was.â
âYes, but thatâs because youâre the one with a world-renowned chef for a dad.â
Jay tilts his head, taking the hit. âWell, dad is a generous term for that man.â Immediately, he wishes he could take back his words. Not only have the two of you never delved into any sort of personal matter, youâre not nearly close enough to do soâand heâs afraid youâll think him ungrateful for the life heâs had, like he always is whenever he mentions his dissatisfaction with his dad to someone. He watches as you look down at your hands and tug at your sleeves. His stomach flips with embarrassment. Heâs said the wrong thing, and now that you were finally starting to relax around each other, heâs gone and made things weird.
But then, you look at him, that mischievous glint still in your eyes, and ask, âDo you really want to get into your daddy issues right now? Nine p.m. on a random Tuesday?â
His shoulders sag with relief. He lets out a breathy chuckle, saying, âNo, better not. What are you doing here, anyway?â
You wave a notebook at him. Itâs simple, with metal spirals holding the pages together and a transparent plastic cover. âI wanted to go over some recipes at home and realized I left this precious thing here. What about you?â
âAlso going over some recipes. Itâs not going swimmingly, as you can see,â he replies with a sigh, gesturing at the mess of pots on the stove, of diced vegetables on the cutting board, of spoons and chopsticks and knives strewn around the station. Itâs not like him to be so disorganized, and judging by the astonishment on your face, you know this. âIâve been here since the end of class, and I still canât get this sauce just right.â
You furrow your eyebrows. Jay waits for itâa teasing comment, a snide remark, if youâre feeling particularly mean. Something about how easy todayâs lesson was, how this is something he shouldâve mastered in no time. But the hatch never drops.
To Jayâs absolute bewilderment, âHave you even eaten?â are the words that come out of your mouth. Heâs even more surprised to find that he indeed has not eaten yet. When he tells you this, you click your tongue and shake your head. Is he being⊠scolded?Â
âThatâs not reasonable, Jay,â you say, and it takes him a few seconds to be fully sure youâre genuine and not playing an elaborate, ultra-convincing trick on him. You grab a spoon, dip its underside into the sauce Jay has been breaking his back over the entire evening and bring it to your mouth. âPlus, your sauce tastes just fine.â You sound irritated. It only confuses Jay further.
âJust fine is not exactly what Iâm going for, here.â
âJust fine will have to do for now,â you say with a tone that lets him know this is where the conversation ends. âCome on, letâs clean this up and go eat something.â
Jay has a feeling you donât often run into people that donât listen to you, and he decides he doesnât want to be the first. So, quietly, he gets to washing dishes as you pack away his many tries at this stupid doenjang. He tells you to put them in the communal fridge or take them home to yourselfâif he can go the rest of his life without having to look at another soybean, heâll be happy.
âThat might be a bit tricky if you plan to go into Korean cuisine,â you point out.
âLet a man dream, Y/N.â
This is how Jay finds himself under a red tent thirty minutes later, tipping back soju and munching on stir-fried anchovies with peanuts and crispy, burning-hot scallion pancakes that coat his fingers with oil. He hadnât realized how hungry he was until he looked at the empty plates in front him and found himself ready for more.
âWe go to one of the best culinary schools in Seoul, a city in which fine-dining options abound, and you bring me to a pojangmacha,â he states matter-of-factly, looking around at the people around him, all varying amounts of drunk, at the old lady wearing a plastic mask and frying all kinds of finger foods that go perfectly with alcohol.
âSeoul has nothing more delicious to offer than its street food.â
Jay tilts his head in agreement, raising his glass to yours. âCanât argue with that,â he says, and the sound of your glasses clinking gets a smile out of you.
A few beats of silence pass. Surprisingly comfortable silence, Jay thinks as he watches you watch the passers-by. You suddenly turn to face him, and he picks up the bottle of soju, pouring the both of you a drink, pretending he wasnât staring at you just seconds ago. âSo, what was that thing about your dad earlier?â you ask unceremoniously.
The question should take him aback more than it does, but perhaps the shared bottle of alcohol has already worked its magic between the two of youâJay doesnât feel like itâs an inappropriate topic to broach with someone heâs only previously spoken about food and overly strict chefs with. âSo you do want to get into my daddy issues on a random Tuesday at nine p.m.,â he jokes.
âWell, itâs more like ten p.m. now, so I think weâre good.â
âGosh. That⊠sucks,â you say, looking genuinely distraught. âI always thought he was playing it up for the cameras.â
Jay watches the clear alcohol swish around his glass. âHis father was an army general and he himself was a cook in the army for a decade. It wasnât an act at all,â he says, then drinks the soju. It burns on its way down. âIt was okay at first. It was even good, sometimes. He wasnât always there emotionally, and he spent a lot of time at work, but we didnât argue every time we talked. But my mom wanted a divorce, she didnât like being the wife of a celebrity chef, she didnât care about the big house, and the fancy restaurants, and the articles in the magazines. When she left him, she said, âI fell in love with you for your kimchi stew. Now you charge hundreds of thousands of won for two scallops.â He was even more distant after that, to say the least.â
He pauses there, letting silence hang in the air between the two of you. You pour the last of the soju in Jayâs glass, then ask the owner for another bottle and another scallion pancake. âGo on,â you say, gently. Jay wonders for a second if he deserves your listening earâbut if youâre happy to extend it, he might as well take it. Getting it all out feels surprisingly good. Refreshing.
You smile. Something warm spreads in Jayâs chestâitâs the soju getting to him, surely. He continues before you can say something nice and make him lose his footing. âI desperately wanted to make him proud. I knew he wouldnât bat an eye if I brought home the best grades or became the captain of some sports team. So I dedicated myself to cooking. And now, I love it, I really doâŠâ
âBut part of that is because you want him to notice you.â
Your eyes meet. The woman running the stand approaches then, setting down your soju and pancake on the table. âDoes that make me a fraud?â Jay asks when sheâs gone. Itâs the first time heâs uttered the question out loud. He hopes it comes out casually, consciously self-deprecating, and not like something heâs been terrified of since the course started.Â
You frown. âOf course not. We all have different reasons for cooking. Yours is just as valid as anyone elseâs.â
Jay likes how seriously you take him. Between those who think his connections got him into the school and those who suck up to him, thinking itâll get them a spot at one of his dadâs restaurants, not many of his classmates treat him as an equal, pure and simple. But you do. Youâve always been as snarky towards him as towards the rest of them, and you donât question his presence in the classroom.
For a second, he dares hope heâs found a friend in you.
âWhat about you? Whatâs your reason for cooking?â
An introspective smile spreads on your lips as you ponder his question. âI want to make better japchae than my grandma.â
When Jay presses, you tell him about your hometown and Kimâs Kitchen, your grandmaâs restaurant, the simple but hearty food that people keep coming back for. âItâs delicious, but I want to learn other techniques. Make more sophisticated meals. She says I think Iâm a big-shot now that Iâve moved to Seoul and spend hours cutting carrots into identical strips. But I like it here, itâs so different to anything Iâve ever known. Sure, the chefs are on our asses about the smallest details, and everyone is simultaneously friend and foe, but outside of school, nobody cares about you. No eyes following your every movement, no gossip spreading from door to door. Living in a small town is like being trapped in middle school forever.â
He asks what the name of your town is, but you dismiss him easily. âThe chances of you knowing it are slim, and the chances of you ever hearing of it in the future are even slimmer.â
Jay grew up without the affection of his father; you grew up with the unwanted attention of every adult around you. Somehow, it led you to the same point in life. Early twenties, an obsessive love of cooking, and a need to leave your past behind.Â
Soon after that, as Tuesday tips into Wednesday, you decide itâs time to go. Jay tries to pay, but you insist otherwise. âYouâll get it next time,â you say.
The soju has stained his cheeks red, has warmed him up enough to not feel the cold November air biting at his skin. Youâre clearly a better drinker than he is, helping him into a cab and deciphering his address as his speech comes out mumbled. Heâll regret ordering that third bottle in the morning.
Next time. Looking out the window at the rapidly passing buildings and people and street lights, Jay turns the words around in his head. He decides he likes the sound of them.
.
.
Indifferent to whether someoneâs leaving or arriving, the bells of your restaurantâs door chime when Jay walks out, just as they did when he walked in. They continue to ring for a little bit, the emptiness of the restaurant amplifying the sound. Itâs all you can do to stand there, your brain valiantly trying to wrap itself around what just happened and failing.Â
The only proof that less than ten seconds ago, like an apparition, Jay stood in front of you, is the remaining glass Tupperware, filled to the brim with rice cakes and light brown toppings, your mouth already anticipating their softness and sweetness.
Soft and sweet. Those adjectives would describe something else you know.
Your brain is truly failing to understand how he could not only appear, but also leave again so suddenly. In and out within five minutes. And what had you doneâinvited him to eat here? You try to recall the short conversation, but every word spoken and heard is blurry, mumbled; a momentary black-out. His presence in Kimâs Kitchen was so nonsensical that nothing seemed appropriate to say. Maybe he has completely grown out of his habit to skip meals when he works, maybe the overwhelming smell and thought of food doesnât cut his appetite anymore, and you wouldnât have to coax him out of the kitchens or bring dinner to him when he perfects recipes. But you had to say something, anything to ensure you would see him again, as though you havenât become literal neighbors, and as you walk back to your kitchen, you realize that you had buried the ache of missing him deep into the marrow of your bones.Â
Deep enough to ignore, deep enough that it never went away.
Your knees suddenly buckle underneath you and you drop to a crouch. An unexpected, gasp-like sob escapes your throat. You cover your mouth with your hand, but itâs too lateâthe dam has broken. Holding onto the handle of the oven like itâs your only tether to this world, more sobs keep pouring out of you, and you do nothing to force them down. You need to get it out somehow, the shock of seeing him, here, of all places. The shock of your present and your past colliding, bleeding into one another like you have been desperately trying to prevent for years. The shock of your heart giving in so easily at the mere sight of him.
Except it wasn't just the mere sight of him, was it? It was his voice, still gentle, still carrying that lilt of amusement. His scent, the same woody perfume, masculine but not overbearingly so. The kindness, painfully obvious in his eyes and in his gestures: of course Jay would move in somewhere and proceed to deliver homemade rice cakes to everyone in the neighborhood.Â
He was close enough to touch. Just a few steps, and you couldâveâwhat, exactly? Wrapped your arms around him, buried your face in his neck, as you once loved to do, kissed him? Itâs ridiculous. Eight months of knowing each other, six of those spent dating; you hadnât even spent a whole year together. And yet, here you are, half a decade later, mind still branded by a hot iron with every memory you have of him.
Youâve never cried so pathetically. Even when you left Seoul and everything you had built there behind, you barely let yourself cryâa few silent tears on the train back, and that was it. No time to wallow, you had a grandma to take care of and a restaurant to run. Seeing Jay today feels like mourning your relationship, five years after its untimely death. You knew you wouldnât have been able to do everything that needed to be done while feeling this kind of pain, but you also know that feeling it all at once like this is impossibly worse.
You donât know how long you stay there, crouched low, tears drenching your palms, shoulders trembling. But at some point, a pair of arms wrap themselves around you, and the familiar scent of rose water and medicine envelops you. Your grandmother. Itâs not every day that she has the strength to come help you out at the restaurant, and the fact that youâre in such a state now that sheâs here only makes you feel worse. In her arms, you feel like a kid again, crying over a dead goldfish or a mean comment on the school playground as she strokes your hair and shushes you.
âWhat on Earth has gotten you like this, my dove?â she asks gently. The sound of her voice calms you down, brings you out of your mind, stuck in the past, and back to this moment in time.
You sniffle and rub your eyes dry. âI saw someone I thought Iâd never see again,â you say, voice heavy, sitting uncomfortably in your throat.
Your grandmother chuckles. You look up at her, and all the tenderness in the world is in her eyes. âWell, arenât you a lucky one?â
âI donât feel lucky.â
Brushing away tears from your cheeks with her thumb, she says, âYou know, there are some people Iâd do anything just to see one last time. This is a precious opportunity, dear. Donât let it slip away.â
A small smile appears on your lips. âYou donât even know who this is about,â you murmur, and this is apparently funny enough for your grandmother to burst into laughter.
âOh, honey, I donât need you to tell me to know. Itâs written all over your face.â She gives you a knowing smile, then is back on her feet, a hand extended out to you. âNow, come, we have work to do.â
He has saved enough money working at upscale restaurants in Paris and London, and the only upside of having both his grandfather and his mother pass away in the past three years has been the inheritance, which has allowed him to pursue this otherwise unreasonable dream. And if he somehow runs out of money, maybe youâll give him a part-time job as a kitchen porter.
Thankfully, the real estate agent did also not lie when he said he âknew a guy.â One phone call is all Jay needs for said guy, or Heeseung, as his parents would have it, to show up at the shop and have a look over it. The only thing he asks for in return is lunch at Kimâs Kitchen, and Jay is more than happy to oblige.Â
Just like yesterday, youâre nowhere to be seen when the two men step inside the restaurant. The same waitress â Jay wonders if sheâs a family member of yours â greets them and shows them to their seats, far from the kitchen, to someoneâs great disappointment. On the menu today is abalone porridge, âagain,â raw beef bibimbap, which Jay orders, and spicy fish stew, which Heeseung orders. Jay notices how intently Heeseung watches the waitress as she rattles off the dishes of the day and wonders if thereâs something there, or if heâs just very hungry and low on patience. But from the way his eyes stay on her even as she retreats to the kitchen, he assumes itâs the former. Part of him is curious to know more, but a bigger part is very much aware that this is a man he met an hour ago and is not in the measure to ask, âHey, got a thing for that waitress?â
But maybe Heeseung will give him the answer himself.
âThe chef here is really good with spicy dishes. Not so spicy that you lose the flavors, but not so little that it becomes bland.â Heâs probably just trying to make small talk, but Jay latches onto this like a lifeline, because the mere mention of âthe chef hereâ is enough to get his heart racing.
âOh yeah? Do you know her well?â he asks, conscious that this might not be the most normal follow-up question to a statement about your cooking skills. He tries to appear as nonchalant as he can, pouring water into his and Heeseungâs blue plastic cups.
âI do, actually. Weâve been friends since childhood.â
Childhood friends. Jayâs eyes narrow momentarily before the rational part of his brain reminds him that the man in front of him need not be an enemy.
âHow do you know itâs a her, by the way?â Heeseung asks.
âOh. The real estate agent mentioned it yesterday,â he replies, not even sure whether thatâs true or not. âY/N, I think it was?â
Heeseung smiles. âThatâs the one.â
Why does your name make him smile?
Jay is not a great actor, but he puts on his best relaxed, just-trying-to-get-to-know-you, I-have-no-other-intentions face, and asks, âAre you guys, likeâŠ?â
Heeseung furrows his eyebrows, taking a second to compute Jayâs words, then leans back in his chair, a surprised expression on his face. âOh, no, not at all. Itâs never been like that. No, Iâm, uh⊠Thereâs someone else I like, letâs just say.â Jay follows Heeseungâs gaze, turning around to find the waitress â Knew it â gathering the empty bowls from another table. When he looks at Heeseung again, heâs smiling in a shy, self-deprecating sort of way, but before he can ask him about it, Heeseung continues speaking. âAnyways, Iâm sure our moms would love to see it happen, but since the two primarily concerned are against it, I doubt weâll ever make them happy. In that regard, at least.â
âWhat do you mean, theyâd love to see it happen?â
âWell, you know what moms are like,â Heeseung says, shrugging, but Jay gives him a look that says he does not know what moms are likeânot theirs, at least. When it came to relationships, all his mother ever told him was to be careful. âHer mom has known me since I was little, and vice versa. Our moms are friends with each other. Weâve only ever been polite to each otherâs moms. Thatâs enough for them to think we should get married.â
Jay almost chokes on his water then. âMarried?â he echoes in a tone that makes him sound far more involved than heâs trying to come off as. He clears his throat. âI just mean, I didnât realize it was marriage you were talking about. Thatâs pretty, uh, big,â he explains with an awkward chuckle.
If Heeseung finds his behavior suspicious, he doesnât say anything. âI know. But here, itâs marriage or nothing. You better not be caught dating anyone for fun, because suddenly your parents, their parents, and basically every parent in this town is on your ass about getting married and having kids. A lot of people get engaged right out of university, or even high school, sometimes.â
âWow,â Jay says, because thatâs all he can think to say right now. Everywhere heâs been, being in your early twenties has meant dating apps, one-night stands and casual relationships. None of his close friends are even engaged at the moment, and heâs twenty-five. Heâd be lying if he said heâd never imagined what yours and his future might have looked like when you were dating, but when heâd pictured marriage and children, you were both thirty at the very least.
âYep. Things are changing, though. My parents already had me at my age, whereas I donât even have a girlfriend. And Iâm not the only one. Well, Y/Nâs in the same boat, for one.â
Hope flares in Jayâs heart. âSheâs not seeing anyone either?â he asks, thinking his tone sounds natural enough, but aware that his eye contact is far too intense. He canât help himself.
âNope. Now that you mention it, I havenât seen her date anyone in a really long time. Iâve always assumed sheâs just busy with the restaurant, but I should ask her about it. Itâs probably just that there arenât many options hereâŠâ he trails off, looking into the distance with a pout. But then, his gaze sharpens as he directs it to Jay. âGuess one more option has appeared, though. I think itâs safe to assume you wouldnât have moved here all on your own if you were dating someone, right? You donât have a wife and kids back in Seoul?â
Jay laughs, more out of shock than anything. âDefinitely not, no.â
Heeseung leans back in his chair with a grin on his face, the brightest Jayâs seen him smile so far. âPerfect. I honestly have no idea what kind of men Y/Nâs into, but you seem decent enough so far.â
Even when he goes to pay at the counter by the entrance of the kitchen, Jay doesnât get a glimpse of you. Itâs only when he exits the restaurant, the chime of the bell already a familiar sound, and he turns around to wish a good day to the waitress, that you peek out from behind the curtain. A smile and a wave, directed at him. Youâre gone before he can return the attention.
He is inexplicably giddy all dayâwell, he knows the reason for his unwavering smile, but to Heeseung and his team, he lies that itâs âjust excitement at seeing the project coming along so quickly.â
.
.
Thereâs a knock at the door just as Jay, fresh out the shower, slips his t-shirt on. He wonders who it could be at this hourâitâs almost ten p.m., too late for the old lady heâs renting from to drop by with food like she did yesterday night. He debates asking who it is behind the door, but ultimately decides, naively perhaps, that not only are the crime rates in this town probably extremely low, it wouldnât make sense for a robber-slash-serial-killer to knock before barging into a house.
You look the opposite of a robber-slash-serial-killer as you stand at Jayâs door, a black plastic bag in your hand, a smile he can only describe as angelic on your lips. Bottles clink together as you raise the bag to shoulder-level. âLetâs catch up,â you say, but instead of letting yourself in, you turn and head somewhere else.
âWait,â Jay says, but you donât, so he scrambles to put on his slippers and grab his jacket from the coat rack. The two-room apartment heâs staying at sits atop his landladyâs house, and although sheâd told him he was welcome to use it, he hadnât ventured up the other set of stairs that lead to the roof. You seem to know your way around, though, so he follows you.Â
From this high up, Jay can see the sea glittering in the distance, the small fishing boats rocking peacefully on the water, the many roofs strewn around the town, their colors lost to the night. It should be in this moment, as the beauty of the town heâs chosen to set up store in reveals itself to him, that he truly feels that he made the right decision, coming here. Or it shouldâve been when he found the old bookstore; or when Heeseung told him the place looked much worse that it actually was, and that it would be a piece of cake, renovating it.
Alas. Itâs only when you press the button to the fairy lights, flickering to life and casting a halo of golden light behind you, that Jay knows heâs really found what he came here for. Heâs transfixed, feet frozen to the concrete, eyes glued on your face, but you donât seem to notice. âNice place, right?â you say, gesturing to the potted plants, the low wooden table, even the clothesline on which the fairy lights hang, like fireflies. Itâs all he can do to nod appreciatively.
From a trunk he hadnât noticed, you pull out two cushions and one blanket. The cushions go on opposite sides of the table, and you hand him the blanket. âHere, your hairâs still damp, take this,â you explain, not quite meeting his eyes. Without another word, you sit across from each other, Jay watching you carefully as you pull out bottles of soju, cans of beer and a packet of dried anchovies from your bag.Â
âA successful trip to the convenience store,â he comments.
âTo welcome you to the area,â you add. âAnd to catch up on lost time.â
Lost time. An appropriate way of describing the years that separate this moment from the day you let go of his hand. Would things have gone differently, had you known you would meet again like this down the line?Â
He appreciates that you donât tiptoe around the subject. Youâre not strangers, you never could be, no matter how much time you might go without seeing each other. Thereâs a certain level of connection you canât come back from. The two of you canât start anew, and heâs glad youâre not pretending like that is what this is. And yet, thereâs the gnawing feeling that youâre treating him more like an old friend than an old lover. Youâre being almost too welcoming. Youâd always made him feel special, like he was to you what no one else had ever been, what no one else could beâright now, he just feels awkward.
Dismissing all the questions burning the tip of his tongue, Jay settles for a safer one. Rather than on your face, he focuses his gaze on the way you fill the small glasses to the brim with soju. âHow did you know I was here?â
âMrs. Yoon used to be one of my schoolteachers. Sheâs also a friend of my grandmaâs. She showed up to our house the night you got here saying she had just welcomed the most handsome lodger.â you say, imitating her. âWasnât hard to figure out who she was talking about. Sheâs pushing eighty and still getting excited about boys, of all things.â
You clink your glasses and tip your drinks back at the same time. âYou think Iâm a boy, Y/N?â
Jay canât help the smirk that appears on his lips as you briefly choke, the soju seemingly going down the wrong pipe. âShe probably does. You could be her grandson.â He knows youâre avoiding the question, but he lets you off the hook, just this once. Thereâs a slight furrow in your eyebrows as you pour a second glass for the both of you. You donât wait for him before you all but throw it down your throat.
âSo. Howâve you been?â Jay asks after a few moments of silence. Surprise flashes through your face for a second, as though you werenât the one to propose this catch-up session in the first place. When you sigh, thereâs far too much depth to it for a 26-year-old, Jay thinks.Â
âIâve been fine,â you answer simply. âJust working a lot.â
âToo much?â
You briefly meet his eyes. âSometimes, yeah.â You must know this wonât cut it. Even when you were just getting to know each other, this sort of run-of-the-mill, surface-level answer didnât fly between the two of you. So, Jay says nothing, waiting patiently for you to go on. âItâs not the work in itself thatâs tiring. Iâm glad my grandmaâs recipes continue to be loved by so many people, and Iâm glad sheâs also letting me put my own twist on our dishes and come up with new ones. I work long hours, and we only close one day a week, but I like what I do. Itâs this townâŠâ you say, looking around yourself with disdain, as if the very buildings and roads that constitute Seojuk-ri are the ones youâre at odds with, âthatâs exhausting.â
âThings havenât changed, then?â
âNot in the slightest. People are still just as nosy, just as overbearing, just as sickeningly well-intentioned as they have always been. If anything, itâs gotten worse, because the old people have gotten older and the young people are starting to take on those characteristics, too. Donât get me wrong, I wouldnât trade it for the world. Everyone that I love is here. But if I have to go through one more conversation with another one of my school friends, mother of two at 24, about when Iâm finally gonna have a kid, I might just take all of my familyâs money and flee. I donât want to hear about my biological clock anymore.â
Jay chuckles, cracking open one can of beer for you, another for him. You grab it immediately, taking large gulps as you look up at the sky with anger. âGee, I wonder why,â he jokes. âI always thought it was your dream to give birth to twins before your frontal lobe even fully developed.â
You roll your eyes. âItâs not like thereâs anyone here Iâd want to knock me up,â you say. You pause at the same time, as it dawns on you both how your words could be interpreted. Despite himself, hope flashes through Jay. He already knew from his conversation with Heeseung that you were single, but to hear it from you â not in these exact terms, but still â is something else entirely.
âThatâs⊠good to know,â he says for lack of a better alternative, feeling as flustered as you look. Youâre both silent for a little while, exchanging quick, chaste glances, as though thereâs anything to be shy about between the two of you.
âYour turn,â you say eventually. âIâve been here this whole time, but youâve moved around, right?â
He nods. Tells you about his time in Paris, about the two-year contract he got offered upon completion of his stage at the Michelin-starred restaurantâthe one youâd also had your eye on. Tries not to read too much into your expression, which you seem to be keeping as neutral as you can. Wonders if itâs still a sensitive topic.
He quickly moves on to London. âSurprisingly, my favorite part of working at LâArĂŽme was getting to help out with the desserts once in a while. The techniques, the flavor combinations⊠I found them more exciting. So when I got the opportunity to work under a pastry chef in London, I didnât hesitate for a second.â
You listen intently, nodding along to his words, and Jay tries not to lose his focus when your smile turns particularly fond. You donât even seem to realize what youâre doing, and that somehow makes things worse.
âAnd then, well, I ended up back in Seoul.â
âFor your mom.â
âFor my mom, yeah. And now Iâm here.â
âAnd now youâre here.â A pause. Then, a mere whisper, âHow?â
How, indeed. In the past couple of days, every time Jayâs mind drifted back to you â which happened far too often for him to keep count â heâd been in awe at the sheer improbability of your reunion. Of all the seaside towns you couldâve hailed from, it just so happened that it was this one, the only one he had any sort of attachment to. It was this sort of happening that made him reevaluate his lack of belief in some higher force, some ruling hand over the universe.Â
âI came here with her a few months before she⊠you know. Died. Passed away. I never know what word is preferable. People have such weird ways of reacting to it.â
You shrug. âWhichever one you like is best. I like to justâŠâ You guide your thumb across your throat, tilting your head as you make a clicking sound with your teeth. Itâs a crude gesture, and Jay canât help but laugh. Youâre probably the only person he knows that would ever refer to someoneâs death like that. He appreciates your trying to keep this conversation a light-hearted oneâsomehow, you must know his momâs passing still feels raw in his best moments, unbearable in his worst.
âIt was just a town that she liked. She couldnât spend too much time away from home, so we were here for the afternoon only. Maybe if weâd stayed longer, you and I would have run into each other sooner?â Jay says, drawing a smile from you, which in turn always makes him feel oddly relieved. âAnyways, I think she came here a few times when she was young and wanted to relive those moments. Her life flashing in front of her eyes, something like that.â
You consider his words for a few seconds. âI wonder what sort of buried memories will come to the surface when Iâm on my deathbed.â
And without missing a beat, as if the answer was written on his tongue, Jay says, âIâll remember you.â
He hears the breath that hitches in your throat. You stare at him, seemingly caught off-guard, while in his head, like a cassette tape, he replays you. Late nights spent in kitchens. Late nights spent under the red tent of your favorite pocha. Conversations that started at sunset and stopped at sunrise. Knowing glances thrown across a classroom, a house party, a restaurant table. Falling asleep next to you. Waking up next to you. Your hair tickling his neck. Your hands on his waist, on his shoulders, everywhere.
A blush creeps up his cheeks. With effort, he tears his gaze away from yours, takes a swig of his beer in the hope that he can blame his redness on the alcohol. Eventually, you look away too, smile down at the empty glass in your hands like it, rather than the man sitting across you, just all but confessed its love to you.
The night goes on like this, for longer than either of you anticipated. The September night air should deter you from staying outside so late, but between the blankets around your shoulders, the alcohol, and the warmth of finding each other again, the cold truly has nothing on you. Itâs only when you yawn, causing Jay to yawn for so long that tears brim his eyes, that you decide itâs time to go to bed. Your chat takes on a more light-hearted tone as you put away the cushions and he gathers the cans and glass bottles for later recycling; you donât stop talking as you head back down the stairs, and stand in front of Jayâs door as you finish recounting an anecdote. Of course, he wants to invite you in, not even because he has anything salacious in mind, but just to prolong the night as much as he can â although he canât say with total certainty that nothing would happen if you found yourselves in a dark room together â but he says nothing. If heâs going to do this again, heâs going to do it right and take it step-by-step.
When youâre ready to leave, you press a chaste kiss to his cheek, and if he wasnât so stunned by the sudden warmth overcoming him, heâd have embraced you before you could turn around and leave.
As he tosses and turns in his bed later, Jay thinks back to his work trip to Japan from last year, where heâd learned about the art of kintsugi. Heâd stayed at a guesthouse, where one shelf of a cupboard had been filled with bowls lined with gold. When asked about it, his host explained that to repair broken pottery, the Japanese sometimes mixed gold powder with lacquer in the cracked areas. The object was more beautiful broken when fixed than in its original state.
Maybe he is getting ahead of himself, maybe he is being overly optimistic, but he canât help but think that the two of you, too, might become more beautiful than you ever were.
.
.
Sometimes itâs Jay that drags you out of the kitchens when itâs far too late to still be behind a stove, sometimes itâs you. More often than not, you end up at the same pojangmacha you went to the first time, where you and the owner are now on a first-name basis. Sheâs taken to asking whether the two of you have finally gotten together every time she sees you. Youâve taken to not answering and smiling at Jay, as if youâre waiting for his answer as much as she is.Â
Other times, and on weekends, when the place you need to drag each other out of is the comfort of your respective beds, you will try out an upscale restaurant in Gangnam or Hongdae. Since that first outing of yours, Jay has insisted on paying for every meal, and you only stop opposing after the fifth or so time, when you realize that your feeling of owing him is completely one-sided. You learn many things about Jay over the course of these first couple of monthsâone of them being that he is the least transactional, most generous person you have ever met. He is on par with the village aunties who let you and your siblings spend the afternoon at their houses and filled your bellies with snacks your mother never bought you, for absolutely nothing in return. You wonder where he learned to be so kind. The most heâll accept from you is a vending coffee machine when you notice him dozing off during break, and heâs too tired to argue.
You donât know what to make of the growing friendship between the two of you. Between classes and your part-time job â three nights a week spent washing dishes at a barbecue place isnât ideal, but rent in Seoul is high, and at least you donât have to deal with drunk customers â you donât have time to give it too much thought. Because while on paper, you really are just friends, in your head, things are slightly more nuanced by that.Â
Itâs not like youâre an expert when it comes to love. With one eight-month relationship during high school that you got little out of except for the basics of sex and some notions of the type of connection you want, and another one that lasted the three months of the summer between your first and second year at the local college, youâre actually very, very far from love expertship. But no need for a PhD to know that what you feel for Jay is not platonicâunless everyone elseâs hearts start racing, palms start sweating, thoughts start blurring when their friends are around, and no one has bothered to let you know.
Who knows if he feels the same way? He hasnât told you, and you definitely wonât be asking him, too scared to lose the person who might potentially become your closest friend here. One thing about you, however, is you wonât push your feelings down. Even if you wanted to, you wouldnât know howâthe women in your family have always compared you to an open book, sometimes reproaching you for it, sometimes praising you. Even you, in your twenty-one years of living, have yet to come to a conclusion on the constant transparency of your emotions. Itâs a blessing not having to bottle things up only for them to explode laterâyou get to really live through your feelings as they come. Itâs a curse, however, when you canât hide your disappointment upon receiving a terrible gift, or when the desperation written all over your face only works to drive someone away.
Curse or blessing, you wonât try to pretend you feel nothing for him. Sure, you wonât throw yourself at his feet â itâs not like youâre that infatuated with him, at least, not yet â but you wonât ignore the warmth that spreads from your stomach all the way to your fingertips whenever Jay smiles at you.Â
After all, thereâs a small possibility he feels that same warmth, isnât there?
.
.
You wake up painfully early. You know that with age, hangovers only get worse, and youâve been careful not to go overboard when you drinkâbut last night was a case apart, so you might as well let yourself off the hook.
Your thoughts are muddled, as if still coated and sticky with soju, and your entire body is screaming for water. After drinking what feels like two liters of it straight from the tap, you prepare enough coffee for everyone in your house, knowing youâll end up drinking half of it, and inhale the smell of the ground beans like they have healing properties. Itâs in moments like these, when thereâs no one to cook up some hangover soup and you must do it yourself because youâre the first one up, that youâre glad you cook for a living. Chopping some vegetables, boiling some noodles, preparing a broth, you could do it with your eyes closed, and you practically do. Youâre not all there, half of your head still crunching beer cans, laughing over nothing with Jay as your conversation begins to make less and less sense. Senseâyou at least had enough of it not to end up in his bed last night, which you knew was a real possibility when you showed up at his temporary apartment with alcohol in hand. There was a moment of pause yesterday in which he looked for a video to show you in his gallery. It gave you time to look at him, really look at him, for the first time since he magically appeared in Sojuk-ri. Like a caress, your eyes had languidly trailed from his well-kept nails, up his arms that had gotten insultingly bigger in your five years apart, up the throat your lips knew so well, to the face that filled your dreams more often than youâd care to admit. And, in your inebriated state, your thoughts had gone⊠there. They didnât quite leave when he found the video of a dog, the reason he wanted to show it to you in the first place completely forgotten, and they have apparently still not left you now, as you peel carrots and ponder the universeâs way of doing things. Not very subtle, you conclude.
The sound of a door swinging open and hurried footsteps abruptly interrupt your thoughts. In the time it takes you to turn around, whoever it is rushing to the bathroom has already closed the door behind them. The thought of a family member of yours needing the toilet this badly first thing in the morning gets a giggle out of you, until you hear retching sounds. Your head snaps up, eyes widening as the awful noise continues, stomach turning. It lasts for another minute, then you hear the toilet flush, the sink run. You stare at the bathroom door worriedly until your sister-in-law, Yeonju, appears from behind it, Yeonju who got married to your brother five months ago, Yeonju who helps out at the restaurant and has never once complained, Yeonju whoâs just gotten sick. In the morning.
Her steps halt the moment she sees you, her eyes widening, her mouth falling agape to mirror your expression. You stay like that for a few seconds, simply staring at each other, both of you at a loss for words as the meaning of it all dawns on you. âYouâre up early,â she says finally.
âI am. I drank too much last night.â As she nods, you have another realization. The words come out of your mouth as quickly as they form in your brain. âI havenât seen you have a drink in a while.â
A few more beats pass. âDonât tell anyone,â she whispers. âItâs too early.â
You nod vigorously. âOf course.â Then, a smile breaks through the shock on your features, warm tears prickle at your eyes, and Yeonju looks away, fighting back a smile of her own. You put down your vegetable peeler and run to her as quietly as you can, and, dismissing for once the fact that she doesnât like to be touched excessively, take her in your arms and hold her tight.
She allows it for a little bit, then, with a hushed giggle, says, âOkay, okay, donât get too excited. Itâs only been six weeks.â
You lean back, hands on her shoulders. âSix weeks?!â you say, whisper-screaming her words back at her.
âMh-hm.â
âYouâve told Seungkwan, right?â
âIâve only told him and my mother. I would tell yours, too, and Grandmother, butâŠâ
âTheyâre not the calm and collected type, I get it,â you say, nodding seriously, as if you are the image of composure yourself.Â
Indeed, âYouâre crying,â Yeonju points out, chuckling as a tear rolls down her own cheek. âStop crying. Iâm going to be sick again, for a different reason this time.âÂ
âShut up,â you laugh, and take her in your arms again. âIâm preparing you for the commotion that will inevitably happen.â
You let her go back to bed soon after, and pick your peeler back up. You should think of your brother, of your mother, of your grandmother, of Yeonjuâbut, for reasons you donât feel strong enough to try and understand, the person that comes to mind is Jay. I want to see him, you think. And, for the first time in five years, the thought that immediately follows is, I can go see him.
So you do.
It's another hour before the soup is done and your family eats it, and then youâre putting your shoes on, retracing last nightâs steps to Jayâs rental, the Tupperware he used for the rice cakes now cleaned and filled with your hangover cure. It takes a minute for him to open the door after you knockâyouâre about to leave the soup at his door and turn back on your heels before it creaks open.
âY/N?â
Everything about him is still veiled with sleep. His voice, deep and slightly groggy, his half-open eyes, his dishevelled hair, even his clothingâor lack thereof. You try not to stare at his naked upper body, but itâs hard not to when the realizations hit you that not only has he kept his habit of sleeping without a t-shirt, his torso has gotten impossibly more defined since the last time you saw it. You swear his shoulders didnât use to be so broad.
But really, itâs the familiarity of the sight that has your head reeling so. How many times have you woken up to this Jay? He was always a morning person, and so the thought that he might still be sleeping at 10 a.m. hadnât even crossed your mind. You hadnât expected for such waves of memories to wash over you at the mere sight of him half-asleep.
He follows your gaze downwards, his own eyes widening. âOh, sorry. Let me go grab a shirt.â
âNo, itâs okay,â you blurt out, grabbing his wrist to stop him, and letting go of it just as quickly. âI only came here to give you this.â Jay looks down at the Tupperware in your hands like itâs an alien object. âItâs nothing fancy⊠just some noodles and vegetables. But it always makes me feel better after Iâve had too much to drink,â you explain, feeling more out of place with every word.
âThank you,â he finally says, taking the container from your hands. âI think I might really need it.â
You try not to let it show, but youâve never felt so helpless around him. Even when you were first getting to know each other, things had progressed so naturally, almost as if following a predetermined pattern, that there had been no room for shame, or embarrassment, or awkwardness. Youâve always prided yourself on your ability to take everything in strideâbut this, this is putting a stoke in your wheels.
After all, when you last saw Jay, it wasnât a goodbye, see you later, take care till then. It was meant to be a real adieu. Seeing him again undoes everything you had convinced yourself of these past few years: that you would both be better off that way, that if you truly loved someone, youâd know when to let them go, all sorts of inanities. You canât accept that things couldâve gone differently.
âWell, I hope you enjoy it,â you say, unable to bring yourself to mirror the smile on his lips, before he can invite you in to have breakfast with him. You whisper, âBye,â and take your leave under his watchful gaze.
.
.
A few days ago, Jay received a text from Jaemin, one of the few friends from culinary school heâs actually kept in touch with. Itâs not like they call each other every day since graduating three years ago, but Jay isnât surprised to see his name on his screen. All sorts of people have been reaching out to him latelyâlosing your mother will do that. He doesnât even know how half of these people have heard of it.
Hey buddy, the text reads. I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about your mom. Call me if you need anything man. I mean it.Â
Another one had come a few minutes later. Could you text me your address? Iâd like to send you something.
It took Jay over a week to answer the many well-wishing messages flooding his inbox, but he got around to it eventually. When Ms. Lee, his dadâs house help, knocks on his bedroom door to tell him mail has arrived for him, he assumes itâs from Jaemin, although there is no sender information or return address. Everything sent as condolences for his mother, Ms. Lee takes care of. But this one is specifically addressed to him.
For lack of a better alternative, he is staying at his fatherâs apartment in Seoul until he finds his own place. He knows he couldnât withstand staying by his lonesome in his motherâs apartment, surrounded by her things. Her absence would be overwhelming. If he stayed in a hotel room, heâd probably wither away. At least, here, he has one person worrying about him, making sure he eats his meals and gets some sunlight every day. He means Ms. Lee, of courseâhis father has become even more of a closed-off workaholic, as if that was even possible, in the two weeks since his ex-wifeâs passing.Â
He tears the envelope open, curious as to what Jaemin needed to send as a letter that he couldnât have simply texted. Inside is a singular sheet of paper, folded in half. He takes it out, unfolds it. The sight of all-too familiar handwriting makes his heart stop.Â
Itâs a recipe for pine nut porridge. Thereâs just one word on the back: Eat.
In the three days between his momâs death and her funeral, Jay barely stopped crying. His eyes were constantly achingly puffy, his nose perpetually red and runny. But since the day of the funeral, he hasnât shed a single tear, as if he dried himself out, as if the tears and pity of others drained him. Now, holding the piece of paper that was in your hands just days ago, his body shakes with loud sobs.
He feels a twisted mix of sadness and hope. Your letter is at once a reminder of his loss, of his life without the two women heâs loved most, and a sign that he still exists in a corner of your mind. That you still care enough to do this.Â
He remembers a conversation youâd once had about exes and past crushes. It was in the middle of a rainy night; he left the blinds to his bedroom up so that the only light youâd need was the one emanating from the moon and the stars, bright and fuzzy at the edges. Your head was resting on his chest and you were trailing your fingers up and down his arm when he asked if you ever thought about the men that came before him. You laughed, saying that he was the first man youâd ever been with, the others were boys. âAnd I donât even mean that as an insult. We were so young,â you said. âI donât think about them in the way you mean, no. But I do believe that with anyone youâve ever loved, or even just held in your affections, you always carry a little bit of them with you afterwards.âÂ
He had felt jealous then, even though he understood what you meant perfectly and knew he wasnât being rational. (He only stopped pouting when you said, âOf course you have nothing to worry about. Iâve never felt the way I feel about you with anyone else.â) But now, heâs glad for it. He pictures you, looking beautiful in your little corner of the world, wherever that is, with a little bit of him in your heart. He remembers the sunny day on which you met his mom, and he pictures you, four years later, hearing the news, writing down the recipe you knew by heart, sending it in the mail.
Itâs only basic ingredients. Pine nuts are expensive, but heâs sure neither his father nor Ms. Lee will mind him using them. And so, for the first time in two weeks, he picks up a knife, and gets to cooking.
.
.
Jay has caught the flu. Youâve never seen him so pathetic.
Nestled under the covers of his bed, half of his face hidden, eyebrows furrowed as if he is in deep painâstepping into his room, you first wonder whether it really is that serious, then you feel immediate guilt for accusing him of exaggerating, even if it was just in your head. You are so used to the men in your family, your brother especially, looking like they are on the verge of death when faced with the common cold. But Jay â reasonable, independent, reliable Jay â is the last person you know whoâd play up being sick for pity or attention.Â
âHere,â you say, putting a tray down on his bedside table. On it rests a bowl full of steaming, fragrant pine nut porridge that youâve just preparedâeasy to digest without being bland, itâs your grandmotherâs go-to recipe for sickness of any sort.
âThanks, baby.â
Even seeing him in his current state, you canât help but tease him when the opportunity arises. âI think youâre the baby here.â
He manages a weak smile. âI hate that you have to see me like this. You shouldnât feel like you have to take care of me, you know.â
âI know I donât, but I want to.â You sit at the edge of his bed, gazing softly down at him as you brush away the hair that has stuck to his forehead with sweat. He can barely keep his eyes open, and his skin is alarmingly warm against your palm. âYouâre still so hot. I mean your temperature, Jay,â you say, admonishing him slightly when his smile widens. Heâs running a fever and still heâs able to see innuendos in your innocent words.
âSorry,â he whispers. You pinch his earlobe.Â
âWait for the food to cool down, and hopefully itâll make you feel a bit better. Just give me a shout if you need anything,â you say, rising from your seat.
âWait, Y/N.â
âMh-hm?â
He hesitates. âWill you stay?â
It isnât like Jay to ask anything from you. In your four months of knowing each other, youâve always been the one who overshares, who coyly asks for favors, who texts him at all times of day and night. He listens to your anecdotes from seven years ago, remembers the names of all your friends and family members, does everything you ask him, does things you didnât even ask him, and never complains. You do it because you expect him to do the same in return, to rely on you as you do on him. Maybe if you bore him by recounting in excruciating detail what you did that day, and where you went, and who you saw, and what they told you, heâll feel like he can share worries weighing on his mind or memories that come to him out of nowhere. Maybe if you make him go to the store to get green onions and butter, then make him go back because he got the wrong brand of butter, heâll feel like he can call you at six in the morning because he needs a second opinion on whether his tie and socks match, or whatever it is that men care about fashion-wise.
Itâs working, you think, albeit very slowlyâafter your first time bonding over drinks and fried food, it took him three weeks to mention his dad again. It was another two before he told you more about his childhood, his mother, his school years. Youâre greedy for everything he has to offerâyouâve never been so curious about someone, never craved so intensely to know what was going in their mind at any given moment. If he actually got a penny each time you asked him, âPenny for your thoughts?â he wouldnât be rich, but heâd have an impressive amount of useless coins.Â
In your two months of dating, your efforts have become more visible. You donât feel like youâre picking at an iceberg anymore, nor do you have to soften him up with alcohol and snacks. He always tells you what you want to know, and increasingly doesnât need to be askedâyou almost cried of happiness the day he started going on an unprompted monologue about how versatile and nutritious beans were, and how he could still taste the bean stew his grandmother had cooked once when he was eight and never again since.Â
Compared to words, actions are a bit more complicated. While he seems to do anything you ask, he has a harder time doing the requesting. Small things maybe, can you fetch him the salt, can you peel the potatoes; but heâll always be the one who drives the two of you somewhere, heâll never let you carry any of the groceries, heâll never ask you to move your head even if his arm is killing him, heâll always let you pick the movie you watch or the food you eat. When you insist on cooking for him, he insists on helping out. You pushed him all the way to the living room once, but he was back in the kitchen within the minute.
All morning, heâs been adamant on you going home, because he can take care of himself, and youâll get sick, and âWhoâll take care of you when you get sick?â as if he wouldnât be glued to your bedside the entire time. Only after some time do you agree that youâll stay in the living room and check on him every once in a while, then go with him to the doctor tomorrow if itâs still this bad.
So when, finally, he asks you if you will stay, thereâs only one possible answer.
Thankfully, more often than not, you grace him with your presence for a few hours in the afternoon. Part of him feels bad and keeps on telling you to go get some rest if you feel too tired in-between shifts; part of him knows he would be devastated if you actually did. You show him where everything is, from the singular bus stop to the post office to the pharmacy. You take him to the beach a couple of times, sitting in the hard sand or venturing out to the water, wincing at how cold it is against your feet until one of you inevitably splashes the other one and a chase ensues, both of you quickly wound out of breath from too much running and laughing. It makes him wish heâd been a high schooler with youâthey are such adolescent moments, and he wishes he could feel the total carefreeness of them, but the weight on his heart every time he looks at you is too heavy. He wishes he knew you from before, he wishes the feeling of having known you his entire life wasnât just a feeling but reality. Seeing you in your hometown is one step closer to that, but when he sees you talking to Heeseung and remembers that Heeseung knew you as a seven-year-old, scraped his knees on the same pavement, sat in the same classrooms listening to the same teachers, jealousy rears its ugly head and makes his stomach twist.
Sometimes the time spent with you is tinted with such sadness that he wishes heâd never met you, so that this could be a real fresh start for the both of you, but these thoughts never stay long. He reminds himself that finding you again is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that he wonât waste on melancholy and what-ifs.Â
You tell him that your life hasnât been as fun as his since leaving culinary school, but he absorbs every detail you give him, no matter how small, and wants nothing more than a step-by-step recap of what youâve been up to since the last time he saw you. Youâve mostly been running the restaurant, which requires the sort of time and energy your grandmother simply doesnât have anymore. She thankfully hasnât had another fall since the first one five years ago, but the toll on her health has been so great that the days where she is both physically and mentally sound enough to help you in the kitchen are fewer and further between. About three years ago, you found someone to hold down the fort while you enrolled at the nearest culinary school and completed the credits you needed to get your Restauranteurâs Certificate. The prestige of that school was nowhere near that of the one in Seoul, and arguably you didnât even need it, because you wouldnât be applying to work at restaurants other than Kimâs Kitchen, but it was more of a principle thing and everyone in your family insisted on you getting it.Â
âThatâs about it, I think,â you say dismissively. If youâve missed him, you donât tell him.
Itâs not like either of you tries to hide it, but of course, people are quick to notice how often you and Jay are seen together, despite his very recent arrival. Even though youâd complained of it many times when you and Jay dated, the extent to and speed with which gossip spreads in this town comes as a shock to him. It starts with seemingly harmless questions from Heeseung and the three men that work with him. At first, theyâre simple questions about himself, where is he from, what did he do before coming here, why did he come here, how is he liking it, does he know anyoneâtheir curiosity knows no bounds. Theyâre usually unsatisfied with surface-level, one-sentence answers. And just when he thinks theyâre satiated, the mere mention of you gets them going again, oh how did the two of you meet, did you get along, did you know she lives here?
When he asks you how he should reply to such inquiries, you instruct him to do as he feels. âBe ready for everyone to be in your business no matter what, but itâll be even worse if you tell them we dated. Iâm used to that kind of talk, but I donât know how youâll feel about it. Well, youâve received media attention, so you know what itâs like.â
Media attention is something of an overstatement. As a kid, he appeared a few times on his dadâs cooking show, and since then, heâs been interviewed for a grand total of three food-centered magazine articles. He canât say he âknows what itâs like,â because no one has ever cared about his personal life, let alone his love life.
But Jay isnât a great liar. And while part of him doesnât want to lie or even omit the truth about your relationship â heâs very proud of having once had the honor of calling you his girlfriend â he also doesnât want to barge into your hometown and be an annoyance to you. So the first time Heeseung asks him what kind of relationship the two of you had, before heâs had the chance to discuss it with you, he errs on the safe side and says âWe were⊠friends.â But his tone is a dead giveaway, and Heeseung just replies with a dubitative, âInteresting.â
Within days, the word has spread that heâs not just the odd tourist in the off-season. No, this guy is here to stay, the whispers around him seem to say, all polite nods and friendly smiles when he turns to look at them. When he brings it up, you give him a look that says I told you so and remind him not to mind them, that itâll blow over the minute something else interesting happens.
Except Sojuk-ri is not a place where interesting things abound, especially at the end of September when all the excitement and busyness of summer is slowly fading. And so the braver ones start to show themselves. Heâll be eating at your restaurant, and the people sitting at the tables nearby will engage him in redundant conversations. âThe food here is good, right? Y/N is a great cook and a lovely girl. I heard the two of you met at school? What brings you here, if not her?â He has the feeling that making a bad first impression in a place like this would be social suicide, so he answers as cordially as he can, hoping theyâll back off when they realize he wonât be giving them any information they havenât heard already.
Their female counterparts arenât much better. When the weather allows it, they gather under the gazebo, sharing snacks and trading gossipâJust like on TV, Jay thinks the first time he sees them like this. If he happens to pass them by, one of them will stop him, a stranger calling his name with unsettling familiarity, and wave him over. Something about them tells him itâll do him no good to ignore them. And truthfully, he quickly comes to not mind and even enjoy these encounters; itâs only a matter of getting used to their overbearing nosiness. They want to know all the basic stuff, of course, whereâre you from, whatâre you doing here, whatâs your relationship with Y/N, but itâs the juicier details they ooh and ahh at, what do your parents do, oh, poor thing, how did she die, is that why you moved here, and anyways whatâs your relationship with our Y/N? Of course, they donât buy it that the two of you never dated: from his reddening cheeks to his loss of composure, anyone with two eyes and their head screwed on right can tell that saying, âWe were good friends,â is one hell of an understatement. Embarrassingly quickly, he buckles under the pressure. They coax the truth out of him with persistent questions and persimmon slices.
âI guess we did date for a little bit,â he admits the second time one of these run-ins happens.
âAh, see! We knew you werenât telling us everything. And how long were you together?â
âSix months,â he mumbles, hiding his shy smile behind the cup of barley tea theyâd poured him. To these women who have been married for as long as or even longer than heâs been alive, six months must be laughable. But to Jay, those six months were never toppedâin intensity, happiness, or length.
They collectively âawâ at him, expressions of endearment â and pity, Jay thinks â on their faces. âYouâre still in love with her, arenât you?â one of them asks, more a statement than a question. He looks down at the cup, warm in his hands, smile faltering. In their eyes, he seems to turn from a cute, excitable puppy, into a pitiful one. âItâs okay!â they reassure him. âYouâre here now, you can get her back. She hasnât dated anyone since sheâs come back from Seoul, you know!âÂ
He only manages to create a believable lie when they ask how things ended. âIt was a mutual decision. She had to move back here to help out at the restaurant, I was going to Paris, it wouldâve been too hard to stay together while we were so far apart.â
When he says he has to go, they donât hold him back.
Unfortunately for Jay, the seventeen-year-olds are as interested in his love life as the seventy-year-olds. Heâs scouring through the â1 paperback for 1000 wonâ section outside of the second-hand bookstore when he hears them. Giggles, at first. Then hushed whispers, light slaps on arms, âYou go talk to him,â âNo, you go.â Approaching footsteps. A finger taps his shoulder twice, someone clears their throat behind him, and he turns around, expecting the worst. It comes in the form of a young girl, still in her school uniform.
âYes?â he says, as politely as he can despite his frustration growing at the prospect of repeating the same conversation heâs been having for the past week. The girl, Yewon, if the name tag on her navy blazer speaks the truth, seems to forget what she meant to say, and just stares at Jay wide-eyed for a few unbearably awkward seconds. Her two friends have stayed behind, some feet away from her and Jay, and it takes one of them yelling âCâmon!â for her to remember what she came here for.
âUm, youâre Jay, right?â
âI am, yes.â
âAnd you used to be Y/N-unnieâs boyfriend?â Itâs asked with such a perfect mix of straightforwardness and clumsiness that Jay canât help but smile.
âIndeed.â
Her eyes widen again and she whips her head backwards, nodding frantically at her friends who gasp and slap each otherâs arms. âAnd do you have a girlfriend right now?â
âNo, I donât.â
âSo, are you and Y/N-unnie going to date again?â
That takes him longer to answer. âI donât know. This is the first time weâve seen each other in five years.â
For approximately three seconds, Yewon looks like sheâs never heard more crushing news. Then, her features return to normal, and she says, âOkay! Thanks, bye,â and runs back to her friends, three black heads walking away as they whisper conspiratorially to themselves. Jay isnât sure what to do with himself for a few moments afterwards.
But the most embarrassing of these moments by far is when his landlady shows up at his door one late afternoon, behind her two women with eyes exactly like yours beaming right at him. âI have friends whoâd like to meet you,â she exclaims, and walks in without Jayâs invitation. It is her house, after all. âIâll prepare some tea!â
While she busies herself in the small kitchen, the two women step inside. The younger one shakes his hand vigorously, a huge smile on her face as she introduces herself as Mrs. Ryu, your mother, and the other woman as Mrs. Kim, of Kimâs Kitchen fame, your grandmother, who just bows her head politely, smiling serenely. Quickly recovering from the shock of three women, two of them strangers, appearing at his doorstep, he bows back, bending from the waist, then shows them to the living room. He hands them cushions to sit down, awkwardly waiting for one of them to say something as he settles across the coffee table from them. Your grandmother just looks out of the window, peaceful as ever, while your mother asks question after question, the same ones as everyone else, and nods at every answer he gives, like theyâre a confirmation of what she already knows, like she just wants to hear it for herself. The way her eyes never once leave his makes him doubt whether she has some sort of mind-reading, lie-detecting ability.Â
Jay prides himself in his capacity to adapt to any situation, to just go with the flow and make others feel easy around himâbut this is too much, even for him. He doesnât know what to say, where to look, what to do with his hands. Before he himself knows what heâs doing, he stands up and excuses himself to the bathroom. He locks the door behind him, looks at his reflection in the mirror, hoping itâll give him an answer as to what the fuck is happening, to no avail. He texts you instead, and is surprised when you answer right away.
Jay Hey
Your mother and grandmother are at my apartment?
Y/N Are you asking or telling me this?
Jay Both
Y/N Lol
Thatâs what you get for going around town telling everyone we used to be together
I had to have an awkward convo with them yesterday, your turn now
Good luck!
Jay Arenât you going to help me out?
Y/N Nope
:)Â
So thatâs useless. He was hoping youâd tell him why they had come to see him or whether there were things he shouldnât say, but all youâve done is let him know an âawkward convoâ was on the way. When he comes back to the living room, your mother is still looking at him expectantly, only tearing her gaze away from him to thank Mrs. Yoon for pouring her a cup of steaming green tea.
âJay, youâve always lived in big cities, havenât you?â Mrs. Yoon asks as he takes a seat next to her. When he nods, she smiles compassionately. âYou must not be used to this kind of attention. I hope no oneâs offended you.â
He chuckles. Not used to it is one way to put it. âItâs definitely been⊠surprising.â
Your mother and Mrs. Yoon laugh. Your grandmother smiles, and her features are so similar to yours that Jay feels like he gets a glimpse into the future for a millisecond. âThis is just our way of welcoming you,â Mrs. Yoon explains. âNewcomers are rare around here⊠Old-timers like us, weâre used to knowing people your age from the moment youâre born. I know it might seem overbearing, but we canât help but be curious about you.â
âEspecially when it turns out that you know my daughter quite well,â Mrs. Ryu says, a knowing glint in her eyes as she peers at Jay over her teacup. His tea goes down the wrong pipe. His guests laugh as he does his best not to spit liquid all over them. âIâm not here to admonish you, Jay, if thatâs what youâre scared of. Or lecture you, or anything of the sort.â She puts her cup down with a sigh. âY/N has always told me about everything going on in her life. When my children were growing up, I made sure to be someone they could always come to to talk about anything, good or bad. Itâs worked out to varying degrees between the three of them, but Y/N has never been one to hide things from me.â Here, she gives Jay a look he canât quite decipher. âAnd yet, I only really learned about you yesterday.â
Today is nothing but surprises for Jay. He knows how close you are to your motherâhe remembers the frequent calls youâd make to her, the way youâd mention her as often as you would any friend, the way youâd always say, âIâll just ask my mom about it,â whenever you encountered a problem, no matter how big or small. It doesnât make sense that she wasnât aware you had dated someone for six months.
âI thought you knew Y/N had a⊠a boyfriend in Seoul,â he says, feeling oddly uneasy referring to himself that way in front of your mother.
âOh, I did, I did. Donât worry, I havenât forgotten that she made you say hello a few times on the phone,â she says, laughing. The amusement on her face quickly fades, however. âBut things havenât been quite the same since she came back. Of course, everything happened so quickly back then, and we were all so worried, it just wasnât the time to talk about relationships.â She turns her head to Mrs. Kim, takes her hand between both of hers, and your grandmother closes her eyes, her lips stretched in that calm, unwavering smile. Jay wonders whether sheâs been listening to the conversation at all. âShe was⊠She was sad. And not just because her grandma was injured and she had to leave school, I could tell. It was a difficult time for her. I shouldâve been there more.â
âDonât blame yourself, Seokja,â Mrs. Yoon chimes in. âYou had to take care of your mother.â Your grandmother opens her eyes and smiles at her daughter.
âI know. It wasnât easy for any of us, thatâs true. We all had a lot on our shoulders, but I think Y/N took the brunt of it. And she never complained. Well, now she does, but she never did back then. Anyways, it took me a month to realize that something else was going on with her, why she seemed so⊠listless. It was only when I asked that I learned you two had broken up. She wasnât even answering her friendâs call, Sumin, I think her name was?â
Jay doesnât want to hear this. He knows your mother means no harm, but your unhappiness after the break-up is the last thing he wants to talk about this morning, or ever, really. Because of course, it brings him right back to his own unhappiness back then, nesting itself in every last crevice of his body and soul, reminding him of how it made every day feel the same, every food bland, every color dull. Even before he arrived here and saw you, itâs been a committed effort of his not to think of that period of his life, not to reopen the wounds that have taken so long to heal. Whatâs the point? He doesnât want for one unfortunate event to taint his memories of your time together. He wants to remember the feeling of making you laugh, the sight of you in the morning, all dishevelled hair and warm skin under the sheets, the sound of your humming while you cooked. Your break-up he locked up in a box and pushed all the way to the back of the closet, only reopening it late at night when melancholy comes in sleepâs stead.
He has forbidden himself, and heâs done his very best at it, to think of how you were feeling. Naturally, he was dying to know how you wereâdoing as awfully as him, or letting life go on as if nothing happened? Did images of him appear in your head at random times of your day, memories you thought forgotten suddenly resurfacing, or did he never cross your mind? All these questions and uncertainties only hurt him more. He texted you once, a week after you left. A simple How are you?, forever unanswered, because you blocked him immediately. His phone number, all his social media, everything. He didnât try, but he assumed he wouldnât even be able to contact you by email. And so, for the five years that followed, he tried to limit his thoughts of you to moments you had really shared, to focus on the tangible rather than the imagined. It stung too, of course, but somewhat less.
She was sad. Listless. In just a few words, your mom has undone all of his efforts.
âBack then, all she told me was that you werenât together anymore. I tried asking her once more later, but she reacted so badly that I never mentioned it again. All that to say, the town gossip made its way to us, and itâs only yesterday that she told us everything that happened.â He looks down at the contents of his teacup. âOh, Jay,â she says, letting go of her motherâs hand to grab his. Jay is mortified to feel tears pooling in his eyes at the unexpected gesture. At least now he knows who you get your empathy and kindness from. âI know this is not a fun conversation to have. And I know it mustâve been hard for you, too.âÂ
He nods, dropping his head even further down. She pats the back of his hand.
âIt hasnât been easy, no. But⊠Iâm happy I get to see her again.â
Your mother mirrors his small smile. âI think she is, too,â she whispers, and he can tell she means it. He dares to believe itâs the truthâthe opposite would be too painful.
âI found her crying in the kitchen the day she saw you for the first time,â your grandma says. So she was listening this whole time.
âMom!â Mrs. Ryu exclaims just as Jay echoes, âCrying?â
âOh, they werenât sad tears. I donât think so, at least. I think she was just shocked. Overcome with emotion, if you will,â she explains, addressing Jay a polite smile. âAnd this kind of emotion means something, donât you think?â
The three women look at him like they know something he doesnât.
Itâs a lot to process at once. In the past five years, heâs been realistic enough to not delude himself into thinking you were either crying yourself to sleep every night since the break-up or not sparing him a single thought. He knew, or in some ways hoped, at least, that you were dealing with it like him: that there were good and bad days, that you wished things couldâve ended some other way, or not at all, but that you mostly tried to look at what was to come rather than what was left behind.Â
And today, on an otherwise peaceful Saturday morning, heâs gotten the confirmation that you suffered. That it wasnât easy then, that there seem to be unresolved feelings now. What is Jay meant to do with this knowledge? It doesnât make him happy. He could never be happy knowing you were, or are, in pain. Part of his ego might be comforted in knowing he wasnât alone in his pain, but the bigger part of him that still longs for you would rather you forget about him and move on than hold onto him and hurt.
He doesnât know what to say, so he stays quiet, takes a sip of the bitter, over-brewed tea. This doesnât seem to bother his guests.
The silence doesnât last longâfour heads whip in the direction of the door as it creaks open. âMom, Grandma, keep this behavior up and Iâm sticking you both in the retirement home. Donât count on me to take care of you,â you say as you walk into the apartment without so much as a knock. Relief washes over Jay as he watches you take your shoes off and make your way to the living room, meeting his eyes and shaking your head as if to apologize for your forebears. Your grandma contents herself with closing her eyes again and turning towards the window, letting the sunlight hit her face, a smile on her lips. If being old means you get to check out of conversations at any given moment without appearing rude, Jay doesnât much mind aging.Â
âIâm not of retiring age yet, honey. Weâll talk about that later,â your mom says. âPlus, we werenât doing anything wrong, just⊠getting to know our new neighbor. Isnât that right, Jay?â
âWe live across town, weâre not neighbors,â you say before Jay can reply.
âPlease, everyone in this town is a neighbor.â
Jay is happy to fall back and watch you and your motherâs back-and-forth, with interferences from Mrs. Yoon here and there. Youâre here; you came. Jay really thought you were going to leave him alone in this, but here you are in the fleshâwhy? To make sure your mother wouldnât reveal something embarrassing about you, as if anything anyone said could change his opinion of you? Or perhaps, to protect him in some way, to tell him, If weâre going to do this, weâre going to do it together?
He meets your gaze from across the table. It lasts just a fraction of a second, but thereâs a glint in your eyes, something like the complicity he thought heâd lost all those years ago. He allows himself to think youâre here for him.
You manage to shift the topic of the conversation away from you and Jay, and he feels like he can breathe properly again. There wasnât that interrogation-like quality that sometimes comes with meeting the family to his discussion with your mother and grandmother, but he is glad nonetheless to not be the subject at hand anymore, and can talk more freely now that every word directed at him doesnât feel like added weight on his shoulders.
Fifteen minutes later, there isnât a drop left in the teapot and the conversation naturally comes to an end. Your mother looks around at everyone and, with a smile, says, âWell, I think weâve inconvenienced you enough, Jay. Sorry for bursting in like this again.â
âItâs all good,â he replies, and means it.
âYou should come around for dinner soon, okay?â
You stay behind. Jay doesnât know if the three women are exceptionally good at reading the room, or if he missed some silent signal of understanding between you and them, but they donât question your not following them. The sudden quietness makes Jay feel like a giant in a too-small space, a room that canât possibly contain the two of you.
And yet. You sigh and head back to the living room, going for the couch rather than the cushions on the floor, but Jay canât bring himself to join you, and so sits back at the same spot from earlier.
âSeriously, Jay?â you say, chuckling, but he detects an actual trace of annoyance in your voice. Unable to hide your thoughts as always. You pat a spot on the couch next to you. âCome here.â
But Jay doesnât move. Canât. All he can do when he looks at you is search for traces of grief. He had five years to work out all of his feelings around your breakup, and he thought he had sorted through everything, gone through all the phases. Seeing you again, he feels like he has to start over. The past week hasnât felt real, he thinks. He thinks it so hard, he says it out loud, only realizing what he did when he sees your expression soften.
âItâs been weird, hasnât it?â
âWeird is one way to put it, yeah.â
Thereâs a pause, during which he spends every second worrying about what sort of turn this conversation will take.
âIs this a good time to talk about the elephant in the room, then?â you finally say.
He looks around, eyebrows furrowed with worry. âThereâs an elephant in this room?!â he whispers.
You burst into laughter. âI see your humor hasnât improved over time.â
âSeeing as youâre laughing, Iâd say yours hasnât, either.â
Silence settles between the two of you again, creeps inside Jay, makes him wait for your next words with bated breath.Â
He had a feeling that all the skirting around the subject youâd been doing would come to this. Itâs not that youâre pretending it didnât happen, that would be impossible, for him, at leastâhe looks at you and heâs transported back to Seoul five years ago, at school, in one of your apartments, in the streets after dark. But you havenât been actively tackling it either and with every passing day, the weight of unspoken words grows, making every conversation, every look at you harder and harder to navigate. This is new for the two of you, who in your six months of being together, had mastered the art of communicatingâyou never didnât speak to each other. You especially were good at saying what was on your mind without ever being hurtful, and youâd helped Jay stop bottling his feelings up when he thought he could get over them himself and not have to trouble you with them.
Nothing you say could ever burden me, baby, youâd told him. I want to know everything that goes through your head.Â
And many things have changed since then, but maybe this hasnâtâthe look you have in your eyes now is the same one as then, soft and inviting, aware that conversations arenât always as easy as they are necessary.Â
âYouâre here,â you say after some time. Jay was so caught up in his own thoughts, entire minutes couldâve passed without his noticing. You spoke so quietly, he wonders if he imagined it until you add, âYouâre in Sojuk-ri.â
He smiles, stops himself from replying with something annoying like What an astute observation, Y/N, it would only be stalling. So, for lack of a better alternative, and because he assumes you have more to say, he whispers, âI am.â
âWe used to date.â
Jay isnât sure where youâre going with this. He nods, unable to suppress a grin. âWe did, yeah,â he replies, louder this time.
âThen I broke up with you.â
A chuckle escapes his lips. âYouâre on fire this morning,â he says, because he canât help himself, and warmth envelops his heart at the sound of your laughter.
âI just want to recontextualise.â
âWoah, big words.â
âBig word, singular. And shut up. Iâm trying to be serious, here,â you chide, still smiling.
âSorry.â
A sudden shadow passes over your face, making your eyebrows furrow, your smile disappear. Jayâs heart drops, his feelings, as always, a mirror of yours. You rise from your seat on the couch and make your way to him. Every step you take echoes inside of him and grows louder as the distance separating you decreases. Then youâre standing in front of him, and he looks up at you, and thereâs something like a magnet under his skin, desperately reaching out for yours, that makes his hand wrap around your ankle. His eyes stay trained on your face as you lower yourself to the ground and cross your legs. If you mind his touch, you donât say or show it.Â
âYouâre right, it doesnât feel real,â you say. Your eyes sweep his face, focus on one part at a time. You simply stare at him for a moment as though trying to convince yourself that it is, indeed, real, that he is really there, not a figment of your imagination but a person whose flesh and bones used to be as familiar as your own. He lets you look to your heartâs content, because it allows him to look at you, too.
His loose grip around your ankle tightens ever so slightly and you look down at his hand as if suddenly noticing its presence there. After a second of what seems to Jay like hesitation, you place your hand atop his. âWould you still have moved here if you knew this was where I lived?â
âI wouldâve come here years ago, if I knew,â he says with a small smile.
You furrow your eyebrows. âYou didnât even try calling.â
This takes him aback. Was that what youâd wanted? âI texted you, and you blocked me right away.â
The crease between your brows deepens. âI know.â
âYou also didnât try calling.â
âI sent you a letter.â
For some reason, it astonishes Jay that in all of five years, communication between the two of you amounted to one unanswered text and a letter with no return address. âYou did. That was nice of you.â
Finally, this gets a smile, albeit subdued, out of you. âI know.â
âIf Iâd managed to call you somehow, would you have picked up?â
âYes,â you say immediately. Then, âNo. I donât know.â Then, in a smaller voice, âIt hurts too much to think about the other ways it couldâve gone. The better ways.â
Jay sighs, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. âThen letâs not think about them. It wonât do us any good.â
Your eyes meet. The sadness in yours tugs at his heartstrings. âAre you mad at me?â you ask, the tremble in your voice making it sound like youâre on the verge of crying, and itâs all Jay can do not to take you in his arms and hold you tight against his chest.
âNo. Not at all,â he says, and he hopes his tone alone is enough to convince you.Â
The magnet under his skin is uncontrollable. It raises Jayâs hand from where it was resting on your shoulder to your face, makes it cup your cheek, makes his thumb swipe slowly across your skin, right where tears are threatening to fall, as if preventing them.
âI tried being mad at you,â he says. âI tried a bunch of emotions. Sadness. Indifference. Nostalgia. But anger made things so much worse. It didnât feel right, because Iâd never been angry with you before. And it felt⊠It felt like admitting things couldâve gone differently. It felt like grieving a version of us that never existed because it never got the chance to. I decided to focus on the actual memories we had, and remember them fondly, instead of wasting my energy on being angry.â
A single tear falls from your right eye, wetting the top of Jayâs thumb. âI understand why you did what you did, Y/N,â he continues. âYou had your reasons. You handled everything the best you could. It hurt like hell, but I canât be mad at you for that.â
Jay doesnât have to hold himself back from embracing you; you do it for him. Arms wound tightly around his neck, face in the crook of his neck, you quite literally cry on his shoulder. He hadnât realized how close he himself was to crying until tears start falling freely from his eyes, mouth trembling as they gather at his jaw before dropping down the back of your t-shirt. Between sobs, you say, âIâm sorry. Even if you arenât angry, Iâm so sorry, Jay.â
He has never expected anything from you, least of all an apology. Yet hearing those words heals some of the fissures in his heart, puts the pieces back together like superglue. He doesnât need or want a repeat of your break-up conversation, and he doubts you do. He doesnât want to hear how staying together wouldnât have been a possibility, how youâd both have too much going on, how you were too young to hold each other back, how the distance between France and South Korea was too substantial to dismiss.
He wraps his arms around your waist and brings you closer to him. Closing his eyes and trying not to let your proximity overwhelm him, he strokes your hair, rubs your back, tells you itâs all okay. âDonât apologize, baby,â he says, the nickname unwittingly slipping from his lips. âWeâre here now, thatâs all that matters, isnât it?â He feels you nod against his shoulder, but your sobs donât relent.
Would it be very wrong if Jay said he missed having you like this? Of course, he hates to see you unhappy, but thereâs a part of him that has always been endeared by the sight of you crying. If he could, he'd destroy whatever's upsetting you in a heartbeat, but at the same time, he can't help but selfishly rejoice in the fact that it's him you go to for comfort. Itâs in his arms that you find what it is you need to get over whatâs troubling you; under his touch that you slowly calm down.
He doesnât know how long the two of you stay like this, nor does he care, but at some point, you lean back and take a deep, stabilising breath. Jay feels a page turn when your eyes meetâthere might be no way to change the past, but the future is a blank canvas, the cursor at the start of a new document, and itâs up to the two of you how you want to write it.
You smile, and so does he. âI missed you,â you say.
âI missed you, too.â
There are more things to be said, but youâre both talked out. You have so much time ahead of you anyway.
.
.
The party started an hour ago, and Jay wants to leave already.
Not because itâs boring, the music bad, the conversation dullânot at all. If anything, this is a good party. One of the more fun ones heâs been to. On a regular day, heâd have no intention to leave until the early hours of the morning. But this isnât a regular day, because youâre here, and somehow look prettier than you ever have before. Jay doesnât know what it isâyour hair, your outfit, your makeup, or maybe youâre secretly a witch able to cast beauty spells that work on already unfairly beautiful people such as yourself. He canât stop looking at you, canât stop searching for you in every room he walks into, and he tells himself that itâs because there really is something different about you tonight, ignoring the voice at the back of his mind telling him to quit finding excuses.Â
He finds you in the kitchen pouring yourself a drink, on your own for the first time tonight. âHey,â he says when heâs close enough for you to hear him. He stands next to you at the kitchen counter. You look at him, smile, and return his greeting, in a small voice that he likes to think is intimate. Instead of loudly talking over the loud music like everyone else, you lean into each other and speak in low tones.
âIâm glad to see you,â you say.
âMe too,â he says, a grin he canât suppress on his lips. âAny particular reason?â
You look around the room. âJust⊠this week was a lot, and I thought a crowded party like this was what I needed, but it turns out I was wrong. Iâm way too tired to socialize with people I barely know. Itâs nice to see a familiar face.â
As much as he likes to distance himself from most of his peers, at the end of the day, Jay, too, is just a man. A lot of his bedtime scenarios with you revolve around being your knight in shining armor in one way or another. Were they usually more dramatic than saving you from a tiring party? Yes, especially if heâd watched a superhero movie that evening. Nevertheless, he sees his chance, and couldnât be quicker to grab it. âDo you wanna get out of here?â
The rest of the evening feels like a movie. Jay thinks that when he looks back to this moment, heâll remember it as slightly fuzzy around the edges, like the two beers he had during the party gave a delightful haziness to the rest of his night. He feels light-headed just looking at you.
After quickly thanking and saying goodbye to the host, a classmate of yours whoâs drunk enough not to be suspicious of your leaving together at ten pm, you walk around the streets of Seoul. The sky above you is dark and starless, but the many restaurant, bar and shop signs are so brightly lit it might as well be the middle of the day. There are about as many people as you would expect on a Saturday night in Hongdae, but Jay likes being there with you, feeling as happy as the smiling partygoers around him look, guiding you through the crowd with a hand on your lower back. You eventually reach the Han River, content to laugh at each otherâs silly anecdotes and talk about a myriad of topics until hunger gets the best of you and you settle on finding the nearest fried chicken shop.
Youâre both quieter as you eatâyou jokingly remark that the two of you mustâve been really hungry, but Jay has something else on his mind. He tries not to stare at you too openly, but itâs a struggle: when the thing thatâs been at the center of all your thoughts for the past few weeks is sitting right in front of you, itâs hard to do anything other than look at it.
It isnât especially hard to know how you feel. Unless Jay likes you so much that heâs deluded himself into thinking the sentiment was reciprocated, he really doesnât think you are immune to him. Heâs made sure not to fall into the trap of âshe isnât into you, sheâs just niceâ by paying attention to the small things: the smile that you try in vain to suppress whenever he compliments you, the way you stand closer than necessary when you work together in his or your kitchen, the small, innocent touches to his arm that linger, especially when youâve had a couple of drinks. He doesnât assume youâre in love with him because you laughed at a joke he made once. Rather, heâs observed, compared, spent hours sitting on his couch, looking into the distance, analysing. Heâs come to the conclusion that you wonât slap him in the face and kick him in the balls if he makes a move.
At least, he really, really hopes so.
He pays for the food and you head out together, both seemingly more contemplative and lost in your thoughts than when you came in earlier. Without a word, you start walking in the direction of the subway station, and after a minute or two of intense self-pep-talking, Jay finally manages to take your hand in his. You react to his touch immediately, fingers interlacing with his with all the ease in the world. Itâs near destabilising, how naturally your hands seem to fit together. For the rest of the way, the two of you exchange glances and smiles, and Jay almost runs into passersby and poles every fifty meters.Â
The next train arrives in five minutes. Jay keeps your hand in his as he turns to face you, and you mirror him, gently swinging your arms back-and-forth between your bodies. You look down at them, smiling, while he keeps his gaze trained on your face, smiling, too. He canât see himself, but if he could, heâs sure the unbridled affection heâs currently feeling for you would be evident in his features. His heart is overflowing with unfamiliar but somehow comforting emotion, and he feels, at this moment, to a disconcerting degree of certainty, that he will never love someone quite as much as he loves you.
Three words burn the tip of his tongue, and heâs desperate to do something, anything, really, that will make you see how his entire being aches for you. But with your hand in his, he feels paralyzed, like a cat has fallen asleep in his lap and the slightest movement will wake it up. All he can do is stand there and control his breathing, a task that becomes complicated when you look up at him, a sheepish smile on your lips.
âDo you wanna come over for ramen?â you ask, voice a mere whisper, keeping your conversation private amidst the busy subway station. You just ate, so he isnât particularly hungry, but he has an inkling you arenât really offering ramen.
Jay doesnât know what he expected, but it certainly wasnât for you to drop the facade the moment he steps inside your apartment. You donât even give him the time to shrug his coat off or rid himself of his shoes, and you certainly donât pretend like youâre going to prepare some ramenâthe second the door closes behind him, you turn around, grab his face in your hands, and press your lips to his. Just like with your hands earlier, his body reacts to you before he can even comprehend it. Maybe itâs because he's imagined this moment so many times, reality has become indiscernible from his daydreams, and he knows exactly what to do; heâd rather think itâs because the two of you are meant for each other.Â
His eyes close and his palms rise to meet the dip of your waist, pulling you towards him with such unintentional intensity that the two of you stumble backwards until his back hits your door. You press your body against his, stomach to stomach, chest to chest, mouths never straying apart, but itâs somehow not enough, and he wraps his arms around you in a futile attempt to meld your bodies to each other.
You stand there for who knows how long, Jay has better things to do than count the seconds, but long enough for your stillness â only your lips have been moving â to make the sensory light of your entryway turn off, leaving you in darkness. This seems to pull you out of your trance, and centimeter by centimeter, you lean back, gaze riveted on Jayâs lips, then his eyes. They meet only momentarily. Your arms were wrapped around his neck, and now, stepping back once, you let your palms glide over the length of his arms until they reach his hands. You keep them there as you look down at the ground.
âSorry,â you say, and Jay canât find a single reason on Earth why you should be apologising. âI thought that if I didnât do that now, Iâd never find the courage to.â
He smiles, and, taken by a sudden surge of confidence, raises a hand to cup your face and make you look at him. âIâm glad you did.â He bends down to trap your lips in another kiss, softer this time, slower, because now that he knows you wonât slip through his fingers like sand, he wants to take his time.Â
He hopes heâs not being too cheeky when he asks, âWhereâs your bedroom?â, each word whispered against your lips. To his great relief, you donât seem to find him impertinent, smiling as you lead him to your room.
Something stops him on the threshold while you turn on the lamp on your bedside table. The room is bathed in a warm, golden glow, and the light reflects perfectly on your bare skin as you lift your sweater over your head, leaving your top half covered by nothing but a bra. Jay doesnât mean to stare, but he doesâthe mere sight of you has him breathing heavily, his muscles contracting in anticipation. Nothing outside of this room is of any importance to him in this momentâonly this is, only you are. He walks towards you, more single-minded than heâs ever been.
One hand on your lower back, the other cupping the side of your face, he stands close enough to feel your rugged breath against his lips, but doesnât lean in any further, simply taking the time to look at you. The unbridled lust in your eyes, your agape mouthâhe knows heâs the one making you feel this way but canât bring himself to believe it. âYouâre beautiful,â he whispers, because he means it, and itâs all he can think of. How beautiful you are. How youâre letting him, of all people, see this side of you.
Your mouth closes into a smile. âCan you just kiss me, please?â you ask, and Jay doesnât need to be told twice. He gets the messageâno more dilly-dallying.
As your lips meet again and fall into a slow, sensuous rhythm that has Jayâs heart beating uncontrollably hard, your hands find purchase in the fabric at the bottom of his sweater. You donât want to be the only one half-naked, it seems, and when Jay obligingly gets rid of his sweater, you tug at the remaining black sleeveless tank on his upper body. He laughs and says, âDonât worry, this can come off too.â
Something in your eyes makes Jay laugh again when he takes it off, his torso now on full display. Your smile is so genuine, like youâre just happy to be here, to see him like this. Itâs surprisingly innocent for a moment like this. He feels a little self-conscious at your unabashed staring, but tries not to mind it. If you like it, he likes itâall he can do is hope his efforts in the gym havenât been for naught. Still grinning, you exhale a slow, shaky breath, and say, âOkay.â
âOkay?â
You nod. âMh-hm.â
Like magnets your lips find each othersâ once more. Jay makes you step backwards until the back of your legs hit your bed, and, propping one knee on your mattress to stabilize himself, lowers you down onto it. Hovering over you, he breaks away to look at you, in search of a sign that youâre okay with this, and the sheer want and trust in your eyes reassure him that this is more than okay, and actually, can he get on with it please.
He lets you set the pace. You kiss him with a feverish sort of intensity that he is more than happy to return. He focuses only on the feeling of your lips moving against his, because if he lets himself be distracted by anything else â your hands tugging at his hair, your breasts pushing up against him, your hips bucking ever-so-slightly into his â heâs scared heâll lose total control over himself. What that would entail, he isnât sure, and doesnât care to find out, not right now at least, not for your first time together.Â
He breaks away to let you both catch your breath. One hand firmly holding you by the hip, the other on the side of your neck, thumb brushing up-and-down your throat, a barely-there pressure, he presses kisses to your jaw, your ear, your neck. A small hum escapes your lips when he reaches a spot in the crook of your shoulder, and he doubles down there, biting and sucking on your skin hard enough to leave a mark, the sound of your soft moans drowning out everything else.
âJay, please,â you whisper. This makes all the blood in his body gather in one spot, and for the first time since arriving at your apartment, he realizes just how much heâs straining against his trousers. You seem to notice this too, and, looking him straight in the eyes, place a hand on his bulge, then repeat, âPlease.â
Jay thinks he might pass out.
That simple touch of yours, as well as the knowledge that you want this as badly as he does, has his entire body screaming out for yours. But heâs barely started, and perhaps heâs a more patient person than you are, because he doesnât want to give in just yet. The word âpleaseâ sounds too good on your lips, and he wants to hear it over and over again, just for that confirmation that he is the only one who can provide you with what you need.
âOkay, baby,â he says, but gently takes your hand off of him, placing it on his shoulder instead.Â
Then he starts making his way down. A kiss to the side of your chin first, then your throat, then your collarbone. Slow hands on your warm skin, he reaches behind your back to unhook your bra, and you arch slightly to grant him easier access. He has to take another stabilising breath when your upper body is fully revealed to him, but you squirm, grip on his shoulder tightening, and he concedes not to take things too slow.
It feels like everything thatâs happened in his life has led to thisâa grand, elaborate scheme just to hear the gasp torn from your throat when his lips wrap around one of your nipples. Heâd smile with unbridled pride if he wasnât so wholly concentrated on the task at hand. He drinks in every satisfied sound you make, savours the feeling of your nails digging into his skin, makes a note of every little thing that has you arching your back in a desperate attempt to get closer to him.
You whine when one of his hands trails up the inside of your thighs, slowly but surely approaching where you need him the most, although never quite making it there. He tells himself that one day, heâll drag this out, just to see how long he can withhold it from you, how long it would take before you start begging. But right now, he needs it as urgently as you do.
Youâre warm and damp against his palm. Your hips seem to move of their own accord in the search for even the slightest of frictionâJay doesnât know what heâs done to deserve this, to deserve you, but he knows that heâll do everything to keep it.Â
Itâs far too easy to reach underneath your short black skirt, hook his fingers under the waistband of your tights, and pull them down along with your panties. Your lace panties, Jay notices, which match your bra, and he is reminded of a party during his last year of high school when Bang Yedam, a friend of his at the time, newly self-appointed sex expert since heâd lost his virginity at summer camp three months ago, had drunkenly assured him: âIf a girl is wearing a matching set of underwear when you hook up, you didnât fuck her. She fucked you.â Jay had nodded like it was gospel. Now, hovering over your half-naked figure in your bed, he smiles to himself. He thinks of you getting ready for this party, and maybe it was a coincidence, and you just liked wearing matching underwear, but maybe, just maybe, youâd worn this in the chance that he might see it. Youâd worn it because you wanted him to see it.
With that thought in mind, he finds the sweet spot in the crook of your neck again, pressing kisses there as he slides two fingers between your folds. He shouldnât be so surprised to find you so completely and utterly soakedâif your jagged breathing and increasingly louder whines werenât enough, then this is the physical confirmation that you want him just as badly as he wants you. âYouâre wet,â he whispers, lips moving against your jawline. He doesnât mean to tease, heâs just so astonished, so in awe that heâs able to get you like this, that he canât help but speak the words out loud.
You try to hide your face behind your forearm, but his free hand is quick to guide it away. âWhose fault is that?â you mumble, attitude immediately fading away when he presses the pads of his fingers to your clit and starts to draw slow, regular circles.
He canât explain the feelings that overcome him. Watching your eyebrows furrow, your cheeks glow, hearing your breathing and your moans get louder, feeling your hands grabbing at him and pulling him impossibly closerâhe feels all of your pleasure like itâs his own. Of course, when heâs had sex before, his partnerâs pleasure was always as, if not more important than his own, but this, this is something else. He wants to give you this forever. He wants to give you everything he has.Â
He slips a finger inside of you, and you whimper out his name, and he wants to die. You take it in so easily that heâs able to add a second one just moments later. Your fingernails dig into the skin of his bicep as he continues to press kisses to your neck, fingers repeatedly grazing a spot deep inside that has you clenching around them. The pitch of your moans change, higher, whinier, your hips buck upwards without you seeming to even realize it, and it dawns upon Jay that heâs about to give you an orgasm for the first time ever. Heâll be damned if the mere thought isnât enough to make him come, too.
And then, just as heâs sure that youâre on the brink of coming undone on his fingers, you grab his wrist and pull it away from you. Heâs hurt you, or he read you completely wrong and you were hating every second of it, orâ
âI want you.â
Heâs confused. You just had him. He was knuckles deep inside of you. âBut-â
âJay. I want you,â you repeat, hooking your fingers around his belt loops.
Oh.
âAre you sure?â he asks, because itâs always good to ask, but also because he finds himself almost wishing youâll say no. He knows that heâll last an embarrassingly short amount of time once inside you, and he feels like heâs doing a good job so far and doesnât want to taint it.Â
But you just laugh, start to undo his belt, his trouser button. He lets it happen, focuses on his breathing instead. âIâm very sure. There are condoms in the first drawer,â you say, nodding your head towards the bedside table.Â
Jay tries to be normal as he finds said condoms and strips; meanwhile, you readjust yourself on the bed so that your head rests on the pillows. You look at his face, smile, then look downwards, watch him put the condom on, and smile harder. He would usually feel so self-conscious at this point, like heâs being evaluated, but you make him feel like he has nothing to worry about.
Your body looks lazy on your mattress, one hand on your stomach, the other next to your head; one leg resting, one hiked up. A work of art is what you are, Jay thinks. And youâre waiting for him, an angelic look on your face that makes him want to do the most sinful things to you. He repositions himself on top of you, propping himself up on his forearms, kisses you to calm himself down, but itâs no use. You wrap your hand around him, pump him a few times, rub the tip of his cock against your clit. That alone has a deep grunt escaping his throatâhe really wonât last long.
Then finally, you align his head with your entrance, and he pushes in, both of you immediately gasping at the overwhelming feeling of being united like this. Your voice is strained when you tell him to go slow, and you claw at his back as he makes his way inside of you, inch by inch. Jay hopes youâll leave marks for him to find tomorrow and every day after that, proof that this is really happening, that it isnât an umpteenth dream of his. He waits for a few moments once heâs all the way in, lets you relax around him. He can practically feel the tension leave your body once the pain of the stretch fades away and only pleasure remains in its wake.
His movements start out shallow and slow. He doesnât want to hurt you, doesnât want to lose the little control heâs still holding onto, albeit with struggle. But every thrust, every torturous slide of his cock into you has his grasp on reality slipping from him. Of course, youâre not helping: with his face buried in the crook of your neck, your mouth is practically by his ear, your moans so loud he feels them in the tips of his fingers.
âThis feels so good, Jay,â you whisper. Something inside him snaps.Â
Jay grabs the backs of your thighs and hooks your legs around his hips. Heâll find the spot deep inside you his fingers had reached earlier, heâll make you cry out until your voice turns hoarse, heâll make you say his name until itâs the only thing you know how to say.
He doesnât know whether you have neighbors or whether your walls are thin. He also couldnât care less. His thrusts are deeper, quicker, harsher, but just as regular. You are perfect around and underneath him, and he is slowly losing his mind. He, who usually barely makes a peep during sex, so concentrated on doing things right, canât stop himself from moaning and grunting, the sounds dampened against your skin.Â
He isnât sure how long heâs been fucking you, but it canât be more than a few minutesâand yet, here you are, mouth wide open, crying out as your orgasm washes over you. Jay comes seconds later.
His soul has left his body. You seem to be in a similar state. He continues to move, shallow thrusts to get every last drop of pleasure from him and from you until you are both completely spent. He eventually slips out, kissing the side of your face as he does, and rolls onto his back. He quickly discards the condom, then turns towards you, warm satisfaction and bliss spreading from his stomach throughout his entire body at the sight of the contented, peaceful look on your face. Strands of hair stick to your forehead with sweat. He brushes them away, whispering, âYouâre so beautiful.â
You chuckle. âYou mentioned that earlier.â
âAnd Iâm mentioning it again now.â
Opening your eyes, your gaze bores into his. âAnd youâre very handsome,â you whisper back, palm coming up to cup his cheek. You take the time to just look at each other, and Jay thinks this is what heaven must be like. He bends down to press a kiss to your lips, then another, and anotherâwhy would he stop when he finally has you all to himself?Â
You giggle in-between kisses, and of course Jay joins in, light-headed and light-hearted with a giddiness unlike any heâs felt before. He doesnât stop when the both of you are smiling so hard your teeth bump against each other, which only makes you laugh more, makes him tighten his grip around your waist.Â
âYou know,â you say eventually, looking up at the ceiling, âI think I might like you. Just a little bit, though.â
Jay lifts his head from your neck, stares at you like youâve just told him Santa Claus was real all along. You glance at him, a shy smile on your lips that you try to suppress.
Heâs grinning so much it hurts. âYeah?â
You shrug. âMmh.â Heâs never been so endeared by someone trying to play it cool.
âWell,â he starts, taking his time pressing more kisses to the side of your face. âI know I like you. And not just a little bit.â
âOkay, itâs not a competition,â you say, although your smile has reached your eyes by now. Youâre not doing a very good job hiding your happiness.
âMmh, except it is.â
You attach your lips to his againâan effective way of getting him to shut up. But this time, theyâre not the chaste, gentle kisses from moments ago; theyâre immediately deeper, hungrier, an obvious aching for something more. The energy that Jay thought he had completely lost comes rushing back to him, a surge of desire rising within him again.
Heâs never wanted anything so intensely. But a sudden question appears in his mind, and he knows he wonât be able to shake it unless heâs made sure the both of you are on the same page.
âCan I be your boyfriend?â
Your gaze softens. âI thought youâd never ask,â you reply before kissing him again.
genre+warnings. exes to lovers, small town au, slightly aged up characters, dual timeline, maximal angst in this one iâm sorry guys⊠but a lot of fluff too dw, smut (MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!), deceased parent, sick grandparent
word count. 35,857
a/n. tfw ur fic is too long to be posted in one part bc tumblr doesn't like posts with over 1000 paragraphs... whether you read part one already or waited for this to be posted to read it all in one go, i appreciate u so much for giving this a chance and truly truly hope u enjoy!!!!! this took me ages to write so if u could lmk what u think... i would cherish u forever <3 again thank you to @zreamy for betareading i have nothing funny to say this time... just TY and ILY... can't wait for mannycon!
read part one first!
small playlist here !
When you appear at his front door, Jay immediately knows something is wrong. Not because youâve shown up unannouncedâthatâs something he can easily chalk up to your spontaneity, or dare he say it, your affection for him, two traits of yours that endear him to the core. No, itâs your lack of eye contact as you walk past him into his apartment that alarms him, as well as the fact you donât bother taking your shoes off, and the way your head moves around frantically, troubled eyes and agitated hands scouring his place forâwhat? Heâs never seen you in such a rush, you, who might get easily worried about things, but have an incredible capacity to take a step back and calm yourself down. You, who knows when to keep her head on her shoulders and when to let it up into the clouds. You, whom heâs only seen tearing up for two reasons: watching a movie, even the ones that have nothing sad about them, or out of stress, usually school-induced. And everything now points to the latter option, or a third, mysterious one. Nervousness emanates off you like smoke, and he feels it as if itâs his own.
He asks you whatâs wrong, what youâre looking for, why youâre in such a rush, but your replies come out mumbled and unintelligible and only work to stress him further. Then, those fatal words, âI just need to gather a few things then I have to go,â words that are grammatically correct but make no sense whatsoever to Jay in this context.
âWhat?â
âI have a few things here. Some clothes. The lipstick I like is here. You can keep that book, um, the Woolf one? I think my sister-in-law has a copy at home.â
âHome? Y/N, whatâs happening?â
âOr it might be a different one that she has⊠Iâm not sure. It doesnât matter, anyway. Just keep it.â
Jay is standing at the threshold between the hallway and the living room. Heâs frozen there, as if a singular step will change everything. Aghast, he watches you rummage around the apartment heâs considered as much yours as his for the past few months, looking behind cushions, disappearing into the bathroom, then the bedroom, coming back with bits and bobs in your hands. He recognizes a bottle of cleanser, a pair of pajama shorts, the charger that doesnât work for his phone and that heâd bought when you kept forgetting yours at home. Things that he loved seeing around when you werenât there as a reminder of your time spent together. Signs that you washed your face here, that you slept here, that you spent so much time showing him cute animal compilations and taking photos of him cooking or sleeping or doing nothing in particular that your phone would die and you would need to charge it. Things that if someone, for one reason or another, refuted your existence as his girlfriend, he could point to and say, âNo, look, sheâs everywhere,â things that you were taking away one by one, his heart along with them.
Because there are only so many reasons why you would be doing this. You wonât look at him, wonât speak to him. The answer is so obvious and yet so inconceivable that he canât bring himself to put it into words.
âI,â he starts, but his voice comes out all wrong, scratchy and uncertain. He clears his throat, wills himself to sound assertive, almost confrontational, as though youâre merely being an annoyance he has to reason with. But itâs no use; when he speaks next, his voice is as wobbly as his knees, as tentative as his hand reaching out for you. âI donât care about the book. Can you just tell me whatâs going on, please? Can you sit so we can talk about it?â
Your movements stop, finally, but Jay knows better than to be relieved. If anything, your unmoving hands, your sudden quietness, they mark the start of what he is sure will be one of the worst conversations of his life.Â
âIâm leaving,â you whisper, but you might as well have yelled directly into his earâthe words are loud in his head, unbearably so. And your tone, so casual, making him foolishly believe for a second that youâll be leaving for a day or two, a week at most, a sudden trip home for a legitimate reason youâll explain to him very soon. But then, âIâm dropping out. Iâm going home,â you say, and Jay feels the words like a hatchet falling on his nape, smoothly slicing his head from the rest of his body.
Again, youâre following all of the rules of grammar, so why arenât you making sense? Why canât Jay even start to fathom what it is youâre saying? In his head, he repeats your words like theyâre questions, âLeaving, dropping out, going home,â like theyâre foreign concepts youâve made up on the spot just to inconvenience him.
Youâre not looking at him. Jay is staring right at you, stiller than heâs ever been, his body so tense he can feel his blood pumping out of his heart, going to his head, his fingers, his toes, feeling like heâs going to implode. Your hair hides the side of your face, and thatâs all he gets to stare at, not even your eyes avoiding him, or your lips as they move to form more and more incomprehensible words. âMy grandma had a stroke. A really bad one. So bad that my mother needs to look after her full-time, which means she canât take care of the restaurant, not that she would know how to on her own anyway, which means I have to go do it.â
âWhat about your brother?â Jay says before he can think of a better answer, because he knows you wonât like itâhis immediate reaction is always to give advice, look for answers, the practical side of him inherited from his dad that you said was âcold and unfeelingâ the first (and last) time you argued about it. After that he always made sure to comfort and empathize with you first, which he could just as easily do, he just didnât know that was what you needed; and when you specifically asked for it, heâd help you find the solution as best he could.
But what can he do? This is clearly not a conversation in which you are in search of either reassurance or advice. This is clearly not a conversation, point blankâyouâve made your decision already. Youâre just letting him know about it.
You were always complaining about your brother, Seungkwan, the high-achieving eldest child with the successful start-up in Busan and a girlfriend you say deserves better than him. Rationally, Jay knew you would always go home one day and take up the family restaurant, not only was that the plan all along, you were the only one in the family suited for it. Even your mother would be unable toâan only child, she had been a rebellious teenager who hated cooking for the sole reason her own mother loved it. Her two siblings had long left Sojuk-ri and only gave signs of life every few months. If they had any interest in continuing the family business, theyâd have shown it long ago.
So itâs you. You know it, Jay knows it.
You donât reply to his question. He finally braves taking a step closer to youâeverything has changed already anyway. âUm, what about⊠Canât the restaurant just stay closed for a bit? Until your grandma gets better?â
All Jay sees is your hair fluttering when you shake your head no. âSheâs in really bad condition. We donât know how long sheâll need to stay in the hospital, and when she gets out, if she gets out, there is little to no chance sheâll be in shape to start working again. Sheâs seventy-two, Jay,â you say, voice breaking as you say his name, a sound he has to ignore for his own good. âItâs a miracle she was still able to stand and cook for so long. Itâs about time I take over.â
âBut-â
âItâs untimely, I know. But I donât have a choice.â
Jayâs feet sink deeper and deeper into the floor with the weight of the situation. Neither of you say anything for a few moments. Itâs dark and itâs quiet in his apartment, save for the soft glow and chatter of his TV screen, the documentary heâd been watching and hadnât had time to pause still playing, oblivious to the tension in the room. His vision is blurry, his thoughts all over the place; It isnât until you sniff and start busying your hands again that he snaps back into focus.
âOkay,â he says. âLet me get my stuff. Iâll drive you.â Your head whips up, and for the first time since you barged in five minutes ago, you look at him. But now, heâs the one who canât meet your eyes, too scared of what he might find there. He finds his coat, his keys, chuckles to alleviate the stress in his body. âThis isnât how I planned on meeting your family, but like you said, we have no choice.â
It isnât what you saidâheâs aware of that. But for the past six months, the two of you have been a âwe.â He wants to show you that not even the worst of tragedies can change that.Â
In a cruel turn of events, heâs now the one floating from room to room, putting things at random in his bag, while you stare, frozen. âIâll just stay a few days, until Sunday, maybe? You stay as long as you need. Iâll come and get you when youâre good to come back. We might have to stop on the way to get gas⊠How long is it to your town again?â
âJayâŠâ
âFour, five hours? Look in the cupboards, I should have some snacks.â
âJay!â
This time, the sound of his name, loud and abrupt, stops him in his tracks.
âIâve already booked my train.â
He doesnât need to hear it to understand the rest of the sentence. Iâm going alone. Itâs a one-way ticket.
âIâm sorry,â you say, choked up, and itâs the nail in the coffin. It takes Jay three steps to reach you by the couch and envelop you in a rib-breaking hug. Maybe, if he holds you close enough, you wonât want to go. Maybe youâll tell him itâs an early April foolâs joke, two weeks in advance for an added element of surprise.
The tears that had been glistening in your eyes break free, pool at your jawline, create wet spots on the fabric of his hoodie. Thereâs a fissure in his heart that appeared at the same time you did behind his door, and deepens with every fractured sob that escapes your throat.
âItâs okay, baby,â he says, lips moving against the top of your head, a desperate attempt to reassure you as much as himself. âYouâll be okay, and Iâll be here for you no matter what, alright?â
But you shake your head against his torso, sobs doubling down in intensity, and his eyes burn, each tear leaving a trail of fire down his cheek. âNo, Jay. This isnât for you to take care of,â you say, voice muffled.
His confusion momentarily gets him to stop crying. He leans back to look at your face, looks past your red eyes, wet nostrils, pouty lips, concentrates on making this situation clearer. âWhat do you mean?â he asks, throat so dry his voice comes out croaky. âOf course I should take care of it. I should take care of you.âÂ
Itâs never been a problem for you to rely on him. If anything, he prides himself in his ability to answer to your every need, no matter how big or small. Why is that suddenly not the case?
You shake your head again, with more fervor, more resolve. âNo. You⊠You have so many amazing things ahead of you, Jay. The Paris internship is just the beginning. Iâll only be holding you back.â With every word, the furrow between his eyebrows deepens, amid his confusion something hotter, uglier rises, something like anger, fueled by the hurt, the sadness. Maybe you notice this, the sudden sharpness of his gaze, the tension of his arms around you, because your head lowers. âAnd if Iâm home, in my small, boring town, and youâre out in Europe or wherever⊠It would only be a matter of time.â
Jayâs blood turns cold. âA matter of time?â
You stay quiet, eyes trained on the floor, arms limp at your sides.
âA matter of time?â he repeats. âBefore what?â
When your eyes meet again, everything inside of him dissolves. For the first time tonight, Jay sees everything clearly, finally understands what it is you came here forâor rather, he is forced to face the truth he repeatedly turned away from. With the clarity comes a sort of numbness, a shock so great he doesnât know what to feel, and so doesnât feel at all.
âDonât make me say it, please,â you whisper, lips trembling.Â
Maybe Jay should be furious. Maybe he should push you away, pace around the room, yell at you for being such a coward and for leaving him behind and for giving him no say in this. But he canât. Your whole body shakes with sobs and all he can do is pull you closer into his embrace and whisper, âItâs okay,â over and over again even though nothing has ever been less okay than this. He canât even bring himself to hold onto some last remnants of hope, not when you have a death grip on his t-shirt and tears uncontrollably pour out of your eyes. You wouldnât be this upset over something reparable.
And yet.
âIt doesnât have to be over,â he finds himself saying. âPlease, not like this. We can figure it out.â
For some reason, this gets you to calm downâbut not in the way Jay hopes. Raising your head, you take his face between your hands, and for a crazy second, he thinks youâre going to kiss him. âBaby, listen to me,â you say instead. âYouâll be fine, yeah? Youâll be fine. Youâll see and do amazing things just like I know you can. And Iâll be⊠Iâll be stuck in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere for the foreseeable future. Maybe even forever. I canât do that to you, itâs not where you belong.â
âI belong wherever you are,â he exclaims forcefully, and his tone or his words, maybe both, make you flinch.
âIt canât work. Weâll both be too busy. We had such a good run, baby,â you say, and the past tense makes Jay feel like heâs wilting. âLetâs end it on a high note while we can. I donât want to spend months on the phone, never getting to actually see you, or to feel that my place in your life gets smaller and smaller every day.â
âThat wonât happen-â
âExcept it will, Jay!â you say, your turn to be exasperated. You take a step back. A shiver runs through Jay at the loss of your warmth. âIt will. And I canât bear to witness it. Itâs easier to end things now.â
Without waiting for him to speak again, you stuff the last few things into your bag, zip it, and turn around. It takes Jay five seconds too many to realize youâre leavingâyouâre already at the door, giving him one last longing glance. He practically runs to you, resting a hand over yours on the doorknob. âDonât go.â
Nothing. You say nothing, and your eyes donât betray any sort of hesitationâjust sadness, deep and unrelenting and immovable.
âI love you,â he says, like three simple words could fix this.
You reach a hand to his cheek, wipe a tear away with your thumb. How can he live without your touch to ground him?
âI love you, too. Thatâs why I have to do this.â
And then youâre gone. Jay stares at your retreating figure, speechless, too exhausted and confused to put up a fight. He stares at the empty corridor until the elevator doors open, disappearing in his apartment before his neighbor can see him in such an embarrassing state.
How long does he stay there, back against his front door, eyes out of focus as he fruitlessly tries to wrap his mind over what just happened? How long until he manages to get himself in bed, to stop crying, to finally fall asleep?
He doesnât know. For a while after your departure, Jay doesnât know, doesnât understand anything. You walked out of his life and took everything that made sense with you.
Last nightâs dream was particularly bad: a night out with your culinary school friends, you under fluorescent lights â green, pink, orange â the same as you had been back then. All of a sudden, the scene slipped right in front of his eyes, and he stood in the threshold of his apartment on a rainy evening, watching you walk away. He closed the door, leaned against it, but it was your apartment he was in. Your door at his back, your lips on his, your bed you led him to. He didnât need to see or even touch you to know the shape of your body. Heâd traced its outline so many times it was as if it was etched into the very skin of his palms.Â
But then he wakes up, in the same bed he fell asleep in last night, and youâre not with him. Â
Replaying the dream, his breathing becomes heavy. The way you smiled at him, swayed your hips to the beat of the music; how you leaned in to shout something in his ear, something mindless like, âI love this song,â as your scent enveloped him, dizzying him like a drug he quit five years ago, only to relapse now; wrapped your arms around his neck, pressed your body to his, let him hold you by the waist. To this day, he can recall your exact curves, the texture of your skin, the warmth. He remembers it all. The sounds that escaped your pretty mouth. The places you liked most to be kissed. Your hands roaming his back, grabbing at his hair, fingernails digging into his skin unless he pinned your wrists above your head.
But with the remembering comes indescribable pain, the desire emerging in his stomach twisting and contorting until it is nothing but shame. Shame that sticks to his skin and renders him unable to look you in the eyes when he sees you next. He feels like a fifteen-year-old having wet dreams about a classmate, but infinitely worse.
Weeks pass quickly, and Jay is able to fill his time and thoughts with things other than indecorous images of you. Heeseungâs team is incredibly efficient : in just a month, they renovated the entire place floor to ceiling. The books abandoned by the last owner, Jay sorted through, kept those he liked, threw away the ones that were falling apart, went around second-hand bookstores and antiquaries to donate the rest. The bookshelves and other random pieces of furniture, two matching armchairs which desperately needed to see the hands of an upholder, a small dining table with a broken leg and a side table in surprisingly good condition were kept in a storage room for him to repair â or, more honestly, get repaired â and use later.Â
Despite having seen the progress in real time, when Jay steps inside the fully restored room, he marvels at how Heeseung and his colleagues managed to restore it to its full glory. The wooden beams and flooring give the place an undeniably cozy quality, while the bare, white walls and large window, now double-glazed and spotless, allows it to soak up the natural sunlight. They installed a counter that looks better than anything Jay couldâve hoped for, the sides lined with wood slats in keeping with the rest of the interior, the top covered with sleek marble, cold and smooth to the touch, for a touch of modernity. Thereâs a sink and electrical outlets, he just has to add decorations, a display case, and everything he needs to serve coffee and other drinks.Â
There are two other doors in the kitchen: one that leads to the pantry, the other, to the staircase going up to the living space. The stairs have been fixed up and donât pose a safety hazard anymoreâduring his first visit, three out of twenty-ish steps were broken. Jayâs new apartment is unrecognizable. He hadnât wanted downstairs to change too much from what it used to look like, out of respect, so to speak, for the building and for the people in Sojuk-ri who might be attached to it. Upstairs, however, was all his, and even though white surfaces, glass, granite and steel may appear cold and soulless to others, it was what Jay was used to and felt comfortable in. He liked that the two spaces felt so different from each other, and that he could now travel between the two atmospheres so easily.
The dilapidated carpet has been stripped back to reveal the original parquet flooring, which itself has been sanded and vitrified and now looks glossy and smooth to the touch. The walls are a clean, satisfying white; Jay has a few shelves and pieces of artwork heâd like to put up, but otherwise, heâll keep the decorations to a minimum. There is no furniture right now, save for whatâs in the kitchen and in the bathroom, and it makes the place look perhaps deceitfully bigger. But if Jay wanted a huge apartment, the likes of those he was used to back in Seoul, he would have found one here. After all, he could probably have bought a whole house in Sojuk-ri for the price of a two-bedroom in the city. The entirety of this new place is about as big as just the living room in the apartment he grew up in. But for now, he likes the idea of a small, cozy place right above his work. And this is more than enough: a living room, dining room and kitchen all in one, a separate bedroom, a bathroom. He even has access to the rooftop through a trapdoor and an extendable ladder, also fixed up by Heeseung, and maybe youâll help him spruce it up so that it looks like Mrs. Yoonâs. Or maybe heâll do it himself and surprise you with it. Yeah, that sounds a lot better.
He loses count of how many times he thanks Heeseung and his team, and just to make sure they know how grateful for and happy with their work he is, he buys them lunch at your restaurant. Also because he wants to tell you itâs done and show it off immediately.
And so, your break between the lunch and dinner shift is largely spent ooh-ing and aah-ing at the different renovated rooms, proudly smiling at Jay as if heâd done it all himself. He feels excited showing you the front of house and downstairs kitchen, enthusiastically rambling about what he plans to put where and the first items he wants to sell; heâs a bit shyer upstairs, exactly like the first time heâd brought you to his apartment all those years ago, even though this time around, the place is empty and doesnât look lived-in at all. There are no posters to be potentially embarrassed about, no dirty dishes in the sink to turn your attention away from, no clothes left on the couch to discreetly hide. And yet, he still finds himself hanging onto your every expression and word, desperate to make a good impression like a kid showing their parent their results on a test.
âThis is so exciting, Jay,â you say when the little tour is over and youâre back in the front of house, looking around as if you can imagine what will come out of the current emptiness. âI canât wait to see what you do here.â You donât say it with over-the-top enthusiasm, which reassures Jay, because thatâs always been a tell-tale sign of your lying. Like when Sumin cooked every single dish youâd learned that year in a single night, in frenzied preparation for the exam, and you had to pretend everything was perfectly done to keep her mental breakdown from worsening. Or, like when, more recently, the young daughter of a regular couple at your restaurant drew a picture of⊠well, you, although the all-red skin and inhuman body proportions didnât make for a striking resemblance. After a second of disbelief, the expression on your face making Jay almost do a spit-take, you told her it was the prettiest drawing youâd ever seen and you put it up on the side of the drinks fridge for everyone to see. In both cases and every other such occasion Jay has been a witness of, youâd widen your eyes, put on a big smile, and your voice would go up a pitch. And even if he liked to think he knew at least a little bit better than most people, one didnât have to be a Y/N-facial-expression expert to know you were faking your reaction.Â
So when you look at him with a soft smile and sparkling eyes, he thinks youâre telling the truth. That this really is exciting, and that you really canât wait to see him in action. Jay lets himself bask in the warmth of your gaze. Heâs been keeping himself in check lately, not wanting to scare you off with the renewed intensity of his feelings. Every moment with you has felt excitingly new and familiar at the same time, a mix of the months before you started dating and were just getting to know each other, and of the last few weeks of your relationship, when you were really starting to settle into your own rhythm. That heart-pounding, chest-warming sensation has been nothing short of intoxicating. He doesnât know if thatâs how youâve been feeling, too, and you might need more time before envisioning getting back together â or, you might not want to get back together at all, but Jayâd rather not think about that â so heâs taking things slow and trying his best not to make it too obvious just how hopelessly he is in love with you. But thatâs hard to do when you look at him the way you are now, honey practically dripping from your eyes. It also doesnât help that heâs been imagining not just himself, but the two of you in every room hereâcooking together, watching TV, doing⊠other things. That people in love do. And your eyes now are giving him dangerous thoughts, thoughts like how this future he daydreams about might be something you want too.
His brain reminds him that wordlessly staring at someone after theyâve spoken doesnât rank very high in the list of appropriate human interactions. âThanks,â he simply says, hoping you hear his unspoken plea to stay by his side until the end of your days.Â
Because try as he might to calm himself down, all he sees when he looks at you is the rest of his life.
.
.
You love your hometown.
You love the small, square, colorful houses, the way they line up in neat rows in the streets of the town center, and the way they gradually space out as you drive further into the countryside, each with more room for a garden, a terrace, maybe even a pool for the residents that live in Sojuk-ri two months a year then leave their house to sit empty for the remainder of it. You love how easily accessible the beach is, how it always remains clean and how clear the water is, even when the population triples in amount during the summertime. You love how nice the people are, how it truly feels like youâre all one big family, the wide arms with which they welcomed even a Seoulite like Jay just because you knew him â and, letâs be honest, because of how charming he is â how you know most people here would have your back no matter what, and youâd do the same for them. You love living with your family, bickering with your brother like you have nothing better to do at age twenty-five, taking care of your mother and grandmother after all the caretaking they did, finding a sister in Yeonju after spending your childhood wishing for one, and soon, meeting the first baby of the next generation.
You really do love it, and it helps to remind yourself of that fact when this town makes you want to rip your hair out of your scalp, strand by strand. Every time Seungkwan grabs the TV remote and zaps out of the show you had been waiting all week to watch, you remind yourself of all the accounting work he does for Kimâs Kitchen without expecting anything in return. Every time Mrs. Jeon, a woman your grandmother grew up with, makes an innocently scathing remark about your lack of husband and children (her daughter already has two darling sons, as she makes sure to remind you of during every single conversation you have), you remind yourself of the meals she would drop off at your house, enough to feed your whole family, when your grandmother had her first long stay at the hospital. While everyone brought her food and gifts, which you were more than thankful for, of course, Mrs. Jeon was the one of the few who thought of the four of you at home, too scared and exhausted to think about eating, let alone cooking. Whenever the girls who go to the high school in the next town over ask you for the umpteenth unprovoked update of your and Jayâs relationship, you remind yourself of the pretty posters they made last summer for the restaurant and plastered all over town for tourists to see.
Todayâs dinner shift has just started. Itâs still too early for the restaurant to be filled with customers, but the perfect time for an after-school snack. With the chime of the bell comes the unmistakable chatter of three teenage girls entering Kimâs Kitchen. With a sigh, you brace yourself for the conversation you know is about to come and go fetch the ingredients for tteokbokki out of the fridge. Yeonju hasnât clocked in yetâon weekdays, you can manage the restaurant on your own until 6 pm and have her come in later. When you donât come out right away, the girls start calling your name.
âThree servings of tteokbokki, I know!â you yell back from the kitchen. You didnât even serve rice cakes until a couple of years ago, when the snack shop down the road closed, and you felt the need to come to the rescue of the teenagers of Sojuk-ri and their insatiable craving for spicy food. One of them even asked you to cook Buldak for him once, saying youâd make it much better than he ever could. You said yes, of course, and regretted it when for weeks afterwards, teenage boys showed up to Kimâs Kitchen, armed with their colorful packets of Buldak ramen.
âNo, come here, please!â one of them shouts.
You roll your eyes. âAfter I make this!â
This obviously is a no-good answer, and five seconds later, three heads peer out from behind the beaded curtain. âHi, unnie,â they say in unison, smiling in a way that is almost ominous.
Yewon, Haewon, and Sawon, or The Three Wons, as they are often called around town. The first two are twins; their mothers have been friends since middle school and, when they miraculously gave birth to three baby girls just months apart from each other, decided it would be the best idea in the world to give them matching names.
You give them a stern look, biting back a smile as you turn back around. They will never know you enjoy these gossip sessions as much as they do, although you like them a lot more when they revolve around them and whatever high school drama they are involved in, and not your dramaâif it can even be called that. Of course, they think that your ex showing up in your hometown after five years of no-contact is peak romance, and although you canât disagree, you donât want to hash out every single detail with these seventeen-year-olds. You only gave them a brief overview of your relationship back then and why you broke up, because it was too painful to talk about; you give as little away as you can about the way things are progressing now because, truth be told, it isnât all that exciting. Well, itâs the most exciting thing thatâs happened to you in yearsâbut itâs more an amalgamation of small moments that have your heart racing, rather than big, swoon-worthy events that would be easy to gush over.
âWhatever it is you have to say, Iâm sure it can wait until your food is ready,â you tell them as you mix gochujang, soy sauce, sesame oil, sugar and MSG together.
âWe just want to know how things are going with you and Oppa,â Yewon ventures.
âDonât you have, like, homework to do?â
The girls shake their heads in unison. âThis is more important,â Sawon says, a statement so ridiculous you canât help but laugh.
âThere really isnât that much to say,â you sigh, although as the words leave your mouth, youâre aware that they arenât quite truthful. There is a lot to say, you just arenât sure how to articulate most of it. How can you tell them about the way your heart races every time his face comes into sight, as if every one of those times was the first after five years? About how your fingers keep reaching for him whenever he is near, desperate to feel his hair, his skin, or even just his clothes again, but you always reel them in because simply looking at him is already so hard to handle? About how you fall asleep crying every other night, an onslaught of intense and conflicting emotions washing over youâthe relief of seeing him again, the hope of being loved by him again, the terrible guilt of having let him go in the first place, the senseless fear that he might not want this at all?
âIâm sure thatâs not true,â Yewon counters. âYou guys spend all your time together.â
You scoff. âAll of our time is a bit of an exaggeration,â you mumble, once again fully aware you might not be saying the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth in the court of law that The Three Wons have installed in your restaurantâs kitchen.
âIâve seen you together at the beach, like, five times alreadyâŠâ Sawon continues.
âAnd he has all his meals here as if he isnât a chef fully capable of cooking for himself,â Haewon concludes. You glare at her. Sheâs supposed to be the sensible one of the group! She wants to become a doctor, for Godâs sake!
You feel like a kid who got caught with her hand in the candy jar. You turn around, humbled, and start cutting fish cakes and spring onions with perhaps a tad more vigor than necessary. âOkay, we hang out sometimes, so what?â
âSo, what do you guys talk about, what do you do?â Yewon asks.
âDo you hold hands? Have you kissed yet?â Sawon enquires, and the idea alone is enough to make them dissolve into a fit of giggles. And maybe your ears suddenly feel hot, but thatâs surely only due to the stove you turned on.
âWho hasnât kissed yet?â a low, all-too familiar voice asks. How did you miss the bell? The girls shriek at the sudden presence of a man behind them, then relax at the realization that oh, itâs just Jay. Then shriek again because oh my God, itâs Jay!
âYou! You and Y/N! How come you havenât kissed yet?â Sawon asks, because apparently, boundaries arenât a thing that matters.
If you felt like a kid with a fistful of candy before, you now feel like a murderer trying to dispose of a body. Jay doesnât seem to share the sentiment. Heâs taken aback for a second, then smiles, a devastatingly handsome, almost feline smirk that you can see has The Three Wons swooningânot that you can blame them. He looks at you as he replies. âYou know, Iâve been wondering about that, too.â
None of you can believe what youâve just heard. You stand there, unable to tear your gaze away from Jayâs while the girls jump around and high-five each other, celebrating like Korea just scored the winning goal of the World Cup.Â
You manage to turn around, clearing your throat as you slide the ingredients from your cutting board into the now hot broth, feeling Jayâs eyes burn into the back of your head. âUnnie! Did you hear? Did you hear?! Oppa wants to kiss you!â
Oh, you heard. You heard it loud and clear, and if your body is working automatically, your mind is occupied with something much different. The worst part? You donât have to imagine how it would feel to have Jayâs lips on yours. You know what itâs like. The memory of it is still so vivid after five years, it might as well be tattooed on your lips.
You donât reply to the girlsâ incessant questioning and teasing, and just before they can start singing about you and Jay sitting in a tree, he says, voice gentle and firm at once â another thing that brings out memories youâd rather keep down â âGirls, how about getting that tteokbokki to go? You wait outside and Iâll bring it to you once itâs done, alright?â
Just like that, they skip out of the restaurant. A weak nagging at the back of your head says they only obliged because it was Jay who asked them, but you ignore it easily, much more preoccupied by his silent presence behind you in the threshold of the kitchen. Then, in just a few deliberate footsteps, he walks into your line of sight, back against the fridge, arms crossed over his chest, eyes on you in a way that lets you know he wonât speak up first. You keep yours on the food, watching as the sauce starts to bubble and the rice cakes start to soften.
âIsâis that something you really think about?â
âWhat, kissing you?â he says, the smirk detectable in his voice. You shrug. âIsnât it something you think about?â
Itâs all Iâve thought about since you showed up here, you think, but something stops you before you can say it. Just like something stopped you from kissing him the moment you saw him, tub of rice cakes in hand. The same something that has been preventing you from kissing him every time youâve seen him since. Like a fear you canât name or explain, or a desire so great it feels inconceivable to actualize it.Â
All youâve done is talk. Youâve talked so much, it always feels as though youâve said everything you could possibly say; and then, the next time you see each other, you find more things to tell each other. There are still so many things you could tell him about. Seungkwanâs infamous sixteenth birthday party. The stray cat you adopted for two weeks before its owners knocked at your door, asking for it back. Your dad, and more than the basics you gave him five years ago.
Despite having been together for six months previously, picturing a relationship with Jay now in which you might do more than talk makes you nervous. The good kind of nervous, of courseâthe butterfly-inducing, knee-wobbling kind of nervous. You turn to face him and prepare yourself to say something cool and bold to get the upper hand on him, like, Yeah, Iâm thinking about it right now, letâs do it right now, no big deal, but then you meet his gaze and your infallible plan turns out to be very, very fallible. âUm,â is what comes out of your mouth instead.
With shaky hands, you grab a take-away container, the biggest you have, and pour the contents of your pan into it. You add a singular boiled egg to the tteokbokki instead of your usual three. Let them fight over itâwho knows, in a roundabout way, it might teach them not to nose around other peopleâs business.
âWhat did you come here for?â you ask him as you hand him the box. Not in a combative tone, simply tentative, curious.
âI just wanted to say hi.â
âHi.â
Jay smiles, kicks your foot gently with his. âHi.â He takes the container, but sensing that thereâs more you want to say, doesnât leave just yet.
âOf course I think about it,â you tell the container. âI justâŠâ
âNeed more time?â he proposes.
Time. That feels right. âYeah.â
He slides a hand underneath the take-away box, uses his free hand to brush some hair away from your face. âGood thing weâve got plenty of that.â And then, as if that wasnât enough, he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, so quick itâs over before youâve even realized it started.
The bell chimes, and through the beaded curtains you perceive a group of four men, seating themselves at their usual spot by the window. âIâll be here in a second!â you call to them, and their responses range from grunts of approval to friendly reassurances to take your time.
Jayâs eyes havenât left your face. âGuess I should head out, then.â His voice is low and scruffy in a way that makes you briefly considering closing the restaurant for tonight.
You take a step back from him, the new distance at once relieving and painful. âYeah.â
He heads out first, greeting the customers, ignoring their surprised expressions at seeing him come out of your kitchen. âSee you later,â he tells you, and then heâs gone. The Three Wonsâ excited chatter makes its way through the open door, and you bite back a smile at their shouts of âThank you, unnie!â
You turn to your customers and, before you can even get their order, one of them opens their mouths. Half-jokingly, you cut in: âWhatever youâre going to say, just remember Iâm the one making your food tonight.â That gets him to close it immediately, his friends laughing, even though it is obvious they are just as eager to know. But whether you try to explain yourself or not, you know that tonight, theyâll tell their new wives that that new boy was with Mrs Kimâs granddaughter at the restaurant, again, and their wives will tell their friends, and soon enough, word will have made its way around the entire town.
No matter. As you cook for them, you remind yourself of the fixed lightbulbs, the regularity at which they eat here, that time they stood up for Yeonju against a particularly entitled customer. And then maybe, their curiosity wonât be so aggravating.Â
That evening, you keep checking your forehead in the mirror. It wonât stop burning, but funnily enough, there isnât any sort of mark left behind.
.
.
It seems that the rest of Jayâs life starts with a trip to the nearest furniture store. He didnât even need to ask you to come with, you invited yourself along for the ride. âI donât doubt your interior design tastes, Jay, but itâs common knowledge that every house needs a feminine touch to really come together,â you said, and how could he refute that logic?
He easily let you invite yourself, without thinking much of what it would entail. The second he closes the door after him and looks over at you in the passenger seat of his car, it isnât regret that floods him, of course not, but a sensation like: how did I not foresee how this would make me feel? His brain had gone, more time with you, awesome, without taking into account all the memories of late-night drives and day trips that would inevitably come flooding back to him. Resting his hand on your thigh, glancing over at you once in a while, theyâre reflexes that are as natural as checking his rearview mirror, reflexes he has to stifle now. With every passing day, he gets worse at suppressing his once familiar impulses. He shouldnât, but he reaches out to tuck your hair behind your ear. He shouldnât, but he guides you through the crowd of the Tuesday afternoon market with a hand on your lower back. Although there are things he still doesnât have the guts to do: feel the dip of your waist against his palms and bring you closer to him, bury his face in the crook of your neck, press your back against a wall andââJay? Is everything okay?â
His knuckles have gone white around the steering wheel. You look at him, concern written all over your faceâthe realisation that he must look crazy snaps him out of it. He swallows, but the lump in his throat sticks.âYeah, yeah. Sorry about that.â He chases any compromising images of you out of his head and focuses on mechanical motions instead. Turns the key in the ignition, places his foot on the clutch, moves the stick to first gear. This is fine. Itâs easy.
âWhat were you thinking so hard about?â
You. Your eyes first thing in the morning. The scar above your right knee. The sensitive spot just beneath your ears. The last traces of your perfume after a long day. The near-constant taste of honey and sesame oil on your tongue.
âNothing. Um, just going over all the furniture I need in my head.â
This makes you frown. âYou didnât make a list? Thatâs unlike you.â
Do you have to know him so well? âNo, I did. Iâm justâNevermind.â
âOkay,â you say, chuckling. âI know you like to be mysterious sometimes, so Iâll let this one slide.â
âI donâtâI donât like to be mysterious. I am mysterious,â he deadpans. You find that hilarious, for some reason.
âOh, sure. Thatâs why you cried watching Legally Blonde, of all films-â
âItâs a beautiful story!â
âAnd why you doodle in your recipe notebook when you think no oneâs looking.â
He lets out a faux exasperated sigh. âTheyâre not doodles, Y/N. Theyâre detailed and realistic sketches of the dishes I work on. Weâve been over this.â
The last sentence slips out of his mouth before he can think twice, and it catches the both of you off-guard. You have been over thisâfive years ago. Jay mentioned it like the conversation was had three days ago. There are moments, sometimes, when he feels so completely at ease with you by his side that he forgets five years ever went by since you were last together. Itâs exactly like meeting an old friendâwithin minutes, youâre able to talk and joke with them as if no time has passed. But then heâs reminded of the reality of the situation, and it feels like the chasm between you reopens. Widens, even.
His fingers tense around the steering wheel again. He keeps his eyes on the road, but he can feel yours burning holes in the side of his head. He doesnât turn to look at you, too afraid of the expression he might find on your face. The moment stretches uncomfortably, and heâs about to apologize, backtrack, say anything, but you thankfully beat him to it, and go on like nothingâs happened.
âMm-hm. With hearts and stars around them.â
He needs a second to remember what it is you were speaking about and shake off his surprise. âJust wait a few years, when I inevitably become a world-renowned pastry chef, and watch how those doodles go up for trillions of won at auctions, alright?â
âAlright,â you say, smiling. âIâll be around to make sure the fame doesnât get to your head.â
âThank you,â Jay replies, and he tries not to get emotional at the idea of you still being in his life a few years from now. Heâs mysterious.
Mysterious, and unable to relax for the remainder of the twenty-minute car ride. He laughs at your jokes and keeps the conversation going, but an unnamable emotion brews in his chest, something he canât or doesnât want to explain. You donât seem to notice it, or maybe you decide to ignore it. With each kilometer, you melt into your seat, body eventually fully turned towards Jay, the side of your face pressed against the headrest. His hand brushes your knee whenever he goes to change gears, but you donât move it. Heâs tempted to just leave it there, but he doesnât.
Heâs grateful for your continuous chatting to take his mind off the thoughts racing through itâthen and now, he never gets tired of hearing you ramble about whatever it is thatâs on your mind. Today, itâs Yeonjuâs pregnancy, and your future niece or nephew. Youâre worried about being a good aunt, and Jay assures you that youâll do an amazing job, even though heâs never actually seen you interact with babies, or toddlers, or children. He believes what he says nonetheless. You say that youâll just wait until they hit puberty and start hating their parents, then you can jump in as the cool aunt.
âYeonju told me not to tell anyone, so donât go around talking about this, okay?â you add somewhat belatedly.
âAlright,â he says, laughing. âWouldn't she be upset that you told me?â
âOh, you donât count,â you say plainly.
The laughter dies so suddenly in his throat he almost chokes on it. âI donât⊠count?â
His confusion and disappointment must be obvious in his tone, because you react almost immediately, thankfully giving his brain no time to work its way to the natural conclusion that you hate him and want nothing to do with him. You sit up, worried eyes wide open and hands busily shaking any misunderstanding away. âNo, I donât mean it in a bad way! Itâs like⊠girl code. If you say to someone, Donât tell anyone about it, itâs pretty much implied that they can tell their boyfâI mean, their best friend, or their mom, or whatever. As long as itâs not anything really bad and the other person has no reason to go around telling others about it.â
Jay stays quiet for a few seconds. You mightâve glossed over it, gone on like it didnât slip out, but he heard it. That almost word.Â
âRight.â Another pause, to give himself time to think. âSo, itâs okay to tell me, because Iâm your⊠best friend?â
âYouâre not my-â
âRight,â he repeats, satisfied with your immediate refutation. âAnd I think itâs safe to say Iâm not your mom, either. So what am I?â He glances at you and you stare back, an expression of your face he can only describe as terrified. âA third, unknown category?â
Slowly, your surprise morphs into a smile, the sort you wear when youâre trying to pretend youâre annoyed with him but are only really amused. âYouâre missing the point.âÂ
âI know,â he says, grinning.Â
You cross your arms and sit back in your seat, turning to face the windshield this time. Instantly, Jay both misses the weight of your gaze on him, the warmth of knowing that you see him, and is relieved by its absence. It used to annoy him, when in the car with you, he could only steal glances your way every once in a while. Red lights were like an oasis back then. But now, he finds that the sparse eye contact helps him stay grounded; there is no glint of mischievousness or affection for him to get distracted by.
Your voice is quiet, hesitant, when you speak again. âYouâre⊠someone Iâm happy to have in my life. Someone special.â
Thank God the road isnât busy today. If it was, what with Jayâs focus being flung out of the window for the five seconds following your statement, heâd have definitely caused an accident.
âThatâs⊠nice,â he replies, quite stupidly, he has to admit. You donât seem to rate his response much higher, and repeat the word back to him, clearly amused. Just in case heâll hear your laugh again, he doubles down. âWhat? It is nice. Itâs a nice thing to hear. Youâre also special to me, if that was what you wanted me to say.â
âHm. Youâre right, itâs nice to hear.â
It wouldnât be the smoothest of segues, but he could, right now, find a way to direct this conversation towards the one heâs been dying to have. Sure, outright asking, âWhat are we?â is and has been on the table this whole time, but he feels about six years too old for that question. Someone special. He canât tell if you just shot him down or left the door open for something more. He wants to press, but is scared of being too insistent.
Before he can speak up, you change the subject, chatting away the tension that had grown in the small space of his car. For the most part, it works; Jay is able to listen to you rant about annoying tourists and the incompetence of some of your grandmotherâs doctors without hyperfixating on the position of your body in the passenger seat or the status of your relationship. And a few minutes later, heâs parking in front of the wide, blue-and-yellow furniture store that promises to have everything he needs to decorate his new home.
And anyways, he canât say he dislikes the idea of being surrounded by things youâve chosenâitâd make him feel, by extension, chosen by you, too.
You were right, he has a list. Itâs fairly sparse, considering the pieces of furniture he brought down with him, but what remains to be bought is important. A couch, for one; a bed frame â he wasnât able to let go of his mattress, even though shipping it cost a pretty penny, but now he has nothing to rest it on â and then a couple of storage pieces, like a chest of drawers or a dresser. Heeseung and his guys built storage space into the walls of the apartment, but given Jayâs propensity towards buying new clothes, he would need the extra space.
Because there are only so many things he needs to buy, the two of you could be in and out of this place in thirty minutes. Breezing through the areas he doesnât need anything for, like the kitchen and bathroom, quickly surveying his options, jotting down the details of the pieces he wants and finding them in the huge depot-like room at the end of this maze. There is no need, really, to turn this trip into an afternoon-long outing.Â
Lucky for Jay, he doesnât believe in sticking to the strictly necessary.
Running around the different showrooms with you makes him feel like a kid again, playing pretend in the kitchens, turning every faucet in the bathrooms just to see if water actually comes out of one. (It never does.) Neither of you realizes how ridiculous you must look, frying invisible eggs on a cold stovetop, until you catch two children staring and shaking their heads at you. That gets you to calm down immediately. You still make sure to open every fridge in case a treasure lies there.Â
When you reach the bedrooms, of course, the first thing you do is throw yourself onto the nearest mattress. The first thing Jayâs mind does is throw itself into the gutter.
âOh, this oneâs not so comfortable,â you say, pressing your palm down into the fabric. âToo bouncy.â
Jay swallows. âI, um, I donât need a mattress. Iâve got my old one.â
You raise your head to look at him. âI know. Iâm thinking of getting my grandma a new one, sheâs been complaining about her back recently.â
âOh. Right.â
He stands there, unsure what to do with himself as he watches you go from mattress to mattress, sitting or lying down, evaluating them by pushing your palm down or, if it is a satisfactory push, your entire body into it. But in the end, thereâs always something wrongâtoo hard, too soft, too accommodating to the shape of your body, too resistant. By the time youâve tried them almost all out, his slight awkwardness has turned into amusement.
âAlright, Goldilocks. We can go to a proper mattress store later, this probably isnât the best place for that.â
âWait, no, I think this oneâs good,â you say, trying out mattress number ten. âCome here.â
His feet take him to you before he can decide otherwise. He hesitates at the edge of the bed: the sight of you lying down makes him nervous, and a little bit sad, too. He used to love falling asleep a few minutes after and waking up a few minutes before you, just to get some time to unreservedly stare at your face. You used to love suddenly opening your eyes wide and getting him to have a near heart attack every time. âIâm just keeping you on your toes,â youâd say.
This is so close to the real thing. If he can ignore the blindingly white overhead lights, the chatter of the other customers, and the presence of a dozen or so wooden bed frames holding up slightly different mattresses lined up against the wall, he can imagine himself back in your apartment, or his, five years ago in Seoul. It requires some mental gymnastics, but he gets thereâand it creates a heavy, unpleasant pit in his stomach. He wonders if youâll open your eyes and try to scare him, or embarrass him when you catch him staring.
But all you do when your eyes flutter open is smile at him and tap the spot next to your body again. âCome on, I want to know what you think. I need a second opinion.â
This is stupid. He has no idea what kind of mattress would be good for your grandmotherâs backâthe only person who does is the woman herself. He could tell you thereâs no point and drag you to the next part of the store, but instead, he joins you on the bed, shimmying his shoulders to find a comfortable position. But agitation fills him to the brim, the very ends of his fingertips and the outline of his ears feel hot and itchy, and he is unable to relax, unable to assess the mattress, barely able to breathe properly. As soon as his back hits the fabric, heâs ready to jump off of it again, but your voice keeps him there.
âThis oneâs nice, right?â
Thereâs a good foot or two between you, but the mere fact that the two of you are on a bed together, even in the middle of a furniture store, is enough to make him feel like youâre on top of each other. Your head is turned towards him, and thereâs a knowing look on your face, soft and teasing at the same time, that has his heart beating unhealthily fast. This might be the moment that brings him to actual heart failure.
He is hit with an onslaught of emotions, all of which too conflicting for him to make sense of.
âCan I tell you something?â you ask in a voice so low, Jay feels like itâs just the two of you in the store.
âOf course.â
Your smile turns into a grin, and you drop your voice even further to a whisper. âMy grandma doesnât actually need a new mattress.â
Jayâs eyebrows shoot up.
âHer back is actually one of the few things she doesnât complain about. She used to do a lot of yoga, or something, so she has great posture even now.â
Slowly, as his mind wraps itself around your words, a grin to mirror yours spreads across his lips.
âI just wanted an excuse to get into a bed with you.â
A new kind of tension fills him, different from the one on the drive hereâthis time, instead of weighing him down, it makes him light as wind, reminds him that there is still so much possibility between the two of you. It makes him want to grab your hand and run out of this damn IKEA with you, forget the furniture. It can wait, he canât.
âCan I tell you something?â he asks instead, borrowing your words. You nod. âIf there werenât families around right now, I think Iâd kiss you.â
Itâs your eyebrowsâ turn to shoot up, and for a second, heâs scared heâs entirely miscalculated this momentâbut then, your grin returns to your lips, lighting up your face. Your eyes glint with excitement.
âYou think?â
It might be the first time since his arrival in Sojuk-ri that Jay sees you smile so unabashedly, and to be both the cause and recipient of such happiness fills him with indescribable emotion.
âNo, I know.â
You let a beat pass, simply smiling at him, like youâre in as much disbelief as him that this is truly happening.Â
Your eyes drift down to his lips. Jay inhales sharply.
âWell, then, letâsââ Youâre cut off by untimely buzzing and ringingâyour phone in your back pocket. You throw Jay an apologetic look as you sit up and retrieve your cell. âMy mom,â you huff before sliding your thumb across the screen.
âHel-â
All Jay hears is a muffled voice pouring out of your speakers. He gets off the mattress, walks over to your side and lends you his hand to help you upâa needless gesture, perhaps, but heâll take any excuse to touch you at this point, even briefly.
âHello to you too, Mother. Yes, heâs standing right in front of me,â you say, looking right at Jay, whose eyebrows raise in surprise. âAre you free tonight?â you ask, and it takes him a few seconds to realize the question is directed at him.
âMe? Yeah, yeah, I am.â
âHe says heâs free,â you tell your mother. âAlright.â
A beat passes before you say again, âAlright, Mom.â Jay canât help but smile at the exasperation in your voice. He feels like he gets a glimpse into a teenage version of you, easily annoyed even at your well-meaning mother.A pang of sadness hits his chest thenâEnjoy it while you can, he wants to say. All the nagging, fretting, constant checking-in. You only realize how precious it is once itâs gone.
You seem to notice somethingâs changed. Your expression softens, your eyes searching his. âYep,â you say into your speaker. âSee you later.â You hang up, stuff your phone back into your pocket, and reach for Jayâs hand, squeezing once. âEverything okay?â
He smiles. âYeah,â he says, and he means it. Losing you had already been hard to deal with; losing his mom shortly after meant that for a while there, no one in the world truly got him, knew him inside and out, or close enough, at least. He had friends, sure, but nothing quite like what he had with either of you. When he had you both, he felt like the luckiest man in the world, like he mustâve been a saint in a previous life to deserve not one but two people whom he loved so whole-heartedly and who, like a miracle, loved him back.
And then he had neither of you, and some days, the light at the end of the tunnel was so faint, he wasnât sure heâd ever see it.
Now, here you are, standing in front of him again, worry knotting your eyebrows. His emotion barely flickered through his features, and you somehow noticed it. Cared about it. About him. You mirror his smile, squeeze his hand a second time, then lead him away from the mattress section and back onto the beaten IKEA path.
Youâre holding hands. In IKEA. Like all the other couples, perhaps newly engaged, newlyweds, newly parents, holding hands too. To any outsider, the two of you must look like all of them. A couple.
This is cool. Jay is cool.
Heâs so cool, so focused on focusing on something other than your hand in his, other than the warmth that spreads from your palm and into his entire body, that he doesnât notice you talking.
âJay?â You shake his hand, finally getting his attention. âAre you listening?â
âHuh? Yeah, sorry.â
Your smile tells him youâre aware he has no idea what you just said, but you donât tease him. âI was saying, my motherâs inviting you over for dinner tonight.â
This is cool too.
âOh. Okay.â
You mark a pause. âOh, okay?â you repeat, amused.
âNo, I mean-â he starts. Exhales, the sound between a chuckle and a sigh. âSorry. Itâs just a lot of information at once.â
You nudge his shoulder with yours. âWhat do you mean, a lot of information? Itâs just dinner.â
He looks down at you. Youâre still wearing that mischievous smile, far too amused teasing him while trying â and failing â to pretend youâre not teasing him at all. You know how Jay is about these things: meeting the family, visiting their house for the first time, all these formalities that Jay takes to heart. Knowing you, he doubts youâve forgotten what heâs told you about his own family, how cold and formal lunches with his paternal grandparents were, the perfect, polite Korean he had to speak with them; the fact that if things had gone differently, or if he had been a more obedient son, heâd have gone on set-up dates to meet a bunch of potential wives until he found the woman he could not only envision himself tolerating for the next fifty years of his life, but more importantly that would check all of his parentsâ boxes. Even his mother, when the topic came up, would encourage marrying âwiselyâ rather than out of love only, and every time, heâd have to bite back the words, Look how that turned out for you.
Heâs met your grandmother and mother already. Yeonju greets him warmly whenever he eats at the restaurant. He hasnât met your brother yet, but judging from your descriptions of him, he isnât the type to be over-protective of his little sister and wary of every boy she brings home. If anything, it seems like he canât wait to hire a second person for the job of âman-making-your-life-a-living-hell,â although Jay is a highly unlikely candidate for the position.
All that to say, reasonably, there isnât anything he needs to worry about. Heâs heard and seen too much of your family to know theyâre not going to put him under a microscope and determine whether heâs the right fit for you. But the part of him that wants to make a good impression on them is too great, and having less than an afternoon to psych himself up and be ready is not ideal.Â
You notice the distress on his face and pull him aside, standing in front of him with a no-nonsense look on your face and your hands holding his arms firmly. âJay. Thereâs seriously nothing to worry about. Theyâre going to love you. They already do!â At this, he raises his eyebrows, silently asking you to go on. A little reassurance never hurt anyone. âThis dinner thing? My momâs been going on about it since she barged into your Airbnb.â
âI wouldnât say she barged-â
âMy grandma keeps asking what your favorite foods are so she can make them for you. She forgets every time I tell her, but thatâs besides the point.â
âYou know my favorite foods?â
You reply with an eye-roll. âYeonju asks after you when you donât eat at the restaurant. Seungkwan keeps saying he canât wait to finally do âman stuffâ with someone even though he doesnât do any of the activities he keeps harping on about. Iâve never seen this man watch golf in his life, let alone actually play the damn sport.â
Your words manage to soothe him. He visibly relaxes, and your voice softens. âIf anything, theyâre the ones who are worried about meeting you. The two old bats are probably pulling out all the stops for dinner. All you need to do is be hungry. Nothing else.â
One of your hands rises and falters, hovering midway between his arm and his face, as if your body acted one way and your brain the other. But after a second, your palm finds his cheek, warm and comforting. âAnd itâs only fair that you sit through a dinner with my family after I did with yours, isnât it?â
He groans and closes his eyes as if in pain, awkward memories heâd buried deep in his mind resurfacing. The few times you met his mother had gone, without much surprise, amazingly well, but his dadâs birthday lunch with his side of the family was a different story. Given his father has no siblings, there were no cool uncles or mysterious aunts or fun cousins to alleviate the atmosphere. His father, grandparents, and great-aunt Ms. Park (yes, he has to call her Ms. Park) donât make for the coziest of committees. Youâd made one joke that had been met with utter silence, then spoke only when directly spoken to for the remainder of the lunch, settling on returning Jayâs small, apologetic smiles and squeezing his hand underneath the table whenever one of his elders spoke harshly of him. Youâd ranted for hours afterwards, told him every comeback you had to bite back in there. Seeing you so incensed over a few comments that heâd heard a million times before and barely registered now, heâd never felt so loved, so protected.
âI still feel bad I brought you with me. It was entirely selfish, I knew I couldnât get through it without you there.â
âAnd you thought I should go down with you.â
He groans again, but it only makes you laugh. His barely-contained smile peeks through, happy to see you enjoy yourself even if itâs at his expense.
âIâll be sorry my whole life, you know that?âÂ
You giggle, grabbing his hand and resuming your walk around the store. âI appreciate it, but that isnât necessary. We can laugh about it now, right?â
âRight.â
The conversation shifts back to your primary goal in coming hereâyou point out various items that Jay might need or like, but the last thing on his mind now is furniture. He decides to concentrate on the task at hand anyway, if only because of how seriously you seem to take it, comparing lamps and debating which might look better in his apartment. He doesnât have the heart to tell you he doesnât need a lamp.
An hour later, you walk out of the store with double the amount of things Jay planned on buying, him carrying two bags full of decorative items of varying utility, you pushing a cart with small pieces of furniture. Heâs set up an order for the bigger items that will be delivered to his house sometime this week.
You spend the rest of the afternoon unpacking and assembling furniture together. Well, he assembles furniture, and you busy yourself placing a fake plant on a shelf, then relocating it to the coffee table, then returning it to the shelf, rinsing and repeating with everything he bought. Heâs so entertained and endeared by the whole thing that he doesnât notice the time passing, and before either of you know it, itâs fifteen minutes before the hour your mother expects you. And it takes ten to walk there.
At the realization he only has five minutes to get ready, he bolts up, scurrying to his bedroom to dig through his packed suitcases for an outfit. âDonât change,â you say, watching him as you lean against his doorframe. âWhat youâre wearing right now is fine.â
âIf Iâm having dinner with your family, Iâd like to look a little better than fine.â
This earns a roll of your eyes. You approach him and crouch to his level, grabbing his wrists to stop them from rummaging around his clothes.Â
âYou always look better than fine, Jay. You know that.â
A smirk takes over his lips. âI donât, actually. Mind expanding on that?â
âYouâre an idiot. Just, come on,â you say, as bad as always at hiding your amusement and faking exasperation. âMy mom wouldnât bat an eye if you showed up in sweatpants and shirtless, but she wonât be as relaxed about tardiness.â
â...Do you want me to show up in sweatpants and shirtless?â
You burst out laughing as you walk out of his room. He canât see you, but the sound of your laughter is enough for his heart to swell with pride. âDonât be funny. We have to go.âÂ
âIâm just saying, thereâs something to be said about the fact that that was the first outfit you decided to put on your mental version of me.â
âIf you can even call it an outfit.â
He joins you in the kitchen, standing right in front of you. Your arms are crossed, and youâre wearing the expression you always put on when youâre trying to signal that youâre not playing along. It's a tell-tale sign that you are, indeed, playing along with him.
âDonât change the subject, Y/N.â
Technically, he doesnât have to stand this close to you. He doesnât have to speak in a low, quiet voice. He doesnât have to let his gaze drift down to your lips, so soft-looking and utterly enticing, when you donât reply immediately. But heâs aware of the effect all of these things had on you, back thenâstill have, if the wobble in your voice when you speak next is anything to go by.
âThere is no subject to be changed, Jay,â you say, attempting to imitate his tone. âThis is a nonsensical conversation. Now, can we go, or do you want to be late and bring my motherâs wrath upon your person?â
âI donât know her that well, but your mother doesnât seem the type to contain that much wrath.â
âAre you willing to test that theory?â Jay shakes his head. âThen letâs go.â
âWait!â he says as you grab the handle of his front door. âI should bring something, shouldnât I? Canât go empty-handed.â
âItâs fiââ
He opens and closes his near-empty cupboards in search of a thank-you gift. âWine?â
âThey only drink Korean alcohol.â
âChocolate? I got these when I left my last job.â
âSeungkwanâs allergic.â
â...One of those mugs you picked out earlier?â
âNo way! I promise you, Jay, just bring yourself and your empty stomach. They arenât expecting anything.â
He pauses. He can tell your patience is starting to run thin, but he canât imagine showing up empty-handed. That was always the biggest no-no whenever visiting his own family.
âDo we have time to stop by the florist?â
âNope,â you say, grabbing his hand and all but dragging him out the door. âPlus, my grandma doesnât like cut flowers.â
âIs there anything they like?â
Walking down the stairs and onto the street, you donât let go of his hand. Only when you notice people gawking at you and smiling exuberantly at your linked hands do you drop it. The chilly October air does nothing to cool the heat spreading all over Jayâs face and body.
âYeonju craves something different every week. Seungkwan doesnât deserve anything. Mom and Grandma will fawn over you if you bring them fancy traditional medicine or vitamins or something. Theyâll want to make you their son-in-law, though, thatâs what happened with Yeonju.â
Jay smiles. He doesnât know if youâre saying these things on purpose, but he sure will jump at every single one of them. âFancy traditional medicine it is, then.â You keep your eyes on the path ahead of you but smile softly. After a beat of silence passes, he says, âSo are we just going to gloss over the fact that whenever you close your eyes and think of me, you picture me shirtless?â
Surprised, you bark out a laugh. âThat is not what I said, Park Jongseong.â
âClose enough.â
âGet your mind out of the gutter, seriously,â you say, smile widening.
âIâm not the one imagining you naked all the time.â
âOkay, shirtless to naked is a jump.â
âIs it?â
âYes!â you laugh. âAnd if you really want to go there right now, just before we have dinner with my family, by the way, then let me remind you that you were the one who made it a point to walk around shirtless at all times. Even when it was freezing temperatures outside and I couldnât afford to blast the heating in my apartment, youâd wear at most a sleeveless t-shirt. The only times I saw your arms covered was in public. So forgive me if when I think of you, which is not all the time, by the way,â you say, although the look you give him tells him you might be distorting the truth a smidge. âI picture you without a shirt on. Put me behind bars.â And before he can retort â heâs laughing too hard anyway â you go on, the outrage in your voice going up a notch, âAnd even outside, youâd always roll up your sleeves and make sure everyone could see your forearms. Yes, Jay, you have nice veins, nurses must love you.â
This is one of the few times youâve spoken so openly of your past relationship instead of making vague allusions or skirting around the topic. Itâs a relief, but it also makes Jay feel like his insides are riding a rollercoasterâhe canât talk or even think about your relationship without the glaring awareness that he wants nothing more than to get it back. Not go back to those times, but rather create a new time, here and now. A new, second time, that would hopefully also be the last.Â
Youâd chide him if he got all sentimental on you in the middle of a back-and-forth, so he keeps the teasing streak instead. âAm I sensing some jealousy, Y/N?â
âYes, I hate it when health workers do their job,â you deadpan, hitting his arm with the worldâs weakest punch. âFor Godâs sake, Jay. Your ability to let things go really hasnât gotten better.â
âYou basically admitted having wet dreams about me, how was I going to let that go?â
âJay!â you gasp, looking around at the empty street for eavesdroppers. You hit him again, harder this time, although not enough to hurt. Back in your pre-dating days, you would do this whenever you wanted to initiate physical contact but werenât sure how to. Jay does now what he was too scared to do back then and takes your hand in his. No point in beating around the bush. âYouâre putting words in my mouth,â you mutter, looking down at your hands with a pout, then around the two of you again. Youâre out of the main street with all the shops and restaurants, so youâre alone; even if this wasnât the case, Jay wouldnât let go. Half the town knows you were in love, anyway.
Are in love.
A lot of hand-holding and general physical contact has taken place today, much more than has been your usual this past month. As much as Jay would like to take it in stride, it is a concerted effort not to freak out over it. To put too much meaning into it. He tries to focus on just being glad youâre this comfortable around him once again.
Your mother opens the door a second after you knock. Either she was actively waiting for your arrival, or she has superhuman speed. âJay!â she exclaims, circumventing around her daughter to greet him. âCome in, come in!â
Jay doesnât think anyoneâs ever been this excited to see him.
âYouâve met him once, Mom,â you complain. âYou canât already like him more than you like me.â
âI like most people more than I like you, my dear,â she replies in a sing-song voice. So thatâs where you get your bite from, Jay muses. She swings an arm around his shoulders, forcing him to hunch down to her level as she drags, rather than guides him inside the house. He tries to look back at you, to silently ask for your help, but all you do is smile innocently at him and let your mother do her thing. âI hope youâre hungry. The food is almost ready, just sit, make yourself at home.â
She all but pushes him down onto a cushion, leaving him to sit alone at the low table, already stacked with various side dishes, across from your smiling grandmother and sister-in-law. Your grandmother looks as peacefully unbothered as always, but Yeonju, whom heâs only crossed paths with at the restaurant, is staring a bit too intently to Jayâs liking. Her smile is too tight, her eyes too narrowâhe canât tell if sheâs just suspicious or actively plotting his death. You watch, amused, leaning on your elbows on the kitchen counter, next to your brother and mother who are finishing up dinner. When he looks at you, sending silent SOS signs with his eyes, you only turn your back to him and pretend to want to help with the food.
âSo, JayâŠâ she starts, and the sound of her voice, lacking any of the chipper enthusiasm it usually carries in Kimâs Kitchen, startles him.
âYes?â he quickly replies.
She crosses her arms over her chest and leans back in her seat, studying him. âYou seem like a nice enough guy, and Iâm not in the habit of intimidating people, but I feel like this needs to be said at least once.â
Jay gulps.
âUnfortunately, if you hurt Y/N in any way, shape or form, I will have to hurt you in return,â she says with a slight wince, as though the choice isnât entirely up to her. âJust so you know, I have a black belt in taekwondo, and I teach self-defense at the school gymnasium every Sunday. Iâve taught Y/N everything she needs to know.â
Jay stays silent, unsure how to respond to this⊠threat? He replays every interaction he and Yeonju have shared so far, which are limited to the confines of the restaurant and a couple of times he ran into her out in town, searching for a moment he mightâve offended her or led her to thinking he wasnât good for you, but comes up blank. You carry a tray of side dishes over to the table, smiling innocently.
âShe throws a mean punch,â you say brightly. He wonders for a brief second if youâre truly unconcerned with Jayâs safety, or the potential of a lack thereof, but then your eyes meet, and the glint of amusement in yours tells him youâre just messing around.Â
âRight. Iâll keep that in mind,â he finally says, side-eyeing you as you walk back to the kitchen. In the split second his gaze left Yeonju, her expression had returned to its usual friendly cheer.
Odd.
To Jayâs great relief, no further hiccups arise during dinner. For a few minutes after Yeonjuâs threat, because yes, decidedly, it was a threat, heâs afraid he has gotten the complete wrong idea about your family and that heâs stepped into dangerous enemy territory. But everything goes smoothly. Your mother keeps piling food onto his plate and asking him questions that jump from surface-level to impressively private, which you keep telling him he doesnât have to answer. Your brother keeps trying to simultaneously find common ground with him and embarrass you as much as possible; Jay thinks their common ground is recounting mortifying anecdotes starring you, although he doesnât say so. You keep telling him not to listen to anything Seungkwan says, while Yeonju, who is now the image of amiability, keeps musing how nice it would be if he and Seungkwan found a âbrother-in-law activity.â Your grandmother eats quietly, laughing at her grandchildrenâs bickering, listening intently to Jayâs answers, adding a comment here and there. You go from looking exasperated with your family to smiling fondly at themâJayâs never seen you so comfortable, so simply yourself, and it in turns helps him relax. The tension leaves his shoulders, he speaks without pondering each and every one of his words, he even dares crack a couple dad jokes that go over well, especially with Seungkwan, to your apparent dismay.
It goes without saying that the food is deliciousâyour talent for cooking wasnât born by itself. Tender galbi-jjim that melts in Jayâs mouth, crunchy vegetable pancakes that are so hot from the stove they burn his tongue, tangy pickled cucumbers that refresh his taste buds with every bite. Jay was no stranger to good food, or to plentiful displays of dishes at the dinner table. For as many faults as his father may have, he made sure his familyâs stomachs never went empty. He couldâve afforded a private chef, busy as he was, but he instead prepared every meal himself, even if that sometimes meant leftovers from the restaurant or elevated instant ramen, with perfectly poached eggs and homemade fish cakes.Â
And yet, when Jay takes a metaphorical step back and observes your family, thereâs something so foreign about this scene, something heâs so unaccustomed to, that it makes his insides twist. The laughter, the bickering, the lively conversation. With her chopsticks, your mother places a charred piece of meat on his plate, saying these are the best bits; you give him the ends of the rolled omelet without so much as a glance or a word, but he knows itâs because you remember he likes those the most. His eyes water at the simple gestures, reminiscent of the way his mother would give him all the best parts of chicken or of crab, the way sheâd pick every pea out of his mixed rice when his father couldnât remember he didnât like them for most of his childhood. Eating at the family table was always a quiet affair, a cemetery-like silence hanging over their three heads like they were in permanent grievingâof what, Jay never knew. When asked, his mother would reply that his father just liked to focus on his food, and heâd always think that that was what he was already doing all day, every day. With those good pieces of meat, Jay reckons his mother was just trying to make him feel less alone.Â
A warm hand atop his knee brings him out of his thoughts and back to the table. The conversation is still flowing, Seungkwan and your mother squabbling over who had a bigger part in your upbringingâyour brother was still going through six diapers a day when you were born, but he doesnât seem to think thatâs a convincing argument. Only you noticed his brief zone-out. Youâre looking at him with a soft smile, and he wonders whether you know exactly what it is that had him perturbed. He wouldnât be surprised if you did.
Your hand barely leaves his knee for the remainder of dinner, only to help pass a dish once in a while, or when Seungkwan exasperates you so much you have to use both hands to punctuate your words. If anyone notices your left hand hiding under the table, they say nothing. That simple touch of yours tethers him to your dining room, prevents him from getting lost in unhappy memories. He takes your hand in his and squeezes.
No matter how much he insists on helping with the dishes, your mother forbids him from even stepping into the kitchen area and orders him to stay seated while Seungkwan and Yeonju wash up and she goes to get every single family photo album. At the sight of the massive leather-clad binders, you leap out of your seat. âIâd rather do the dishes than be here for this,â you say, even though the kitchen is just meters away and youâll hear every single embarrassing thing your mother wants to share about your childhood. Jay is ecstatic.
Your mother pushes aside the albums that gather memories from before your birth, two binders full of photographs that start in her twenties and end at your brotherâs second birthday party. âIâd be happy to show you these, too, but I know thatâs not what you want to see right now,â she says with a knowing smile, and he canât bring himself to disagree.
Well, they say all newborns are ugly, but even your squashed cheeks and the red splotches on your skin look adorable to Jay. A quick thought passes through him that only his own children, one day, will endear him more than this, and he immediately flushes as though heâd spoken out loud. He looks at you, obliviously loading the dishwasher, then at your mother, obliviously telling him about how your birth had been so much easier than Seungkwanâsâonly heâs thinking about this familyâs future generation.
Fashionability clearly wasnât the order of the day when you were a child. Jay laughs at the clashing colors and patterns, yellow gingham top with camo shorts, neon pink t-shirt with orange leopard print leggings. Even your mother laughs, admitting she never had an eye for fashion and always bought clothing based on how âfunâ they were rather than based on how they would fit together. âGosik was always better at dressing them than I was. Thatâs why Seungkwan was a better-dressed toddler than Y/NâŠâ
The name is unfamiliar to Jayâs ears, but he deduces it belongs to your father, a man you spoke about just once with him. Partly because you didnât know much, partly because you didnât care toâyou knew he left the country to be with another woman when you were three, and that the only contact he and your mother shared was the monthly child support he sent her, then nothing the moment you turned eighteen. He was a senior at university, three years her elder, and had a playboy reputationâshe felt special when he started giving her attention, then even more so when he stuck around for more than three months, then even more so when she actually got him to marry her. Granted, it was only because she was pregnant with Seungkwan. Still, his sudden departure, signalled by just a note on the kitchen counter and his side of the wardrobe empty, came as a surprise to her. Sheâd dropped out of school for him, become a stay-at-home mother for him, bore two of his children. All it took for him to abandon them was a pretty twenty-year-old model from America. Whatever happened there later, at least, he had the decency to never come crawling back. Thankfully, your mother had her parents and younger sister to look after you and Seungkwan while she finished her degree and found work as a court reporter in a bigger town, twenty minutes away from Sojuk-ri.
It was a late night when you brought up your father for the first time, and youâd told him you were glad for the no-contact: it allowed you to neither love nor hate him. You were just neutralâhe was a stranger, and that made it easier.Â
Your mother sighs. âThatâs all he was really good for, anyway,â she says, then moves on to the next page. Thereâs a picture of her on her first day at work, and her smile is just as bright â but with all of her teeth â as yours on your first day of school. Itâs funny, seeing her dressed in smart clothes, when heâs only seen her in baggy t-shirts and loose floral trousers he suspects she borrows from her motherâhe wonders if this will be your final form, too.
With or without your dad, the smiles donât leave you or Seungkwanâs facesâon the beach, in the restaurant, which hasnât changed a bit, at school shows, on the bus. Thereâs a period in your middle school years where youâre always either frowning or hiding your face from the camera, and Jay exclaims, âI knew she was a difficult teen!âÂ
âI was not!â you yell back from the kitchen, but it only makes everyone laugh.
âIt was short but intense,â your mother says.
âShe was the worst!â Seungkwan adds, followed by a smacking sound, and an overdramatic âOuch!â
âOh, and there it is,â your mother says with a giggle, pointing to a photo that has Jayâs eyes widening and a gasp escaping his lips. âHer first boyfriend.â
âHer first boyfriend!â he repeats, loud enough for you to hear. Not two seconds later, your palms are splayed on the pages, hiding the pictures from view. âWhy? Do you have something to hide, Y/N?â
You shake your head fervently, trying to close the album, but your motherâs grip is firm. âItâs harmless, honey. Iâm sure Jay wonât take any offense to it.â
âOh, definitely not,â Jay says, grinning. You look at him with murder on your mind.
âI know he wonât mind, itâs just⊠embarrassing.â
âHe just saw dozens of pictures of you taking baths and going through puberty. This is nothing,â your mother reasons.
âNothing at all,â he echoes. Of course, his idea of seeing you with another man is not his idea of fun, but this picture was taken about ten years ago, and he wants to know why youâre so eager to conceal it from him. With the sweetest, most convincing smile he can manage, he grabs one of your wrists and pries it away from the album. Jay doesnât usually believe in using his strength against you, but this situation clearly demands it.
He immediately regrets it. What was he thinking, trying to be nonchalant? Ten years or ten days ago, he hates to see you looking all smitten with an ex-boyfriend. He hates even more to hear your mother ramble on how cute the two of you were, and he hates to see you suppress a smile as you look at the pictures fondly.Â
Fondly.
Something in one of the photos catches his eye. You seem to be at a restaurant, sitting side-by-side in a dark velvet booth, dessert in front of you, but this isnât the important part. âMatching sweaters? Seriously? You never wanted to wear those with me!â
Youâre sheepish as you avoid his gaze, a mix of amusement and guilt on your face.
âI was fifteen, Jay. It was another time.â
He scoffs. Jay isnât a jealous man. As a child, he was never one to look upon his friendsâ toys with envy; as a boyfriend, as long as he has the assurance his partner loves him, he doesnât see exes or male friends as rivals. And while the more rational part of him knows he has nothing to worry about, the more emotional one tells him that you might contact this Donghyuck â what an idiotic name â and try to rekindle your past flame.Â
Seungkwan chooses this time to sit back down at the table and say, âWhat a nice guy. We all liked him, didnât we?â When he feels Jayâs glare on him, he laughs awkwardly, adds, âDonât worry, buddy, heâs married now. And he lives in Busan.â
With your mom between the two of you, you have to lean forward to look at Jayâyou seem very amused by his reaction, and arenât at all deterred when he switches his glareâs target from your brother to you.
Thankfully, the tryst between you and Donghyuck was short-livedâbut a mere five pages of photos later, here you are again, a few years older, with another man on your arm. Youâve told Jay about your two boyfriends, but only now is he putting faces to names, and is he hearing anecdotes from your family about these people. It makes them too real, and it doesnât help that this Sunghoon guy is disgustingly handsome. What also doesnât help is you dreamily musing, âI wonder what wouldâve happened if he didnât have to move to Seoul for his ice skating careerâŠâ because the only thing missing right now is you making fun of him. Your family notices his sudden quietness, that they must already know is uncharacteristic of him and laughs along with you. Great. Now five people are making fun of him. Even your grandmother joins in.
Your mother rubs his back. He feels a little ridiculous, and canât help but laugh a little at himself too. Weirdly enough, he finds himself enjoying being teased like thisâit makes him feel part of the family. He reaches over to flip over the page, relieved to find pictures of you and your cousins at the beach, a smile on his lips. âThat was enough of that, I think.â Itâs smooth sailing thereafterâno more evil ex-boyfriends to defeat.Â
Twenty minutes later, your mother is turning over the last page of the most recent photo album. Even in the digital age, sheâs made it a point to have printed photographs, and the latest ones were taken just a few months ago. âWeâll have to add pictures of you, now that youâre here,â she tells Jay, and itâs just about enough to make him cry.Â
When she leaves to return them to the shelves and comes back with a huge jar of what looks like homemade plum wine and a wide grin on her face, you grab Jayâs hand and pull him off the floor, saying, âHow about I show Jay my room?â at the same time as Yeonju and Seungkwan scamper off, with the excuse of calling an early night. Even your grandmother sighs, shaking her hand disappointedly. Jay hates to see the smile fade off your motherâs face and so twists around to promise her a next time.
Thereâs a brief second after you close the door to your bedroom and havenât turned the light on yet, in which you and Jay stand in complete darkness, your hand still in his. His mind has the time to go through a hundred different scenarios in that short time, most of them involving you ravishing him right then and there. Unfortunately, your hand releases his to find the switch instead, and your room is suddenly bathed in a dim yellow light, the product of what looks like a low-wattage bulb and a beige lampshade. Itâs cosy, and with how close youâre standing to Jay, makes him think that those ravishing scenarios might not be so out of the question.
As though you read his mind, your gaze flicks up to his. You raise an eyebrow, the corners of your lips rising in a smirk. Youâre standing unnecessarily close, almost chest to chest; in a nervous gesture, Jayâs tongue darts out to wet his lips, your eyes following the movement. You stare at his lips for a beat too long, your smirk faltering, and then, as if none of this was a fragment of Jayâs imagination, you take a step back and start walking around your room, pointing at random things and going into detail about where you acquired them and what they mean to you. On an ordinary day, this would have enchanted Jay; if anything, he wouldâve been the one to initiate this show-and-tell while you wouldâve patiently obliged him. This reversal of roles doesnât go unnoticed by him, and now, heâs the one trailing close behind you, brushing his shoulder against yours instead of keeping his distance, leaning so that his head is level with yours when you show him the pictures on your wall, faking innocent blinks when you turn to face him and are clearly flustered by his proximity.Â
Itâs always been like this with the two of youâif one flirts, all the other can do is stand there and try their best not to become a stuttering mess. He can count on one hand the number of times youâve been able to shamelessly flirt with each other, and most of those times were abetted by alcohol. So he enjoys this upper hand while he has it, keeping his voice low and quiet, the way he knows you like it â youâd told him so yourself â and although he doesnât quite touch you, he canât help it if his hand brushes your shoulderblades or your hip when he reaches for something on your shelf.
If heâs being honest, heâs not living up to his reputation as a good listener: heâs so focused on you, your body language and micro-expressions, that he only takes in half of what youâre saying. He can tell from your sputtering and awkward chuckles that itâs mostly nervous rambling, anyway. Itâs not that he doesnât find the story of an eight-year-old you who tried out horse riding for three months then gave up when she fell off a Shetland pony interesting, itâs just that he already heard it from your mother half-an-hour ago and that he finds the goosebumps on your arms and the shapes your lips take to form different words vastly more fascinating.Â
He guesses heâs not being very discreet, though, because after about five minutes of this, you turn to face him and ask him if heâs even listening. Well, you canât expect him to flirt with you and be subtle about it.Â
âUmâŠâ he trails, a playful smile dancing on his lips. âIs it better to pretend that I was, or to be honest?â
Feigning annoyance, you hit him on the shoulder, but thereâs no force behind your punch and before you can retreat your hand, he grabs it, lacing his fingers with yours, letting your intertwined hands hang between the two of you. You look at them, scrunching your nose to hide a smile, but Jay sees the way your cheekbones lift ever-so-slightly.
As quietly as he can, he takes a deep, stabilizing breath, and lifts his free hand to your face, tucking some stray strands of hair behind your ear before cupping your cheek with his palm. Your skin is warm and soft underneath his touch, and he watches the movement of his thumb across it, left and right, left and right like a pendulum, so that he doesnât have to look into your eyes and lose his composure. âI had a really nice time tonight,â he says, voice so low itâs almost a whisper. âYour family is amazing.â
Your façade has all but crumbled, leaving only softness and vulnerability to grace your features. âThey loved you.â
He meets your eyes. The tear ducts in his own have started filling up again, and he wonders if heâll make it through the evening without crying. There is just so much tenderness in your gaze, so familiar and so thrilling all at once, and he wants nothing but to dive right into it and stay there forever.Â
âYeah?â
âYeah. My mom especially.â You chuckle, then add: âI think she might already be making wedding plans in her head.â
Jay grins, letting himself bask in the idea of becoming your husband. His heart swells so much at the thought that he almost considers getting down on one knee right there. âIâm not opposed to that,â is what he settles on instead.
You mirror his smile, then in one swift movement, bring your arms to his neck, taking a step towards him and burying your face in the crook of his shoulder. His hands drop to your waist, arms wrapping around your middle to bring you closer. âI knew tonight would go well, but Iâm still so glad that it did,â you say, voice muffled against his skin. He hums in response. âI hope it isnât too much to say this, but youâre family now, Jay.â
If he wasnât choking up with emotion, heâd laugh at the idea that this might be âtoo muchââif tomorrow you woke up and told him you wanted a child, heâd acquiesce without any hesitation. Nine months is plenty of time to get ready, right?
He doesnât know what to say. He hopes you donât find it embarrassing how his breathing grows rugged, how a teardrop falls from one of his eyes to your hair; he hopes the way his grip tightens around you is answer enough. Surely, you know. What this means to him.
What you mean to him.
Suddenly, heâs overwhelmed with the need to tell you, to put it into words; he grabs the sides of your head gently, pries you away from his shoulder. âI love you,â he says, urgently, suddenly, like heâs only just realized it himself. Of course, he always knew; but perhaps heâs never felt it as intensely as he does now. âI love you,â he repeats, calmer this time, more assuredly, because it isnât a spur-of-the-moment thing, itâs a feeling thatâs been forced to lie dormant for five years, that has had time to marinate into something stronger, and that finally gets to break free.
Your eyes glisten, and as soft laughter escapes from your lips, a relieved sort of sound, you hide your face in the crook of his neck again. âMe too,â you mutter, just loud enough for him to hear. âI love you, too.â
Jay releases a breath at the words, and a feeling that heâs exactly where heâs supposed to be takes over him. Theyâre words that ground him, and he unconsciously tightens his hold around you. He indulges in the feeling of having you again, of really, fully having you, gently swinging your bodies side-to-side like a timid dance to an inaudible song. After a minute or five, he says, lips moving against the top of your head: âYou know Iâm never letting go of you now?â
Against the skin of his neck, he feels your lips shift into a smile. âYou better not. And Iâm never running away again. No matter what happens, Iâm dragging you with me, like it or not.â
Jay hums. Hell would become heaven if you were just by his side. âThatâs fine by me. More than fine.â
He feels a calm that he hasnât in many years, like his heart is finally at peace after five years of frantically searching for its missing piece. And yet, when you lean back and drop your gaze to his lips, only one intention written in bold in your eyes, his heart rate picks up, he becomes hyperaware of his hands touching you, of the soft hairs at your nape against his palm, of the heave of your chest against his with every breath you take.
Before he can react, your lips are on his, surprisingly hesitant, just a brush of a kiss, like you only had just enough confidence to initiate and none to back up. Jay doesnât let himself think, just does; his hands stop you before you can fully pull away, holding you still as he tilts his head and finds your lips again, with more force this time, and all the assurance that knowing you love him gives him. It stays soft, at firstâyour lips move against each other slowly, and Jay keeps himself under control, the way youâd try not to startle a cat thatâs finally let you approach it. As much as his body and heart ache for you, he doesnât want to be too much, too fast.Â
But it seems heâs worried for nothing. Quickly, youâre the one pressing your lips harder to his, letting go of his t-shirt to slip your hands underneath it, nails grazing the skin of his lower back. With that simple touch, your innocent kiss turns into something rawer, more desperate, five years of missing each other crammed into itâone second, heâs smiling against your lips, the next, his hand, tangled in your hair, pulls to coax a whine out of you. The sound goes straight to his dick.Â
You start to walk backwards towards your bed, pulling him with you until the back of your knees hit the mattress and he helps you down onto it slowly, never detaching his lips from yours. Once youâre settled on the bed, his forearms resting on each side of your head, knees caging one of your thighs, he lets his mouth travel away from yours, carving a trail of warm and hungry kisses along your jaw, your neck, your ear. Your breathing is loud and rugged, quiet whines for his ears only piercing through the silence of the room. When he finds the sensitive spot behind your right ear, untouched for five long years and all the more ticklish for it, you whisper his name, a purr of a sound that has Jayâs entire body feel tight and heavy.Â
One of his hands slips from under your head and to your hip, fingers hooking underneath the waistband of your trousers and relishing in the warmth of the skin there. He reaches under your t-shirt, splaying his hand out against the side of your stomach, lips finding yours again when you gasp and taking the opportunity to slip his tongue inside your mouth. Your hips bump up into his, seemingly unconsciously, and he grinds his body impossibly closer to yours just as a loud knock makes your door rumble. The sudden noise snatches you out of your lust, making you yell in surprise, and Jay is so quick to tear himself from you that he almost jumps off the bed. You sit up, eyeing your door in horror as though it had made the noise on its own.
âOh! Sorry, honey, I didnât mean to scare you,â your mom says from behind your door with a giggle. She doesnât walk in, and Jay is mortified to think she might have understood what he and her daughter had been getting up to just seconds ago. âI just wanted to say, Iâm going to bed, and thereâs food for Jay to take home.â
âAlright, mom. Thanks.â
âThank you, Mrs. Ryu.â
âNo problem! Donât stay up too late, now,â she says. The sound of a second giggle and light footsteps as she walks off to her bedroom chills Jay to the marrow. At least, if she knows what you were up to, she isnât mad at him for disgracing her daughter.
As though afraid she might come back and barge in any minute, the two of you stare silently at the door for a moment. Then, as his heart settles down from the near attack it just suffered, he looks at you, manages a smile he hopes is charming. âWalk me back?â he asks, and you raise an eyebrow at him. âI might get lost on the way. Or get robbed by a strange man.â Your eyebrow lifts further. âAnd,â he says, taking a step towards your bed, kneeling down in front of you, taking your hands in both of his. âWe might have more privacy there.â
âWhy didnât you lead with that?â you say, leaning down with a smile to kiss him again.
Neither of you says much on the way homeâJayâs thoughts are too erratic for him to come up with anything sensical, and you seem to be in a similar state, if your non-stop giggling is anything to go by. The air is cold but your hand is warm, perfectly fitted against his. You press yourself into his side as you walk, blaming the beer you had with dinner. Jay knows better but says nothing.
His focus is all over the place. Or, more accurately, his focus is on whatever will happen when he closes the door behind him, you in tow. Itâs dark now, street lights shut off after ten p.m. to prevent light pollution, so only the moon and the stars blinking down at the two of you allow you to see where youâre stepping. Itâs hard enough not to press you against the wall of any random building right now; he doesnât know how heâll hold himself back once home, where itâs even darker, warmer, more private. Where not even the most prying of eyes can see what youâre up to.
In his defense, the only woman heâs wanted for years is right by his side, smiling at him, laughing at nothing with him, squeezing his hand and whispering how much sheâs missed him.Â
The time it takes to reach his new apartment and walk up the stairs seems to pass in slow-motion. He uses the little remaining self-restraint he possesses to unlock his front door without fumbling with the keys. But the moment the door closes, your bodies collide. The bag full of Tupperware he was holding hits the floor, his back to the door, your lips crashing against his.
The breath is knocked out of him. While your hands find the sides of his face, his find your waist, drawing you closer to him, body reacting to your touch before he can comprehend it. He has no time to think, let alone turn a light on or bring you to a more comfortable spot. In a distant part of his brain, he manages to notice old reflexes are kicking in: the rhythm of the kiss, the kind that always appeared when one â or two â of you felt particularly desperate. Then, thereâs his hands on your waist, on your hips, on your lower back, all the places he knows you like to be held, the touches he knows will have you soon demanding more than kisses. Thereâs your hands in his hair, nails grazing his scalp, fingers pulling at the longer strands, and it feels so good, but above all it feels so impossibly right, like this is what he was put on Earth to do and feel. Itâs the familiarity of it that really does him in, like your time apart was just a momentary blip in your relationship, a few misguided moments. The speed at which he remembers exactly what to do to have your knees buckle makes him think these last five years were nothing more than a fever dream, and itâs been a mere week since you last touched each other like this.
For once, his body takes precedence over his mind, and he couldnât be more thankful for it. There are so many things he could worry about, so many questions he could stop everything to ask youâbut why seek the vocal confirmation that you want this, that this means the same thing for both of you when your lips are already on his and your hands are already working to get his jacket off him? And if he really did need that extra confirmation, he has it when you break the kiss for a second, just to mumble the word âbedroomâ against his lipsâa request, an order, a plea, Jay doesnât care, all he knows is it does an unbelievable job turning him on. He immediately complies, guiding you by your hips backwards into the apartment until you reach his beloved mattress. He briefly wishes his bed was more than just the mattress lying on the floor and the half-put together frame he bought in IKEA earlier, but at least itâs made up, the sheets are clean, and there are two pillows. It isnât like you would protest; if anything, your eagerness is palpable, intoxicating in the way you settle yourself on his lap, each knee resting on either side of his thighs, instantly starting to rub yourself on his clothed erection as you deepen the kiss.Â
Jay always had more patience than you, or, rather, he always had more self-control than you, and he made sure to use it to his benefit. If in everyday life he was quick to do anything you asked, in bed, he liked nothing more than to take his time with you, no matter how much you begged, writhed and pleaded with him to give you what you wanted. If in everyday life he could hardly bear to see you cry in front of a sad movie, let alone because of something that had happened to you, in bed, he liked nothing more than the tears of frustration that would pool in your eyes after heâd spent half-an-hour barely touching youâand then those of pleasure streaming down your cheeks when he finally gave in.Â
Now, heâs being pulled in opposite directions. One part of him wants to do nothing, let you continue moving your hips against his until you drive yourself crazy, begging him the way you do so well to do something about the throbbing ache between your thighs. The other part says fuck thatâheâs waited five years for this, why would he waste another second? Youâre here, moaning his name against his ear, and he knows that if you had your way, youâd pull his cock out and take him right now without even bothering with foreplay.
And as if you can read otherâs minds, or maybe because you know all too well what heâs like, you take his face between your hands and look him straight in the eye. âBaby, please⊠We can take our time later. I just want you right now. Been waiting too long.â
Jay, true to himself, lifts a hand from your waist to slowly tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, a soft smile on his lips. âRight now? Is that what you want?â
You fight an eye roll, and his smile widens, knowing exactly what heâs doing and proud to know itâs working. âI just told you it was.â He doesnât move, causing you to sigh exasperatedly, busying yourself by planting kisses in his neck and along his jaw. âYou havenât changed a bit.â
âYou say that like itâs a bad thing,â he retorts. It makes you lean back and give him another intent look.
âNever.â
Warmth unfurls in the pit of his stomach, settling comfortably there, and although youâve seen him flustered a thousand times before, he kisses you again to hide his reddening cheeks. He tries for a tender kiss, a delicate touch to convey all the things he hasnât been able to put into words: Iâve missed you, and I love you as much now as I always have.
But youâre having none of it. Your kiss tells him youâve missed him, too, but rather than tenderness, for you, that translates to passion and intensity, the kind that Jay canât help but fall into. He also canât help his hands from sliding down to your ass, squeezing and pulling you closer to him; you respond by tightening your grip on his shoulders and lifting your head to release a breathy moan, granting him full access to your neck. And as one-track-minded as he is right now, he still has enough sense to only leave marks in the crook of your neck and around your collarbones, where scarves and t-shirt collars can cover anything you want to keep private. He has no problem letting everyone know that he finally, finally has you again, but heâs also aware of Sojuk-riâs nosiness and overbearingness.
For now, this moment belongs to the two of you, and you only.
As expected, it isnât long before your patience runs thin again. Your kisses get sloppier, the movement of your hips more erratic, your grip tighter, more demanding. Your hands find their way to his bare skin, slipping under his t-shirt, the furthest thing from shy as they explore the once-familiar territory of Jayâs upper body, leaving no part of his stomach, torso, waist and lower back untouched. He hopes his recent efforts at the gym are noticeableâa hope that is quickly confirmed when you take his t-shirt off and shamelessly smile at the sight underneath you, grabbing his arms, marvelling at the way your fingers donât quite meet when you wrap your hand around his biceps. Your touch leaves a trail of fire against his skin, and he, who usually likes to stay in control, finds his command of himself slowly slipping away, his breathing growing more ragged.
When he manages to get your top off, too, you give him no time to admire the body that has been haunting his dreams for the past five years, to study its minute differences and similarities, to search for the beauty mark underneath your right breast and the scar right above your navel, just to reassure himself that it really is you heâs holding. You press your lips back to his right away, arching your back against his chestâhe feels your hardened nipples brush his skin, the warmth of your body against his, and he knows this is it. Thereâs no point keeping up the pretense of having patience anymore. He wants you, and itâs a desire so all-consuming he hardly knows what to do about it. He feels dumb with it, his thoughts muddle, his words make no sense, his movements are freneticâand heâs not even inside you yet. Heâs not touching you, not really, not like he can and desperately wants to, and youâre not touching him, eitherâwhat will he be like when he gets to feel you again, warm, soaked, and impossibly tight around him? The thought alone has him teetering dangerously close to the edge.
You seem to sense his growing need, reaching down between your sweaty bodies to undo his jeans. âAre you still on the pill?â Jay asks, ready to rip off any remaining articles of clothing off you and plunge inside of you.Â
You shake your head. âDidnât need it anymore, and I didnât like the side effects.â
Jay closes his eyes, tries not to get distracted by the feeling of your lips on his neck and your fingers on his lower stomach, searching for some clarity in his thoughts. âOkay. Baby?â
âMm?â
âI donât have condoms here. Didnât think I was going to need them.â
You scoff as if that was the least of your worries. âThatâs fine. Weâll get Plan B tomorrow morning.â
Jay smiles, silently relishing in your careless eagerness, but one of you has to think straight here, and it clearly wonât be you. âAnd have the pharmacist tell everyone that Mrs. Kimâs granddaughter and the new guy are having unprotected sex?â
This gets you to look at him, a deep furrow in your brows. âWell, when you put it like thatâŠâ
âExactly.â
You pout, threading your fingers through his hair, a glint in your eyes that warns him whatever you say next will not be of help to this current situation. âBut I want it so badly,â you whisper with a roll of your hips against his for emphasis, just in case he hadnât understood you. âJust pull out in time.â For a very brief moment, he finds himself considering your words â maybe that Plan B idea isnât so bad â but he quickly gets his act together.
âI know, I want it too, baby, but itâs too risky.â
âGod, I missed hearing you call me baby,â you say, burying your face in the crook of his neck, voice a needy whine that Jay smiles â and hardens â at. There is truly no one who can inflate his ego like you.
âAnd I missed calling you baby.â He marks a pause here, rubbing your back in an attempt to soothe you, although it has the exact opposite effect. âYou have no idea how much I want you. But you know we canât⊠There are plenty of other things we can do.â
âBut-â
He hushes you with a kiss. âYouâre gonna have to be patient. Can you do that for me, baby? Hm?â
Itâs a wonder, how easily he slips back into this roleâgentle yet commanding, his tone dripping with promises that to get what you want, all you need to do is listen to him. It has an immediate effect on you, he can tell in the way your moans get whinier, in the way you press your body impossibly closer to his, creating friction, searching for the relief he wonât give you.
âCome on, lay down for me.âÂ
Once youâre on your back, despite your squirming and many noises of protest, he takes his sweet time. He gets your jeans and underwear off, then his own, all while pressing soft kisses all over your breasts, sneakily darting out his tongue against your nipples every now and then. You grow more agitated with every passing minute until you seemingly cave in and wrap a hand around his dick. It isnât until you touch him that he remembers how painful his erection had gottenâwhen he looks down at himself, heâs embarrassed to find his tip an angry red and leaking with precum already, and the mere sight of your fingers moving up and down is nearly enough for him to come right there and then in your hand.
He knows heâll finish too quickly if all he focuses on is the feeling of your hand on him. His fingers quickly find their way to where you want him most, and he is greeted by a gasp when he slides two digits between your folds upwards, until they reach your clit, more sensitive and swollen than ever.
Holding himself up on his left forearm, he alternates between studying your face and peppering it with delicate kisses. His fingers trace slow circles against your clit, and if the way you keep buckling your hips up is any indication, youâd like him to make quicker work of itâbut even this lazy, deliberate touch is enough to have your movements faltering, the speed at which you glide your hand around him irregular, like youâre so overtaken by your pleasure that you keep momentarily forgetting what youâre doing. But heâs not much differentâheâd be lying if he said that the mere feeling of your hand, even still, around his length, messes dangerously with his head.
His focus, however, will always be on you, even when his pleasure is so overwhelming, it hurts. As his fingers pick up speed and apply more pressure to your clit, he drinks in every little sound that comes out of your mouth. How did he survive without this for so long? Your heavy breathing, heavenly moans, whiny pleads that make less and less sense the longer he works his magic on you. If all of this was suddenly taken away from him again⊠He canât even bring himself to think about it.
âYou missed this, baby?â he asks, partly to rile you up, partly because he needs to know that you did. That his absence in your life was as torturous to you as yours was to his.
âYes, Jay. Fuck, I missed you so much.â
The fact that you said it was him rather than âthisâ that you missed doesnât go unnoticedâin fact, he rewards it by pushing his middle finger deep inside of you. By now, your hole is soaking wet and pulsating with need, and he slips in so easily, he can add another one just seconds later. You gasp at the welcome intrusion, back arching off the bed, head falling back against the pillow. Jay truly regrets not having a condom right now. He overestimated himself, thinking heâd be satisfied with thisâheâd do unspeakable things to be buried deep between your thighs, to have you more than gasping as he fucks you into tomorrow.
âYeah?â he says. âDid you touch yourself while thinking of me?â His words are muffled against your warm skin, the soft kisses he places on the side of your face in total contrast to his words and relentless fingers.
âFuck!â you exclaim when they brush against a certain area deep inside you. âYes, fuck, I thought about you all the time. I always thought of you whenever I made myself come, but it wasnât ever as good as this.â
Jayâs dick twitches in your hand. This reaction to your words makes you smirk, but heâs unable to feel any embarrassment right now, not when youâve resumed the movement of your hand along his length and all he can do is concentrate on not making a mess of himself. You first, always.
With two fingers inside of you and his thumb brushing circles against your clit, itâs only seconds before your legs start shaking and the volume of your moans increase. You try and fail to match his speed, opting instead for slow but firm strokes, your grip tight, tighter yet the closer you get to your release.
âIâm so close, Jay,â you breathe out.
âI know, sweetheart.â He bends down, burying his face against the side of yours, lips tickling your ear as he says, âIâve got you. Let it all out for me, baby.â
And you do. Youâd donât hold anything backâone long cry is torn from your throat, something halfway between a whine and a moan, as Jayâs fingers coax every last bit of your orgasm out of you. Itâs the sweetest sound to have ever blessed Jayâs ears. Your fingernails dig into the skin of his bicep and his scalp, but his focus is so honed in on you, he barely registers the painâand the little he does only adds to his pleasure.
His own orgasm arrives so quickly, he only notices once itâs happening. The lewd, wet sounds the movement of his fingers make, the feeling of your pussy clenching around them as you come, the way you whisper his name when you reach your peak, itâs all enough to push him over the edge. His release streaks your stomach white, the sight of which has him feeling faint.
Neither of you stop right away. Your hand keeps gliding up and down his length, slowly, lazily, the slight overstimulation sending shivers down his spine. Meanwhile, his fingers travel between your folds, letting your slick coat them thickly before they find your clit again. Youâre so sensitive, hips bucking at the lightest of touches, and soft, quiet moans continue to pour out of your lips.
Heâs not sure how long you stay there, languidly moving against each other like this, basking in the afterglow of your desire, fulfilled after so long, but itâs long enough for the peacefulness of the moment to diffuse and make way for hunger once moreâhe grows hard in your hand again, and you grow unsatisfied by his barely-there touch, repeating âJay, pleaseâ over and over until his fingers fill you up again. Clearly, after five years apart, one ten-minute round is far from enough. You go for round after round, deep into the night, taking breaks for water and checking up on each other, sharing all the things youâd done to try and fill the gap you each had left in the otherâs lives.
All this exertion makes you hungry for real food. You sit on the island, watching while Jay prepares some ramen for the two of you. And, while it cooks, what better way to inaugurate his freshly built countertop than eating you out on it?
Later, you take a shower, rendered useless ten minutes after youâve dried off and gone to bedâJayâs back rests against the wall where the headboard of his bed should be as you straddle him, dangerously moving your hips against his. Your chests are pressed flush to each otherâs, his hands holding your ass, yours, his shoulders. This is the closest to actually fucking youâve gottenâhis dick is covered with your slick, and every time his tip brushes against your hole, not holding you down and pushing right into you is a Herculean task.Â
Needless to say, neither of you gets much shut-eye that night. Youâve probably slept a total of four hours by the time the sun risesâeven then, you laze around in bed, unable to get enough of each other.Â
At some point, heâs holding you in his arms and thinking of how lucky he is. Not just that it is you, in his arms, that he gets to bury his nose in your hair and breathe in the scent of your scalp like a little freak, that he gets to feel you shift against him, on a never-ending search for the most comfortable position, that his ears are blessed to be on the receiving end of your every sigh, every mumbled word, every soft giggle. He feels just generally lucky that this is even possible, that his skin is conceived to feel the warmth of yours against it, his nose made to smell, his ears to hear, his eyes to see. He feels lucky that you were both born in this world as human beings and that your paths crossed out of everyone on this giant, godforsaken planet. Dolphins and dandelions may not have to pay taxes, but they also donât get to do this with the love of their lives. In short, he feels lucky that he gets to be human with you, and when he tells you this, you laugh, hold him tighter, and say you missed his brain. Â
âI missed you,â he says. âDo you even know how much time I spent just thinking of you these past years?â
You smile softly, press an even softer kiss to his nose. âYouâve done a really good job showing me.â
Comfortable silence stretches between the two of you. In the warmth of Jayâs bedroom, time is reduced to a concept with no direct bearing on your reality. Kimâs Kitchen is closed today, and Jay has no other obligation than to hold you for as long as he can before one of you grows too hungry or needs the bathroom. If you want to stay like this all day, heâll make no objection whatsoever. His comforter is the right kind of heavy on top of your intertwined bodies, and the blinds are shut just enough for the room to not be too bright but for him to be able to admire your features if he so wishes.
He falls in and out of sleep like this, lulled into slumber by the headiness of your scent enveloping him and the heat of your limbs draping over his, rising out of it when you shift against him or when you say his name, like you do now.
âHm?â he replies, still half unconscious.
âYou know youâre allowed to be angry with me, right?â
This wakes him right up. âWhat, baby?â he asks, not because he didnât hear you properly, but because he canât fathom the reason for such a question.
You clear your throat, propping yourself on your elbow so you can look at him. âIâm just saying, Iâd understand if you were mad at me.â
Jay looks around the room as if he might find a camera hidden somewhere. âAre you⊠Did you do something?â
You frown, which makes him frown, and you stare at each other in confusion until you seem to realize where this conversation went wrong. âNo. I mean, not recently. Iâm talking about the way things ended, baby.â The mention of your breakup would usually put a damper on Jayâs mood, but the pet name has the completely opposite effect. He smiles, unperturbed. âIâm being serious!â
His grin widens. âI know, baby.â
âThen listen to me. I know you said you couldnât bring yourself to be angry after our breakup, but I wanted to tell you that itâd be okay if you were. Itâd be normal. I just⊠up and left you. Barely gave you an explanation, and then didnât let you contact me. Just think about it, if you hadnât shown up here, weâd still be in the same place.â
This thought actually upsets him. The idea that this right here, you and him together, is merely the product of a coincidenceâhis mother couldâve taken him to a different beach, or he couldâve settled in another town, or he couldâve thrown his project out of the window altogether. It doesnât feel right. Maybe itâs because he spent five years deluding himself that your paths would inevitably cross again, but he doesnât like thinking of a universe in which he hasnât found his way home to you.
âRight. But me getting mad at you now wouldnât achieve anything.â
You take some time to think. âI guess not. I just⊠This is my way of apologizing, I guess. Whenever I think of how I acted, I feel so guilty. You deserved better. You deserve the best.â
Jay smiles fondly, raising a hand to your head and patting down your hair, tousled from sex and sleep. âI have the best right now.â
âUgh,â you groan, letting your head hang. âWhy are you impossible to argue with?â
He chuckles, then with his thumb, lifts your chin so he can kiss you. âOur time together is too precious for us to waste it on asinine arguments. Yes, I had a hard time, and back then I really wished things had gone differently, but I just donât want to think about that anymore. I spent so much time dwelling on the past, baby, I want to focus on the future now. Our future.â
You stare at him for a little bit, frowning, and Jay wonders if itâs now you whoâs upset with him until your lips start trembling. You groan again, hiding your face in the crook of his neck. âYouâre so perfect, itâs unfair.â
âWell, thatâs nothing to cry about,â he says, rubbing your back soothingly, glad you canât see the proud smile on his lips.
A few more hours pass by like this, and they are some of the most peaceful, euphoric, and, letâs face it, dirtiest hours of Jayâs life. Now that he has you again, he canât understand how he managed for so long without you. He feels like his lungs are at full capacity once more, and he can finally breathe properly.
Thereâs a moment, just a few minutes before you finally decide to get out of bed and do something with the rest of your day, where youâre looking at him and tracing his features with your fingertips. You whisper, âI love you,â and he thinks: there is no such thing as coincidence when it comes to a love like this.Â
Only fate.
.
.
âLetâs keep this to ourselves for a little bit,â you say later that day. Youâve just spent a couple hours finishing up decorating Jayâs apartment and putting together the final pieces of furniture bought yesterday, and youâre now eating last nightâs leftovers on his couch, watching Game of Thrones. Back in culinary school, you watched the first few seasons together, but ran out of time before you got to the last twoâneither of you continued watching it afterwards. Five years later, you finally get to finish it.
Jay looks down at you, a questioning look on his face, then presses pause on the remote. âWhat do you mean, baby?â
âThis,â you reply, gesturing between the two of you. âI donât want to tell people just yet. I want it to just be ours.â
For a few seconds, youâre afraid heâs taking it the wrong way, that he somehow thinks your wish for secrecy is because youâre embarrassed and donât want to be seen with himâwhich couldnât be further from the truth. If anything, youâre just as excited to parade him around town at some point and tell everyone heâs your boyfriend.
But for now, just a few days, maybe a couple of weeks, you want to create a world where itâs just the two of you. No prying eyes, no nosy questions, no gossip. Just the two of you.
Youâre ready to explain all of this to him when his surprise softens into a smile, and he says, âOkay. Then this is just ours for now. We decide when we tell others.â
The next morning, youâre floating rather than walking home, heart so satiated with love, body electric with the remnants of your time spent with Jay. Thereâs a buzz-like feeling under your skin from the shared secret, from this knowledge that only the two of you are privy to. You smile all the way home, but the moment you step inside and four pairs of eyes peer at you from the kitchen table, where your family is eating breakfast, and your expression immediately falters.Â
Of course they know. You walked Jay home, then stayed there for two nights straight. It doesnât take a genius to figure out what the two of you have been up to.Â
They stare at you. You stare back. âHi?â you say.
Yeonju leaps out of her seat and rushes towards you, looping her arm over your shoulders and dragging you inside the apartment. âGuess our Y/Nie had an eventful weekend,â she says, which makes your mother and grandmother giggle and your brother groan loudly. Thankfully, you manage to get away with the least amount of informationânot that they ask you about the juicy details, thatâs something Yeonju will try to get out of you later. They just want to know whether you, and therefore they, can call him your boyfriend now. When you reply positively, your mother practically squeals and clasps her hands. You try to remember whether she was this enthusiastic when you got into culinary school.
âIâm going to be the luckiest mother-in-law in all of Sojuk-ri,â she says dreamily.
âYou already are, mom,â Seungkwan says with a frown, rubbing Yeonjuâs back as she wipes a fake tear from her eye.
âOh, of course, honey.â Adding another scoopful of rice to Yeonjuâs bowl, she says, âSee, this is what happens when you raise great children. They marry great people.â She winks at you, and you canât help but downplay the smile growing on your lips by rolling your eyes.
âDoes that mean I raised you wrong?â your grandmother asks. Her daughter freezes, a deer caught in headlights. She brushes it off by laughing and says, âYouâre making up for it now.â She gives you a look that you interpret to mean, I was just trying to be happy for you, and look how they all react. Canât do anything in this family!
Itâs only an hour later as youâre prepping vegetables for todayâs lunch shift that it hits youâThey marry great people. You didnât think to correct your mother.Â
Thereâs a smile on your face the entire shiftâyou smile at the simmering broth, at the searing meat, at the bowls and plates and cutlery, at every customer that walks through the door, even at Yeonju. Of course, your good mood doesnât go unnoticed, but you think itâs inconspicuous enough. Sure, itâs your sister-in-law whoâs known for her unwavering cheerfulness, but canât a girl just have a good day once in a while? Itâs not like youâre a grump who stays holed up in her kitchen and only comes out to yell at customers. It shouldnât be so weird that youâre⊠chirpier than usual. Thereâs no reason they should immediately assume itâs because you and Jay are together now. Only Yeonju knows whatâs going on, and youâve made your family swear on their honor that they wouldnât say anything for now. Youâre not sure how much their honor is worth, especially your motherâs, who can barely contain her excitement and wants nothing more than to share the happy news â she really seems to think you and Jay are engaged â but itâs better than nothing.
When you close for break time, you look both ways to make sure no one spots you crossing the street to Jayâs buildingâMy boyfriend is a building owner, is a sentence you can now truthfully utter. You quickly make your way up the outdoor staircase and into his apartment through the unlocked door. Is it a bit dramatic to run towards him and jump into his arms, burying your face in the crook of his neck and inhaling, when you last saw him five hours ago? Maybe, but you donât care. And he definitely doesnât seem to, either: âI missed you, baby,â he says as he lowers your feet back onto the floor.
Your lips meet, and just like that, things pick right back up from where you left them this morning, half-naked bodies intertwined in his bed sheets when you noticed the time and had to go home to freshen up (and let your family know you were still alive) before work.Â
Of course, you could spend all your free hours holed up in his apartment, where no one can see youâand you definitely intend on spending a lot of time here. Youâd just have to be cautious coming in and out, but once inside, youâd be safe and sound in Jayâs arms.
You tell him how giddy this all makes you feelâbeing in on a secret together, knowing itâs only a matter of time before everyone finds out or figures it out, but trying to keep it to yourselves nonetheless.
âRight, about thatâŠâ Jay starts, and your head immediately whips up at his guilty tone. He avoids your gaze. âI mightâve told Mrs. Kang about us.â
âMrs. Kang?â you repeat, pronouncing her name like sheâs a criminal on the loose rather than the friendly but over-bearing convenience store owner.
âShe justâŠâ Jay starts, then groans, wiping invisible sweat from his forehead. âYou had your family to tell, okay? I went to buy eggs right after you left, and I was just so happy, I wanted to tell somebodyâŠâ
You scrunch your nose, trying to stop the smile from growing on your lips. He was just so happy. How can you be mad at that? âSo what, you just told her, unprompted?â you ask, half pretending to be annoyed, half really amused.
âNo, Iâm not that stupid. She said she could see I was different. She said I was glowing, for heavenâs sake, and the way she said it, like she already knew the reason why. I thought, might as well just tell her.â
âGlowing?â you repeat, laughing. âWhat, like pregnancy glow?â
âOr, like, a sex glow, I donât know,â he replies, chuckling too. âIt was weird.â
You bury your face in his neck, and your giggles dampen against his skin. âWell, please keep your sex glow to yourself next time, Jay.â
âIâll keep that in mind. And I told her not to tell anyone, by the way.â
You lift your head back up, propping your elbow on the mattress. Stroking your boyfriendâs cheek, you coo, âOh, sweet, innocent Jay. If youâve told Mrs Kang, youâve told all of Sojuk-ri. Sheâs practically the chief of the gossip committee. Sheâll tell all the other ahjummas, whoâll tell their husbands and kids, whoâll tell their friends. And you know everyone knows everyone here, so Iâll take a guess that in⊠two days, tops, the cat will be out of the bag.â
Jay pouts. âBut I promised her free coffee for a month if she kept it to herself,â he says, and he sounds so earnestly disappointed that Mrs Kang might betray his trust that you canât help but burst into laughter, then immediately pepper his entire face with kisses. âIâm serious!â he exclaims, breathless from your attack and his laughing. âWho knows, she might like the idea of having a secret and free coffee than of getting to tell anyone.â
You sigh. âOnly time will tell, baby.â The nickname makes Jay blush, as though it hasnât slipped out of his own mouth dozens of times in the past twenty-four hours. Your body moves of its own accord as you lean in, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that he responds to immediately. It starts out as they always doâslow, tender, like you have all the time in the world to do this and you want to enjoy every single second. His big hands find your hips and pull you towards him so youâre straddling him. âI canât believe you jeopardized some of your future revenue just to keep a secret,â you murmur when you break away from this kiss and press your lips to his jaw and neck instead.
Jay hums, and you can tell half of him has already clocked out of this conversationâyour effect on him, you note, not without a little pride. âI wasnât thinking when I told her. Then I thought you might be upset, so I tried to backtrack. Iâm sorry.â
Your teeth scrape the corner of his jaw, and the moan he lets out has your stomach dipping pleasantly. âDonât apologize, baby.â Your lips make their way to a spot behind his earâsomewhere not so obvious that it would be embarrassing, but still noticeable if one looks closely. Then you sink your teeth into his flesh â sensitive, seeing as he hardens immediately under you â and suck, just a few seconds, just until a small, reddish bruise appears. Jay whispers your name and you find his lips once more. The kiss is hungry this time, desperate, greedy. Since yesterday, every time with him feels like the first. Even if it starts out gentle and hesitant, quickly, something raw takes over both of you, like you canât quite believe this is happening and need to make sure itâs real by tightly holding onto each other and grabbing everywhere you can reach.Â
Suddenly, sneaking around has lost all its appeal. Mrs Kang could tell there was something different with him? Good. Let everyone know who is the cause of that change. âMaybe itâs a good thing,â you say, breathless. âAll those moms who think they can set you up with their daughters? Theyâll know thereâs no point.â
One corner of Jayâs lips rises into a smirk, a visual that gives you half a mind to yank his boxers off and give him the best head of his life. Instead, his hands grab your ass, nails digging into the flesh there, pressing your core right against his erection. You donât even realize youâre grinding until heat starts pooling in your stomach, spreading to your entire body.
âAre you getting possessive now, baby? Thatâs unlike you,â he teases.Â
But youâre too lost in your growing pleasure to play with himâinstead, your head falls back, and you whisper, âDonât wanna lose you again.â
Jayâs dick twitches underneath you. Some things really donât change: his number one turn-on is still emotional vulnerability. âYou wonât. Ever again.â
You canât lieâit turns you on like nothing else, too.
Only two thin pieces of fabric separate you from him as you rut against him, keeping a slow pace that is torturous for both of you but that has your nails digging into his shoulders. âBaby,â he whispers, but youâre so lost in the heat growing being your legs that the sound goes over your head. âBabe,â he repeats, louder, holding your hips tight to still your movements.
âHm?â
âI went out to buy condoms earlier.â It takes a few seconds for the lust-induced haze in your mind to clear, but when it does, your eyes widen, and Jay misunderstands: âI drove to the next town over, donât worry.â
âNo, thatâs not⊠the problem,â you assure him. He frowns, but before he can speak, you lean in for a kiss. âI just really want you to fuck me,â you whisper against his lips.
It works like a charmâone second, Jay is looking at you like he isnât sure he heard correctly; the next, heâs rolling you onto your back; then, heâs tearing open the wrapper and rolling the condom down his length. When he pushes into you, you let out a loud gasp. The instant pleasure is so surprising that you wonder how youâll be able to contain it all inside your bodyâand heâs only a couple inches deep. True to form, he freezes, asks you if youâre okay. You canât nod and tell him to keep going fast enough. The pleasure might be overwhelming, but not having it would be infinitely worse.
It feels like forever until he bottoms out, and even then, he disregards your pleas for more and waits a few moments for you to adjust to him. Sure, itâs been five years of nothing bigger than two of your fingers inside of you, but that doesnât mean youâre not ready. When you tell him this much, he chuckles, a low, confident sound that annoys you as much as it turns you on, and says, âI just donât want to hurt you, baby.â
You huff, frustrated. âI promise you wonât, justâjust move, please, Jay.â
So he does.Â
He barely retreats, just an inch or so, but when he slides forward again, he goes deep, deeper than before, his tip brushing against a spot that has a high, drawn-out whine escaping your mouth. He continues like this, thrusts deliberate and shallow, but heâs buried so far inside of you that even the smallest of movements has your throat going raw with moans and your fingers gripping his hair tightly. âSee, baby?â he asks, voice low against your ear. âYou can barely handle this much. If I fucked you like I wanted to, you wouldnât be able to take it.â His tone is sweet, in complete opposition to the words themselves and to the way heâs slowly tearing you apart with each of his torturous thrusts.
âI can â oh, fuck â I can,â you say, breathless, not because you think you can, but because you donât want him to hold back.Â
This man has the audacity to laugh, right beside your ear. One at a time, he grabs your thighs, hooking them around his hips. Then one hand returns to your face, pushing hair away from your eyes, while the other sneaks its way between your bodies, his thumb starting to trace circles against your clit. âYeah? You gonna be a good girl and take what I give you?â
Youâre already shaking in his hold. If his actions themselves werenât enough, his words have you embarrassingly close to the edge. You nod eagerly. Last night and this morning were amazingâfull of love, and tenderness, and raw emotion. Now? Youâre craving something⊠different. A side of Jay that only comes out when heâs really desperate and that you arenât afraid to seek out.
Gradually â because even if he talks a big game, heâs still your loving boyfriend, and he wonât even entertain the idea of accidentally hurting you â his thrusts pick up in speed, but he still makes sure to bury himself to the hilt every single time, and his thumb doesnât leave your clit. With every drag of his cock along your walls, you feel your arousal growing, coating him and allowing him to go even deeper, even faster. Words tumble out of his mouth into your ears like he doesnât even realize heâs saying them, murmurs of, I missed this pussy so fucking much, and, No one else has ever made you feel this good, have they, baby?
Whoâs getting possessive now? a voice, somewhere at the back of your head, says, but youâre too out-of-it for the words to actually materialize.
And thenââIâll be fucking this pretty pussy without a condom soon. Youâd let me do that, wouldnât you? Let me fill you up? Youâd look so pretty with a round belly, baby. Everyone would know who it is you belong to.â
His face is buried in your neck, so he doesnât see your eyes widen. Even in your most heated moments, heâs never spoken to you this way. And, until this exact point in time, you had no idea this was something you liked. You imagine it allâhow heâd feel raw, how his cum shooting inside then leaking out of you would feel, knowing the consequences, wanting the consequences. Being pregnant with his child.
This isnât something youâre capable of unpacking right now. All you know is that the more he talks and the longer he fucks into you, the closer the knot in your stomach comes to unravelling. âFuck, keep going, Iâm so close, baby,â you say, babbling.
Against the damp skin of your neck, you feel his lips widen into a smile. âYeah? You like thinking about me stuffing you full of my cum?â
If you werenât so into this, youâd be wondering what happened to your boyfriend, who, although heâs never been a stranger to dirty talk, heâs definitely never said anything like this. Itâs driving you madâand you know it has the same effect on him, too. His thrusts have become erratic, the movements of his thumb messy, the kisses in your neck sloppy. Heâs just as close as you are.
âYes, baby. I wish you could fill me up right now,â you purr.
One, two, three more deep thrusts, and Jay stills inside of you with a grunt. Itâs enough for you to nose-dive right into the chasm of your own orgasm. It was building for so long that you see white when it comes, eyes shut tight, thighs shaking around Jayâs hips.
The two of you stay silent for a while, minds and bodies reeling from what just occurred. It takes some time for your breathing to steady again, for your body to stop trembling. Jayâs body is a heavy but reassuring weight on top of you. A shower would be great, but itâs even better to share this quiet moment with him. At some point, without changing positions, he asks, âDo we really want a baby right now?â
You laugh. âNot right now, no.â
A pause. âBut eventually?â
âEventually, yeah,â you reply with a smile.
âOkay,â he says, like thatâs enough for now, and kisses your cheek.
Ten minutes later, heâs hard again, and youâre more than willing. But after that, itâs time for you to head back to Kimâs Kitchen for tonightâs dinner shift.
In the five years since you dropped out of culinary school, youâve never really felt the need for somebody to take your place, once in a while, as Kimâs Kitchenâs chef. It wasnât like you ever had anything more important to do than cookâsure, you were sometimes tired, or simply lazy, and had to force yourself out of bed and into the restaurant. But thisâthis is different. Itâs not just your warm, comfortable sheets you have to extract yourself from anymore, itâs the heat of another body, itâs soft caresses and words spoken gently, itâs promises of never letting go and of an entire life spent like this. Leaving Jay here feels like your break-up all over again, only with less dramatic consequences, because itâs the one other time youâve ever resented your grandmother for only passing her skills down onto you, and none of her daughters or other grandchildren. Of course, both times, you hated yourself for even letting the thought course through your head, and quickly snapped out of it. It isnât a bad thing that your grandmother was healthy enough during her daughtersâ teenage and young adult years to keep on handling the restaurant herself, and that she had her husband to do what is now Yeonjuâs job. It isnât a bad thing that your love from cooking developed independently, without any pressure from your family about needing someone to take over once your grandmother got too old. You love your job, you love (most of) your customers, you love your family. None of it is a bad thing.
But it is a terrible, terrible thing to have to untangle your limbs from Jayâs and go back to work, feeling all cold and forlorn.
You even go see Mrs Kang herself under the pretense of buying ramen and soju â which isnât necessary, but you like to see her outraged expression whenever someone buys alcohol from her store, as if she isnât the one selling it â and as youâre checking out, even after she gets over her shock at seeing a 25-year-old buy soju, she says nothing. She looks around the store to make sure no one else is here, then shoots you a wink and mimics a zip over her mouth. In all your life here, youâve never seen anyone handle a hot piece of gossip with so much poise and class. Youâre impressed.
So, you keep going with your initial plan. What you said about making the mothers learn better than to try to set their daughters up with Jay was in the heat of the moment, and while youâre looking forward to that, too, youâre enjoying the peace and quiet that comes with your love life not being the center of everyoneâs discussions. That was the case when Jay arrived last month and everyone found out you two knew each other; now that the attention has died down, you think you deserve another week or two of being left alone.
To the great joy of every storeowner in the street, heâs also spent a considerable amount of time whipping up test batches of the desserts and pastries heâs planning on selling and going around the neighborhood, asking for opinions and preferences. When you ask him why heâs so adamant on asking everyone what they think, he explains that while he wants to use the techniques and recipes he learned in Paris and London, he also wants to make sure heâs appealing to Sojuk-riâs taste buds rather than importing something no one cares about. So far, this is what heâs settled on: black sesame cookies for those who donât like overly sweet foods; a fudgy tahini brownie, because you canât really go wrong with chocolate; a fruit tart thatâll keep the same pastry and cream base but will change according to the season; a classic carrot cake with citrusy frosting that he expects will be a crowd pleaser; and a creamy matcha crĂȘpe cake, simply because The Three Wons begged him to have something matcha-based on the menu and they promised him every one at their school would also love it. Those will be his staples, to which heâll add one or two special items that will change monthly or seasonally, depending on his whims, similarly to your menu changing daily according to what you find at the market and what you feel like cooking. In the mornings, before itâs socially acceptable to stuff your face with all sorts of creamy and chocolatey desserts, heâll serve all the classic pastries: croissants, pains au chocolat, pains aux raisins, suisses.Â
Of course, youâre his biggest cheerleader, and you happily eat everything he bakes. You try to help him out sometimes, but the two of you are similar in the sense that if you share a kitchen with someone, youâd rather they simply sit somewhere and talk to you or watch you work. You can (somewhat) put your need for control to the side when youâre just cooking a homemade meal, but work is an entirely different thing. Youâre not sure what youâd do to someone if they over-salted a broth or undercooked a meat you had to serve to a customer, and you donât want to put Jay in a tough position by getting any measurement or consistency wrong on his test batchesâthey may be try-outs, but he takes them seriously. Itâs not like you know much about baking, anyway, and youâre more than happy to sit on the chair youâve dragged to the doorway, and watch his broad shoulders move around the kitchen, apron snug around his waist, sleeves rolled to his elbows, strong forearms and veins on display. No offense to his skills as a baker, but you think the sight is more delicious than anything he could come up with.
You tell him so, and his face turns redder than the red velvet cupcake batch heâs prepping for the opening, his first special menu item. Youâre smug until, a few beats later, he says: âI know something that tastes even better.â His voice is low, and his tone makes it impossible for you to misinterpret his words.
Itâs a good thing his apartment is only a flight of stairs away.
The clock has yet to strike 8 a.m. and already, people are lining up outside, waiting for their morning coffee with big smiles and excited chatter. Jay is thankful that they donât have to stand under rainy or windy weatherâthe sky is exceptionally clear for a mid-autumn day. Heâs all set to open, and yet, he paces in the kitchen, in the front of house, behind his counter, desperate to find something to busy his hands with. But the coffee machine is ready to go, the display cases are filled with freshly-baked pastries, still warm from the oven, this afternoonâs desserts are all patiently waiting in the fridge. His eyes anxiously study the room for a crooked picture frame, a spelling mistake on the chalkboard where he asked Haewon to copy the drinks menu in her neat cursive, a dusty spot he mightâve missed after cleaning the place five times over.Â
âShould we open early?â you ask. Your voice has the immediate effect of soothing his racing heart; you donât need to fill his ears with reassuring words, itâs all in your tone, in the way you look at him, a mix of your usual tenderness and amusement at seeing him so uncharacteristically shaken up. âYouâre all set, and they came out this earlyâŠâ
âYeah, I think Iâll throw up if I keep watching you go back-and-forth like a tennis ball,â Yeonju adds, getting a chuckle out of Jay.Â
As for Yeonju, it was so obvious to you that she would come along that you hadnât thought to clarify, but her presence came as a surprise to Jay. He could tell being up at 6 a.m. was rough for you, which made him feel terrible, but she seemed completely fine: âThis baby is making me a morning person. Or just a no-sleep person,â she said with a wry chuckle and the maniacal look of someone who hasnât had a proper nightâs sleep in a while. Sheâd broken the happy news at dinner recently, and your mother almost passed outânot only did she get the reassurance that her only daughter wouldnât die a spinster barely a month ago, she was now becoming a grandmother. When Jay was washing the dishes later that evening, she told him, âCan you believe it? You and Y/N are going to be an uncle and an auntie,â and he felt so entirely part of this family at that moment that he almost fell to his knees right there in your motherâs kitchen.
Seungkwan wanted to be here, too, but he burnt himself trying to froth milk with the coffee machine the other day, so Yeonju forced him to stay home for the day. When he wasnât around, she said it was a blessing in disguiseâthere was a reason why her husband wasnât let inside the restaurantâs kitchen. He was perfect where he was, at home, doing the accounting.Â
âAlright,â he finally says, taking a steadying breath. Youâre both rightâthereâs no point in twiddling his thumbs nervously for five extra minutes when he could just let people in now. With a hand on the doorknob, he looks back at you. All he needs is that little nod of your head, that look of pride in your eyes to give him the extra encouragement.
With a smile on his face that he hopes hides his nerves, he opens the door wide, and is greeted by sounds of delight and even clapping. âHello, everyone, welcome in,â he beams. He stands by the door as the first customers head to the counter, thanking people for being here, shaking hands, receiving congratulations and shoulder claps, and when the line has advanced but not enough for everyone to be inside, he goes over to greet everyone individually. Theyâre all people he knows: the real estate agent whoâs amazed by âwhat he did with the place,â The Three Wons and a group of their friends whom he swears should be at school by now, so he sends them off despite their protests, telling them to come this afternoon instead, all the friendly ahjummas who have gone from pestering him about winning back your affections to pestering him about asking for your hand in marriage in the span of two monthsâJay doesnât entirely disagree with them, but he seems to have more patience than they do.Â
Mrs Kang is here, too, excited about her half-off coffee: when she caved in and told everyone who would listen what she knew a week after promising Jay sheâd keep it a secret, she came to him and admitted what happened (âIt wasnât my fault! Mrs Lim saw you come out of their house twice in one week, I had to explain the situation to her, you understandâ). She felt guilty enough to not take him up on his offer of free coffee for a month, but not guilty enough to not ask for coffee at half-price instead. At that point, he didnât careâhe had spent a week feeling like the world consisted of only you and him, and that was enough for him.
The following hours pass in a blur of friendly chatter and endless orders. Things calm down slightly around nine thirty: there is no queue, but rather a steady stream of customers that only relents around eleven. Even though she promised she was fine, Jay brought down a high stool for Yeonju to sit on. She now keeps a hand on her belly most of the time, and is suffering through over-bearing, unwarranted pieces of advice and invasive questions on a daily basis. Jay thought he was good at keeping his composure, but she really is a master with her unwavering smile and patience.
The lunch hour is relatively quiet. It allows the three of you to take turns having lunch, and Jay can leave the two of you to handle things in the front of house while he gets the cakes and other baked goods ready for the afternoon. Around two, the pace at which customers trickle in starts to pick back up, with those who arenât morning people and those from surrounding towns. Jay is busy in the kitchen frosting a second batch of red velvet cookies, so he doesnât see the man walk inârather, he hears the familiar, unmistakable low boom of his voice as he greets you and Yeonju, then asks where his son is.Â
His hand freezes on the piping bag. âHeâs just in the back, Mr Park,â he hears you say. Before he has time to process, his dad appears in the doorway, a surprised expression on his face like Jayâs the one who showed up unannounced.
A few awkward beats pass as father and son silently stare at each other. Mr Park inhales deeply as if getting himself ready to launch into a monologue, but all that comes out of his mouth is âHi.â
âHi, dad.â
âI, uh, Y/N invited me. YouâWell, I wasnât sure if I should come, because you didnât tell me you were opening todayââ
âNo, itâs good that you came. Iâm sorry I didnât tell you,â Jay cuts in, scratching the back of his head.
Frowning, his dad shakes his head and waves the apology off with a hand. âItâs alright. Youâre busy, I wonât hold you up. Will you let me know when youâre done?â
His fatherâs tone is different to what Jay is used to. Itâs gentler, more hesitant, more conciliatory, even. Like heâs eager to mark a new beginning.
Jay nods as if in a daze, eyes widening slightly, taken aback by his dadâs sudden appearance and quick departure. He almost wants to say, âAlready?â but it sounds like his dad will stick around, and he can wait until then. âSure. Make sure you get coffee and something to eat before you go. On the house, of course.â
He smiles briefly, barely, but itâs there. âThanks, son.â
A few minutes later, Jay walks out of the kitchen with a tray of cookies and refills the empty display cases. His father didnât ask why Jay hadnât said anything, and he isnât sure he could provide him with an explanation. Why hadnât he told him? Itâs not like they never spoke. Phone calls were few and far between, always short, contrived affairs, but Jay was glad to have at least a vague idea of what was going on in his dadâs life, who in turn seemed genuinely curious to know how his son was faring, as well as his project. Heâd said imprecise things like, âIâm hoping to open soon,â or âShould be ready in a couple of weeks,â but never gave him the actual date once he knew it. He didnât sit down to really think about it, as per usual with any matters concerning his father, but he guesses it was a way of preventing disappointment. If his father didnât know when Jay opened, he couldnât fail to show up. Jay wouldnât have to get his hopes up, and even the potential of being let down was nonexistent.
But he did show up, and although it might not be written in fluorescent marker on Jayâs face, heâs happy. And he only has one person to thank for that.
He has to head back to the kitchen, but he takes a second to slide up to you by the coffee machine. âDid I do the right thing?â you ask, watching as coffee trickles from the portafilter to the espresso cup underneath.
Jay smiles (briefly, barely), scans the room to make sure nobody who cares is watching. Then he leans in, whispers, âI love you,â only for you to hear, kisses the top of your head, then disappears back into the kitchen.
Later, heâll find out that you unlocked his phone when he was sleeping and copied his fatherâs number into your own device, just a few days before the opening. His dad called in last-minute changes at work to accommodate for the overnight trip. Heâll chide you for being sneaky, but really, heâll just be thankful that someone in his life could be so thoughtful, could care so much. And on top of that, itâll give him leverageâif he takes your surprise guest in stride, you have to do the same for his.
âHow-â you start, then shake your head. âHi, guys.â
Sumin scoffs from what Jay assumes to be indignation at the basic greeting but takes you in her arms anyway. And indeed: âNot a peep from her in five years, and she says, Hi, guys.â
âIâm sorry-â
She hums in disapproval, rubs your back. âI know, itâs okay. Weâll talk about it later.â Hands on your shoulders, she leans back, studies your face with a small smile on her lips, then: âNope! Iâm not letting you cry. I had a plan to be snappy and passive-aggressive all evening, I canât do that if youâre crying.â You laugh, throwing your head back as you wipe at your eyes as if thatâll make the tears stream back into them instead of onto your cheeks.Â
Jay watches you carefully as you hug Jaemin and Jake and let them playfully admonish you for going M.I.A., even once he joins in on the conversation, and the five of you fall back into your old dynamics as easily as slipping into water. Just like you were earlier, heâs anxious to be reassured that he did the right thing calling your friends here as a surprise to you. Unlike you, heâd kept in touch with them over the years, visiting them at their restaurants in Seoul or Japan or Australia or wherever they found themselves at any given moment, going out for drinks with other former classmates once in a while. A question would always come up at some point during these gatherings: what the hell were you up to? People would ask Jay first, but when he shook his head and tried not to let the hurt show on his face, they turned to Sumin, your closest friend back then, who was none the wiser. All anyone knew was that youâd gone home to work at the family restaurant, leaving behind your boyfriend, your diploma, and the Paris internship.
The second time he stepped inside of Kimâs Kitchen, rice cakes in hand, he was filled with doubtâmaybe seeing him wouldnât come as a pleasant surprise to you, or as a universe-generated stroke of luck, which was how it came across to him, and his presence would only anger you, or disgust you, or worse, leave you indifferent.Â
In the end, to his immense joy, it did none of those things, and everything is more than well between the two of you now. But would that extend to your old friends? Would you only be happy to see them, perhaps a bit remorseful of your actions, but happy nonetheless, or would it make you feel awkward, would you feel betrayed by Jay that he didnât let you in on it? These worries course through his head and every time you smile, laugh, tell them itâs nice to have them here, and introduce your friends, brother and sister-in-law, they dissipate further and furtherâand when you turn to look up at him, beaming, and your hand finds his, he only feels relief.
He did the right thing.
Of course, Suminâs sharp eyes notice this immediatelyâback in school, she knew something was going on between the two of you before anyone else, maybe even before you. âYou two have gotten back together,â she plainly states, not even a question. Sheepish, you let Jay acquiesce for the both of you. âKnew it,â she says, and holds out her hand. âYou two owe me.âÂ
âAlready?!â Jake, ever the drama queen, exclaims, hands on his head like his favorite soccer team just lost a game. Jaemin just begrudgingly fishes his wallet out of his back pocket. âBut Jay, you only got here, like, two months agoâŠâ
Jay shrugs, you smile, and Sumin replies, âIt took them, what? Three months to start dating in school?â The two of you nod. âIt makes sense that itâd be even quicker this time around.â She holds out her hand to Jake, who just glowers at her.
âI donât carry cash, itâs 2025. Iâll buy you a meal,â he says, which seems to satisfy her.
âYou know, maybe the next time we find ourselves in Sojuk-ri, youâll be dressed in white and weâll all be wearing our Sunday bestâŠâ she trails, giving you a pointed look.
You roll your eyes but canât hide the grin on your lips. âYouâd fit perfectly in this town, Minnie.â
Before Sumin can ask what you mean, Jay takes the opportunity to divert the conversation away from your relationship, and guides the three of them to a table. âWeâre technically closed, but you guys are such special customers that weâll make an exception for you,â he says in a jokingly pompous tone.Â
âYouâre also the one who told us to come after closing time,â Jake remarks. Jay just smiles at his friend, feigning innocence.
You and Yeonju prepare coffees for everyone â Seungkwan offers help and is quickly banished from the counter, but he makes the most of this, sitting down with your former classmates, loudly and gladly sharing his surprise at finding out that you hadnât lied about having friends â while Heeseung and Jay prepare plates with the unsold pastries of desserts of the day, which there arenât many of, Jay notes with satisfaction. Conversation flows easily between all of you, especially when Jake asks for embarrassing childhood anecdotes and Seungkwan lights up. Jay doesnât stay for very long, remembering his father, roaming somewhere around town. He does stay long enough to notice Heeseungâs uncharacteristic shynessâhis friend had been instantly laidback around him, but maybe that was due to the professional setting in which they met, and the fact that they both knew you. Perhaps being around three strangers at once makes him more timid than usual; but when he seems to hold his breath and listen intently whenever Sumin speaks, or when he glances her way every time he cracks a joke, as if awaiting her reaction, Jay thinks something else might be at play.
He eventually takes his leave, entrusting you with the keys and making a plan to meet everyone back at your restaurant in an hour or so. Again, youâre technically closed for the day; but again, these are special customers you have here.
When Jay turns to look at his father, heâs startled to find the older manâs eyes red and wet. The only time heâd seen his father cry â not even cry, simply be wet-eyed â was at his motherâs funeral. Never before, never after.
Until now.
There are so many things Jay wants to say that heâs at a loss for words. He could get angry, tell his father how much he resents him for distancing himself from him when he was only a child, for caring so much about his mother but being so inept at showing her that she left anyway. Maybe someday thisâll happenâtheyâll have a huge argument, theyâll let everything out, and thatâll be it. But here on this beach, where everything is peaceful, and where his father seems to be opening up to him for the first time, it doesnât feel like the right time.
So instead, he places a hand on his fatherâs back, feeling a little clumsy but hoping itâs a soothing gesture, and says, âIâm glad youâre here now.â
Their eyes meet. âYeah,â his father says, letting out a relieved, almost self-deprecating chuckle, like heâs embarrassed to be acting like this in front of his son. âYeah.â Then, wiping his eyes, he shifts the topic towards Jay. âSo, Y/N, huh?â
A smile tugs at Jayâs lips at the mention of your name. âYeah, Y/N.â Itâs a bit awkward, talking to his father about you â itâs different from his mother, with whom he could share details and receive advice from â but Jay is happy with any opportunity to blabber away about you. He tells him about his surprise at finding you here, about dealing with everyoneâs eyes on the two of you, about meeting your family. From there, his father asks questions about your restaurant, about the people, about Jayâs life here, whether heâs adjusting well, whether heâs missing Seoul. Itâs probably the most theyâve talked in one sitting since Jayâs childhoodâand itâs only forty-ish minutes until Jay realizes they should probably head to Kimâs Kitchen.
The prospect of having dinner with not only your family but your culinary school friends first seems to scare his father offâhe tries to decline the offer, says he doesnât want to impose, but when his son reassures him that he wants him there, it seems to ease his concerns. Truthfully, Jay is also vaguely worried about this mix of people, heâs afraid his fatherâs coldness, or shyness, depending on how one sees it, might offend your mother and grandmother, that itâll be awkward for chefs in their early career to sit with someone like him, famous for his food, of course, but even more so for his strictness. Â
It turns out that your family are huge fans of James Park. When Seungkwan, your mother and your grandmother see him walk in, they gasp loudly and rush towards the entrance, pointing at the two men side-by-side, piecing things together. Youâre just as confused as Jay. Itâs true that the topic of Jayâs parents only came up a few times, and he always replied briefly, saying his mother had passed away, and his father was the head chef of a reputed restaurant in Seoul. He never mentioned his TV presence; and since the show comes on while you work, you never knew your family tuned in every Friday evening to watch Jayâs dad help failing restaurants with an iron fist.Â
Under everyone elseâs flabbergasted gazes, the three of them usher him enthusiastically into the restaurant, sitting him down at the head of the table, apologizing in advance for the food but hoping itâll be up to his standards. âTraitors,â you mutter under your breath, only for Jay to hear. They quote iconic lines from his show at each other and burst into laughter like theyâve never heard anything so funny. Jay canât help but chuckle along, amused by his fatherâs clear desire to become one with his chair.
Moments where the conversation stills slightly are inevitable, but it all goes surprisingly well, at least by Jayâs standards. Despite your protests, he helps you with the food, following your instructions to a T and bringing dishes out as the evening progresses. He can tell youâre holding your breath when his father takes his first bite of your japchae, but Chef Park seems to have turned his professional mode off, makes a simple comment that the food is good and eats everything heartily. Your friends pester your family for stories about you, about the restaurant, the town. They seem fascinated by this part of your life you left them out of, and Sumin especially is adamant on reminding you she wonât let you get away so easily this time around. When she says something about being one of your bridesmaids, whether you like it or not, your mother lights up, and the two of them tune everyone else out, launching into an impassioned discussion of your wedding, as though you and Jay arenât sitting right there.
Jay feels your body relax into his embrace. You wrap your arms around his neck, rest your head against his shoulder, and he lets you lean some of your weight on him. You stay like this for a little, just enjoying each otherâs warmth, the silence, the feeling of being alone.
âThat went well, didnât it?â he finally mumbles into your hair.
âIt did. I think I even saw your dad smile a few times.â
He chuckles. âSign of a successful evening.â He leans back, keeping one hand on your waist, the other coming up to tuck hair behind your ear. âYou sit, Iâll go do the dishes. No arguing,â he adds quickly when you open your mouth to protest.
You exhale through your nose, a small smile playing on your lips as your palms cup the side of his face. It still evades him how your touch can be so comforting and electrifying at the same timeâheâs not sure if he wants to melt into it or press your body against the door. But before he can do either, you press your lips to his, a small, chaste thing of a kiss. âWhat did I ever do to deserve you?â you ask, voice so soft and sincere it makes Jayâs heart twist.
âIâm the one who should be asking that,â he replies, but you immediately start shaking your head.
âYou donât have to do anything, baby. You never have. Youâre perfect just the way you are.â
Jay doesnât know whether youâre aware of what your words do to him, or if you just happen to always say the right thing by accident. Either way, heâs so moved, he feels the need to deflect before the tears welling up behind his eyes actually start to fall. âIâm still going to do the dishes,â he says with a grin, making you roll your eyes.
âIf it makes you happy.â
âIt does.â With one last kiss to your forehead, he heads into the kitchen. But you donât sit back at the table like he thought you would. Instead, you follow him and hoist yourself up on an empty counter beside the sink, warning him not to get any water on you, which he replies to by flicking his wet hand at you. You laugh as you recount all the awkward and all the good moments of the evening, and itâs such a small thing, doing the dishes and talking with you, but Jayâs rarely felt such contentment in his whole life. The feeling settles comfortably in his stomach, its warmth spreading to every last inch of his body. He doesnât know what it is exactlyâonly when you are back at his apartment does it click. He stands for a few moments on the terrace before heading in, looking out at a dark Sojuk-ri, moon and stars reflecting on the sea at a distance, the boats in the port bobbing gently in the water, and heâs reminded of one of his first nights here, when you came to find him, armed with soju and snacks, and spent an evening picking up the five-year-old remains of your relationship. Now, you come to find him again, wrapping your arms around his middle from behind, pressing a kiss to his nape, resting your chin on his shoulder, his own hands covering yours on his stomach. The foundations of your relationship have been renovated, sturdy and ready to be built upon once again.
It doesnât matter where he was born, or where he was raised. This is his hometown.
.
.
Five years later
The clear spring sky outside lends the hospital a warmer, less sterile look today. The thin, white curtains sway gently in the breeze, and the sunrays fall in a golden light right onto your grandmotherâs bed, where she sits up, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her face. Her eyes are closed, but you know she isnât sleeping; these visits, no matter how much she enjoys them, always sap what little energy she has. Especially when Jaehui started crying, you could tell the ruckus was a lot for her. Now, Jay is taking care of your two-year-old outside the room, probably going around the hospital corridors with her stroller until she calms down. It is late in the afternoon already, and she must be getting hungry and tired. Your grandmother told you to head home, but thereâs something you want to tell her before you leave.
Youâve been mindlessly rambling about small thingsâhow Jaehui and her cousins are getting along, how more and more tourists are arriving in town as spring slowly turns into summer, how your search for a new, bigger house is going. If your grandmother can tell youâre nervous, she doesnât say anything, just listens and takes small bites of the orange you peel for her.
âBecause, you know, now that Jaehuiâs getting bigger, the apartment is starting to be a bit small for the three of us, and, wellâŠâ Instinctively, you place a hand on your stomach. âWith a fourth person, even a tiny person, weâll definitely need more space.â
âOh, honey,â she says, taking your hand in both of hers. âThatâs wonderful.â
You smile, already feeling the tears form behind your eyes. âIsnât it?â you whisper. You already did it once, and yet, the second time feels just as miraculous.
âIâm surprised itâs taken this long for the second one, actually. With the way that boy looks at you⊠Letâs just say I thought youâd be blasting out babies like we used to in my day.â
Her words make you gasp, and you look around the room to make sure none of the other patients are listening. âGrandma!â you exclaim, half-laughing, half-trying to reprimand her.
âDonât be embarrassed about it! Your husband adores you, and I donât think heâs planning on stopping anytime soon.â
You look down at the floor, smile turning sheepish. Even after a wedding and a child together, you still feel giddy at the mention of Jay. âHeâs amazing, Grandma. He takes care of us so well.â
She nods slowly. âGood. Thereâs a whole lot of people that would give him a serious whooping if he didnât.âÂ
A small laugh escapes your throat despite the tears pricking your eyes. Your lips tremble as you speak next, and you have to force the words out, but you feel the need to say them: âSo, thatâs why you have to hold on a little longer, Grandma, hm? Just a little while, so you can meet them."
Her smile turns melancholic, and she takes a deep breath. âI donât know, honey. Iâve already had the privilege of meeting three of my grandchildren, can you believe? Not everyone gets to say that.â
âBut, GrandmaâŠâ
She cuts you off with a squeeze to your hand and a small nod of her head, as if to say, Itâll be okay, donât argue. Before you can say anything further, her expression turns pensive. âThereâs something Iâve been wanting to tell you, too. But Iâve never told anyone, so you gotta keep it to yourself, okay?â
Your eyebrows raise. âOf course.â
âGet me that photo album, on the shelf over there,â she says with a gesture of her head. This is one of your familyâs older albums, one from your grandmotherâs early adult years when your mother and her siblings are still babies and young children. She asked your mother to bring it to her a few weeks after being admitted to the hospital, and youâve gone through it multiple times alreadyâyouâre not sure whatâs left to see.
She turns to a specific page, flipping through the album like she knows exactly where to go, and from behind a photo of your uncleâs third birthday, takes out a black-and-white photo of a man you donât recognize standing in front ofâŠ
However, none of that answers your one question: âWhy are you showing me this, Grandma?â
Thereâs a fondness in her eyes as she stares at the picture, a sad smile on her lipsâan unmistakable expression, but one that youâve never seen her wear. She inhales deeply before answering. âBefore I married your grandfather, there was someone else I loved.â The words rattle you. Your grandfather was a decade older than her and passed away when you were a child. The few memories you have of him are positive, you remember him as a kind man, always ready to dote on his grandchildren and crack jokes; and whenever she mentions him now, which isnât often, she only speaks highly of him. You know marriages of convenience werenât rare back then, but still, you wouldâve never guessed your grandmother had someone else. âKwon Manju.â
You take the photo from her hands, inspect it more closely now that you know who the man is. âYou had taste, Grandma. He was hot,â you say, and it makes her giggleâfor a second, you feel like youâre gossiping with a friend rather than going down memory lane with your grandmother.
âHe was a very charming young man, yes,â she says, chuckling. âAnd he⊠Well, we were so young, but we really loved each other. He was the son of the bookshop owner, I was the daughter of the restaurant owner. Their family didnât mind us being friends when we were children, but once it turned into something elseâŠâ She trails off here, lets out a deep sigh.
âThey opposed it?â
She nods, eats another piece of orange. You wait, concealing your impatience. âIt wasnât particularly prestigious to work in a restaurant back then, even if you owned it. My parents pulled me out of school as early as they could so I could learn how to cook. Meanwhile, their family had the money to put all of their kids through high school and university. He was the eldest son, and they wanted someone educated and sophisticated for him. Not someone who knew how to debone an entire fish and wore clothes that constantly smelled of kimchi.â
âGrandmaâŠâ
âWe spent a while sneaking around, but they found out eventually. He talked about running away, but I couldnât leave my family behind⊠In the end, he did leave Sojuk-ri, but not on his own terms. His parents were friends with a nice family of college professors who lived in Seoul, and they had a daughter his age. His younger brother was set to take up the bookstore. We didnât even have time to say goodbye. And you know what itâs like hereâit became a whole scandal, and my parents thought Iâd never find a husband. Your grandfather was the only boy in town who didnât care.
âHe was a good man and he left us too early. I think, in the end, I loved him more than I ever loved Manju.â Your grandmotherâs eyes meet yours then, and she almost looks surprised by your presence. Maybe she told this story for her own sake as much as yoursâyou remember the relief of letting yourself speak about Jay to someone else for the first time after five years, so you can barely imagine what itâs like, revealing a nearly lifetime-long secret. âI promise there was a use to me telling you about this,â she says, getting a laugh out of you. âIt really struck me when I first saw Jay in the old bookstore. And when he turned out to be who he is⊠Well, I just thought, isnât it neat that the man my granddaughter loves owns the building my first love used to own? Just a nice twist of fate, I suppose.âÂ
When you walk out of your grandmotherâs room a few minutes later, Jay is waiting for you outside, Jaehui in his arms. He smiles when he sees you, then his expression shifts to concernâyou donât realize youâre crying until he asks whether everything is okay. You nod, ready to share with him what you just learned, but your grandmotherâs plea not to tell anyone stops you. Even if you know Jay wouldnât go around blabbering about it, you feel the need to keep this to yourself. Something between you and your grandmother only. So instead, you smile, tell him youâre fine, that these visits just take a toll on you. You sense he knows youâre not telling him everything, but Jay being Jay, he doesnât press, only acquiesces and presses a soft kiss to your forehead.
You know it isnât easy for him to be here. Being in a hospital clearly reminds him of his mother, of everything he had to go through before and after her passing. You feel a sense of guilt that you get to have him by your side now when you werenât there for him back then, but of course, when you tell him this, he reassures you thereâs nothing to feel sorry about, that if your situation had been different at the time, youâd have been there; that your pine nut porridge helped a wondrous amount, and heâll cook it for you in return as often and for as long as you need. âThatâs what we promised when we exchanged our vows, isnât it?â he said, smiling, teasing. (You found out that the mere mention of your marriage did a lot to get you going, even years after the fact, as if you were in a constant state of giddy newlywedded-ness.)
He proposes a detour by the beach before going home. Jaehui doesnât wake up leaving the hospital or in the car, but the moment the waves can be heard, she awakes as if startled, crying to be let out of her stroller, and starts running around, albeit clumsily â running is only a recently developed skill of hers, as well as being a new way of making you scared for her safety at all times â on the beach.
You and Jay find a dry spot of sand to sit on, silently watching over your daughter together. The sun is melting into the horizon, large strokes of gold and pink staining the sky, the last sunrays of the day making the calm waves sparkle. From your calves, to your thighs, to your torsos, the sides of your bodies are pressed against each other, and with a sigh, you let your head rest on his shoulder. These days, you donât need to talk much to understand what the other is thinking.
Jay takes your hand in his, raises it up to his lips to press the softest of kisses there, and itâs a touch that says: âIâm here. Iâm never letting go.â
