Baella ☆

Bae/20 y.o/cancer/ENFP/she/her

[mssishipi]

ONE OF THE GIRLS — ksn

Kim Sunoo has always been one of the girls: soft-spoken, pretty, utterly devoted to the allure of men, men and more men. Women were never his thing, not really—especially not you. You, with your cigarette-drenched, red fucking lips, that wicked mouth always spitting nonsense. He loathed your strut, your cruel tongue, those perfect, infuriating tits that made his cock twitch no matter how hard he tried to look away. And he hated the thought that maybe — he’s starting to think that he swings both ways after all.

content tags/warnings: queer!sunoo x queer! reader, slowburn, one sided enemies to fubu to lovers, misandry comments, gentle angst, reader is a heavy smoker and have a lots of piercings and tattoos. jealousy, mentions of cheating (past rs). light emotional manipulation, toxic behaviors, second chances, queer coded relationship dynamics. sunoo is a nursing student and reader is a fashion design major. two years age gap, reader is shorter than sunoo. explicit content (smut): plot with porn. four different smut scenes. blowjob, some content might be dubious, pussy eating, fingering, protected and unprotected sex: public sex, rainbow (period) sex, multiple sex positions and places lmao, sunoo have a big dick, also dom! sn <3 WC: 45.4K (long ass ride)

note! this is a work of fiction and is not intended to offend anyone in the lgbt community or to fetishize any identities. the themes and characters are purely imaginative and should not be taken as a reflection of real people or experiences. and if you don't like it? don't read it. :)

KIM SUNOO has never truly identified as a man, not in the way society tries to define it.

He was born with what people like to label as "male," but the label never felt like it belonged to him. He's always been one of the girls. Not because he was trying to be anything other than himself, but because that's where he belonged, where he felt seen, understood, and safe. There's no pride in masculinity for him, no comfort in aligning with a category that has done nothing but let him down. Whatever was hanging between his legs didn't mean he owed anything to the idea of manhood, and he sure as hell wasn't going to start pretending it did.

And yet, for all his clarity, all his softness, all his truth—Sunoo, no matter how sharp his wit or clever his comebacks, keeps getting cheated on. It used to be just the straight boys he rolled his eyes at, but the betrayal has evolved. Gays aren't safe anymore either. There's no longer a clean line between "they'd never" and "they did." Gay, straight, bi, whatever — the problem is not orientation, it's the universal mediocrity of modern manhood. There's a plague of emotional negligence infecting them all. He trusted boys who called him beautiful, who knew how to flirt over text, who said "I'm not like the others" — and then turned out to be exactly like the others, but with worse excuses!

And still, the question haunts him: Why? Why does it keep happening? Why do they always cheat? What is it about commitment that scares them so much? He's been good. He's been better than good! He listens, he nurtures, he gives. He doesn't ask for much. Is that really too much? Because it feels like no matter how much effort he puts in, no matter how present he is, no matter how he softens himself to make space for someone else, it never ends with someone choosing him back. The worst part is how often he wonders if it's his fault—if maybe he's just not enough. Not hot enough, not loud enough, not strong enough, not whatever version of "desirable" men have invented that week. It eats at him.

"Good thing you broke up with him. He's not better for you, anyways." Sunoo rolled his eyes, brushing his hair back as he stared blankly at the colorful crochet pieces arranged neatly in front of him. They were at the National Art Celebration, wandering through the Art Museum's marketplace.

He didn't respond to his friend's comment. What was there to say?

His fingers hovered over a small adorable crochet strawberry keychain, the kind of thing he'd usually buy without hesitation but he didn't pick it up, because his mood didn't match the softness in front of him. It hadn't even been a full week since everything crashed. His ex had been sleeping with more than just one person behind his back. Sunoo had confronted him head-on, shaking with anger, and left. The next day, he was at a clinic, filling out forms with numb fingers, waiting for results that thankfully came back clean. Still, the damage wasn't something that a negative result could fix.

"I hope he chokes on his small dick and dies," Sunoo muttered under his breath, not even trying to sound playful about it. He turned from the crochet booth and walked a few steps over to the next one, where rows of stickers were arranged neatly across a dark velvet cloth.

His lips twitched slightly as he noticed a sticker of a cat holding a cigarette in its mouth. The drawing was a little messy nothing like the soft pastel style he usually liked. The rest of the stickers shared the same energy—guitars, ghost-like figures, strange shapes in heavy red and black tones. The entire table had a darker, rougher feel to it, but instead of pushing him away, it pulled him in. Something about the way the lines were drawn, the way the art didn't try to be friendly, and it felt honest, that honesty intrigued him. He picked up the cat sticker, turning it slightly under the light. "This is so cute. Are you the artist?" he asked, glancing up at the boy behind the table.

The boy shook his head with a small grin. "Thank you, but no. I'm just her cousin. She went to grab some food. I'm babysitting her table for now."

Sunoo nodded, eyes still scanning the stickers laid out in front of him. He wasn't even sure where he'd put them if he bought any—his laptop was already full, his tumbler too—but something about them felt worth having. Maybe he just wanted to support someone who clearly put effort into making something different. Without thinking too much, he picked out five more, dropped a bill in the little payment box, and gave a quick thank you before stepping back into the flow of the crowd.

"I'm gonna get the car. Just wait here. The parking lot's, like, so far and it's insanely hot," his friend said, already fanning her face with a brochure as she walked away. Sunoo just gave her a lazy nod and stayed in the shade, sipping his strawberry soda and lightly tapping the tip of his shows against the concrete to keep himself distracted.

It was Saturday, supposed to be relaxing day, but Sunoo's mind didn't know how to slow down. The breakup still clung to him, but even beyond that, the stress of his return demo for nursing school kept replaying in his head. It was getting close, and he still didn't feel ready. His eyebags were starting to sink into his face again, darkening with every late night he spent crying or spiraling in bed, wondering how things managed to fall apart this fast. He'd thought about going out again, just to dance, to pretend, to flirt with someone but he already knew it wouldn't help.

Just as he was about to take another sip from his drink, he froze. His nose twitched — Was that... cigarette smoke? Sunoo immediately grimaced, pressing his fingers over his nose and mouth. What the hell? Who the fuck smokes around here? The whole place was filled with kids and art booths, and there was a giant NO SMOKING sign that was printed in bold red letters, stuck on a wall not even ten steps away. His eyes scanned the shaded rest area until they landed on the source.

There you were—sitting alone on the bench with one leg drawn up, smoke curling lazily from your lips, completely unbothered.

"The fuck?" he muttered, eyes narrowing as another wave of smoke drifted toward him, already starting to irritate his throat. He wasn't trying to start anything, but the longer he stood there, the more it felt like the smoke was reaching out, wrapping around his skin, sneaking into his lungs, clinging to his clothes. He was already dealing with a bad day, and now this?!

You exhaled again, your gaze flicked toward him, catching the look he gave you but you didn't react. If anything, you just blinked, relaxed, fingers still holding the cigarette loosely between them.

Sunoo stood there, clearly expecting you to look guilty or maybe at least pretend to care, but when you didn't, he clicked his tongue in frustration and glanced at the sign again, like pointing it out. "Do you not see the sign?" he said, irritation in every word. "This is a public area, kids are here, and secondhand smoke—do you even know it's worse than smoking yourself? God, the sign is literally right there. It's huge."

You looked at him again, blinking like you didn't quite catch what he was saying. Your hand, holding the cigarette near your mouth, paused midair. Then, slowly, you turned your head to glance over your shoulder, as if making sure he was actually talking to you and not someone else behind the bench.

When your eyes met his again, they stayed on him a second longer. He stood there with a roughness that didn't match the soft features on his face. You let your gaze move over him without shame, noting the little details—the way his hair was clipped back by a cute pink clip, the pale tone of his skin that looked untouched by the sun, smooth, almost too perfect. His lips had a natural flush, a little swollen like he'd been biting them out of stress, and even with that annoyed look carved into his face, there was nothing harsh about him.

What a beautiful man, you thought, not even trying to hide it. You let the moment hang for a bit longer, then flicked the ash off the end of your cigarette with a small movement. Your voice was unbothered when you finally spoke. "You always pick fights with strangers, or am I just lucky today?"

He blinked, caught off guard by how casually you responded. "Start fights?" he repeated, eyes narrowing further. "You're the one breaking the rules. 'No smoking' doesn't mean smoke quietly. It means don't fucking smoke."

You took another drag without rush, then exhaled away from his direction, watching him. "Right. And you yelling about it in public—real mature. Definitely better than me just sitting here minding my own business."

Sunoo stepped forward slightly, jaw tightening. "You're not minding your business. That's the problem."

You shrugged, leaning back just a little on the bench, clearly not moved. "Then move somewhere else. No one's forcing you to breathe next to me. I don't fucking care."

You saw the way the color started creeping into the tips of his ears, how his hands curled into tight fists at his sides like he was holding himself back from saying something worse. He was clearly seething, barely keeping it together. You smiled to yourself then turned your head away to take another drag from your cigarette, the smoke curling softly from your lips.

"Bitch," you heard him muttered under his breath.

You turned your head back toward him, one brow lifting as you exhaled the smoke without rushing. "Excuse me?"

You started to shift, one foot planting on the ground like you were about to stand, but before anything else could happen, a small car pulled up right in front of you. Sunoo didn't waste a second. He walked straight toward it, yanked the passenger door open, and slipped inside as if the vehicle were his escape hatch. He slammed the door, and through the window, you could see the tension still sitting in his shoulders. But what caught your attention was how he didn't look away. Even as the engine came to life, even as the car rolled slowly forward, Sunoo kept his eyes locked on you. His glare was sharp and it's lingering.

You pressed your tongue into your cheek as you took another slow hit from the cigarette, still watching. When the car passed, you caught his reflection in the side mirror, and there he was—still glaring.

You flicked the smoke away from your face, the faintest smirk on your lips as the car disappeared down the road. Hah. He's such a pretty guy. You liked him already.

"Who's that guy?"

Sunoo didn't even try to hide his curiosity as he pointed across the room, eyes fixed on the one person who'd completely pulled his attention. The music was loud, bass thumping through the floor, and bodies moved around the house party in various stages of drunken celebration. It was supposed to be a simple gathering, just something to celebrate surviving midterms and their return demonstrations. He wasn't expecting anything wild tonight. Honestly, he'd shown up mostly out of pressure and to avoid looking like a killjoy. As someone in healthcare, he was all too aware of the risks, especially when it came to hookups. The rise of HIV cases was something that always lingered in the back of his mind, and the weight of what his ex put him through was still fresh. He wasn't exactly in the mood to relive that. But even so... looking didn't hurt, right?

"That's Park Sunghoon," someone answered beside him, casually sipping from their red cup. "Physical Therapy."

Sunoo's eyes narrowed slightly, studying the guy. He was leaning against the wall, laughing, drink in hand, head tilted just enough to show off a clean jawline and that effortless hair. "Does he have a girlfriend?" Sunoo asked, still watching.         His friend shrugged. "I don't know? Maybe? You interested? Go talk to him!"

Sunoo rolled his eyes and sipped from his drink. "I don't even know if he's into men." His friend leaned in, grinning. "Ngeh, I don't know either, but he looks like he's giving off some BL energy. Just try!"

Sunoo didn't respond right away, but his gaze drifted back to Sunghoon, eyes half-lidded from the buzz. There was something about him, the kind of guy who knew he looked good but didn't make a show of it. And okay, maybe there was something about the way he stood that didn't exactly scream masculine authority. There was a softness to it, or maybe just an openness that made Sunoo curious.

He tapped his fingers against his cup, considering. He wasn't looking for anything serious but after everything he'd been through, a little fun wouldn't hurt. And if Park Sunghoon happened to be fun and hot? Well... why the hell not?

With one final sip, Sunoo set his cup down and gave his friend a sly look. "Fine. I'll try."

He took a breath, adjusted his shirt, and began walking through the crowd, weaving past groups of loud classmates and half-finished games of beer pong until he finally reached the corner where Park Sunghoon stood. The table beside them was lined with vodka, soda, and mixers. Sunoo casually took his place beside him, pretending to look through the drink options while stealing a glance at the boy he'd just been staring at across the room.

Sunghoon turned his head slightly, noticed him, and smiled. He raised his cup. "Cheers?" he offered.

Sunoo smiled back, trying not to let it show how fast his heart had just jumped. He reached for a drink off the table, tapping his cup gently against Sunghoon's. "Physical Therapy?" Sunoo asked, trying to keep his tone light, confident and a little sweet.

"Yeah. Nursing?" Sunghoon replied smoothly, and when Sunoo nodded, something about the way Sunghoon smiled deepened, more focused now. That voice—fuck. Sunoo could already feel the heat crawling up his neck. His body wasn't even trying to be subtle about how attracted he was. And God, those hands—Sunghoon reached for the bottle of rum to refill his cup, and Sunoo caught a flash of the veins along his forearm, the easy flex of his wrist, the way his fingers moved with control. For a second, Sunoo lost the ability to form a proper thought. Break my bones. Please. I beg.

They were already halfway through the conversation, and Sunoo could feel himself falling a little too deep for comfort. Sunghoon wasn't just attractive—he was engaging in a way that didn't feel forced. He spoke with confidence in his voice, and Sunoo found himself drawn in with every word. It surprised him how someone could make something as dry as tendons sound this interesting, especially when he usually avoided any talk of lectures once he stepped out of school. But with Sunghoon, it felt different. His voice was soothing, and the way he explained things had a rhythm that made Sunoo want to listen, even if he already knew the topic.

"And you know the tendons that connect from the—" Sunghoon started, his fingers gesturing as he spoke.

Sunoo nodded along, genuinely interested, eyes fixed on him, but then, right in the middle of the sentence, Sunghoon stopped. His posture shifted, back straightening, and his eyes flicked past Sunoo's shoulder like something—or someone—had just pulled his attention. Sunoo frowned, eyebrows drawing together, expecting him to finish the sentence, but instead, he watched as Sunghoon tilted his head slightly, his expression softening in recognition, lips curving upward.

Sunoo glanced behind him, confusion setting in. Then Sunghoon cleared his throat, gave him a polite smile, and said, "Uhh, sorry. If you'll excuse me. Nice meeting you, Sunoo," before lightly tapping his shoulder and walking off.

Sunoo's mouth fell open, completely caught off guard. He barely had time to react before his eyes followed Sunghoon's retreating figure—and then he saw exactly where he was heading. Fuck?!

You were leaning casually against the wall near the hallway entrance, drink in hand, watching the whole interaction. You didn't look surprised to see Sunghoon making his way over. In fact, you barely blinked. The moment he reached you, your body turned just slightly to make space for him. Sunghoon leaned in, said something only you could hear, and your quiet laugh in response said everything else Sunoo didn't want to believe.

Sunoo blinked, chest tight. He could almost feel something short-circuiting inside his brain, like a wire snapping clean. His thoughts were a blur, but one thing was clear—you. His pulse quickened as his body processed the shift, his amygdala practically lighting up with one conclusion: you are a threat.

A threat to his night, his mood, his already bruised ego. God, how was it even possible for someone he'd only met twice to piss him off this much? The universe really had the audacity to let you show up again, and not just exist, but actively ruin his chances at getting laid. Because let's be real—he wasn't looking for love, just something to distract him, and now even that had been snatched by the same cigarette-smoking bitch who couldn't be bothered to respect a no-smoking sign?!

His friend appeared beside him, holding a fresh cup and scanning the room. "Hey, where'd Sunghoon go? You two looked like you were hitting it off."

Sunoo didn't turn to look at her. He just brought the rim of his cup to his lips, finished what was left in a single gulp, and slammed it back on the table. "He went to hell," he muttered. "With someone who clearly lives there." His friend blinked, confused. "Wait—what?"

Sunoo turned to her, face tight with a forced smile. "Don't worry about it. Just remind me next time I say I'm open to meeting new people—slap me."

He exhaled sharply as his eyes drifted back to where the two of you had returned from the hallway. And when he really looked—when he took in your outfit, the way you were dressed like you didn't give a single shit what anyone thought—he almost laughed out loud.

A strawberry shirt? Jorts? Those shoes? That's what Sunghoon left him for? Sunoo scoffed under his breath, shaking his head slowly, barely believing it. He looked down at himself—his carefully styled hair, his clean lines, and then back at you. "Seriously," he muttered, eyes still locked on you. "That's the one?"

He couldn't decide if he was more offended for himself or embarrassed for Sunghoon. Whether you were just a friend, a fling, or something in between, one thing was clear to him now: Park Sunghoon had no taste. And if he did, it was broken.

Anyway, there were plenty of fish in the sea. Sunoo wasn't going to waste his energy sulking over one guy, especially not if you were somehow involved. If Sunghoon had any sort of connection to you then Sunoo would rather tap out early and save himself the trouble. He had enough baggage without adding someone who came with your name attached.

At least, that's what he told himself.

But then again, Sunoo had also said there were so many fish in the sea—yet somehow, it felt like every damn fish was just swimming in circles around you. It was getting ridiculous. He wasn't being dramatic, either. There was always something—some random detail, some little coincidence, and suddenly, boom. You. Right there again.

Date number one: a gym instructor. Hot, yes, a little edgy, had that calm, slow-talking voice Sunoo secretly liked. Things were going okay, until the guy pulled out his phone to show pictures of his niece's birthday party and proudly pointed to a group photo. Sunoo was nodding politely, until his eyes caught on one specific person in the background, holding the cake and grinning. He blinked. Zoomed in. Yup. You. Holding a cake with your horrible strawberry tank top. Niece, cousin, whatever—you were related. Add to that the guy reeked of cigarettes the whole time, and Sunoo was done before dessert.

Date number two: a Med Tech student. Good on paper, clean cut, same healthcare background, probably understood his schedule and stress levels. Sunoo was really trying with this one. But on their second date, as they were walking to a café near the guy's family's shop, Sunoo noticed someone standing out front during a break—leaning against the wall, cigarette between your lips, looking bored out of your mind. You. Again. You even smirk at him! Sunoo didn't even finish the coffee. He went home and ghosted the guy the next morning.

Okay, maybe he was being petty. Maybe, in a community as tight as theirs, having overlap wasn't that deep. But could anyone really blame him? Sunoo could admit it—he was petty, fine. He could own that. His feelings were valid. He was the one showing up, putting in effort, trying to start something new while somehow tripping over you every single time.

And if anyone dared to question why he was so quick to shut people down the moment your name and face got involved, well—he'd like to point them toward basic psychology. According to research, the brain forms first impressions within seconds. These impressions are shaped by appearance, voice, body language, even scent—and they trigger implicit biases, unconscious reactions that color how we feel about someone before they even say a word. And what had his brain learned to associate with you? Cigarettes, interruptions, stolen men, smug grins, and the color strawberry.

So, yes. Sunoo was triggered. And he was allowed to be.

"Damn, my neck is killing me from all these hospital duties. I'm seriously craving mint ice cream right now," Sunoo groaned, letting himself collapse face-first into the couch at Jungwon's dorm. He had no energy left and zero motivation to head back to his own apartment. Everything hurt—his back, his neck, even his brain.

"I'm begging for a break," Jungwon said from his desk, not looking up from his laptop. "God, give me a date."

Sunoo's voice came out muffled, his face still buried in the cushion. "I'm fine with God not giving me a date as long as I get a decent eight hours of sleep."

"What happened with all those dates you went on?" Jungwon finally asked, turning slightly in his chair. "None of them worked out?"

"I'd rather not talk about it," Sunoo muttered, one hand waving in the air like he could physically dismiss the topic. He sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Forget it. I'm going to grab ice cream before I start crying about my life again. Want anything?"

Jungwon leaned back and grinned. "Can you buy me some lube?"

Sunoo rolled his eyes so hard. "Get your own, freak."

He stood up, grabbing his wallet off the coffee table and brushing off invisible lint from his pants. He didn't even know if he actually wanted ice cream anymore or if he just needed an excuse to be alone for a bit. Either way, he needed air. And distance. And ideally, a world where you didn't exist in every corner of his social life.

But of course, fate had other plans—because who else would be behind the counter of the convenience store at 10:42 PM but you, punching in his order with that same lazy grin plastered on your face as your eyes dropped directly to the bottle of lube and box of condoms on the counter.

Seriously. How many fucking jobs did you have? Sunoo stared at you, disbelief turning to horror, then to full-blown irritation. "Can you not grin like that?" he snapped, arms crossed. "What happened to discrete and nonjudgmental service? I need to speak to your manager."

You tilted your head slightly and blinked at him with exaggerated innocence, hand pausing over the touchscreen like you were truly offended. The expression only made his eye twitch harder. "That's discrimination," he added, glaring. "I should be allowed to buy whatever I want without being mentally harassed by your face."

Your lips twitched. You tried to play it cool, but the smirk slipped out before you could stop it. There it was again—that look of yours, amused and smug. So ugly!

Honestly, you hadn't expected to see him again so soon. It was the third time now, and at this point, his dramatic reactions were starting to feel like a reward. The moment he walked through the door and made eye contact with you, something in you shifted—your lips curled up instinctively, and the weight of the day suddenly didn't feel so heavy.      "Huh?" you said innocently, your voice small as you tilted your head slightly, letting your bottom lip pout just enough to be annoying.

Sunoo looked like he was one breath away from combusting, especially when his eyes flicked to your mouth and you knew he caught the glint of the piercing on your lower lip, because his gaze lingered just a second too long before his face twisted in irritation.

"Huh?" he mocked, eyebrows raised and lips pushed out as he mimicked your expression, only to immediately roll his eyes so hard. Without another word, he reached across the counter and snatched the bag from your hands, the plastic crinkling loudly in the quiet. He slapped a $50 bill on the counter, pointedly avoiding your eyes.

"Keep the change and never show your face again," he snapped, already turning on his heel. "God, bye," he added with a dramatic flick of his head, tossing his hair back.

You barely held in the laugh bubbling up your throat. Cute! you thought, bracing your hands on the counter as your smile widened. "Enjoy your night, sir!" you called after him, loud and obnoxiously cheerful.

You caught the twitch of his shoulders as he froze for half a second at the door. Then, without turning fully around, he glanced at you over his shoulder, hand lifting to flash you a very clear middle finger before pushing the door open and disappearing.

You leaned back, shaking your head with a quiet chuckle. Yup. Definitely your favorite regular now.

With Sunoo buried in nonstop clinical duties, he was starting to believe that God had decided to personally test his patience. Every day was a cycle of waking up too early, surviving rounds with barely any caffeine, and crashing into bed with a brain too tired to think but still too anxious to sleep. If this was divine character development, he wanted a refund. But fine, he'd give credit where it was due. At least he wasn't in a relationship. He couldn't imagine juggling a partner on top of exams, hospital reports, and constant reminders of his nonexistent social life. That would've been a mental breakdown waiting to happen.

Sunoo still hated men or so he said. But hatred, as he often reminded himself bitterly, was a slippery slope. The more you hated, the more they crawled under your skin. And men, those confusing, beautiful disasters, were impossible to avoid. The way they smiled, the stupid flex of their arms when they weren't even trying, those veiny hands that somehow haunted his imagination late at night—ugh. It was criminal, really. He wasn't desperate, but he wasn't made of stone either. If he said he didn't miss at least a little action, he'd be lying.

So when Jake asked him to tag along to the university gym because he was meeting a friend there for a commission, Sunoo agreed—reluctantly at first. But the moment they stepped into the gym and his eyes landed on the group of basketball players practicing on the court, all thoughts of regret evaporated.

"I was waiting for my friend. Sorry to drag you into it. I have a commission with her, she told me to meet her here. Is that okay?" Jake asked, casually.

Sunoo could barely hear him over the internal scream in his head. Of course it's okay. It's so okay he might cry. His gaze was locked on one specific figure—Lee Heeseung, the captain of the university's basketball team, currently making shots. Sunoo's mouth may not have been literally on the floor, but it was dangerously close. His eyes followed every movement of how Heeseung's shirt clung to his back, how his arms flexed with every jump, how sweat dripped down his neck—

Jake nudged him. "You good?"

"Peachy," Sunoo replied, voice an octave too high as he cleared his throat. "Just... appreciating," his eyes scanned the gym, trailing slowly over the players until, inevitably, they landed on the captain, Lee Heeseung. Sunoo raised his hands vaguely, motioning toward the court as if trying to justify the way he was staring. "...physical education."

But of course, like in some movies he never signed up for, the metaphorical glass shattered the moment you appeared. Just walked right into his field of vision. The air shifted, his stomach dropped, and his brows furrowed. His expression twisted into something between disgust and disbelief as his arms dropped in surrender. What the hell were you doing here?! Oh God?! You and him are in the same university?!

And then, just as Sunoo thought the scene couldn't get worse, Jake stood up, grinning wide. "There you are!" he said before pulling you into a hug and pressing a kiss on your cheek.

Sunoo's entire soul left his body. What. The. Actual. Fuck.

Jake was gay—openly and proudly gay—and Sunoo, as judgmental as he sometimes got, couldn't help but squint suspiciously. Are you seriously friends with his friends? Because if anyone was giving homophobic vibes, it was definitely you. Sunoo blinked hard. The math wasn't mathing. Did Jake not feel the same tension he did? Oh no. Jake needed help. Jake needed saving. God, someone had to sit him down and explain a few things before it was too late.

"Oh! Meet Sunoo! He's my best friend from nursing."

And there it was—the inevitable moment where Sunoo had no choice but to lock eyes with you. The second your gaze met his, you smiled so sweetly it made his entire body crawl. You even added a little wave, like this was the friendliest encounter on earth, and not the fourth time you'd popped up in his life. Sunoo felt the twitch in his eye before he could stop it, jaw clenching as he forced the most plastic smile onto his face. The corners of his eyes crinkled with pure performance. He stood up, cheeks already aching from pretending, leaned in for a polite cheek-to-cheek like he wasn't imagining pulling your hair back in pure rage, and was immediately hit with a mix of cigarette smoke and YSL Libre perfume. Ugh.

Jake, completely oblivious to the silent war unfolding, beamed as he gestured between the two of you. "She's a fashion design major! Does commissions too—drawings, paintings, cakes, you name it."

Sunoo nodded stiffly, barely reacting. Inside, he was sighing so loud he could practically hear himself. As Jake went on, clearly proud to know someone like you, Sunoo watched you nod and smile with just the right amount of humility, your tone gentle, polite, soft—like butter wouldn't melt in your mouth. This is fake. You're fake. This whole performance is fake. God, Jake deserves better friends. He forced another smile, barely hanging onto his sanity. Because the way you were looking at him right now and you knew he was crumbling inside was enough to make his blood boil.

And worst of all, you looked delighted about it. Bitch. You're a bitch. Sunoo didn't even try to be polite about it in his head anymore. He had fully accepted the fact that you existed in his life for the sole purpose of testing his patience.

But of course, it didn't stop there. Since Jake thought you and Sunoo were getting along just fine, he began inviting you everywhere. Lunch, coffee breaks, study sessions—any time he had a free hour, he'd text both of you like this was some little trio. Fuck him!

And every time you showed up, Sunoo could feel that familiar twitch start behind his eye, the one that pulsed when he was one annoyance away from losing it. Your voice would float into the conversation like you had no idea you were driving him slowly insane.

But the worst part? The absolutely most humiliating part? He was starting to notice things. Little details that stuck with him even though he never asked for them. You smoked Marlboro Reds, but you always kept a strawberry-flavored vape in your bag. You wore outfits like you just rolled out of a punk indie concert, all black with layered chains and boots that could kill a man, but he'd bet money your favorite color was red—based on the red phone case, the red liner under your eyes, the strawberry pins you sometimes wore on your bag. You had a piercing on your tongue—he found that out when you bit into a donut one afternoon and casually stuck your tongue out in surprise because of the powdered sugar.

He didn't mean to remember all of this. He didn't even talk to you. Not directly, at least. Every time Jake tried to bridge conversation between you two, it felt like some weird form of punishment. Sunoo would answer, you'd smile knowingly, and Jake would keep chatting like this three-way exchange wasn't slowly draining Sunoo's soul.

"Jake has a fear of needles, so maybe stop trying to convince him to get a piercing or a tattoo," Sunoo said, not even glancing up from his drink.

He hadn't meant to speak, but with Jake in the restroom and the silence between you two stretching, the words slipped out. His tone was calm but the way his fingers tightened slightly around his cup betrayed the irritation simmering under his skin.

You turned your head, raising a brow slowly as if deciding whether to entertain this or not. "Hmm? I didn't know we were handing out unsolicited advice now," you said, tilting your glass to make the ice clink. "Is that your subtle way of joining the conversation, Ddeuno?"

His jaw flexed the moment the nickname left your lips. He finally looked at you, eyes sharp. "It's not joining if I'm already in it. Jake was talking to both of us. And it's Sunoo. Not that hard."

You smiled, amused by the twitch in his expression. "Sure, Sunoo. But don't you think Jake's capable of making his own choices?"

"He is," he said, voice a touch tighter as he leaned forward and crossed one leg over the other. "Which is exactly why I know he wouldn't have asked if you didn't plant the idea in his head."

You rested your elbow on the table and glanced at him with casual ease. "I didn't plant anything. He saw my piercing and asked. Maybe you're just not used to people being curious about something you can't control."

He scoffed, shaking his head as he stirred his drink, the metal spoon tapping against ceramic. "Right, because nothing screams freedom of choice like peer pressure with a side of aesthetic superiority."

"I never pressured him," you said, eyes locked on his. "But if he wanted to try something new, I wouldn't stop him. You, on the other hand, sound like you'd tackle him to the ground before he could book an appointment."

Okay, fuck this. Sunoo's patience was thinning by the second, and he could feel the irritation rising and rising and rising! He hadn't come here to argue, but the way you kept smiling, like you knew how to push every single one of his buttons, made it impossible to let it slide.

He wasn't trying to control Jake. He was just looking out for him because someone had to. Sunoo had this belief, stubborn as it was, that people who covered themselves in piercings and tattoos didn't exactly value their skin the way they should. It wasn't about being judgmental, it was about keeping things clean, presentable, safe. Sure, he wouldn't tell strangers how to live their lives, but when it came to the people around him? The people he cared about? He preferred them untouched.

He turned to you again, eyes hard. "There's nothing wrong with wanting the people I care about to take care of themselves properly."

You didn't flinch, just tilted your head slightly, like you were waiting for more. "Tattoos and piercings aren't unhygienic if done right," you replied. "But sure, let's pretend this is about safety and not just your obsession with control."

Sunoo laughed under his breath, the sound hollow. "Yeah? And let me guess—you're the expert now because you sat through a couple needle sessions and watched some tattoo TikToks?"

You leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, gaze unshaken. "No. But I'm someone who understands that self-expression doesn't need your permission."

The tension in the air crackled. And just when it felt like one more word would tip things over the edge, Jake returned to the table, smiling. "Miss anything?" he asked, completely unaware.

You leaned back smoothly, picking up your drink like nothing happened. "Not a thing."

That was it. He couldn't keep letting this slide. As much as he tried to convince himself he was just being overprotective, he knew deep down he was past the line of tolerating your presence. You were a bad influence on Jake—he was sure of it—and sooner or later, someone had to say it. That someone was going to be him.

Later that day, when you'd left first and it was just the two of them walking toward the station, Sunoo finally spoke. "Do you... ever feel a certain vibe from her?"

Jake blinked, looking over at him with an innocent confusion that made Sunoo want to scream. "Huh? Vibes? What kind of vibes?"

Bitch vibes, Sunoo almost blurted out. He had to stop himself from saying it out loud. He cleared his throat, trying to sound more composed. "Just... like, the way she talks. She always has something to say, and it's never just casual. It's like everything's meant to get a reaction."

Jake tilted his head slightly, clearly trying to follow. "You mean, like, she's too witty?"

Sunoo narrowed his eyes. "No, like... she's too comfortable? It's weird. And I don't trust it."

Jake just laughed, brushing it off too easily. "She's just chill. That's how she is with everyone. She's a good person, Sunoo. You just haven't gotten used to her yet."

Sunoo sighed, irritated. "That's the problem. I don't want to get used to her. And maybe you shouldn't either." He let the word slipped on his mouth.

Jake glanced at him, and for the first time, his smile faded a little. "She's my friend. You're my friend. Just... try not to be mean, okay?"

Maybe he had sounded a little too harsh, a little too pointed—but it wasn't like he was being mean for the sake of it. Sunoo knew what it looked like, but deep down, it wasn't about jealousy or drama. He was just trying to protect something that mattered to him before it got tangled up in whatever messy situation. He didn't trust easily, and the way you walked into their lives set off every internal alarm. But Jake... Jake wasn't the type to see danger. Not like Sunoo did.

"Sorry," he said quietly, reaching out to gently hold Jake's hand with a small smile. Jake just nodded and gave his hand a soft squeeze in return, the silence between them filled with a quiet understanding even if they didn't see eye to eye on everything.

Meanwhile, from your side of things, things were quite different.

The more time you spent around Kim Sunoo, the more curious you became. You weren't really interested in men. They were too predictable, too performative, too eager to please and too quick to disappoint. They were fun, sometimes, but they didn't hold your attention. But Sunoo was something else. You didn't even notice when it started. Maybe it was the way he carried himself. Maybe it was the way he bit back when provoked, or how he tried so hard to hide that he cared too much about the people around him.

You'd seen beautiful people before. You'd had flings, hookups, distractions. But Sunoo... he stuck. You were clearly interested. and there were moments that he annoyed you, sure. Challenged you. Threw shade but he made your brain work. He made your skin itch in that specific way only people you couldn't quite figure out ever did. And fine, maybe it was because he looked a little like a girl. Soft skin, pouty lips, those lashes that curled perfectly for no reason. You couldn't stop looking at him.

Well, too bad for you, he didn't seem the least bit pleased with your presence. And honestly? The feeling was mutual. He had that almost condescending way of speaking that made everything sound like a warning label. Foul controlling mouth, always ready with a "don't do this," or a "you shouldn't do that." He was a walking killjoy wrapped in pretty skin, constantly policing the air around him like joy was something to be monitored.

It didn't make sense. How could someone so tightly wound be friends with someone like Jake, who floated through life like a balloon one gust away from flying into the sun? What were they even talking about when you weren't around? Did Sunoo lecture Jake on posture and caffeine intake? Did Jake actually listen?

"Are you getting along with Sunoo well?" Jake asked.

You paused mid-hit with your vape, the familiar strawberry taste lingering on your tongue as you raised your leg up onto the bench, shoulders lifting in a shrug. You exhaled slowly, letting the smoke drift upward as you looked off to the side. "Define 'well,'" you murmured.

Of course, Jake would ask. And of course, Sunoo had probably said something. It was expected. That boy had a hard time keeping anything off his chest, especially when it came to people he clearly couldn't stand. Jake sighed, slumping back against the bench like your answer had physically disappointed him. "Aww, come on. I really want you two to get along," he muttered, pouting.

You glanced at him, the corner of your mouth pulling into a faint smirk. "Jake, I don't not get along with him. We just don't operate on the same wavelength." You watched as Jake's shoulders dropped a little, disappointment settling in. There was a pause, not long, but long enough for you to notice the way he kept looking at you like he was hoping for a better answer. So you gave him one, even if it came reluctantly. "He's interesting, though."

That made Jake perk up, turning to face you more fully, hope flickering back into his expression. "You think so?"

And with that soft look on his face, that typical sunshine that you could never seem to say no to, you found yourself giving in. Fine. The next time you saw Sunoo, you wouldn't provoke him. You'd leave his nerves alone for once, maybe even make an effort not to smell like smoke. You already knew that Sunoo probably hated the smell of cigarettes. The way he wrinkled his nose when you were near, how he subtly shifted his body away like he didn't want to breathe the same air, said more than enough.

He was the type who liked rules. Cleanliness. Probably thought smoking was a character flaw rather than a habit. So controlling. But if it meant keeping peace with Jake, you could give it a shot. And you really want to get along with  him, though. Not just a friend.

If men were animals, Sunoo would absolutely agree they were monkeys but honestly, even that felt unfair to monkeys. At least monkeys had a sense of community. They groomed each other, protected their own, had an instinct to care. Men? Men could barely carry a conversation without twisting it to revolve around themselves, like everything was orbiting their fragile egos. And what did it even say about him that he'd still actually tried to be patient with that last one? The man had poor communication skills, grammar that made Sunoo want to cry, a sense of humor so dry it could choke a cactus, and hygiene that was clearly not taught with enough urgency in his household. Sunoo had still shown up, been kind, understanding, even offered grace where he really shouldn't have.

And he got ghosted. After all that effort, after tolerating body spray that didn't cover the scent of unwashed laundry, and laugh emojis used in places where no jokes existed—Sunoo was the one who got left on read.

And as if the universe hadn't done enough damage, this morning, their Clinical Instructor decided to nitpick his grooming. Said his hair was too long and should be "cleaned up to maintain a professional image." Too long? It was barely brushing his ears!

Sunoo slammed his locker shut, lips pressed into a thin line as he yanked his lanyard off and stuffed it into his pocket. "I need a mango shake," he muttered under his breath, storming out of the building. "Or I need a drink. Or I need to get laid. Honestly, at this point, any of the three will do. Fuck this life."

And as if the day hadn't already tried to ruin him, it just kept going. Sunoo tripped over one of the uneven bricks in the university garden—in front of three freshmen and a couple from Dentistry—and his whole body hit the ground like it had something to prove. The worst part? He was wearing his white clinical uniform, freshly ironed this morning, and now it had mud on the knee, a grass stain on the sleeve, and his shoe was ruined. The sole peeled at the side like it was giving up on life, just like him.

He stood there for a moment, fists clenched, eyes locked on the sky like he was daring it to rain. His pride was already dented, his clothes dirty, his patience snapped and now, of course, not a single damn taxi in sight was stopping. He raised his arm again, waved it with enough energy to summon a ghost, but every car either sped past or pretended not to see him. People were staring. He could hear the soft chuckles, see the sideways glances. He was half a second from screaming into the void or kicking a bush, whichever came first.

And then came the low sound of motorbike. He turned his head, expecting just another person speeding past him like the rest of the universe, but the bike slowed down instead. The helmeted rider stopped in front of him, casually lifting the visor.

His eye twitched instantly. Of course it was you. Like the universe had specially selected you to appear right when he had the least energy to deal with anything, especially you. His grip on his bag strap tightened out of habit, maybe even to stop himself from doing something regrettable. The strap strained against his palm as he imagined how satisfying it would be to swing it straight at your little helmet.

You didn't speak but the amused curve of your lips said everything. Your eyes scanned his state—mud on his uniform, one shoe visibly damaged, face flushed with humiliation and frustration—and that damn smile only grew. "Rough day, pretty boy?"

Sunoo closed his eyes, shoulders rising with a deep inhale of your voice. He hadn't seen you in weeks, maybe months, and yet here you were, showing up when his life was at its absolute worst. He opened his eyes slowly, and instead of giving you the satisfaction of a scowl, he gave you a sweet, polite smile. "Fuck off."

You tilted your head slightly, helmet still on, visor up, as if you were genuinely trying to decide whether his attitude deserved a response. "Hmm," you murmured, nonchalant. "Need a ride, or are you into being publicly humiliated? Because you're doing a great job."

"I'd rather crawl," he muttered under his breath, shifting his weight, and instantly regretting it when his soaked shoe made a gross squish. Disgusting. This day was disgusting.

"Great," you replied, gripping the throttle. "Let me know how far that gets you. Good luck."

The engine growled once beneath you as you rolled the bike forward a little, just enough to make it clear you were ready to leave him standing there. And that should've been fine. He didn't need you. He didn't want your help.

Except he did. Because his legs were aching, his socks were wet, and none of the taxis had stopped for the last fifteen minutes, and to make things worse, he had class at two o'clock sharp. There was no way he could show up looking like this, not with the nursing department's obsession with cleanliness and grooming. One look at his uniform and they'd send him straight home. He didn't have the time or energy to risk that.

So, against every ounce of pride in his body, he swallowed hard and called out, "W-Wait."

The second it left his mouth, regret settled in. You didn't even bother to turn off the engine. You just tilted your head again, that damn helmet catching the light, your eyes already locking on his with that same irritating amusement you always wore around him.

Sunoo's eye twitched. His fingers curled tighter around the strap of his bag. Every part of him wanted to kick your stupid motorbike over and walk away barefoot, but his common sense—the part that knew wet shoes, strict instructors, and a late clinical check-in didn't mix—kept him rooted in place.

You raised your brows. "Changed your mind?"

"No," he snapped. "The universe is just clearly mocking me and you're the cherry on top."

You let out a short laugh. "That's not a no."

He clenched his jaw and looked away for a second, like maybe if he didn't see your face, he could pretend this wasn't happening. Then finally, after a long pause, he muttered, "I need a ride. That's it. Don't talk. Just drive."

You patted the back of the seat, without another word, the engine rumbled beneath you as you steadied the bike, shifting slightly to pull your helmet off and offer it to him. Sunoo blinked, hesitating. "You're not wearing one?"

You tilted your head, brushing your hair out of your face as you balanced the bike with one leg. "You're in a clinical uniform. If we get stopped, guess who they'll blame for not following safety rules? Just take it, Nurse."

He didn't reply, just snatched the helmet from your hand and mumbled something under his breath that sounded like, I hate you, though it came out too tired to carry any real hatred. He shoved it on, adjusting the strap a little too aggressively before climbing on behind you.

"Jake said your place is near the Avenue, right?" you asked, eyes already ahead. "I'm going the long way. No checkpoints."

Sunoo gripped the back handle awkwardly at first before giving in and placing his hands lightly on your waist for balance, trying not to think too hard about the contact. "Whatever," he muttered. "Just drive."

The wind wrapped around both of you, warm against his face, tugging at his hair and slipping into the space between his collar and neck. He hated how natural it felt to sit there with you, hated how the scent of your perfume still clung to the inside of the helmet. He hates the smell of the strawberry yet he don't know why it was giving him comfort right now.

"Drop me off at that corner," he said, leaning closer to make sure you heard him, pointing toward the shaded part of the sidewalk ahead.

You didn't say anything—just pulled over smoothly and tapped the brakes until the bike came to a steady stop. The second it did, he got off like the seat had turned hot, quickly removing the helmet and smoothing down his messy hair. He held the helmet out toward you stiffly.

You took it, setting it on the handlebars, and exhaled a breath. "You know," you started, giving him a once-over, "for someone who acts so obsessed with respect and rules, you're really bad at saying thank you."

Sunoo let out a breath that was halfway between a scoff and a sigh. "I didn't ask for your help."

You shrugged, hands settling easily on the handles. "Yeah. But you still climbed on."

He looked at you for a moment, lips twitching like he wanted to say something else but couldn't find the energy. Instead, he turned his gaze away, cheeks flushed from heat.

"Fine," he said, barely above a mutter. "Thanks. For the ride."

Your smile widened, "anytime, pretty boy."

He rolled his eyes, turned around, and walked off before you could enjoy the look on his face any longer. But you were already watching his back as he stormed away, your fingers brushing against the helmet. Cute. So damn cute!

"What do you mean you're not going?" Sunoo asked, frowning as he walked alongside Jake through the hallway.

"I'm busy," Jake replied, reaching for his locker and spinning the lock. "Jungwon's coming anyway, right? Just vibe with him for now. You'll survive a night without me."

Sunoo let out a dramatic sigh and stomped his foot, clearly not in the mood to be reasonable. "But I want you there! It's not fun without you."

Jake pulled out a thick review binder and glanced at him over his shoulder. "I've got a summative test on Monday, remember? It's kind of important. We could just crash at my place after, maybe do a sleepover?"

"Ihhh," Sunoo whined, dragging out the sound. "I don't want to sleep, I want to drink."

Jake raised an eyebrow, already sensing where this was headed. "Don't tell me this is about that guy from the other school ghosting you. Again."

Sunoo rolled his eyes and waved a dismissive hand. "It's not about that. I just... feel like drinking. That's all."

Jake stared at him for a moment, closing his locker slowly, trying to read beneath the surface. "Right. Totally not about him." He slung his bag over one shoulder and sighed. "Look, let me get through these notes first. If I finish early, I'll come join you. But until then, just go with Jungwon, okay?"

Sunoo pouted but didn't argue further. He hated going without Jake, but sulking alone wouldn't change the plan. He was going out tonight, one way or another and with Jake or not, he was going to forget every bit of bullshit the week had piled on him. Even if it meant dragging Jungwon into whatever he was about to step into.

He swore it was going to be just one drink—maybe two, while waiting for Jake but the moment they arrived, it turned out the party was practically a shrine to drinking games. The music was loud, the lights were low, and every corner had someone yelling "bottoms up!"

Jungwon, despite his initial confidence, was barely holding it together after three rounds of some game that involved slapping the table and chanting nonsense. He stood up abruptly, wobbling slightly as he pressed a hand to his stomach. "Oh my God, I feel like I'm going to vomit. Why am I such a loser?" he groaned, and without waiting for a response, excused himself, muttering something about needing air—or a toilet.

Sunoo, meanwhile, wasn't faring much better. His head was spinning, cheeks flushed, and his limbs felt like they were being operated by someone else. He didn't even realize when the giggles turned into sniffles, and the sniffles turned into full-blown tears. He ended up kneeling by the edge of the marble platform near the open balcony, smacking his fist weakly against the cool surface as the alcohol dragged his emotions right out of him.

"Ehhhhhh," he cried, voice cracking pitifully. "I want a boyfriennnnddd!"

Jay, who had been casually sipping beer on the couch nearby, looked up in alarm as Sunoo stumbled toward him with watery eyes. He stopped in front of him, wiping at his cheeks like it would hide the mess.

"Pleaseee," Sunoo sniffled, leaning close. "Find me a boyfriend. I want to be loved. I'm so soft. I'm so kind. Why am I suffering?! Ugh."

Jay blinked, glanced around the party like someone might swoop in and handle the situation for him, and when no one came, he slowly set his beer down. "...Do you want water?"

Sunoo gasped, "I want love, not hydration!" he wailed, continue to sob.

Before Jay could figure out what to do with that level of emotional spiral, someone approached from behind.

"Jay, the owner's already handing us the money—what the fuck?"

Sunoo blinked through his tears and looked up, vision blurry as your voice rang out. You stood just inside the balcony doorway. Red halter sando clinging to your shoulders, he noticed a tattoo. Ink, in a soft pinkish-red tone, winding delicately along your shoulder and upper arm. The design was detailed floral vines and swirls that traced across your collarbone and around your bicep. It was so beautifully done, it almost looked like it was growing from your skin, and that pissed him off even more. Your baggy jeans low on your hips, your hair twisted into a messy bun. A guitar strap slung diagonally over your body, cigarette hanging loose between your fingers. Your eyeshadow was smudged black and glittery, clashing violently with your red lipstick, but somehow you made it work—though Sunoo would never admit that out loud. Not even if he were dying.

There was no smirk this time, no teasing glint in your eyes. Just a quiet kind of concern as you stared down at him. And he hated it. Absolutely hated it!

So, naturally, he raised his middle finger at you with zero hesitation. Jay glanced between the two of you and awkwardly took a step back. "You know him? Can you, like... deal with that? I need to talk to someone real quick." And just like that, he vanished quickly into the crowd, getting the guitar off on your shoulder to avoid any responsibilities.

Sunoo only sobbed harder. You sighed, dragging your foot across the cigarette to put it out before crouching in front of him. "What the hell happened to you?" you asked, eyeing his flushed cheeks, watery eyes, and hands tugging uselessly at the front of his shirt. "Where's Jake? Did he leave you here like this?"

Sunoo sniffled, bottom lip trembling. "I want to get laaaaaiiiid," he wailed, grabbing your shoulder. "Why can't people stay? What's wrong with me?!"

You blinked slowly, barely reacting to him shaking your shoulder with every word. "Maybe... because you're controlling?"

Sunoo froze, then glared at you, eyes wide and offended. "Fuck you! You can't even give me basic emotional support? What kind of monster are you?"

You let out a breath and sat down fully in front of him. "You want emotional support? Fine. You're hot. You're smart. You've got flawless skin and cheekbones people would sell their soul for. Now stop crying like the world ended. You're embarrassing both of us."

Sunoo sniffled again, staring at you with eyes too round and glassy for his own good. "Do you mean it?"

"Yes, I mean it," you muttered, already unlocking your phone to text Jake. "Now let's get out of here before you sob all over someone else's balcony—"

"No!" he snapped, suddenly snatching your phone and stepping back.

Your eyes widened in disbelief, your fingers twitching in the air where your phone had just been. Sunoo stood tall now, swaying only slightly, the alcohol clearly still sitting heavy in his limbs, but his grip on your phone was surprisingly solid. "Sunoo—" you warned, reaching for it, only for him to lift it higher. Damn his height.

He looked down at you, still flushed, lips pulling into a mischievous little smile that was way too proud for someone who had been sobbing on the floor five minutes ago. "It's my turn to be annoying," he said, tilting his head. "Am I actually hot?"

"Sunoo—" you sighed through your teeth, rising onto the balls of your feet. "Yes, you're hot. Now give me my phone back."

He raised it even higher. "So I'm not ugly?"

"You're pretty, Sunoo. Very pretty," you said, swallowing a dry knot in your throat as you felt your face heat up. His body was too close again, and this was definitely not where you thought the night would go.

Before you could collect yourself, he slumped forward, head landing against your neck with the weight of all his sadness. "Then why the hell does everyone cheat on me?" he wailed, and the force of him nearly knocked you backward until your spine hit the metal railing.

You stood there, half-pinned under a very clingy Kim Sunoo, awkwardly patting his back as you tried to retrieve your phone. But his grip only tightened.

He pulled away slightly, just enough to look at you, eyes still red, but his lashes clumped and wet and his lips trembling. "L-let's drink?" he mumbled. "You're annoying. I still hate you a little but I'll forget it. J-just... just don't smoke, okay? I don't like it when people smoke, okayyy?"

"Sunoo," you exhaled slowly, adjusting your balance as he kept his weight partially slumped on you, "I'm not drinking. I only came here for a gig. And I'm driving my bike. I have work tomorrow—"

"Owww-kayyy?" he cut you off with a lopsided pout.

You stared at him, unblinking. "I'm going to call Jake now."

"Owww-kayyy?" he repeated, holding your phone.

You sighed and pressed your fingers to the bridge of your nose. "Okay," you muttered.

That was all he needed. Sunoo let out a soft cheer, grabbing your hand with enthusiasm as he pulled you back into the party. You thought you were just going to drink with him, maybe a shot or two to shut him up, but Sunoo clearly had other plans.

His version of "let's drink" turned out to mean filling an entire cup with whatever was on the table and practically forcing it into your hands. You barely had time to brace yourself before he was tipping the rim toward your lips, eyes wide and sparkling.

You coughed through the first one, gagged through the second, and by the time the third hit your throat, you were wincing with every swallow. It burned all the way down and you already knew you wouldn't survive the night. For someone who smokes like it's your job, your alcohol tolerance was embarrassingly low and hangovers always hit like a truck. But then again, Sunoo was too pretty to say no to when he smiled like that, even with that annoying bratty glint in his eye.

"Party, partehhh! Yeahh!" he shouted, twirling you into the crowd like you were suddenly best friends.

Somehow, you ended up in the middle of the dance floor. Lights spinning, bass vibrating through your chest, and before you could stop yourself, your body had already leaned back against him. His hands found your waist automatically, and you didn't know if it was the alcohol or something else entirely, but your hips were moving, grinding gently against him in time with the beat.

You tilted your head slightly, cheek brushing his jaw as you muttered, "Maybe... men aren't for you, Sunoo."

He blinked down at you, clearly dazed, but still gripping your waist. "What?" he said, almost laughing.

"Swing for girls this time," you slurred with a half-smile, your fingers lightly tracing his cheek, your eyes struggling to focus. "Girls won't cheat on you."

He snorted. "Women were never my thing, bitch."

Your smile faltered just a little, and you pouted up at him, thumb brushing over the edge of his cheekbone. "In a relationship... or in sex?" You tilted your head and looked up at him through half-lidded eyes. "Because girls? They'll treat you right. They'll adore you. They'll give you the kind of head that makes you forget your own name."

Sunoo's breath caught for a second, but he didn't move away. "I know that," he muttered. "I'm one of the girls."

You hummed, dragging your gaze along his features, watching the way he blinked slower now, how his lips parted slightly as your words pressed deeper. "Mmm. But have you ever been treated like that by a girl?" you asked again, your hips shifted, rolling back just enough to press against the heat of him.

Sunoo bit his bottom lip, hard enough to leave a mark. He wanted to shove you away, curse you out, remind you just how much you irritated him—but something burned hotter in his veins than the alcohol and it was how intoxicating you looked.

He shouldn't be doing this. You were the last person on earth he should be doing this with, but then again, nothing about tonight was going according to plan. And before he could stop himself, his hands gripped your waist tighter, dragging you closer as his lips crashed into yours.

The next thing he knew, the two of you were stumbling into the restroom at the end of the hallway, the door slamming behind you. His fingers tangled into your hair, pulling tight as your back hit the sink. He hated the taste of your cigarette on your tongue, but he kissed you harder anyway. Your hands were already under his shirt, nails scraping lightly down his spine, pulling a sharp breath from his throat.

You feel his tongue exploring your mouth, moving slow, tasting you with a hunger that makes your body respond without thinking. A moan slips from your lips as heat builds between your thighs, your panties dampening at the way he kisses you.

When you finally break the kiss, your lips trail down to his neck, licking and sucking lightly until you reach his collarbone. He presses closer, breathing heavily into your hair, hips grinding into you with shaky rhythm. Both of you moan at the friction, your bodies feeding off each other's heat.

Your hand finds his waistband, fingers tracing the bulge that's been growing harder against you. The shocking huge shape beneath makes you sigh, anticipation curling low in your belly. "Fuckkk," you moan, dropping to your knees without hesitation.

Sunoo's body fell back against the sink, one hand gripping the edge, the other running through his hair like he didn't know what to do with himself. His hands were trembling as he tried to undo his belt, and he almost laughed at how clumsy he felt. But the moment was too charged, his head was light, his blood too loud. The part of him that used to think only about what it felt like to be touched was now spinning with curiosity. This—this was different. He never imagined being on the receiving end like this would feel so... unreal.

He glanced down, and the sight of you kneeling for him, eyes locked on his, lips slightly parted and ready—his mind just blanked. The way your tongue pierced glinted under the light, the tip teasing out like you were offering it, patient and inviting, made his stomach tighten painfully. "Shit," he whispered, voice cracking slightly, pulling his pants and briefs down. You stared up at his cock, your lashes fluttering at the sight. Your mouth watered at the sheer size of him, and without hesitation, you leaned closer, resting your hands on your knees like you were waiting for a command.

He couldn't believe this was what guys saw. No wonder they were obsessed with it. The view of you like that, lips ready, eyes dark with need, tongue out with that cold little metal ball waiting to touch his skin, it was pure insanity. No fantasy ever looked like this. "Fuck," he groaned again, gripping the back of your head gently as he pushed his tip toward your tongue. The second the metal touched him, he hissed, his thighs twitching from the shock of cold piercing against the heat of his cock.

And as you looked up, never breaking eye contact while slowly letting him in—he knew. He knew exactly what he'd been missing.

Sunoo had always been the one with his knees pressed down, the one getting grabbed and pulled and used, and he loved every second of it. But this was different. The way your mouth wrapped around him, how you looked so eager, how your tongue pressed and moved with purpose—his stomach was already tightening with every wet glide and suck.

"Ahh, fuck, fuck..." he whined out, head falling back as his fingers tangled in your hair, pushing you down farther. He heard the sound of your throat struggling to keep him in, your soft choking only making his hips twitch with more urgency. It was too wet, too warm, too fucking perfect.

You stayed steady, letting your throat open the best you could as you followed the rhythm of his grip. Your tongue dragged along the underside of his length, right at the base where you knew it would hit different. His moan echoed across the small room, shameless and wrecked, not caring who could hear him anymore. All he cared about was the heat wrapping around his cock and how your mouth didn't stop. You glanced up again, needing to see him, and the view made you moan around him. His skin was flushed, red climbing up to his neck, his lashes low and trembling, mouth open as he gasped through each thrust. He looked completely undone—eyes barely staying open, hands gripping you like he needed you to stay exactly there.

Your throat tightened as he gave you no space to breathe, and still, you didn't pull away. Your hands stayed planted on your knees, nails pressing into the denim as tears blurred your eyes, your breath hitching through your nose. But the way your pussy clenched from it—the helpless feeling, the rawness of it—made it all the more addictive.

Especially when both his hands now gripped your head tighter and pushed until your nose pressed flush against his navel. "I-I'm close... oh fuck, I'm close, I—I'm—" Sunoo cried out, his voice cracking with how intense it felt. His hips were moving faster now. The sound of your mouth choking around him only pushed him over the edge harder. He didn't think it could feel this good, he didn't even know he could feel this way at all.

And you didn't either. You didn't know why it felt so right, so filthy, so addicting. You'd never had anyone this desperate for you before. And Sunoo had never had anyone take him like this.

His moan was loud, body trembling as his legs struggled to keep him upright. His hips kept moving on instinct, grinding into your mouth until he finally came, thick and hot down your throat. You felt it hit the back of your tongue, swallowing quickly as he groaned above you, the pleasure written all over his flushed face.

"God, fuck... it feels so good," he breathed out, chest heaving while his hands held you there, not even realizing how hard you were trying to breathe through it. Your eyes fluttered shut as you swallowed the last of him, head light and lungs burning.

You tapped his thigh with a shaky hand, and after a moment, he loosened his grip, letting you fall back slightly. You coughed a bit, trying to catch your breath, throat sore but mind still hazy from the alcohol and heat. Everything felt like it was spinning a little when you stood up, your body swaying slightly as the room tilted around you.

Sunoo reached out, catching your shoulder to steady you, and turned on the sink. He cupped a bit of water in his palm, guiding it to your lips. You leaned in, letting the cold water cool your mouth, then wiped your lips with the back of your hand. You coughed again, softer this time, and both of you stood there in silence for a beat—still too drunk to make sense of anything, too tired to care.

"I want to sleep," Sunoo mumbled, voice groggy as his arms hung by his sides. You helped him pull his pants back up, your fingers clumsy, and when you looked up, he was already leaning into you. His lips brushed against your neck, then your jaw, then a small kiss landed on your lips softly, a quiet thank-you or maybe just a mistake.

Neither of you said anything as you stumbled out of the bathroom together. Your feet dragged, his weight slumped against you. When you pushed open one of the nearby rooms, the two of you collapsed onto the bed without thinking. His body pressed into yours, your hand resting on the curve of his thin waist, and with a final exhale, his breathing evened out into soft snores.

You stared at the ceiling for a moment, the night still buzzing in your head, and quietly hoped that come morning, Sunoo wouldn't look at you like it was all just a drunken blur he wanted to forget.

Well. You woke up to a loud squeal beside you, the sound shooting straight through your skull. Your head was pounding, every throb pulsing deep at your temples. This was exactly why you preferred smoking over drinking, at least cigarettes didn't make the world spin like this.

"Oh my God! W–why are we cuddling?! Why are you here in the first place?! D–did something happen to us?!" Sunoo's voice cracked in pure panic, his hands clutching the blanket to his chest. Even though he was fully clothed, he looked scandalized beyond belief.

You groaned and squinted against the light, trying to sit up despite the dull ache in your body. Your fingers pressed to your temples, trying to remember what the hell even happened. The room was unfamiliar, the sheets smelled like detergent, and your mouth tasted like cotton.

Before you could even collect a full thought, Sunoo slapped your back hard. You let out a sharp whine and turned to glare at him. "Aww, fuck! What the hell was that for?"

"Did something happen between us?!" he repeated, eyes wide and clearly on the verge of spiraling.

You stared at him for a second, still processing. "How would I know?" you mumbled, rubbing your face. "I drank more than I should have, and my memory's a blur. You're fully clothed, I'm fully clothed. Relax."

But he didn't calm down. In fact, he froze completely, the color draining from his face as something clearly hit him. You watched as his hands slowly moved to grip his hair, fingers tangling at the roots while his expression twisted into disbelief.

"No. No. No no no—" he whispered, and then gasped. "Oh my God. Oh my fucking God."

He wasn't even looking at you anymore. His eyes were somewhere far away as flashes from last night started to crash into him. Your lips on his, your hands tugging on his belt, your mouth sinking down while he leaned back against the sink. The heat. The noise. The way he came so hard he couldn't feel his legs. His whole body went stiff.

"You... you gave me head," he said in a whisper, voice dead with disbelief. "Oh my God. You gave me fucking blowjob."

You blinked, trying to place it. You remembered the bathroom. The taste. The sound of his moaning echoing off the walls. Shit. "Something did happen to us, you fucking bitch!" he suddenly screamed, face flushed red with shock and rage. "I'm reporting you—I'm serious, I swear—"

You screamed when he lunged and grabbed a fistful of your hair, the shock of it making you yell right back. "Fuck! Let go of me, psycho!" you snapped, swatting at his hand, your own hangover making it feel ten times worse.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" he screeched, shaking your head like he could shake the memory out with it. "Why would you—?!"

"Why would I?!" you shouted, finally pulling away, hair a mess and heart racing. "You literally moaned like it was the best thing that ever happened to you!"

"Because I didn't know what was happening! I thought it was a dream! I was drunk!"

"So was I, dumbass! You kissed me first!"

Sunoo froze again, mouth open, his chest rising and falling. You watched him in silence, heart sinking a little at the way he looked at you—like he was scrambling to make sense of something that never should've happened.

Your mouth felt dry again. There was this strange weight in your chest, like disappointment settling in even though you couldn't quite figure out why. You were both drunk. He was gay. Of course it didn't mean anything. And, if you weren't drunk, you wouldn't have done it either. You lowered your gaze, biting the inside of your cheek as that silence started to stretch between you.

"L-let's just pretend this never happened," Sunoo finally said, breaking the quiet as he stood up. His voice was shaky, not angry anymore, just desperate to erase it all. He dragged his palm down his face, then pressed it against his mouth like the words were spilling out faster than he could stop them. "I'm gay... and you're... whatever. Uhh... Let's not tell this to Jake, okay?"

You rolled your eyes as you got to your feet, fingers brushing through your hair while ignoring the lump tightening in your throat. "Whatever you want," you muttered, focusing instead on searching for your socks and bag, anything to avoid the way your chest ached for reasons.

"This will never happen again. God. I feel like I just betrayed my own kind," Sunoo muttered, slapping both cheeks with enough force to make you wince. "I need to go. I need to wash everything. This is disgusting. I'm disgusting."

You didn't say anything. Just watched him from the corner of your eye while pulling your socks on, keeping your back straight and blank face.

Sunoo glanced over, eyes catching on the side of your face. Something about the way you sat there so still, lips pressed together, skin marked faintly made his chest tighten. The memory crept in again—your hands, your mouth, the sound of your moan swallowed around him—and it made his stomach twist in the worst way. He shook his head. He was sober now. He shouldn't be feeling this again.

"Let's never see each other again," he said before leaving without waiting for a response.

You stared at the floor for a long second, blinking slowly. Never see each other again, huh? You almost laughed. As if you'd let him go that easily.

Sunoo didn't even understand why the memory was still stuck in his head, looping in the background of every moment like some curse he couldn't shake. It had already been a seven full days and yet the image of your lips, the sound of your moan, the warmth of your mouth still haunted him like it just happened yesterday. Worse, every time he thought about it, his dick twitched like it had a mind of its own, getting hard embarrassingly fast without warning.

He tried to brush it off as stress. He was tired, overloaded with work, and his hormones were probably all over the place. It made sense, right? Wet dreams weren't exactly rare. They were involuntary, normal even, just a sign of the body releasing tension during sleep. But the part that bothered him the most wasn't the act itself. It was who was in them. Why you? Out of everyone, why was it you? He would've understood if it were someone like Byeon Woo Seok. But no. It was your voice in his ear, your mouth on him, your name falling from his lips as he woke up in cold sweat with a sticky cum in his pajama pants. It was fucking humiliating.

He had just started to zone out again when a voice broke through his thoughts, snapping him back to reality.

"Erection is normal," Jungwon said clearly, standing at the front of the room with a microphone in hand. The school's seminar hall was full of restless teenagers, and he was doing his best to keep the attention. "It's a biological response to arousal or stimulation, often caused by elevated testosterone levels, especially during adolescence. That's why morning wood or even spontaneous erections can happen—it's not always sexual. Sometimes, it's just hormonal regulation or increased blood flow."

Sunoo swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Great. As if he needed that lecture right now.

"It's also common to have sexual dreams," Jungwon continued. "It's the brain's way of releasing suppressed feelings or stress. It doesn't always mean you're in love with the person in your dream—it could just be your mind reacting to unresolved tension."

Sunoo sat motionless, trying not to roll his eyes. He knew Jungwon probably didn't believe half the words he was saying and was just parroting the textbook to get the presentation over with. Unresolved tension? Please. That had to be the most bullshit, overused explanation. Sexual dreams were normal, just a biological function. A reflex. Wet dreams, erections, the occasional stray thought—they were all just part of how the body worked.

It was only men who liked turning every little reaction into some psychological crisis. Like it wasn't enough that your dick got hard at the wrong time, you now had to wonder why. No. He refused to play into that.

Still, he felt hot under the collar. He shifted in his seat as Jungwon kept talking, his voice fading into background noise while Sunoo's thoughts crawled back where they weren't supposed to go. Your mouth. The pressure of his hands on your head. That one sharp breath he let out when your tongue pressed against him just right. The way he swore he could still feel the metal ball of your piercing even when he was lying awake, sweating in bed, trying not to think about it —

"Sunoo!" His whole body jolted forward when someone suddenly slammed into him from behind. He turned sharply, only to see Jake grinning as he wrapped him in a tight hug.

"Long time no see! How've you been?" Jake beamed, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Sunoo blinked, his heart still racing from being startled. He squirmed out of Jake's grip, pulling his arm away from around his waist with a small scowl. "You fake bitch," he muttered, brushing off his uniform. "You said you'd go to the party last week!"

Jake tilted his head and gave him a sheepish grin. "I did! I just didn't come up to you because you were already with someone," he said, voice light but teasing, his smile carrying that knowing edge that made Sunoo freeze on the spot.

The words hit him like a cold splash of water, cutting straight through the fog of his thoughts. Shit! Sunoo's back straightened as his chest squeezed uncomfortably tight. "I-It's not what it looked like, Jake," he said quickly, voice pitching higher than he meant. "I can explain. N-Nothing happened, I swear—"

Jake raised an eyebrow in confusion, his playful smile returning as he slung an arm over Sunoo's shoulder again. "What are you talking about?" he laughed. "I'm just happy you're getting along with her! You know how much I wanted the two of you to be friends. So when I saw you drinking with her, I thought, finally! I didn't want to bother you two."

Sunoo's jaw went slack for a second. He blinked slowly as Jake's words settled in and then his face flushed with heat, the panic collapsing. You two. Drinking. Laughing. And Jake saw it. He saw it and just... assumed it was some innocent bonding moment. Sunoo nodded stiffly, forcing a laugh that came out more like a wheeze. "Y-Yeah... totally. Just... friends."

Jake didn't notice his discomfort, he just kept smiling, talking about the seminar and how awkward Jungwon looked trying to talk about erections with a straight face, but Sunoo could barely listen. If only he knew that every time Sunoo closed his eyes, it wasn't friendship playing behind his eyelids.

All your life, you've gotten things on your own terms. It wasn't about being selfish—it was about knowing what you wanted, and not being afraid to take the steps to get there, even if it meant breaking a few unspoken rules. You never apologized for it. Why should you? The world had never handed you anything easily, so you carved out space with your own hands, shaping your wants into reality.

You liked pretty things. You liked strawberries. You liked painting girls with soft collarbones and delicate fingers. You liked drawing in sharp eyeliner and wearing red lipstick even when it didn't match your outfit. You liked the way women looked in moonlight, skin glowing and bare emotion written on their faces. Women were softness and power and aching beauty, and for a long time, that's all you thought you'd ever want.

Boys were always just background noise. You flirted with them when you were bored, when you needed a distraction or when you were too tired of explaining to everyone why you leaned toward women. It was easier to let boys talk, to let them orbit around you. Most of the time, they never lasted long. They'd get close enough to realize they couldn't figure you out, and then drift away. It never bothered you. You liked being the one who stayed in control anyway.

But Sunoo was too pretty to be background noise. Too loud in your mind, even in his silence. He was sharp and delicate all at once. Sunoo is not boring. He was vibrant. Infuriating. Complicated. Unlike everyone else, Sunoo wasn't supposed to want you. And you weren't supposed to want him. You didn't chase boys. You didn't even like most of them. But with Sunoo, it wasn't about gender—it was about him. His contradictions. His moral high ground that cracked when his lips were on yours.

Now that you got a taste, you wanted to keep him. You wanted to grab him by that pretty throat and tie a little ribbon around it, mark him, stake your claim. All that fire in him, all that sharp defiance, the self-righteous storm he carried — it would be such a waste to let someone else come along and break him in the wrong way. Someone who wouldn't know how to cherish it like you would.

The wanting was dangerous. But so was he. And it was so much fun to want something you weren't supposed to have. And lucky you—Jake, in all his well-meaning sunshine, handed him right into your lap.

"I'm really glad now that you're friends," Jake grinned, arms flinging around both of you as he squeezed you close. "I can finally call us a trio now!"

You blinked in mild surprise. You hadn't even known this was a sleepover. From the way Jake had worded it earlier, you assumed it was just the two of you catching up over snacks and maybe a few drinks. But now here you were, wedged on the couch with Sunoo stiff on your other side, Jake's warmth pressed between you both. How thoughtful of him. You smiled. Jake was far too kind for his own good and far too generous with forcing proximity, but you didn't mind this time.

Sunoo, on the other hand, looked like someone had physically unplugged him. He was hugging his pillow so tightly it, eyes unfocused as he stared at nothing in particular. His face was blank, but you could read the confliction in every inch of him. Like he was holding himself together by a thread.

What you couldn't see was how hard he was trying to think of anything else besides the fact that he could smell your perfume again and it triggered something in his body. He clenched his thighs together subtly, trying to shift his hips so the growing problem in his pants wouldn't become visible. But the effort was a losing game. God, what the hell was wrong with him? He was still angry, still confused, still mortified that it happened in the first place and yet, his body clearly had no loyalty to his conscience.

What made it worse was Jake who had somehow tricked him into showing up for a supposed movie night and now had them sandwiched together like nothing ever happened between you and him. Jake didn't know, of course. And he couldn't know! Sunoo would rather choke on his own tongue than have to explain why his best friend's not-so-favorite person was suddenly invading his dreams at night and, worse, making him wake up soaked and panting like a hormonal teenager.

"What movies should we watch?!" Jake practically bounced on the couch, his grin wide as he looked back and forth.

You leaned closer, sliding your arm around Jake's. Your gaze flicked to Sunoo, who sat stiff on the other end of the couch, his posture awkward, eyes avoiding yours. "What about horror?" you said as you tilted your head, pretending not to notice how Sunoo seemed to sink deeper into the couch cushions. "Sunoo?"

Sunoo blinked, eyes snapping toward you. "Huh?" His voice cracked, his hand subtly dragged the throw pillow over his lap, fingers clutching the edges.

"Horror is gonna be fun! Imagine the thrill!" Jake turned toward you with shining eyes, already fired up. "Remember Sunoo during Evil Dead Rise? He was screeching like someone dipped him in cold water!" He burst out laughing.

You joined in, not because it was that funny but because you liked the way Sunoo glared at you when you did. His eye twitched, lips tightening in a way that made you want to press your thumb against the corner of his mouth just to see if it would twitch again.

"I didn't scream," Sunoo muttered under his breath. "It was a reflex."

Jake leaned forward to grab the remote, still chuckling. "A reflex that shook the entire floor. I had to check if we were having an earthquake."

Sunoo gave a tight, silent laugh that didn't reach his eyes. You stretched slightly, draping one leg over the other, your foot brushing lightly against Sunoo's knee. "So horror it is," you said.

Sunoo immediately jerked his leg away. "I'm not scared," he snapped, voice thin with defensiveness, eyes flicking toward you but never staying long.

"Who said you were?" you asked sweetly, lips twitching. "But maybe I can hold your hand if you get too nervous."

"I'd rather hold hands with a corpse," he muttered.

Jake, oblivious to the growing tension between you, scrolled through the options. "Let's start with Hereditary. That one's a classic."

You leaned back, settling comfortably against the couch cushion, your arm still loosely around Jake's. But your gaze stayed fixed on Sunoo, watching how he tried to keep his composure. The way he looked everywhere but at you made it all the more tempting to push again.

"Oh my God!" Jake screamed, flinging himself off the couch just as the possessed girl on the screen leapt out from the shadows.

Sunoo jumped, too, not because of the film but because Jake's yell had blasted straight into his ear. "Fuck you!" he gasped, swatting at Jake's shoulder. "You're louder than the demon, you idiot!"

Jake laughed breathlessly, holding a hand over his chest. "I told you it was gonna be scary! I warned you!"

"You didn't say you were gonna be the jump scare," Sunoo muttered, rubbing his ear.

You couldn't help laughing from your corner of the couch. It was warm in the living room, the ambient light from the TV casting deep shadows across everyone's faces. The horror movie had wound itself tight with dread, and now, near the end, the tension in the room had shifted.

Jake reached for the remote to pause it. "Okay, okay, let's all take a break. My heart can't take it. I'm gonna set up the bed and grab more snacks before we finish the last part." He stood up with a stretch, already walking toward the shared room.

You watched Jake disappear down the hallway, the sound of his slippers dragging against the floor fading behind him as he excitedly prepped the bedroom with pillows and snacks, then turned your eyes to Sunoo, who had sunk deeper into the couch, hand rubbing his temple.

Your gaze drifted past him, toward the hallway where the bathroom light glowed faintly at the end. And just like that, the tiniest smirk curled at the corner of your lips. Bingo.

You grabbed the water bottle from the table and tipped it back, pretending to take a long drink—only for the opening to "accidentally" spill, the cold splash soaking the neckline of your shirt and running straight down your chest.

"Shit!" you hissed, jumping slightly as you stood up, swiping at your top with both hands in panic. The fabric clung to your skin, the damp cotton tracing the curve of your collarbone and neckline.

From the corner of your eye, you caught Sunoo's head snap toward you. His eyes widened for a moment before narrowing again, his signature glare sliding back into place. "Are you an idiot who can't drink water like a normal person?" he snapped. His eyes flicked from your face to your soaked shirt and back again before he shifted uncomfortably, adjusting the pillow over his lap again.

You scowled. "It was an accident," you muttered, pinching the hem of your shirt and pulling it slightly away from your body to keep the wet fabric from clinging too much. "I'm going to the bathroom." You turned your back, already halfway to the hall, but then paused just before you rounded the corner. You peeked back over your shoulder with a faux-hesitant voice. "Sunoo," you said sweetly, "can you... come with me?"

He straightened in his seat, eyes narrowed immediately. "What are you, five? You can walk to the bathroom on your own."

You turned around fully and gave your best pout. "But I'm scared," you said, dropping your voice. "What if something jumps out of the mirror and eats me?"

His lips parted slightly in disbelief. "It's literally a bathroom, not a haunted house. Get a grip."

You blinked at him with wide, innocent eyes, the corners of your mouth twitching. "I'm telling Jake—"

That was all it took. Sunoo moved fast. His hand shot out and wrapped around your wrist before you could finish the sentence, his grip is tight, more panicked than forceful. "We agreed to forget that already!" he whispered harshly, dragging you toward the hallway with quick steps. His face was already flushed as he pushed the bathroom door open and practically shoved you inside.

He followed, slamming the door shut behind him and twisting the lock.

You raised an eyebrow, lips twitching with suppressed laughter. "I meant I was gonna tell Jake you were being mean to me. What exactly were you thinking, Sunoo?"

The color that spread across his face deepened from pink to a furious red, blooming up his neck and across his cheeks. His eyes darted away from yours, jaw clenched so tight you could see the tension ripple along the muscle there. He didn't answer immediately—his thoughts were clearly a mess, the memory of that night dragging up feelings he didn't want to admit were still there.

God, you were such a bitch. A beautiful, infuriating, unreadable bitch. "Fuck you," he muttered through clenched teeth, pressing his back to the door. His arms crossed over his chest, defensive, but it was already too late for that. "What the hell do you even want?"

You smiled, taking a small step forward, head tilting like you were weighing your options. You let your gaze drop slowly—first to his parted lips, then to his hands clenched into fists at his sides—and then back to his eyes.

"Hmmm," you hummed, fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the sink behind you as you leaned back, unbothered by how tense he was. "You."

Sunoo's pulse jumped so hard he felt it in his ears, and it really annoyed him.

"I think we're past the point of shyly pretending we're not attracted to each other, don't you think?" you asked casually, your foot tapping against the floor. "I mean, unless you're really going to pretend you don't think about it."

Sunoo swallowed hard, jaw tightening as he forced his expression into a cold and distant. His voice came out with a bite. "I was drunk. Whatever happened, it wasn't real. I'm sober now, and clearly, you're forgetting something—I'm gay." He stepped forward, huffing, defensive, like he needed to say it aloud to remind himself. "Even if I wasn't, even if I magically woke up straight, do you really think I'd be into someone like you? I wouldn't even hold your hand."

You smiled, unshaken. Your gaze dropped to the tile floor for a moment, nodding slowly like you were mulling it over, like you could almost believe him. "Hmmm. Really?" you said again, softly. Then you looked up and held his stare. "That's interesting."

"What happened was a mistake," he pressed. "Stop getting it twisted. You're not going to change anything. I like men—I've always liked men—and if I ever did like women, it sure as hell wouldn't be someone like you."

His words were sharp and cruel, but his voice cracked slightly on the last sentence. Your eyes flicked down to his hands again. Still clenched and shaking, you almost laughed, he was angry because he didn't know where to put this feeling, and his body was betraying him in every way.

"Okay," you said. "Sorry."

You didn't look sorry. You didn't even sound sorry. Then, without warning, you reached for the hem of your shirt and pulled it over your head. Sunoo nearly yelped. "What the fuck?!" he squealed, spinning around so fast. His hands flew up to cover his face. "Are you insane?! Put that back on! Jesus Christ, are you trying to traumatize me?!"

You didn't say anything at first. Just laughed softly, "you said you weren't interested, right? So what are you panicking for?" You rolled your eyes slowly and watched his stiff posture as he stayed plastered to the door. "Relax," you muttered, fingers reaching behind your back, unclasping your bra and letting it fall to the floor. "I'm wet, Sunoo. I'm not trying to seduce you—I already got my answer. Now, move."

His spine straightened at your words like you'd just smacked him. "What the fuck? Move where?!" His voice rose in panic, still facing away from you.

"I didn't bring an extra shirt. My bag's in the living room," you said flatly, stepping closer. "Now move."

He hesitated, like if he turned around something irreversible would happen. But his curiosity, or maybe his stupidity, got the better of him. Slowly, cautiously, he peeked over his shoulder—and then froze completely.

You were naked from the waist up. Completely bare, with a confidence. Your arms were crossed beneath your chest, body leaning against the sink like you were just waiting for him to get over himself. And God, he should've been used to this. He'd seen breasts before—he had female friends who changed clothes in front of him all the time. It never bothered him. It wasn't a big deal.

He tried to look away and he really, really did, but his eyes kept coming back to you like they were on a leash. Your skin glowed under the light, smooth and warm-toned, shadows carving down your ribs and hips. He noticed the tattoos. The delicate ink on your shoulder had already left an imprint in his brain from that day, but now he saw more. A fine, detailed floral design wrapped along the side of your torso, just above your hip and curling slightly toward your waist. A single lily bloomed in black and soft pink, with gentle shading that made it look almost alive. Watercolor-like strokes trailed from the petals, fading like smoke. The lines followed your curves perfectly.

Sunoo was breathless. He never cared for tattoos, they weren't pretty, but on you, they looked dressed as an art. And fuck, he couldn't stop staring. His gaze flicked to your chest, and a fresh wave of heat rolled through him. Your nipples were tight from the air, drawn and pointed, resting against full, natural curves that made his stomach knot. Why was he getting hard? This didn't make sense. Fuck. You were so hot it pissed him off.

You were staring at him, head slightly tilted, waiting for him to move. "Sunoo?"

Sunoo's fists clenched. He could feel saliva collecting in his mouth, and he swallowed hard like that would put out the fire already crawling down his spine. He blinked quickly, shaking his head. "You—fuck, you need to put something on," he said.

"My shirt's in the living room—"

"I don't care. Put something on," he cut in sharply, brows furrowed and his gaze turned firmly to the wall.

You didn't budge. "Jake already saw my tits, Sunoo. It's not a big deal—"

He didn't even know why it made his stomach flip and his chest burn, but it did. The thought of Jake seeing you like this, made a feeling claw up the back of his throat.

Sunoo was a nursing student. He studied hormonal response, human behavior, and the mind's reactions to stress and desire. But this wasn't in his textbooks. This wasn't just dopamine or misplaced frustration. Human emotions were more complicated than any clinical definition. No scientific framework could fully explain the way you made him feel.

"You're hard."

Sunoo felt his entire body go still. He could feel it too. The tight pressure in his pants, the unbearable way his cock had hardened while his mind scrambled to deny everything. He turned toward the mirror above the sink, refusing to meet your eyes as he muttered, "I-It's normal biological reaction."

The excuse felt paper-thin, almost pathetic in his mouth, but it was the only thing he could reach for. He was clinging to whatever logic he had left, because logic was safer than whatever the hell this was. Logic didn't leave him aching in places he shouldn't be aching. Logic didn't twist his insides just from looking at you.

You were still standing there, unfazed, topless and confident, your arms crossed under your chest like you were waiting for him to catch up. "Sunoo," you said his name softly.

He finally looked at you, eyes glaring. "I told you I'm gay," he said, and he hated how shaky his voice sounded. "This—this shouldn't be happening."

You took a slow step closer, and he didn't move. "You said that," you nodded, voice calm. "But I didn't ask what you are. I just told you what I want."

His eyes narrowed slightly, as if trying to read between your words, searching for an angle, a trick. "So what is this to you? A joke? Some kind of game?"

"No. You're the one making it complicated."

His chest rose and fell unevenly. His mind kept trying to name what he was feeling—confusion, tension, desire, maybe all of it at once—but it was all bleeding together in a way that felt like drowning. "I've never—" he started, then stopped himself.

You waited. "Never what?"

"I've never felt this confused before," he said, eyes searching yours like he was hoping you'd give him a reason to pull away, something to ground him. "I don't even like women. I'm not supposed to want this."

"Then don't want it," you said simply, shrugging your shoulders. "But don't lie about it. Do you want me, Sunoo?"

He hated that. Hated how sure you sounded, how unapologetically honest you were while he was still tangled in his own fear and guilt, still gripping the edge of what he thought was certainty. You made everything seem so simple, so easy to name—want, touch, feel—while he was still trying to unlearn the rules he had been clinging to for so long. He wanted to push you away, wanted to hate you for making him feel like he was coming apart in his own skin. But even as that thought surfaced, his eyes dropped again to your lips, and lingered there too long. He hated how much he wanted you to close the space between you, how much he needed you to.

His breathing grew shallow, his chest rising in uneven waves, and when you leaned forward, he didn't retreat. Instead, his eyes fluttered closed. The second your mouth brushed against his, something inside him cracked open. He kissed you with a kind of desperation that made it clear he'd stopped pretending.

There was no hesitation when he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The warmth of your body beneath his hands made his head spin. He held you tightly, anchoring himself to the moment, to the gravity of your touch. His lips moved against yours, his hands trembled as they explored the lines of your back, fingertips pressing into your skin. You knew he was falling, and you welcomed it. You let him cling to you, let him kiss you and when your lips finally parted, you didn't say a word. You just let your hands trail down his chest, eyes locked on his flushed face as you sank down onto your knees before him.

Sunoo's breath hitched audibly. His hands flew to the edge of the sink behind him, trying to steady himself. You looked up at him, gaze dark and patient, and he looked down at you. His cock strained against his pajama, and when you undid the strings, your fingers brushing against him through the fabric, he nearly buckled.

The moment you freed him, he hissed through his teeth. You didn't tease him this time, you took him into your mouth. His hand instinctively reached for your head, gripping your hair too tightly as you slid your tongue over him, slow at first, deepening only when he let out a choked moan that vibrated from somewhere deep in his chest.

"F-fuck..." he whispered, eyes fluttering open, and the sight of you on your knees—bare, hungry, focused only on him. This time, there was no alcohol to blame. No drunken impulse to hide behind. Both of you were entirely sober, breathing the same heavy air. And you were right. You were far past the point of pretending you're not attracted to each other. Because, fuck...

He bit down on his bottom lip, struggling to hold back the sound threatening to crawl out of his throat when you pulled your mouth off him. The cold air brushed his wet skin for only a second before your hand wrapped firmly around his cock. You were looking up at him with such dark, focused eyes, and the glint of your tongue piercing when you stuck your tongue out made his stomach twist in ways.

His moan trembled out of him, a low, broken thing he tried and failed to swallow. His eyes fluttered shut as you began to stroke him, slow and tight, your fingers knowing exactly where to squeeze, where to drag your thumb. His hips jerked forward against your fist without thought. He was trembling, his thighs already straining, and when his hand moved to your head again, he didn't even register that he was holding you there, like he needed you in that position, grounded and close, while everything else slipped away.

With a choked sound, his release surged forward, hips stuttering as thick, hot ropes of cum spurted from him—painting your face, your tongue, and even your lips. You closed your eyes, but kept your mouth open, breathing heavy, letting it drip and settle across your flushed skin. The sight of you on your knees, panting, tongue out, face stained with the proof of what he'd given you—was too much. He'd never seen anything that fucking beautiful.

Sunoo's breath came out in short, ragged gasps. He couldn't look away. You were absolutely wrecked, eyes half-lidded, mouth still parted, tongue twitching slightly as the last of him spilled from the tip. His knees nearly buckled. And even as shame flickered somewhere in the distance, it didn't touch the way his chest clenched with need.

You were far past the point of pretending you're not attracted to each other. Because, fuck... in Sunoo's mind— You're really, really, really, attractive. You tilted your head, eyes still soft despite the mess on your face. "It's okay, Sunoo."

And that simple assurance hit harder than anything else had tonight, he had never felt so completely defeated and relieved at the same time.

Sunoo always joked that he was betraying his "gay motherhood," whatever the fuck that meant, but deep down, he was unraveling more than a label. His whole sense of self was spiraling, not because he didn't like men anymore, but because he couldn't stop liking what you did to him.

He was raised sure—sure he liked men, sure of who he was, sure of how the world saw him. But your mouth? Your hands? Your eyes on his body? That changed something. And maybe it wasn't even about gender or attraction or breaking rules, maybe it was just about how good it felt. Because, it did. Every time your tongue slid down his length or your lips curled into a smirk right before you swallowed him whole, he would grip your hair like it was the only thing tethering him to earth.

And he still hated it. Hated you. Hated how easily you pulled those sounds from him, how willingly he spread his legs, how badly he wanted to feel your throat tighten around him when he was too stressed to think straight. But hate was a weak word when it came to you because what he really felt was full of hunger and questions he couldn't answer, of relief he couldn't explain, and of moments when he forgot who he was supposed to be.

Somehow, this arrangement—whatever fucked-up kind of companionship it was—had become routine. He was stressed? You showed up, dragged him onto the bed, and made him forget the weight in his chest. You were tired of people? You'd drop to your knees and pull his pants down, muttering snarky words before your tongue did all the talking. When Jake invited you both for café dates, you'd suck Sunoo off in the bathroom beforehand, as if taking the edge off made you more tolerable in public.

And in between all that, without either of you saying it, you started learning each other. You knew the way his breath caught when you traced the tip of your tongue along the underside of his cock, the way he liked his thighs rubbed when he was overwhelmed, the way he pretended to hate your voice but kept asking you to hum while he was inside your mouth. He knew the difference between your smirk and your real smile, he noticed the way you always fixed his collar before he left for class, the way you paused before walking away like you wanted him to stop you, just once.

"Did you see my guitar pick? I was really sure I left it here." You asked, already half on the floor as you looked beneath his bed, your voice muffled against the floorboards. "My pen? Where did you put my pen?"

Sunoo didn't answer right away. He just scratched the back of his head, eyes skimming over his textbook. "Also, I think I left my hoodie here last week," you continued, lifting his blanket and peeking underneath. You spoke like it was nothing, like this wasn't the fourth time you'd been here this week, like you hadn't sucked him off on this very bed two nights ago while the rain beat against his window. "The red one? Oversized. The one you said was ugly."

"Stop leaving your things here and expecting me to be your lost and found," Sunoo muttered with a sigh, rolling his eyes as he stood from his desk. His hands moved to the drawer beside his bed, fingers quickly rifling through the clutter until he pulled out the small pile of things you'd been searching for.

Your guitar pick. A pen with a chewed-up cap. The scrunchie you claimed you didn't care about but had asked about three times. "Yay!" you chirped, voice bright as you threw your arms around his neck without hesitation. Your enthusiasm was full of sunshine and zero awareness of boundaries—not that he'd set any for you lately. Your body leaned into his, so warm, and for a moment, he didn't pull away. He didn't even stiffen. If anything, he just stood there with his jaw tight and eyes soft, letting you hang onto him.

Sunoo had learned a lot of unexpected things from you, but the first was this: you were clingy. Not in the way people usually mean it. You were clingy in the way a storm was clingy, so loud and unpredictable, but always returning, always right on time. You'd barge into his room to ruffle his hair without asking, leave lipstick stains on the rim of his mugs, and curse while crocheting in his living room.

Despite your sharp tongue, your smug smirks, and that bitchy little smile you wore whenever you knew you had the upper hand, there was something about you that kept curling into the edges of his life. The softness you tried to bury always slipped through—like now, as your arms wrapped loosely around his neck, your breath warm on his collarbone.

You hadn't even fucked, not really. Whatever this was between the two of you, it never crossed that final line. Sure, you'd given him head more times than he could count now, slipping between his knees, sometimes right after class or before dinner. Sometimes with a joke still on your tongue, your fingers working his zipper like it was just part of your daily routine. You'd even played with yourself while looking him dead in the eyes, teasing him, daring him, and yet still somehow managing not to strip yourself bare.

Pleasure was always good. You knew exactly what to do to unravel him. But it confused him on the way you stayed after. The way you talked to him about your professors and complained about your classmates, how you crocheted lopsided sweaters and left your yarn all over his room, like you expected to come back and finish them.

It was how you kissed his cheek when he looked stressed, how you'd fall asleep next to him fully clothed while he studied and pretend not to notice when he pulled the blanket over you.

"You need to stop acting like this is your place," he muttered, trying to keep his voice flat.

You didn't take the bait, instead, you leaned in and kissed his cheek loudly. Sunoo's entire face twitched in immediate response. His hand shot up, rubbing his cheek with the heel of his palm. "Eww," he muttered under his breath.

"Sorry!" you giggled, clearly not sorry at all with that look you always wore when you knew you were testing his patience, and then your hands were on his face again, squeezing his cheeks with affection. "You're just so adorable when you're cranky. I can't help it."

He groaned loudly, swatting at your wrists, trying to pry your hands off. "Stop calling me that."

You didn't flinch. In fact, you leaned closer, squishing his cheeks harder, and making a cooing sound that only made him more irritated. He slapped your arm but when you laughed again, that same light, reckless laugh that always made his ears feel too warm, he grabbed a fistful of your hair and tugged.

"Ow, ow, ow!" you yelped, wriggling in place with a pout. You batted his hand away, fingers tangled in your strands, while your eyes stayed locked on his with a mixture of amusement and challenge.

"Leave me alone. I'm trying to review for my exams," Sunoo muttered, barely glancing at you as he rolled his eyes and turned back toward his desk. His hand reached for the highlighter beside his textbook, the yellow ink already bleeding into the edge of a paragraph he'd probably read four times without actually absorbing anything.

You walked over anyway, you squeezed into the tiny space beside him on a chair meant for one, and Sunoo groaned out loud, shifting his body to the side. The chair creaked beneath your combined weight, and your thigh was pressed flush against his. "I just need a favor from you," you said, casually brushing your hand across his table.

Sunoo let out another sigh. He looked over at you, unimpressed. "Favor? Only friends do favors," he replied flatly.

You turned to him with a gasp, placing a hand to your chest in mock offense. "Wow," you said, eyes wide and sarcastic. "Damn, after all the blowjobs I gave you? After the way we've made out on your bed, your floor, and that one time in your fucking kitchen? After all the hours I spent here telling you about my day while you pretended not to listen? You're telling me we're not even friends?"

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, his hand frozen halfway through underlining another sentence. You weren't wrong. You'd been coming around so often that your scent had started to cling to his sheets, your hair ties and red lipstick had begun appearing in random corners of his room, and your laugh had started to echo in his head long after you'd gone home.

You leaned in a little, close enough that he could feel your breath fan across his neck. "If this isn't a friendship," you added softly, "then what is your definition of friendship, Sunoo?"

He made a show of thinking, lifting his eyes like he was searching the ceiling for inspiration, but there was a glint in his expression that gave away how amused he actually was. "I don't know, girl. We haven't even properly introduced ourselves because you were too busy sucking my dick off," he replied, words nonchalant but his ears tinted red. He tried to keep his voice flat, sarcastic even, like that would mask the heat crawling up his neck.

You laughed, unbothered, and leaned your head against his shoulder with a casualness that shouldn't have felt so intimate, but somehow, it did. Sunoo shifted under the contact, scoffing, rolling his eyes, acting like he didn't care but you could feel it in the way he didn't move away.

"Okay, let's do this properly then," you said as you let your hand play with the edge of his sleeve. "I'm twenty. Fashion design major. I work part-time at two different cafés. I play gigs when I can, lead guitarist and vocalist of Jay's band. I crochet, bake, draw, paint—basically anything that can bring in money for tuition. I have three ex-girlfriends, all toxic in very different ways. And I like—"

"Wait," Sunoo cut in, body suddenly stiffening as he pulled back just enough to stare at you. His eyes were wide, lips parted slightly like he couldn't believe what he just heard. "You're gay?!"

Your mouth dropped open, blinking at him as your brain scrambled to rewind what you'd said. "I—I mean, isn't it obvious?" you managed, slightly flustered, though a part of you also found his surprise endearing in a frustrating way.

Sunoo didn't say anything right away. He kept looking at you, brows furrowed, lips parted in a stunned kind of silence like he was trying to piece you together again with this new piece of information you just casually dropped. You watched the flickers of confusion, surprise, maybe even a bit of disbelief in his face, and though you didn't fully understand why it mattered so much to him. "I like girls," you clarified again.

There was a beat of silence. Then Sunoo blinked hard, like he'd just snapped out of it, and his reaction was nothing short of dramatic. "I—I thought you were straight, girl!" he cried out with a squeaky kind of disbelief, and before you could defend yourself, his hand flew out and smacked your arm. Hard. The kind of smack that made your whole upper body jerk slightly from the force. You almost flew off the chair.

"Shit, Sunoo!" you yelped, rubbing your arm and glaring at him with a twisted expression of both pain and outrage.

But Sunoo wasn't listening. He was laughing—loudly, eyes crinkled, hand over his mouth like he couldn't believe what he was hearing and also couldn't stop himself from reacting. "I really didn't like you at first," he gasped between giggles. "Like, genuinely. I thought you were giving homophobic vibes! You were too confident, too flirty, and you stared at me like you were ready to fight or fuck, and I swear to god I thought you were trying to make me your weird little experiment!"

You blinked again, thrown off by the way he said it all so fast. "What the fuck, Sunoo," you muttered, half-offended but also kind of shocked that he thought all that while still letting you suck him off on the regular.

He slapped your shoulder again and kept cackling, his entire body tilted forward as he wheezed through it, completely losing himself in his own joke. "I mean, it makes sense now," he managed between laughter, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. "That's why you're such a bitch—because you're gay!"

You didn't hesitate. Your hand landed right on his arm, a loud smack echoing through the room. "Are you forgetting that you're gay too, idiot?" you shot back, trying to sound annoyed but failing to hold back your grin.

Sunoo hissed dramatically, rubbing the spot, though the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips betrayed him. The teasing should've stopped there—should've stayed in that usual back-and-forth where you both knew the lines and how far to push. But something in his expression shifted. "I still don't get it," he murmured, the laughter dying down to a softer tone, his hand now gently pressing the spot you'd hit. "If you're into girls, then what does that make... this?"

For a moment, you didn't know how to answer. So many things about you didn't fit into the easy explanations people seemed to expect, and honestly, you never cared to try and fit them. "I don't know," you said at last, "I've hooked up with guys before, and it was never really a big deal. I always knew I liked girls more, but that never stopped me from doing stuff with boys when I felt like it." You shrugged, then leaned back a little, giving him space to process what you were about to say. "Sexuality is just a word people use to make sense of themselves. I might call myself bisexual—or gay—but honestly, it never fully explains what I want or how I feel. Labels don't always fit."

He looked at you then, and there was something quiet different in his eyes. It wasn't annoyance or mockery for once. You continued anyway, because you needed him to understand. "All I know is that I like doing things with you. Whether it's talking, teasing, sitting around doing nothing, or yeah... getting on my knees for you. It sounds messy, but it's the only thing I'm sure of."

That made his throat bob. His heartbeat, already unruly from earlier, thudded faster at your words, and he could feel the heat creeping into his face before he could stop it. He wanted to brush it off, wanted to say something sharp or stupid to deflect, but nothing came out.

He forced himself to roll his eyes and gave your shoulder another slap, more gentle this time. "Ewwww," he groaned with an exaggerated squeal, scrunching his nose. "It might be our routine, but could you not say that in my ear? It's still weird hearing you talk so casually about sucking me off!"

You only grinned wider, catching the flush starting to bloom across his cheeks. "What? Are you blushing?" you teased as you reached up and pinched his cheeks between your fingers, delighting in how quickly he tried to jerk away.

He groaned, then reached up to grab a fistful of your hair in retaliation. "You're so annoying," he muttered, tugging hard enough to make you yelp and try to push him off.

"Fuck!" you shrieked through laughter, smacking his arm and trying to wriggle away. But the tangled mess of limbs ended with both of you tipping sideways and falling back into the chair. He hit the floor and let out a long-suffering groan as you collapsed on top of him in a heap.

"Great," he muttered, pressing a hand to his lower back. "Now I'm going to fail my exam with spinal damage." You were still laughing, unbothered as you rested your chin on his chest. Even now, with your weight on top of him and your hair tickling his face, Sunoo couldn't bring himself to shove you off.

Instead, his eyes wandered to the ceiling, mind replaying the words you said earlier. Maybe you were right. Sexuality was just a word. A way to make sense of something that couldn't always be explained. And maybe the way he felt this complicated, frustrating, strangely comforting pull toward you wasn't something that needed a label at all.

"Get off. You're so fucking heavy," Sunoo hissed, snapping himself out of it as he tugged at your hair again, a little rougher this time. But deep down, buried under every eye roll and complaint, he enjoyed doing things with you, whether they were sexual or not. That part, at least, he could admit to himself. Maybe not out loud. Definitely not to you. He'd rather drop dead than say it out loud.

The favor you had asked was to practice your creative makeup on him, get his measurements, and use him as some sort of living mannequin for the designs you'd been working on. It sounded harmless enough when you first mentioned it, though the way you said it—bright-eyed, insistent, and practically buzzing with ideas—made it sound like you were dragging him into something bigger than he could imagine. He hadn't thought much of it back then, especially since hospital duties had swallowed him whole. The weeks stretched on, filled with endless shifts, late nights, and exhaustion so deep he barely had the energy to eat before collapsing into bed.

But still, in the middle of those long nights, he'd catch himself thinking of you. Of how irritating you could be, how you texted him nonsense memes at ungodly hours, how you spammed his phone like you had nothing better to do. He never admitted it, but the absence of your loud presence gnawed at him. The quiet felt heavier without you around to annoy him into feeling alive. That was what made him finally agree to see you again, even if it meant dragging his tired body to your apartment after his shift.

At the bus stop, Sunoo sat slumped beside Jungwon, eyelids heavy as the night air pressed around them. Jungwon let out a long groan, stretching his arms above his head. "Do you want to sleep over at my place instead? Later, I'll order Jollibee. Kinda been craving their spaghetti."

The offer was tempting—comfort food and a soft bed—but Sunoo only shook his head, his lips curving faintly as he pulled out his phone. "Maybe next time. Thanks for the offer, though. I've got some business to attend to."

"Business?" Jungwon repeated, his voice laced with skepticism. "At this hour?"

Sunoo didn't answer right away. His thumb scrolled down the flood of messages on his screen—your name glowing at the top of the chat. Rows of texts, some with too many exclamation marks, others filled with random pictures, all ridiculous enough to make his scrunched-up expression betray him with a small, undeniable smile. Jungwon noticed. He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. "That's new," he muttered, side-eyeing. "So... where exactly are you going?"

"Just there," Sunoo replied vaguely, sliding his phone back into his bag before Jungwon could ask too much. And then, Sunoo leaned over and kissed Jungwon on the cheek, accompanied by a rare, boyish grin. "I'll get going now. Bye-bye!"

Jungwon froze, eyebrows shooting up in disbelief as he watched Sunoo walk away, his figure retreating down the street with a kind of restless energy. Jungwon's mouth fell open, his thoughts spinning in circles. He looked off to the side, considering whether to press or not, but in the end he only sighed and rolled his shoulders in resignation. "Huh. Weird," he muttered to himself, shaking his head as he shoved his hands into his pockets. "But whatever."

When Sunoo finally stepped into your apartment, you didn't hold back. You practically launched yourself at him, arms flinging around his shoulders as though you had been waiting for this moment for weeks—which, in truth, you had. The sound of your laughter filled the air immediately, loud and full of the joy that spilled out of you so naturally.

Sunoo, on the other hand, reacted exactly the way he always did when you overwhelmed him with affection. His face scrunched into that familiar look of feigned annoyance as he huffed, one hand coming up to shove your face away. "Geez," he muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile, "it's already ten in the evening and you're still bouncing around? Spare me, please." With a heavy sigh, he slipped his bag off his shoulder and tossed it onto the nearest chair. "I'm just going to change my clothes."

Your eyes widened immediately, and you froze mid-step. "Wait—does that mean you're going to sleep here?"

Sunoo rolled his eyes dramatically, as if the answer should have been obvious. "What? You really think I'd go home after letting you disturb me at this hour?" he said, his voice dry. He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing around your apartment for the first time.

It was nothing like his own space. The moment his gaze swept over the room, he felt an odd tug in his chest. Guitars lined one wall, their strings gleaming faintly under the shifting glow of LED lights taped along the corners. The posters that filled your walls, mostly of metal bands he actually recognized—thanks to one of his friends who was just as obsessed with that scene as you seemed to be. There were canvases, too, half-finished and scattered against the sofa. The whole place felt alive, buzzing with your energy even when you weren't moving.

"Missed me?" you teased, leaning closer with a grin.

Sunoo didn't even spare you a proper glance. He rolled his eyes and shoved you lightly away, muttering under his breath as he dug into his bag. "As if. The only reason I even bothered coming here is because your annoying ass wouldn't leave me alone."

You watched him unzip his bag, pulling out a neatly folded set of clothes, and despite his flat expression you noticed the way his shoulders sagged, how exhaustion clung to every movement. He had been working himself to the bone, yet here he was, standing in your apartment at ten in the evening. That alone made your chest warm.

"God, I need to shower," he muttered, already moving toward the hallway without waiting for directions. He pushed open a random door, somehow guessing correctly that it was the bathroom, and slipped inside. The door shut firmly, leaving you behind in the living room with your laughter spilling out in echoes.

You padded after him without hesitation, knocking against the bathroom door with force. "Let me join!" you shouted through the wood.

From inside, there was a short pause, followed by the sound of the shower starting, and then his indignant yell. "Fuck you!"

You laughed so hard you had to lean against the wall for support, the sound echoing through your apartment. There was something deeply satisfying in knowing you could still pull that reaction from him even when he was drained from his long shift.

Sunoo ended up on your bed, sitting stiffly. His eyes moved slowly over your room, taking in the mess sprawl of your belongings. Clothes half-folded, books stacked unevenly, random brushes and palettes scattered across your desk. He bent down with a sigh, picking up a stray eyeliner pencil and a crumpled sheet of paper from the floor before dropping them on the bedside table. "Unbelievable," he muttered, glancing at you. "How do you even live like this?"

You ignored his complaint, too caught up in your own excitement. With the measuring tape in hand, you motioned for him to sit still. He shifted reluctantly, rolling his eyes but letting you circle around him, brushing against his shoulders and arms as you worked. You could feel the weight of his gaze following your movements even though he tried to pretend he wasn't paying attention.

"Our theme is under the sea," you began, your tone lively, words spilling out in a rush. "The makeup I have in mind isn't too heavy—it's soft, glowy, more like a douyin-inspired style, but with hints of shimmer, like reflections on water."

Sunoo raised a brow but said nothing, still trying to sit as if he wasn't secretly curious. "Wait, hold on." You darted to your desk, shoving aside piles of papers and empty cups, searching frantically until you found your sketchpad. The mess you made in the process only made him sigh louder, and when you finally returned, your arms were full of sheets, pencils, and smudged notes. You plopped beside him on the bed without an ounce of care, your hair brushing against his shoulder as you flipped the sketchpad open to the right page.

"Here, look!" you said eagerly, turning the pad so he could see. The drawing wasn't perfect, but it was vibrant, full of details—flowing lines like waves, soft glitter patterns around the eyes, hints of pearlescent tones. You leaned close enough that your knees brushed his, smiling up at him as if waiting for approval.

He glanced at the sketch, then at you, then back again. His face was blank, though his lips twitched as if fighting back a reaction. "You did all this just for practice?" he asked finally.

"Of course," you said without hesitation, tilting your head at him. "You're my muse tonight. Who else would I trust to pull this off?"

That word—muse—hung in the air between you. Sunoo blinked, looking away quickly, pretending to study the messy corner of your room instead. He scoffed under his breath, though his ears betrayed him with the faintest hint of red.

"Whatever, just do your job so I can sleep," he said, voice carrying that familiar sharpness. Still, he didn't shift away when you leaned in, didn't flinch when your hand brushed against his wrist as you measured, nor when you adjusted the tilt of his chin so you could see him better. He stayed still, letting you come closer.

If someone asked you at that moment how you felt, you would have answered easily—you were happy. Happy in a way that was simple yet overwhelming. Happy because lately, it felt like things were turning in your favor, even the little things. Happy because just yesterday you'd gotten a new tattoo for free. Happy because sitting here, in your messy room that never seemed good enough for guests, you had a boy in front of you who was almost too pretty to be real. A boy who had an attitude sharp enough to cut, but whose presence made you feel full.

You weren't known for being soft. People said you were rough around the edges, cunning, always quick with words that made others falter. But with him, it was different. You couldn't help yourself from speaking, from filling the silence with random stories, thoughts, jokes—anything. To most, your voice could be overwhelming, but Sunoo had already grown used to it.

"And Jake was also planning his first date to a hotpot—" you rambled on, your hand steady as you blended shimmer onto his eyelid.

Sunoo let out a heavy sigh, his lips parting slightly as he resisted the urge to open his eyes. He had been sitting there with his lids closed for what felt like an eternity, and still you weren't finished. "Do you ever shut up?" he muttered.

You grinned, your brush tracing along the curve of his brow bone as if you didn't hear the complaint. "Why would I? My voice keeps you awake."

"More like gives me a headache," he countered. You tilted his face to the side, carefully catching the light so you could see your work better. These were just trial runs, after all, and even though you hadn't used foundation or concealer—because his skin was already annoyingly perfect—you still wanted everything to look right. The green-brown lenses had shifted the color of his eyes into softer glow, and with the eyeshadow fanned out at the corners, it gave him a kind of effortless charm that made you pause. There was something about working on his face that always made you fall quiet for a second, like you were afraid any sudden movement might break the moment. His features, up close, were unfairly beautiful—the curve of his cheekbones, the sharp line of his jaw, the small, barely-there freckles you'd playfully added to give him a more sun-kissed look. Everything about him was pretty in a way that didn't feel delicate, but confident. His lips especially—plump, soft, and just slightly parted while he sat there with his eyes closed.

You turned, rummaging through your pile of lip tints and glosses until you found the shade that instantly reminded you of him. It was a sheer pink with a little bit of shimmer, and you already knew how good it would look. Without warning, you swung your leg over and settled onto his lap, grinning as you balanced your weight. The reaction was immediate—Sunoo's eyes snapped open, brows pulling together.

"Seriously?" he sighed, exasperated, but his hands came to your hips anyway, holding you steady so you wouldn't slip off the edge of the bed. "Are we done now?"

You tilted your head and gave a sheepish smile, not answering as you leaned in to carefully dab the gloss over his lips. The shape of his mouth, the way it gave the tiniest twitch when your finger brushed the edge—it made your pulse jump. You were so close now that his breath brushed against your cheek, and you had to focus hard not to let your hand shake. You wanted to kiss him. The urge sat so close to the surface that it made your chest feel tight, but you didn't. You just pulled back and admired the finished look with a soft exhale.

"Perfect," you whispered to yourself, more than him. You reached behind you and grabbed the mirror without moving from his lap. Sunoo rolled his eyes but took the mirror from your hand. You stayed right where you were, watching with quiet excitement as he looked at his reflection. There was silence at first. He tilted the mirror slightly, studying one angle, then another. He reached up to touch his hair, fixing a stray strand, then let his gaze drift toward his lips. His expression shifted slowly, quiet surprise then the corner of his mouth curled upward.

"Hmm, it doesn't look bad," he murmured.

Still straddling his lap, you leaned in closer until your face hovered just near the side of his neck, taking in the soft scent of his body wash still lingering from his shower. Your voice dropped as you murmured, "You look so much prettier than me."

Without missing a beat, Sunoo gave a soft scoff, his eyes still on his reflection. "Of course. I should be."

That earned a laugh from you. Typical Sunoo. You didn't stop yourself when you leaned forward and pressed your teeth lightly against his neck, a teasing little bite that made him flinch. Sunoo immediately pinched your waist, just hard enough to make you jolt. "Don't leave marks, I swear I'll kill you," he hissed, finally putting the mirror aside and turning to glare at you.

You only grinned wider, pressing closer until your hands slid up to frame his jaw and your nose brushed against his. "What if I want to leave marks?" you whispered.  "What if I want people to know you've been thoroughly used?"

He stared at you, deadpan, though the faintest flush started to bloom across his cheeks. "Used?" he echoed, blinking slowly.

You nodded, the tip of your tongue peeking out as you teased, "Yeah. Like a good little stress toy. I could sit on your face"

His jaw clenched in restraint. "You're disgusting," he muttered, but his hands never left your hips. In fact, they gripped a little tighter now.

"That's not a no," you said sweetly, letting your thumb trail along the curve of his throat. "You're holding me so well. Kinda makes me think you like this. You want me to keep going, Sunoo?"

He inhaled sharply and leaned back just slightly, giving himself space to think. The dim light of the room cast a soft glow across his cheekbones. The red LED strip near the ceiling bled into shadows, blending into the yellow hue of your little desk lamp, illuminating parts of your skin in warm patches. Your hair messily pinned up, strands falling out of your bun, wearing that worn-out Hello Kitty sando and those barely-there shorts. He swallowed hard.

And for a moment, he just stared. The edge of lust in his expression softened. The corner of his lip twitched like he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. He was thinking, really thinking. and the thoughts weren't just about your lips or your thighs or the heat pooling between you. He was imagining your face twisted in pleasure, not because you were teasing or in control, but because he was the one making you fall apart. He wanted to see that. Wanted to own it.

His body betrayed him first. You both felt how hard he was getting beneath you, the tension radiating off him as you shifted on his lap and rolled your hips in a slow circle against his clothed cock. Your breath hitched as your core dragged over the growing bulge beneath his sweats, and you felt his fingers dig in harder.

Sunoo bit down on his bottom lip and didn't break eye contact. His voice came controlled, but his expression betrayed how much restraint it took. "Sit on my face, then."

Your entire body tensed. The shift was immediate. The teasing smirk that once played on your lips faltered. Your hips stopped moving, stilling right on top of him. You blinked, staring down at him, wide-eyed and visibly caught off guard. "H-huh?" you stammered, breath shallow.

His hand slid up beneath your sando, fingertips grazing over the soft skin of your waist, then higher toward your ribs, slow and unhurried as his gaze didn't flicker. "Sit on my face," he whispered again. "What's the matter? You seemed so eager earlier."

You could barely form a thought. Your pulse thundered in your ears, your breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a plea. "I was just joking," you mumbled, already shifting as if to climb off his lap, trying to dismiss the thought. "You don't have to. I mean—vaginal fluid doesn't even taste good..." You avoided his eyes, flustered and scrambling for your scattered makeup products, needing something to shift the atmosphere. But before your fingers could wrap around the nearest compact, Sunoo moved. He caught you by the wrist and pushed you back onto the bed in one quick motion. You let out a small, surprised squeal as your back hit the mattress.

His body hovered over yours, his knees pinning either side of your hips, eyes fixed on you. "I've let you get me off with your mouth more times than I can count," he said in annoyance. "And now you're acting like I don't get to touch you back?"

Your heart kicked harder in your chest, thudding against your ribs as you stared up at him. "I—" you started, but your voice came out small. "Sunoo, I didn't even shave..."

He didn't blink. He sat back just slightly, his fingers slipping under the waistband of your shorts. "And?" he muttered, raising a brow as if that wasn't even a detail worth considering. When you moved to stop him, hands fluttering at his wrists, he caught one and pressed it into the mattress. His other hand cupped you through your panties, his palm fitting against the damp heat between your thighs.

Your breath hitched. Your back arched into his touch instinctively, and you saw the way his eyes darkened, how his lips parted ever so slightly. "You're soaked," he said, thumb pressing a little firmer.

You tried to deflect, though your voice wavered. "Do you even know what to do with it?" Your tone was teasing, but your body betrayed you—already trembling under his touch, heat pooling low in your stomach, breath quickening. You weren't expecting his answer.

"No," he said simply, like he wasn't embarrassed by it. Then his fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, dragging the fabric down your thighs in one slow motion before tossing it somewhere across the room. "So teach me."

He slid a hand under your thigh, lifting and spreading your legs. Then he leaned down, his lips brushing soft kisses along your inner thigh slowly, all while keeping his eyes on you. The contact made your pussy flutter, a pulse of need tightening in your abdomen. Your breath hitched again, your hips twitching with anticipation. The sight of him makeup still intact from earlier, your lip gloss still lingering faintly on his mouth—made your body anticipate.

He dipped his head between your legs and dragged his tongue along your folds, one long, unhurried stroke from your entrance to your clit. The sensation made you jolt, the sudden wave of pleasure catching you off guard. "Fuck," you gasped, one hand flying to his hair, fingers curling in his soft strands.

Sunoo's tongue was slow at first, careful in a way that almost betrayed how new this was to him but he was quick to find what made you tremble. He closed his eyes, letting the taste of you settle on his tongue as he circled your clit with careful strokes before dragging his mouth lower to collect everything your body was offering. For a second, he could barely breathe.

So this is what pussy tastes like. That thought rang in his head, the warmth, the wetness, the way your whole body jerked when he hit the right spot—it was more than he imagined. He'd spent years scoffing at the way straight guys romanticized it, mocked their obsession, swore he'd never enjoy it. But fuck, now he understood why they bragged about it. Now he understood the hype.

His hands gripped your thighs as he dragged his tongue through your folds again, slower this time, savoring it. He moaned into you when he heard you whine his name, your voice shaky and breathless. The vibration of his voice against your pussy made your whole body twitch, and Sunoo's cock throbbed from the sound alone. If he wasn't already half-hard before, he was fully aching now, painfully so.

"S-Sunoo," you whimpered, hips lifting off the bed in a desperate rhythm that told him just how good he was doing. His mouth moved instinctively—less cautious now, more eager, more confident—as he pushed his tongue deeper, tasting you from your entrance all the way up, mouth hot and greedy. You were clenching around nothing, so tight and needy, and he wanted to bury his face even deeper, get drunk off you.

When your thighs began to tremble and squeeze around his ears, he didn't stop—instead, he pressed your legs apart with both hands, holding you open like a meal he wasn't finished with yet. Your slick coated his lips and chin, dripping down, and he didn't care. If anything, it made him hungrier. He licked through it all, mess and all, letting it smear over his tongue and down his throat as he sucked your clit hard, then softened his strokes just enough to tease again.

"Ahhh!" Your body writhed underneath him, moans louder, messier, fingers clawing at his hair. His nose bumped into your clit as he worked his tongue into you again, his face wet with your slick, breathing through his mouth as he chased the way you tasted.

His mind was spinning—nothing existed in that moment except your moans, the heat of your pussy, and the steady throb in his pants that begged for release. And when you cried out his name again, legs shaking harder, nails digging into his scalp as your hips rocked into his face, Sunoo moaned so loud it vibrated against your cunt, eyes rolling back as he thought—fuck, he could come from just this.

Sunoo's hips were already grinding against the mattress, his clothed cock rutting helplessly into the sheets as he kept his mouth buried between your legs, tongue swirling slow, then fast, then slow again as he tested how you reacted to every flick and drag. But it was your clit that made him obsessed, the way it throbbed, the way you twitched whenever he sucked it, the way you squealed when he circled it just right. He focused there now, licking harder, more deliberate, tasting every ounce of you like he was making up for all the time he'd dismissed ever wanting this.

This wasn't just payback for all the times you teased him, for every shameless comment or cocky flirt that came from your mouth. No, this was Sunoo owning you. Silencing you. Making you feel exactly what you put him through—restless, aching, desperate.

Your moans started to rise uncontrollably, your voice shaky, your fingers now tangled tightly in his hair as your hips rolled in sync with the rhythm of his tongue. "Wait! Fuck!" you gasped, thighs twitching as your climax built hard and fast, threatening to snap. But Sunoo didn't let up, if anything, he gripped your legs tighter, keeping them wide open, anchoring you in place so you couldn't run from it.

He looked up at you, flushed and wrecked, your eyes squeezed shut in overwhelmed pleasure, lips parted as your body trembled. His cock throbbed painfully from just the sight, and his tongue moved faster, dragging flat and then curling upward to suck your clit hard before flicking again.

When you came, it hit like a wave crashing through your entire body, your back arched off the mattress, mouth open in a cry you barely recognized, legs shaking hard in his hold. Your breathing turned ragged, stuttering as the orgasm took over, intense and blinding.

But Sunoo didn't stop. He lapped through it, almost like he was trying to drag more out of you, milking the high as long as he could. His mouth was soaked, face buried so deep you had to push at his head with trembling hands, voice breaking as you choked out, "Too much—fuck, I can't—"

He let you go, finally, pulling back with a smile. His lips glistened with your cum, cheeks flushed, and his hair was a mess from your grip but those green contacts made his eyes look almost unreal in the soft red light. And god, the makeup you'd done earlier was perfect. Smudged only a little at the corner of his lids, giving him an edgier look that made your cunt clench again.

Sunoo was pretty. Too pretty. Pretty enough to ruin you without even trying. What made it worse—or better, depending how fucked up your brain was—was the way his tongue slowly dragged along his bottom lip, catching the last traces of you. "How was it?" he asked, tilting his head to seek of your approval.

You couldn't even answer at first. Your legs were still trembling, thighs sticky and wet, your heartbeat thudding too loud in your ears to think straight. You swallowed, chest rising and falling fast as you tried to catch your breath. Then you looked at him again—at the shine on his mouth, the hunger still flickering behind those pretty green eyes, the way he sat back slightly.

"Not that bad," you breathed out, voice shaky as your trembling legs bent down and your fingers slowly pressed against the hard outline of his cock through the soft fabric of his sweats. You didn't even try to hide how your hand lingered, almost testing him—your palm flat, applying a bit of pressure. Sunoo raised his brow at your answer but you didn't meet it. You were too busy fighting off the embarrassment clawing at your chest from the way you moved so eagerly, so unlike how you usually carry yourself.

"Down to fuck?" you asked, forcing a playful smirk as you tilted your head, though your voice cracked slightly at the end and your legs still hadn't stopped trembling. The moment you saw the way he blinked at you, you almost backtracked, your lips parting, about to laugh it off like you were only playing.

But then Sunoo was already pulling down his sweats. His cock sprang free, hard and flushed and angry-looking, the head pink and glistening, practically pulsing with tension. You stared. Your mouth went dry. Then wet. You swallowed thickly, clenching your thighs, heat crawling under your skin and settling low in your stomach. There was no hesitation in him now, no teasing smile, just hunger written across his face as he sat back on his heels. His hand wrapped around himself, stroking slowly as he watched the way your breath caught. You didn't even try to hide your stare.

Your mouth went dry, your legs pressing together out of reflex, and you could feel your whole body heat at the sight of him. He looked desperate, flushed, needy, barely holding himself back. "W-Wait," you blurted, hand reaching out like you meant to stop him, even though your body clearly didn't agree. Your pulse was racing, and your thoughts were already spiraling, too many emotions crashing into each other all at once—desire, fear, anticipation.

Sunoo let out a rough sigh, dragging his eyes up to your face. His brows furrowed and his lips parted like he was going to say something else, but then his jaw clenched tight. You could see the frustration in his eyes. "What more do you need?" he asked, voice low and strained. "Do you want me or not?"

You swallowed hard, because the truth was yes, more than you'd ever expected to. But something about how exposed both of you were now made it suddenly harder to breathe. "I just..." you began, "I don't want to ruin this. You've never done this before and I—what if it's too much?" It was fear—real and sudden fear. The weight of what you were about to do had finally caught up, hitting somewhere deep in your chest. This wasn't just another messy hookup. Not with him.

Sunoo stared at you in silence. You could see the flicker in his eyes, between disbelief and restrained annoyance. He almost looked like he was about to roll his eyes and shove you back down onto the mattress with that sharp tongue of his, throwing some cutting comment about how ridiculous this was when you were both already naked, your legs trembling and his cock painfully hard between them. But he didn't. Instead, he took a breath, he reached out, fingers brushing gently against the inside of your knee. You felt the warmth of his palm slide up your thigh until it rested there. "It's already too much," he said. "It's been too much since the first time you kissed me."

You swallowed hard as you sat still beneath his touch. Then his hand slid a little higher, his thumb brushing softly against the crease where your thigh met your hip. "So..." he tilted his head, the corners of his lips twitching into a slight smirk that couldn't hide the heat still simmering in his eyes. "Are we gonna fuck or not?"

You let out a shaky breath, laughing despite yourself. You leaned in, pressing your mouth to his jaw, feeling the slight tremble in his skin. Your hand slid down between you, curling around the base of his cock, hot and twitching in your grip. His breath stuttered, hips jerking slightly. You looked up at him, lips brushing his cheekbone as you whispered, "Lay back for me. Let me take care of you first."

Sunoo obeyed without a word, his body moving almost too quickly. He leaned back against the headboard, chest rising fast, lips parted as he tried to steady his breath. You saw the way his cock twitched in anticipation, pre-cum glistening at the tip, practically begging for friction.

You pulled your sando off, discarding it somewhere off the bed. The bra came next, your bare form revealed under the room's dim lighting. You weren't shy—at least you tried not to be—but you were aware of the way Sunoo's eyes darkened the moment he saw you fully.

Sunoo stopped breathing altogether. His lips parted slightly, stunned, staring at the shape of you, the ink on your skin, the curve of your breasts, and the subtle shimmer of sweat from earlier. Everything about you was too much. Too fucking beautiful.

You straddled him slowly, settling over his thighs as you reached toward your drawer and took out a condom. Sunoo's eyes didn't leave yours, not even when you tore the packet open and rolled it down the length of his cock with deliberate care. His head fell back against the pillows as he let out a groan, hips twitching up into your hand.

"Fuck," he groaned, hips bucking just slightly into your hand. His cock throbbed under your touch, hard and leaking. He couldn't believe how sensitive he was. How badly he wanted this.

You smirked at the sound, giving him a slow stroke just to see him twitch again. "First time?" you teased. "You better tell me later what's better—dick or pussy."

He let out a breathless laugh, but didn't answer. Not when you were already lifting your hips and guiding the tip of his cock to your entrance. That wiped the grin from both your faces.

As he breached you slowly, you gritted your teeth, trying to hide the way your body resisted the stretch. Your hands pressed against his chest for support, and you felt his hands move instinctively to your hips, holding you steady but not forcing anything. His grip was trembling. So were your thighs. You widened your legs as best as you could, adjusting inch by inch, trying to take him fully without showing how much it burned on the way in. You tried to play it off—tried to look confident even when your face couldn't hide the pinch of discomfort.

The truth was, you didn't have a lot of experience with men. Maybe just one, and that didn't really count. It was fast, fumbling, and forgettable. You'd never ridden anyone before. You knew how to move your hips with girls—scissoring, grinding, finding the angles—but this was different. This was slower, deeper, stretching you in ways you hadn't prepared for. You didn't want to look clueless. You didn't want to ruin the moment.

Still, you refused to back down. You braced yourself, breathing through your nose, trying to remember every move you'd given and received, every grind and swivel you'd learned with women—just enough to give yourself rhythm. You focused on how wet you were and how turned on he clearly was, Sunoo gasped beneath you, both hands tightening on your waist like he was afraid he'd lose himself the second you sank further.

"Fuck—" he choked, voice cracking. "You're so—tight. Oh my god—don't move yet—just—fuck—"

His head tilted back, lips parted in a perfect 'O' as he moaned, eyes squeezed shut. His reaction made something clench in your chest and between your legs, but you held still, letting yourself adjust, letting him calm down before either of you pushed too far too fast.

You looked down at him, sweat already starting to gather at his temples, and leaned over just enough to press your forehead to his.

You finally managed to sink down all the way, and the stretch was so intense it knocked the air out of your lungs. Your mouth fell open in a breathless moan, your walls clenching tight around him, struggling to adjust. The pain hadn't completely faded, but it was being overtaken by a creeping pleasure that curled low in your belly. Still, your legs were shaking violently beneath you, the burn in your thighs making it impossible to lift yourself.

Sunoo blinked up at you, concern slipping into his dazed expression as his hands rubbed your waist slowly, gently. His fingers were trying to soothe you, but he could feel the tremble beneath your skin, could see the panic flicker in your eyes. "You okay?" he asked quietly.

You couldn't answer right away. You pressed your face into the curve of his neck, hiding the stutter in your breath as your hands gripped his shoulders. You nodded, though it was shaky. "I'm fine," you said but it came out weak, and the moment you tried to lift yourself, your legs gave out again. You choked out a sound, "just... g-give me a minute."

Sunoo stiffened underneath you when he felt the hot tear that rolled down onto his skin. His brows furrowed as he turned his head slightly, lips brushing your temple. He almost felt bad, guilty to be exact. He knew what that stretch felt like, that burn of being too full, and for a second, he almost paused. Almost. But then you clenched around him again, and it told him everything he needed to know.

"You're such a liar," he breathed out, a soft laugh slipping past his lips. "All that talk... and look at you now."

You didn't respond—just let out another breathy moan, face still tucked into his neck, skin hot with embarrassment. He could feel how tight you were, feel how you clenched around him every time he moved even the slightest. Without warning, he planted both feet flat on the mattress and thrust upward, driving himself deeper inside you. Your entire body jolted, and the moan that tore out of your throat was loud and desperate. He clenched his jaw at the sound of it, biting back his own curse.

You tightened around him, body clenching in response, and his hips bucked again, this time slower, more deliberate. His mouth moved to your ear, breath ghosting over the sensitive skin there as you trembled in his hold. "Let me take over," he whispered. His arms wrapped around your waist, locking you in place, and his hips moved again—shallow but deep, fucking into you from below.

You both moaned out loud. It was past one in the morning and the silence outside made it worse, like every sound would carry past the walls, but Sunoo didn't seem to care. His rhythm picked up, hips snapping against yours with rising urgency, chasing the high he'd only ever imagined.

His thrust hit that perfect spot inside you and your whole body arched, a sharp cry ripping from your throat. Your hands fumbled to hold onto something—his arms, the sheets, your own sanity—but it was already slipping.

Sunoo didn't pause, didn't even look apologetic as he murmured, "Fuck, that's it," like he'd just discovered your weakness. Your pussy was gripping him so tight he could barely move, but that only drove him further. The struggle made it more satisfying.

And then, he pulled out. You barely had time to protest when he shifted your position, guiding you back onto the bed with your legs spread wide. He stared, breathing hard, hands trailing down your thighs before his fingers spread your folds gently. He took a second just to look at you, to admire how wet and swollen you were for him, how much you wanted it. Then, with two fingers, he circled your clit—light, teasing touches that made your hips jerk and your legs try to close on instinct.

So this is why tops get cocky, he thought, watching the way your eyes fluttered, the way your lips fell open in a silent moan. This is why they hold someone down, grip their legs, call them pretty, beg them to take more. He could feel the power of every thrust, feel the way your body reacted. He never understood it before. He always thought tops just liked being in charge, that they were addicted to control—but it wasn't just about that.

"You always run your mouth," he muttered, watching your body twitch with every motion. "But where's all that attitude now?"

He caught your leg, draping one over his shoulder as he lined himself up again. The stretch was immediate, deeper now in this new position, and he pushed in slowly, inch by inch, dragging his cock along your walls until the tip pressed against the spot that made your back arch on reflex.

"You always talk too much," he muttered, groaning at the way you clenched again. "Guess my dick's the one to shut you up."

You sobbed harder, face turning to the side as your hands gripped the sheets. Your breasts bounced with each thrust, tears streaking your cheeks as you moaned his name. "P-please, Sunoo."

Sunoo's stomach tightened at the sound. He threw his head back, letting out a moan that was nearly a growl. His grip tightened on your thighs before he grabbed both, pushing your knees up beside your head as he leaned in close. His arms braced on either side of you, the shift pressing you into the mattress, trapping you with his weight.

Then, he pulled almost all the way out, letting you feel every inch slip from your body before slamming back in with a force that made your eyes roll back. The bed creaked beneath you, the room filled with the slick, wet sound of skin on skin.

"Fuck!" you screamed, arching harder beneath him, your voice cracking on the edge of a sob. Without a second thought, he dropped his hand between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing fast, precise circles. "G-gonna cum, wait! Wait, wait, wait—"  your voice dissolving into a high-pitched wail, so loud and unfiltered that Sunoo instinctively leaned down to kiss you, swallowing the sound against your lips.

The moment his mouth covered yours, your walls spasmed around him, tight and wet and so hot that he couldn't think. Your climax hit, your hips jerking uncontrollably as your pussy clenched around him over and over, fluttering in a rhythm that made his own control snap completely.

Sunoo moaned against your mouth, almost choking on it, his own breath ragged as he held still for a heartbeat but your body pulled it out of him. He couldn't stop moving, not when it felt like this. He gripped your waist tight and kept thrusting, shallow and fast, keeping the head of his cock angled against the soft, spongy spot inside you. He wanted to feel all of it, ride it out, draw it out until you were crying again.

Your legs shook violently as you clung to him, your mouth parting beneath his kiss in gasping, sobbing breaths. You didn't even care that you were a mess now, sweat-slicked, trembling, lips swollen from kissing and crying. You couldn't stop clenching around him, couldn't stop shaking from how intense it was.

And Sunoo, he'd never felt anything like it. That pressure, the way you pulsed around him, the wet squeeze of your walls, the heat, the smell of sweat and sex, the muffled sobs against his mouth—it was too much. He buried his face in your neck as his hips stuttered once, then twice more, before he groaned loud, biting down on a moan that still escaped him in a rush.

"Shit! Ah! Fuck, fuck fuck." He came hard, harder than he ever remembered. His body curled over yours as the orgasm crashed through him, his muscles locking up, breath ragged as his cock twitched deep inside the condom. The sound he made was almost a sob of his own because the moment you clenched around him like that, it was over. He had no chance.

He stayed inside you, breathing hard against your collarbone, trying to get control of his heartbeat. His arms wrapped tighter around your waist, holding you close. You blinked up at the ceiling, dazed, chest rising and falling in erratic waves. Sunoo pulled back just enough to look at you, brushing hair out of your face with one trembling hand.

"One more?" you asked, voice still breathy as you gave him a weak smile, your lashes still wet with the remnants of your tears. There was a glow in your face from that dazed, post-orgasmic haze.

Sunoo let out a scoff, tossing his head to the side. "My legs feel like noodles. Leave me alone." He covered his eyes with one arm.

You let out a small laugh, too drained to do more than let your body sink deeper into the sheets. You didn't push back with another tease. Sunoo sighed as he finally peeled himself off the bed. He removed the condom carefully, tying it off and tossing it into the trash. His limbs felt too light, a little shaky, and for a second he just stood there, catching his breath with a hand braced against the edge of the drawer.

Most of his exes never really gave a shit after sex. They'd turn their backs, light a cigarette, or scroll through their phones. And Sunoo hated that—hated how cold it used to make him feel, even if he pretended it didn't. He wasn't about to become that kind of person, no matter what this thing was between you two. No matter how casual you both claimed it was. So he pulled on his briefs and then his sweatpants, still trying to recover as he looked at your spent body lying there, eyes fluttering closed, chest flushed and rising slowly. You weren't asleep yet, but you looked like you could drift off at any second.

"Don't pass out on me," he muttered under his breath as he leaned down, arms sliding under your knees and back. His muscles protested immediately. "Shit—what are you eating?" he groaned as he lifted you, stumbling a little. "Why are you so heavy? Fuck, my back hurts."

Your laugh came out as a soft wheeze, your head dropping onto his shoulder. "You're so sweet," you mumbled, not even bothering to open your eyes.

Sunoo let out a sharp, incredulous sound as he adjusted his grip on you. "Sweet?" he scoffed. "Bitch, I'm carrying you to the bathroom so you don't get a UTI. That's not sweet, that's basic sexual hygiene."

You didn't even have the energy to be embarrassed, just groaned and buried your face deeper into the crook of his neck as he trudged down the hall. "Still sweet," you mumbled against his skin, barely audible.

After that night, you truly believed something had shifted between the two of you. And if anyone asked how you felt, you'd say the same thing every time: you were happy. Deeply, undeniably happy.

4 Months Later.

"Ah! Harder!F-fuck, Sunoo!"

Your voice cracked as Sunoo pressed a firm hand against the small of your back, forcing your hips higher while his other hand anchored tight around your waist. He dug his nails into your skin without realizing, the sting only mixing into the heat already flooding your body. His pace grew rougher, steady and merciless, and when your moans pitched too high, he slid his palm up to the back of your neck, pinning your face into the mattress to muffle the sounds.

Sunoo's eyes dropped, gaze fixed on the red lilies etched into your lower back. The ink bloomed outward in delicate, mirrored curves, the lines dark against your sweat-slick skin. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but he had become addicted to this view. From behind, with your ass high and that tattoo staring back at him, he always came harder than he thought possible. He'd never say it aloud, of course—he'd just brush it off with some offhand jab about your face being annoying. But deep down, he knew the truth: doggy had become his favorite position because it gave him this sight, this control, and it drove him insane.

His thrusts grew uneven, his groans breaking apart as his orgasm built and finally tore through him. A strangled moan left his lips as he spilled into the condom, his hips stuttering before he slowed to a stop. Breathing harshly, he carefully pulled out, muscles trembling.

He tied off the condom and tossed it into the trash, staring at the small pile already gathering there. "Fuck," he muttered, dragging a hand through his damp hair. "We should've stopped after the third round. My head feels groggy every time and I still have duty tomorrow."

You collapsed forward onto the bed. "You're the one who kept asking for more," you teased, voice hoarse but playful as you reached for the drawer by your side. You pulled it open and slid your fingers around the familiar box of cigarettes, only to flinch when Sunoo's hand smacked yours away with no hesitation.

"No cigarettes while I'm here," he snapped, eyes narrowing as he shoved the box back into the drawer and slammed it shut.

You turned your head lazily to glare at him, lips jutting into a pout. "Come on, I always smoke outside. Just one, it won't kill me."

Sunoo rolled his eyes and flopped down beside you, his arm heavy as it landed across your waist. "Yeah, and you'll say the same thing tomorrow, and the next day, and then you'll be coughing your lungs out when you're thirty. No thanks, I'm not kissing an ashtray." He buried his face briefly against your shoulder, breathing in your scent, before pulling back with a huff.

You stared at Sunoo for a moment, your palm brushing over his damp hair as you gently pushed it back from his forehead, fingertips catching against the fine strands still slick with sweat. His skin was flushed, chest rising and falling in steady breaths, the aftermath of exhaustion softening his features in a way you rarely got to see. He let out a low sigh at the touch, his eyes fluttering closed just for a second before he opened them again, blinking up at you like he didn't want to move. "Come on," he murmured, "let's take a shower and sleep already. I'm leaving at six-thirty."

You nodded, smiling as you leaned down to nuzzle your nose against his cheek. Your legs slipped around his waist without needing to be asked, body folding into him easily. Without a word, Sunoo shifted and lifted you up, muttering something under his breath about how clingy you were.

It wasn't often he had time like this. With his final year piling up and hospital internships consuming his days, Sunoo was constantly in motion, constantly drained. But when he made space for you, it was always in small, quiet ways—sitting still long enough for you to do his makeup, letting you slip him into the clothes you had designed, experimenting with textures and colors against his skin. He'd roll his eyes, complain about the shimmer on his cheeks or how ridiculous he looked, but he never told you to stop. And more often than not, those moments ended the same way—clothes discarded, skin pressed together, his sharp tongue replaced by soft moans. Always sex.

By morning, you usually woke up first. You'd reach for him half-asleep, sometimes without even meaning to, and he'd let it happen—sleepy eyes cracking open as he let you ride him or even give him a morning blowjob.

He told you to keep things quiet, especially when it came to Jake. Around other people, you played your part, but your restraint never lasted long. When the three of you were together, you couldn't help but lean too close to Sunoo, let your fingers graze over his hand or your palm rest lightly on his thigh. He'd shoot you that withering look, roll his eyes and he'd always yank your hair or slap your hand away.

You yawned as you bent over to pour cat food into Luna's bowl, the dry sound of the kibble clinking against ceramic echoing through the quiet. Your cat was rarely ever home, she rubbed against your ankle before settling to eat, her sleek black fur rising and falling with every breath.

Behind you, Sunoo stepped out from the bathroom, towel draped around his neck, still drying his hair. He passed by silently, stooping to give Luna a little scratch behind the ear before wandering around your room to gather his things. "I ironed your scrubs already," you said, yawning mid-sentence, arms stretching overhead as you turned to face him. "Your bag's on the table."

He paused mid-motion, glancing at you. You weren't the type to hover or fuss over anyone, but with him, it was different. You'd stopped staying at his place, mostly because you knew how little sleep he got. You didn't want to disrupt the hours of rest he did manage to find. So instead, you made sure that whenever he came over, everything he'd need by morning was already in place. Scrubs clean and folded. Bag packed. Sometimes even the lunch you'd made slipped quietly into his bag.

"I bought an energy drink yesterday," you mumbled, already at the fridge, grabbing out a pack of three. "Bring one for your friend. Sungwon, right?"

Sunoo scoffed, eyes narrowing in exaggerated offense. "His name is Jungwon. You've met him—don't act fake now."

You grinned as you handed him the cans, laughing softly as he leaned in and kissed your temple. "Thanks, girl," he muttered against your skin, then he pulled back slightly, still toweling off his damp hair, and gave you a small smirk. "Can you dry my hair and slick it back for me?"

You blinked, a little taken aback. Usually, Sunoo did things on his own, and even when he didn't, he rarely asked for help like this. You nodded without thinking, already reaching for your comb. "Yeah. Sit down," you said gently. "I'll make you look hot so Jungwon doesn't think you crawled out of bed with someone."

"I did crawl out of bed with someone," he quipped back, dropping onto the edge of your bed as you moved behind him, towel still around his shoulders.

You smiled to yourself as you began combing through the strands, towel-drying with care. "Yeah, but no one needs to know she's me."

Sunoo didn't say anything back. His eyes were on his phone, scrolling through whatever filled his morning—probably messages from classmates, schedules, maybe even memes. You didn't ask. You just stood behind him, carefully guiding his hair into a clean, slicked-back style that you knew he preferred when he was headed out for his hospital duty.

The peace felt normal, but something about it pressed against your chest. Still, you stayed silent as he finally set his phone down on the table with a soft clatter and picked up his makeup pouch, moving with ease as he dabbed on light concealer and patted a cushion over his skin. When you finished, you lingered for a moment. Then, without thinking, you leaned forward, wrapped your arms around his neck and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He groaned in that exaggerated, irritated way he always did when you got too clingy but he didn't push you away.

"I'm just happy," you murmured against his skin in a smile as your cheek rested against his. He didn't respond. Just rolled his eyes and reached for his lip balm, uncapping it with one hand. And even though he didn't say anything, you still held on for a second longer, memorizing how he felt beneath your arms.

Another week passed, and the days slipped by faster than you expected. Between classes, looming project deadlines, and juggling your part-time job, your schedule blurred but you never forgot to check in with Sunoo. You messaged him like always, updates about your day, stupid memes, or little notes like "Don't skip meals." His replies were dry, short, sometimes just an emoji or a thumbs up. But you clung to them anyway.

You were in your living room when Jay flopped down onto your couch, letting out a breath. Your electric guitar rested on your lap, fingers absentmindedly plucking at the strings, trying to memorize the fretwork. "Sunghoon's been asking about you again," Jay said, casually scrolling through his phone. "So, what do you wanna play for the university event this week? You're singing, so it's your call."

You adjusted the tuning pegs, focused on the strings. "Tell Sunghoon I'm not interested," you muttered without looking up. "What about Supermassive Black Hole?"

Jay raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? That's a hard pick. You really think you can handle both vocals and electric?"

You shrugged, chin tilted slightly as your fingers slid back into place on the neck of the guitar. "I've done harder."

Practice didn't go as smoothly as you wanted. Your mind wandered more than it should have, eyes flicking to your phone every other minute. Jay tried to stay patient, but the third time you missed your cue, he slammed his palm lightly against the back of the couch.

"Can you focus, please? You're the one who wanted this song," he said. "We barely even see you these days."

Kai, sitting behind the drum kit, tossed his sticks onto the floor with a sigh. "You keep zoning out. It's starting to get annoying."

You didn't even defend yourself. Because in that moment, your phone vibrated and your heart jumped. Sunoo was calling! You nearly knocked your guitar off your lap as you scrambled to answer, pressing the phone to your ear before the first ring ended. "Hello!" you said, voice too eager and too bright. It was the first time Sunoo had ever called you.

Kai made a face, motioning to Jay to take over. You turned away, trying to keep your voice low, your heart pounding.

On the other end, Sunoo didn't even greet you. His tone was flat, a little rushed. "I left my record book at your place. Can you get it for me?"

You blinked, straightening a little. "Oh—yeah, okay. Where are you now?"

"I'm on duty," he said, barely giving you time to respond. "At the hospital. Can you make it quick?"

There was no softness in his voice, no hint that he missed you or even cared that you answered. He just sounded tired, and you understand it since being in a healthcare is not a joke. You looked over your shoulder at your bandmates. Jay met your eyes but didn't say anything, just waved you off. "Yeah, okay. I'll head over now," you said quietly, gripping the phone tighter.

"Thanks," was all he said before the line went dead. You didn't waste time. Back in your room, you found his record book tucked between his internship folders and some folded clothes he had left the last time he stayed over. The edges were a little bent from being stuffed into your shelf, and you smoothed them gently with your palm before grabbing your helmet.

Jay's voice followed you from the couch as he sat up, confused. "Where the hell are you going?"

"Something important," you answered quickly, pulling your jacket on. "I'll be back later. Just need to drop this off."

Kai muttered something under his breath, likely a curse about your priorities, but you didn't stop to listen. You slipped out the door and rode your motorbike across town like muscle memory guided your body, even if your mind was still stuck on the way Sunoo sounded.

When you pulled in on the parking lot, the first thing you saw was him. He was leaning against a pale concrete wall near the entrance, half in shadow. Even from a distance, he looked worn down to the bone. His scrubs hung slightly loose on his frame, and the dark circles beneath his eyes were stark against the paleness of his skin. He wasn't even looking at his phone, just staring off, hands limp at his sides.

Your steps were careful as you approached, "Sunoo..." His head turned, eyes sluggish to find you. You stopped in front of him and took a breath, holding the record book out with one hand, the other brushing lightly against his forearm. "Are you okay, baby?" The nickname slipped out unconsciously, concern laced around the softness in your voice.

"I'm fine." He reached out and took the record book from your hand without looking you in the eye. "Just... duty being toxic."

You nodded, swallowing down the worry bubbling up your throat. "Have you eaten yet? You look—Sunoo, you look really out of it." You stepped closer, trying to meet his gaze. "Can I bring you something? Coffee? Bread? I'll wait for you until you're off."

His lips tightened, jaw locking like he was holding something back, but you continued. "What about we go to the—"

"God, can you just stop?" he snapped suddenly, voice louder than it should have been. You flinched. He immediately looked away, dragging a hand down his face in frustration. "I don't want any of that shit. I just needed the damn book."

You blinked, stunned for a second. Not because it hurt—though it did—but because it was the first time he'd ever raised his voice at you like that. Your fingers curled tightly around the edge of your jacket as you tried to steady your breathing. "I know," you said quietly, forcing your voice to stay even, "but you sounded upset. And I was worried."

Sunoo didn't answer right away. He just stood there, shoulders rising and falling as he breathed through whatever storm he was holding inside. "Look," he said, voice lower but still strained. "I just need to get through today. I don't have time for anything else right now."

You nodded slowly, though your chest tightened at the way he phrased it. Anything else. That included you. You took a small step back, out of understanding, even if it stung.

"I'll go," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "Just... take care of yourself, okay?"

He didn't respond. Just turned and walked back toward the sliding doors of the hospital, the record book clutched in his hand.

You've been meaning to apologize to Sunoo ever since that day, but every time you thought of dialing his number or dropping a message, you paused. He was under so much pressure already, barely sleeping between hospital shifts and classes, and you didn't want to be another thing that made his chest feel heavy.

You sat alone at the campus cafeteria, your fingers working over the delicate rows of yarn as you crocheted slowly, the hook moving again and again. A small collection of handmade tulips lay across the table in a neat cluster—pinks, reds, a few white ones that hadn't taken shape yet. Your brows were furrowed, not from the difficulty of the pattern, but from the thoughts you couldn't seem to untangle from your mind.

"You've been zoning out a lot," Sunghoon's voice cut through the silence. He slid into the seat across from you, his tray untouched. "Jay said he's one tantrum away from kicking you out of the band."

"I'm not zoning out," you answered without looking up, looping the yarn again. "I've just been doing something more important."

Sunghoon leaned in, resting his elbows on the table as his eyes scanned the colorful flowers in front of you. "These commissions? I thought you stopped doing them."

You didn't respond, the sound of yarn slipping through your fingers filling the silence instead. He watched you for another moment before asking, "Are you seeing someone?"

Your hands faltered slightly, just for a second, then picked up again as if nothing had happened. "No," you said quietly, eyes fixed on the work. "It's for a friend."

Sunghoon gave a soft hum, like he didn't believe you but wasn't going to press. "You know I've liked you for a while, right? Since high school."

You finally looked up, just enough to meet his gaze for a brief second before dropping your eyes again. "Sunghoon, I don't have the energy for one of your talks right now."

"I'm not here to make a scene," he said, more gently this time. "I just... I know how you are when you start liking someone. You act like you're fine, like everything's under control, but you start giving too much of yourself without realizing it."

Your jaw tensed, fingers tightening slightly around the hook. "You let your guard down," he continued. "And you start doing all these little things—waiting around, making things for them, dropping everything just to show up. Even when they stop treating you the same way, you keep giving."

"Sunghoon, stop," you muttered.

"I'm not judging you," he said, watching the way your hands moved a little slower. "I just don't want to see you get hurt again."

You didn't bother to look at him. The words weren't new. You shoved the last tulip into the paper bag and stood from your seat, brushing your hands on your jeans as if to shake the weight off. "It's none of your business," you said. "I do what I want to do." You left before he could answer.

Lately, everything felt like a blur. The hospital was suffocating, patients piling up, charts demanding constant attention, the head nurse always finding something to criticize. Sunoo hadn't slept in two days, and even when he did manage to collapse onto his mattress, his chest stayed tight. There wasn't room for anything else. Not for laughter, not for texting back, not even for eating. And eventually, not even for you. He didn't realize how much time had passed since he last answered your messages. He hadn't even opened them. He kept telling himself he would later, when his head wasn't pounding, when he could at least form a sentence that didn't sound like a sigh. But later kept moving farther away.

So when he opened his apartment door and saw you standing there at 9 PM, hands clutching a paper bag with that small, nervous look on your face—he froze. "S-sorry," you muttered, voice soft. "I will not disturb you, just rest. I-I just need to drop this, and wish it make you feel better."

He blinked. Then looked at the bag. Then at you again. He didn't think. He stepped forward and pulled you into his arms before you could even take a step back. The paper crinkled between you, but he didn't care. The second he buried his face into your neck, something in him cracked. A quiet sob escaped before he could hold it in, his hands shaking slightly against your back.

He couldn't remember the last time someone had brought him anything without asking for something in return. "I've never received any flowers," he mumbled. "No one's ever given me anything like this."

You didn't say anything, but your hand was there. The warmth of your touch made his chest ache in a different way. "I'm sorry for being an asshole," he whispered, breathing in your scent, a small comfort in the chaos of his days. "I didn't mean to push you away. I just—everything's been too much."

"I know," you murmured, your chin resting on his shoulder. "It's okay. You don't have to explain."

But he wanted to. You didn't deserve silence. You didn't deserve to be left hanging, wondering if he even cared. He just couldn't bring himself to say it all, but not now, not while his throat was tight and his eyes were stinging and your arms were the first place he felt human all week. "I should've answered. I just... didn't have the energy."

You didn't move away. You didn't scold him. You didn't ask for anything. You just stayed. He pulled back slightly, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie, trying to look somewhat composed. "Do you want to stay? Just for a bit?"

You nodded without hesitation, and the two of you ended up in his room, laughing your ass out.

He let out another burst of laugh as he leaned over to look at your tablet. "What even is that supposed to be?"

"Wait, I drew you!" you blurted out, your finger swiping across the screen excitedly. You tapped on a picture and turned it to show him—the chibi version of him with devil horns, an exaggerated pout, and glitter under the eyes.

Sunoo squinted, then narrowed his eyes dramatically. "You little shit," he muttered, before slapping your shoulder.

You shifted without thinking, climbing into his lap, your back settling against his chest as you held the tablet up between you. His arms wrapped around your waist loosely, his chin resting over your shoulder

"Wait, you drew this one too?" Sunoo's voice pulled you from the moment. He pointed at a little sticker design on your tablet—a black cat holding a cigarette between its tiny fingers. "I bought this! From the Art Museum's student booth a few months ago. I stuck it on my old clipboard."

You turned your head slightly to meet his stare. "Are you serious? That was my booth. That's literally my design!"

Sunoo's mouth dropped open in disbelief. "What the hell? Why weren't you guarding your own booth?! You're such a bad artist!"

You scoffed, turning to half-face him, "Excuse me, I had a nicotine addiction to maintain. I took a break."

He groaned. "Turns out it was you sneaking off to light up under a 'No Smoking' sign."

"You bought my sticker and called me a bitch. How dare you insult me and support me at the same time?"

"I didn't know it was you!" he defended, laughing again. "But honestly, you deserved it. I hate people who smoke where they're not supposed to."

You twisted slightly in his lap, now facing him more directly. "So do you still hate me?" you asked, teasing, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips as your fingers played with the hem of his hoodie.

Sunoo didn't look away. He rolled his eyes like he always did. His voice was soft, almost playful. "Yes. Obviously. You're still annoying."

You pouted at his answer, dragging out a whine. His smile lingered, and even though his words were stubborn, his hands had tightened just slightly around your waist. "I'm not joking," he added, resting his forehead against yours. "You're so, so, sooo annoying."

The night ended up your thighs trembling around his head, your hands tangled in his hair, your voice broken from the way his mouth worked between your legs. He made you come three times with his tongue alone, not stopping until you pushed at his shoulders with tear-brimmed eyes and slurred, begging words. Then he let you ride him,  your back turned to him, your head lolled to the side as his hands gripped your hips.

The next morning, the weight in your chest had lifted. You didn't feel guilty for smiling. Even when Jay clapped his hands together loudly the moment you walked into the studio and said, "You're in a good mood, thank God," you just grinned wider and grabbed his electric guitar, pretending to tune it like nothing had happened.

"You want a hit?" Kai asked, waving his vape your way.

You shook your head without even thinking. "I already quit smoking," you said casually, even though that choice had been harder than you liked to admit.

You and Sunoo didn't put labels on what was happening—not yet—but things fell into place anyway. There was a rhythm to it. You spent weekends at his apartment, usually coming over late Friday, falling asleep on his couch after watching movies and ordering junk food. Saturday mornings meant waking up tangled together, cooking breakfast with your hair a mess and his arms still lazy around your waist, and Sunday nights usually ended with you riding him slowly before passing out from exhaustion. Mondays, he walked you to your motorbike before his duty started again.

One Sunday afternoon, sprawled on his bed while you were half-scrolling through TikTok and half-dozing on his lap, he suddenly shoved his phone in your face. "I think this type of style suits you more," he said, showing you some random Pinterest board filled with soft, layered outfits—more structured, a little feminine, clean silhouettes with warm tones. "You need to upgrade your wardrobe."

You squinted at the screen, unimpressed. "Hmm. I think you're just projecting your type in girls on me," you teased, nudging his thigh with your elbow.

Sunoo rolled his eyes, clearly expecting that answer. "No. I just think it looks presentable. And it would look good on you."

You looked down at yourself—baggy ripped jeans, an oversized acubi-style shirt, sneakers worn down from all your bike rides. Not exactly the most polished look, but it was comfortable. You shrugged with a small grin. "Okay, I'll try," you said. "Anyway, can we visit that new café that opened last week? I saw it on Instagram and they have a bunch of Bon Jovi albums on display."

Sunoo blinked. "Bon Jovi?"

"Yeah, like actual vinyls. The post said there's a listening booth too." You leaned closer, eyes brightening. "And the interior looks so nice. Real vintage vibe. I figured you'd like it."

He tilted his head, pretending to think. "Hmm... okay, maybe next week?"

You nodded, trying to keep it casual, but the smile that broke out on your face gave you away. Excitement bloomed in your chest like it was something new. It wasn't just another plan. It wasn't just a random meet-up. This one felt different. You kept thinking about it all week. Every small moment your mind wandered, it wandered to that café. To how you'd sit across from him, to the lighting, to the smell of the place, maybe to the way he'd laugh when you'd try to act cool about your favorite album being on display. You weren't even sure if it counted as a real date, but you were choosing to believe it did. That belief made your stomach flutter.

By Saturday, you had cleaned your room twice, even reorganized your crochet materials—something you only did when you were nervous. Your playlist was full of Bon Jovi songs now, looping endlessly while you stared at your closet.

That morning, you found yourself standing in front of your mirror, staring at your reflection longer than usual. Your piercings were gone—well, mostly. You'd taken out the ones on your face, letting the skin breathe, letting yourself look softer. The change made you feel exposed, a little too bare, but also like you were trying.

"Do you think I look presentable now without the piercings?" you asked, turning slightly in front of the mirror. The floral dress you wore was one of the few pieces in your closet that wasn't oversized, black or red. You smoothed the fabric down nervously, then glanced at Jay who was lounging nearby.

Jay lifted his eyes from his phone, a cigarette loosely held between his fingers. His face twisted slightly like he couldn't decide whether to laugh or roll his eyes. "What's with all this performative energy? You still look like an emo girl who got dragged into church."

You shot him a glare. "I'm being serious."

"So am I." He took a drag, blowing the smoke toward the window. "You look like yourself, just with fewer metal parts. That's not a bad thing, by the way. It's still you."

"You don't get it," you said quietly, adjusting the straps of the dress again. "I need to look like I have my shit together. I'm going somewhere... and I want to be seen a certain way."

Jay rolled his eyes, walked over, and stood behind you, he stubbed out his cigarette on the ceramic ashtray near the window and reached toward you, pushing your hair behind your shoulders without asking. He squinted as he examined your face. "You'll look better if you tie your hair up," he mumbled, the filter of his half-lit cigarette still stuck between his lips. "Ponytail or something. The dress opens your collarbone. It works."

You blinked at him, surprised by how serious he sounded, then reached up instinctively to gather your hair into your hand. You tilted your head, testing the look in the mirror. Something about it clicked. You could see it now—the way your eyes opened up more, how your features looked cleaner without the strands framing your face. A bit bare, sure. A little too soft maybe. "I think you're right," you said with a small smile, already grabbing a scrunchie from your pocket. "That actually helps."

Jay shrugged. "Whatever. You asked."

You turned to face him, grateful even if he looked bored out of his mind. "Thanks, Jay. Really."

"Wow, you look really good, girl."

The compliment came with a spark in Sunoo's eyes the moment you stepped inside the café, and it sent a flush creeping up your neck. His gaze lingered, tracing your figure with genuine awe that he didn't even try to hide. You hadn't brought your motorbike today—not in a dress like this—and walking into the café with heels clicking and your hair tied back suddenly felt worth it.

"Only good?" you teased, pouting as you twirled the hem of your floral dress playfully in front of him. With a soft push of your fingers, you tucked your hair behind your ear and tilted your head, smiling shyly as you searched his face for a better reaction. You wanted him to say beautiful, maybe even breathtaking, but even without the words, the look in his eyes told you everything.

Your heart had been thumping ever since you saw him seated by the window, casually checking his phone. Now, up close, it was worse. The sunlight streaming into the café highlighted the soft brown fall of his hair, the gentle curve of his cheekbones, the way his denim shirt hung open over a simple white tank top. He looked effortless—too effortless for someone who always drove you to such nervousness. And yet, despite that nervousness, you found yourself loosening.

The longer you stayed in his presence, the easier it was to talk, to laugh, to let go of the performance. There was something so calming about talking to him about things you loved, sharing songs you liked, memories from art class, favorite old movies, dumb fashion trends—simple things, but they became important because you were sharing them with him. Talking about your likes with someone you liked—it felt too rare to take for granted.

That's when it hit you. Maybe it was finally time to talk about what was happening between the two of you. The affection, the growing intimacy, the weekends together, the sleepovers that blurred the line between casual and committed—it had all been there. But neither of you had dared to define it. He had always been honest with you. In the four months you'd been tangled into each other's lives, he never lied about what he felt or where he stood. So maybe, it was time for you to take the risk again and ask.

As the two of you wandered near the wooden display cabinet filled with vintage Bon Jovi and Queen albums, your fingers reached for his and laced through gently. He let you. Your hands stayed linked, a quiet statement hanging between you, even while your mouth continued to talk about vinyl sleeves and weird 80s cover art. That peace only lasted seconds before a familiar voice cut through the space.

"Sunoo?"

Sunoo's body tensed before he turned around, his eyes wide in surprise. You perked up too, smiling with recognition, you gasped as you waved at the approaching figure. Jake, lively as ever, grinned brightly as he made his way to you.

But just as you were about to speak, Sunoo let go of your hand. The action was subtle, but it was sharp. His fingers pulled away quickly, and his body leaned ever so slightly to the side, creating distance between the two of you. You tried to ignore the way your smile faltered, tried to hold it together as Jake reached you both

"What are you doing here? Are you two bonding?" Jake asked with his usual exaggerated pout before leaning in to kiss your cheeks in greeting, then doing the same to Sunoo. "Without me?"

Your mouth opened, ready to answer, to explain but Sunoo spoke first. "No, we just ran into each other," he said too quickly, a small nervous laugh escaping his lips. "And we couldn't help but talk for a bit. It's been so long since we last saw each other, you know?"

He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. And your heart sank. Jake, ever the extrovert, nodded along cheerfully, completely unaware. "Ahhh! That's so cute! I'm just glad you two are hanging out again. We seriously need to set up another sleepover, right?"

You forced a small chuckle, brushing your hand along the side of your skirt. "T-that's a great idea," you said, trying to match his enthusiasm. But your eyes flicked back to Sunoo. He was tapping his foot against the floor, fast and impatient, not meeting your gaze.

It was like something had shifted in an instant. And now you were standing in that silence again, not sure if the version of Sunoo who held your hand minutes ago was still there... or if he had just vanished with Jake's arrival.

Even after Jake finally waved goodbye and disappeared down the street, your mood stayed where it dropped. Sunoo stood next to you like nothing happened, releasing a sigh and forcing a new topic as if the tension wasn't heavy in the air. He spoke casually, talking about a song he'd heard recently, about trying a different drink next time, anything to ignore the silence growing between you. But you couldn't pretend like him. You couldn't look him in the eye or laugh at something meaningless when your chest felt like it was being squeezed in slow, deliberate pulses. You kept your gaze down, watching your feet move with every step, barely hearing a thing he was saying.

Sunoo started to notice. His tone shifted—less patient, more irritated. The lightness in his voice faded and was replaced with annoyance. He didn't like when you shut down, and now it was clear he was blaming you for the sudden weight between you.

By the time you reached the door of his apartment, you knew the conversation was inevitable. He stepped in first, then turned, and before you could even take your shoes off, his voice came tight and harsh.

"Are you seriously getting all moody just because I let go of your hand when Jake showed up?" His eyes narrowed, his words clipped. "We agreed to keep this between us, not to say anything to Jake. You knew that. Why are you acting like this now?"

You stayed by the doorway, not moving. "It's not just about that," you murmured, your voice already thin. You didn't want to argue. You didn't want to cry either, but your body was already betraying you, tightening up.

He scoffed. "Then what is it? Because I didn't hold your hand in front of him? That's it?"

"It's just..." you took a breath, and even that was hard to push out. You felt like the words were caught in your throat, slicing through. "You looked—ashamed."

Sunoo didn't pause. He didn't soften. "Of course I'm ashamed," he blurted, not even giving the sentence time to sit. "How the hell are we supposed to explain that we're what—fucking each other? What do you want me to say to him?"

You flinched at his word, you looked up slowly, heart pounding so loud you could hear it in your ears. "It's not that hard to admit, is it?" you said, your voice shaking as you took a step forward, eyes stinging. "People do that all the time. Fuck buddies aren't a secret anymore. It's normal. You think Jake would've been shocked?"

"That's not the point—"

"It is the point, Sunoo!" You cut him off, your voice rising despite the tremble in it. "We've been doing this for months. We spend every weekend together. We sleep in the same bed. We talk like we mean something to each other, so why is it so hard to tell him that we're — something?"

You didn't expect him to shout back, but he did. "Because I'm supposed to be gay! Do you get that? I'm not supposed to feel like this about you!" The words came out angry. "And you keep pushing it like it's that simple."

You stared at him, your face falling, your fists curling. "Who fucking cares if you're gay? I never made you not be." You took a step back, voice cracking. "Just say it. Just say you're ashamed to be seen with me."

Sunoo's face twisted, but he didn't back down. His chest was heaving now, like something in him had snapped too. "You're projecting your insecurity on me! You act like I owe you something just because you decided to catch feelings! I never promised you more than what this was. That was you. That was always you!"

Your breath caught in your throat, and you stumbled back, blinking fast as the first tear broke past your lashes.       "You're the one who came back after that night," he went on, voice rising with frustration, like he couldn't stop himself anymore. "You kept showing up, acting like this was something serious, like this was going to turn into something. I just—" he stopped, looking away like he couldn't even look at you when he said it, "I just gave in. You were tempting, okay? You made it hard to say no."

All the blood in your body seemed to rush to your ears, and still, you couldn't hear anything but the sound of your heart breaking. Another tear slipped down your cheek, and your lips parted like you were going to respond—but nothing came out.        Sunoo blinked, realizing too late what he had just said. The way he looked at you shifted instantly, as if he wanted to take it back, but the damage was already there. "...Wait," he whispered, reaching for you instinctively. "I didn't mean—"

But you just nodded, slowly, painfully, like someone waking up from a dream they didn't want to end. "I- I get it," you said quietly, stepping past him and walking out his door like your legs weren't shaking. You didn't even turn to look at him. "I'm sorry," you added, trying to keep your voice steady, though the sound cracked anyway. You wiped under your eyes, but the tears kept falling, soft and warm against your skin. "You were right. I was annoying. I was pushy. I caught feelings, I shouldn't have. I thought maybe... I don't know what I thought."

You paused to breathe, your throat tightening as you tried to keep the sob from escaping. "What could I even expect, right? You're still a man. Of course this meant n-nothing."

Sunoo's chest tightened so hard he couldn't breathe for a second. He wanted to stop you, to wrap his arms around you, to tell you it wasn't true—none of what you were saying. That he did care. That this wasn't nothing to him. That he didn't think you were annoying, or a mistake, or something to be ashamed of. But he couldn't get the words out. The fear clenched too tightly around his ribs.

"I'm sorry," you said again, a whisper this time. Another tear slipped free and this time you laughed, short and broken. "God, I sound pathetic. S-sorry, Sunoo. I'll go. I'll leave you alone. You won't have to worry about me again."

You turned, fast, footsteps uneven as you tried to get away before he could see the full collapse happening inside you.

Sunoo didn't stop you. And you broke. You didn't wait to cry. The tears came fast and violent, your chest aching as you stumbled down the street, wiping your face on the back of your hand like it would help. At the bus stop, you sat hunched on the bench, arms wrapped around yourself as if holding your own body could keep you from falling apart. On the bus, you curled near the window, staring out at the dark streets, your reflection barely visible through the glass. You didn't care who saw you. The ache inside you was louder than embarrassment.

By the time you made it to your apartment, your hands were trembling. You didn't even bother turning on the lights. You made your way straight to your room, tugging the dress zipper with shaking fingers. When it wouldn't budge, frustration bubbled up, too hot to contain. You gritted your teeth and yanked, but it wouldn't move, so you grabbed the fabric near your shoulder and ripped it down your back with a cry of frustration. The fabric tore, seams giving way under your rage.

You tossed it to the floor like it burned you. Chest heaving, you stormed over to your nightstand and grabbed the crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds. Your fingers trembled as you pulled one out, jamming it between your lips, and fumbled with the lighter until the flame caught. You inhaled sharply, letting the smoke burn down your throat as you collapsed into the chair near the window.

"Stupid," you muttered under your breath, blinking away more tears that wouldn't stop coming. "So fucking stupid."

You thought you were strong enough not to let this happen again. You thought you could handle it. But what did you expect? You were so obsessed with ruining him when you first met, so fixated on getting under his skin, that you didn't notice he was already getting under yours. You didn't even get the chance to ruined him—he got to you first.

• ───────────────── •

Sunoo had never experienced a heartbreak that ached like this. He had felt sad before—moments of longing, fleeting attachments—but those had always passed with time, fading within days, maybe a week at most. They never lingered, never left anything permanent behind. So why the hell had he been sulking for nearly a month now, barely able to focus, barely able to sleep, staring blankly at the tulip bouquet on his desk like it could somehow explain what went wrong?

He told himself he should be relieved. There were no more complications in his way, no emotional distractions to deal with. He was finally free to focus on his demanding internship, on his future, on everything he had planned for years. And yet every late-night shift, every quiet weekend, every exhausted morning waking up to silence felt impossibly hollow without you. You used to send him silly selfies while he studied, comfort him through voice notes when he ranted about how hard nursing was, remind him to eat when he was too tired to remember. Now, all he had was the buzzing of lights, the clinking of stainless steel, the silence of the hospital—and that goddamn tulip bouquet collecting dust in the corner.

His eyebags were darker, heavier, like they carried the weight of everything he never said to you. His thoughts were loud, looping over what he should've done differently, what he should've said the moment he saw your face fall.

Fuck. He missed you so much it made his whole body ache. Every fucking night he lay in bed, biting his fist to muffle the cries. Were you okay? Were you eating? Were you still crying? Were you still thinking about him? God, he hoped not. He didn't deserve your thoughts, your sadness, your softness—but deep inside, he still wished he lived rent-free in your head the way you haunted his.

He wanted to hold you again, to collapse into your arms after a hard shift, to hear your voice teasing him when he whined about school. He wanted to kiss your neck like he used to, trace the little freckles on your collarbone, let you thread his hair through your fingers while he laid on your lap. He wanted to watch you feed your cat, complain about his bad taste in coffee, laugh when you purposely messed up his eyeliner just to annoy him. He wanted the boring things with you. The quiet, gentle things he once brushed off like they were nothing. He regretted every time he took you for granted.

"Sunoo!" Jungwon's voice jolted him out of his thoughts. His friend clapped him on the back, grinning. "Congrats! Why do you look like someone just died? We're graduating! Where's the joy, girl?"

Sunoo forced a weak smile, shrugging his shoulders as he kept his gaze locked on the soccer field in front of them, watching the high schoolers running laps, laughing with no clue how cruel it was to grow up.        "You've been M.I.A. lately," Jungwon continued, nudging him. "Not cool. You ghosted everyone. No more parties? No more hangouts? We should celebrate. It's not fun without you."

Sunoo exhaled quietly, shoulders sinking. "Jungwon," he said under his breath. "I think I got infected by men's emotional negligence," Sunoo muttered bitterly, eyes still locked on the field, watching a soccer ball bounce and roll across the grass

Jungwon blinked at him. Then snorted. Then burst out laughing so hard he doubled over, hitting Sunoo's back again. "What? What are you saying? You're not even dating anyone! You've been so secretive about your love life lately, I thought maybe you were going through a dry spell or something." He leaned back, grinning. "But don't worry—men are assholes. It's honestly safer to hurt them first before they get the chance to hurt you—"

"It's not a man," he said quietly.

And Jungwon stopped laughing. He stiffened beside him, eyes blinking wide. "Wait. What?"

Sunoo didn't look at him. He just kept watching the field, the blurry shape of a boy chasing a ball, the sun dipping lower behind the school buildings. "It's not a man," he repeated. "I wish it was. It would've been easier."

His lips curled bitterly as he looked down at his white sneakers, scuffed and dirtied from weeks of walking to class in silence. "I miss her. No shit. I miss her so fucking bad."

There was a small and self-deprecating laugh, tugging at the edge of his voice, but it cracked halfway through. "It's stupid, isn't it? It hurts more when you know it's your fault. I keep thinking about all the things I told myself I'd never become. I always talked about how men treat people like shit—how they use and walk away, how they never apologize for the damage they leave behind. How they shrink from softness because they're scared of what it says about them."

He rubbed at his chest with the heel of his palm like it might ease the tightness building there, but the pressure only grew heavier. "I always swore I'd never be like that. And then I went ahead and did it anyway. I made her feel that way, Jungwon. Like she was something to be ashamed of. Like she was just a mistake I wanted to keep hidden. Like the feelings she gave me were inconvenient." He let out a shaky breath, shoulders caving in slightly. "And the worst part? I never even told her how much I liked her. How much she meant to me."

Jungwon's mouth opened slightly, stunned into silence by the sight of Sunoo—the usually sharp-tongued, composed Sunoo—sitting beside him with tears slipping quietly down his cheeks. "I'm sorry," Sunoo whispered. "You can laugh at me now. Tease me. Say I got soft. Say I turned my back on my sexuality. Or that I lost my mind over a girl when I always said I wouldn't—"

"Girl," Jungwon interrupted, his tone softer than as he scooted closer and draped an arm across Sunoo's back. "Relax. Why the hell would I laugh at you for this? You're clearly hurting. I'd have to be heartless to find that funny."

Sunoo sniffled, wiping his face. Jungwon sighed, giving his shoulder a squeeze. "You know, I think sometimes we get so wrapped up in the idea of who we're supposed to be, or what we're supposed to feel, that we forget we're just... human. You always said you didn't want to be like the guys who hurt others, right? Well, maybe you fucked up. Maybe you acted like one of them. But you realized it. You're sitting here crying because of it. That already makes you different from most."

Sunoo didn't speak, but his jaw trembled, and the tears didn't stop. Jungwon tilted his head, speaking more gently now. "Men can be assholes. A lot of them are. But being born with a dick doesn't mean you're destined to be one. What makes someone a real man is taking responsibility. Owning up to your shit. Making it right when you can."

He paused, then smiled faintly. "We might be one of the girls, sure. We squeal, we wear blush, we cry over small things, and we talk too much when we drink—but we also carry the weight of things like this. Of hurting people we care about."

Sunoo's breath hitched again, and this time when he wiped at his face, he was a little slower, a little calmer.        "You know what you need to do," Jungwon said, nudging him gently. "If she meant something to you... you owe her more than silence. And you owe yourself more than sitting here pretending you're okay."

"Do you think it's too late?" he asked finally.

"I don't know," Jungwon admitted. "But people forgive stupid things when they see you're actually sorry. And you are. I see it. Maybe she will too."

"You're definitely insane," Jay said. "Because why the hell would you decide to do your nails when you know you have to play electric guitar tomorrow?"

You didn't even look up. Your fingers were too focused on the torn fabric in your lap, guiding the needle carefully through the jagged tear. You tugged gently at the thread, the tension sliding through the cloth as you murmured, "It's just minor chords."

Jay groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Minor chords and you're still skipping practice like you've got this down. God, you're making my head hurt."

"I said I'll show up," you replied flatly.

Jay scoffed in the background, but you ignored it. Let him roll his eyes. Let him sigh and throw another fit about perfection. It wasn't like he'd understand anyway. The nails weren't the problem. Jay and his perfectionist self always had something to complain about when people didn't bend to his rhythm. But you liked your nails. You liked how they shimmered when the light hit them. They made you feel decent—like maybe, just maybe, you were still capable of taking care of yourself.

Except you were too stupid to realize you'd chosen that exact shade of mint green. That soft, sweet color he once said reminded him of summer. The one he jokingly suggested would look cute on your nails if you ever ditched the blacks and reds you usually wore. The color had haunted you since then, just like everything else tied to him.

You stared down at your fingers, freshly painted and curled slightly as you guided the needle through the torn seam of the dress. You had sworn to never touch it again, but here you were, piecing it back together with trembling hands.

Heard from someone that Sunoo made it into the Latin honors list. Top of his class, just as you expected. And good for him. Really. You hoped he was sleeping well, smiling like he always did, charming everyone with that beautiful, soft voice and those ridiculously perfect eyes.

You hoped he forgot you — Because it wasn't fair that you were still waking up thinking about him.

"Fuck," you hissed, jerking your hand back as the needle pricked the pad of your finger. Blood welled up, a small drop blooming at the surface. It smeared faintly against the fabric—right over the seam you'd been trying to fix. "Ugh, shit," you muttered, staring at the new stain forming on the pale material.

Perfect! Just perfect. You sucked on your finger for a second, breathing hard through your nose, trying to hold everything back.          "You could've just bought a new dress, you know." Jay said, looking at your face.

"I didn't want a new one," you said quietly, still looking at the ruined thread. "I wanted to fix it."

If someone asked you what exactly you were feeling right now, you wouldn't know how to answer. There wasn't a word that fit—nothing specific. You were functioning just fine. You got out of bed. You drank your coffee. You worked. You smiled when people talked to you, even laughed when the joke was decent enough. So, you were fine, right?

But then why did everything feel so dull? Why did the silence in your room stretch too long, and why did the nights feel colder, even when the fan wasn't turned on?

Maybe it was because you quit your part-time job. Maybe it was because you'd thrown yourself into freelance commissions, desperate to stay busy, desperate to drown out the thoughts by making yourself useful. Drawing until your eyes hurt, until your hand cramped. It worked for a while—until even the deadlines stopped scaring you.

The truth was, you had too much space now. And all that extra room made it harder to ignore the feeling gnawing at the edges of your chest.

Jay had once said, "That's why it's hard for me to watch you fall in love. You're the kind of person who gives everything without realizing it. You show up without fail, but somehow still feel so far away."

You didn't understand what he meant back then. Thought he was being dramatic, maybe too sentimental. But now you did. You were always present, always dependable. But your heart? You'd locked it away for years, guarded and watchful, convinced no one would be careful enough to hold it.

And when you let your walls down. You gave in completely, all at once, as if you'd been waiting your whole life for a reason to. And he didn't stay... Now you sat alone again, trying to rebuild the barricade you'd once worn. You tried patching yourself up with work and distractions, thinking if you filled your days enough, the ache would fade. But some nights, it came back stronger. A ghost knocking on your ribs, reminding you of the softness you once allowed.

You regret letting him see you that clearly. Regret peeling yourself open, showing the tender parts you swore no one would ever get close to. You used to be so good at keeping people at a distance, but you ruined yourself when you made an exception.

"Putting my defenses up, 'cause I don't wanna fall in love."

Your voice rang out, echoing through the crowded room. You stood at the front of the stage, clutching the mic, and the lights hit your face just enough to make everything outside the spotlight blur into nothing.

"Never put my love out on the line..." The lyrics spilled from your lips. Your eyes drifted to the floor where your foot tapped in rhythm, then to the strings of your guitar as your fingers pressed down the chords. "Never said yes to the right guy. Never had trouble getting what I want..."

A faint smile tugged at your lips. "But when it comes to you, I'm never good enough..."

You looked up then, stealing a glance toward your bandmates. They were all focused on their instruments, lost in the music like they always were, eyes down or closed, rocking slightly with the beat. None of them looked at you. You were glad for it. You didn't want them to see the way your hands were trembling on the fretboard, or how your throat threatened to close the moment his face flickered in your mind. "When I don't care, I can play 'em like a Ken doll..."

You swallowed thickly and tried to stay in rhythm, tried to keep your tone playful like the song intended—but your mind was far from the lyrics now. It drifted elsewhere. To him.

"Won't wash my hair, then make 'em bounce like a basketball..." Your breath hitched, but you kept going. "But you make me wanna act like a girl..."

You closed your eyes then. "Paint my nails and wear high heels..." Your fingers slid along the guitar strings automatically. And then, without warning, his face appeared—soft eyes, dimpled smile, that maddeningly gentle voice. Sunoo.

"Yes, you—" You faltered. "—make me so nervous that I just can't hold your hand."

You pushed through the chorus, the words twisting in your throat. The beat thundered in your ears, drowning out the sound of your own thoughts. You didn't miss a note, but you felt every crack forming inside you. And when the song finally ended, the stage lights dimmed and the crowd's cheers erupted like static in your chest, you barely smiled.

You brushed your hair back, exhaling hard as you stepped off the stage. The adrenaline was already wearing off, leaving only the sweat sticking to your skin and the tightness in your throat. You grabbed the water bottle waiting for you and took a few long gulps, letting the cool liquid settle your nerves.

"I thought you hated pop songs."

You turned your head slightly, recognizing Sunghoon's voice before you saw his face. He was already beside you, grinning. You sighed, long and loud, then handed him the water without looking, forcing him to take it. "You're annoying," you muttered, adjusting your loose sando, tugging the strap back up your shoulder and trying to fix your tangled hair with one hand. "You know I didn't pick the setlist."

"But you sang the hell out of it."

"Don't push it," you warned.

Then his voice dropped again, quieter but curious. "You got a new tattoo?"

You stilled for a moment. Your hand went to your nape instinctively, brushing over the still-healing skin just below the red ink etched across your upper spine. You didn't answer, just gave a hum of acknowledgment before slipping your hand down your back. Without shame, you reached beneath your shirt and unhooked your bra, letting your chest finally breathe after hours under the stage lights.

Sunghoon didn't say anything for a moment, but you felt his gaze linger. "Are you free tonight?" he asked. "Thought maybe we could hang out. Talk or something. Just us?"

Another sigh escaped you, this one heavier than the last. You didn't try to hide the exhaustion in your voice this time.           "Sunghoon..." you started, turning to finally face him properly. "You're a good friend. You've been sticking around for longer than most people would, and I get it. You think there's something here, maybe because I let you hang around or because I'm too tired to fight your flirting half the time."

He opened his mouth to say something, but you raised your hand. "But I'm not interested," you said, carefully but clearly.

He blinked. The corners of his mouth twitched, like he didn't know whether to frown or fake a laugh, but then his lips settled into a small, almost understanding smile. "You're not interested in boys," he said, a little too quickly, trying to soften the blow for himself.

"No," you cut in, sharper this time. "I'm not interested in you."

Sunghoon looked down, then up, that crooked smile still hanging on his lips. "You know I won't stop, right?" he said, brushing off rejection with a joke.

You raised an eyebrow. "That's your choice," you replied plainly. "But don't expect me to change my mind."

"Okay," He nodded, his gaze dropped before you even finished your sentence, trailing down lazily across your chest.

Your fingers snapped in front of his face. "Seriously?" you said with irritation.

Sunghoon blinked, caught, his mouth twitching up. "Sorry, sorry," he mumbled quickly. His eyes flicked back up to your face. "Is that a new piercing?"

You didn't respond right away. You crossed your arms instead, trying to hold onto your patience and bite back the exhaustion blooming across your shoulders. The days had been long, your emotions threadbare. "Ni-ki did it," you said finally, eyes narrowing as your annoyance deepened.

When your gig finally ended, you let out a long breath you didn't realize you'd been holding. You made your way toward the bar where the owner usually handed out the cut for the night, hoping it wouldn't take long because all you wanted was to go home and lie down. But before you could even reach the counter, you were nearly knocked off balance by someone throwing their arms around you.

"Oh my God! I haven't seen you in forever!" You tensed instinctively, blinking as you looked up—Jake. He pulled back slightly, still gripping your shoulders, eyes shining.

You forced a small smile. "Hi. How are you?" you asked politely, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your face. "I've been... busy. Really busy. You know how it gets."

Jake nodded eagerly, releasing you as he leaned against the edge of the bar. "Yeah, I get it. It's fine. Just figured I'd bump into you sooner or later. Hey—are you attending Sunoo's graduation this week?"

You froze. Your fingers twitched slightly as you curled them into the hem of your shirt, the smile on your face faltering before you managed to hold it steady again. "I—" you started, stumbling over your words. "You know we're not... that close anymore. So..." You trailed off with a shrug, trying not to look too affected even though your heart had suddenly picked up its pace.

Jake tilted his head, eyes narrowing like he was about to laugh. Not in a cruel way, but in that clueless, teasing way. You didn't give him the chance. You pushed the conversation forward before he could press further. "But how was he?" you asked quickly, pretending not to care too much even though the question burned on your tongue.

Jake leaned back and sighed dramatically. "I don't know! That bitch is ghosting everyone—just like you!" He chuckled, nudging your arm. "The only time I ever saw him was when he was at the university doing paperwork for his graduation. He's been MIA otherwise. You? Any dating updates?"

You gave another tired smile. "Not really my priorities lately," you replied, brushing your fingers over your wrist, suddenly aware of how cold your skin felt. "I'm glad he's graduating though. That's good for him."

There was a pause. Jake didn't seem to notice, already moving on with a laugh.

"What about you?" you asked before he could dig any deeper. "When's your graduation? I pity you guys. I still have two years."

Jake groaned, rubbing his face. "Ugh, don't remind me. I'm stressing because my coat won't fit."

You laughed softly as Jake rambled beside you, jumping from topic to topic like someone trying to make up for lost time. He was always like this—talkative, friendly, too eager. You tried your best to follow along, nodding when appropriate, giving short answers even though your energy was already hanging by a thread. Every bone in your body felt heavy after the performance, your shoulders stiff from standing so long, your throat dry even after the water.

He launched into another round of questions, asking about your gigs, your commissions, and whether or not you'd finally taken time off. Then, inevitably, he brought up Park Sunghoon.

"People still think we're together? Fuck that shit." You let out a grunt.

"They just like to talk," Jake offered with a shrug, as if that made it any less irritating. "You know how it is."

You rolled your eyes and tucked the bills into your bag, already thinking about what cheap meal you could get on the way home. "Then they should talk about how I'm not interested in anyone right now. Spread that."

"Not even Shin Ryujin?" he said, clearly enjoying how far he could push the conversation. "I swear you used to have the biggest, fattest crush on her. I mean—she agreed to model for you! That's a move, right?"

You tilted your head slightly. "Or maybe she just liked my art."

Jake paused for a beat, as if waiting for you to say more, but you didn't. He smirked, already forming a thought to your answer. You just shrugged, like you didn't care anymore, you wish it did. None of them ever made you feel the way he did.

Let Jake think what he wanted to think. Let people gossip and spread whatever they wanted. You were too tired to keep defending your disinterest, too tired to explain that the only person you'd really wanted was Kim Sunoo. Fucking Kim Sunoo.

And ironically, the universe had its own cruel sense of humor.

Jake didn't expect to see Sunoo the very next day—standing in front of a flower shop. Without warning, Jake squealed and slapped him on the back so hard that Sunoo's entire frame jolted forward. His eyes flew wide, mouth parting in surprise as he turned to glare.

"Fuck you," Jake laughed, hitting him again before he could dodge. "Who's the lucky person, huh? Don't tell me you're finally confessing to someone?"

Sunoo winced, rubbing his stinging shoulder and trying not to groan. "Can you not hit so hard? Shit."

It had taken him three whole days just to muster up the courage. Three days of Jungwon talking sense into him, helping him run through scenarios and worst-case outcomes, of typing and deleting countless drafts of what he wanted to say. Three days of checking your schedule like a lovesick stalker, memorizing the time and place of your fashion show just to make sure he'd catch you when you weren't buried in fabrics or fixing last-minute outfits.

He didn't really know what he was doing. The idea of bringing flowers felt old-fashioned, maybe even stupid, but he clung to it because it gave him something to hold—something to fill his trembling hands with when he finally stood in front of you. Because if he admitted it to himself, he really fucking missed you.

Jake, as usual, wouldn't shut up. He rambled about school, his thesis, some fight in a group chat he got dragged into, asking random questions in between like Sunoo was giving him the attention he wanted. Sunoo tapped his foot impatiently, nodding absently, eyes flicking to his wristwatch. He knew your show was scheduled to start soon. Jungwon had confirmed it just last night. If he moved now, he could probably sneak into the venue and find you. He wasn't sure how it would go, but he knew he didn't want to delay it any longer.

But then, Jake said your name.

"She looked so good last night, by the way. I talked to her after her gig," he said, chewing on his gum, unaware of the way Sunoo's shoulders tensed. "And I think she's dating that model of hers."

Sunoo stopped tapping his foot. Slowly turned to face him. Jake kept going. "You know Park Sunghoon? He really, really likes her! But she's totally into this girl—Shin Ryujin. If Sunghoon finds out he got rejected again for a girl, he's gonna be pissed."

The bouquet almost slipped out of Sunoo's hands. "Wait, what?" he asked.

Jake blinked, startled by the shift in tone. "Well, I mean—not confirmed or anything. But it looked like it, right? I mean, come on! If you know Ryujin, she's hot! They had crazy chemistry onstage."

But Sunoo didn't hear the rest. His pulse pounded so loudly in his ears it drowned everything else. The bouquet in his hands felt like it weighed a thousand pounds, the crinkling paper suddenly unbearable beneath his tightening grip. He could feel that familiar burn in his chest. The weight pressing down on his lungs, stealing the air from him. It wasn't just surprise, or confusion. It was anger.

No. That can't be true. Jake said it wasn't confirmed. He said maybe. But even maybe was too much for Sunoo.

Because that wasn't just anyone. That was you. His you. Even if he hadn't been able to say it properly before, even if he spent weeks keeping his distance, fumbling over his feelings, even if he was too much of a coward to tell you when he should've—he never once stopped wanting you.

And the idea of someone else having you, touching you, making you smile the way he used to, hurt more than he thought it would. His stomach twisted with jealousy. His mind raced with every memory he had of you—your laugh, your stubbornness, the way you always acted like nothing touched you until he looked close enough to see it did. He hated the thought of anyone else getting that close. It didn't matter if it was a guy or a girl. No one else could understand you like he did. No one else deserved to.

"I need to go," Sunoo muttered, already turning on his heel.

Jake blinked again, stepping forward. "Wait, go where? Sunoo—hey!"

But Sunoo didn't answer. He didn't look back. He walked faster, feet moving, bouquet still clenched tightly in his hand.

All he could think about was the image of you standing beside someone else. Laughing for someone else. Looking at them with the kind of softness you used to show only to him. The thought alone made his blood boil. He wasn't just jealous. He was angry. How dare someone else think they could have you like that?

No. That's not how this ends. He wouldn't let it. Even if it was his fault for waiting this long, even if he messed everything up from the beginning—he wasn't going to let someone else win. He wasn't going to stand on the sidelines any longer. Not when he still had something to fight for.

You were his. You've always been his. And he was going to prove it.

Sunoo made his way toward the university, his stomach twisting with every step. Most of the Fashion Design majors were still holed up on campus despite the start of summer break, preparing for the big event. He didn't know fashion shows involved this many people, this much movement, or noise. Navigating through all of it felt like trying to breathe underwater. He should've asked Jungwon for more specifics.

The halls were lined with racks of clothes, students rushing in and out of rooms, arms full of fabrics, makeup brushes, clipboards, and coffee. Sunoo tried to ask where the waiting room was, but everyone was too preoccupied to answer. He turned corner after corner, scanning every face with increasing frustration—until his eyes landed on someone painfully familiar.

Standing outside the theater room, arms crossed and relaxed was Park Sunghoon. Just seeing him made Sunoo's eye twitch. His jaw clenched so tightly he thought it might crack.

"Sunoo, right?" Sunghoon greeted him, smiling as if they were old friends. Sunoo glanced down at the flowers in his hands. Suddenly, they looked ugly. The colors didn't look as soft anymore. The petals looked dull. He couldn't believe he ever fell for a face like that.

He forced a polite sweet smile, his lips twitching with the effort. "Sunghoon," he returned. "Where do fashion majors usually stay? I need to deliver this to someone." His tone stayed casual, but he had to bite down the irritation growing inside his chest.

Sunghoon beamed. "Oh! I was just heading to the backstage area too. Come with me."

Sunoo's jaw ached with how hard he was grinding his teeth behind another fake smile. Every muscle in his body screamed to walk the other way, but he needed to get to you. If that meant dealing with this guy, so be it. Still, it took everything in him not to roll his eyes or punch the smirk off Sunghoon's face. How dare he stand there so casually, acting like he belonged beside you?

"Is the eyelash glue irritating your eyes?" you asked Ryujin, checking the final touches of her makeup. Your fingers hovered near her temples, adjusting the corner of her lashes even though they looked fine. "And your heels? Are they stable?"

"They're fine, I promise. You don't have to worry," she said gently, offering a small smile.

You turned to Beomgyu, voice tighter this time. "The fabric on the lining—is it itchy? Are you uncomfortable at all?"

Beomgyu tilted his head at you like he was trying not to laugh. "You need to stop freaking out. I already told you I feel great in this."

Your chest was heavy with nerves, and your stomach churned, not just with anxiety but with the familiar, dull pain of your first-day period cramps that made everything ten times worse. The weight of responsibility was pressing on your shoulders. What if the seams tore? What if the models tripped? What if the fabric wrinkled wrong under the lights?

And before you could spiral further, a voice cut through your thoughts. One you recognized instantly.

"Sunghoon," you said wearily, not even trying to hide the exhaustion in your voice.

He stood there with a smile too bright for the atmosphere, holding out a bouquet of flowers to you. "Good luck later! I know you're going to get so many compliments for this."

You took the flowers without much thought, fingers curling around the stems as you exhaled through your nose, trying to keep yourself from snapping. You closed your eyes, drawing in a deeper breath. "Why are you here?" you muttered, already rubbing your temple. "This is our waiting room. You shouldn't be—"

"I came with Sunoo!" Sunghoon interrupted brightly. "Didn't know he was your friend too!"

And that stopped you. Your body tensed instantly. The flowers in your hand suddenly felt like they were cutting into your skin. You looked up, already feeling your throat tighten. And there he was.

Sunoo approached you slowly. Without saying a word, he reached out and gently took the flowers from your hand—the ones Sunghoon had just given—and replaced them with the bouquet he brought. Then, with a calm that felt almost too controlled, he handed the previous bouquet back to Sunghoon, whose brows furrowed in confusion.

Your fingers stayed frozen around the fresh flowers now in your hands. Sunoo stepped closer, voice dropping low as he met your eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "Can we talk?"

Something in your chest pulled tight. You forced yourself to swallow the lump rising in your throat, jaw tensing as you tried to stay composed. You could already feel Ryujin and Beomgyu watching silently, even as Sunghoon stood there, confused and observant, his brows lifted like he could sense there was something here. "I'll be back," you muttered under your breath, barely glancing at them. Then, turning to Sunoo, you gestured with a subtle wave of your hand for him to follow.

You walked fast, ignoring how your heart was pounding too hard in your chest. The backstage halls were tight and filled with noise, but the moment you stepped into the music room and closed the door behind you, everything else faded out. The silence between you was loud. "What are you doing here, Sunoo?" you asked, turning to face him. You hated how soft your voice sounded. You hated that he still had that effect on you.

Sunoo didn't answer right away. He just looked at you, his lips parted, trying to decide how to speak, what words wouldn't end in a disaster. Then he said, carefully, "Is it true? That you're dating your model?"

You blinked. That's what this was about? You let out a harsh breath and rolled your eyes, pressing the heels of your palms into your forehead. "Seriously? That's why you're here?"

He flinched at the tone. "Is it true?" he repeated, almost like he was afraid to hear the answer. "You and your model. Are you—"

"Where the fuck did you even hear that?" you snapped, your patience finally cracking. "You think I'd seriously let rumors decide who I'm sleeping with now?"

Sunoo opened his mouth to speak, but you didn't let him. "Why are you even here, Sunoo?" you pushed. "To say sorry? To wave some flowers around and pretend like that's enough?"

He didn't answer. He just stood there, looking at you, his silence impossibly loud. You exhaled, your shoulders sinking with the weight you'd been carrying alone since he left. Your voice dropped out of emotional exhaustion. "I'm tired," you whispered, almost like admitting defeat. "I have a show to finish. I have deadlines. People are counting on me. And if all you came here for was a half-hearted apology, then don't bother—because I've stopped thinking about that night."

But your voice cracked on the last word, and you hated that he might've heard it. "I still think about that night." He said and that made your heart clench.

"You were right," he said quietly. "I came here to say sorry." He looked at you fully now. "And to tell you that I want to make you mine."

You blinked, stunned. "What?"

Sunoo stepped forward, his voice trembling even though he tried to sound certain. "I hurt you. I pushed you away. I made you cry and I said things I'll never stop regretting. I ran because I was scared, and I was selfish enough to believe I could come back when it was convenient for me."

And then, to your absolute disbelief, he lowered himself to the floor, dropping to his knees. His hands found yours, gently curling around your fingers, then pressing your palm to his face. His eyes fluttered shut as he leaned into your touch. "Every time I close my eyes, it's you," he murmured. "Every time I wake up, I hope it's a day I get to see you again. It's always you. "

Even though his voices cracked, Sunoo pushed through it. "I hated seeing that Sunghoon guy give you flowers. I hated thinking about you with your model even if it's not true. Because I want to be the one. I want to be the person you choose, over and over again, even when I don't deserve it. Even when it's hard, and messy, and complicated."

"I didn't come here just to be forgiven," he continued, voice cracking now as his forehead nearly pressed against your hand. "I came because I want you. Because I love you. And because if there's even a part of you—any small part—that still wants me, then I'll do whatever it takes to prove that I'm worth that second chance." He looked up at you, eyes glistening, his knees still on the ground.

You didn't realize you were crying until you felt the tear slide down your cheek. The warmth of it startled you. No matter how much you tried to build walls around yourself, he had always been able to slip through. Even now.

He looked up at you from where he knelt, eyes glassy, red-rimmed. Your fingers trembled in his hands, but you didn't pull away. "You hurt me, Sunoo."

His expression broke completely, a quiet whimper escaping from his lips as he held your hands tighter, desperate. "I know," he choked out. "And I hate myself for that. I'd take it all back if I could. But I can't... so all I can do now is ask you to let me fix what I ruined."

The silence stretched again, before he whispered, almost breathlessly, "...Please?"

That single word cracked something inside you. You sniffled, blinking fast as more tears welled in your eyes, and without thinking, you slowly lowered yourself to your knees in front of him. You leaned in, heart pounding wildly, and kissed him. It wasn't rushed. It wasn't desperate. It was tender—heartbreaking in its softness, and yet full of everything you'd been holding back. The pain, the longing, the anger, the love—it was all there, pressed into the seal of your lips against his.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead rested against his, both of your eyes closed, breath mingling in the small space between you. "I never stopped wanting you," you whispered, your voice hoarse from the tears. "Even when I tried. Even when I told myself I should."

He shuddered at your words, his breath catching, fingers lifting to cup your cheeks. "I swear I'll spend every day proving I can be someone you deserve," he murmured.

You nodded faintly, your forehead still resting against his. Then, slowly, you leaned in again, brushing your lips against his—soft at first, searching, before you kissed him fully. This time, you didn't hold back. Your lips moved against his with purpose, and he responded just as eagerly, his head tilting to meet you, to match your rhythm.

When you deepened the kiss and your tongue slipped into his mouth, his breath hitched. He moaned softly, the sound catching in his throat as he melted further into you, hands tightening at your sides. "I missed you," he whispered breathlessly between kisses.

You smiled into his mouth, sniffling as your hands cupped his damp cheeks, wiping at the tears that kept trailing down. "Missed you too," you whispered, your voice breaking as you kissed him again, even longer this time. Your fingers curled around the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

He kissed you like he was making up for lost time, like every second he spent away from you had left him starving. His hands slid gently under your arms before he lifted you and your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. You could feel the way his breathing picked up as he moved, sitting down on the old couch in the corner of the room, never letting his lips stray too far from yours.

You settled on his lap, knees bracketing his hips, your mouths still moving together in sync. You could feel the way his body was reacting—how tightly he held you, how his hands gripped your back. "I love you," he whispered against your lips.

Your breath caught, your heart thudding as he pressed a trail of kisses down your neck, slow and open-mouthed. His hands, once tentative, slid to your chest, cupping you through your clothes before he gently kneaded one breast in his palm. The sensation made you shiver, your back arching into his touch instinctively as you sucked in a breath.

"Say it again," you murmured, your eyes fluttering shut.

He leaned back just enough to look up at you, both hands still resting on your waist. "I love you. I'm not letting you go again."

You leaned forward to kiss him again, your lips brushing over his. His fingers slipped under your shirt, tugging it up carefully, revealing the curve of your breast and the soft lace of your bra. His breath hitched when he saw your nipple, the silver glint of the heart-shaped piercing catching the light. He paused, stunned, swallowing hard, the outline of his arousal now pressing clearly against his pants.

"W-wait," you breathed, your hands clutching at his shoulders as his face dipped lower. "It's not fully healed yet..."

Sunoo froze, his lips just grazing the swell of your breast. He pressed the gentlest kiss on your areola, lips lingering as his thumb toyed with the other nipple through your bra, tracing slow circles that made your hips twitch above him. Your body reacted, grinding slightly against the solid pressure beneath you. His breath grew ragged against your skin, hands sliding up your back, holding you tighter.

You rocked your hips against him with slow pressure, letting the friction build until the heat between your bodies felt like it might burn right through your skin. His hands moved restlessly, tugging at your waistband, already working to unbutton your pants.

But your hand caught his wrist, halting him. "N-No... we can't," you murmured, your voice ragged from panting. You glanced down at him beneath you—his brows were drawn together in frustration and confusion, his face flushed with heat, sweat starting to gather along his hairline, and his lips—red and kiss-swollen—were parted.

"I... I have my period."

He blinked, then tilted his head slightly like he couldn't understand why that would matter. His hand slid back down, cupping you through the fabric of your underwear, right over your pad. You gasped, the heat of his touch making your body tense with shame and anticipation. Your cheeks flared hot with embarrassment.

"I-It's not clean," you whispered, voice wavering. "It's messy..."

"And?" he muttered, his gaze never left your face. Without waiting for your approval, his hand dipped beneath the waistband of your underwear, carefully maneuvering around the pad as his fingers brushed against your pussy.

His finger slipped in, and your jaw dropped open, a soft cry catching in your throat. The feeling was slow, filling, a deliberate push deeper until he bottomed out and curled his finger inside you, testing your sensitivity. "You know," he began, "orgasms help relieve cramps. The body releases endorphins that ease pain. It's not gross... it's your body asking for what it needs."

You whimpered, unable to argue. Especially not when his finger began to move—slow at first, then building pace, retreating and sinking back in until your hips were grinding helplessly against his palm. Each stroke hit something deeper than just your body, pulling breathy moans from your throat.

"S-Sunoo—" you choked, your hands gripping his shoulders for balance. His other hand slid up your shirt again, pushing the fabric away so he could lean in and press his mouth to your chest. His lips wrapped around the soft swell of your breast, and the sharp contrast of your piercing against his tongue made him groan. "I-It's gross."

"No, it's not." He whisper, biting your neck, tongue swirling at it, he mumbled against your skin before adding another finger, spreading you wider. "It's hot. You're hot."

Your only answer was a louder moan, your thighs trembling as you rode his fingers, your body clenching around him. The pressure inside you coiled tighter and tighter, until everything snapped all at once. You came hard, body clenching around him as your head tilted back, breath stuttering and vision swimming.

Sunoo shifted you easily, guiding your body until you were bent over the couch, his grip firm and sure as he moved you exactly how he wanted. But then he stilled, breath catching when his eyes landed on your back. His palm slid over your spine, tracing the ink.

"Fuck," he hissed. You felt the way his fingers trembled slightly, how he cupped your hips and coaxed you into an arch, dragging his touch down the trail of black lines and crimson lilies that ran from your shoulder blades to the curve of your lower back. "You always know how to drive me crazy... and now you go and get this?"

You tried to speak, but all that came out was a choked sound as he pulled your pants lower, exposing the heat between your legs. He groaned behind you, dragging the tip of himself along your entrance, already soaked and messy, your blood mixing with everything else. It should've made you feel embarrassed but instead, it only made the tension between you burn hotter.

"Please," you breathed, turning your head just enough to look at him over your shoulder.

Sunoo didn't need to be told twice. He eased into you slowly, his body pressing close, chest flush against your back as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, anchoring you to him. His breath stuttered against your skin, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he moved deeper, his other hand gripping your waist so tightly.

Your eyes caught sight of his hand, streaked with red from earlier, and instead of disgust, all you felt was a strange kind of thrill that twisted low in your belly. You clenched around him involuntarily, another moan slipping from your lips.

He kissed your jaw, then your cheek, then finally your mouth again, hungrily this time, tongue sliding against yours as his hips found a faster rhythm. His hands trembled where they held you, but his movements were certain, desperate. "Ah—fuck—I love you," he gasped, his voice cracking open as the pace quickened. "I love you so much. So fucking much."

Your breath caught, heart slamming in your chest. "Sunoo—wait—" your voice was barely audible between moans, "you're not wearing—ah—no condom—!"

He stilled for a second, his breath rough in your ear. But instead of pulling away, he leaned in closer, murmuring, "I know."

Your pussy clenched around him on instinct, as if reacting to the rawness of it all, to the fact that he was really inside you like this. The feeling of his bare cock dragging against your soaked walls was overwhelming, hotter, slicker. Your eyes rolled back as a loud moan escaped your throat, your fingers tightening on whatever they could grab.

"F-fuck," he whimpered, as your walls fluttered around him. Sunoo sounded like he was unraveling in real time. His hands gripped your waist harder, his breath shaking as he slowly pushed back in, deeper this time. He whined against your skin, overwhelmed, almost breathless at how good it felt. "I missed you. Missed this—missed you so fucking much."

His voice cracked, raw emotion bleeding into every word. "Don't leave again, hmm? Please. I'll treat you better this time. I swear—I love you. Fuck, I love you. I'm so fucking in love with you."

He didn't give you time to answer. His fingers slid down between your thighs, finding your clit without hesitation, rubbing slow, dizzying circles that made your knees buckle. His cock hit your g-spot mercilessly and your voice broke into a scream, loud and unfiltered, but you didn't care—the music room was soundproof, and even if it wasn't, you wouldn't have stopped him.

"S-Sunoo—I'm gonna cum," you choked out, your voice hoarse, hips jerking uncontrollably from the way his fingers pressed harder into your clit. Your pussy clenched down around him, and the orgasm crashed into you so fast it nearly knocked you off your feet. Your whole body shook and your thighs quivered, but Sunoo held you tight through it, one hand gripping your waist as the other kept you grounded, kept fucking into you with more force, chasing his own high.

"God, I love you, my baby," he whined. His hips started stuttering, the sound of skin slapping echoing faintly against the padded walls, getting messier, needier. "C-can I cum inside you? Please—let me?"

You couldn't speak at first, just nodded frantically, your fingers digging into his arm where it hugged around your waist. "Yes," you breathed, still panting, "Yes, yes—Sunoo, please—cum in me. I love you."

He let out the loudest, rawest moan of the night, something close to a sob, his whole body tensing as he came hard. You could feel it flood inside you, the warmth of it thick and hot as he kept fucking you through it, like he couldn't stop, like he needed to push it deeper, make sure it stayed.

Even after he was spent, his hips kept rocking slowly into you. His cum leaked around his cock, dripping down your thighs, and still he stayed buried inside, forehead resting against your shoulder, breath warm on your skin.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment, just the sound of ragged breathing filling the space between kisses—gentle ones now. He kissed your neck, then your jaw, then the corner of your mouth. "I love you," he murmured, then kissed your temple, eyes shut, holding you.

You turned in his arms, legs shaky, body still pulsing from the aftershocks, and cupped his face with both hands, pulling him into a messy, open-mouthed kiss. "I love you too," you whispered.

EPILOGUE

Sunoo made his way to the stage with a confidence he hadn't felt in a long time, holding up his medal and certificate for the photographer with a proud grin. Applause echoed through the auditorium, and for a moment, all the weight he had carried over the years—every sleepless night, every self-doubt, every quiet breakdown—seemed worth it. Sitting down on the chair at the side of the stage, his heart swelled with something deeper than relief. He wasn't just happy—he felt fulfilled. Things were finally going his way, and more than that, he had done it on his own terms.

"You look so good—God, I love your makeup!" Giselle said beside him, nudging him with her shoulder. He turned to her with that signature Sunoo smile, wide and sweet. "Your blush is perfect. It suits you so well," she added.

He smiled softly, cheeks glowing with more than just the highlighter dusted on them. "Thanks. My girlfriend did my makeup."

Giselle blinked, then gasped. "Wait—did I hear that right?"

Sunoo didn't respond, just chuckled to himself. When the program ended and the crowd was released into the open hall, he barely waited before slipping into the crowd, eyes scanning eagerly for one person. He weaved through clusters of families and graduates, ignoring the flashes of cameras, until his eyes finally landed on you. His whole face lit up instantly.

Without a second thought, he squealed and ran straight into your arms, wrapping you in a tight, all-consuming hug. You squealed too, and the sound made a few people turn their heads, curious. But Sunoo didn't care. You were in his arms, and that was all that mattered.

"Congratulations, my love!" you beamed, pinching both his cheeks before kissing his forehead.

He immediately slapped your hands away with a playful pout. "Stop! You're gonna mess up my makeup."

You laughed and leaned in. "I could always retouch it, dummy. I was the one who did it, remember?"

Sunoo squinted, finally taking a proper look at you now that he wasn't rushed or nervous. You had left before him earlier, after helping with his look, and now he was seeing you fully—your hair tied neatly in a bun, soft clean makeup that felt too tame for you, and a bright, modest outfit that covered every inch of your skin.

His gaze lingered. "You... took off your piercing?"

You nodded and gave a small shrug, your smile faltering. "Yeah. I figured... maybe you'd want me to look presentable today. Like, for your big day. It felt like the right thing to do."

He tilted his head slowly, eyes narrowing as he looked you over again. "Presentable?" he repeated. "I love the way you look with your piercings on, your tattoos showing, your red lipstick. That's you."

Your chest tightened, emotion catching in your throat so fast you couldn't even respond with words. Instead, you stepped forward and hugged him again, burying your face into his neck as your arms wound around his waist. "I love you," you whispered against his skin.

Sunoo's eyes widened slightly. Then slowly, he melted into your hug, wrapping his arms around you just as tightly. He rested his chin on your shoulder, and for a moment. "I love you more," he murmured softly. Then, pulling back a little to meet your eyes, his brows furrowed. "Wait—did I make you feel like I didn't want you to be yourself? Like I was forcing you to be someone else? I'm sorry."

You shook your head, tears beginning to pool despite the smile on your lips. "No... It wasn't you. I just... I didn't want to mess anything up today. I thought maybe if I toned myself down, it'd be easier."

Sunoo's eyes shone with emotion as he wiped your tears with his thumbs. "You could never mess anything up just by being yourself," he whispered. "Especially not with me. I want you loud, and messy, and bright. I want you with the piercings, with the tattoos, with whatever the hell makes you feel like you. That's the person I want beside me, every day. I'm sorry if I ever made you feel like I was changing you. Forgive me, hmm?"

You leaned into his touch, forehead resting against his. "Then I'll never tone myself down again."

"Good," he smiled, brushing a kiss to your nose. "Because we've got a lot more milestones coming. And I want all of them with the real you."

You laughed lightly, the tension in your chest finally melting as you cradled his face. "Our only problem now is how to tell Jake without him fainting."

That made Sunoo snort before leaning in again to kiss you properly, his smile still pressed to your lips. You could hear a few surprised gasps from the crowd nearby, but you didn't care—and clearly, neither did he.

"It's fine," he whispered playfully, nuzzling close again. "We'll just plan a sleepover. That way, when he faints, we'll already be somewhere private... and have all the time in the world to celebrate without interruptions."

You smirked, squeezing his hand as it found yours. "I have a gift for you later when we get home."

His eyes sparkled with mischief as he raised a brow. "Hmm... A blowjob?"

You gave his shoulder a soft shove, rolling your eyes with a laugh. "No, not that, idiot."

He broke into a laugh too, the sound warm and carefree, then reached for your waist and pulled you in close again. His hand rested securely there, thumb drawing small circles, grounding you both in that moment. "Thank you for loving me as I am," he whispered against your ear. "Even on the days I forget how to love myself."

You leaned in, letting your head fall against his shoulder, smiling as his lips pressed a kiss to your temple. "I love you in every version of you, Sunoo," you whispered, and you meant every word.

The two of you continued walking hand in hand through the crowd. And if someone had asked you what you were feeling at that exact moment you would've said that you were in love. You were content, completely at peace with who you were and who you were becoming. And more than anything, you were happy, so much more happier than ever. Because Sunoo was beside you.

END.

・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

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18+ ONLY. MINORS DNI.

cw/tw: hard taboo kinks: stepcest, daddy kink, non-con, somnophilia

—

- stepbro sunghoon making fun of you when you cum just by rubbing your cunt against his dick

- jay just splitting you open on his giant cock 💭

- (hear me out..) incel perv heeseung who was supposed to be your study partner but it somehow turned into ...

- daddy won ..

- sex addict heeseung who just fucks you all day long cumming inside you over and over and over again until it's dripping all over the place

- stepdad jake sneaking into his sweet pretty little stepdaughters room at night to show her how to have proper fun!!

- sunghoon couldnt wait until you two got home

- jay doesnt wait to take off his work uniform before sticking his cock back where it belongs

- sunghoon cutting the condom before fucking you so he can still fuck you full of his cum <3

- these are the videos you find in jakes camera roll in the morning. no wonder you were so sore!

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[mssishipi]

ONE OF THE GIRLS — ksn

Kim Sunoo has always been one of the girls: soft-spoken, pretty, utterly devoted to the allure of men, men and more men. Women were never his thing, not really—especially not you. You, with your cigarette-drenched, red fucking lips, that wicked mouth always spitting nonsense. He loathed your strut, your cruel tongue, those perfect, infuriating tits that made his cock twitch no matter how hard he tried to look away. And he hated the thought that maybe — he’s starting to think that he swings both ways after all.

content tags/warnings: pansexual!sunoo x bisexual! reader, slowburn, one sided enemies to fubu to lovers, misandry comments, gentle angst, reader is a heavy smoker and have a lots of piercings and tattoos. jealousy, mentions of cheating (past rs). light emotional manipulation, toxic behaviors, second chances, queer coded relationship dynamics. sunoo is a nursing student and reader is a fashion design major. two years age gap, reader is shorter than sunoo. explicit content (smut): plot with porn. four different smut scenes. blowjob, some content might be dubious, pussy eating, fingering, protected and unprotected sex: public sex, rainbow (period) sex, multiple sex positions and places lmao, sunoo have a big dick, also dom! sn <3 WC: 45.4K (long ass ride)

note! this is a work of fiction and is not intended to offend anyone in the lgbt community or to fetishize any identities. the themes and characters are purely imaginative and should not be taken as a reflection of real people or experiences. and if you don't like it? don't read it. :)

KIM SUNOO has never truly identified as a man, not in the way society tries to define it.

He was born with what people like to label as "male," but the label never felt like it belonged to him. He's always been one of the girls. Not because he was trying to be anything other than himself, but because that's where he belonged, where he felt seen, understood, and safe. There's no pride in masculinity for him, no comfort in aligning with a category that has done nothing but let him down. Whatever was hanging between his legs didn't mean he owed anything to the idea of manhood, and he sure as hell wasn't going to start pretending it did.

And yet, for all his clarity, all his softness, all his truth—Sunoo, no matter how sharp his wit or clever his comebacks, keeps getting cheated on. It used to be just the straight boys he rolled his eyes at, but the betrayal has evolved. Gays aren't safe anymore either. There's no longer a clean line between "they'd never" and "they did." Gay, straight, bi, whatever — the problem is not orientation, it's the universal mediocrity of modern manhood. There's a plague of emotional negligence infecting them all. He trusted boys who called him beautiful, who knew how to flirt over text, who said "I'm not like the others" — and then turned out to be exactly like the others, but with worse excuses!

And still, the question haunts him: Why? Why does it keep happening? Why do they always cheat? What is it about commitment that scares them so much? He's been good. He's been better than good! He listens, he nurtures, he gives. He doesn't ask for much. Is that really too much? Because it feels like no matter how much effort he puts in, no matter how present he is, no matter how he softens himself to make space for someone else, it never ends with someone choosing him back. The worst part is how often he wonders if it's his fault—if maybe he's just not enough. Not hot enough, not loud enough, not strong enough, not whatever version of "desirable" men have invented that week. It eats at him.

"Good thing you broke up with him. He's not better for you, anyways." Sunoo rolled his eyes, brushing his hair back as he stared blankly at the colorful crochet pieces arranged neatly in front of him. They were at the National Art Celebration, wandering through the Art Museum's marketplace.

He didn't respond to his friend's comment. What was there to say?

His fingers hovered over a small adorable crochet strawberry keychain, the kind of thing he'd usually buy without hesitation but he didn't pick it up, because his mood didn't match the softness in front of him. It hadn't even been a full week since everything crashed. His ex had been sleeping with more than just one person behind his back. Sunoo had confronted him head-on, shaking with anger, and left. The next day, he was at a clinic, filling out forms with numb fingers, waiting for results that thankfully came back clean. Still, the damage wasn't something that a negative result could fix.

"I hope he chokes on his small dick and dies," Sunoo muttered under his breath, not even trying to sound playful about it. He turned from the crochet booth and walked a few steps over to the next one, where rows of stickers were arranged neatly across a dark velvet cloth.

His lips twitched slightly as he noticed a sticker of a cat holding a cigarette in its mouth. The drawing was a little messy nothing like the soft pastel style he usually liked. The rest of the stickers shared the same energy—guitars, ghost-like figures, strange shapes in heavy red and black tones. The entire table had a darker, rougher feel to it, but instead of pushing him away, it pulled him in. Something about the way the lines were drawn, the way the art didn't try to be friendly, and it felt honest, that honesty intrigued him. He picked up the cat sticker, turning it slightly under the light. "This is so cute. Are you the artist?" he asked, glancing up at the boy behind the table.

The boy shook his head with a small grin. "Thank you, but no. I'm just her cousin. She went to grab some food. I'm babysitting her table for now."

Sunoo nodded, eyes still scanning the stickers laid out in front of him. He wasn't even sure where he'd put them if he bought any—his laptop was already full, his tumbler too—but something about them felt worth having. Maybe he just wanted to support someone who clearly put effort into making something different. Without thinking too much, he picked out five more, dropped a bill in the little payment box, and gave a quick thank you before stepping back into the flow of the crowd.

"I'm gonna get the car. Just wait here. The parking lot's, like, so far and it's insanely hot," his friend said, already fanning her face with a brochure as she walked away. Sunoo just gave her a lazy nod and stayed in the shade, sipping his strawberry soda and lightly tapping the tip of his shows against the concrete to keep himself distracted.

It was Saturday, supposed to be relaxing day, but Sunoo's mind didn't know how to slow down. The breakup still clung to him, but even beyond that, the stress of his return demo for nursing school kept replaying in his head. It was getting close, and he still didn't feel ready. His eyebags were starting to sink into his face again, darkening with every late night he spent crying or spiraling in bed, wondering how things managed to fall apart this fast. He'd thought about going out again, just to dance, to pretend, to flirt with someone but he already knew it wouldn't help.

Just as he was about to take another sip from his drink, he froze. His nose twitched — Was that... cigarette smoke? Sunoo immediately grimaced, pressing his fingers over his nose and mouth. What the hell? Who the fuck smokes around here? The whole place was filled with kids and art booths, and there was a giant NO SMOKING sign that was printed in bold red letters, stuck on a wall not even ten steps away. His eyes scanned the shaded rest area until they landed on the source.

There you were—sitting alone on the bench with one leg drawn up, smoke curling lazily from your lips, completely unbothered.

"The fuck?" he muttered, eyes narrowing as another wave of smoke drifted toward him, already starting to irritate his throat. He wasn't trying to start anything, but the longer he stood there, the more it felt like the smoke was reaching out, wrapping around his skin, sneaking into his lungs, clinging to his clothes. He was already dealing with a bad day, and now this?!

You exhaled again, your gaze flicked toward him, catching the look he gave you but you didn't react. If anything, you just blinked, relaxed, fingers still holding the cigarette loosely between them.

Sunoo stood there, clearly expecting you to look guilty or maybe at least pretend to care, but when you didn't, he clicked his tongue in frustration and glanced at the sign again, like pointing it out. "Do you not see the sign?" he said, irritation in every word. "This is a public area, kids are here, and secondhand smoke—do you even know it's worse than smoking yourself? God, the sign is literally right there. It's huge."

You looked at him again, blinking like you didn't quite catch what he was saying. Your hand, holding the cigarette near your mouth, paused midair. Then, slowly, you turned your head to glance over your shoulder, as if making sure he was actually talking to you and not someone else behind the bench.

When your eyes met his again, they stayed on him a second longer. He stood there with a roughness that didn't match the soft features on his face. You let your gaze move over him without shame, noting the little details—the way his hair was clipped back by a cute pink clip, the pale tone of his skin that looked untouched by the sun, smooth, almost too perfect. His lips had a natural flush, a little swollen like he'd been biting them out of stress, and even with that annoyed look carved into his face, there was nothing harsh about him.

What a beautiful man, you thought, not even trying to hide it. You let the moment hang for a bit longer, then flicked the ash off the end of your cigarette with a small movement. Your voice was unbothered when you finally spoke. "You always pick fights with strangers, or am I just lucky today?"

He blinked, caught off guard by how casually you responded. "Start fights?" he repeated, eyes narrowing further. "You're the one breaking the rules. 'No smoking' doesn't mean smoke quietly. It means don't fucking smoke."

You took another drag without rush, then exhaled away from his direction, watching him. "Right. And you yelling about it in public—real mature. Definitely better than me just sitting here minding my own business."

Sunoo stepped forward slightly, jaw tightening. "You're not minding your business. That's the problem."

You shrugged, leaning back just a little on the bench, clearly not moved. "Then move somewhere else. No one's forcing you to breathe next to me. I don't fucking care."

You saw the way the color started creeping into the tips of his ears, how his hands curled into tight fists at his sides like he was holding himself back from saying something worse. He was clearly seething, barely keeping it together. You smiled to yourself then turned your head away to take another drag from your cigarette, the smoke curling softly from your lips.

"Bitch," you heard him muttered under his breath.

You turned your head back toward him, one brow lifting as you exhaled the smoke without rushing. "Excuse me?"

You started to shift, one foot planting on the ground like you were about to stand, but before anything else could happen, a small car pulled up right in front of you. Sunoo didn't waste a second. He walked straight toward it, yanked the passenger door open, and slipped inside as if the vehicle were his escape hatch. He slammed the door, and through the window, you could see the tension still sitting in his shoulders. But what caught your attention was how he didn't look away. Even as the engine came to life, even as the car rolled slowly forward, Sunoo kept his eyes locked on you. His glare was sharp and it's lingering.

You pressed your tongue into your cheek as you took another slow hit from the cigarette, still watching. When the car passed, you caught his reflection in the side mirror, and there he was—still glaring.

You flicked the smoke away from your face, the faintest smirk on your lips as the car disappeared down the road. Hah. He's such a pretty guy. You liked him already.

"Who's that guy?"

Sunoo didn't even try to hide his curiosity as he pointed across the room, eyes fixed on the one person who'd completely pulled his attention. The music was loud, bass thumping through the floor, and bodies moved around the house party in various stages of drunken celebration. It was supposed to be a simple gathering, just something to celebrate surviving midterms and their return demonstrations. He wasn't expecting anything wild tonight. Honestly, he'd shown up mostly out of pressure and to avoid looking like a killjoy. As someone in healthcare, he was all too aware of the risks, especially when it came to hookups. The rise of HIV cases was something that always lingered in the back of his mind, and the weight of what his ex put him through was still fresh. He wasn't exactly in the mood to relive that. But even so... looking didn't hurt, right?

"That's Park Sunghoon," someone answered beside him, casually sipping from their red cup. "Physical Therapy."

Sunoo's eyes narrowed slightly, studying the guy. He was leaning against the wall, laughing, drink in hand, head tilted just enough to show off a clean jawline and that effortless hair. "Does he have a girlfriend?" Sunoo asked, still watching.         His friend shrugged. "I don't know? Maybe? You interested? Go talk to him!"

Sunoo rolled his eyes and sipped from his drink. "I don't even know if he's into men." His friend leaned in, grinning. "Ngeh, I don't know either, but he looks like he's giving off some BL energy. Just try!"

Sunoo didn't respond right away, but his gaze drifted back to Sunghoon, eyes half-lidded from the buzz. There was something about him, the kind of guy who knew he looked good but didn't make a show of it. And okay, maybe there was something about the way he stood that didn't exactly scream masculine authority. There was a softness to it, or maybe just an openness that made Sunoo curious.

He tapped his fingers against his cup, considering. He wasn't looking for anything serious but after everything he'd been through, a little fun wouldn't hurt. And if Park Sunghoon happened to be fun and hot? Well... why the hell not?

With one final sip, Sunoo set his cup down and gave his friend a sly look. "Fine. I'll try."

He took a breath, adjusted his shirt, and began walking through the crowd, weaving past groups of loud classmates and half-finished games of beer pong until he finally reached the corner where Park Sunghoon stood. The table beside them was lined with vodka, soda, and mixers. Sunoo casually took his place beside him, pretending to look through the drink options while stealing a glance at the boy he'd just been staring at across the room.

Sunghoon turned his head slightly, noticed him, and smiled. He raised his cup. "Cheers?" he offered.

Sunoo smiled back, trying not to let it show how fast his heart had just jumped. He reached for a drink off the table, tapping his cup gently against Sunghoon's. "Physical Therapy?" Sunoo asked, trying to keep his tone light, confident and a little sweet.

"Yeah. Nursing?" Sunghoon replied smoothly, and when Sunoo nodded, something about the way Sunghoon smiled deepened, more focused now. That voice—fuck. Sunoo could already feel the heat crawling up his neck. His body wasn't even trying to be subtle about how attracted he was. And God, those hands—Sunghoon reached for the bottle of rum to refill his cup, and Sunoo caught a flash of the veins along his forearm, the easy flex of his wrist, the way his fingers moved with control. For a second, Sunoo lost the ability to form a proper thought. Break my bones. Please. I beg.

They were already halfway through the conversation, and Sunoo could feel himself falling a little too deep for comfort. Sunghoon wasn't just attractive—he was engaging in a way that didn't feel forced. He spoke with confidence in his voice, and Sunoo found himself drawn in with every word. It surprised him how someone could make something as dry as tendons sound this interesting, especially when he usually avoided any talk of lectures once he stepped out of school. But with Sunghoon, it felt different. His voice was soothing, and the way he explained things had a rhythm that made Sunoo want to listen, even if he already knew the topic.

"And you know the tendons that connect from the—" Sunghoon started, his fingers gesturing as he spoke.

Sunoo nodded along, genuinely interested, eyes fixed on him, but then, right in the middle of the sentence, Sunghoon stopped. His posture shifted, back straightening, and his eyes flicked past Sunoo's shoulder like something—or someone—had just pulled his attention. Sunoo frowned, eyebrows drawing together, expecting him to finish the sentence, but instead, he watched as Sunghoon tilted his head slightly, his expression softening in recognition, lips curving upward.

Sunoo glanced behind him, confusion setting in. Then Sunghoon cleared his throat, gave him a polite smile, and said, "Uhh, sorry. If you'll excuse me. Nice meeting you, Sunoo," before lightly tapping his shoulder and walking off.

Sunoo's mouth fell open, completely caught off guard. He barely had time to react before his eyes followed Sunghoon's retreating figure—and then he saw exactly where he was heading. Fuck?!

You were leaning casually against the wall near the hallway entrance, drink in hand, watching the whole interaction. You didn't look surprised to see Sunghoon making his way over. In fact, you barely blinked. The moment he reached you, your body turned just slightly to make space for him. Sunghoon leaned in, said something only you could hear, and your quiet laugh in response said everything else Sunoo didn't want to believe.

Sunoo blinked, chest tight. He could almost feel something short-circuiting inside his brain, like a wire snapping clean. His thoughts were a blur, but one thing was clear—you. His pulse quickened as his body processed the shift, his amygdala practically lighting up with one conclusion: you are a threat.

A threat to his night, his mood, his already bruised ego. God, how was it even possible for someone he'd only met twice to piss him off this much? The universe really had the audacity to let you show up again, and not just exist, but actively ruin his chances at getting laid. Because let's be real—he wasn't looking for love, just something to distract him, and now even that had been snatched by the same cigarette-smoking bitch who couldn't be bothered to respect a no-smoking sign?!

His friend appeared beside him, holding a fresh cup and scanning the room. "Hey, where'd Sunghoon go? You two looked like you were hitting it off."

Sunoo didn't turn to look at her. He just brought the rim of his cup to his lips, finished what was left in a single gulp, and slammed it back on the table. "He went to hell," he muttered. "With someone who clearly lives there." His friend blinked, confused. "Wait—what?"

Sunoo turned to her, face tight with a forced smile. "Don't worry about it. Just remind me next time I say I'm open to meeting new people—slap me."

He exhaled sharply as his eyes drifted back to where the two of you had returned from the hallway. And when he really looked—when he took in your outfit, the way you were dressed like you didn't give a single shit what anyone thought—he almost laughed out loud.

A strawberry shirt? Jorts? Those shoes? That's what Sunghoon left him for? Sunoo scoffed under his breath, shaking his head slowly, barely believing it. He looked down at himself—his carefully styled hair, his clean lines, and then back at you. "Seriously," he muttered, eyes still locked on you. "That's the one?"

He couldn't decide if he was more offended for himself or embarrassed for Sunghoon. Whether you were just a friend, a fling, or something in between, one thing was clear to him now: Park Sunghoon had no taste. And if he did, it was broken.

Anyway, there were plenty of fish in the sea. Sunoo wasn't going to waste his energy sulking over one guy, especially not if you were somehow involved. If Sunghoon had any sort of connection to you then Sunoo would rather tap out early and save himself the trouble. He had enough baggage without adding someone who came with your name attached.

At least, that's what he told himself.

But then again, Sunoo had also said there were so many fish in the sea—yet somehow, it felt like every damn fish was just swimming in circles around you. It was getting ridiculous. He wasn't being dramatic, either. There was always something—some random detail, some little coincidence, and suddenly, boom. You. Right there again.

Date number one: a gym instructor. Hot, yes, a little edgy, had that calm, slow-talking voice Sunoo secretly liked. Things were going okay, until the guy pulled out his phone to show pictures of his niece's birthday party and proudly pointed to a group photo. Sunoo was nodding politely, until his eyes caught on one specific person in the background, holding the cake and grinning. He blinked. Zoomed in. Yup. You. Holding a cake with your horrible strawberry tank top. Niece, cousin, whatever—you were related. Add to that the guy reeked of cigarettes the whole time, and Sunoo was done before dessert.

Date number two: a Med Tech student. Good on paper, clean cut, same healthcare background, probably understood his schedule and stress levels. Sunoo was really trying with this one. But on their second date, as they were walking to a café near the guy's family's shop, Sunoo noticed someone standing out front during a break—leaning against the wall, cigarette between your lips, looking bored out of your mind. You. Again. You even smirk at him! Sunoo didn't even finish the coffee. He went home and ghosted the guy the next morning.

Okay, maybe he was being petty. Maybe, in a community as tight as theirs, having overlap wasn't that deep. But could anyone really blame him? Sunoo could admit it—he was petty, fine. He could own that. His feelings were valid. He was the one showing up, putting in effort, trying to start something new while somehow tripping over you every single time.

And if anyone dared to question why he was so quick to shut people down the moment your name and face got involved, well—he'd like to point them toward basic psychology. According to research, the brain forms first impressions within seconds. These impressions are shaped by appearance, voice, body language, even scent—and they trigger implicit biases, unconscious reactions that color how we feel about someone before they even say a word. And what had his brain learned to associate with you? Cigarettes, interruptions, stolen men, smug grins, and the color strawberry.

So, yes. Sunoo was triggered. And he was allowed to be.

"Damn, my neck is killing me from all these hospital duties. I'm seriously craving mint ice cream right now," Sunoo groaned, letting himself collapse face-first into the couch at Jungwon's dorm. He had no energy left and zero motivation to head back to his own apartment. Everything hurt—his back, his neck, even his brain.

"I'm begging for a break," Jungwon said from his desk, not looking up from his laptop. "God, give me a date."

Sunoo's voice came out muffled, his face still buried in the cushion. "I'm fine with God not giving me a date as long as I get a decent eight hours of sleep."

"What happened with all those dates you went on?" Jungwon finally asked, turning slightly in his chair. "None of them worked out?"

"I'd rather not talk about it," Sunoo muttered, one hand waving in the air like he could physically dismiss the topic. He sat up slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Forget it. I'm going to grab ice cream before I start crying about my life again. Want anything?"

Jungwon leaned back and grinned. "Can you buy me some lube?"

Sunoo rolled his eyes so hard. "Get your own, freak."

He stood up, grabbing his wallet off the coffee table and brushing off invisible lint from his pants. He didn't even know if he actually wanted ice cream anymore or if he just needed an excuse to be alone for a bit. Either way, he needed air. And distance. And ideally, a world where you didn't exist in every corner of his social life.

But of course, fate had other plans—because who else would be behind the counter of the convenience store at 10:42 PM but you, punching in his order with that same lazy grin plastered on your face as your eyes dropped directly to the bottle of lube and box of condoms on the counter.

Seriously. How many fucking jobs did you have? Sunoo stared at you, disbelief turning to horror, then to full-blown irritation. "Can you not grin like that?" he snapped, arms crossed. "What happened to discrete and nonjudgmental service? I need to speak to your manager."

You tilted your head slightly and blinked at him with exaggerated innocence, hand pausing over the touchscreen like you were truly offended. The expression only made his eye twitch harder. "That's discrimination," he added, glaring. "I should be allowed to buy whatever I want without being mentally harassed by your face."

Your lips twitched. You tried to play it cool, but the smirk slipped out before you could stop it. There it was again—that look of yours, amused and smug. So ugly!

Honestly, you hadn't expected to see him again so soon. It was the third time now, and at this point, his dramatic reactions were starting to feel like a reward. The moment he walked through the door and made eye contact with you, something in you shifted—your lips curled up instinctively, and the weight of the day suddenly didn't feel so heavy.      "Huh?" you said innocently, your voice small as you tilted your head slightly, letting your bottom lip pout just enough to be annoying.

Sunoo looked like he was one breath away from combusting, especially when his eyes flicked to your mouth and you knew he caught the glint of the piercing on your lower lip, because his gaze lingered just a second too long before his face twisted in irritation.

"Huh?" he mocked, eyebrows raised and lips pushed out as he mimicked your expression, only to immediately roll his eyes so hard. Without another word, he reached across the counter and snatched the bag from your hands, the plastic crinkling loudly in the quiet. He slapped a $50 bill on the counter, pointedly avoiding your eyes.

"Keep the change and never show your face again," he snapped, already turning on his heel. "God, bye," he added with a dramatic flick of his head, tossing his hair back.

You barely held in the laugh bubbling up your throat. Cute! you thought, bracing your hands on the counter as your smile widened. "Enjoy your night, sir!" you called after him, loud and obnoxiously cheerful.

You caught the twitch of his shoulders as he froze for half a second at the door. Then, without turning fully around, he glanced at you over his shoulder, hand lifting to flash you a very clear middle finger before pushing the door open and disappearing.

You leaned back, shaking your head with a quiet chuckle. Yup. Definitely your favorite regular now.

With Sunoo buried in nonstop clinical duties, he was starting to believe that God had decided to personally test his patience. Every day was a cycle of waking up too early, surviving rounds with barely any caffeine, and crashing into bed with a brain too tired to think but still too anxious to sleep. If this was divine character development, he wanted a refund. But fine, he'd give credit where it was due. At least he wasn't in a relationship. He couldn't imagine juggling a partner on top of exams, hospital reports, and constant reminders of his nonexistent social life. That would've been a mental breakdown waiting to happen.

Sunoo still hated men or so he said. But hatred, as he often reminded himself bitterly, was a slippery slope. The more you hated, the more they crawled under your skin. And men, those confusing, beautiful disasters, were impossible to avoid. The way they smiled, the stupid flex of their arms when they weren't even trying, those veiny hands that somehow haunted his imagination late at night—ugh. It was criminal, really. He wasn't desperate, but he wasn't made of stone either. If he said he didn't miss at least a little action, he'd be lying.

So when Jake asked him to tag along to the university gym because he was meeting a friend there for a commission, Sunoo agreed—reluctantly at first. But the moment they stepped into the gym and his eyes landed on the group of basketball players practicing on the court, all thoughts of regret evaporated.

"I was waiting for my friend. Sorry to drag you into it. I have a commission with her, she told me to meet her here. Is that okay?" Jake asked, casually.

Sunoo could barely hear him over the internal scream in his head. Of course it's okay. It's so okay he might cry. His gaze was locked on one specific figure—Lee Heeseung, the captain of the university's basketball team, currently making shots. Sunoo's mouth may not have been literally on the floor, but it was dangerously close. His eyes followed every movement of how Heeseung's shirt clung to his back, how his arms flexed with every jump, how sweat dripped down his neck—

Jake nudged him. "You good?"

"Peachy," Sunoo replied, voice an octave too high as he cleared his throat. "Just... appreciating," his eyes scanned the gym, trailing slowly over the players until, inevitably, they landed on the captain, Lee Heeseung. Sunoo raised his hands vaguely, motioning toward the court as if trying to justify the way he was staring. "...physical education."

But of course, like in some movies he never signed up for, the metaphorical glass shattered the moment you appeared. Just walked right into his field of vision. The air shifted, his stomach dropped, and his brows furrowed. His expression twisted into something between disgust and disbelief as his arms dropped in surrender. What the hell were you doing here?! Oh God?! You and him are in the same university?!

And then, just as Sunoo thought the scene couldn't get worse, Jake stood up, grinning wide. "There you are!" he said before pulling you into a hug and pressing a kiss on your cheek.

Sunoo's entire soul left his body. What. The. Actual. Fuck.

Jake was gay—openly and proudly gay—and Sunoo, as judgmental as he sometimes got, couldn't help but squint suspiciously. Are you seriously friends with his friends? Because if anyone was giving homophobic vibes, it was definitely you. Sunoo blinked hard. The math wasn't mathing. Did Jake not feel the same tension he did? Oh no. Jake needed help. Jake needed saving. God, someone had to sit him down and explain a few things before it was too late.

"Oh! Meet Sunoo! He's my best friend from nursing."

And there it was—the inevitable moment where Sunoo had no choice but to lock eyes with you. The second your gaze met his, you smiled so sweetly it made his entire body crawl. You even added a little wave, like this was the friendliest encounter on earth, and not the fourth time you'd popped up in his life. Sunoo felt the twitch in his eye before he could stop it, jaw clenching as he forced the most plastic smile onto his face. The corners of his eyes crinkled with pure performance. He stood up, cheeks already aching from pretending, leaned in for a polite cheek-to-cheek like he wasn't imagining pulling your hair back in pure rage, and was immediately hit with a mix of cigarette smoke and YSL Libre perfume. Ugh.

Jake, completely oblivious to the silent war unfolding, beamed as he gestured between the two of you. "She's a fashion design major! Does commissions too—drawings, paintings, cakes, you name it."

Sunoo nodded stiffly, barely reacting. Inside, he was sighing so loud he could practically hear himself. As Jake went on, clearly proud to know someone like you, Sunoo watched you nod and smile with just the right amount of humility, your tone gentle, polite, soft—like butter wouldn't melt in your mouth. This is fake. You're fake. This whole performance is fake. God, Jake deserves better friends. He forced another smile, barely hanging onto his sanity. Because the way you were looking at him right now and you knew he was crumbling inside was enough to make his blood boil.

And worst of all, you looked delighted about it. Bitch. You're a bitch. Sunoo didn't even try to be polite about it in his head anymore. He had fully accepted the fact that you existed in his life for the sole purpose of testing his patience.

But of course, it didn't stop there. Since Jake thought you and Sunoo were getting along just fine, he began inviting you everywhere. Lunch, coffee breaks, study sessions—any time he had a free hour, he'd text both of you like this was some little trio. Fuck him!

And every time you showed up, Sunoo could feel that familiar twitch start behind his eye, the one that pulsed when he was one annoyance away from losing it. Your voice would float into the conversation like you had no idea you were driving him slowly insane.

But the worst part? The absolutely most humiliating part? He was starting to notice things. Little details that stuck with him even though he never asked for them. You smoked Marlboro Reds, but you always kept a strawberry-flavored vape in your bag. You wore outfits like you just rolled out of a punk indie concert, all black with layered chains and boots that could kill a man, but he'd bet money your favorite color was red—based on the red phone case, the red liner under your eyes, the strawberry pins you sometimes wore on your bag. You had a piercing on your tongue—he found that out when you bit into a donut one afternoon and casually stuck your tongue out in surprise because of the powdered sugar.

He didn't mean to remember all of this. He didn't even talk to you. Not directly, at least. Every time Jake tried to bridge conversation between you two, it felt like some weird form of punishment. Sunoo would answer, you'd smile knowingly, and Jake would keep chatting like this three-way exchange wasn't slowly draining Sunoo's soul.

"Jake has a fear of needles, so maybe stop trying to convince him to get a piercing or a tattoo," Sunoo said, not even glancing up from his drink.

He hadn't meant to speak, but with Jake in the restroom and the silence between you two stretching, the words slipped out. His tone was calm but the way his fingers tightened slightly around his cup betrayed the irritation simmering under his skin.

You turned your head, raising a brow slowly as if deciding whether to entertain this or not. "Hmm? I didn't know we were handing out unsolicited advice now," you said, tilting your glass to make the ice clink. "Is that your subtle way of joining the conversation, Ddeuno?"

His jaw flexed the moment the nickname left your lips. He finally looked at you, eyes sharp. "It's not joining if I'm already in it. Jake was talking to both of us. And it's Sunoo. Not that hard."

You smiled, amused by the twitch in his expression. "Sure, Sunoo. But don't you think Jake's capable of making his own choices?"

"He is," he said, voice a touch tighter as he leaned forward and crossed one leg over the other. "Which is exactly why I know he wouldn't have asked if you didn't plant the idea in his head."

You rested your elbow on the table and glanced at him with casual ease. "I didn't plant anything. He saw my piercing and asked. Maybe you're just not used to people being curious about something you can't control."

He scoffed, shaking his head as he stirred his drink, the metal spoon tapping against ceramic. "Right, because nothing screams freedom of choice like peer pressure with a side of aesthetic superiority."

"I never pressured him," you said, eyes locked on his. "But if he wanted to try something new, I wouldn't stop him. You, on the other hand, sound like you'd tackle him to the ground before he could book an appointment."

Okay, fuck this. Sunoo's patience was thinning by the second, and he could feel the irritation rising and rising and rising! He hadn't come here to argue, but the way you kept smiling, like you knew how to push every single one of his buttons, made it impossible to let it slide.

He wasn't trying to control Jake. He was just looking out for him because someone had to. Sunoo had this belief, stubborn as it was, that people who covered themselves in piercings and tattoos didn't exactly value their skin the way they should. It wasn't about being judgmental, it was about keeping things clean, presentable, safe. Sure, he wouldn't tell strangers how to live their lives, but when it came to the people around him? The people he cared about? He preferred them untouched.

He turned to you again, eyes hard. "There's nothing wrong with wanting the people I care about to take care of themselves properly."

You didn't flinch, just tilted your head slightly, like you were waiting for more. "Tattoos and piercings aren't unhygienic if done right," you replied. "But sure, let's pretend this is about safety and not just your obsession with control."

Sunoo laughed under his breath, the sound hollow. "Yeah? And let me guess—you're the expert now because you sat through a couple needle sessions and watched some tattoo TikToks?"

You leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, gaze unshaken. "No. But I'm someone who understands that self-expression doesn't need your permission."

The tension in the air crackled. And just when it felt like one more word would tip things over the edge, Jake returned to the table, smiling. "Miss anything?" he asked, completely unaware.

You leaned back smoothly, picking up your drink like nothing happened. "Not a thing."

That was it. He couldn't keep letting this slide. As much as he tried to convince himself he was just being overprotective, he knew deep down he was past the line of tolerating your presence. You were a bad influence on Jake—he was sure of it—and sooner or later, someone had to say it. That someone was going to be him.

Later that day, when you'd left first and it was just the two of them walking toward the station, Sunoo finally spoke. "Do you... ever feel a certain vibe from her?"

Jake blinked, looking over at him with an innocent confusion that made Sunoo want to scream. "Huh? Vibes? What kind of vibes?"

Bitch vibes, Sunoo almost blurted out. He had to stop himself from saying it out loud. He cleared his throat, trying to sound more composed. "Just... like, the way she talks. She always has something to say, and it's never just casual. It's like everything's meant to get a reaction."

Jake tilted his head slightly, clearly trying to follow. "You mean, like, she's too witty?"

Sunoo narrowed his eyes. "No, like... she's too comfortable? It's weird. And I don't trust it."

Jake just laughed, brushing it off too easily. "She's just chill. That's how she is with everyone. She's a good person, Sunoo. You just haven't gotten used to her yet."

Sunoo sighed, irritated. "That's the problem. I don't want to get used to her. And maybe you shouldn't either." He let the word slipped on his mouth.

Jake glanced at him, and for the first time, his smile faded a little. "She's my friend. You're my friend. Just... try not to be mean, okay?"

Maybe he had sounded a little too harsh, a little too pointed—but it wasn't like he was being mean for the sake of it. Sunoo knew what it looked like, but deep down, it wasn't about jealousy or drama. He was just trying to protect something that mattered to him before it got tangled up in whatever messy situation. He didn't trust easily, and the way you walked into their lives set off every internal alarm. But Jake... Jake wasn't the type to see danger. Not like Sunoo did.

"Sorry," he said quietly, reaching out to gently hold Jake's hand with a small smile. Jake just nodded and gave his hand a soft squeeze in return, the silence between them filled with a quiet understanding even if they didn't see eye to eye on everything.

Meanwhile, from your side of things, things were quite different.

The more time you spent around Kim Sunoo, the more curious you became. You weren't really interested in men. They were too predictable, too performative, too eager to please and too quick to disappoint. They were fun, sometimes, but they didn't hold your attention. But Sunoo was something else. You didn't even notice when it started. Maybe it was the way he carried himself. Maybe it was the way he bit back when provoked, or how he tried so hard to hide that he cared too much about the people around him.

You'd seen beautiful people before. You'd had flings, hookups, distractions. But Sunoo... he stuck. You were clearly interested. and there were moments that he annoyed you, sure. Challenged you. Threw shade but he made your brain work. He made your skin itch in that specific way only people you couldn't quite figure out ever did. And fine, maybe it was because he looked a little like a girl. Soft skin, pouty lips, those lashes that curled perfectly for no reason. You couldn't stop looking at him.

Well, too bad for you, he didn't seem the least bit pleased with your presence. And honestly? The feeling was mutual. He had that almost condescending way of speaking that made everything sound like a warning label. Foul controlling mouth, always ready with a "don't do this," or a "you shouldn't do that." He was a walking killjoy wrapped in pretty skin, constantly policing the air around him like joy was something to be monitored.

It didn't make sense. How could someone so tightly wound be friends with someone like Jake, who floated through life like a balloon one gust away from flying into the sun? What were they even talking about when you weren't around? Did Sunoo lecture Jake on posture and caffeine intake? Did Jake actually listen?

"Are you getting along with Sunoo well?" Jake asked.

You paused mid-hit with your vape, the familiar strawberry taste lingering on your tongue as you raised your leg up onto the bench, shoulders lifting in a shrug. You exhaled slowly, letting the smoke drift upward as you looked off to the side. "Define 'well,'" you murmured.

Of course, Jake would ask. And of course, Sunoo had probably said something. It was expected. That boy had a hard time keeping anything off his chest, especially when it came to people he clearly couldn't stand. Jake sighed, slumping back against the bench like your answer had physically disappointed him. "Aww, come on. I really want you two to get along," he muttered, pouting.

You glanced at him, the corner of your mouth pulling into a faint smirk. "Jake, I don't not get along with him. We just don't operate on the same wavelength." You watched as Jake's shoulders dropped a little, disappointment settling in. There was a pause, not long, but long enough for you to notice the way he kept looking at you like he was hoping for a better answer. So you gave him one, even if it came reluctantly. "He's interesting, though."

That made Jake perk up, turning to face you more fully, hope flickering back into his expression. "You think so?"

And with that soft look on his face, that typical sunshine that you could never seem to say no to, you found yourself giving in. Fine. The next time you saw Sunoo, you wouldn't provoke him. You'd leave his nerves alone for once, maybe even make an effort not to smell like smoke. You already knew that Sunoo probably hated the smell of cigarettes. The way he wrinkled his nose when you were near, how he subtly shifted his body away like he didn't want to breathe the same air, said more than enough.

He was the type who liked rules. Cleanliness. Probably thought smoking was a character flaw rather than a habit. So controlling. But if it meant keeping peace with Jake, you could give it a shot. And you really want to get along with  him, though. Not just a friend.

If men were animals, Sunoo would absolutely agree they were monkeys but honestly, even that felt unfair to monkeys. At least monkeys had a sense of community. They groomed each other, protected their own, had an instinct to care. Men? Men could barely carry a conversation without twisting it to revolve around themselves, like everything was orbiting their fragile egos. And what did it even say about him that he'd still actually tried to be patient with that last one? The man had poor communication skills, grammar that made Sunoo want to cry, a sense of humor so dry it could choke a cactus, and hygiene that was clearly not taught with enough urgency in his household. Sunoo had still shown up, been kind, understanding, even offered grace where he really shouldn't have.

And he got ghosted. After all that effort, after tolerating body spray that didn't cover the scent of unwashed laundry, and laugh emojis used in places where no jokes existed—Sunoo was the one who got left on read.

And as if the universe hadn't done enough damage, this morning, their Clinical Instructor decided to nitpick his grooming. Said his hair was too long and should be "cleaned up to maintain a professional image." Too long? It was barely brushing his ears!

Sunoo slammed his locker shut, lips pressed into a thin line as he yanked his lanyard off and stuffed it into his pocket. "I need a mango shake," he muttered under his breath, storming out of the building. "Or I need a drink. Or I need to get laid. Honestly, at this point, any of the three will do. Fuck this life."

And as if the day hadn't already tried to ruin him, it just kept going. Sunoo tripped over one of the uneven bricks in the university garden—in front of three freshmen and a couple from Dentistry—and his whole body hit the ground like it had something to prove. The worst part? He was wearing his white clinical uniform, freshly ironed this morning, and now it had mud on the knee, a grass stain on the sleeve, and his shoe was ruined. The sole peeled at the side like it was giving up on life, just like him.

He stood there for a moment, fists clenched, eyes locked on the sky like he was daring it to rain. His pride was already dented, his clothes dirty, his patience snapped and now, of course, not a single damn taxi in sight was stopping. He raised his arm again, waved it with enough energy to summon a ghost, but every car either sped past or pretended not to see him. People were staring. He could hear the soft chuckles, see the sideways glances. He was half a second from screaming into the void or kicking a bush, whichever came first.

And then came the low sound of motorbike. He turned his head, expecting just another person speeding past him like the rest of the universe, but the bike slowed down instead. The helmeted rider stopped in front of him, casually lifting the visor.

His eye twitched instantly. Of course it was you. Like the universe had specially selected you to appear right when he had the least energy to deal with anything, especially you. His grip on his bag strap tightened out of habit, maybe even to stop himself from doing something regrettable. The strap strained against his palm as he imagined how satisfying it would be to swing it straight at your little helmet.

You didn't speak but the amused curve of your lips said everything. Your eyes scanned his state—mud on his uniform, one shoe visibly damaged, face flushed with humiliation and frustration—and that damn smile only grew. "Rough day, pretty boy?"

Sunoo closed his eyes, shoulders rising with a deep inhale of your voice. He hadn't seen you in weeks, maybe months, and yet here you were, showing up when his life was at its absolute worst. He opened his eyes slowly, and instead of giving you the satisfaction of a scowl, he gave you a sweet, polite smile. "Fuck off."

You tilted your head slightly, helmet still on, visor up, as if you were genuinely trying to decide whether his attitude deserved a response. "Hmm," you murmured, nonchalant. "Need a ride, or are you into being publicly humiliated? Because you're doing a great job."

"I'd rather crawl," he muttered under his breath, shifting his weight, and instantly regretting it when his soaked shoe made a gross squish. Disgusting. This day was disgusting.

"Great," you replied, gripping the throttle. "Let me know how far that gets you. Good luck."

The engine growled once beneath you as you rolled the bike forward a little, just enough to make it clear you were ready to leave him standing there. And that should've been fine. He didn't need you. He didn't want your help.

Except he did. Because his legs were aching, his socks were wet, and none of the taxis had stopped for the last fifteen minutes, and to make things worse, he had class at two o'clock sharp. There was no way he could show up looking like this, not with the nursing department's obsession with cleanliness and grooming. One look at his uniform and they'd send him straight home. He didn't have the time or energy to risk that.

So, against every ounce of pride in his body, he swallowed hard and called out, "W-Wait."

The second it left his mouth, regret settled in. You didn't even bother to turn off the engine. You just tilted your head again, that damn helmet catching the light, your eyes already locking on his with that same irritating amusement you always wore around him.

Sunoo's eye twitched. His fingers curled tighter around the strap of his bag. Every part of him wanted to kick your stupid motorbike over and walk away barefoot, but his common sense—the part that knew wet shoes, strict instructors, and a late clinical check-in didn't mix—kept him rooted in place.

You raised your brows. "Changed your mind?"

"No," he snapped. "The universe is just clearly mocking me and you're the cherry on top."

You let out a short laugh. "That's not a no."

He clenched his jaw and looked away for a second, like maybe if he didn't see your face, he could pretend this wasn't happening. Then finally, after a long pause, he muttered, "I need a ride. That's it. Don't talk. Just drive."

You patted the back of the seat, without another word, the engine rumbled beneath you as you steadied the bike, shifting slightly to pull your helmet off and offer it to him. Sunoo blinked, hesitating. "You're not wearing one?"

You tilted your head, brushing your hair out of your face as you balanced the bike with one leg. "You're in a clinical uniform. If we get stopped, guess who they'll blame for not following safety rules? Just take it, Nurse."

He didn't reply, just snatched the helmet from your hand and mumbled something under his breath that sounded like, I hate you, though it came out too tired to carry any real hatred. He shoved it on, adjusting the strap a little too aggressively before climbing on behind you.

"Jake said your place is near the Avenue, right?" you asked, eyes already ahead. "I'm going the long way. No checkpoints."

Sunoo gripped the back handle awkwardly at first before giving in and placing his hands lightly on your waist for balance, trying not to think too hard about the contact. "Whatever," he muttered. "Just drive."

The wind wrapped around both of you, warm against his face, tugging at his hair and slipping into the space between his collar and neck. He hated how natural it felt to sit there with you, hated how the scent of your perfume still clung to the inside of the helmet. He hates the smell of the strawberry yet he don't know why it was giving him comfort right now.

"Drop me off at that corner," he said, leaning closer to make sure you heard him, pointing toward the shaded part of the sidewalk ahead.

You didn't say anything—just pulled over smoothly and tapped the brakes until the bike came to a steady stop. The second it did, he got off like the seat had turned hot, quickly removing the helmet and smoothing down his messy hair. He held the helmet out toward you stiffly.

You took it, setting it on the handlebars, and exhaled a breath. "You know," you started, giving him a once-over, "for someone who acts so obsessed with respect and rules, you're really bad at saying thank you."

Sunoo let out a breath that was halfway between a scoff and a sigh. "I didn't ask for your help."

You shrugged, hands settling easily on the handles. "Yeah. But you still climbed on."

He looked at you for a moment, lips twitching like he wanted to say something else but couldn't find the energy. Instead, he turned his gaze away, cheeks flushed from heat.

"Fine," he said, barely above a mutter. "Thanks. For the ride."

Your smile widened, "anytime, pretty boy."

He rolled his eyes, turned around, and walked off before you could enjoy the look on his face any longer. But you were already watching his back as he stormed away, your fingers brushing against the helmet. Cute. So damn cute!

"What do you mean you're not going?" Sunoo asked, frowning as he walked alongside Jake through the hallway.

"I'm busy," Jake replied, reaching for his locker and spinning the lock. "Jungwon's coming anyway, right? Just vibe with him for now. You'll survive a night without me."

Sunoo let out a dramatic sigh and stomped his foot, clearly not in the mood to be reasonable. "But I want you there! It's not fun without you."

Jake pulled out a thick review binder and glanced at him over his shoulder. "I've got a summative test on Monday, remember? It's kind of important. We could just crash at my place after, maybe do a sleepover?"

"Ihhh," Sunoo whined, dragging out the sound. "I don't want to sleep, I want to drink."

Jake raised an eyebrow, already sensing where this was headed. "Don't tell me this is about that guy from the other school ghosting you. Again."

Sunoo rolled his eyes and waved a dismissive hand. "It's not about that. I just... feel like drinking. That's all."

Jake stared at him for a moment, closing his locker slowly, trying to read beneath the surface. "Right. Totally not about him." He slung his bag over one shoulder and sighed. "Look, let me get through these notes first. If I finish early, I'll come join you. But until then, just go with Jungwon, okay?"

Sunoo pouted but didn't argue further. He hated going without Jake, but sulking alone wouldn't change the plan. He was going out tonight, one way or another and with Jake or not, he was going to forget every bit of bullshit the week had piled on him. Even if it meant dragging Jungwon into whatever he was about to step into.

He swore it was going to be just one drink—maybe two, while waiting for Jake but the moment they arrived, it turned out the party was practically a shrine to drinking games. The music was loud, the lights were low, and every corner had someone yelling "bottoms up!"

Jungwon, despite his initial confidence, was barely holding it together after three rounds of some game that involved slapping the table and chanting nonsense. He stood up abruptly, wobbling slightly as he pressed a hand to his stomach. "Oh my God, I feel like I'm going to vomit. Why am I such a loser?" he groaned, and without waiting for a response, excused himself, muttering something about needing air—or a toilet.

Sunoo, meanwhile, wasn't faring much better. His head was spinning, cheeks flushed, and his limbs felt like they were being operated by someone else. He didn't even realize when the giggles turned into sniffles, and the sniffles turned into full-blown tears. He ended up kneeling by the edge of the marble platform near the open balcony, smacking his fist weakly against the cool surface as the alcohol dragged his emotions right out of him.

"Ehhhhhh," he cried, voice cracking pitifully. "I want a boyfriennnnddd!"

Jay, who had been casually sipping beer on the couch nearby, looked up in alarm as Sunoo stumbled toward him with watery eyes. He stopped in front of him, wiping at his cheeks like it would hide the mess.

"Pleaseee," Sunoo sniffled, leaning close. "Find me a boyfriend. I want to be loved. I'm so soft. I'm so kind. Why am I suffering?! Ugh."

Jay blinked, glanced around the party like someone might swoop in and handle the situation for him, and when no one came, he slowly set his beer down. "...Do you want water?"

Sunoo gasped, "I want love, not hydration!" he wailed, continue to sob.

Before Jay could figure out what to do with that level of emotional spiral, someone approached from behind.

"Jay, the owner's already handing us the money—what the fuck?"

Sunoo blinked through his tears and looked up, vision blurry as your voice rang out. You stood just inside the balcony doorway. Red halter sando clinging to your shoulders, he noticed a tattoo. Ink, in a soft pinkish-red tone, winding delicately along your shoulder and upper arm. The design was detailed floral vines and swirls that traced across your collarbone and around your bicep. It was so beautifully done, it almost looked like it was growing from your skin, and that pissed him off even more. Your baggy jeans low on your hips, your hair twisted into a messy bun. A guitar strap slung diagonally over your body, cigarette hanging loose between your fingers. Your eyeshadow was smudged black and glittery, clashing violently with your red lipstick, but somehow you made it work—though Sunoo would never admit that out loud. Not even if he were dying.

There was no smirk this time, no teasing glint in your eyes. Just a quiet kind of concern as you stared down at him. And he hated it. Absolutely hated it!

So, naturally, he raised his middle finger at you with zero hesitation. Jay glanced between the two of you and awkwardly took a step back. "You know him? Can you, like... deal with that? I need to talk to someone real quick." And just like that, he vanished quickly into the crowd, getting the guitar off on your shoulder to avoid any responsibilities.

Sunoo only sobbed harder. You sighed, dragging your foot across the cigarette to put it out before crouching in front of him. "What the hell happened to you?" you asked, eyeing his flushed cheeks, watery eyes, and hands tugging uselessly at the front of his shirt. "Where's Jake? Did he leave you here like this?"

Sunoo sniffled, bottom lip trembling. "I want to get laaaaaiiiid," he wailed, grabbing your shoulder. "Why can't people stay? What's wrong with me?!"

You blinked slowly, barely reacting to him shaking your shoulder with every word. "Maybe... because you're controlling?"

Sunoo froze, then glared at you, eyes wide and offended. "Fuck you! You can't even give me basic emotional support? What kind of monster are you?"

You let out a breath and sat down fully in front of him. "You want emotional support? Fine. You're hot. You're smart. You've got flawless skin and cheekbones people would sell their soul for. Now stop crying like the world ended. You're embarrassing both of us."

Sunoo sniffled again, staring at you with eyes too round and glassy for his own good. "Do you mean it?"

"Yes, I mean it," you muttered, already unlocking your phone to text Jake. "Now let's get out of here before you sob all over someone else's balcony—"

"No!" he snapped, suddenly snatching your phone and stepping back.

Your eyes widened in disbelief, your fingers twitching in the air where your phone had just been. Sunoo stood tall now, swaying only slightly, the alcohol clearly still sitting heavy in his limbs, but his grip on your phone was surprisingly solid. "Sunoo—" you warned, reaching for it, only for him to lift it higher. Damn his height.

He looked down at you, still flushed, lips pulling into a mischievous little smile that was way too proud for someone who had been sobbing on the floor five minutes ago. "It's my turn to be annoying," he said, tilting his head. "Am I actually hot?"

"Sunoo—" you sighed through your teeth, rising onto the balls of your feet. "Yes, you're hot. Now give me my phone back."

He raised it even higher. "So I'm not ugly?"

"You're pretty, Sunoo. Very pretty," you said, swallowing a dry knot in your throat as you felt your face heat up. His body was too close again, and this was definitely not where you thought the night would go.

Before you could collect yourself, he slumped forward, head landing against your neck with the weight of all his sadness. "Then why the hell does everyone cheat on me?" he wailed, and the force of him nearly knocked you backward until your spine hit the metal railing.

You stood there, half-pinned under a very clingy Kim Sunoo, awkwardly patting his back as you tried to retrieve your phone. But his grip only tightened.

He pulled away slightly, just enough to look at you, eyes still red, but his lashes clumped and wet and his lips trembling. "L-let's drink?" he mumbled. "You're annoying. I still hate you a little but I'll forget it. J-just... just don't smoke, okay? I don't like it when people smoke, okayyy?"

"Sunoo," you exhaled slowly, adjusting your balance as he kept his weight partially slumped on you, "I'm not drinking. I only came here for a gig. And I'm driving my bike. I have work tomorrow—"

"Owww-kayyy?" he cut you off with a lopsided pout.

You stared at him, unblinking. "I'm going to call Jake now."

"Owww-kayyy?" he repeated, holding your phone.

You sighed and pressed your fingers to the bridge of your nose. "Okay," you muttered.

That was all he needed. Sunoo let out a soft cheer, grabbing your hand with enthusiasm as he pulled you back into the party. You thought you were just going to drink with him, maybe a shot or two to shut him up, but Sunoo clearly had other plans.

His version of "let's drink" turned out to mean filling an entire cup with whatever was on the table and practically forcing it into your hands. You barely had time to brace yourself before he was tipping the rim toward your lips, eyes wide and sparkling.

You coughed through the first one, gagged through the second, and by the time the third hit your throat, you were wincing with every swallow. It burned all the way down and you already knew you wouldn't survive the night. For someone who smokes like it's your job, your alcohol tolerance was embarrassingly low and hangovers always hit like a truck. But then again, Sunoo was too pretty to say no to when he smiled like that, even with that annoying bratty glint in his eye.

"Party, partehhh! Yeahh!" he shouted, twirling you into the crowd like you were suddenly best friends.

Somehow, you ended up in the middle of the dance floor. Lights spinning, bass vibrating through your chest, and before you could stop yourself, your body had already leaned back against him. His hands found your waist automatically, and you didn't know if it was the alcohol or something else entirely, but your hips were moving, grinding gently against him in time with the beat.

You tilted your head slightly, cheek brushing his jaw as you muttered, "Maybe... men aren't for you, Sunoo."

He blinked down at you, clearly dazed, but still gripping your waist. "What?" he said, almost laughing.

"Swing for girls this time," you slurred with a half-smile, your fingers lightly tracing his cheek, your eyes struggling to focus. "Girls won't cheat on you."

He snorted. "Women were never my thing, bitch."

Your smile faltered just a little, and you pouted up at him, thumb brushing over the edge of his cheekbone. "In a relationship... or in sex?" You tilted your head and looked up at him through half-lidded eyes. "Because girls? They'll treat you right. They'll adore you. They'll give you the kind of head that makes you forget your own name."

Sunoo's breath caught for a second, but he didn't move away. "I know that," he muttered. "I'm one of the girls."

You hummed, dragging your gaze along his features, watching the way he blinked slower now, how his lips parted slightly as your words pressed deeper. "Mmm. But have you ever been treated like that by a girl?" you asked again, your hips shifted, rolling back just enough to press against the heat of him.

Sunoo bit his bottom lip, hard enough to leave a mark. He wanted to shove you away, curse you out, remind you just how much you irritated him—but something burned hotter in his veins than the alcohol and it was how intoxicating you looked.

He shouldn't be doing this. You were the last person on earth he should be doing this with, but then again, nothing about tonight was going according to plan. And before he could stop himself, his hands gripped your waist tighter, dragging you closer as his lips crashed into yours.

The next thing he knew, the two of you were stumbling into the restroom at the end of the hallway, the door slamming behind you. His fingers tangled into your hair, pulling tight as your back hit the sink. He hated the taste of your cigarette on your tongue, but he kissed you harder anyway. Your hands were already under his shirt, nails scraping lightly down his spine, pulling a sharp breath from his throat.

You feel his tongue exploring your mouth, moving slow, tasting you with a hunger that makes your body respond without thinking. A moan slips from your lips as heat builds between your thighs, your panties dampening at the way he kisses you.

When you finally break the kiss, your lips trail down to his neck, licking and sucking lightly until you reach his collarbone. He presses closer, breathing heavily into your hair, hips grinding into you with shaky rhythm. Both of you moan at the friction, your bodies feeding off each other's heat.

Your hand finds his waistband, fingers tracing the bulge that's been growing harder against you. The shocking huge shape beneath makes you sigh, anticipation curling low in your belly. "Fuckkk," you moan, dropping to your knees without hesitation.

Sunoo's body fell back against the sink, one hand gripping the edge, the other running through his hair like he didn't know what to do with himself. His hands were trembling as he tried to undo his belt, and he almost laughed at how clumsy he felt. But the moment was too charged, his head was light, his blood too loud. The part of him that used to think only about what it felt like to be touched was now spinning with curiosity. This—this was different. He never imagined being on the receiving end like this would feel so... unreal.

He glanced down, and the sight of you kneeling for him, eyes locked on his, lips slightly parted and ready—his mind just blanked. The way your tongue pierced glinted under the light, the tip teasing out like you were offering it, patient and inviting, made his stomach tighten painfully. "Shit," he whispered, voice cracking slightly, pulling his pants and briefs down. You stared up at his cock, your lashes fluttering at the sight. Your mouth watered at the sheer size of him, and without hesitation, you leaned closer, resting your hands on your knees like you were waiting for a command.

He couldn't believe this was what guys saw. No wonder they were obsessed with it. The view of you like that, lips ready, eyes dark with need, tongue out with that cold little metal ball waiting to touch his skin, it was pure insanity. No fantasy ever looked like this. "Fuck," he groaned again, gripping the back of your head gently as he pushed his tip toward your tongue. The second the metal touched him, he hissed, his thighs twitching from the shock of cold piercing against the heat of his cock.

And as you looked up, never breaking eye contact while slowly letting him in—he knew. He knew exactly what he'd been missing.

Sunoo had always been the one with his knees pressed down, the one getting grabbed and pulled and used, and he loved every second of it. But this was different. The way your mouth wrapped around him, how you looked so eager, how your tongue pressed and moved with purpose—his stomach was already tightening with every wet glide and suck.

"Ahh, fuck, fuck..." he whined out, head falling back as his fingers tangled in your hair, pushing you down farther. He heard the sound of your throat struggling to keep him in, your soft choking only making his hips twitch with more urgency. It was too wet, too warm, too fucking perfect.

You stayed steady, letting your throat open the best you could as you followed the rhythm of his grip. Your tongue dragged along the underside of his length, right at the base where you knew it would hit different. His moan echoed across the small room, shameless and wrecked, not caring who could hear him anymore. All he cared about was the heat wrapping around his cock and how your mouth didn't stop. You glanced up again, needing to see him, and the view made you moan around him. His skin was flushed, red climbing up to his neck, his lashes low and trembling, mouth open as he gasped through each thrust. He looked completely undone—eyes barely staying open, hands gripping you like he needed you to stay exactly there.

Your throat tightened as he gave you no space to breathe, and still, you didn't pull away. Your hands stayed planted on your knees, nails pressing into the denim as tears blurred your eyes, your breath hitching through your nose. But the way your pussy clenched from it—the helpless feeling, the rawness of it—made it all the more addictive.

Especially when both his hands now gripped your head tighter and pushed until your nose pressed flush against his navel. "I-I'm close... oh fuck, I'm close, I—I'm—" Sunoo cried out, his voice cracking with how intense it felt. His hips were moving faster now. The sound of your mouth choking around him only pushed him over the edge harder. He didn't think it could feel this good, he didn't even know he could feel this way at all.

And you didn't either. You didn't know why it felt so right, so filthy, so addicting. You'd never had anyone this desperate for you before. And Sunoo had never had anyone take him like this.

His moan was loud, body trembling as his legs struggled to keep him upright. His hips kept moving on instinct, grinding into your mouth until he finally came, thick and hot down your throat. You felt it hit the back of your tongue, swallowing quickly as he groaned above you, the pleasure written all over his flushed face.

"God, fuck... it feels so good," he breathed out, chest heaving while his hands held you there, not even realizing how hard you were trying to breathe through it. Your eyes fluttered shut as you swallowed the last of him, head light and lungs burning.

You tapped his thigh with a shaky hand, and after a moment, he loosened his grip, letting you fall back slightly. You coughed a bit, trying to catch your breath, throat sore but mind still hazy from the alcohol and heat. Everything felt like it was spinning a little when you stood up, your body swaying slightly as the room tilted around you.

Sunoo reached out, catching your shoulder to steady you, and turned on the sink. He cupped a bit of water in his palm, guiding it to your lips. You leaned in, letting the cold water cool your mouth, then wiped your lips with the back of your hand. You coughed again, softer this time, and both of you stood there in silence for a beat—still too drunk to make sense of anything, too tired to care.

"I want to sleep," Sunoo mumbled, voice groggy as his arms hung by his sides. You helped him pull his pants back up, your fingers clumsy, and when you looked up, he was already leaning into you. His lips brushed against your neck, then your jaw, then a small kiss landed on your lips softly, a quiet thank-you or maybe just a mistake.

Neither of you said anything as you stumbled out of the bathroom together. Your feet dragged, his weight slumped against you. When you pushed open one of the nearby rooms, the two of you collapsed onto the bed without thinking. His body pressed into yours, your hand resting on the curve of his thin waist, and with a final exhale, his breathing evened out into soft snores.

You stared at the ceiling for a moment, the night still buzzing in your head, and quietly hoped that come morning, Sunoo wouldn't look at you like it was all just a drunken blur he wanted to forget.

Well. You woke up to a loud squeal beside you, the sound shooting straight through your skull. Your head was pounding, every throb pulsing deep at your temples. This was exactly why you preferred smoking over drinking, at least cigarettes didn't make the world spin like this.

"Oh my God! W–why are we cuddling?! Why are you here in the first place?! D–did something happen to us?!" Sunoo's voice cracked in pure panic, his hands clutching the blanket to his chest. Even though he was fully clothed, he looked scandalized beyond belief.

You groaned and squinted against the light, trying to sit up despite the dull ache in your body. Your fingers pressed to your temples, trying to remember what the hell even happened. The room was unfamiliar, the sheets smelled like detergent, and your mouth tasted like cotton.

Before you could even collect a full thought, Sunoo slapped your back hard. You let out a sharp whine and turned to glare at him. "Aww, fuck! What the hell was that for?"

"Did something happen between us?!" he repeated, eyes wide and clearly on the verge of spiraling.

You stared at him for a second, still processing. "How would I know?" you mumbled, rubbing your face. "I drank more than I should have, and my memory's a blur. You're fully clothed, I'm fully clothed. Relax."

But he didn't calm down. In fact, he froze completely, the color draining from his face as something clearly hit him. You watched as his hands slowly moved to grip his hair, fingers tangling at the roots while his expression twisted into disbelief.

"No. No. No no no—" he whispered, and then gasped. "Oh my God. Oh my fucking God."

He wasn't even looking at you anymore. His eyes were somewhere far away as flashes from last night started to crash into him. Your lips on his, your hands tugging on his belt, your mouth sinking down while he leaned back against the sink. The heat. The noise. The way he came so hard he couldn't feel his legs. His whole body went stiff.

"You... you gave me head," he said in a whisper, voice dead with disbelief. "Oh my God. You gave me fucking blowjob."

You blinked, trying to place it. You remembered the bathroom. The taste. The sound of his moaning echoing off the walls. Shit. "Something did happen to us, you fucking bitch!" he suddenly screamed, face flushed red with shock and rage. "I'm reporting you—I'm serious, I swear—"

You screamed when he lunged and grabbed a fistful of your hair, the shock of it making you yell right back. "Fuck! Let go of me, psycho!" you snapped, swatting at his hand, your own hangover making it feel ten times worse.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" he screeched, shaking your head like he could shake the memory out with it. "Why would you—?!"

"Why would I?!" you shouted, finally pulling away, hair a mess and heart racing. "You literally moaned like it was the best thing that ever happened to you!"

"Because I didn't know what was happening! I thought it was a dream! I was drunk!"

"So was I, dumbass! You kissed me first!"

Sunoo froze again, mouth open, his chest rising and falling. You watched him in silence, heart sinking a little at the way he looked at you—like he was scrambling to make sense of something that never should've happened.

Your mouth felt dry again. There was this strange weight in your chest, like disappointment settling in even though you couldn't quite figure out why. You were both drunk. He was gay. Of course it didn't mean anything. And, if you weren't drunk, you wouldn't have done it either. You lowered your gaze, biting the inside of your cheek as that silence started to stretch between you.

"L-let's just pretend this never happened," Sunoo finally said, breaking the quiet as he stood up. His voice was shaky, not angry anymore, just desperate to erase it all. He dragged his palm down his face, then pressed it against his mouth like the words were spilling out faster than he could stop them. "I'm gay... and you're... whatever. Uhh... Let's not tell this to Jake, okay?"

You rolled your eyes as you got to your feet, fingers brushing through your hair while ignoring the lump tightening in your throat. "Whatever you want," you muttered, focusing instead on searching for your socks and bag, anything to avoid the way your chest ached for reasons.

"This will never happen again. God. I feel like I just betrayed my own kind," Sunoo muttered, slapping both cheeks with enough force to make you wince. "I need to go. I need to wash everything. This is disgusting. I'm disgusting."

You didn't say anything. Just watched him from the corner of your eye while pulling your socks on, keeping your back straight and blank face.

Sunoo glanced over, eyes catching on the side of your face. Something about the way you sat there so still, lips pressed together, skin marked faintly made his chest tighten. The memory crept in again—your hands, your mouth, the sound of your moan swallowed around him—and it made his stomach twist in the worst way. He shook his head. He was sober now. He shouldn't be feeling this again.

"Let's never see each other again," he said before leaving without waiting for a response.

You stared at the floor for a long second, blinking slowly. Never see each other again, huh? You almost laughed. As if you'd let him go that easily.

Sunoo didn't even understand why the memory was still stuck in his head, looping in the background of every moment like some curse he couldn't shake. It had already been a seven full days and yet the image of your lips, the sound of your moan, the warmth of your mouth still haunted him like it just happened yesterday. Worse, every time he thought about it, his dick twitched like it had a mind of its own, getting hard embarrassingly fast without warning.

He tried to brush it off as stress. He was tired, overloaded with work, and his hormones were probably all over the place. It made sense, right? Wet dreams weren't exactly rare. They were involuntary, normal even, just a sign of the body releasing tension during sleep. But the part that bothered him the most wasn't the act itself. It was who was in them. Why you? Out of everyone, why was it you? He would've understood if it were someone like Byeon Woo Seok. But no. It was your voice in his ear, your mouth on him, your name falling from his lips as he woke up in cold sweat with a sticky cum in his pajama pants. It was fucking humiliating.

He had just started to zone out again when a voice broke through his thoughts, snapping him back to reality.

"Erection is normal," Jungwon said clearly, standing at the front of the room with a microphone in hand. The school's seminar hall was full of restless teenagers, and he was doing his best to keep the attention. "It's a biological response to arousal or stimulation, often caused by elevated testosterone levels, especially during adolescence. That's why morning wood or even spontaneous erections can happen—it's not always sexual. Sometimes, it's just hormonal regulation or increased blood flow."

Sunoo swallowed hard, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Great. As if he needed that lecture right now.

"It's also common to have sexual dreams," Jungwon continued. "It's the brain's way of releasing suppressed feelings or stress. It doesn't always mean you're in love with the person in your dream—it could just be your mind reacting to unresolved tension."

Sunoo sat motionless, trying not to roll his eyes. He knew Jungwon probably didn't believe half the words he was saying and was just parroting the textbook to get the presentation over with. Unresolved tension? Please. That had to be the most bullshit, overused explanation. Sexual dreams were normal, just a biological function. A reflex. Wet dreams, erections, the occasional stray thought—they were all just part of how the body worked.

It was only men who liked turning every little reaction into some psychological crisis. Like it wasn't enough that your dick got hard at the wrong time, you now had to wonder why. No. He refused to play into that.

Still, he felt hot under the collar. He shifted in his seat as Jungwon kept talking, his voice fading into background noise while Sunoo's thoughts crawled back where they weren't supposed to go. Your mouth. The pressure of his hands on your head. That one sharp breath he let out when your tongue pressed against him just right. The way he swore he could still feel the metal ball of your piercing even when he was lying awake, sweating in bed, trying not to think about it —

"Sunoo!" His whole body jolted forward when someone suddenly slammed into him from behind. He turned sharply, only to see Jake grinning as he wrapped him in a tight hug.

"Long time no see! How've you been?" Jake beamed, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Sunoo blinked, his heart still racing from being startled. He squirmed out of Jake's grip, pulling his arm away from around his waist with a small scowl. "You fake bitch," he muttered, brushing off his uniform. "You said you'd go to the party last week!"

Jake tilted his head and gave him a sheepish grin. "I did! I just didn't come up to you because you were already with someone," he said, voice light but teasing, his smile carrying that knowing edge that made Sunoo freeze on the spot.

The words hit him like a cold splash of water, cutting straight through the fog of his thoughts. Shit! Sunoo's back straightened as his chest squeezed uncomfortably tight. "I-It's not what it looked like, Jake," he said quickly, voice pitching higher than he meant. "I can explain. N-Nothing happened, I swear—"

Jake raised an eyebrow in confusion, his playful smile returning as he slung an arm over Sunoo's shoulder again. "What are you talking about?" he laughed. "I'm just happy you're getting along with her! You know how much I wanted the two of you to be friends. So when I saw you drinking with her, I thought, finally! I didn't want to bother you two."

Sunoo's jaw went slack for a second. He blinked slowly as Jake's words settled in and then his face flushed with heat, the panic collapsing. You two. Drinking. Laughing. And Jake saw it. He saw it and just... assumed it was some innocent bonding moment. Sunoo nodded stiffly, forcing a laugh that came out more like a wheeze. "Y-Yeah... totally. Just... friends."

Jake didn't notice his discomfort, he just kept smiling, talking about the seminar and how awkward Jungwon looked trying to talk about erections with a straight face, but Sunoo could barely listen. If only he knew that every time Sunoo closed his eyes, it wasn't friendship playing behind his eyelids.

All your life, you've gotten things on your own terms. It wasn't about being selfish—it was about knowing what you wanted, and not being afraid to take the steps to get there, even if it meant breaking a few unspoken rules. You never apologized for it. Why should you? The world had never handed you anything easily, so you carved out space with your own hands, shaping your wants into reality.

You liked pretty things. You liked strawberries. You liked painting girls with soft collarbones and delicate fingers. You liked drawing in sharp eyeliner and wearing red lipstick even when it didn't match your outfit. You liked the way women looked in moonlight, skin glowing and bare emotion written on their faces. Women were softness and power and aching beauty, and for a long time, that's all you thought you'd ever want.

Boys were always just background noise. You flirted with them when you were bored, when you needed a distraction or when you were too tired of explaining to everyone why you leaned toward women. It was easier to let boys talk, to let them orbit around you. Most of the time, they never lasted long. They'd get close enough to realize they couldn't figure you out, and then drift away. It never bothered you. You liked being the one who stayed in control anyway.

But Sunoo was too pretty to be background noise. Too loud in your mind, even in his silence. He was sharp and delicate all at once. Sunoo is not boring. He was vibrant. Infuriating. Complicated. Unlike everyone else, Sunoo wasn't supposed to want you. And you weren't supposed to want him. You didn't chase boys. You didn't even like most of them. But with Sunoo, it wasn't about gender—it was about him. His contradictions. His moral high ground that cracked when his lips were on yours.

Now that you got a taste, you wanted to keep him. You wanted to grab him by that pretty throat and tie a little ribbon around it, mark him, stake your claim. All that fire in him, all that sharp defiance, the self-righteous storm he carried — it would be such a waste to let someone else come along and break him in the wrong way. Someone who wouldn't know how to cherish it like you would.

The wanting was dangerous. But so was he. And it was so much fun to want something you weren't supposed to have. And lucky you—Jake, in all his well-meaning sunshine, handed him right into your lap.

"I'm really glad now that you're friends," Jake grinned, arms flinging around both of you as he squeezed you close. "I can finally call us a trio now!"

You blinked in mild surprise. You hadn't even known this was a sleepover. From the way Jake had worded it earlier, you assumed it was just the two of you catching up over snacks and maybe a few drinks. But now here you were, wedged on the couch with Sunoo stiff on your other side, Jake's warmth pressed between you both. How thoughtful of him. You smiled. Jake was far too kind for his own good and far too generous with forcing proximity, but you didn't mind this time.

Sunoo, on the other hand, looked like someone had physically unplugged him. He was hugging his pillow so tightly it, eyes unfocused as he stared at nothing in particular. His face was blank, but you could read the confliction in every inch of him. Like he was holding himself together by a thread.

What you couldn't see was how hard he was trying to think of anything else besides the fact that he could smell your perfume again and it triggered something in his body. He clenched his thighs together subtly, trying to shift his hips so the growing problem in his pants wouldn't become visible. But the effort was a losing game. God, what the hell was wrong with him? He was still angry, still confused, still mortified that it happened in the first place and yet, his body clearly had no loyalty to his conscience.

What made it worse was Jake who had somehow tricked him into showing up for a supposed movie night and now had them sandwiched together like nothing ever happened between you and him. Jake didn't know, of course. And he couldn't know! Sunoo would rather choke on his own tongue than have to explain why his best friend's not-so-favorite person was suddenly invading his dreams at night and, worse, making him wake up soaked and panting like a hormonal teenager.

"What movies should we watch?!" Jake practically bounced on the couch, his grin wide as he looked back and forth.

You leaned closer, sliding your arm around Jake's. Your gaze flicked to Sunoo, who sat stiff on the other end of the couch, his posture awkward, eyes avoiding yours. "What about horror?" you said as you tilted your head, pretending not to notice how Sunoo seemed to sink deeper into the couch cushions. "Sunoo?"

Sunoo blinked, eyes snapping toward you. "Huh?" His voice cracked, his hand subtly dragged the throw pillow over his lap, fingers clutching the edges.

"Horror is gonna be fun! Imagine the thrill!" Jake turned toward you with shining eyes, already fired up. "Remember Sunoo during Evil Dead Rise? He was screeching like someone dipped him in cold water!" He burst out laughing.

You joined in, not because it was that funny but because you liked the way Sunoo glared at you when you did. His eye twitched, lips tightening in a way that made you want to press your thumb against the corner of his mouth just to see if it would twitch again.

"I didn't scream," Sunoo muttered under his breath. "It was a reflex."

Jake leaned forward to grab the remote, still chuckling. "A reflex that shook the entire floor. I had to check if we were having an earthquake."

Sunoo gave a tight, silent laugh that didn't reach his eyes. You stretched slightly, draping one leg over the other, your foot brushing lightly against Sunoo's knee. "So horror it is," you said.

Sunoo immediately jerked his leg away. "I'm not scared," he snapped, voice thin with defensiveness, eyes flicking toward you but never staying long.

"Who said you were?" you asked sweetly, lips twitching. "But maybe I can hold your hand if you get too nervous."

"I'd rather hold hands with a corpse," he muttered.

Jake, oblivious to the growing tension between you, scrolled through the options. "Let's start with Hereditary. That one's a classic."

You leaned back, settling comfortably against the couch cushion, your arm still loosely around Jake's. But your gaze stayed fixed on Sunoo, watching how he tried to keep his composure. The way he looked everywhere but at you made it all the more tempting to push again.

"Oh my God!" Jake screamed, flinging himself off the couch just as the possessed girl on the screen leapt out from the shadows.

Sunoo jumped, too, not because of the film but because Jake's yell had blasted straight into his ear. "Fuck you!" he gasped, swatting at Jake's shoulder. "You're louder than the demon, you idiot!"

Jake laughed breathlessly, holding a hand over his chest. "I told you it was gonna be scary! I warned you!"

"You didn't say you were gonna be the jump scare," Sunoo muttered, rubbing his ear.

You couldn't help laughing from your corner of the couch. It was warm in the living room, the ambient light from the TV casting deep shadows across everyone's faces. The horror movie had wound itself tight with dread, and now, near the end, the tension in the room had shifted.

Jake reached for the remote to pause it. "Okay, okay, let's all take a break. My heart can't take it. I'm gonna set up the bed and grab more snacks before we finish the last part." He stood up with a stretch, already walking toward the shared room.

You watched Jake disappear down the hallway, the sound of his slippers dragging against the floor fading behind him as he excitedly prepped the bedroom with pillows and snacks, then turned your eyes to Sunoo, who had sunk deeper into the couch, hand rubbing his temple.

Your gaze drifted past him, toward the hallway where the bathroom light glowed faintly at the end. And just like that, the tiniest smirk curled at the corner of your lips. Bingo.

You grabbed the water bottle from the table and tipped it back, pretending to take a long drink—only for the opening to "accidentally" spill, the cold splash soaking the neckline of your shirt and running straight down your chest.

"Shit!" you hissed, jumping slightly as you stood up, swiping at your top with both hands in panic. The fabric clung to your skin, the damp cotton tracing the curve of your collarbone and neckline.

From the corner of your eye, you caught Sunoo's head snap toward you. His eyes widened for a moment before narrowing again, his signature glare sliding back into place. "Are you an idiot who can't drink water like a normal person?" he snapped. His eyes flicked from your face to your soaked shirt and back again before he shifted uncomfortably, adjusting the pillow over his lap again.

You scowled. "It was an accident," you muttered, pinching the hem of your shirt and pulling it slightly away from your body to keep the wet fabric from clinging too much. "I'm going to the bathroom." You turned your back, already halfway to the hall, but then paused just before you rounded the corner. You peeked back over your shoulder with a faux-hesitant voice. "Sunoo," you said sweetly, "can you... come with me?"

He straightened in his seat, eyes narrowed immediately. "What are you, five? You can walk to the bathroom on your own."

You turned around fully and gave your best pout. "But I'm scared," you said, dropping your voice. "What if something jumps out of the mirror and eats me?"

His lips parted slightly in disbelief. "It's literally a bathroom, not a haunted house. Get a grip."

You blinked at him with wide, innocent eyes, the corners of your mouth twitching. "I'm telling Jake—"

That was all it took. Sunoo moved fast. His hand shot out and wrapped around your wrist before you could finish the sentence, his grip is tight, more panicked than forceful. "We agreed to forget that already!" he whispered harshly, dragging you toward the hallway with quick steps. His face was already flushed as he pushed the bathroom door open and practically shoved you inside.

He followed, slamming the door shut behind him and twisting the lock.

You raised an eyebrow, lips twitching with suppressed laughter. "I meant I was gonna tell Jake you were being mean to me. What exactly were you thinking, Sunoo?"

The color that spread across his face deepened from pink to a furious red, blooming up his neck and across his cheeks. His eyes darted away from yours, jaw clenched so tight you could see the tension ripple along the muscle there. He didn't answer immediately—his thoughts were clearly a mess, the memory of that night dragging up feelings he didn't want to admit were still there.

God, you were such a bitch. A beautiful, infuriating, unreadable bitch. "Fuck you," he muttered through clenched teeth, pressing his back to the door. His arms crossed over his chest, defensive, but it was already too late for that. "What the hell do you even want?"

You smiled, taking a small step forward, head tilting like you were weighing your options. You let your gaze drop slowly—first to his parted lips, then to his hands clenched into fists at his sides—and then back to his eyes.

"Hmmm," you hummed, fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the sink behind you as you leaned back, unbothered by how tense he was. "You."

Sunoo's pulse jumped so hard he felt it in his ears, and it really annoyed him.

"I think we're past the point of shyly pretending we're not attracted to each other, don't you think?" you asked casually, your foot tapping against the floor. "I mean, unless you're really going to pretend you don't think about it."

Sunoo swallowed hard, jaw tightening as he forced his expression into a cold and distant. His voice came out with a bite. "I was drunk. Whatever happened, it wasn't real. I'm sober now, and clearly, you're forgetting something—I'm gay." He stepped forward, huffing, defensive, like he needed to say it aloud to remind himself. "Even if I wasn't, even if I magically woke up straight, do you really think I'd be into someone like you? I wouldn't even hold your hand."

You smiled, unshaken. Your gaze dropped to the tile floor for a moment, nodding slowly like you were mulling it over, like you could almost believe him. "Hmmm. Really?" you said again, softly. Then you looked up and held his stare. "That's interesting."

"What happened was a mistake," he pressed. "Stop getting it twisted. You're not going to change anything. I like men—I've always liked men—and if I ever did like women, it sure as hell wouldn't be someone like you."

His words were sharp and cruel, but his voice cracked slightly on the last sentence. Your eyes flicked down to his hands again. Still clenched and shaking, you almost laughed, he was angry because he didn't know where to put this feeling, and his body was betraying him in every way.

"Okay," you said. "Sorry."

You didn't look sorry. You didn't even sound sorry. Then, without warning, you reached for the hem of your shirt and pulled it over your head. Sunoo nearly yelped. "What the fuck?!" he squealed, spinning around so fast. His hands flew up to cover his face. "Are you insane?! Put that back on! Jesus Christ, are you trying to traumatize me?!"

You didn't say anything at first. Just laughed softly, "you said you weren't interested, right? So what are you panicking for?" You rolled your eyes slowly and watched his stiff posture as he stayed plastered to the door. "Relax," you muttered, fingers reaching behind your back, unclasping your bra and letting it fall to the floor. "I'm wet, Sunoo. I'm not trying to seduce you—I already got my answer. Now, move."

His spine straightened at your words like you'd just smacked him. "What the fuck? Move where?!" His voice rose in panic, still facing away from you.

"I didn't bring an extra shirt. My bag's in the living room," you said flatly, stepping closer. "Now move."

He hesitated, like if he turned around something irreversible would happen. But his curiosity, or maybe his stupidity, got the better of him. Slowly, cautiously, he peeked over his shoulder—and then froze completely.

You were naked from the waist up. Completely bare, with a confidence. Your arms were crossed beneath your chest, body leaning against the sink like you were just waiting for him to get over himself. And God, he should've been used to this. He'd seen breasts before—he had female friends who changed clothes in front of him all the time. It never bothered him. It wasn't a big deal.

He tried to look away and he really, really did, but his eyes kept coming back to you like they were on a leash. Your skin glowed under the light, smooth and warm-toned, shadows carving down your ribs and hips. He noticed the tattoos. The delicate ink on your shoulder had already left an imprint in his brain from that day, but now he saw more. A fine, detailed floral design wrapped along the side of your torso, just above your hip and curling slightly toward your waist. A single lily bloomed in black and soft pink, with gentle shading that made it look almost alive. Watercolor-like strokes trailed from the petals, fading like smoke. The lines followed your curves perfectly.

Sunoo was breathless. He never cared for tattoos, they weren't pretty, but on you, they looked dressed as an art. And fuck, he couldn't stop staring. His gaze flicked to your chest, and a fresh wave of heat rolled through him. Your nipples were tight from the air, drawn and pointed, resting against full, natural curves that made his stomach knot. Why was he getting hard? This didn't make sense. Fuck. You were so hot it pissed him off.

You were staring at him, head slightly tilted, waiting for him to move. "Sunoo?"

Sunoo's fists clenched. He could feel saliva collecting in his mouth, and he swallowed hard like that would put out the fire already crawling down his spine. He blinked quickly, shaking his head. "You—fuck, you need to put something on," he said.

"My shirt's in the living room—"

"I don't care. Put something on," he cut in sharply, brows furrowed and his gaze turned firmly to the wall.

You didn't budge. "Jake already saw my tits, Sunoo. It's not a big deal—"

He didn't even know why it made his stomach flip and his chest burn, but it did. The thought of Jake seeing you like this, made a feeling claw up the back of his throat.

Sunoo was a nursing student. He studied hormonal response, human behavior, and the mind's reactions to stress and desire. But this wasn't in his textbooks. This wasn't just dopamine or misplaced frustration. Human emotions were more complicated than any clinical definition. No scientific framework could fully explain the way you made him feel.

"You're hard."

Sunoo felt his entire body go still. He could feel it too. The tight pressure in his pants, the unbearable way his cock had hardened while his mind scrambled to deny everything. He turned toward the mirror above the sink, refusing to meet your eyes as he muttered, "I-It's normal biological reaction."

The excuse felt paper-thin, almost pathetic in his mouth, but it was the only thing he could reach for. He was clinging to whatever logic he had left, because logic was safer than whatever the hell this was. Logic didn't leave him aching in places he shouldn't be aching. Logic didn't twist his insides just from looking at you.

You were still standing there, unfazed, topless and confident, your arms crossed under your chest like you were waiting for him to catch up. "Sunoo," you said his name softly.

He finally looked at you, eyes glaring. "I told you I'm gay," he said, and he hated how shaky his voice sounded. "This—this shouldn't be happening."

You took a slow step closer, and he didn't move. "You said that," you nodded, voice calm. "But I didn't ask what you are. I just told you what I want."

His eyes narrowed slightly, as if trying to read between your words, searching for an angle, a trick. "So what is this to you? A joke? Some kind of game?"

"No. You're the one making it complicated."

His chest rose and fell unevenly. His mind kept trying to name what he was feeling—confusion, tension, desire, maybe all of it at once—but it was all bleeding together in a way that felt like drowning. "I've never—" he started, then stopped himself.

You waited. "Never what?"

"I've never felt this confused before," he said, eyes searching yours like he was hoping you'd give him a reason to pull away, something to ground him. "I don't even like women. I'm not supposed to want this."

"Then don't want it," you said simply, shrugging your shoulders. "But don't lie about it. Do you want me, Sunoo?"

He hated that. Hated how sure you sounded, how unapologetically honest you were while he was still tangled in his own fear and guilt, still gripping the edge of what he thought was certainty. You made everything seem so simple, so easy to name—want, touch, feel—while he was still trying to unlearn the rules he had been clinging to for so long. He wanted to push you away, wanted to hate you for making him feel like he was coming apart in his own skin. But even as that thought surfaced, his eyes dropped again to your lips, and lingered there too long. He hated how much he wanted you to close the space between you, how much he needed you to.

His breathing grew shallow, his chest rising in uneven waves, and when you leaned forward, he didn't retreat. Instead, his eyes fluttered closed. The second your mouth brushed against his, something inside him cracked open. He kissed you with a kind of desperation that made it clear he'd stopped pretending.

There was no hesitation when he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The warmth of your body beneath his hands made his head spin. He held you tightly, anchoring himself to the moment, to the gravity of your touch. His lips moved against yours, his hands trembled as they explored the lines of your back, fingertips pressing into your skin. You knew he was falling, and you welcomed it. You let him cling to you, let him kiss you and when your lips finally parted, you didn't say a word. You just let your hands trail down his chest, eyes locked on his flushed face as you sank down onto your knees before him.

Sunoo's breath hitched audibly. His hands flew to the edge of the sink behind him, trying to steady himself. You looked up at him, gaze dark and patient, and he looked down at you. His cock strained against his pajama, and when you undid the strings, your fingers brushing against him through the fabric, he nearly buckled.

The moment you freed him, he hissed through his teeth. You didn't tease him this time, you took him into your mouth. His hand instinctively reached for your head, gripping your hair too tightly as you slid your tongue over him, slow at first, deepening only when he let out a choked moan that vibrated from somewhere deep in his chest.

"F-fuck..." he whispered, eyes fluttering open, and the sight of you on your knees—bare, hungry, focused only on him. This time, there was no alcohol to blame. No drunken impulse to hide behind. Both of you were entirely sober, breathing the same heavy air. And you were right. You were far past the point of pretending you're not attracted to each other. Because, fuck...

He bit down on his bottom lip, struggling to hold back the sound threatening to crawl out of his throat when you pulled your mouth off him. The cold air brushed his wet skin for only a second before your hand wrapped firmly around his cock. You were looking up at him with such dark, focused eyes, and the glint of your tongue piercing when you stuck your tongue out made his stomach twist in ways.

His moan trembled out of him, a low, broken thing he tried and failed to swallow. His eyes fluttered shut as you began to stroke him, slow and tight, your fingers knowing exactly where to squeeze, where to drag your thumb. His hips jerked forward against your fist without thought. He was trembling, his thighs already straining, and when his hand moved to your head again, he didn't even register that he was holding you there, like he needed you in that position, grounded and close, while everything else slipped away.

With a choked sound, his release surged forward, hips stuttering as thick, hot ropes of cum spurted from him—painting your face, your tongue, and even your lips. You closed your eyes, but kept your mouth open, breathing heavy, letting it drip and settle across your flushed skin. The sight of you on your knees, panting, tongue out, face stained with the proof of what he'd given you—was too much. He'd never seen anything that fucking beautiful.

Sunoo's breath came out in short, ragged gasps. He couldn't look away. You were absolutely wrecked, eyes half-lidded, mouth still parted, tongue twitching slightly as the last of him spilled from the tip. His knees nearly buckled. And even as shame flickered somewhere in the distance, it didn't touch the way his chest clenched with need.

You were far past the point of pretending you're not attracted to each other. Because, fuck... in Sunoo's mind— You're really, really, really, attractive. You tilted your head, eyes still soft despite the mess on your face. "It's okay, Sunoo."

And that simple assurance hit harder than anything else had tonight, he had never felt so completely defeated and relieved at the same time.

Sunoo always joked that he was betraying his "gay motherhood," whatever the fuck that meant, but deep down, he was unraveling more than a label. His whole sense of self was spiraling, not because he didn't like men anymore, but because he couldn't stop liking what you did to him.

He was raised sure—sure he liked men, sure of who he was, sure of how the world saw him. But your mouth? Your hands? Your eyes on his body? That changed something. And maybe it wasn't even about gender or attraction or breaking rules, maybe it was just about how good it felt. Because, it did. Every time your tongue slid down his length or your lips curled into a smirk right before you swallowed him whole, he would grip your hair like it was the only thing tethering him to earth.

And he still hated it. Hated you. Hated how easily you pulled those sounds from him, how willingly he spread his legs, how badly he wanted to feel your throat tighten around him when he was too stressed to think straight. But hate was a weak word when it came to you because what he really felt was full of hunger and questions he couldn't answer, of relief he couldn't explain, and of moments when he forgot who he was supposed to be.

Somehow, this arrangement—whatever fucked-up kind of companionship it was—had become routine. He was stressed? You showed up, dragged him onto the bed, and made him forget the weight in his chest. You were tired of people? You'd drop to your knees and pull his pants down, muttering snarky words before your tongue did all the talking. When Jake invited you both for café dates, you'd suck Sunoo off in the bathroom beforehand, as if taking the edge off made you more tolerable in public.

And in between all that, without either of you saying it, you started learning each other. You knew the way his breath caught when you traced the tip of your tongue along the underside of his cock, the way he liked his thighs rubbed when he was overwhelmed, the way he pretended to hate your voice but kept asking you to hum while he was inside your mouth. He knew the difference between your smirk and your real smile, he noticed the way you always fixed his collar before he left for class, the way you paused before walking away like you wanted him to stop you, just once.

"Did you see my guitar pick? I was really sure I left it here." You asked, already half on the floor as you looked beneath his bed, your voice muffled against the floorboards. "My pen? Where did you put my pen?"

Sunoo didn't answer right away. He just scratched the back of his head, eyes skimming over his textbook. "Also, I think I left my hoodie here last week," you continued, lifting his blanket and peeking underneath. You spoke like it was nothing, like this wasn't the fourth time you'd been here this week, like you hadn't sucked him off on this very bed two nights ago while the rain beat against his window. "The red one? Oversized. The one you said was ugly."

"Stop leaving your things here and expecting me to be your lost and found," Sunoo muttered with a sigh, rolling his eyes as he stood from his desk. His hands moved to the drawer beside his bed, fingers quickly rifling through the clutter until he pulled out the small pile of things you'd been searching for.

Your guitar pick. A pen with a chewed-up cap. The scrunchie you claimed you didn't care about but had asked about three times. "Yay!" you chirped, voice bright as you threw your arms around his neck without hesitation. Your enthusiasm was full of sunshine and zero awareness of boundaries—not that he'd set any for you lately. Your body leaned into his, so warm, and for a moment, he didn't pull away. He didn't even stiffen. If anything, he just stood there with his jaw tight and eyes soft, letting you hang onto him.

Sunoo had learned a lot of unexpected things from you, but the first was this: you were clingy. Not in the way people usually mean it. You were clingy in the way a storm was clingy, so loud and unpredictable, but always returning, always right on time. You'd barge into his room to ruffle his hair without asking, leave lipstick stains on the rim of his mugs, and curse while crocheting in his living room.

Despite your sharp tongue, your smug smirks, and that bitchy little smile you wore whenever you knew you had the upper hand, there was something about you that kept curling into the edges of his life. The softness you tried to bury always slipped through—like now, as your arms wrapped loosely around his neck, your breath warm on his collarbone.

You hadn't even fucked, not really. Whatever this was between the two of you, it never crossed that final line. Sure, you'd given him head more times than he could count now, slipping between his knees, sometimes right after class or before dinner. Sometimes with a joke still on your tongue, your fingers working his zipper like it was just part of your daily routine. You'd even played with yourself while looking him dead in the eyes, teasing him, daring him, and yet still somehow managing not to strip yourself bare.

Pleasure was always good. You knew exactly what to do to unravel him. But it confused him on the way you stayed after. The way you talked to him about your professors and complained about your classmates, how you crocheted lopsided sweaters and left your yarn all over his room, like you expected to come back and finish them.

It was how you kissed his cheek when he looked stressed, how you'd fall asleep next to him fully clothed while he studied and pretend not to notice when he pulled the blanket over you.

"You need to stop acting like this is your place," he muttered, trying to keep his voice flat.

You didn't take the bait, instead, you leaned in and kissed his cheek loudly. Sunoo's entire face twitched in immediate response. His hand shot up, rubbing his cheek with the heel of his palm. "Eww," he muttered under his breath.

"Sorry!" you giggled, clearly not sorry at all with that look you always wore when you knew you were testing his patience, and then your hands were on his face again, squeezing his cheeks with affection. "You're just so adorable when you're cranky. I can't help it."

He groaned loudly, swatting at your wrists, trying to pry your hands off. "Stop calling me that."

You didn't flinch. In fact, you leaned closer, squishing his cheeks harder, and making a cooing sound that only made him more irritated. He slapped your arm but when you laughed again, that same light, reckless laugh that always made his ears feel too warm, he grabbed a fistful of your hair and tugged.

"Ow, ow, ow!" you yelped, wriggling in place with a pout. You batted his hand away, fingers tangled in your strands, while your eyes stayed locked on his with a mixture of amusement and challenge.

"Leave me alone. I'm trying to review for my exams," Sunoo muttered, barely glancing at you as he rolled his eyes and turned back toward his desk. His hand reached for the highlighter beside his textbook, the yellow ink already bleeding into the edge of a paragraph he'd probably read four times without actually absorbing anything.

You walked over anyway, you squeezed into the tiny space beside him on a chair meant for one, and Sunoo groaned out loud, shifting his body to the side. The chair creaked beneath your combined weight, and your thigh was pressed flush against his. "I just need a favor from you," you said, casually brushing your hand across his table.

Sunoo let out another sigh. He looked over at you, unimpressed. "Favor? Only friends do favors," he replied flatly.

You turned to him with a gasp, placing a hand to your chest in mock offense. "Wow," you said, eyes wide and sarcastic. "Damn, after all the blowjobs I gave you? After the way we've made out on your bed, your floor, and that one time in your fucking kitchen? After all the hours I spent here telling you about my day while you pretended not to listen? You're telling me we're not even friends?"

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. His tongue pressed against the inside of his cheek, his hand frozen halfway through underlining another sentence. You weren't wrong. You'd been coming around so often that your scent had started to cling to his sheets, your hair ties and red lipstick had begun appearing in random corners of his room, and your laugh had started to echo in his head long after you'd gone home.

You leaned in a little, close enough that he could feel your breath fan across his neck. "If this isn't a friendship," you added softly, "then what is your definition of friendship, Sunoo?"

He made a show of thinking, lifting his eyes like he was searching the ceiling for inspiration, but there was a glint in his expression that gave away how amused he actually was. "I don't know, girl. We haven't even properly introduced ourselves because you were too busy sucking my dick off," he replied, words nonchalant but his ears tinted red. He tried to keep his voice flat, sarcastic even, like that would mask the heat crawling up his neck.

You laughed, unbothered, and leaned your head against his shoulder with a casualness that shouldn't have felt so intimate, but somehow, it did. Sunoo shifted under the contact, scoffing, rolling his eyes, acting like he didn't care but you could feel it in the way he didn't move away.

"Okay, let's do this properly then," you said as you let your hand play with the edge of his sleeve. "I'm twenty. Fashion design major. I work part-time at two different cafés. I play gigs when I can, lead guitarist and vocalist of Jay's band. I crochet, bake, draw, paint—basically anything that can bring in money for tuition. I have three ex-girlfriends, all toxic in very different ways. And I like—"

"Wait," Sunoo cut in, body suddenly stiffening as he pulled back just enough to stare at you. His eyes were wide, lips parted slightly like he couldn't believe what he just heard. "You're gay?!"

Your mouth dropped open, blinking at him as your brain scrambled to rewind what you'd said. "I—I mean, isn't it obvious?" you managed, slightly flustered, though a part of you also found his surprise endearing in a frustrating way.

Sunoo didn't say anything right away. He kept looking at you, brows furrowed, lips parted in a stunned kind of silence like he was trying to piece you together again with this new piece of information you just casually dropped. You watched the flickers of confusion, surprise, maybe even a bit of disbelief in his face, and though you didn't fully understand why it mattered so much to him. "I like girls," you clarified again.

There was a beat of silence. Then Sunoo blinked hard, like he'd just snapped out of it, and his reaction was nothing short of dramatic. "I—I thought you were straight, girl!" he cried out with a squeaky kind of disbelief, and before you could defend yourself, his hand flew out and smacked your arm. Hard. The kind of smack that made your whole upper body jerk slightly from the force. You almost flew off the chair.

"Shit, Sunoo!" you yelped, rubbing your arm and glaring at him with a twisted expression of both pain and outrage.

But Sunoo wasn't listening. He was laughing—loudly, eyes crinkled, hand over his mouth like he couldn't believe what he was hearing and also couldn't stop himself from reacting. "I really didn't like you at first," he gasped between giggles. "Like, genuinely. I thought you were giving homophobic vibes! You were too confident, too flirty, and you stared at me like you were ready to fight or fuck, and I swear to god I thought you were trying to make me your weird little experiment!"

You blinked again, thrown off by the way he said it all so fast. "What the fuck, Sunoo," you muttered, half-offended but also kind of shocked that he thought all that while still letting you suck him off on the regular.

He slapped your shoulder again and kept cackling, his entire body tilted forward as he wheezed through it, completely losing himself in his own joke. "I mean, it makes sense now," he managed between laughter, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. "That's why you're such a bitch—because you're gay!"

You didn't hesitate. Your hand landed right on his arm, a loud smack echoing through the room. "Are you forgetting that you're gay too, idiot?" you shot back, trying to sound annoyed but failing to hold back your grin.

Sunoo hissed dramatically, rubbing the spot, though the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips betrayed him. The teasing should've stopped there—should've stayed in that usual back-and-forth where you both knew the lines and how far to push. But something in his expression shifted. "I still don't get it," he murmured, the laughter dying down to a softer tone, his hand now gently pressing the spot you'd hit. "If you're into girls, then what does that make... this?"

For a moment, you didn't know how to answer. So many things about you didn't fit into the easy explanations people seemed to expect, and honestly, you never cared to try and fit them. "I don't know," you said at last, "I've hooked up with guys before, and it was never really a big deal. I always knew I liked girls more, but that never stopped me from doing stuff with boys when I felt like it." You shrugged, then leaned back a little, giving him space to process what you were about to say. "Sexuality is just a word people use to make sense of themselves. I might call myself bisexual—or gay—but honestly, it never fully explains what I want or how I feel. Labels don't always fit."

He looked at you then, and there was something quiet different in his eyes. It wasn't annoyance or mockery for once. You continued anyway, because you needed him to understand. "All I know is that I like doing things with you. Whether it's talking, teasing, sitting around doing nothing, or yeah... getting on my knees for you. It sounds messy, but it's the only thing I'm sure of."

That made his throat bob. His heartbeat, already unruly from earlier, thudded faster at your words, and he could feel the heat creeping into his face before he could stop it. He wanted to brush it off, wanted to say something sharp or stupid to deflect, but nothing came out.

He forced himself to roll his eyes and gave your shoulder another slap, more gentle this time. "Ewwww," he groaned with an exaggerated squeal, scrunching his nose. "It might be our routine, but could you not say that in my ear? It's still weird hearing you talk so casually about sucking me off!"

You only grinned wider, catching the flush starting to bloom across his cheeks. "What? Are you blushing?" you teased as you reached up and pinched his cheeks between your fingers, delighting in how quickly he tried to jerk away.

He groaned, then reached up to grab a fistful of your hair in retaliation. "You're so annoying," he muttered, tugging hard enough to make you yelp and try to push him off.

"Fuck!" you shrieked through laughter, smacking his arm and trying to wriggle away. But the tangled mess of limbs ended with both of you tipping sideways and falling back into the chair. He hit the floor and let out a long-suffering groan as you collapsed on top of him in a heap.

"Great," he muttered, pressing a hand to his lower back. "Now I'm going to fail my exam with spinal damage." You were still laughing, unbothered as you rested your chin on his chest. Even now, with your weight on top of him and your hair tickling his face, Sunoo couldn't bring himself to shove you off.

Instead, his eyes wandered to the ceiling, mind replaying the words you said earlier. Maybe you were right. Sexuality was just a word. A way to make sense of something that couldn't always be explained. And maybe the way he felt this complicated, frustrating, strangely comforting pull toward you wasn't something that needed a label at all.

"Get off. You're so fucking heavy," Sunoo hissed, snapping himself out of it as he tugged at your hair again, a little rougher this time. But deep down, buried under every eye roll and complaint, he enjoyed doing things with you, whether they were sexual or not. That part, at least, he could admit to himself. Maybe not out loud. Definitely not to you. He'd rather drop dead than say it out loud.

The favor you had asked was to practice your creative makeup on him, get his measurements, and use him as some sort of living mannequin for the designs you'd been working on. It sounded harmless enough when you first mentioned it, though the way you said it—bright-eyed, insistent, and practically buzzing with ideas—made it sound like you were dragging him into something bigger than he could imagine. He hadn't thought much of it back then, especially since hospital duties had swallowed him whole. The weeks stretched on, filled with endless shifts, late nights, and exhaustion so deep he barely had the energy to eat before collapsing into bed.

But still, in the middle of those long nights, he'd catch himself thinking of you. Of how irritating you could be, how you texted him nonsense memes at ungodly hours, how you spammed his phone like you had nothing better to do. He never admitted it, but the absence of your loud presence gnawed at him. The quiet felt heavier without you around to annoy him into feeling alive. That was what made him finally agree to see you again, even if it meant dragging his tired body to your apartment after his shift.

At the bus stop, Sunoo sat slumped beside Jungwon, eyelids heavy as the night air pressed around them. Jungwon let out a long groan, stretching his arms above his head. "Do you want to sleep over at my place instead? Later, I'll order Jollibee. Kinda been craving their spaghetti."

The offer was tempting—comfort food and a soft bed—but Sunoo only shook his head, his lips curving faintly as he pulled out his phone. "Maybe next time. Thanks for the offer, though. I've got some business to attend to."

"Business?" Jungwon repeated, his voice laced with skepticism. "At this hour?"

Sunoo didn't answer right away. His thumb scrolled down the flood of messages on his screen—your name glowing at the top of the chat. Rows of texts, some with too many exclamation marks, others filled with random pictures, all ridiculous enough to make his scrunched-up expression betray him with a small, undeniable smile. Jungwon noticed. He tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. "That's new," he muttered, side-eyeing. "So... where exactly are you going?"

"Just there," Sunoo replied vaguely, sliding his phone back into his bag before Jungwon could ask too much. And then, Sunoo leaned over and kissed Jungwon on the cheek, accompanied by a rare, boyish grin. "I'll get going now. Bye-bye!"

Jungwon froze, eyebrows shooting up in disbelief as he watched Sunoo walk away, his figure retreating down the street with a kind of restless energy. Jungwon's mouth fell open, his thoughts spinning in circles. He looked off to the side, considering whether to press or not, but in the end he only sighed and rolled his shoulders in resignation. "Huh. Weird," he muttered to himself, shaking his head as he shoved his hands into his pockets. "But whatever."

When Sunoo finally stepped into your apartment, you didn't hold back. You practically launched yourself at him, arms flinging around his shoulders as though you had been waiting for this moment for weeks—which, in truth, you had. The sound of your laughter filled the air immediately, loud and full of the joy that spilled out of you so naturally.

Sunoo, on the other hand, reacted exactly the way he always did when you overwhelmed him with affection. His face scrunched into that familiar look of feigned annoyance as he huffed, one hand coming up to shove your face away. "Geez," he muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile, "it's already ten in the evening and you're still bouncing around? Spare me, please." With a heavy sigh, he slipped his bag off his shoulder and tossed it onto the nearest chair. "I'm just going to change my clothes."

Your eyes widened immediately, and you froze mid-step. "Wait—does that mean you're going to sleep here?"

Sunoo rolled his eyes dramatically, as if the answer should have been obvious. "What? You really think I'd go home after letting you disturb me at this hour?" he said, his voice dry. He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing around your apartment for the first time.

It was nothing like his own space. The moment his gaze swept over the room, he felt an odd tug in his chest. Guitars lined one wall, their strings gleaming faintly under the shifting glow of LED lights taped along the corners. The posters that filled your walls, mostly of metal bands he actually recognized—thanks to one of his friends who was just as obsessed with that scene as you seemed to be. There were canvases, too, half-finished and scattered against the sofa. The whole place felt alive, buzzing with your energy even when you weren't moving.

"Missed me?" you teased, leaning closer with a grin.

Sunoo didn't even spare you a proper glance. He rolled his eyes and shoved you lightly away, muttering under his breath as he dug into his bag. "As if. The only reason I even bothered coming here is because your annoying ass wouldn't leave me alone."

You watched him unzip his bag, pulling out a neatly folded set of clothes, and despite his flat expression you noticed the way his shoulders sagged, how exhaustion clung to every movement. He had been working himself to the bone, yet here he was, standing in your apartment at ten in the evening. That alone made your chest warm.

"God, I need to shower," he muttered, already moving toward the hallway without waiting for directions. He pushed open a random door, somehow guessing correctly that it was the bathroom, and slipped inside. The door shut firmly, leaving you behind in the living room with your laughter spilling out in echoes.

You padded after him without hesitation, knocking against the bathroom door with force. "Let me join!" you shouted through the wood.

From inside, there was a short pause, followed by the sound of the shower starting, and then his indignant yell. "Fuck you!"

You laughed so hard you had to lean against the wall for support, the sound echoing through your apartment. There was something deeply satisfying in knowing you could still pull that reaction from him even when he was drained from his long shift.

Sunoo ended up on your bed, sitting stiffly. His eyes moved slowly over your room, taking in the mess sprawl of your belongings. Clothes half-folded, books stacked unevenly, random brushes and palettes scattered across your desk. He bent down with a sigh, picking up a stray eyeliner pencil and a crumpled sheet of paper from the floor before dropping them on the bedside table. "Unbelievable," he muttered, glancing at you. "How do you even live like this?"

You ignored his complaint, too caught up in your own excitement. With the measuring tape in hand, you motioned for him to sit still. He shifted reluctantly, rolling his eyes but letting you circle around him, brushing against his shoulders and arms as you worked. You could feel the weight of his gaze following your movements even though he tried to pretend he wasn't paying attention.

"Our theme is under the sea," you began, your tone lively, words spilling out in a rush. "The makeup I have in mind isn't too heavy—it's soft, glowy, more like a douyin-inspired style, but with hints of shimmer, like reflections on water."

Sunoo raised a brow but said nothing, still trying to sit as if he wasn't secretly curious. "Wait, hold on." You darted to your desk, shoving aside piles of papers and empty cups, searching frantically until you found your sketchpad. The mess you made in the process only made him sigh louder, and when you finally returned, your arms were full of sheets, pencils, and smudged notes. You plopped beside him on the bed without an ounce of care, your hair brushing against his shoulder as you flipped the sketchpad open to the right page.

"Here, look!" you said eagerly, turning the pad so he could see. The drawing wasn't perfect, but it was vibrant, full of details—flowing lines like waves, soft glitter patterns around the eyes, hints of pearlescent tones. You leaned close enough that your knees brushed his, smiling up at him as if waiting for approval.

He glanced at the sketch, then at you, then back again. His face was blank, though his lips twitched as if fighting back a reaction. "You did all this just for practice?" he asked finally.

"Of course," you said without hesitation, tilting your head at him. "You're my muse tonight. Who else would I trust to pull this off?"

That word—muse—hung in the air between you. Sunoo blinked, looking away quickly, pretending to study the messy corner of your room instead. He scoffed under his breath, though his ears betrayed him with the faintest hint of red.

"Whatever, just do your job so I can sleep," he said, voice carrying that familiar sharpness. Still, he didn't shift away when you leaned in, didn't flinch when your hand brushed against his wrist as you measured, nor when you adjusted the tilt of his chin so you could see him better. He stayed still, letting you come closer.

If someone asked you at that moment how you felt, you would have answered easily—you were happy. Happy in a way that was simple yet overwhelming. Happy because lately, it felt like things were turning in your favor, even the little things. Happy because just yesterday you'd gotten a new tattoo for free. Happy because sitting here, in your messy room that never seemed good enough for guests, you had a boy in front of you who was almost too pretty to be real. A boy who had an attitude sharp enough to cut, but whose presence made you feel full.

You weren't known for being soft. People said you were rough around the edges, cunning, always quick with words that made others falter. But with him, it was different. You couldn't help yourself from speaking, from filling the silence with random stories, thoughts, jokes—anything. To most, your voice could be overwhelming, but Sunoo had already grown used to it.

"And Jake was also planning his first date to a hotpot—" you rambled on, your hand steady as you blended shimmer onto his eyelid.

Sunoo let out a heavy sigh, his lips parting slightly as he resisted the urge to open his eyes. He had been sitting there with his lids closed for what felt like an eternity, and still you weren't finished. "Do you ever shut up?" he muttered.

You grinned, your brush tracing along the curve of his brow bone as if you didn't hear the complaint. "Why would I? My voice keeps you awake."

"More like gives me a headache," he countered. You tilted his face to the side, carefully catching the light so you could see your work better. These were just trial runs, after all, and even though you hadn't used foundation or concealer—because his skin was already annoyingly perfect—you still wanted everything to look right. The green-brown lenses had shifted the color of his eyes into softer glow, and with the eyeshadow fanned out at the corners, it gave him a kind of effortless charm that made you pause. There was something about working on his face that always made you fall quiet for a second, like you were afraid any sudden movement might break the moment. His features, up close, were unfairly beautiful—the curve of his cheekbones, the sharp line of his jaw, the small, barely-there freckles you'd playfully added to give him a more sun-kissed look. Everything about him was pretty in a way that didn't feel delicate, but confident. His lips especially—plump, soft, and just slightly parted while he sat there with his eyes closed.

You turned, rummaging through your pile of lip tints and glosses until you found the shade that instantly reminded you of him. It was a sheer pink with a little bit of shimmer, and you already knew how good it would look. Without warning, you swung your leg over and settled onto his lap, grinning as you balanced your weight. The reaction was immediate—Sunoo's eyes snapped open, brows pulling together.

"Seriously?" he sighed, exasperated, but his hands came to your hips anyway, holding you steady so you wouldn't slip off the edge of the bed. "Are we done now?"

You tilted your head and gave a sheepish smile, not answering as you leaned in to carefully dab the gloss over his lips. The shape of his mouth, the way it gave the tiniest twitch when your finger brushed the edge—it made your pulse jump. You were so close now that his breath brushed against your cheek, and you had to focus hard not to let your hand shake. You wanted to kiss him. The urge sat so close to the surface that it made your chest feel tight, but you didn't. You just pulled back and admired the finished look with a soft exhale.

"Perfect," you whispered to yourself, more than him. You reached behind you and grabbed the mirror without moving from his lap. Sunoo rolled his eyes but took the mirror from your hand. You stayed right where you were, watching with quiet excitement as he looked at his reflection. There was silence at first. He tilted the mirror slightly, studying one angle, then another. He reached up to touch his hair, fixing a stray strand, then let his gaze drift toward his lips. His expression shifted slowly, quiet surprise then the corner of his mouth curled upward.

"Hmm, it doesn't look bad," he murmured.

Still straddling his lap, you leaned in closer until your face hovered just near the side of his neck, taking in the soft scent of his body wash still lingering from his shower. Your voice dropped as you murmured, "You look so much prettier than me."

Without missing a beat, Sunoo gave a soft scoff, his eyes still on his reflection. "Of course. I should be."

That earned a laugh from you. Typical Sunoo. You didn't stop yourself when you leaned forward and pressed your teeth lightly against his neck, a teasing little bite that made him flinch. Sunoo immediately pinched your waist, just hard enough to make you jolt. "Don't leave marks, I swear I'll kill you," he hissed, finally putting the mirror aside and turning to glare at you.

You only grinned wider, pressing closer until your hands slid up to frame his jaw and your nose brushed against his. "What if I want to leave marks?" you whispered.  "What if I want people to know you've been thoroughly used?"

He stared at you, deadpan, though the faintest flush started to bloom across his cheeks. "Used?" he echoed, blinking slowly.

You nodded, the tip of your tongue peeking out as you teased, "Yeah. Like a good little stress toy. I could sit on your face"

His jaw clenched in restraint. "You're disgusting," he muttered, but his hands never left your hips. In fact, they gripped a little tighter now.

"That's not a no," you said sweetly, letting your thumb trail along the curve of his throat. "You're holding me so well. Kinda makes me think you like this. You want me to keep going, Sunoo?"

He inhaled sharply and leaned back just slightly, giving himself space to think. The dim light of the room cast a soft glow across his cheekbones. The red LED strip near the ceiling bled into shadows, blending into the yellow hue of your little desk lamp, illuminating parts of your skin in warm patches. Your hair messily pinned up, strands falling out of your bun, wearing that worn-out Hello Kitty sando and those barely-there shorts. He swallowed hard.

And for a moment, he just stared. The edge of lust in his expression softened. The corner of his lip twitched like he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words. He was thinking, really thinking. and the thoughts weren't just about your lips or your thighs or the heat pooling between you. He was imagining your face twisted in pleasure, not because you were teasing or in control, but because he was the one making you fall apart. He wanted to see that. Wanted to own it.

His body betrayed him first. You both felt how hard he was getting beneath you, the tension radiating off him as you shifted on his lap and rolled your hips in a slow circle against his clothed cock. Your breath hitched as your core dragged over the growing bulge beneath his sweats, and you felt his fingers dig in harder.

Sunoo bit down on his bottom lip and didn't break eye contact. His voice came controlled, but his expression betrayed how much restraint it took. "Sit on my face, then."

Your entire body tensed. The shift was immediate. The teasing smirk that once played on your lips faltered. Your hips stopped moving, stilling right on top of him. You blinked, staring down at him, wide-eyed and visibly caught off guard. "H-huh?" you stammered, breath shallow.

His hand slid up beneath your sando, fingertips grazing over the soft skin of your waist, then higher toward your ribs, slow and unhurried as his gaze didn't flicker. "Sit on my face," he whispered again. "What's the matter? You seemed so eager earlier."

You could barely form a thought. Your pulse thundered in your ears, your breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a plea. "I was just joking," you mumbled, already shifting as if to climb off his lap, trying to dismiss the thought. "You don't have to. I mean—vaginal fluid doesn't even taste good..." You avoided his eyes, flustered and scrambling for your scattered makeup products, needing something to shift the atmosphere. But before your fingers could wrap around the nearest compact, Sunoo moved. He caught you by the wrist and pushed you back onto the bed in one quick motion. You let out a small, surprised squeal as your back hit the mattress.

His body hovered over yours, his knees pinning either side of your hips, eyes fixed on you. "I've let you get me off with your mouth more times than I can count," he said in annoyance. "And now you're acting like I don't get to touch you back?"

Your heart kicked harder in your chest, thudding against your ribs as you stared up at him. "I—" you started, but your voice came out small. "Sunoo, I didn't even shave..."

He didn't blink. He sat back just slightly, his fingers slipping under the waistband of your shorts. "And?" he muttered, raising a brow as if that wasn't even a detail worth considering. When you moved to stop him, hands fluttering at his wrists, he caught one and pressed it into the mattress. His other hand cupped you through your panties, his palm fitting against the damp heat between your thighs.

Your breath hitched. Your back arched into his touch instinctively, and you saw the way his eyes darkened, how his lips parted ever so slightly. "You're soaked," he said, thumb pressing a little firmer.

You tried to deflect, though your voice wavered. "Do you even know what to do with it?" Your tone was teasing, but your body betrayed you—already trembling under his touch, heat pooling low in your stomach, breath quickening. You weren't expecting his answer.

"No," he said simply, like he wasn't embarrassed by it. Then his fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, dragging the fabric down your thighs in one slow motion before tossing it somewhere across the room. "So teach me."

He slid a hand under your thigh, lifting and spreading your legs. Then he leaned down, his lips brushing soft kisses along your inner thigh slowly, all while keeping his eyes on you. The contact made your pussy flutter, a pulse of need tightening in your abdomen. Your breath hitched again, your hips twitching with anticipation. The sight of him makeup still intact from earlier, your lip gloss still lingering faintly on his mouth—made your body anticipate.

He dipped his head between your legs and dragged his tongue along your folds, one long, unhurried stroke from your entrance to your clit. The sensation made you jolt, the sudden wave of pleasure catching you off guard. "Fuck," you gasped, one hand flying to his hair, fingers curling in his soft strands.

Sunoo's tongue was slow at first, careful in a way that almost betrayed how new this was to him but he was quick to find what made you tremble. He closed his eyes, letting the taste of you settle on his tongue as he circled your clit with careful strokes before dragging his mouth lower to collect everything your body was offering. For a second, he could barely breathe.

So this is what pussy tastes like. That thought rang in his head, the warmth, the wetness, the way your whole body jerked when he hit the right spot—it was more than he imagined. He'd spent years scoffing at the way straight guys romanticized it, mocked their obsession, swore he'd never enjoy it. But fuck, now he understood why they bragged about it. Now he understood the hype.

His hands gripped your thighs as he dragged his tongue through your folds again, slower this time, savoring it. He moaned into you when he heard you whine his name, your voice shaky and breathless. The vibration of his voice against your pussy made your whole body twitch, and Sunoo's cock throbbed from the sound alone. If he wasn't already half-hard before, he was fully aching now, painfully so.

"S-Sunoo," you whimpered, hips lifting off the bed in a desperate rhythm that told him just how good he was doing. His mouth moved instinctively—less cautious now, more eager, more confident—as he pushed his tongue deeper, tasting you from your entrance all the way up, mouth hot and greedy. You were clenching around nothing, so tight and needy, and he wanted to bury his face even deeper, get drunk off you.

When your thighs began to tremble and squeeze around his ears, he didn't stop—instead, he pressed your legs apart with both hands, holding you open like a meal he wasn't finished with yet. Your slick coated his lips and chin, dripping down, and he didn't care. If anything, it made him hungrier. He licked through it all, mess and all, letting it smear over his tongue and down his throat as he sucked your clit hard, then softened his strokes just enough to tease again.

"Ahhh!" Your body writhed underneath him, moans louder, messier, fingers clawing at his hair. His nose bumped into your clit as he worked his tongue into you again, his face wet with your slick, breathing through his mouth as he chased the way you tasted.

His mind was spinning—nothing existed in that moment except your moans, the heat of your pussy, and the steady throb in his pants that begged for release. And when you cried out his name again, legs shaking harder, nails digging into his scalp as your hips rocked into his face, Sunoo moaned so loud it vibrated against your cunt, eyes rolling back as he thought—fuck, he could come from just this.

Sunoo's hips were already grinding against the mattress, his clothed cock rutting helplessly into the sheets as he kept his mouth buried between your legs, tongue swirling slow, then fast, then slow again as he tested how you reacted to every flick and drag. But it was your clit that made him obsessed, the way it throbbed, the way you twitched whenever he sucked it, the way you squealed when he circled it just right. He focused there now, licking harder, more deliberate, tasting every ounce of you like he was making up for all the time he'd dismissed ever wanting this.

This wasn't just payback for all the times you teased him, for every shameless comment or cocky flirt that came from your mouth. No, this was Sunoo owning you. Silencing you. Making you feel exactly what you put him through—restless, aching, desperate.

Your moans started to rise uncontrollably, your voice shaky, your fingers now tangled tightly in his hair as your hips rolled in sync with the rhythm of his tongue. "Wait! Fuck!" you gasped, thighs twitching as your climax built hard and fast, threatening to snap. But Sunoo didn't let up, if anything, he gripped your legs tighter, keeping them wide open, anchoring you in place so you couldn't run from it.

He looked up at you, flushed and wrecked, your eyes squeezed shut in overwhelmed pleasure, lips parted as your body trembled. His cock throbbed painfully from just the sight, and his tongue moved faster, dragging flat and then curling upward to suck your clit hard before flicking again.

When you came, it hit like a wave crashing through your entire body, your back arched off the mattress, mouth open in a cry you barely recognized, legs shaking hard in his hold. Your breathing turned ragged, stuttering as the orgasm took over, intense and blinding.

But Sunoo didn't stop. He lapped through it, almost like he was trying to drag more out of you, milking the high as long as he could. His mouth was soaked, face buried so deep you had to push at his head with trembling hands, voice breaking as you choked out, "Too much—fuck, I can't—"

He let you go, finally, pulling back with a smile. His lips glistened with your cum, cheeks flushed, and his hair was a mess from your grip but those green contacts made his eyes look almost unreal in the soft red light. And god, the makeup you'd done earlier was perfect. Smudged only a little at the corner of his lids, giving him an edgier look that made your cunt clench again.

Sunoo was pretty. Too pretty. Pretty enough to ruin you without even trying. What made it worse—or better, depending how fucked up your brain was—was the way his tongue slowly dragged along his bottom lip, catching the last traces of you. "How was it?" he asked, tilting his head to seek of your approval.

You couldn't even answer at first. Your legs were still trembling, thighs sticky and wet, your heartbeat thudding too loud in your ears to think straight. You swallowed, chest rising and falling fast as you tried to catch your breath. Then you looked at him again—at the shine on his mouth, the hunger still flickering behind those pretty green eyes, the way he sat back slightly.

"Not that bad," you breathed out, voice shaky as your trembling legs bent down and your fingers slowly pressed against the hard outline of his cock through the soft fabric of his sweats. You didn't even try to hide how your hand lingered, almost testing him—your palm flat, applying a bit of pressure. Sunoo raised his brow at your answer but you didn't meet it. You were too busy fighting off the embarrassment clawing at your chest from the way you moved so eagerly, so unlike how you usually carry yourself.

"Down to fuck?" you asked, forcing a playful smirk as you tilted your head, though your voice cracked slightly at the end and your legs still hadn't stopped trembling. The moment you saw the way he blinked at you, you almost backtracked, your lips parting, about to laugh it off like you were only playing.

But then Sunoo was already pulling down his sweats. His cock sprang free, hard and flushed and angry-looking, the head pink and glistening, practically pulsing with tension. You stared. Your mouth went dry. Then wet. You swallowed thickly, clenching your thighs, heat crawling under your skin and settling low in your stomach. There was no hesitation in him now, no teasing smile, just hunger written across his face as he sat back on his heels. His hand wrapped around himself, stroking slowly as he watched the way your breath caught. You didn't even try to hide your stare.

Your mouth went dry, your legs pressing together out of reflex, and you could feel your whole body heat at the sight of him. He looked desperate, flushed, needy, barely holding himself back. "W-Wait," you blurted, hand reaching out like you meant to stop him, even though your body clearly didn't agree. Your pulse was racing, and your thoughts were already spiraling, too many emotions crashing into each other all at once—desire, fear, anticipation.

Sunoo let out a rough sigh, dragging his eyes up to your face. His brows furrowed and his lips parted like he was going to say something else, but then his jaw clenched tight. You could see the frustration in his eyes. "What more do you need?" he asked, voice low and strained. "Do you want me or not?"

You swallowed hard, because the truth was yes, more than you'd ever expected to. But something about how exposed both of you were now made it suddenly harder to breathe. "I just..." you began, "I don't want to ruin this. You've never done this before and I—what if it's too much?" It was fear—real and sudden fear. The weight of what you were about to do had finally caught up, hitting somewhere deep in your chest. This wasn't just another messy hookup. Not with him.

Sunoo stared at you in silence. You could see the flicker in his eyes, between disbelief and restrained annoyance. He almost looked like he was about to roll his eyes and shove you back down onto the mattress with that sharp tongue of his, throwing some cutting comment about how ridiculous this was when you were both already naked, your legs trembling and his cock painfully hard between them. But he didn't. Instead, he took a breath, he reached out, fingers brushing gently against the inside of your knee. You felt the warmth of his palm slide up your thigh until it rested there. "It's already too much," he said. "It's been too much since the first time you kissed me."

You swallowed hard as you sat still beneath his touch. Then his hand slid a little higher, his thumb brushing softly against the crease where your thigh met your hip. "So..." he tilted his head, the corners of his lips twitching into a slight smirk that couldn't hide the heat still simmering in his eyes. "Are we gonna fuck or not?"

You let out a shaky breath, laughing despite yourself. You leaned in, pressing your mouth to his jaw, feeling the slight tremble in his skin. Your hand slid down between you, curling around the base of his cock, hot and twitching in your grip. His breath stuttered, hips jerking slightly. You looked up at him, lips brushing his cheekbone as you whispered, "Lay back for me. Let me take care of you first."

Sunoo obeyed without a word, his body moving almost too quickly. He leaned back against the headboard, chest rising fast, lips parted as he tried to steady his breath. You saw the way his cock twitched in anticipation, pre-cum glistening at the tip, practically begging for friction.

You pulled your sando off, discarding it somewhere off the bed. The bra came next, your bare form revealed under the room's dim lighting. You weren't shy—at least you tried not to be—but you were aware of the way Sunoo's eyes darkened the moment he saw you fully.

Sunoo stopped breathing altogether. His lips parted slightly, stunned, staring at the shape of you, the ink on your skin, the curve of your breasts, and the subtle shimmer of sweat from earlier. Everything about you was too much. Too fucking beautiful.

You straddled him slowly, settling over his thighs as you reached toward your drawer and took out a condom. Sunoo's eyes didn't leave yours, not even when you tore the packet open and rolled it down the length of his cock with deliberate care. His head fell back against the pillows as he let out a groan, hips twitching up into your hand.

"Fuck," he groaned, hips bucking just slightly into your hand. His cock throbbed under your touch, hard and leaking. He couldn't believe how sensitive he was. How badly he wanted this.

You smirked at the sound, giving him a slow stroke just to see him twitch again. "First time?" you teased. "You better tell me later what's better—dick or pussy."

He let out a breathless laugh, but didn't answer. Not when you were already lifting your hips and guiding the tip of his cock to your entrance. That wiped the grin from both your faces.

As he breached you slowly, you gritted your teeth, trying to hide the way your body resisted the stretch. Your hands pressed against his chest for support, and you felt his hands move instinctively to your hips, holding you steady but not forcing anything. His grip was trembling. So were your thighs. You widened your legs as best as you could, adjusting inch by inch, trying to take him fully without showing how much it burned on the way in. You tried to play it off—tried to look confident even when your face couldn't hide the pinch of discomfort.

The truth was, you didn't have a lot of experience with men. Maybe just one, and that didn't really count. It was fast, fumbling, and forgettable. You'd never ridden anyone before. You knew how to move your hips with girls—scissoring, grinding, finding the angles—but this was different. This was slower, deeper, stretching you in ways you hadn't prepared for. You didn't want to look clueless. You didn't want to ruin the moment.

Still, you refused to back down. You braced yourself, breathing through your nose, trying to remember every move you'd given and received, every grind and swivel you'd learned with women—just enough to give yourself rhythm. You focused on how wet you were and how turned on he clearly was, Sunoo gasped beneath you, both hands tightening on your waist like he was afraid he'd lose himself the second you sank further.

"Fuck—" he choked, voice cracking. "You're so—tight. Oh my god—don't move yet—just—fuck—"

His head tilted back, lips parted in a perfect 'O' as he moaned, eyes squeezed shut. His reaction made something clench in your chest and between your legs, but you held still, letting yourself adjust, letting him calm down before either of you pushed too far too fast.

You looked down at him, sweat already starting to gather at his temples, and leaned over just enough to press your forehead to his.

You finally managed to sink down all the way, and the stretch was so intense it knocked the air out of your lungs. Your mouth fell open in a breathless moan, your walls clenching tight around him, struggling to adjust. The pain hadn't completely faded, but it was being overtaken by a creeping pleasure that curled low in your belly. Still, your legs were shaking violently beneath you, the burn in your thighs making it impossible to lift yourself.

Sunoo blinked up at you, concern slipping into his dazed expression as his hands rubbed your waist slowly, gently. His fingers were trying to soothe you, but he could feel the tremble beneath your skin, could see the panic flicker in your eyes. "You okay?" he asked quietly.

You couldn't answer right away. You pressed your face into the curve of his neck, hiding the stutter in your breath as your hands gripped his shoulders. You nodded, though it was shaky. "I'm fine," you said but it came out weak, and the moment you tried to lift yourself, your legs gave out again. You choked out a sound, "just... g-give me a minute."

Sunoo stiffened underneath you when he felt the hot tear that rolled down onto his skin. His brows furrowed as he turned his head slightly, lips brushing your temple. He almost felt bad, guilty to be exact. He knew what that stretch felt like, that burn of being too full, and for a second, he almost paused. Almost. But then you clenched around him again, and it told him everything he needed to know.

"You're such a liar," he breathed out, a soft laugh slipping past his lips. "All that talk... and look at you now."

You didn't respond—just let out another breathy moan, face still tucked into his neck, skin hot with embarrassment. He could feel how tight you were, feel how you clenched around him every time he moved even the slightest. Without warning, he planted both feet flat on the mattress and thrust upward, driving himself deeper inside you. Your entire body jolted, and the moan that tore out of your throat was loud and desperate. He clenched his jaw at the sound of it, biting back his own curse.

You tightened around him, body clenching in response, and his hips bucked again, this time slower, more deliberate. His mouth moved to your ear, breath ghosting over the sensitive skin there as you trembled in his hold. "Let me take over," he whispered. His arms wrapped around your waist, locking you in place, and his hips moved again—shallow but deep, fucking into you from below.

You both moaned out loud. It was past one in the morning and the silence outside made it worse, like every sound would carry past the walls, but Sunoo didn't seem to care. His rhythm picked up, hips snapping against yours with rising urgency, chasing the high he'd only ever imagined.

His thrust hit that perfect spot inside you and your whole body arched, a sharp cry ripping from your throat. Your hands fumbled to hold onto something—his arms, the sheets, your own sanity—but it was already slipping.

Sunoo didn't pause, didn't even look apologetic as he murmured, "Fuck, that's it," like he'd just discovered your weakness. Your pussy was gripping him so tight he could barely move, but that only drove him further. The struggle made it more satisfying.

And then, he pulled out. You barely had time to protest when he shifted your position, guiding you back onto the bed with your legs spread wide. He stared, breathing hard, hands trailing down your thighs before his fingers spread your folds gently. He took a second just to look at you, to admire how wet and swollen you were for him, how much you wanted it. Then, with two fingers, he circled your clit—light, teasing touches that made your hips jerk and your legs try to close on instinct.

So this is why tops get cocky, he thought, watching the way your eyes fluttered, the way your lips fell open in a silent moan. This is why they hold someone down, grip their legs, call them pretty, beg them to take more. He could feel the power of every thrust, feel the way your body reacted. He never understood it before. He always thought tops just liked being in charge, that they were addicted to control—but it wasn't just about that.

"You always run your mouth," he muttered, watching your body twitch with every motion. "But where's all that attitude now?"

He caught your leg, draping one over his shoulder as he lined himself up again. The stretch was immediate, deeper now in this new position, and he pushed in slowly, inch by inch, dragging his cock along your walls until the tip pressed against the spot that made your back arch on reflex.

"You always talk too much," he muttered, groaning at the way you clenched again. "Guess my dick's the one to shut you up."

You sobbed harder, face turning to the side as your hands gripped the sheets. Your breasts bounced with each thrust, tears streaking your cheeks as you moaned his name. "P-please, Sunoo."

Sunoo's stomach tightened at the sound. He threw his head back, letting out a moan that was nearly a growl. His grip tightened on your thighs before he grabbed both, pushing your knees up beside your head as he leaned in close. His arms braced on either side of you, the shift pressing you into the mattress, trapping you with his weight.

Then, he pulled almost all the way out, letting you feel every inch slip from your body before slamming back in with a force that made your eyes roll back. The bed creaked beneath you, the room filled with the slick, wet sound of skin on skin.

"Fuck!" you screamed, arching harder beneath him, your voice cracking on the edge of a sob. Without a second thought, he dropped his hand between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing fast, precise circles. "G-gonna cum, wait! Wait, wait, wait—"  your voice dissolving into a high-pitched wail, so loud and unfiltered that Sunoo instinctively leaned down to kiss you, swallowing the sound against your lips.

The moment his mouth covered yours, your walls spasmed around him, tight and wet and so hot that he couldn't think. Your climax hit, your hips jerking uncontrollably as your pussy clenched around him over and over, fluttering in a rhythm that made his own control snap completely.

Sunoo moaned against your mouth, almost choking on it, his own breath ragged as he held still for a heartbeat but your body pulled it out of him. He couldn't stop moving, not when it felt like this. He gripped your waist tight and kept thrusting, shallow and fast, keeping the head of his cock angled against the soft, spongy spot inside you. He wanted to feel all of it, ride it out, draw it out until you were crying again.

Your legs shook violently as you clung to him, your mouth parting beneath his kiss in gasping, sobbing breaths. You didn't even care that you were a mess now, sweat-slicked, trembling, lips swollen from kissing and crying. You couldn't stop clenching around him, couldn't stop shaking from how intense it was.

And Sunoo, he'd never felt anything like it. That pressure, the way you pulsed around him, the wet squeeze of your walls, the heat, the smell of sweat and sex, the muffled sobs against his mouth—it was too much. He buried his face in your neck as his hips stuttered once, then twice more, before he groaned loud, biting down on a moan that still escaped him in a rush.

"Shit! Ah! Fuck, fuck fuck." He came hard, harder than he ever remembered. His body curled over yours as the orgasm crashed through him, his muscles locking up, breath ragged as his cock twitched deep inside the condom. The sound he made was almost a sob of his own because the moment you clenched around him like that, it was over. He had no chance.

He stayed inside you, breathing hard against your collarbone, trying to get control of his heartbeat. His arms wrapped tighter around your waist, holding you close. You blinked up at the ceiling, dazed, chest rising and falling in erratic waves. Sunoo pulled back just enough to look at you, brushing hair out of your face with one trembling hand.

"One more?" you asked, voice still breathy as you gave him a weak smile, your lashes still wet with the remnants of your tears. There was a glow in your face from that dazed, post-orgasmic haze.

Sunoo let out a scoff, tossing his head to the side. "My legs feel like noodles. Leave me alone." He covered his eyes with one arm.

You let out a small laugh, too drained to do more than let your body sink deeper into the sheets. You didn't push back with another tease. Sunoo sighed as he finally peeled himself off the bed. He removed the condom carefully, tying it off and tossing it into the trash. His limbs felt too light, a little shaky, and for a second he just stood there, catching his breath with a hand braced against the edge of the drawer.

Most of his exes never really gave a shit after sex. They'd turn their backs, light a cigarette, or scroll through their phones. And Sunoo hated that—hated how cold it used to make him feel, even if he pretended it didn't. He wasn't about to become that kind of person, no matter what this thing was between you two. No matter how casual you both claimed it was. So he pulled on his briefs and then his sweatpants, still trying to recover as he looked at your spent body lying there, eyes fluttering closed, chest flushed and rising slowly. You weren't asleep yet, but you looked like you could drift off at any second.

"Don't pass out on me," he muttered under his breath as he leaned down, arms sliding under your knees and back. His muscles protested immediately. "Shit—what are you eating?" he groaned as he lifted you, stumbling a little. "Why are you so heavy? Fuck, my back hurts."

Your laugh came out as a soft wheeze, your head dropping onto his shoulder. "You're so sweet," you mumbled, not even bothering to open your eyes.

Sunoo let out a sharp, incredulous sound as he adjusted his grip on you. "Sweet?" he scoffed. "Bitch, I'm carrying you to the bathroom so you don't get a UTI. That's not sweet, that's basic sexual hygiene."

You didn't even have the energy to be embarrassed, just groaned and buried your face deeper into the crook of his neck as he trudged down the hall. "Still sweet," you mumbled against his skin, barely audible.

After that night, you truly believed something had shifted between the two of you. And if anyone asked how you felt, you'd say the same thing every time: you were happy. Deeply, undeniably happy.

4 Months Later.

"Ah! Harder!F-fuck, Sunoo!"

Your voice cracked as Sunoo pressed a firm hand against the small of your back, forcing your hips higher while his other hand anchored tight around your waist. He dug his nails into your skin without realizing, the sting only mixing into the heat already flooding your body. His pace grew rougher, steady and merciless, and when your moans pitched too high, he slid his palm up to the back of your neck, pinning your face into the mattress to muffle the sounds.

Sunoo's eyes dropped, gaze fixed on the red lilies etched into your lower back. The ink bloomed outward in delicate, mirrored curves, the lines dark against your sweat-slick skin. He hated to admit it, even to himself, but he had become addicted to this view. From behind, with your ass high and that tattoo staring back at him, he always came harder than he thought possible. He'd never say it aloud, of course—he'd just brush it off with some offhand jab about your face being annoying. But deep down, he knew the truth: doggy had become his favorite position because it gave him this sight, this control, and it drove him insane.

His thrusts grew uneven, his groans breaking apart as his orgasm built and finally tore through him. A strangled moan left his lips as he spilled into the condom, his hips stuttering before he slowed to a stop. Breathing harshly, he carefully pulled out, muscles trembling.

He tied off the condom and tossed it into the trash, staring at the small pile already gathering there. "Fuck," he muttered, dragging a hand through his damp hair. "We should've stopped after the third round. My head feels groggy every time and I still have duty tomorrow."

You collapsed forward onto the bed. "You're the one who kept asking for more," you teased, voice hoarse but playful as you reached for the drawer by your side. You pulled it open and slid your fingers around the familiar box of cigarettes, only to flinch when Sunoo's hand smacked yours away with no hesitation.

"No cigarettes while I'm here," he snapped, eyes narrowing as he shoved the box back into the drawer and slammed it shut.

You turned your head lazily to glare at him, lips jutting into a pout. "Come on, I always smoke outside. Just one, it won't kill me."

Sunoo rolled his eyes and flopped down beside you, his arm heavy as it landed across your waist. "Yeah, and you'll say the same thing tomorrow, and the next day, and then you'll be coughing your lungs out when you're thirty. No thanks, I'm not kissing an ashtray." He buried his face briefly against your shoulder, breathing in your scent, before pulling back with a huff.

You stared at Sunoo for a moment, your palm brushing over his damp hair as you gently pushed it back from his forehead, fingertips catching against the fine strands still slick with sweat. His skin was flushed, chest rising and falling in steady breaths, the aftermath of exhaustion softening his features in a way you rarely got to see. He let out a low sigh at the touch, his eyes fluttering closed just for a second before he opened them again, blinking up at you like he didn't want to move. "Come on," he murmured, "let's take a shower and sleep already. I'm leaving at six-thirty."

You nodded, smiling as you leaned down to nuzzle your nose against his cheek. Your legs slipped around his waist without needing to be asked, body folding into him easily. Without a word, Sunoo shifted and lifted you up, muttering something under his breath about how clingy you were.

It wasn't often he had time like this. With his final year piling up and hospital internships consuming his days, Sunoo was constantly in motion, constantly drained. But when he made space for you, it was always in small, quiet ways—sitting still long enough for you to do his makeup, letting you slip him into the clothes you had designed, experimenting with textures and colors against his skin. He'd roll his eyes, complain about the shimmer on his cheeks or how ridiculous he looked, but he never told you to stop. And more often than not, those moments ended the same way—clothes discarded, skin pressed together, his sharp tongue replaced by soft moans. Always sex.

By morning, you usually woke up first. You'd reach for him half-asleep, sometimes without even meaning to, and he'd let it happen—sleepy eyes cracking open as he let you ride him or even give him a morning blowjob.

He told you to keep things quiet, especially when it came to Jake. Around other people, you played your part, but your restraint never lasted long. When the three of you were together, you couldn't help but lean too close to Sunoo, let your fingers graze over his hand or your palm rest lightly on his thigh. He'd shoot you that withering look, roll his eyes and he'd always yank your hair or slap your hand away.

You yawned as you bent over to pour cat food into Luna's bowl, the dry sound of the kibble clinking against ceramic echoing through the quiet. Your cat was rarely ever home, she rubbed against your ankle before settling to eat, her sleek black fur rising and falling with every breath.

Behind you, Sunoo stepped out from the bathroom, towel draped around his neck, still drying his hair. He passed by silently, stooping to give Luna a little scratch behind the ear before wandering around your room to gather his things. "I ironed your scrubs already," you said, yawning mid-sentence, arms stretching overhead as you turned to face him. "Your bag's on the table."

He paused mid-motion, glancing at you. You weren't the type to hover or fuss over anyone, but with him, it was different. You'd stopped staying at his place, mostly because you knew how little sleep he got. You didn't want to disrupt the hours of rest he did manage to find. So instead, you made sure that whenever he came over, everything he'd need by morning was already in place. Scrubs clean and folded. Bag packed. Sometimes even the lunch you'd made slipped quietly into his bag.

"I bought an energy drink yesterday," you mumbled, already at the fridge, grabbing out a pack of three. "Bring one for your friend. Sungwon, right?"

Sunoo scoffed, eyes narrowing in exaggerated offense. "His name is Jungwon. You've met him—don't act fake now."

You grinned as you handed him the cans, laughing softly as he leaned in and kissed your temple. "Thanks, girl," he muttered against your skin, then he pulled back slightly, still toweling off his damp hair, and gave you a small smirk. "Can you dry my hair and slick it back for me?"

You blinked, a little taken aback. Usually, Sunoo did things on his own, and even when he didn't, he rarely asked for help like this. You nodded without thinking, already reaching for your comb. "Yeah. Sit down," you said gently. "I'll make you look hot so Jungwon doesn't think you crawled out of bed with someone."

"I did crawl out of bed with someone," he quipped back, dropping onto the edge of your bed as you moved behind him, towel still around his shoulders.

You smiled to yourself as you began combing through the strands, towel-drying with care. "Yeah, but no one needs to know she's me."

Sunoo didn't say anything back. His eyes were on his phone, scrolling through whatever filled his morning—probably messages from classmates, schedules, maybe even memes. You didn't ask. You just stood behind him, carefully guiding his hair into a clean, slicked-back style that you knew he preferred when he was headed out for his hospital duty.

The peace felt normal, but something about it pressed against your chest. Still, you stayed silent as he finally set his phone down on the table with a soft clatter and picked up his makeup pouch, moving with ease as he dabbed on light concealer and patted a cushion over his skin. When you finished, you lingered for a moment. Then, without thinking, you leaned forward, wrapped your arms around his neck and pressed a kiss to his cheek. He groaned in that exaggerated, irritated way he always did when you got too clingy but he didn't push you away.

"I'm just happy," you murmured against his skin in a smile as your cheek rested against his. He didn't respond. Just rolled his eyes and reached for his lip balm, uncapping it with one hand. And even though he didn't say anything, you still held on for a second longer, memorizing how he felt beneath your arms.

Another week passed, and the days slipped by faster than you expected. Between classes, looming project deadlines, and juggling your part-time job, your schedule blurred but you never forgot to check in with Sunoo. You messaged him like always, updates about your day, stupid memes, or little notes like "Don't skip meals." His replies were dry, short, sometimes just an emoji or a thumbs up. But you clung to them anyway.

You were in your living room when Jay flopped down onto your couch, letting out a breath. Your electric guitar rested on your lap, fingers absentmindedly plucking at the strings, trying to memorize the fretwork. "Sunghoon's been asking about you again," Jay said, casually scrolling through his phone. "So, what do you wanna play for the university event this week? You're singing, so it's your call."

You adjusted the tuning pegs, focused on the strings. "Tell Sunghoon I'm not interested," you muttered without looking up. "What about Supermassive Black Hole?"

Jay raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? That's a hard pick. You really think you can handle both vocals and electric?"

You shrugged, chin tilted slightly as your fingers slid back into place on the neck of the guitar. "I've done harder."

Practice didn't go as smoothly as you wanted. Your mind wandered more than it should have, eyes flicking to your phone every other minute. Jay tried to stay patient, but the third time you missed your cue, he slammed his palm lightly against the back of the couch.

"Can you focus, please? You're the one who wanted this song," he said. "We barely even see you these days."

Kai, sitting behind the drum kit, tossed his sticks onto the floor with a sigh. "You keep zoning out. It's starting to get annoying."

You didn't even defend yourself. Because in that moment, your phone vibrated and your heart jumped. Sunoo was calling! You nearly knocked your guitar off your lap as you scrambled to answer, pressing the phone to your ear before the first ring ended. "Hello!" you said, voice too eager and too bright. It was the first time Sunoo had ever called you.

Kai made a face, motioning to Jay to take over. You turned away, trying to keep your voice low, your heart pounding.

On the other end, Sunoo didn't even greet you. His tone was flat, a little rushed. "I left my record book at your place. Can you get it for me?"

You blinked, straightening a little. "Oh—yeah, okay. Where are you now?"

"I'm on duty," he said, barely giving you time to respond. "At the hospital. Can you make it quick?"

There was no softness in his voice, no hint that he missed you or even cared that you answered. He just sounded tired, and you understand it since being in a healthcare is not a joke. You looked over your shoulder at your bandmates. Jay met your eyes but didn't say anything, just waved you off. "Yeah, okay. I'll head over now," you said quietly, gripping the phone tighter.

"Thanks," was all he said before the line went dead. You didn't waste time. Back in your room, you found his record book tucked between his internship folders and some folded clothes he had left the last time he stayed over. The edges were a little bent from being stuffed into your shelf, and you smoothed them gently with your palm before grabbing your helmet.

Jay's voice followed you from the couch as he sat up, confused. "Where the hell are you going?"

"Something important," you answered quickly, pulling your jacket on. "I'll be back later. Just need to drop this off."

Kai muttered something under his breath, likely a curse about your priorities, but you didn't stop to listen. You slipped out the door and rode your motorbike across town like muscle memory guided your body, even if your mind was still stuck on the way Sunoo sounded.

When you pulled in on the parking lot, the first thing you saw was him. He was leaning against a pale concrete wall near the entrance, half in shadow. Even from a distance, he looked worn down to the bone. His scrubs hung slightly loose on his frame, and the dark circles beneath his eyes were stark against the paleness of his skin. He wasn't even looking at his phone, just staring off, hands limp at his sides.

Your steps were careful as you approached, "Sunoo..." His head turned, eyes sluggish to find you. You stopped in front of him and took a breath, holding the record book out with one hand, the other brushing lightly against his forearm. "Are you okay, baby?" The nickname slipped out unconsciously, concern laced around the softness in your voice.

"I'm fine." He reached out and took the record book from your hand without looking you in the eye. "Just... duty being toxic."

You nodded, swallowing down the worry bubbling up your throat. "Have you eaten yet? You look—Sunoo, you look really out of it." You stepped closer, trying to meet his gaze. "Can I bring you something? Coffee? Bread? I'll wait for you until you're off."

His lips tightened, jaw locking like he was holding something back, but you continued. "What about we go to the—"

"God, can you just stop?" he snapped suddenly, voice louder than it should have been. You flinched. He immediately looked away, dragging a hand down his face in frustration. "I don't want any of that shit. I just needed the damn book."

You blinked, stunned for a second. Not because it hurt—though it did—but because it was the first time he'd ever raised his voice at you like that. Your fingers curled tightly around the edge of your jacket as you tried to steady your breathing. "I know," you said quietly, forcing your voice to stay even, "but you sounded upset. And I was worried."

Sunoo didn't answer right away. He just stood there, shoulders rising and falling as he breathed through whatever storm he was holding inside. "Look," he said, voice lower but still strained. "I just need to get through today. I don't have time for anything else right now."

You nodded slowly, though your chest tightened at the way he phrased it. Anything else. That included you. You took a small step back, out of understanding, even if it stung.

"I'll go," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "Just... take care of yourself, okay?"

He didn't respond. Just turned and walked back toward the sliding doors of the hospital, the record book clutched in his hand.

You've been meaning to apologize to Sunoo ever since that day, but every time you thought of dialing his number or dropping a message, you paused. He was under so much pressure already, barely sleeping between hospital shifts and classes, and you didn't want to be another thing that made his chest feel heavy.

You sat alone at the campus cafeteria, your fingers working over the delicate rows of yarn as you crocheted slowly, the hook moving again and again. A small collection of handmade tulips lay across the table in a neat cluster—pinks, reds, a few white ones that hadn't taken shape yet. Your brows were furrowed, not from the difficulty of the pattern, but from the thoughts you couldn't seem to untangle from your mind.

"You've been zoning out a lot," Sunghoon's voice cut through the silence. He slid into the seat across from you, his tray untouched. "Jay said he's one tantrum away from kicking you out of the band."

"I'm not zoning out," you answered without looking up, looping the yarn again. "I've just been doing something more important."

Sunghoon leaned in, resting his elbows on the table as his eyes scanned the colorful flowers in front of you. "These commissions? I thought you stopped doing them."

You didn't respond, the sound of yarn slipping through your fingers filling the silence instead. He watched you for another moment before asking, "Are you seeing someone?"

Your hands faltered slightly, just for a second, then picked up again as if nothing had happened. "No," you said quietly, eyes fixed on the work. "It's for a friend."

Sunghoon gave a soft hum, like he didn't believe you but wasn't going to press. "You know I've liked you for a while, right? Since high school."

You finally looked up, just enough to meet his gaze for a brief second before dropping your eyes again. "Sunghoon, I don't have the energy for one of your talks right now."

"I'm not here to make a scene," he said, more gently this time. "I just... I know how you are when you start liking someone. You act like you're fine, like everything's under control, but you start giving too much of yourself without realizing it."

Your jaw tensed, fingers tightening slightly around the hook. "You let your guard down," he continued. "And you start doing all these little things—waiting around, making things for them, dropping everything just to show up. Even when they stop treating you the same way, you keep giving."

"Sunghoon, stop," you muttered.

"I'm not judging you," he said, watching the way your hands moved a little slower. "I just don't want to see you get hurt again."

You didn't bother to look at him. The words weren't new. You shoved the last tulip into the paper bag and stood from your seat, brushing your hands on your jeans as if to shake the weight off. "It's none of your business," you said. "I do what I want to do." You left before he could answer.

Lately, everything felt like a blur. The hospital was suffocating, patients piling up, charts demanding constant attention, the head nurse always finding something to criticize. Sunoo hadn't slept in two days, and even when he did manage to collapse onto his mattress, his chest stayed tight. There wasn't room for anything else. Not for laughter, not for texting back, not even for eating. And eventually, not even for you. He didn't realize how much time had passed since he last answered your messages. He hadn't even opened them. He kept telling himself he would later, when his head wasn't pounding, when he could at least form a sentence that didn't sound like a sigh. But later kept moving farther away.

So when he opened his apartment door and saw you standing there at 9 PM, hands clutching a paper bag with that small, nervous look on your face—he froze. "S-sorry," you muttered, voice soft. "I will not disturb you, just rest. I-I just need to drop this, and wish it make you feel better."

He blinked. Then looked at the bag. Then at you again. He didn't think. He stepped forward and pulled you into his arms before you could even take a step back. The paper crinkled between you, but he didn't care. The second he buried his face into your neck, something in him cracked. A quiet sob escaped before he could hold it in, his hands shaking slightly against your back.

He couldn't remember the last time someone had brought him anything without asking for something in return. "I've never received any flowers," he mumbled. "No one's ever given me anything like this."

You didn't say anything, but your hand was there. The warmth of your touch made his chest ache in a different way. "I'm sorry for being an asshole," he whispered, breathing in your scent, a small comfort in the chaos of his days. "I didn't mean to push you away. I just—everything's been too much."

"I know," you murmured, your chin resting on his shoulder. "It's okay. You don't have to explain."

But he wanted to. You didn't deserve silence. You didn't deserve to be left hanging, wondering if he even cared. He just couldn't bring himself to say it all, but not now, not while his throat was tight and his eyes were stinging and your arms were the first place he felt human all week. "I should've answered. I just... didn't have the energy."

You didn't move away. You didn't scold him. You didn't ask for anything. You just stayed. He pulled back slightly, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his hoodie, trying to look somewhat composed. "Do you want to stay? Just for a bit?"

You nodded without hesitation, and the two of you ended up in his room, laughing your ass out.

He let out another burst of laugh as he leaned over to look at your tablet. "What even is that supposed to be?"

"Wait, I drew you!" you blurted out, your finger swiping across the screen excitedly. You tapped on a picture and turned it to show him—the chibi version of him with devil horns, an exaggerated pout, and glitter under the eyes.

Sunoo squinted, then narrowed his eyes dramatically. "You little shit," he muttered, before slapping your shoulder.

You shifted without thinking, climbing into his lap, your back settling against his chest as you held the tablet up between you. His arms wrapped around your waist loosely, his chin resting over your shoulder

"Wait, you drew this one too?" Sunoo's voice pulled you from the moment. He pointed at a little sticker design on your tablet—a black cat holding a cigarette between its tiny fingers. "I bought this! From the Art Museum's student booth a few months ago. I stuck it on my old clipboard."

You turned your head slightly to meet his stare. "Are you serious? That was my booth. That's literally my design!"

Sunoo's mouth dropped open in disbelief. "What the hell? Why weren't you guarding your own booth?! You're such a bad artist!"

You scoffed, turning to half-face him, "Excuse me, I had a nicotine addiction to maintain. I took a break."

He groaned. "Turns out it was you sneaking off to light up under a 'No Smoking' sign."

"You bought my sticker and called me a bitch. How dare you insult me and support me at the same time?"

"I didn't know it was you!" he defended, laughing again. "But honestly, you deserved it. I hate people who smoke where they're not supposed to."

You twisted slightly in his lap, now facing him more directly. "So do you still hate me?" you asked, teasing, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips as your fingers played with the hem of his hoodie.

Sunoo didn't look away. He rolled his eyes like he always did. His voice was soft, almost playful. "Yes. Obviously. You're still annoying."

You pouted at his answer, dragging out a whine. His smile lingered, and even though his words were stubborn, his hands had tightened just slightly around your waist. "I'm not joking," he added, resting his forehead against yours. "You're so, so, sooo annoying."

The night ended up your thighs trembling around his head, your hands tangled in his hair, your voice broken from the way his mouth worked between your legs. He made you come three times with his tongue alone, not stopping until you pushed at his shoulders with tear-brimmed eyes and slurred, begging words. Then he let you ride him,  your back turned to him, your head lolled to the side as his hands gripped your hips.

The next morning, the weight in your chest had lifted. You didn't feel guilty for smiling. Even when Jay clapped his hands together loudly the moment you walked into the studio and said, "You're in a good mood, thank God," you just grinned wider and grabbed his electric guitar, pretending to tune it like nothing had happened.

"You want a hit?" Kai asked, waving his vape your way.

You shook your head without even thinking. "I already quit smoking," you said casually, even though that choice had been harder than you liked to admit.

You and Sunoo didn't put labels on what was happening—not yet—but things fell into place anyway. There was a rhythm to it. You spent weekends at his apartment, usually coming over late Friday, falling asleep on his couch after watching movies and ordering junk food. Saturday mornings meant waking up tangled together, cooking breakfast with your hair a mess and his arms still lazy around your waist, and Sunday nights usually ended with you riding him slowly before passing out from exhaustion. Mondays, he walked you to your motorbike before his duty started again.

One Sunday afternoon, sprawled on his bed while you were half-scrolling through TikTok and half-dozing on his lap, he suddenly shoved his phone in your face. "I think this type of style suits you more," he said, showing you some random Pinterest board filled with soft, layered outfits—more structured, a little feminine, clean silhouettes with warm tones. "You need to upgrade your wardrobe."

You squinted at the screen, unimpressed. "Hmm. I think you're just projecting your type in girls on me," you teased, nudging his thigh with your elbow.

Sunoo rolled his eyes, clearly expecting that answer. "No. I just think it looks presentable. And it would look good on you."

You looked down at yourself—baggy ripped jeans, an oversized acubi-style shirt, sneakers worn down from all your bike rides. Not exactly the most polished look, but it was comfortable. You shrugged with a small grin. "Okay, I'll try," you said. "Anyway, can we visit that new café that opened last week? I saw it on Instagram and they have a bunch of Bon Jovi albums on display."

Sunoo blinked. "Bon Jovi?"

"Yeah, like actual vinyls. The post said there's a listening booth too." You leaned closer, eyes brightening. "And the interior looks so nice. Real vintage vibe. I figured you'd like it."

He tilted his head, pretending to think. "Hmm... okay, maybe next week?"

You nodded, trying to keep it casual, but the smile that broke out on your face gave you away. Excitement bloomed in your chest like it was something new. It wasn't just another plan. It wasn't just a random meet-up. This one felt different. You kept thinking about it all week. Every small moment your mind wandered, it wandered to that café. To how you'd sit across from him, to the lighting, to the smell of the place, maybe to the way he'd laugh when you'd try to act cool about your favorite album being on display. You weren't even sure if it counted as a real date, but you were choosing to believe it did. That belief made your stomach flutter.

By Saturday, you had cleaned your room twice, even reorganized your crochet materials—something you only did when you were nervous. Your playlist was full of Bon Jovi songs now, looping endlessly while you stared at your closet.

That morning, you found yourself standing in front of your mirror, staring at your reflection longer than usual. Your piercings were gone—well, mostly. You'd taken out the ones on your face, letting the skin breathe, letting yourself look softer. The change made you feel exposed, a little too bare, but also like you were trying.

"Do you think I look presentable now without the piercings?" you asked, turning slightly in front of the mirror. The floral dress you wore was one of the few pieces in your closet that wasn't oversized, black or red. You smoothed the fabric down nervously, then glanced at Jay who was lounging nearby.

Jay lifted his eyes from his phone, a cigarette loosely held between his fingers. His face twisted slightly like he couldn't decide whether to laugh or roll his eyes. "What's with all this performative energy? You still look like an emo girl who got dragged into church."

You shot him a glare. "I'm being serious."

"So am I." He took a drag, blowing the smoke toward the window. "You look like yourself, just with fewer metal parts. That's not a bad thing, by the way. It's still you."

"You don't get it," you said quietly, adjusting the straps of the dress again. "I need to look like I have my shit together. I'm going somewhere... and I want to be seen a certain way."

Jay rolled his eyes, walked over, and stood behind you, he stubbed out his cigarette on the ceramic ashtray near the window and reached toward you, pushing your hair behind your shoulders without asking. He squinted as he examined your face. "You'll look better if you tie your hair up," he mumbled, the filter of his half-lit cigarette still stuck between his lips. "Ponytail or something. The dress opens your collarbone. It works."

You blinked at him, surprised by how serious he sounded, then reached up instinctively to gather your hair into your hand. You tilted your head, testing the look in the mirror. Something about it clicked. You could see it now—the way your eyes opened up more, how your features looked cleaner without the strands framing your face. A bit bare, sure. A little too soft maybe. "I think you're right," you said with a small smile, already grabbing a scrunchie from your pocket. "That actually helps."

Jay shrugged. "Whatever. You asked."

You turned to face him, grateful even if he looked bored out of his mind. "Thanks, Jay. Really."

"Wow, you look really good, girl."

The compliment came with a spark in Sunoo's eyes the moment you stepped inside the café, and it sent a flush creeping up your neck. His gaze lingered, tracing your figure with genuine awe that he didn't even try to hide. You hadn't brought your motorbike today—not in a dress like this—and walking into the café with heels clicking and your hair tied back suddenly felt worth it.

"Only good?" you teased, pouting as you twirled the hem of your floral dress playfully in front of him. With a soft push of your fingers, you tucked your hair behind your ear and tilted your head, smiling shyly as you searched his face for a better reaction. You wanted him to say beautiful, maybe even breathtaking, but even without the words, the look in his eyes told you everything.

Your heart had been thumping ever since you saw him seated by the window, casually checking his phone. Now, up close, it was worse. The sunlight streaming into the café highlighted the soft brown fall of his hair, the gentle curve of his cheekbones, the way his denim shirt hung open over a simple white tank top. He looked effortless—too effortless for someone who always drove you to such nervousness. And yet, despite that nervousness, you found yourself loosening.

The longer you stayed in his presence, the easier it was to talk, to laugh, to let go of the performance. There was something so calming about talking to him about things you loved, sharing songs you liked, memories from art class, favorite old movies, dumb fashion trends—simple things, but they became important because you were sharing them with him. Talking about your likes with someone you liked—it felt too rare to take for granted.

That's when it hit you. Maybe it was finally time to talk about what was happening between the two of you. The affection, the growing intimacy, the weekends together, the sleepovers that blurred the line between casual and committed—it had all been there. But neither of you had dared to define it. He had always been honest with you. In the four months you'd been tangled into each other's lives, he never lied about what he felt or where he stood. So maybe, it was time for you to take the risk again and ask.

As the two of you wandered near the wooden display cabinet filled with vintage Bon Jovi and Queen albums, your fingers reached for his and laced through gently. He let you. Your hands stayed linked, a quiet statement hanging between you, even while your mouth continued to talk about vinyl sleeves and weird 80s cover art. That peace only lasted seconds before a familiar voice cut through the space.

"Sunoo?"

Sunoo's body tensed before he turned around, his eyes wide in surprise. You perked up too, smiling with recognition, you gasped as you waved at the approaching figure. Jake, lively as ever, grinned brightly as he made his way to you.

But just as you were about to speak, Sunoo let go of your hand. The action was subtle, but it was sharp. His fingers pulled away quickly, and his body leaned ever so slightly to the side, creating distance between the two of you. You tried to ignore the way your smile faltered, tried to hold it together as Jake reached you both

"What are you doing here? Are you two bonding?" Jake asked with his usual exaggerated pout before leaning in to kiss your cheeks in greeting, then doing the same to Sunoo. "Without me?"

Your mouth opened, ready to answer, to explain but Sunoo spoke first. "No, we just ran into each other," he said too quickly, a small nervous laugh escaping his lips. "And we couldn't help but talk for a bit. It's been so long since we last saw each other, you know?"

He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. And your heart sank. Jake, ever the extrovert, nodded along cheerfully, completely unaware. "Ahhh! That's so cute! I'm just glad you two are hanging out again. We seriously need to set up another sleepover, right?"

You forced a small chuckle, brushing your hand along the side of your skirt. "T-that's a great idea," you said, trying to match his enthusiasm. But your eyes flicked back to Sunoo. He was tapping his foot against the floor, fast and impatient, not meeting your gaze.

It was like something had shifted in an instant. And now you were standing in that silence again, not sure if the version of Sunoo who held your hand minutes ago was still there... or if he had just vanished with Jake's arrival.

Even after Jake finally waved goodbye and disappeared down the street, your mood stayed where it dropped. Sunoo stood next to you like nothing happened, releasing a sigh and forcing a new topic as if the tension wasn't heavy in the air. He spoke casually, talking about a song he'd heard recently, about trying a different drink next time, anything to ignore the silence growing between you. But you couldn't pretend like him. You couldn't look him in the eye or laugh at something meaningless when your chest felt like it was being squeezed in slow, deliberate pulses. You kept your gaze down, watching your feet move with every step, barely hearing a thing he was saying.

Sunoo started to notice. His tone shifted—less patient, more irritated. The lightness in his voice faded and was replaced with annoyance. He didn't like when you shut down, and now it was clear he was blaming you for the sudden weight between you.

By the time you reached the door of his apartment, you knew the conversation was inevitable. He stepped in first, then turned, and before you could even take your shoes off, his voice came tight and harsh.

"Are you seriously getting all moody just because I let go of your hand when Jake showed up?" His eyes narrowed, his words clipped. "We agreed to keep this between us, not to say anything to Jake. You knew that. Why are you acting like this now?"

You stayed by the doorway, not moving. "It's not just about that," you murmured, your voice already thin. You didn't want to argue. You didn't want to cry either, but your body was already betraying you, tightening up.

He scoffed. "Then what is it? Because I didn't hold your hand in front of him? That's it?"

"It's just..." you took a breath, and even that was hard to push out. You felt like the words were caught in your throat, slicing through. "You looked—ashamed."

Sunoo didn't pause. He didn't soften. "Of course I'm ashamed," he blurted, not even giving the sentence time to sit. "How the hell are we supposed to explain that we're what—fucking each other? What do you want me to say to him?"

You flinched at his word, you looked up slowly, heart pounding so loud you could hear it in your ears. "It's not that hard to admit, is it?" you said, your voice shaking as you took a step forward, eyes stinging. "People do that all the time. Fuck buddies aren't a secret anymore. It's normal. You think Jake would've been shocked?"

"That's not the point—"

"It is the point, Sunoo!" You cut him off, your voice rising despite the tremble in it. "We've been doing this for months. We spend every weekend together. We sleep in the same bed. We talk like we mean something to each other, so why is it so hard to tell him that we're — something?"

You didn't expect him to shout back, but he did. "Because I'm supposed to be gay! Do you get that? I'm not supposed to feel like this about you!" The words came out angry. "And you keep pushing it like it's that simple."

You stared at him, your face falling, your fists curling. "Who fucking cares if you're gay? I never made you not be." You took a step back, voice cracking. "Just say it. Just say you're ashamed to be seen with me."

Sunoo's face twisted, but he didn't back down. His chest was heaving now, like something in him had snapped too. "You're projecting your insecurity on me! You act like I owe you something just because you decided to catch feelings! I never promised you more than what this was. That was you. That was always you!"

Your breath caught in your throat, and you stumbled back, blinking fast as the first tear broke past your lashes.       "You're the one who came back after that night," he went on, voice rising with frustration, like he couldn't stop himself anymore. "You kept showing up, acting like this was something serious, like this was going to turn into something. I just—" he stopped, looking away like he couldn't even look at you when he said it, "I just gave in. You were tempting, okay? You made it hard to say no."

All the blood in your body seemed to rush to your ears, and still, you couldn't hear anything but the sound of your heart breaking. Another tear slipped down your cheek, and your lips parted like you were going to respond—but nothing came out.        Sunoo blinked, realizing too late what he had just said. The way he looked at you shifted instantly, as if he wanted to take it back, but the damage was already there. "...Wait," he whispered, reaching for you instinctively. "I didn't mean—"

But you just nodded, slowly, painfully, like someone waking up from a dream they didn't want to end. "I- I get it," you said quietly, stepping past him and walking out his door like your legs weren't shaking. You didn't even turn to look at him. "I'm sorry," you added, trying to keep your voice steady, though the sound cracked anyway. You wiped under your eyes, but the tears kept falling, soft and warm against your skin. "You were right. I was annoying. I was pushy. I caught feelings, I shouldn't have. I thought maybe... I don't know what I thought."

You paused to breathe, your throat tightening as you tried to keep the sob from escaping. "What could I even expect, right? You're still a man. Of course this meant n-nothing."

Sunoo's chest tightened so hard he couldn't breathe for a second. He wanted to stop you, to wrap his arms around you, to tell you it wasn't true—none of what you were saying. That he did care. That this wasn't nothing to him. That he didn't think you were annoying, or a mistake, or something to be ashamed of. But he couldn't get the words out. The fear clenched too tightly around his ribs.

"I'm sorry," you said again, a whisper this time. Another tear slipped free and this time you laughed, short and broken. "God, I sound pathetic. S-sorry, Sunoo. I'll go. I'll leave you alone. You won't have to worry about me again."

You turned, fast, footsteps uneven as you tried to get away before he could see the full collapse happening inside you.

Sunoo didn't stop you. And you broke. You didn't wait to cry. The tears came fast and violent, your chest aching as you stumbled down the street, wiping your face on the back of your hand like it would help. At the bus stop, you sat hunched on the bench, arms wrapped around yourself as if holding your own body could keep you from falling apart. On the bus, you curled near the window, staring out at the dark streets, your reflection barely visible through the glass. You didn't care who saw you. The ache inside you was louder than embarrassment.

By the time you made it to your apartment, your hands were trembling. You didn't even bother turning on the lights. You made your way straight to your room, tugging the dress zipper with shaking fingers. When it wouldn't budge, frustration bubbled up, too hot to contain. You gritted your teeth and yanked, but it wouldn't move, so you grabbed the fabric near your shoulder and ripped it down your back with a cry of frustration. The fabric tore, seams giving way under your rage.

You tossed it to the floor like it burned you. Chest heaving, you stormed over to your nightstand and grabbed the crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds. Your fingers trembled as you pulled one out, jamming it between your lips, and fumbled with the lighter until the flame caught. You inhaled sharply, letting the smoke burn down your throat as you collapsed into the chair near the window.

"Stupid," you muttered under your breath, blinking away more tears that wouldn't stop coming. "So fucking stupid."

You thought you were strong enough not to let this happen again. You thought you could handle it. But what did you expect? You were so obsessed with ruining him when you first met, so fixated on getting under his skin, that you didn't notice he was already getting under yours. You didn't even get the chance to ruined him—he got to you first.

• ───────────────── •

Sunoo had never experienced a heartbreak that ached like this. He had felt sad before—moments of longing, fleeting attachments—but those had always passed with time, fading within days, maybe a week at most. They never lingered, never left anything permanent behind. So why the hell had he been sulking for nearly a month now, barely able to focus, barely able to sleep, staring blankly at the tulip bouquet on his desk like it could somehow explain what went wrong?

He told himself he should be relieved. There were no more complications in his way, no emotional distractions to deal with. He was finally free to focus on his demanding internship, on his future, on everything he had planned for years. And yet every late-night shift, every quiet weekend, every exhausted morning waking up to silence felt impossibly hollow without you. You used to send him silly selfies while he studied, comfort him through voice notes when he ranted about how hard nursing was, remind him to eat when he was too tired to remember. Now, all he had was the buzzing of lights, the clinking of stainless steel, the silence of the hospital—and that goddamn tulip bouquet collecting dust in the corner.

His eyebags were darker, heavier, like they carried the weight of everything he never said to you. His thoughts were loud, looping over what he should've done differently, what he should've said the moment he saw your face fall.

Fuck. He missed you so much it made his whole body ache. Every fucking night he lay in bed, biting his fist to muffle the cries. Were you okay? Were you eating? Were you still crying? Were you still thinking about him? God, he hoped not. He didn't deserve your thoughts, your sadness, your softness—but deep inside, he still wished he lived rent-free in your head the way you haunted his.

He wanted to hold you again, to collapse into your arms after a hard shift, to hear your voice teasing him when he whined about school. He wanted to kiss your neck like he used to, trace the little freckles on your collarbone, let you thread his hair through your fingers while he laid on your lap. He wanted to watch you feed your cat, complain about his bad taste in coffee, laugh when you purposely messed up his eyeliner just to annoy him. He wanted the boring things with you. The quiet, gentle things he once brushed off like they were nothing. He regretted every time he took you for granted.

"Sunoo!" Jungwon's voice jolted him out of his thoughts. His friend clapped him on the back, grinning. "Congrats! Why do you look like someone just died? We're graduating! Where's the joy, girl?"

Sunoo forced a weak smile, shrugging his shoulders as he kept his gaze locked on the soccer field in front of them, watching the high schoolers running laps, laughing with no clue how cruel it was to grow up.        "You've been M.I.A. lately," Jungwon continued, nudging him. "Not cool. You ghosted everyone. No more parties? No more hangouts? We should celebrate. It's not fun without you."

Sunoo exhaled quietly, shoulders sinking. "Jungwon," he said under his breath. "I think I got infected by men's emotional negligence," Sunoo muttered bitterly, eyes still locked on the field, watching a soccer ball bounce and roll across the grass

Jungwon blinked at him. Then snorted. Then burst out laughing so hard he doubled over, hitting Sunoo's back again. "What? What are you saying? You're not even dating anyone! You've been so secretive about your love life lately, I thought maybe you were going through a dry spell or something." He leaned back, grinning. "But don't worry—men are assholes. It's honestly safer to hurt them first before they get the chance to hurt you—"

"It's not a man," he said quietly.

And Jungwon stopped laughing. He stiffened beside him, eyes blinking wide. "Wait. What?"

Sunoo didn't look at him. He just kept watching the field, the blurry shape of a boy chasing a ball, the sun dipping lower behind the school buildings. "It's not a man," he repeated. "I wish it was. It would've been easier."

His lips curled bitterly as he looked down at his white sneakers, scuffed and dirtied from weeks of walking to class in silence. "I miss her. No shit. I miss her so fucking bad."

There was a small and self-deprecating laugh, tugging at the edge of his voice, but it cracked halfway through. "It's stupid, isn't it? It hurts more when you know it's your fault. I keep thinking about all the things I told myself I'd never become. I always talked about how men treat people like shit—how they use and walk away, how they never apologize for the damage they leave behind. How they shrink from softness because they're scared of what it says about them."

He rubbed at his chest with the heel of his palm like it might ease the tightness building there, but the pressure only grew heavier. "I always swore I'd never be like that. And then I went ahead and did it anyway. I made her feel that way, Jungwon. Like she was something to be ashamed of. Like she was just a mistake I wanted to keep hidden. Like the feelings she gave me were inconvenient." He let out a shaky breath, shoulders caving in slightly. "And the worst part? I never even told her how much I liked her. How much she meant to me."

Jungwon's mouth opened slightly, stunned into silence by the sight of Sunoo—the usually sharp-tongued, composed Sunoo—sitting beside him with tears slipping quietly down his cheeks. "I'm sorry," Sunoo whispered. "You can laugh at me now. Tease me. Say I got soft. Say I turned my back on my sexuality. Or that I lost my mind over a girl when I always said I wouldn't—"

"Girl," Jungwon interrupted, his tone softer than as he scooted closer and draped an arm across Sunoo's back. "Relax. Why the hell would I laugh at you for this? You're clearly hurting. I'd have to be heartless to find that funny."

Sunoo sniffled, wiping his face. Jungwon sighed, giving his shoulder a squeeze. "You know, I think sometimes we get so wrapped up in the idea of who we're supposed to be, or what we're supposed to feel, that we forget we're just... human. You always said you didn't want to be like the guys who hurt others, right? Well, maybe you fucked up. Maybe you acted like one of them. But you realized it. You're sitting here crying because of it. That already makes you different from most."

Sunoo didn't speak, but his jaw trembled, and the tears didn't stop. Jungwon tilted his head, speaking more gently now. "Men can be assholes. A lot of them are. But being born with a dick doesn't mean you're destined to be one. What makes someone a real man is taking responsibility. Owning up to your shit. Making it right when you can."

He paused, then smiled faintly. "We might be one of the girls, sure. We squeal, we wear blush, we cry over small things, and we talk too much when we drink—but we also carry the weight of things like this. Of hurting people we care about."

Sunoo's breath hitched again, and this time when he wiped at his face, he was a little slower, a little calmer.        "You know what you need to do," Jungwon said, nudging him gently. "If she meant something to you... you owe her more than silence. And you owe yourself more than sitting here pretending you're okay."

"Do you think it's too late?" he asked finally.

"I don't know," Jungwon admitted. "But people forgive stupid things when they see you're actually sorry. And you are. I see it. Maybe she will too."

"You're definitely insane," Jay said. "Because why the hell would you decide to do your nails when you know you have to play electric guitar tomorrow?"

You didn't even look up. Your fingers were too focused on the torn fabric in your lap, guiding the needle carefully through the jagged tear. You tugged gently at the thread, the tension sliding through the cloth as you murmured, "It's just minor chords."

Jay groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Minor chords and you're still skipping practice like you've got this down. God, you're making my head hurt."

"I said I'll show up," you replied flatly.

Jay scoffed in the background, but you ignored it. Let him roll his eyes. Let him sigh and throw another fit about perfection. It wasn't like he'd understand anyway. The nails weren't the problem. Jay and his perfectionist self always had something to complain about when people didn't bend to his rhythm. But you liked your nails. You liked how they shimmered when the light hit them. They made you feel decent—like maybe, just maybe, you were still capable of taking care of yourself.

Except you were too stupid to realize you'd chosen that exact shade of mint green. That soft, sweet color he once said reminded him of summer. The one he jokingly suggested would look cute on your nails if you ever ditched the blacks and reds you usually wore. The color had haunted you since then, just like everything else tied to him.

You stared down at your fingers, freshly painted and curled slightly as you guided the needle through the torn seam of the dress. You had sworn to never touch it again, but here you were, piecing it back together with trembling hands.

Heard from someone that Sunoo made it into the Latin honors list. Top of his class, just as you expected. And good for him. Really. You hoped he was sleeping well, smiling like he always did, charming everyone with that beautiful, soft voice and those ridiculously perfect eyes.

You hoped he forgot you — Because it wasn't fair that you were still waking up thinking about him.

"Fuck," you hissed, jerking your hand back as the needle pricked the pad of your finger. Blood welled up, a small drop blooming at the surface. It smeared faintly against the fabric—right over the seam you'd been trying to fix. "Ugh, shit," you muttered, staring at the new stain forming on the pale material.

Perfect! Just perfect. You sucked on your finger for a second, breathing hard through your nose, trying to hold everything back.          "You could've just bought a new dress, you know." Jay said, looking at your face.

"I didn't want a new one," you said quietly, still looking at the ruined thread. "I wanted to fix it."

If someone asked you what exactly you were feeling right now, you wouldn't know how to answer. There wasn't a word that fit—nothing specific. You were functioning just fine. You got out of bed. You drank your coffee. You worked. You smiled when people talked to you, even laughed when the joke was decent enough. So, you were fine, right?

But then why did everything feel so dull? Why did the silence in your room stretch too long, and why did the nights feel colder, even when the fan wasn't turned on?

Maybe it was because you quit your part-time job. Maybe it was because you'd thrown yourself into freelance commissions, desperate to stay busy, desperate to drown out the thoughts by making yourself useful. Drawing until your eyes hurt, until your hand cramped. It worked for a while—until even the deadlines stopped scaring you.

The truth was, you had too much space now. And all that extra room made it harder to ignore the feeling gnawing at the edges of your chest.

Jay had once said, "That's why it's hard for me to watch you fall in love. You're the kind of person who gives everything without realizing it. You show up without fail, but somehow still feel so far away."

You didn't understand what he meant back then. Thought he was being dramatic, maybe too sentimental. But now you did. You were always present, always dependable. But your heart? You'd locked it away for years, guarded and watchful, convinced no one would be careful enough to hold it.

And when you let your walls down. You gave in completely, all at once, as if you'd been waiting your whole life for a reason to. And he didn't stay... Now you sat alone again, trying to rebuild the barricade you'd once worn. You tried patching yourself up with work and distractions, thinking if you filled your days enough, the ache would fade. But some nights, it came back stronger. A ghost knocking on your ribs, reminding you of the softness you once allowed.

You regret letting him see you that clearly. Regret peeling yourself open, showing the tender parts you swore no one would ever get close to. You used to be so good at keeping people at a distance, but you ruined yourself when you made an exception.

"Putting my defenses up, 'cause I don't wanna fall in love."

Your voice rang out, echoing through the crowded room. You stood at the front of the stage, clutching the mic, and the lights hit your face just enough to make everything outside the spotlight blur into nothing.

"Never put my love out on the line..." The lyrics spilled from your lips. Your eyes drifted to the floor where your foot tapped in rhythm, then to the strings of your guitar as your fingers pressed down the chords. "Never said yes to the right guy. Never had trouble getting what I want..."

A faint smile tugged at your lips. "But when it comes to you, I'm never good enough..."

You looked up then, stealing a glance toward your bandmates. They were all focused on their instruments, lost in the music like they always were, eyes down or closed, rocking slightly with the beat. None of them looked at you. You were glad for it. You didn't want them to see the way your hands were trembling on the fretboard, or how your throat threatened to close the moment his face flickered in your mind. "When I don't care, I can play 'em like a Ken doll..."

You swallowed thickly and tried to stay in rhythm, tried to keep your tone playful like the song intended—but your mind was far from the lyrics now. It drifted elsewhere. To him.

"Won't wash my hair, then make 'em bounce like a basketball..." Your breath hitched, but you kept going. "But you make me wanna act like a girl..."

You closed your eyes then. "Paint my nails and wear high heels..." Your fingers slid along the guitar strings automatically. And then, without warning, his face appeared—soft eyes, dimpled smile, that maddeningly gentle voice. Sunoo.

"Yes, you—" You faltered. "—make me so nervous that I just can't hold your hand."

You pushed through the chorus, the words twisting in your throat. The beat thundered in your ears, drowning out the sound of your own thoughts. You didn't miss a note, but you felt every crack forming inside you. And when the song finally ended, the stage lights dimmed and the crowd's cheers erupted like static in your chest, you barely smiled.

You brushed your hair back, exhaling hard as you stepped off the stage. The adrenaline was already wearing off, leaving only the sweat sticking to your skin and the tightness in your throat. You grabbed the water bottle waiting for you and took a few long gulps, letting the cool liquid settle your nerves.

"I thought you hated pop songs."

You turned your head slightly, recognizing Sunghoon's voice before you saw his face. He was already beside you, grinning. You sighed, long and loud, then handed him the water without looking, forcing him to take it. "You're annoying," you muttered, adjusting your loose sando, tugging the strap back up your shoulder and trying to fix your tangled hair with one hand. "You know I didn't pick the setlist."

"But you sang the hell out of it."

"Don't push it," you warned.

Then his voice dropped again, quieter but curious. "You got a new tattoo?"

You stilled for a moment. Your hand went to your nape instinctively, brushing over the still-healing skin just below the red ink etched across your upper spine. You didn't answer, just gave a hum of acknowledgment before slipping your hand down your back. Without shame, you reached beneath your shirt and unhooked your bra, letting your chest finally breathe after hours under the stage lights.

Sunghoon didn't say anything for a moment, but you felt his gaze linger. "Are you free tonight?" he asked. "Thought maybe we could hang out. Talk or something. Just us?"

Another sigh escaped you, this one heavier than the last. You didn't try to hide the exhaustion in your voice this time.           "Sunghoon..." you started, turning to finally face him properly. "You're a good friend. You've been sticking around for longer than most people would, and I get it. You think there's something here, maybe because I let you hang around or because I'm too tired to fight your flirting half the time."

He opened his mouth to say something, but you raised your hand. "But I'm not interested," you said, carefully but clearly.

He blinked. The corners of his mouth twitched, like he didn't know whether to frown or fake a laugh, but then his lips settled into a small, almost understanding smile. "You're not interested in boys," he said, a little too quickly, trying to soften the blow for himself.

"No," you cut in, sharper this time. "I'm not interested in you."

Sunghoon looked down, then up, that crooked smile still hanging on his lips. "You know I won't stop, right?" he said, brushing off rejection with a joke.

You raised an eyebrow. "That's your choice," you replied plainly. "But don't expect me to change my mind."

"Okay," He nodded, his gaze dropped before you even finished your sentence, trailing down lazily across your chest.

Your fingers snapped in front of his face. "Seriously?" you said with irritation.

Sunghoon blinked, caught, his mouth twitching up. "Sorry, sorry," he mumbled quickly. His eyes flicked back up to your face. "Is that a new piercing?"

You didn't respond right away. You crossed your arms instead, trying to hold onto your patience and bite back the exhaustion blooming across your shoulders. The days had been long, your emotions threadbare. "Ni-ki did it," you said finally, eyes narrowing as your annoyance deepened.

When your gig finally ended, you let out a long breath you didn't realize you'd been holding. You made your way toward the bar where the owner usually handed out the cut for the night, hoping it wouldn't take long because all you wanted was to go home and lie down. But before you could even reach the counter, you were nearly knocked off balance by someone throwing their arms around you.

"Oh my God! I haven't seen you in forever!" You tensed instinctively, blinking as you looked up—Jake. He pulled back slightly, still gripping your shoulders, eyes shining.

You forced a small smile. "Hi. How are you?" you asked politely, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your face. "I've been... busy. Really busy. You know how it gets."

Jake nodded eagerly, releasing you as he leaned against the edge of the bar. "Yeah, I get it. It's fine. Just figured I'd bump into you sooner or later. Hey—are you attending Sunoo's graduation this week?"

You froze. Your fingers twitched slightly as you curled them into the hem of your shirt, the smile on your face faltering before you managed to hold it steady again. "I—" you started, stumbling over your words. "You know we're not... that close anymore. So..." You trailed off with a shrug, trying not to look too affected even though your heart had suddenly picked up its pace.

Jake tilted his head, eyes narrowing like he was about to laugh. Not in a cruel way, but in that clueless, teasing way. You didn't give him the chance. You pushed the conversation forward before he could press further. "But how was he?" you asked quickly, pretending not to care too much even though the question burned on your tongue.

Jake leaned back and sighed dramatically. "I don't know! That bitch is ghosting everyone—just like you!" He chuckled, nudging your arm. "The only time I ever saw him was when he was at the university doing paperwork for his graduation. He's been MIA otherwise. You? Any dating updates?"

You gave another tired smile. "Not really my priorities lately," you replied, brushing your fingers over your wrist, suddenly aware of how cold your skin felt. "I'm glad he's graduating though. That's good for him."

There was a pause. Jake didn't seem to notice, already moving on with a laugh.

"What about you?" you asked before he could dig any deeper. "When's your graduation? I pity you guys. I still have two years."

Jake groaned, rubbing his face. "Ugh, don't remind me. I'm stressing because my coat won't fit."

You laughed softly as Jake rambled beside you, jumping from topic to topic like someone trying to make up for lost time. He was always like this—talkative, friendly, too eager. You tried your best to follow along, nodding when appropriate, giving short answers even though your energy was already hanging by a thread. Every bone in your body felt heavy after the performance, your shoulders stiff from standing so long, your throat dry even after the water.

He launched into another round of questions, asking about your gigs, your commissions, and whether or not you'd finally taken time off. Then, inevitably, he brought up Park Sunghoon.

"People still think we're together? Fuck that shit." You let out a grunt.

"They just like to talk," Jake offered with a shrug, as if that made it any less irritating. "You know how it is."

You rolled your eyes and tucked the bills into your bag, already thinking about what cheap meal you could get on the way home. "Then they should talk about how I'm not interested in anyone right now. Spread that."

"Not even Shin Ryujin?" he said, clearly enjoying how far he could push the conversation. "I swear you used to have the biggest, fattest crush on her. I mean—she agreed to model for you! That's a move, right?"

You tilted your head slightly. "Or maybe she just liked my art."

Jake paused for a beat, as if waiting for you to say more, but you didn't. He smirked, already forming a thought to your answer. You just shrugged, like you didn't care anymore, you wish it did. None of them ever made you feel the way he did.

Let Jake think what he wanted to think. Let people gossip and spread whatever they wanted. You were too tired to keep defending your disinterest, too tired to explain that the only person you'd really wanted was Kim Sunoo. Fucking Kim Sunoo.

And ironically, the universe had its own cruel sense of humor.

Jake didn't expect to see Sunoo the very next day—standing in front of a flower shop. Without warning, Jake squealed and slapped him on the back so hard that Sunoo's entire frame jolted forward. His eyes flew wide, mouth parting in surprise as he turned to glare.

"Fuck you," Jake laughed, hitting him again before he could dodge. "Who's the lucky person, huh? Don't tell me you're finally confessing to someone?"

Sunoo winced, rubbing his stinging shoulder and trying not to groan. "Can you not hit so hard? Shit."

It had taken him three whole days just to muster up the courage. Three days of Jungwon talking sense into him, helping him run through scenarios and worst-case outcomes, of typing and deleting countless drafts of what he wanted to say. Three days of checking your schedule like a lovesick stalker, memorizing the time and place of your fashion show just to make sure he'd catch you when you weren't buried in fabrics or fixing last-minute outfits.

He didn't really know what he was doing. The idea of bringing flowers felt old-fashioned, maybe even stupid, but he clung to it because it gave him something to hold—something to fill his trembling hands with when he finally stood in front of you. Because if he admitted it to himself, he really fucking missed you.

Jake, as usual, wouldn't shut up. He rambled about school, his thesis, some fight in a group chat he got dragged into, asking random questions in between like Sunoo was giving him the attention he wanted. Sunoo tapped his foot impatiently, nodding absently, eyes flicking to his wristwatch. He knew your show was scheduled to start soon. Jungwon had confirmed it just last night. If he moved now, he could probably sneak into the venue and find you. He wasn't sure how it would go, but he knew he didn't want to delay it any longer.

But then, Jake said your name.

"She looked so good last night, by the way. I talked to her after her gig," he said, chewing on his gum, unaware of the way Sunoo's shoulders tensed. "And I think she's dating that model of hers."

Sunoo stopped tapping his foot. Slowly turned to face him. Jake kept going. "You know Park Sunghoon? He really, really likes her! But she's totally into this girl—Shin Ryujin. If Sunghoon finds out he got rejected again for a girl, he's gonna be pissed."

The bouquet almost slipped out of Sunoo's hands. "Wait, what?" he asked.

Jake blinked, startled by the shift in tone. "Well, I mean—not confirmed or anything. But it looked like it, right? I mean, come on! If you know Ryujin, she's hot! They had crazy chemistry onstage."

But Sunoo didn't hear the rest. His pulse pounded so loudly in his ears it drowned everything else. The bouquet in his hands felt like it weighed a thousand pounds, the crinkling paper suddenly unbearable beneath his tightening grip. He could feel that familiar burn in his chest. The weight pressing down on his lungs, stealing the air from him. It wasn't just surprise, or confusion. It was anger.

No. That can't be true. Jake said it wasn't confirmed. He said maybe. But even maybe was too much for Sunoo.

Because that wasn't just anyone. That was you. His you. Even if he hadn't been able to say it properly before, even if he spent weeks keeping his distance, fumbling over his feelings, even if he was too much of a coward to tell you when he should've—he never once stopped wanting you.

And the idea of someone else having you, touching you, making you smile the way he used to, hurt more than he thought it would. His stomach twisted with jealousy. His mind raced with every memory he had of you—your laugh, your stubbornness, the way you always acted like nothing touched you until he looked close enough to see it did. He hated the thought of anyone else getting that close. It didn't matter if it was a guy or a girl. No one else could understand you like he did. No one else deserved to.

"I need to go," Sunoo muttered, already turning on his heel.

Jake blinked again, stepping forward. "Wait, go where? Sunoo—hey!"

But Sunoo didn't answer. He didn't look back. He walked faster, feet moving, bouquet still clenched tightly in his hand.

All he could think about was the image of you standing beside someone else. Laughing for someone else. Looking at them with the kind of softness you used to show only to him. The thought alone made his blood boil. He wasn't just jealous. He was angry. How dare someone else think they could have you like that?

No. That's not how this ends. He wouldn't let it. Even if it was his fault for waiting this long, even if he messed everything up from the beginning—he wasn't going to let someone else win. He wasn't going to stand on the sidelines any longer. Not when he still had something to fight for.

You were his. You've always been his. And he was going to prove it.

Sunoo made his way toward the university, his stomach twisting with every step. Most of the Fashion Design majors were still holed up on campus despite the start of summer break, preparing for the big event. He didn't know fashion shows involved this many people, this much movement, or noise. Navigating through all of it felt like trying to breathe underwater. He should've asked Jungwon for more specifics.

The halls were lined with racks of clothes, students rushing in and out of rooms, arms full of fabrics, makeup brushes, clipboards, and coffee. Sunoo tried to ask where the waiting room was, but everyone was too preoccupied to answer. He turned corner after corner, scanning every face with increasing frustration—until his eyes landed on someone painfully familiar.

Standing outside the theater room, arms crossed and relaxed was Park Sunghoon. Just seeing him made Sunoo's eye twitch. His jaw clenched so tightly he thought it might crack.

"Sunoo, right?" Sunghoon greeted him, smiling as if they were old friends. Sunoo glanced down at the flowers in his hands. Suddenly, they looked ugly. The colors didn't look as soft anymore. The petals looked dull. He couldn't believe he ever fell for a face like that.

He forced a polite sweet smile, his lips twitching with the effort. "Sunghoon," he returned. "Where do fashion majors usually stay? I need to deliver this to someone." His tone stayed casual, but he had to bite down the irritation growing inside his chest.

Sunghoon beamed. "Oh! I was just heading to the backstage area too. Come with me."

Sunoo's jaw ached with how hard he was grinding his teeth behind another fake smile. Every muscle in his body screamed to walk the other way, but he needed to get to you. If that meant dealing with this guy, so be it. Still, it took everything in him not to roll his eyes or punch the smirk off Sunghoon's face. How dare he stand there so casually, acting like he belonged beside you?

"Is the eyelash glue irritating your eyes?" you asked Ryujin, checking the final touches of her makeup. Your fingers hovered near her temples, adjusting the corner of her lashes even though they looked fine. "And your heels? Are they stable?"

"They're fine, I promise. You don't have to worry," she said gently, offering a small smile.

You turned to Beomgyu, voice tighter this time. "The fabric on the lining—is it itchy? Are you uncomfortable at all?"

Beomgyu tilted his head at you like he was trying not to laugh. "You need to stop freaking out. I already told you I feel great in this."

Your chest was heavy with nerves, and your stomach churned, not just with anxiety but with the familiar, dull pain of your first-day period cramps that made everything ten times worse. The weight of responsibility was pressing on your shoulders. What if the seams tore? What if the models tripped? What if the fabric wrinkled wrong under the lights?

And before you could spiral further, a voice cut through your thoughts. One you recognized instantly.

"Sunghoon," you said wearily, not even trying to hide the exhaustion in your voice.

He stood there with a smile too bright for the atmosphere, holding out a bouquet of flowers to you. "Good luck later! I know you're going to get so many compliments for this."

You took the flowers without much thought, fingers curling around the stems as you exhaled through your nose, trying to keep yourself from snapping. You closed your eyes, drawing in a deeper breath. "Why are you here?" you muttered, already rubbing your temple. "This is our waiting room. You shouldn't be—"

"I came with Sunoo!" Sunghoon interrupted brightly. "Didn't know he was your friend too!"

And that stopped you. Your body tensed instantly. The flowers in your hand suddenly felt like they were cutting into your skin. You looked up, already feeling your throat tighten. And there he was.

Sunoo approached you slowly. Without saying a word, he reached out and gently took the flowers from your hand—the ones Sunghoon had just given—and replaced them with the bouquet he brought. Then, with a calm that felt almost too controlled, he handed the previous bouquet back to Sunghoon, whose brows furrowed in confusion.

Your fingers stayed frozen around the fresh flowers now in your hands. Sunoo stepped closer, voice dropping low as he met your eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "Can we talk?"

Something in your chest pulled tight. You forced yourself to swallow the lump rising in your throat, jaw tensing as you tried to stay composed. You could already feel Ryujin and Beomgyu watching silently, even as Sunghoon stood there, confused and observant, his brows lifted like he could sense there was something here. "I'll be back," you muttered under your breath, barely glancing at them. Then, turning to Sunoo, you gestured with a subtle wave of your hand for him to follow.

You walked fast, ignoring how your heart was pounding too hard in your chest. The backstage halls were tight and filled with noise, but the moment you stepped into the music room and closed the door behind you, everything else faded out. The silence between you was loud. "What are you doing here, Sunoo?" you asked, turning to face him. You hated how soft your voice sounded. You hated that he still had that effect on you.

Sunoo didn't answer right away. He just looked at you, his lips parted, trying to decide how to speak, what words wouldn't end in a disaster. Then he said, carefully, "Is it true? That you're dating your model?"

You blinked. That's what this was about? You let out a harsh breath and rolled your eyes, pressing the heels of your palms into your forehead. "Seriously? That's why you're here?"

He flinched at the tone. "Is it true?" he repeated, almost like he was afraid to hear the answer. "You and your model. Are you—"

"Where the fuck did you even hear that?" you snapped, your patience finally cracking. "You think I'd seriously let rumors decide who I'm sleeping with now?"

Sunoo opened his mouth to speak, but you didn't let him. "Why are you even here, Sunoo?" you pushed. "To say sorry? To wave some flowers around and pretend like that's enough?"

He didn't answer. He just stood there, looking at you, his silence impossibly loud. You exhaled, your shoulders sinking with the weight you'd been carrying alone since he left. Your voice dropped out of emotional exhaustion. "I'm tired," you whispered, almost like admitting defeat. "I have a show to finish. I have deadlines. People are counting on me. And if all you came here for was a half-hearted apology, then don't bother—because I've stopped thinking about that night."

But your voice cracked on the last word, and you hated that he might've heard it. "I still think about that night." He said and that made your heart clench.

"You were right," he said quietly. "I came here to say sorry." He looked at you fully now. "And to tell you that I want to make you mine."

You blinked, stunned. "What?"

Sunoo stepped forward, his voice trembling even though he tried to sound certain. "I hurt you. I pushed you away. I made you cry and I said things I'll never stop regretting. I ran because I was scared, and I was selfish enough to believe I could come back when it was convenient for me."

And then, to your absolute disbelief, he lowered himself to the floor, dropping to his knees. His hands found yours, gently curling around your fingers, then pressing your palm to his face. His eyes fluttered shut as he leaned into your touch. "Every time I close my eyes, it's you," he murmured. "Every time I wake up, I hope it's a day I get to see you again. It's always you. "

Even though his voices cracked, Sunoo pushed through it. "I hated seeing that Sunghoon guy give you flowers. I hated thinking about you with your model even if it's not true. Because I want to be the one. I want to be the person you choose, over and over again, even when I don't deserve it. Even when it's hard, and messy, and complicated."

"I didn't come here just to be forgiven," he continued, voice cracking now as his forehead nearly pressed against your hand. "I came because I want you. Because I love you. And because if there's even a part of you—any small part—that still wants me, then I'll do whatever it takes to prove that I'm worth that second chance." He looked up at you, eyes glistening, his knees still on the ground.

You didn't realize you were crying until you felt the tear slide down your cheek. The warmth of it startled you. No matter how much you tried to build walls around yourself, he had always been able to slip through. Even now.

He looked up at you from where he knelt, eyes glassy, red-rimmed. Your fingers trembled in his hands, but you didn't pull away. "You hurt me, Sunoo."

His expression broke completely, a quiet whimper escaping from his lips as he held your hands tighter, desperate. "I know," he choked out. "And I hate myself for that. I'd take it all back if I could. But I can't... so all I can do now is ask you to let me fix what I ruined."

The silence stretched again, before he whispered, almost breathlessly, "...Please?"

That single word cracked something inside you. You sniffled, blinking fast as more tears welled in your eyes, and without thinking, you slowly lowered yourself to your knees in front of him. You leaned in, heart pounding wildly, and kissed him. It wasn't rushed. It wasn't desperate. It was tender—heartbreaking in its softness, and yet full of everything you'd been holding back. The pain, the longing, the anger, the love—it was all there, pressed into the seal of your lips against his.

When you finally pulled back, your forehead rested against his, both of your eyes closed, breath mingling in the small space between you. "I never stopped wanting you," you whispered, your voice hoarse from the tears. "Even when I tried. Even when I told myself I should."

He shuddered at your words, his breath catching, fingers lifting to cup your cheeks. "I swear I'll spend every day proving I can be someone you deserve," he murmured.

You nodded faintly, your forehead still resting against his. Then, slowly, you leaned in again, brushing your lips against his—soft at first, searching, before you kissed him fully. This time, you didn't hold back. Your lips moved against his with purpose, and he responded just as eagerly, his head tilting to meet you, to match your rhythm.

When you deepened the kiss and your tongue slipped into his mouth, his breath hitched. He moaned softly, the sound catching in his throat as he melted further into you, hands tightening at your sides. "I missed you," he whispered breathlessly between kisses.

You smiled into his mouth, sniffling as your hands cupped his damp cheeks, wiping at the tears that kept trailing down. "Missed you too," you whispered, your voice breaking as you kissed him again, even longer this time. Your fingers curled around the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

He kissed you like he was making up for lost time, like every second he spent away from you had left him starving. His hands slid gently under your arms before he lifted you and your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. You could feel the way his breathing picked up as he moved, sitting down on the old couch in the corner of the room, never letting his lips stray too far from yours.

You settled on his lap, knees bracketing his hips, your mouths still moving together in sync. You could feel the way his body was reacting—how tightly he held you, how his hands gripped your back. "I love you," he whispered against your lips.

Your breath caught, your heart thudding as he pressed a trail of kisses down your neck, slow and open-mouthed. His hands, once tentative, slid to your chest, cupping you through your clothes before he gently kneaded one breast in his palm. The sensation made you shiver, your back arching into his touch instinctively as you sucked in a breath.

"Say it again," you murmured, your eyes fluttering shut.

He leaned back just enough to look up at you, both hands still resting on your waist. "I love you. I'm not letting you go again."

You leaned forward to kiss him again, your lips brushing over his. His fingers slipped under your shirt, tugging it up carefully, revealing the curve of your breast and the soft lace of your bra. His breath hitched when he saw your nipple, the silver glint of the heart-shaped piercing catching the light. He paused, stunned, swallowing hard, the outline of his arousal now pressing clearly against his pants.

"W-wait," you breathed, your hands clutching at his shoulders as his face dipped lower. "It's not fully healed yet..."

Sunoo froze, his lips just grazing the swell of your breast. He pressed the gentlest kiss on your areola, lips lingering as his thumb toyed with the other nipple through your bra, tracing slow circles that made your hips twitch above him. Your body reacted, grinding slightly against the solid pressure beneath you. His breath grew ragged against your skin, hands sliding up your back, holding you tighter.

You rocked your hips against him with slow pressure, letting the friction build until the heat between your bodies felt like it might burn right through your skin. His hands moved restlessly, tugging at your waistband, already working to unbutton your pants.

But your hand caught his wrist, halting him. "N-No... we can't," you murmured, your voice ragged from panting. You glanced down at him beneath you—his brows were drawn together in frustration and confusion, his face flushed with heat, sweat starting to gather along his hairline, and his lips—red and kiss-swollen—were parted.

"I... I have my period."

He blinked, then tilted his head slightly like he couldn't understand why that would matter. His hand slid back down, cupping you through the fabric of your underwear, right over your pad. You gasped, the heat of his touch making your body tense with shame and anticipation. Your cheeks flared hot with embarrassment.

"I-It's not clean," you whispered, voice wavering. "It's messy..."

"And?" he muttered, his gaze never left your face. Without waiting for your approval, his hand dipped beneath the waistband of your underwear, carefully maneuvering around the pad as his fingers brushed against your pussy.

His finger slipped in, and your jaw dropped open, a soft cry catching in your throat. The feeling was slow, filling, a deliberate push deeper until he bottomed out and curled his finger inside you, testing your sensitivity. "You know," he began, "orgasms help relieve cramps. The body releases endorphins that ease pain. It's not gross... it's your body asking for what it needs."

You whimpered, unable to argue. Especially not when his finger began to move—slow at first, then building pace, retreating and sinking back in until your hips were grinding helplessly against his palm. Each stroke hit something deeper than just your body, pulling breathy moans from your throat.

"S-Sunoo—" you choked, your hands gripping his shoulders for balance. His other hand slid up your shirt again, pushing the fabric away so he could lean in and press his mouth to your chest. His lips wrapped around the soft swell of your breast, and the sharp contrast of your piercing against his tongue made him groan. "I-It's gross."

"No, it's not." He whisper, biting your neck, tongue swirling at it, he mumbled against your skin before adding another finger, spreading you wider. "It's hot. You're hot."

Your only answer was a louder moan, your thighs trembling as you rode his fingers, your body clenching around him. The pressure inside you coiled tighter and tighter, until everything snapped all at once. You came hard, body clenching around him as your head tilted back, breath stuttering and vision swimming.

Sunoo shifted you easily, guiding your body until you were bent over the couch, his grip firm and sure as he moved you exactly how he wanted. But then he stilled, breath catching when his eyes landed on your back. His palm slid over your spine, tracing the ink.

"Fuck," he hissed. You felt the way his fingers trembled slightly, how he cupped your hips and coaxed you into an arch, dragging his touch down the trail of black lines and crimson lilies that ran from your shoulder blades to the curve of your lower back. "You always know how to drive me crazy... and now you go and get this?"

You tried to speak, but all that came out was a choked sound as he pulled your pants lower, exposing the heat between your legs. He groaned behind you, dragging the tip of himself along your entrance, already soaked and messy, your blood mixing with everything else. It should've made you feel embarrassed but instead, it only made the tension between you burn hotter.

"Please," you breathed, turning your head just enough to look at him over your shoulder.

Sunoo didn't need to be told twice. He eased into you slowly, his body pressing close, chest flush against your back as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, anchoring you to him. His breath stuttered against your skin, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he moved deeper, his other hand gripping your waist so tightly.

Your eyes caught sight of his hand, streaked with red from earlier, and instead of disgust, all you felt was a strange kind of thrill that twisted low in your belly. You clenched around him involuntarily, another moan slipping from your lips.

He kissed your jaw, then your cheek, then finally your mouth again, hungrily this time, tongue sliding against yours as his hips found a faster rhythm. His hands trembled where they held you, but his movements were certain, desperate. "Ah—fuck—I love you," he gasped, his voice cracking open as the pace quickened. "I love you so much. So fucking much."

Your breath caught, heart slamming in your chest. "Sunoo—wait—" your voice was barely audible between moans, "you're not wearing—ah—no condom—!"

He stilled for a second, his breath rough in your ear. But instead of pulling away, he leaned in closer, murmuring, "I know."

Your pussy clenched around him on instinct, as if reacting to the rawness of it all, to the fact that he was really inside you like this. The feeling of his bare cock dragging against your soaked walls was overwhelming, hotter, slicker. Your eyes rolled back as a loud moan escaped your throat, your fingers tightening on whatever they could grab.

"F-fuck," he whimpered, as your walls fluttered around him. Sunoo sounded like he was unraveling in real time. His hands gripped your waist harder, his breath shaking as he slowly pushed back in, deeper this time. He whined against your skin, overwhelmed, almost breathless at how good it felt. "I missed you. Missed this—missed you so fucking much."

His voice cracked, raw emotion bleeding into every word. "Don't leave again, hmm? Please. I'll treat you better this time. I swear—I love you. Fuck, I love you. I'm so fucking in love with you."

He didn't give you time to answer. His fingers slid down between your thighs, finding your clit without hesitation, rubbing slow, dizzying circles that made your knees buckle. His cock hit your g-spot mercilessly and your voice broke into a scream, loud and unfiltered, but you didn't care—the music room was soundproof, and even if it wasn't, you wouldn't have stopped him.

"S-Sunoo—I'm gonna cum," you choked out, your voice hoarse, hips jerking uncontrollably from the way his fingers pressed harder into your clit. Your pussy clenched down around him, and the orgasm crashed into you so fast it nearly knocked you off your feet. Your whole body shook and your thighs quivered, but Sunoo held you tight through it, one hand gripping your waist as the other kept you grounded, kept fucking into you with more force, chasing his own high.

"God, I love you, my baby," he whined. His hips started stuttering, the sound of skin slapping echoing faintly against the padded walls, getting messier, needier. "C-can I cum inside you? Please—let me?"

You couldn't speak at first, just nodded frantically, your fingers digging into his arm where it hugged around your waist. "Yes," you breathed, still panting, "Yes, yes—Sunoo, please—cum in me. I love you."

He let out the loudest, rawest moan of the night, something close to a sob, his whole body tensing as he came hard. You could feel it flood inside you, the warmth of it thick and hot as he kept fucking you through it, like he couldn't stop, like he needed to push it deeper, make sure it stayed.

Even after he was spent, his hips kept rocking slowly into you. His cum leaked around his cock, dripping down your thighs, and still he stayed buried inside, forehead resting against your shoulder, breath warm on your skin.

Neither of you spoke for a long moment, just the sound of ragged breathing filling the space between kisses—gentle ones now. He kissed your neck, then your jaw, then the corner of your mouth. "I love you," he murmured, then kissed your temple, eyes shut, holding you.

You turned in his arms, legs shaky, body still pulsing from the aftershocks, and cupped his face with both hands, pulling him into a messy, open-mouthed kiss. "I love you too," you whispered.

EPILOGUE

Sunoo made his way to the stage with a confidence he hadn't felt in a long time, holding up his medal and certificate for the photographer with a proud grin. Applause echoed through the auditorium, and for a moment, all the weight he had carried over the years—every sleepless night, every self-doubt, every quiet breakdown—seemed worth it. Sitting down on the chair at the side of the stage, his heart swelled with something deeper than relief. He wasn't just happy—he felt fulfilled. Things were finally going his way, and more than that, he had done it on his own terms.

"You look so good—God, I love your makeup!" Giselle said beside him, nudging him with her shoulder. He turned to her with that signature Sunoo smile, wide and sweet. "Your blush is perfect. It suits you so well," she added.

He smiled softly, cheeks glowing with more than just the highlighter dusted on them. "Thanks. My girlfriend did my makeup."

Giselle blinked, then gasped. "Wait—did I hear that right?"

Sunoo didn't respond, just chuckled to himself. When the program ended and the crowd was released into the open hall, he barely waited before slipping into the crowd, eyes scanning eagerly for one person. He weaved through clusters of families and graduates, ignoring the flashes of cameras, until his eyes finally landed on you. His whole face lit up instantly.

Without a second thought, he squealed and ran straight into your arms, wrapping you in a tight, all-consuming hug. You squealed too, and the sound made a few people turn their heads, curious. But Sunoo didn't care. You were in his arms, and that was all that mattered.

"Congratulations, my love!" you beamed, pinching both his cheeks before kissing his forehead.

He immediately slapped your hands away with a playful pout. "Stop! You're gonna mess up my makeup."

You laughed and leaned in. "I could always retouch it, dummy. I was the one who did it, remember?"

Sunoo squinted, finally taking a proper look at you now that he wasn't rushed or nervous. You had left before him earlier, after helping with his look, and now he was seeing you fully—your hair tied neatly in a bun, soft clean makeup that felt too tame for you, and a bright, modest outfit that covered every inch of your skin.

His gaze lingered. "You... took off your piercing?"

You nodded and gave a small shrug, your smile faltering. "Yeah. I figured... maybe you'd want me to look presentable today. Like, for your big day. It felt like the right thing to do."

He tilted his head slowly, eyes narrowing as he looked you over again. "Presentable?" he repeated. "I love the way you look with your piercings on, your tattoos showing, your red lipstick. That's you."

Your chest tightened, emotion catching in your throat so fast you couldn't even respond with words. Instead, you stepped forward and hugged him again, burying your face into his neck as your arms wound around his waist. "I love you," you whispered against his skin.

Sunoo's eyes widened slightly. Then slowly, he melted into your hug, wrapping his arms around you just as tightly. He rested his chin on your shoulder, and for a moment. "I love you more," he murmured softly. Then, pulling back a little to meet your eyes, his brows furrowed. "Wait—did I make you feel like I didn't want you to be yourself? Like I was forcing you to be someone else? I'm sorry."

You shook your head, tears beginning to pool despite the smile on your lips. "No... It wasn't you. I just... I didn't want to mess anything up today. I thought maybe if I toned myself down, it'd be easier."

Sunoo's eyes shone with emotion as he wiped your tears with his thumbs. "You could never mess anything up just by being yourself," he whispered. "Especially not with me. I want you loud, and messy, and bright. I want you with the piercings, with the tattoos, with whatever the hell makes you feel like you. That's the person I want beside me, every day. I'm sorry if I ever made you feel like I was changing you. Forgive me, hmm?"

You leaned into his touch, forehead resting against his. "Then I'll never tone myself down again."

"Good," he smiled, brushing a kiss to your nose. "Because we've got a lot more milestones coming. And I want all of them with the real you."

You laughed lightly, the tension in your chest finally melting as you cradled his face. "Our only problem now is how to tell Jake without him fainting."

That made Sunoo snort before leaning in again to kiss you properly, his smile still pressed to your lips. You could hear a few surprised gasps from the crowd nearby, but you didn't care—and clearly, neither did he.

"It's fine," he whispered playfully, nuzzling close again. "We'll just plan a sleepover. That way, when he faints, we'll already be somewhere private... and have all the time in the world to celebrate without interruptions."

You smirked, squeezing his hand as it found yours. "I have a gift for you later when we get home."

His eyes sparkled with mischief as he raised a brow. "Hmm... A blowjob?"

You gave his shoulder a soft shove, rolling your eyes with a laugh. "No, not that, idiot."

He broke into a laugh too, the sound warm and carefree, then reached for your waist and pulled you in close again. His hand rested securely there, thumb drawing small circles, grounding you both in that moment. "Thank you for loving me as I am," he whispered against your ear. "Even on the days I forget how to love myself."

You leaned in, letting your head fall against his shoulder, smiling as his lips pressed a kiss to your temple. "I love you in every version of you, Sunoo," you whispered, and you meant every word.

The two of you continued walking hand in hand through the crowd. And if someone had asked you what you were feeling at that exact moment you would've said that you were in love. You were content, completely at peace with who you were and who you were becoming. And more than anything, you were happy, so much more happier than ever. Because Sunoo was beside you.

END.

・┆✦ʚ♡ɞ✦ ┆・

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[imhalfplastic]

12B emergencies

⊹ overview – pairing: doorman!vernon x tenant!reader genre: smut with plot cw: explicit sexual content (MDNI), suggestive teasing, dirty talk, unprotected sex, cum on body, oral (f receiving), aftercare.

minors do not interact!

summary: what should have been a simple apartment move quickly becomes anything but, thanks to the charming doorman who always knows what’s wrong before you do.

from kai: got inspired by a random tiktok and suddenly this fic existed in my brain.

now playing: wus good/curious - partynextdoor

the metallic groan of the elevator doors is the first sign you’re truly alone. the sound echoes in the beige hallway, a final farewell from the moving guys who just dumped your life, neatly packed into cardboard cubes, onto the scuffed parquet floor of apartment 12b.

the door clicks shut behind you and the silence is immediate. thick. it’s a new kind of quiet, unfamiliar and slightly accusing. it’s the sound of a space that doesn’t know you yet. the air smells of lemon-scented bleach and the dusty ghost of the previous tenant.

you lean back against the door, surveying the kingdom of boxes. chaos. beautiful, potential-filled chaos. your first solo place. a fresh start. the excitement is a fizzy bubble in your chest, but it’s tempered by the overwhelming scale of it all. where do you even begin?

your gaze lands on the intercom panel by the door. a beige rectangle with buttons and a little grille. your literal lifeline to the outside world. you should probably test it, make sure it works. you press the button labeled ‘lobby’.

a static crackle makes you jump, followed by a voice. a smooth baritone that seems to melt through the tiny speaker, feeling like honey poured over gravel. it’s ridiculously out of place for a building intercom.

“lobby. vernon speaking. how can i help?”

your heart does a inexplicable skip. “hi! yes, hello,” you start. your voice sounding too bright, too new in the empty apartment. “i'm in 12b. i just moved in. my, uh, my key is kinda sticky? like, it goes in but then it gets stuck on the way out. it took me, like, five minutes to get in. is that... normal?”

a rich chuckle vibrates through the speaker. it’s a nice sound. a very nice sound. “ah, yeah. old betsy. she's dramatic. likes to be persuaded, not forced. don't worry, i'll be right up.”

the intercom clicks off, leaving you in the sudden quiet again. you smooth down your hair, suddenly hyper-aware of your messy bun and the dust smudge on your cheek. it’s just the doorman. get a grip.

the ping of the elevator down the hall makes you jump again. you pull the door open just as the doors slide open.

and oh.

oh.

leaning against the elevator frame, arms crossed over a dark uniform that’s fitted in a way that should probably be illegal, is vernon. the owner of the voice. he has dark hair and a smile that’s one-part friendly, three-part utterly devastating. his eyes crinkle at the corners as he takes you in, pushing off the frame with an easy grace.

“so you're the one bringing all the excitement to the twelfth floor,” he says. his voice even better in person, a live wire in the quiet hallway. he holds up a familiar blue and yellow can with a playful wiggle. “wd-40. the solution to ninety percent of life's squeaky problems.”

he moves past you into your apartment, his presence immediately making the space feel smaller. he doesn’t seem to notice the boxes. his focus is on the lock. he takes your key, his fingers brushing against yours. a accidental touch that sends a tiny spark up your arm.

he kneels slightly, inserting the key. you watch the concentration on his face, the easy flex of his forearm as he jiggles it just so. it’s a simple act but he does it with a quiet confidence that is intensely attractive.

“see?” he says with a soft grunt, sliding the key out with a smooth, satisfying click. “you just gotta talk to her nice. tell her she's pretty.”

the words leave your mouth before your brain can vet them. “should i be jealous of my lock?”

he looks up from the keyhole, his eyes locking with yours. that smirk is back, a little more playful. “depends. you a good talker?”

your face floods with heat. you are absolutely certain you are glowing like a stoplight. he just winks, a effortless thing that makes your stomach flip, and presses the key back into your palm.

“any other emergencies, 12b,” he says, already heading back to the elevator. he throws the words over his shoulder like a challenge. “you know who to call.”

the elevator doors swallow him whole, leaving you standing in your doorway, clutching a key that now works perfectly and a heart that’s beating a little too fast. the unfamiliar apartment suddenly feels a lot more interesting. was that... flirting? or was he just being nice? the kind of professionally, lethally nice that leaves new tenants in a puddle of confusion? you have no idea. but you suddenly have a very strong urge to find something else in the apartment that needs fixing.

lucky for you, the next day the silence of the apartment doesn’t last long. it’s first broken by a low, guttural moan coming from the kitchen sink. you ignore it for a solid ten minutes, unpacking plates with a determined focus. but the moan deepens, turning into a full-on, agonized whale song every time you turn the faucet on. it’s officially a problem.

your eyes drift to the intercom. it’s his job, right? building maintenance. this probably counts.

you press the button. the static crackle is familiar now, a prelude to that voice.

“lobby. vernon speaking.”

“hi, vernon... it's 12b again. my faucet is... singing. and not in a good way. it sounds deeply unhappy."

you can almost hear his smile through the speaker. “i'll bring my opera critic hat. be right up.”

he arrives with a small toolkit this time, looking amused. he heads straight for the kitchen, his presence once again shrinking the room to the space immediately around him. he listens to the whale song with a serious expression, then nods.

“yep. that's a classic c-sharp minor of plumbing despair. i've heard it before.” he gets to work under the sink and you watch, mesmerized by the efficient movements of his hands. within minutes the groaning stops, replaced by a peaceful stream of water.

“all better,” he says, wiping his hands on a rag. “just a loose washer throwing a tantrum.”

“you're a miracle worker.”

“i'm a guy with a wrench,” he corrects but he looks pleased. “you settling in okay, 12b?”

the way he says your apartment number sounds like a nickname. your heart does that stupid little flip again.

and before you can answer, the hallway light chooses that exact moment to sputter and die, plunging the narrow space into darkness before flickering back to life erratically.

you point a dramatic finger. “see? the apartment is haunted. i think it's jealous of your fixing skills.”

he laughs, a sound that fills the kitchen. “don't worry, i've seen poltergeist. i'm basically an expert. coming up.” he produces a new lightbulb from his seemingly magical pockets and changes it in seconds, his height making it effortless.

a week in and the initial excitement has mellowed into a comfortable, if still box-filled, routine. well, almost comfortable. the silence of the apartment, once so stark, is now punctuated by the little creaks and sighs of an old building settling around you. you’re starting to learn its language.

until a new sound starts.

it’s late, pushing 11 pm. you’re curled on the couch, a book in your lap, when you hear it. a faint, rhythmic thumping coming from the wall shared with the apartment next door. it’s not loud, but it’s persistent. and weird. it goes on for twenty minutes, stirring a low hum of anxiety in your chest. in a new place, every unknown noise feels like a potential threat.

your eyes cut to the intercom. it’s late. he’s working the night shift, though. this is a building issue, right? noise complaint territory. perfectly reasonable.

you press the button. it crackles to life.

“lobby. vernon speaking.” his voice is the same smooth baritone but it holds a professional reserve at this hour.

“hi, vernon... it's 12b.” you wince at how often you're saying that. you try to sound calm, not like a person about to be murdered by a mysterious thumping. “sorry to bother you so late but i'm hearing a really strange noise from the wall next to me. a constant thumping. i just... wanted to report it, i guess? in case it's a pipe about to burst or something.”

there's a brief pause on the other end. “a thumping, huh? what's it sound like?”

“i don't know... like... a really lazy woodpecker? or maybe someone's... i don't know.” you trail off, feeling silly.

“hold tight,” he says, no trace of laughter in his voice. “i'll come take a listen.”

relief washes over you. when the soft knock comes a few minutes later, you open the door to find him in his full uniform, looking crisp and official even at this hour. the sight of him, all professional competence, makes you feel instantly safer. and, admittedly, a little flustered. he’s just so… solid. standing in your dimly lit hallway.

“show me the culprit.” he says, his voice low.

you lead him to the living room wall. he leans in, placing his ear against the plaster. he’s close. you can see the precise line of his haircut, the way his uniform stretches across his shoulders. he listens intently for a full minute, his expression focused. you hold your breath.

then, he straightens up, a slow grin spreading across his face. it’s a different smile from his daytime one; more intimate in the late-night quiet of your apartment.

“that's not a pipe,” he says, his voice a conspiratorial murmur. “that's your neighbor, mr. gable. he's a retired jazz drummer. has a electronic practice pad. his wife told me he gets inspired after his evening news.”

the tension drains from your body, replaced by a wave of embarrassment so potent you have to stifle a laugh. “oh my god. a drummer. of course it is.”

“see? no ghosts. no murderers. just… art.” he shoves his hands in his pockets, looking around your still-chaotic living room. “you alright? first few nights in a new place can make you hear all kinds of things.”

“i'm okay. just jumpy. and apparently a terrible detective.” you lean against the doorframe, feeling a new kind of ease with him. this was his job and he’d done it perfectly. “i feel like i should pay you extra for the night shift house calls. a consultancy fee. name your rate.”

he chuckles, a warm sound in the hallway. “the building's HOA covers 'investigating lazy woodpeckers'. you're good.” he takes a step back toward the elevator, but his eyes linger on you. “but if you're offering, my rate is usually a solid review to the building manager. ‘vernon is an excellent investigator of rhythmic wall thumps.’”

“consider it done.”

“get some sleep, 12b,” he says, his tone gentle as the elevator doors ping open. “the rhythm section next door usually packs it in by midnight.”

he’s gone and you close the door, the apartment feeling quieter, safer and somehow less lonely. the thumping next door continues but the thought of vernon, downstairs in the lobby, feels like a steady light in the bottom of the building.

the next few days pass in a quiet blur. you get used to the thumping next door and vernon becomes a familiar presence. both in the building and, indirectly, in your apartment.

so when you come back from the club one night, the thump-thump-thump of the bass from the club is still a phantom rhythm in your bones and a pleasant buzz is humming under your skin from the two overpriced cocktails. the city night is cool and quiet as you push through the heavy glass door of your building, the sharp click of your heels on the marble floor echoing in the deserted lobby.

the light above the front desk is a soft pool of gold in the darkness. and in the center of it, like he’s the star of his own late-night show, is vernon. he’s leaning over the desk, scribbling something in a logbook, the crisp lines of his uniform a stark contrast to the easy, relaxed slope of his shoulders.

he looks up at the sound of your entrance and his pen stills. his eyes, dark and perceptive in the low light, do a quick sweep from your styled hair down to your shoes. a look that’s decidedly different from your usual sweatpants-and-a-messy-bun uniform.

a easy smile spreads across his face. “well, good evening, 12b. or should i say, good morning?” his voice is a low rumble that fits the midnight hour perfectly. “looks like someone had a more interesting night than i did.”

you feel a flush of warmth that has nothing to do with the alcohol. “just… out with a friend,” you say, your voice sounding a little too bright in the quiet lobby.

he nods, leaning back in his chair, the picture of casual ease. “nice. that’s the way people with someone… you know, usually live. young, in the city, juggling life.” he says it conversationally but his eyes are watching you, gauging your reaction. the word someone hangs in the air between you, a carefully placed, professionally polite question disguised as small talk.

it’s the subtle assumption, the suggestion that of course you’d be out with a boyfriend, that pushes the words right out of your mouth. the cocktails definitely help.

“vernon,” you say, a laugh in your voice that’s only half-nervous. “if i had a boyfriend, do you really think i'd be calling you up to my apartment so much?”

the second the sentence leaves your lips, the world tilts. your brain catches up to your mouth with the force of a freight train. ‘calling you up to my apartment’. it sounds so… suggestive. so not what you meant.

your eyes go wide. “oh my god. no. that's not... i didn't mean it like that,” you stammer, the flush on your cheeks turning volcanic. you wave your hands frantically, as if you could physically erase the words from the air. “i just meant... the services! the… the manual labor! if i had a boyfriend, he'd probably do it and i wouldn't have to bother you all the time with my… my broken things and my… my stupid questions and...”

you’re digging the hole deeper, each word making it worse. you’re a babbling mess and you want the elegant marble floor to just swallow you whole.

vernon is just watching you, his expression unreadable for a heart-stopping moment. and then he breaks.

a low chuckle escapes him then it grows into a full laugh that fills the silent lobby. it’s not a mean laugh; it’s warm, genuinely amused, and it makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. he runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head.

“whoa, whoa, easy there,” he says, his voice laced with mirth. “breathe. i know what you meant.”

you finally stop talking, pressing your lips together, utterly mortified. you just stare at him, wishing you could vanish.

he sobers up a little, but the warm, amused glint remains in his eyes. he leans forward on the desk again, his voice dropping into that softer, more intimate tone you’ve only heard in your hallway late at night.

“for the record,” he says, his gaze holding yours, “i like that you call me.”

the simple statement steals the air right from your lungs. all your frantic embarrassment stutters to a halt.

“you… you do?”

“yeah,” he says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. he shrugs one shoulder, a casual, effortless gesture. “beats signing for packages. don't worry about it, alright? it's no bother.”

the elevator dings softly, its arrival like a punctuation mark to the entire, chaotic exchange.

“alright, 12b,” he says with that soft tone. “head on home now, try to get some sleep.”

you mutter a flustered “goodnight” and all but flee into the elevator, your heart hammering against your ribs. as the doors close, you see him still watching you, that knowing smile still playing on his lips.

i like that you call me.

the words echo in your head all the way up to the twelfth  floor and you realize the dangerous comfort you feel has just ignited into something else entirely. something hot and terrifying.

a week passes.

i like that you call me.

the phrase plays on a loop in your head, a delicious mantra. every time you look at the intercom, that’s what you hear. you find yourself inventing problems. is the bathroom faucet dripping? no, not yet. does the closet door creak? too weak. do you need a lightbulb changed in the bedroom? already did that.

then your eyes land on the nightstand. on the stuck drawer, the one you can never open properly. it’s pathetic. it’s perfect.

it’s almost nine on a random tuesday night. you take a sip of wine for courage (not too much, just enough to sharpen your boldness) and press the button.

“lobby. vernon speaking.”

his voice isn't just the doorman's anymore. it's the voice that whispered i like that you call me in your memory.

“hey, vernon. it's me.” you don't say your apartment number. he knows.

“hey, you. what's the disaster of the day?” the hey, you sounds intimate, stolen.

“a drawer. it's... fighting me. i think it's winning.”

he lets out a low chuckle. “a drawer, huh? holding your socks hostage?”

“something like that. you think you can negotiate their release?”

“i'm on my way up. try not to start a war before i get there.”

when you open the door, he's there. without his suit jacket, just the white shirt, sleeves carefully rolled up to his forearms. you notice the veins under his skin, the contained strength there. the wine in your veins makes you look a second longer than you should.

“lead the way, troublemaker,” he says, and you guide him to the bedroom.

the room feels warmer with him in it. he kneels in front of the nightstand, his broad back to you. he takes the drawer pull, giving it a firm jiggle. it opens with a groan but it opens.

“see? it's all about the...” he starts to say, turning to look at you.

but you're not looking at the drawer. you're looking at him, with a boldness that came from nowhere. the wine, the memory of that phrase, the attraction that had been building for weeks... it all coalesces into one impulse.

“you know,” you say, your voice a little softer than normal. “for a guy who's just a doorman, you spend an awful lot of time in my bedroom.”

his professional expression vanishes, replaced by something sharper, more interested. a challenging smile spreads across his face.

“is that a complaint, 12b?”

“far from it.” you cross your arms, leaning against the doorframe. “i'm just wondering what the other residents would say. if they knew about all your... house calls.”

he stands up, slowly, closing the distance between you without moving. the air gets heavy.

“lucky for me,” he murmurs, his voice a thread of silk, “you're the only one who seems to have a constant need for my... particular set of skills.”

“maybe i just like your skills,” you fire back, the flirtation coming out naturally, fueled by his intense gaze.

“oh, yeah?” he takes a step forward. now he's close enough for you to feel the heat from his body, to smell the clean scent of his shampoo. “which skills are we talking about? the fixing things? or the... showing up?”

“what if i said both?”

he lets out a low sound, deep in his throat. his eyes scan your face, stopping on your lips for a fraction of a second that feels like an eternity. the attraction between you is a force field, almost palpable. you lean forward, an almost imperceptible movement.

he's the one who breaks. he closes his eyes for a brief second and when he opens them, there's a frustrated resignation in them. he takes a step back, adjusting his collar, a move that seems to reinstates the professional barrier between you.

“as much as i'd love to continue this... negotiation,” he says, and his voice is rougher now, “i'm still on the clock.”

reality comes crashing back. the uniform, the building, the fact that he is literally being paid to be here. the mood shatters, leaving a void of frustration in its place.

“right,” you say, your voice sounding strange to your own ears. “of course. sorry.”

“don't be sorry,” he says, passing by you toward the front door. he pauses on the threshold, looking back at you one last time and his gaze is a promise. “just... save the thought.”

and then he's gone, leaving you in the middle of your bedroom with an un-stuck drawer and an unsatisfied tension thrumming through every nerve in your body. save the thought. as if you could think of anything else.

a few nights later, somewhere in the blur of the week, you find yourself at a dimly lit bar, perched on a high stool with a drink in hand, trying to shake off the lingering hum of the day. you barely notice the guy who stops beside you. at first just another stranger, until you realize he’s not going anywhere.

the evening is a spectacular failure. you knew it by the time he spent five minutes explaining the proper way to fold a napkin. you’re nodding along, a frozen smile on your face, mentally rehearsing exactly what you’re going to say when you finally tell him you're not interested, when a familiar laugh cuts through the bar's murmur.

your eyes dart across the room. and there he is.

vernon. leaning against a high-top table with two friends, his head thrown back in a easy laugh. he’s in a simple grey henley that stretches across his shoulders and he looks so… normal. so unbelievably attractive.

as if sensing your stare, his gaze sweeps across the room and lands on you. his smile doesn’t fade but it shifts. it becomes more knowing. he takes in your pained expression and gives you a slow, almost imperceptible raise of his eyebrows. a silent question: you need an out?

you give a tiny, desperate nod.

he says something to his friends and starts weaving through the crowd. the guy is mid-monologue about artisanal cheeses when a warm hand lands on your shoulder.

“hey, you! sorry i’m late,” vernon says, his voice a warm, friendly boom. he looks genuinely happy to see you. “you wouldn’t believe the line for the uber.”

the guy blinks. “i’m sorry, who are you?”

vernon finally looks at him, all polite surprise. “oh! vernon. a friend from… the gym.” he extends a hand, his grip probably firmer than necessary. “we had plans for a quick drink tonight. you mind if i steal her for a second? promise i’ll bring her right back.”

he doesn’t wait for permission. his hand slides from your shoulder to your elbow, guiding you up and away from the table with an effortless authority. you feel a wave of pure relief.

“the gym?” you whisper as he guides you to the bar.

“it was the first thing i thought of,” he murmurs back, a grin playing on his lips. “you looked like you were being held hostage by a very boring captor. what are you drinking? you look like you need a real one.”

he buys you a fresh drink and you end up at his table. his friends are loud and funny, and within minutes, you’re laughing for real. the awful guy is a distant memory. you catch vernon watching you sometimes, a unreadable look in his eyes before he turns back to the conversation.

when the bar lights flicker last call, the guy has long since disappeared with a disgruntled huff. it’s just you and vernon on the sidewalk.

“i’ll walk you,” he says, his voice firm.

“you really don’t have to.”

“i know.”

the walk home is quiet, filled with the comfortable silence of two people who don’t need to fill the space with words. the city feels different at this hour, more intimate. he walks close, his arm occasionally brushing yours.

under the bright lights of your building lobby, the real world rushes back in. the dynamic shifts. he’s vernon the doorman again and you’re tenant 12b.

“well,” you say, turning to him. “thank you. for the rescue mission. it was a success.”

“anytime,” he says, his hands shoved in his pockets. he looks around the empty lobby, then back at you, a playful glint returning to his eyes. “so. you got anything up there that needs fixing tonight? a squeaky door? a flickering light?”

the question is a callback, a spark meant to reignite the easy flirtation from the bar. but the lobby is too quiet, the memory of his touch on your elbow too fresh. the words come out before you can stop them, raw and embarrassingly honest.

“i, uh…” you stammer, your face heating up. you look down at your shoes, then back up at him, your voice dropping to a whisper. “...me.”

the playful smirk vanishes from his face. his expression goes completely still, then softens into something so intense it steals the air from your lungs. the professional mask drops and what’s underneath is unfiltered want. the space between you feels charged, like the moment before a thunderstorm.

he doesn’t move. he just holds your gaze and in the silence of the lobby, the unspoken answer is louder than any words could ever be.

the elevator doors close and before you can even register the silence, his hands are already on you. big, firm, urgent. he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t ask. just grabs your waist and pulls you back into the mirrored wall like he’s been starving for this.

his mouth finds yours fast, hot and messy. you gasp against him but he kiss you harder, swallowing the sound like it belongs to him. his body crowds yours, chest pressed tight, hips pushing forward so you feel exactly how worked up he already is.

you fist your hands in his shirt, dragging him closer and he groans into your mouth like he’s been holding it in too long. his hands slide down your sides, squeezing your ass through your jeans before hauling you up against him. the sudden lift makes you gasp, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist and he bites at your lip hard enough to sting.

the mirror rattles when your back hits it again. his teeth scrape your jaw, his tongue drags along your neck and the wet press of his mouth there makes your knees weak even though you’re clinging to him.

“fuck,” he mutters against your skin, breath hot and uneven. “been wanting to do this every damn time you call me upstairs.”

you laugh breathlessly but it breaks off into a moan when his hand slips under your shirt, fingers spreading wide against the bare skin of your waist. his palm is hot, possessive, sliding up higher until he’s cupping your breast over your bra and squeezing just enough to make your head drop back against the glass.

he takes advantage of the exposed curve of your throat, sucking a mark there with open-mouthed insistence. you squirm against him, nails scraping down his back and he groans like it only turns him on more.

the elevator jolts slightly as it passes another floor and the tiny space feels suffocating now, filled with your uneven breaths and the wet sounds of his mouth on your skin. you’re grinding against him without even meaning to, chasing the friction, and he curses again, biting down on your collarbone this time.

“if we don’t stop now,” he says roughly, words muffled against your chest, “i’m gonna fuck you right here.”

his hand is already at your waistband, tugging at the button like he means it but the elevator dings too soon, and both of you freeze.

the doors slide open and mrs. misty stands there, clutching her tiny dog and looking between you and him with raised eyebrows. his lips are shiny, your shirt’s half-pulled up, his jaw smeared with your lipstick.

you nearly choke on your own breath.

her eyebrows arch like drawn curtains. “oh, vernon,” she says in that sing-song voice reserved for church socials and small scandals. “i thought you were off tonight.”

he freezes for the barest second and you're suddenly acutely aware of the lipstick. too bright, smeared like war paint across his jaw. a blush blooms that you want to hide and show at once.

“i was,” he says smoothly, the professional ticker clicking back on. “then 12b had a little emergency. couldn't leave her hanging.”

mrs. misty sniffs theatrically, the kind of half-laugh that implies she knows more than she lets on. “emergency, hm?” she teases, peering at him as if trying to reconcile the rescue man with the man currently wearing someone else's lips. “well. carry on then.”

she winks at you, the small, ridiculous villain of neighborhood gossip, and turns the dog toward the stairwell with the decisive flick of a hand. “enjoy yourselves,” she calls over her shoulder and the dog barks like punctuation.

as soon as she's gone, the absurdity of being caught breaks you both. you laugh, a breathless sound that vibrates through your ribs. he laughs too, the sound low and incredulous, then slides his hands up your hips and pulls you toward him like gravity gone particularly intent.

“you look like you want to die,” he murmurs, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth where your smile is still plastered with surprise.

“shut up,” you say, but your voice is soft, a little wobbly, because what else do you say to a man who wears your imprint like a compliment?

after the elevator, you manage to lock your door but that’s all the time he gives you. the second your door clicks shut behind you, he’s on you again. no pause, no polite breakjust his mouth crashing into yours, hungry, messy, like he’s been waiting all night for this exact moment.

he pushes you back against the wall, kissing you hard enough to make your teeth knock together, hands everywhere. grabbing your waist, squeezing your thighs, tugging at the hem of your shirt. you barely manage to kick your shoes off before he’s already lifting you, hooking his arms under your thighs to carry you deeper inside.

you cling to him, legs locked tight around his waist, kissing him back just as rough. your apartment is half-unpacked, boxes still stacked by the wall, but neither of you give a shit. he stumbles past them, bumping your hip against the edge of a box, but doesn’t stop. he doesn’t even notice.

he drops you onto the couch for a second, just long enough to yank your shirt over your head and toss it somewhere behind him. your bra’s still on but he mouths at your chest like it’s in his way, teeth catching on the strap and you shiver when he groans against you.

“you’re driving me crazy,” he mutters, dragging his lips down the center of your stomach, fingers already working at your jeans.

you push at his shoulders, breathless, laughing a little at how frantic he is. “bedroom,” you manage to say, tugging his hair until he looks up at you. his eyes are dark, wild, pupils blown wide.

he doesn’t argue. just hauls you up again, strong arms locking around you like you weigh nothing and heads straight for your room.

the door bangs against the wall when he kicks it open. he sets you down on the bed but immediately climbs over you, caging you in with his arms. your boxes and half-unpacked clothes are scattered around, but you can’t see anything past him. his mouth, his hands, the weight of him pressing you down.

he kisses you again, slower now. his hand slides up your stomach, cups your breast, thumb brushing over the fabric until you arch into him.

“take this off,” he mutters against your mouth, tugging at your bra strap. “wanna see you.”

you reach back to unclasp it but his hands are already there, impatient, pulling it free and tossing it aside. the way he looks at you then, eyes flicking down, breath catching, is enough to make your whole body burn.

“fuck,” he whispers. then he’s leaning down, sucking one nipple into his mouth, tongue circling until you gasp and twist under him.

his hand slides down, unbuttoning your jeans and shoving them down your hips. he’s rough with it, desperate, like he doesn’t care if he rips the zipper. you help him, kicking them off, leaving yourself in nothing but panties.

he pulls back for just a second, kneeling between your legs, hands gripping your thighs tight. his chest rises and falls heavy, lips swollen, jaw still smeared with faint traces of your lipstick.

“you’re perfect,” he says, voice low and wrecked, and then he’s leaning down again, dragging his mouth down your stomach. and then he kiss down the inside of your leg, slow enough to make you squirm.

“vernon,” you breathe, hips lifting when he nips at the sensitive skin close to your panties.

he grins against you, fingers curling into the waistband. “these need to go.”

he drags them down your legs and tosses them to the floor without looking, eyes locked on you now. bare, spread out for him on your bed.

then his mouth is on you.

the first stroke of his tongue makes your whole body jolt, a sharp moan tearing out of you before you can stop it. he groans at the sound, gripping your thighs harder, holding you open as he licks into you again, slower this time, deliberate.

“fuck, you taste so good,” he mutters against you, voice muffled and wrecked.

your hands fly to his hair, tangling in it, pulling him closer when he flicks his tongue just right. he groans again, the vibration shooting straight through you.

he eats you out like he’s starving. his tongue circles your clit, then sucks it between his lips and you cry out, hips jerking up into his face. he holds you down easily, one arm braced over your stomach, the other hand spreading you wider so he can get his mouth everywhere.

your head tips back against the mattress, eyes squeezed shut, moans spilling out unchecked. every flick of his tongue, every drag of his mouth makes heat coil tighter and tighter in your stomach.

“vernon... shit. take it easy or i’m gonna....” 

he hums against you. he presses harder, tongue teasing, sucking, but holding you back.

“not yet, babe...” he murmurs, voice low and teasing. “not yet.”

your body trembles, desperate, moans shaking out of you. every thrust of his tongue, every nip, every suck is meant to push you closer and he watches with dark amusement as you writhe beneath him.

“you want it so badly, don’t you?” he whispers, voice rough, hand gripping your hip. “i can see it all over your face. god, you’re so needy.”

he slows, dragging his fingers down your side, then flicks your clit lightly, teasing, making you arch against him, gasping. “not gonna let you come, babe. not yet. i want you on the edge...”

your hands clutch at him, nails digging in, hips bucking desperately. “please… vernon—”

he groans, pressing closer. “no babe… you’re fucking gorgeous like this,” he says, voice rough. “but i’m not done with you.”

he grins, dragging you back toward that delicious torment, every motion calculated to drive you insane without release, until your body shakes, breathless, trembling… completely his.

he kisses you hard before you can catch your breath, letting you taste yourself on his lips. while you’re still reeling, he fumbles with his belt, shoving it open, dragging his jeans and boxers down his hips in one rough movement.

when he presses against you, heavy and hard, your whole body shudders.

“do you want this?,” he murmurs against your mouth, though his hips are already grinding against your soaked skin.

“yes,” you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders.“please.”

his jaw tightens, like he’s barely holding himself back. “fuck—okay.”

he pushes into you slow, stretching you until you’re full, and you bite down on his shoulder to stifle the sharp sound that escapes your throat. he groans at the feeling, deep and ragged, holding himself still for a second like he’s savoring it.

“god, you’re so tight,” he mutters against your ear. “is this why you’ve been calling me down here every day? just to have me fuck you like this?”

you squeeze around him on purpose, a smirk tugging at your lips. “am i really that obvious?”

he lets out a shaky laugh, pulls back, and thrusts in again, harder this time. the bed creaks, your body jolts and the sound you make has him swearing under his breath.

his rhythm builds slowly at first, each thrust measured. like he wants to make you feel every inch. you cling to him, nails digging into his back, gasping into his mouth when he kisses you.

then he speeds up, hips snapping harder, and the air fills with the wet sounds of skin on skin. you moan louder, arching into him, but every time you think you’re getting close, he slows down again, grinding deep instead of thrusting fast.

“you’re not coming yet,” he growls against your throat, teeth scraping your skin. “i want to hear you scream my name. i want the whole building to know who’s taking you apart tonight.”

he shifts suddenly, flipping you onto your stomach and pulling your hips up. before you can process, he’s sliding back into you from behind, deeper, the angle making you cry out. he grips your waist hard, dragging you back onto him with each thrust, groaning at the sight.

you bury your face in the pillow, fists clutching at the sheets as the pace turns brutal. he slaps your ass once, the sting sending a shiver through you, and you push back against him, desperate.

when your moans start breaking into sharp whimpers, he slows again, leaning over your back, kissing your shoulder, your neck. he grinds deep, rolling his hips in slow circles that make you shudder, but it’s not enough.

“please,” you gasp, turning your head to look at him.

he chuckles darkly, dragging the words out. “please what, babe? beg properly.”

“please, don’t stop teasing.”

he smirks, sweat dripping down his jaw, before flipping you onto your back again. his hair’s a mess, his lips swollen, pupils blown wide with lust. he pushes back in without warning, hard and fast.

this time he doesn’t hold back. his hips slam into you again and again, your legs hooked over his shoulders, the bed banging against the wall. he kisses you through it, messy and desperate, tongue sliding against yours while his hand finds your clit.

he circles it roughly, perfectly in sync with his thrusts, and your whole body tenses.

“fuck, vernon...”

“not yet,” he says, though his own voice is breaking, hips stuttering like he’s close. “hold it for me.”

you’re shaking, moaning uncontrollably, every muscle tight, but you do as he says, dragging it out. the tension builds unbearably, each thrust winding you tighter and tighter until you feel like you’ll snap.

“now,” he finally growls, slamming into you harder, fingers working faster against your clit. “come for me now.”

your release hits like a tidal wave, ripping through you so hard you scream his name, body arching off the bed, clenching around him in spasms. he groans at the feeling, thrusting through it, until his rhythm falls apart.

“fuck—i’m—”

he pulls out with a grunt, finishing hot across your stomach and thighs, his head thrown back, muscles taut as he groans your name.

he collapses beside you, both of you breathless, sweat slicked, the room spinning with the aftermath.

he drags you against his chest, pressing a sloppy kiss to your temple. and for a long time, the only sound in the room is the ragged pull of your breaths slowly returning to normal. the air is thick with the scent of sex and sweat, a heavy, intimate perfume. you’re tangled together, limbs loose and heavy, his heart thudding a steady rhythm against your back where he holds you.

the high is still buzzing under your skin, but reality is starting to seep back in through the cracks. the boxes in the corner, the faint, rhythmic thumping of mr. gable’s drum pad next door. the fact that the man currently nuzzling the nape of your neck is the doorman.

he stirs first, his hand stroking a lazy path from your hip to your ribs. “hey,” he murmurs, his voice rough with exhaustion and satisfaction.

“hey,” you whisper back.

“we’re a mess,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. his fingers brush over the sticky, cooling evidence of his release on your stomach.

a laugh bubbles out of you, breathy and incredulous. “yeah. we are.”

he shifts, propping himself up on an elbow to look down at you. his hair is still a wild mess and there’s a faint, smudged trace of your lipstick near his ear. he looks thoroughly, deliciously ruined. his eyes are soft, the earlier intensity replaced by a warm, sated glow.

“come on,” you say, pushing gently at his chest. “let’s get cleaned up.”

you lead him by the hand to your small bathroom. the light is harsh, highlighting every mark on your skin, every crease from the sheets. it should feel awkward, but it doesn’t.

you turn on the shower, letting the water heat up. steam begins to fog the mirror, blurring the edges of the two of you standing there. he steps in first, pulling you in after him under the warm spray. the water feels incredible on your oversensitive skin.

he reaches for your shampoo, squirting a generous amount into his palm. “turn around,” he says softly.

you obey, and his strong fingers begin to massage the suds into your scalp. it’s an unexpectedly intimate act, so tender after the raw passion of before. you close your eyes, leaning into his touch with a sigh.

“you know,” he says, his voice low and close to your ear over the sound of the water. “this showerhead’s pressure is a little weak. the angle’s off.”

you open your eyes, tilting your head back to look at him. water droplets cling to his dark lashes. “oh, yeah?”

“mmhmm. i should take a look at it sometime.” a playful smirk tugs at his lips.

a genuine, easy smile spreads across your face. “i should have called you about it weeks ago.”

he rinses your hair, his hands gentle. then he turns you around to face him. the water streams down his face, his chest. he looks at you and the smirk softens into something more vulnerable.

“i don’t mind, you know,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. “fixing your things.”

“you don’t?”

“no.” he shakes his head, his hands coming to rest on your hips under the water. “i don’t mind it at all. as long as it means i get to be up here. with you. like this.”

the words are simple, but they settle deep in your chest, warm and certain. there’s no grand promise of a relationship, no label. it’s just a statement of fact. he likes being here. with you.

you reach up, smoothing a stray strand of hair from his forehead. your heart feels too big for your chest, full and quiet.

“good,” you whisper, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. “because i think there's a loose floorboard in the hallway you should probably take a look at tomorrow.”

he laughs, a happy sound that mixes with the steam and the water. he leans in, resting his forehead against yours.

“whatever you need, 12b,” he murmurs. “whatever you need.”

and standing there, wrapped in steam and his arms, you know you've finally found the one thing in this apartment that doesn't need fixing at all.

[sailorsoons]

Hello, Darling (c.hs)

PAIRING: Vernon x afab reader

SUMMARY: Vernon has been one of your best friends for years. Shy, quiet and calm, he’s always been a steady rock for you. He has no idea you’re in love with him, but that’s neither here nor there. After a strange series of events on Halloween night, Vernon seems a little… different, and the new version of him both terrifies and thrills you. 

WC: 21,558

AU: Supernatural, Friends to Lovers, Thriller

GENRE: Smut, Angst

RATING 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

WARNINGS: Under the cut

A/N: This was an original request fill for my Haliween event on my first blog for @eoieopda. Thank you for letting me write you 20k+ of this Vernon :)

Reader Notes: This reader is never explicitly gendered as girl/she/her etc. so I have listed them as an afab reader.

MASTERLIST | ASK | PERMANENT TAG LIST | READ THE SEQUEL

WARNINGS: Explicit language, recreational drinking and smoking, crude humor, some of the members of SVT are a bit of an asshole in this - it is not a reflection of how I think of them, mentions of occult practices, a NOT ACCURATE spirit summoning/ritual, mentions of a murder suicide case/event, mentions of murders, light mentions of blood, mentions of infidelity, catching someone in a sexual act (not the main couple), Vernon is a bit of an asshole at times, mentions of insecurities/confused feelings, I owe Chan and Mingyu an apology for how I wrote them, sexual tension, some angst, sexually explicit content including thigh riding, oral (f. receiving), nipple play, a lot of biting and scratching, choking/breath play, vaginal fingering, a lot of spit and cum mentioned, unprotected sex, references to sub space, Vernon takes a dom role but it is not explicitly established, Vernon gets a little bit possessive, calls reader a slut a total of one time, some light finger sucking, reader is at several points annoyed with the women in this fic which can come off a lil bitchy, general creepy scenes in woods and in some dark spooky places. 

ADDITIONAL WARNING: It is implied by the end of this fic that Vernon is possessed to some degree by a spirit in this. I make zero distinction as to whether it’s Vernon or the spirit calling the shots or if there is even a difference/distinction between the two, which poses the fair question of consent in parts of this that I do not address or provide nuance to. The lack of clarification is due to the POV of this fic being entirely from reader’s perspective and she doesn’t have a clue what’s going on until the very end, and thus we are unable to unpack to what degree this character is or is not himself. If that lack of nuance bothers you, that is valid but this is not the fic for you. 

COOL WIND TUGS AT THE PAGES OF YOUR BOOK, THREATENING TO FLIP THEM OVER. You press your fingers flat to the page, fighting to keep them from flitting over and losing your place in the story. There’s not much daylight left in the sky as the afternoon dies to make way for the evening, but you’re eager to finish the chapter, craving to unravel the mystery you’ve been working your way through the past week. 

Atmospheric sounds play in your headphones as you read. Your legs are crossed, book in your lap as you sit on the concrete wall separating the quad from one of the sidewalks on campus. Now that there’s a chill in the air, you crave being outside, finding the opportunity to sit wherever you can on campus to crack open a book before the sunlight finally fades. 

Flipping the page, you only get a split second warning of the shout you hear through your headphones before something hits you in the back of the head. You yelp, dropping the book to the ground as your headphones clatter from your head to the grass from the impact. 

Scowling, you swivel around to see Mingyu jogging over, his hand over his mouth as apologies start pouring out of him. A flush creeps up your neck as he approaches, his friends and fellow fraternity brothers watching from afar. Some of them are bent over cackling, the others have their hands on their head, visibly stressed from hitting you with their football.

Again. 

“I am so sorry,” he pleads, running a hand through his sweaty hair. “Seungcheol threw wide.” 

“Maybe play on a rec field, then?” You snap, sliding from the wall, picking up your headphones and book. You kick the football toward him, irritated. “There’s literally so many other places you can play. Don’t you have a yard at your little frat house?” 

“It’s being used for float building for the Halloween parade.”

“Convenient.” 

For the most part, Mingyu isn’t so bad. He’s a little loud and obnoxious, but he’s always nice and he does seem to mean it when he picks up the football and apologizes again. It’s more than a lot of his fraternity brothers would do, though it’s not much now that they’ve managed to hit you twice with the same ball. 

Someone like Mingyu wouldn’t even pay attention to you if it weren’t for Vernon, though. As Mingyu retreats, the reason you’re even friends with Mingyu appears on the sidewalk, coming toward you with his hands in his pockets, hood pulled up on his head and headphones on. He lifts his chin in greeting to Mingyu, but Vernon’s brown eyes focus on you, his true destination. 

Vernon pulls his hood and headphones down when he’s within a few feet, jerking his thumb at Mingyu. “What did he want?” 

“He was apologizing for hitting me with the football. Again.”

“Again?” 

“Yeah. They hit me earlier.”

Vernon hums, displeased. He doesn’t say much, instead turning to lean against the wall, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets again.

The last embers of sunlight hit his side profile, stunning you to momentarily silence. In a halo of fiery light, Vernon looks like a god. His light brown eyes turn burnished gold, reflecting the dying sun. His hair is spun copper, strands dancing in the breeze as he watches the world around him. 

Not for the first time, you think that you understand why Helen of Troy inspired a thousand ships to come after her. Vernon’s face is the kind of thing you’ve read about in all of your mythologies and folktales for your Occult Studies major, so beautiful that it can’t be real.  

If Vernon notices you staring, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, his eyes watch the other members of his fraternity play football, one of them crashing into someone on a lawn chair. He shakes his head and mutters under his breath, wearing his second-hand embarrassment silently as he watches them apologize for the millionth time. 

Vernon is nothing like the rest of his fraternity. You’re still unsure why he even joined. It was something he had done his freshman year going into school, wanting to put himself out there and make friends. 

He certainly looks the part - he’s handsome and in shape from playing soccer in highschool, and he’s got good fashion sense for a college student. But he’s quiet and a little awkward, unsure how to navigate conversations with most people who aren’t in his immediate circle of friends and shy to an almost crippling point. 

It had taken Vernon seven weeks of being your lab partner before he finally spoke more than three sentences to you. For the longest time, you’d assumed it was because he thought you were beneath him. It wouldn’t have surprised you. Greek life on campus tended to stick with their own. 

Now, you know it was because he didn’t know what to say or how to start a conversation. You’d only managed to get him to talk to you when he noticed a song by Frank Ocean bleeding from your headphones, piquing his interest. 

Four years later, talking to Vernon is easy. Well, maybe not easy. You’ve got years of friendship between you now and you know what makes Vernon tick, but the butterflies you get when you’re around him and the way your heart swells when he does something so simple makes it a little harder. 

Like now, as day fades to evening and the world is awash in purple and gold, and he’s looking at the watercolor sky like it's the most fascinating thing in the world, completely unaware that while he’s in awe of the sky, you’re in awe of him. 

Vernon jerks forward, making you flinch. You have no idea what he’s doing until his hand is in front of you, smacking down the football that has been sent your direction again. You huff in frustration, watching as this time it’s Chan who jogs over to get it. 

“Are you all fucking serious?” You demand. He slows his approach, eyes darting to Vernon as though looking for help from his friend. Vernon says nothing, bending over to pick up the football and toss it to Chan. “I should shove that football up your ass.” 

“Maybe not the football,” Chan quips, catching it. He looks you up and down, head cocking to the side a little. His mouth lifts at the corner and there’s a glint in his dark eyes that makes you even angrier. “I’m open to other things, though?” 

“You’re so gross.”

“What? You’re hot when you’re mad.” 

“Go away, Chan!” You shriek, flustered and angry as you spin around to grab your things and storm off. You only get a few feet before realizing Vernon is still leaning on the wall. “Are you coming or not?”

He scrambles after you, nearly tripping over his own feet to catch up. Chan is snickering as he runs back toward where the others wait for him, yelling a trilling bye toward you and Vernon as you charge north toward the main campus parking lot. 

“He’s so annoying,” you gripe, shoving your book in your bag. Vernon hums, noncommittal. You glance at him. “Nothing more to add?” 

He lifts a shoulder. “It’s cause they think you’re hot, Lovecraft.”

You smile at the nickname, fondness sweeping through you. He’d started calling you Lovecraft your freshman year after learning about your major, deciding that it just fit. You like it - at least coming from Vernon, who understood Occult Studies was more than just spooky and magic and the metaphysical. 

“They think anything with a set of tits and a hole to stick their dick in is hot. I’m sure a blowup doll would blow their fucking mind.” 

Vernon’s mouth twitches at that. “You’d hate Chan’s room.”

“Don’t give me that visual!” 

His laugh is warm. He bumps shoulders with yours, grinning at you as the two of you walk. You feel the telltale sign of your traitorous heart beating extra hard at his closeness, your gaze shooting to the floor as you try to hide any evidence of your feelings that might lurk on the surface of your expression. 

Thankfully, Vernon never seems to notice. You’re glad that he doesn’t. You don’t think you’re very good at hiding how you feel, but he is equally bad at picking up on it, totally oblivious to the long stares and the way you fumble over your words when he gets too close. 

Vernon has that effect on a lot of people. His proximity to being attractive has always outweighed his inability to make small talk among the female population on campus. The amount of times you’ve watched girls openly flirt with him and whisper about what it would take to get him to crack was insurmountable. 

Autumn wind kicks up leaves at your feet. Neither one of you says anything as you walk, simply content to be together. It’s one of your favorite things about him, never feeling pressure to perform or to have conversation. Being with Vernon is just… easy. Natural, even. 

The parking lot is slowly emptying as the rest of the late afternoon classes end. A few unlucky evening class students pull in, slamming their car doors and rushing off to their auditoriums. Vernon’s car is easy to find and you let yourself in, sliding into the passenger seat like it’s yours - it kind of is. 

“Pizza?” he asks, engine humming to life. 

“Please.” His lips twitch in a soft smile as he nods, flipping on the radio. You hum, leaning forward and turning up the volume. “I love this song.” 

Vernon’s smile increases as you lean back, the sounds of Emotional Oranges filling the car. He rolls the windows down once he’s on the road proper, cool wind kissing your skin. You pull your feet up onto the seat, leaning toward the window as the fading twilight brushes past you. 

Outside the car, the world smells like pine. You take a deep breath in, loving the way the October air feels just right. Fall is always your favorite time of year, and with the music playing in the background, wind in your hair and Vernon drumming on the wheel, you don’t think there could be anything better in the world. 

Sal’s Pizzeria glows against the dark, a beacon of hunger and hope against the night. The giant pizza slice on the roof blinks rapidly, the neon a little bit broken. Gold light glows through the windows as you climb out the car, gravel crunching beneath your feet. 

A bell chimes as the door opens and a group of students pour out, laughing and carrying boxes. Vernon catches the lip of the door and holds it open for you, gesturing you to enter first. The smell of bread and warm air hits you in the face, your lips curving as you tell the girl at the host stand two.

College students and local residents fill the restaurant. The hostess leads you to a booth in the corner, the vinyl seats creaking under you as you hop-slide your way in. She hands you the menus, her eyes lingering on Vernon as she does, lips twitching when she asks if there’s anything else you need. When he doesn’t answer, you shake your head, shooting her a thin-lipped smile. 

She’s hesitant to leave but she does, casting one last look over her shoulder as she heads back to the stand. You look at Vernon too, studying him. He’s none the wiser, brown eyes scanning the menu even though you know he’s going to order the same thing. 

When the server comes, Vernon does as expected: orders a diablo pizza with a side of fries. You shake your head a little, asking for the white feta pizza, handing over the sticky menus. When the server is gone, Vernon leans back in the seat, sipping his coke as he drinks you in, wordless. 

You kick your feet up on his side of the booth next to him and he lets you, patting your ankle fondly when he sets his drink down. He has no idea how torturous that alone is, the simple comfort of his familiar touch enough to send your eyes averting across the room, trying to control your breathing. 

“What are the favorites and least favorites this week?” he asks, balling up the paper his straw came in. 

Favorites and least favorites is a game you like to play with him. It’s not so much of a game as it is a routine where you tell him your favorite piece of material from your classes and your least favorite. Most people dismiss your major as too peculiar for interest. No one knows what you’re supposed to do with Occult Studies but it fascinates you.

And Vernon, who has always had a keen interest in the goings on in your classes and homework. 

“We’re in the psychology of the occult module.” He nods, eyes fixed on you. “Mostly covering the psychology of community as it relates to the occult. We have sections on covens, clans, actual cults, sects and more modern mass followings.” 

“Hmm. So like… Twitter stans.”

You smile a bit. “Something like that. We covered the maenads in class today. Ever heard of them?” He shakes his head and you lean forward, elbows on the table. “They were women in Ancient Greece devoted to the god Dionysus and they were believed to be possessed by the god. They were said to have wild parties in the woods with one another where they’d do all manner of sordid things, all while under the influence.” 

“A Friday night for Chan.”

“Exactly. A lot of historians call them crazy and speculate they were raving mad, but if I was a woman under the thumb of men in Ancient Greece…”

“Shit, I’d get fucking crazy in the woods with my friends too.”

“Exactly. It was more about reveling in female companionship and being unfettered from the male-dominated societal norms.” 

The arrival of your dinner interrupts the conversation. Both of you lean backward, making room for the hot plates and Vernon’s basket of fries. You slide your feet down from his side of the booth, leaning to grab the red pepper flakes from the corner of the table. He grabs salt, immediately dusting his fries.

“Ugh, you could have at least let me have some first.” He looks up at you through his lashes, brows raised. “They’re already salted, Vernon.”

“Not enough.”

“You know, if you were haunted or possessed you’d never want the salt.” He gives a questioning hum. “Salt is used in purification rituals. It’s believed spirits hate it because it’s used in banishing spells and rituals. It’s why a line of salt keeps them out.”

“Good thing I’m hungry, not haunted.” 

You snort, taking a piece of your pizza from the tray. “Speaking of haunted, are we going to your Halloween party this weekend?”

“My halloween party?”

“You are in the fraternity, Vernon. Yes, yours.” 

He makes a face and tears into his pizza. You shake your head as he lets out a sound, huffing and tilting his head backward as he tries to deal with the too-hot food in his mouth burning him. “Ya,” he says around the slice. “I guess so.” 

“What are you going to wear?” He raises a brow at you, swallowing down the hot bite. You pout, sagging in your seat. “Dude, you have to dress up. You can’t just go in a black shirt and a baseball hat.” 

“Why not?” You kick him under the table and he winces, ducking down to rub at his shin. “Shit, fine. Okay, what do I go as?”

You grin, picking up your appropriately cooled pizza. “Leave it to me.” 

-

“This makeup itches,” Vernon mutters, looking up at you through long lashes. You hush him, putting the finishing touches on the black line down his mouth. “Couldn’t I have gone as something easier?”

“What is easier than black jeans and a jacket you already own, huh? Stop talking, I’m gonna fuck up this line and this makeup is perfect so far.” 

It’s true. You’ve outdone yourself on turning Vernon’s face into a skull, taking inspiration from American Horror Story for the costume. Vernon is a low effort kind of person, so getting him into costume is a lot easier when all it requires are clothes he already owns and makeup that you have to do anyway. 

Stepping away from him, you admire your handy work. His eyes are painted black, hollowed out for the skull. His dark hair is slicked back, the perfect skeleton. He looks… good. Painfully good, which makes you nervous and turn away quickly, heart flipping. You’re not sure what it says about you that Vernon staring at you while painted as a deadly skeleton makes your heart race but… it does. 

“How do I look?”

“Terrifying,” you admit, turning back to him. “But good.” 

He grins and if it were anyone else but Vernon, you’d be terrified. Maybe you did a little too good of a job. 

“What are you again?”

“One of the witches from American Horror Story Coven. Close your eyes, I’m going to use setting spray.” 

Darkness blankets the sky by the time you’re both scrambling down the steps and into an Uber. The driver does a double take when they see Vernon, eyes watching nervously in the rearview as you give him the address. 

“That’s at a closed down gas station.”

“Yep,” you agree, leaning back into the seat.

The driver mutters something about fucking college kids and fucking holiday but otherwise says nothing about the questionable location. He doesn’t need to know that a mile from the abandoned gas station is also an abandoned farmhouse notorious for unsanctioned parties and being distinctly haunted. 

Haunted isn’t your favorite thing in the world. You didn’t like to mess with ghosts, despite your area of study. You were infinitely more interested in the intersectionality of occult studies and modern culture and society and less enthused about the idea of drinking stale beer from a foamy tap in the middle of a murder house. 

If the driver thinks there’s anything weird about other people being dropped off at the gas station - you’re sure he does - he says nothing, ignoring the two of you as you get out of the car and dive into the night air. Vernon is close behind as you take a few steps away from the car, eyeing the old gas station.

The windows have long since been broken and cracked, foggy with time. The stations are stripped of their labels and stickers, just white residue left behind and no pumps. A few people lounge around the building smoking, dressed in a variety of halloween costumes. 

Nervous, you look up at Vernon. His smile is small and he juts his chin toward the dirt road that leads through the woods. Nodding, you both fall into step, sand and gravel crunching beneath your feet as you go. Vernon recognizes a few people associated with his fraternity and others, throwing a casual wave or a nod as you pass by people.

Music echoes down the road. It’s a little less foreboding in the dark trees when you can hear Michael Jackson’s thriller coming down the way and the dull roar of voices. The bend in the road straightens out, the line of trees giving way to flat land. 

The farmhouse is pretty, even in old age. It’s two stories, glowing from within from all of the battery lanterns and lights being used to light the party. A generator roars somewhere behind the house, light flooding the yard where people mingle and crowd the kegs. 

A chill slithers down your spine as you enter the yard, the broken gate doing a poor job at keeping trespassers out. Even with the lighting, shadows dance as you navigate through people, the strange anxiety crawling up your throat worsening as you near the house. 

Vernon pulls the sleeve of your dress so that you’re closer to him, his fingers steady and calm as he leads you up the steps where you can clearly hear Mingyu’s howling laughter inside. 

Bright light fills the house. As do a crush of people and beer pong tables, the abandoned home turned into a raucous display of drinking and debauchery. If you weren’t so distracted by the wave of people pushing you into Vernon’s arm, you might be impressed at how much you could forget the farm home was abandoned because someone had been murdered here. 

“I need a drink,” Vernon announces, continuing to pull your arm after him as he plunges toward what used to be the kitchen.

It’s where you find Mingyu dressed as a lifeguard - and loudly yelling directions. He blows his whistle shrilly when he sees you and Vernon, pointing at the two of you and spitting the whistle out of his mouth to scream, “NOT WET ENOUGH!”

“What a weird way to offer drinks,” you mutter. Chan, who seems to be on lifeguard assistant duty - while dressed in a horrid felt dinosaur costume - scrambles to get you drinks, spilling rum as he tips it over into a cup. “No ice?” 

“There’s not a fridge,” he pouts, shoving the cup in your hand. His eyes drink you in. “Are you a hot goth or?” 

Instead of answering him, you roll your eyes and turn to Mingyu, who blows the whistle again. Both you and Vernon wince, the latter throwing back his drink to chug it all before thrusting the cup back at Chan. “That’s gonna get real tiring.” 

Mingyu comes around the corner of the old island countertop, pumping his fists in the air to the music rattling through the house. “Vernon you look fucking sick!” He and Vernon do the little hand-clap-to-half-hug men do. Mingyu turns to look at you, eyes dark. “Are you like, a hot goth?” 

Your smile is plastic as the whistle around Mingyu’s neck. “Sure.” 

Mingyu, dancing and moving toward the living room, reaches out to you. “Come dance with me! This song fucks.”

“Decidedly not!” 

“Go ahead, Lovecraft!” Vernon urges, pushing you toward the obnoxious lifeguard with a shit-eating grin as he imitates Mingyu’s voice. “This song fucks.” 

Before you can chastise him for egging his fraternity brother on, Mingyu has you sucked into the dancing crowd, throwing his hands in the air as he swivels his way through the crowd. You try to knock back as much of the lukewarm drink as you can, cringing at the burn of cheap rum and not-iced coke. 

Bodies pressed in. Mingyu is close to you, a hand going to your waist. You frown and look over your shoulder, eyes scanning for Vernon. You know he’s probably lingering on the edge of the crowd, watching you with a smirk over the rim of his cup as he watches Mingyu roll his hips toward you.

“Mingyu,” you snap, turning back to him when you don’t find Vernon. “It’s the Monster Mash, it doesn’t require grinding.” 

“I mean, if you wanna graveyard smash…”

“You’re all insufferable! All of you!”

Still, you sway back and forth, trying to stomach finishing the rest of your horrid drink. It takes an effort, but shaking your head at Mingyu and judging him silently gets you most of the way through it until Soonyoung - dressed in the same tiger costume from last year - crashes through the crowd into the pair of you, thrilled when he realizes who it is he has slammed into. 

“Hot goth!” he screams, pointing at your outfit. “Where is your other half?” 

You don’t have to ask what Soonyoung means and both the drink and the accusation have you flushing. You shrug a shoulder, eyes surveying the party. Before either of you can find Vernon, Joshua appears at Soonyoung’s side, leaning to his ear to murmur something. Soongyoung’s face lights up and he grins at you, grabbing you by the wrist to yank you through the crowd. 

“Hello?” you demand, pulling your wrist from his grip. “Have you heard of asking?”

“Come on, I want to show you something.”

“The last time I heard that was promptly followed by you showing me that stupid peach tattoo on your ass.”

“First of all, that tattoo is amazing.” He heads to the stairs, which you eye warily. “Second, Vernon is already upstairs, come on. You like weird ghost shit, you’ll like this.”

Without waiting for a reply, Soonyoung thunders up the stairs. You cringe, waiting for a foot to go through a dry plank and send him falling. It doesn’t happen, though. Tentatively, you creep up the stairs after him, eyes glued to each of the steps as you go. 

It’s colder upstairs, the windows in the rooms open to the elements. You shiver, looking down the hall to Soonyoung heading into a bedroom. You tentatively follow him, stopping at the threshold of the doorway to survey the people inside.

Vernon is one of them, back pressed to the wall near the window, his eyes focused on his boots in front of him, hands tucked into his pockets. A girl next to him dressed as Red Riding Hood is leaning close, speaking to him rapidly. Nothing on his face indicates he’s listening. Then again, his expression is hard to read while painted as a skull, mystifying and dark as you follow Soonyoung down the hall. 

Soonyoung goes straight toward a pile of things on the floor next to Seungcheol’s feet in the corner of the room. The president of Vernon’s fraternity pays Soonyoung no mind, eyes totally focused on the pretty fox in front of him, bottom lip tucked between his teeth. 

Suddenly, the room feels too intimate for you, like everyone is a couple tucked away. You have half a mind to go back downstairs when Vernon looks up at you, dark eyes zeroing in. His face is ten times more intense with the skull paint, pinning you to the spot. 

Everything dulls to the background for a second. You don’t dare breathe, too afraid to shatter the moment as he stares at you, unblinking. His eyes glitter in the darkness of the room, two amber pools reflecting the moonlight. 

Joshua enters the room behind you, shattering the spell as you step out of his way. You turn back to Vernon, clearing your throat. He pulls a hand from his pocket, beckoning you over. Mouth dry, you obey, skittering over toward him quickly as you observe the materials that Soonyoung is sifting through in the corner. Candles. Matches. Salt. A bell. 

“Soonyoung,” you say sharply, slowing your step. “Why do you have ritual materials?”

He looks up at you, his grin wide. “Told you that you’d like this.” 

“What is this?” You turn back to Vernon, who shrugs one shoulder. 

Hesitantly, you take the unoccupied space next to him, casting the girl at his side a cursory glance. She observes your costume. “Are you a hot goth?” 

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, head thunking against the wall as you watch Soonyoung stand, materials in hand. Vernon coughs next to you, trying to cover his laugh. You glare at him sidelong and he says nothing, but his skeleton mouth is screwed up in a smirk. “What is he doing?”

“No clue.”

Soonyoung walks over to the bedroom door, looking down the hallway before shutting it. You fight a shiver, disliking how quiet the room becomes, cut off from the rest of the world. The window near you is the only source of light, and the only one shut on the second level of the abandoned home. 

“What time is it?” Soonyoung asks Joshua.

“11:45.” 

“Perfect.” Soonyoung spins, eyes falling on you. “Want to talk to a ghost?” 

All eyes turn to you in the room. You open and close your mouth, confused. “What?” 

“Do you want to talk to a ghost? Like someone who died?” 

Your eyes drift to the candle, bell and matches in Soonyoung’s hand. A tingle spreads over your skin and your spine stiffens. “Soonyoung that better not be to invite a spirit in.” 

His grin grows. “Come on, you are the ghost major or whatever. You should be thrilled to do this.”

“Occult Studies. And that doesn’t mean I fuck with the unknown or make a mockery of the dead. We’ve been over this.” 

“It’s basically the same thing, come on. You learn it all in class.” 

“No.” 

He pouts. “You’d be best at it, though. Rumor has it that when the veil is thinnest, you can talk to the spirit that haunts this house.” 

“The murderer? Or the murdered?” Soonyoung shrugs. “I doubt either would be very happy a bunch of drunk college kids are trying to bother them. My answer is no.” 

“Ugh. I was kind of counting on you doing it.” 

“Do it yourself.”

“I don’t study ghost shit!”

“Occult! Studies!”

“Ghost shit,” Soonyoung assures the room confidently.

“I’ll do it,” Vernon sighs, pushing off the wall. “Leave her alone.” 

Soonyoung’s eyes are alight as Vernon steps toward him. You reach out to grab his wrist, pulling him back. “Don’t.” 

“It’s fine.”

“Vernon.”

His eyes are soft when he looks at you. As soft as the terrifying makeup allows, anyway. “It’s fine, Lovecraft. Let me. He’ll stop asking.”

“I’m right here.”

“We know,” you and Vernon say in unison. You feel warm, chewing the inside of your cheek before nodding. You drop his wrist and turn to Soonyoung, eyes hard. “Give me that, you’ll do it wrong. Tell me what the mythos is.”

“What math? You need math?”

“The story, Soonyoung. What is the fucking story of this house?”

“Right. Apparently some dude murdered his girlfriend in here and then hung himself in that closet.” He points to a door you didn’t see when you walked in, dark and far away from the window. “Legend says at midnight, ring the bell three times and step into the closet with a candle. If the candle blows out, the spirit is with you. If it doesn’t, it didn’t work.” 

Grabbing the items from Soonyoung’s hand, you look at Vernon. “When you’re done, ring the bell three times again and say: Thank you, I dismiss thee. Go in peace.” 

“Thank you,” Vernon repeats gently, taking the bell from your hand. “I dismiss thee. Go in peace.”

“Everyone else take candles,” you direct, voice rough with irritation. You glare at Soonyoung and Seungcheol in particular as you shove candles in their hands. “Stand in the four corners of the room. Did you bring sage, Soonyoung?”

“Bring what?”

“Of course not, why would you?” Everyone starts moving to the corner of the room, using matches to light their candles. The room feels unnaturally cold now, despite your long sleeves. Turning back to Vernon, you say, “It’s probably a stupid rumor.”

“Probably.”

“If your candle goes out, just ring the bell, say the words, and dismiss it.” 

“Right.” 

“You don’t have to do it, Vernon.”

His mouth kicks up at the corner. “I’m not worried, Lovecraft. You are.” 

Letting out a breath, you give a laugh that’s only half-there. You are nervous. You don’t like the idea of inviting a spirit into Vernon’s space, and though Soonyoung’s little ritual doesn’t really sound right, you’re not going to correct him. 

Still, you feel unsettled as you light your own candle and then Vernon’s. He cradles it in his hands as you escort him to the door. Tucked under your arm is the canister of salt. Crouching down, you pour the salt in a thick white light in front of the door, careful to ensure that there are no breaks and that it covers the entire entryway from corner to corner.

“Be careful when you step over it and when you open the door,” you instruct, standing up. The candle in your hand flickers unsteadily. “Don’t break the line. The idea is that if Soonyoung’s stupid summoning works, the spirit can’t get through the salt.”

“Banishing and all that,” Vernon recalls with a smile. Your heart flips. “I remember.” 

“Come on, you only have a minute!” Soonyoung calls eagerly. 

Shooting him a glare that silences him, you turn back to Vernon. “Ring the bell three times. Thank you, I dismiss thee. Go in peace.”

“Got it.” 

Unsettled you shuffle back from the door a little bit. You don’t go to a corner of the room like you’ve asked everyone else, unwilling to totally leave him by himself. Heart hammering, you hold your candle in front of you, cradling the warmth like a second heart. 

Vernon is unbothered. You can see it in the loose set of his shoulders and the way he sighs, already tired of Soonyoung’s antics. The party downstairs feels a million miles away as you watch Vernon stand in front of the closed closet door, looking up at it, unimpressed.

“It’s midnight,” Joshua whispers from the corner. 

Vernon doesn’t make any sound that he’s heard Joshua, but he lifts the little bell in his hand. It’s a hand bell, the wood grip worn and cracked. You wonder where Soonyoung got it from, having half a mind to ask him when the first clear ring of the bell disrupts your thoughts. 

The note sings through the air, your blood turning to ice in your veins. It feels like your pulse is throbbing in your neck as Vernon rings the bell hard a second time, the sound chasing the echo of the first. The third ring feels like a tremor in the air, warbling as Vernon quickly sets the bell on the floor, careful not to extinguish his candle flame. 

You hold your breath when he sets his hand on the doorknob. No one makes a sound as he twists it open. He pulls on the door and it comes away with a silent swing. The darkness on the other side is gaping, like there’s no back to the closet, just a wide hole of nothing. 

Vernon doesn’t seem to mind. He steps over the line of salt carefully until he’s in the middle of the closet, pivoting to face you. The orange flicker of his candle casts a haunting glow over his skull face. You swallow down a brief moment of fear before he winks and leans forward to pull the door shut.

For a long moment, there’s nothing. You feel your heart hammering in your chest, the thudthudthud so loud you swear everyone else in the room can hear it. No one moves, everyone fixated on the door. The silence is so piercing that your ears start to ring, the sound of the party completely unreachable over your mounting anxiety. 

“Well?” Soonyoung whispers somewhere behind you. “I guess it didn’t work.” 

Vernon begins pounding on the door. Someone screams behind you followed by a bunch of curses. You leap forward, heart in your throat as Vernon screams something unintelligible on the other side. You drop your candle, completely throwing caution to the wind as you grab the doorknob and twist. 

It doesn’t move.

“Vernon?” you ask, voice spiking with fear. “Let go of the doorknob, let me turn it. Vernon!”

The pounding doesn’t stop. He is screaming in a way you’ve never heard before, his fists rattling the door against the frame. You shriek his name back, yanking at the door frantically, your panic mounting as he screams and- 

When the door opens, you nearly fall backward with the force of it, stumbling over your feet. Soonyoung steadies you, to your surprise. You hadn’t realized he had left his corner of the room to help, his hand warm and firm. 

Vernon stands on the other side of the door, mouth pressed in a firm line. 

“You fucking asshole,” Soonyoung swears, throwing his unlit candle at Vernon. Vernon laughs, dodging it. “You fucking suck.”

“Yeah, well don’t ask me to do stupid shit.” Vernon steps out of the closet, eyes dropping to you. His mirth is edged with something sharp, a glint in his eyes that is wholly unfamiliar. “I was kidding.”

“You fucking asshole!” You screech at him, slamming your hands into his chest and knocking him back a little. He smirks and says nothing, letting you hit him a few times. “Why would you do that to me? What is wrong with you?” 

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, you sound really fucking sorry.” Anger sours your mouth. Turns your words to poison. Your throat tightens up and you feel the telltale sign of tears, equal parts livid, embarrassed and offended that Vernon would do such a thing. “Fuck you, Vernon.”

Someone laughs awkwardly as you storm off. Vernon calls your name but you ignore him, bolting down the hall and down the stairs. The wood creaks uncertainty under your feet but you don’t care. You want to be anywhere but here, the hot lick of embarrassment burning your heels as you go. 

You blow past Chan on your way out, his bleary eyes following you. “Nooo,” he whines. “Hot goth, come back to me!”

“Shut up, Chan!” You scream, slamming down the steps as you go.

People nearly dive out of your way, swiveling to watch the wake of your wrath as you leave the party. You ignore them, not wanting anyone to see the hot tears that spill over as you hit the dirt road, boots crunching. 

It’s hard to tell what’s worse. The fact that Vernon had played a joke on you he knew you wouldn’t like, or the way you had panicked and lost all resolve to be the one in charge. Both feel awful, but the sting of Vernon’s joke is the sharper of the two, cutting you to the quick.

Vernon has never dared to do something like that in your entire friendship. You have no idea why he did it now. Was it because he had an audience? Was he drunk? Was he actually like the members of his fraternity he associated with? 

You had no idea, which only made things worse. Above anyone else, you thought you knew Vernon best. But perhaps, you didn’t know Vernon at all, which was far worse than any sort of haunted spirit you could imagine. 

-

The next morning, you don’t hear from Vernon. It makes your blood boil, a nasty feeling forming in the pit of your stomach as you put your phone on Do Not Disturb. You put on a big set of headphones, blaring music to keep you sane as you set about cleaning your apartment furiously. 

It’s an okay distraction. The lull of clinical cleaning is nice and the music soothes the sting that nips at your heels like an incessant hound. When you run out of things to clean, though, you’re forced to face the fact that it’s nearly evening and Vernon still hasn’t said anything to you.

You don’t want to text him first. Your pride is wounded from the night before and you’re shocked he hasn’t apologized - he should apologize. The silence only makes you angrier, and with nothing left to clean in your apartment, you decide to think of all the things you’re going to say to him when he does finally reach out to you. Because you’re not saying anything first. 

Vernon’s radio silence makes it nearly impossible to sleep. You toss and turn in bed, unable to get comfortable, checking your phone and social media. It’s difficult to remember the last time you went over twenty four hours without hearing from Vernon, and the realization forms a pit in your stomach.

Maybe the silence was good. Maybe you were too reliant on his friendship, the one constant that you had grown far too fond of. Maybe he was into that girl last night, making a show of you because he wanted to make her laugh or maybe he was just putting you in your place.

The insecurity wars with your logic that Vernon wouldn’t do that. He’s never had a history of that kind of behavior before, and though he might tease you on occasion, you have never been the butt of his jokes or the target of his humor. 

Jokes like that aren’t even Vernon’s style. He doesn’t like cruelty, and that’s what pretending to be screaming for help was. It was cruel, and strange and it hurt. 

What hurts more is the silence continuing into a second day. By the late afternoon, though, the hurt has morphed into something else. You sit on your couch, staring at the phone on your coffee table. Your pride was begging you not to text him, but your worry was starting to chip away at you. 

Heaving a sigh, you pick up the phone. The tap of your nails against the glass screen is loud in your quiet apartment, the final rays of sun melting through the blinds while a candle burns on the counter. 

[You 5:14 PM]: So are we not talking? 

Setting the phone down, you immediately start making dinner. It doesn’t matter that you’re too early. You’re nervous waiting for his text back, which makes you feel ridiculous. Then you feel ridiculous for feeling ridiculous, validating yourself that it is totally okay to have feelings and be nervous.

“God,” you mutter under your breath. “I’m exhausting.” 

By the time you’ve had dinner and watched a full episode of Alice in Borderland, Vernon has said nothing. Worry eats away at the lining of your stomach. You pause the show and pick up the phone again, dialing his number.

On the other side of the line, the phone rings. And rings. And rings. 

You hang up when you get the automated voicemail, frowning. It’s all strange, and a nagging feeling tugs at your nervous system but you can’t put your finger on it.

Just as you set the dishes in the sink, your phone starts to ping. You’re grateful no one can see you in your apartment as you lurch to the phone, picking it up and unlocking it to see if it’s Vernon. It isn’t, but your heart starts to thud when your group chats with other friends and classmates in projects flood with the same rumor over and over.

A dead body had been found on campus. 

Vernon doesn’t live on campus, but it doesn’t stop you from calling him again. And again. And again. When the voicemail turns on a fourth time, you seethe into the phone, fingers gripping it so hard it feels like it’ll break. “Call me back you fucking asshole! Someone died on campus and you’re not answering and I just need to know it’s not you. Fuck!” 

Time passes and you get so desperate you do the one thing you didn’t want to do unless it was dire circumstances. You hit dial and bring your phone up to your ear, pinching the bridge of your nose to prepare yourself for when Mingyu answers the phone. 

“Am I dreaming?” he says by way of greeting. “It was the life guard costume, right?” 

“Mingyu, it wasn’t a costume. You were shirtless with board shorts.” 

“But it worked, right?”

“Have you heard from Vernon?” 

“Nah, why?” 

“Like you haven’t seen him at all since the party?” 

“Mmm. I don’t think so.” There’s a muffled sound on the phone like he’s trying to cover it when he yells, “Chan, have you seen that fuck head Vernon?” You wait impatiently, holding the phone further from your ear as Minguy yells. “Chan hasn’t seen him either.” 

“Isn’t that weird? I haven’t been able to get a hold of him.”

“Nah, I mean we never really see him. Usually he’s with you.”

“Right. And he isn’t with me, I haven’t seen him since the party.” 

“Well have you checked his apartment?” You hesitate. “Helloooo?”

“No.”

“Well. Do that. He’s probably sleeping or some shit, who knows.” 

“Great. You were so helpful,” you deadpan.

Mingyu sounds genuinely happy when he says, “I’m so glad!”

You hang up the phone before he can say anything else. 

Chewing your nail, you stare at the wall, mind racing.  Mingyu has a point that it’s normal for them to never see Vernon. He is usually with you, or he’s solitary. There is little in between. He also has a point that most of the time if you were looking for Vernon, you’d just swing by his apartment. 

The thought of seeing him again makes you want to curl in on yourself, but your concern weighs out. You get dressed and grab your keys, trying not to let your fear of what you might find there keep you from leaving. 

Opening the door to your apartment, you get one foot out the door and then slam directly into Vernon. You reel backward, eyebrows shooting up as he steadies you by the elbow, equally surprised to see you as though he wasn’t at your doorstep. 

“Easy there,” he greets, a half smile on his face.

Vernon looks totally normal. He definitely doesn’t look like he was murdered, and he’s dressed in his usual jeans, plain black shirt, and a backwards hat. For a second, you just stare at him, totally shocked and utterly relieved he isn’t dead.

Then, the anger comes. 

You slam a hand into his chest, cursing at him. “Where?” Slap. “Have?” Slap. “You?” Slap. “Been?” 

He takes the blows in stride. His chest is firm beneath your palm, heart beating steadily. Alive. And now that you’ve established he’s not dead, you feel so much anger ripple through you that you don’t let him answer before you’re pivoting on your foot and storming back into your apartment.

The sound of the door closing behind you followed by his shuffling as he takes his shoes off tells you he hasn’t left. A small part of you curls in satisfaction with the domesticity of his arrival, but it is blotted out by the hurt and rage at the surface of your emotions.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You demand. It isn’t as eloquent as your practiced rant, but it’s something. “You better explain yourself. And quickly.”

Vernon’s dark eyes connect with yours, simmering. You feel your heart lurch as he slinks over to the kitchen, never taking his gaze off you. The back of your neck tingles. Vernon never keeps this much eye contact and it’s both thrilling and unnerving. 

“I want to apologize,” he murmurs, pitching his voice low. You watch with trepidation as he reaches out to gather your hand in his. He folds your fingers under his, pulling your hand to his chest. Your breath quickens, pulse throbbing as he cradles your fist to his chest, his heartbeat steady. “I fucked up. I wanted to fuck with Soonyoung but I did it at the expense of you, and for that I’m deeply sorry.”

Warmth spreads from his hand to yours. You don’t know what to make of the apology - it’s so unlike him. Vernon has no problem apologizing when he’s wrong, but he’s usually not so confident, so well spoken. You stare and stare, that pitless gaze of his pinned on you. 

“I just…” You chew the inside of your cheek. “You really hurt my feelings, Vernon.” His hands tighten around yours and he tugs a little, pulling you closer. It’s harder to think when you’re this close, fingers wrapped in his. “You really scared me and then you vanished for nearly three days. Why did you do that?” 

“I wasn’t feeling well and I slept most of the days away. Honestly.”

“You weren’t feeling well?”

He gives you a look. “I see the skepticism. I’m serious, I just… wasn’t myself. I tried to rest and I didn’t hear my phone and I’m sorry. Really.”

Vernon’s apology settles around you like a weight. You watch him, contemplating what to do next. He doesn’t look ill, his gold skin as flawless as ever, his rosy lips tucked under his teeth as he watches you, waiting. His heart thuds under your palm, his thumb absently brushing back and forth over the top of your hand.

Breathing becomes difficult. Vernon isn’t overly affectionate, but the way he presses your hand to his chest now sends you down a dangerous path. The desire for him bubbles just below your surface and you’re terrified it’ll boil over, exposing everything you’ve ever thought about him.

“Alright,” you say softly, pulling your hand from his. He lets you. “Don’t ever do something like that to me again. It was scary and I felt stupid. And I thought you were dead.”

“Why?” 

Gesturing to the couch, the two of you plop down, seemingly back to normal. You’re still a little off kilter, but you report back to Vernon what your classmates had been saying. He grabs your remote and turns on the news, settling close enough to you that your thighs brush against one another. You shoot him a questioning look but he’s fixated on the TV, leaning forward to press his elbows into his knees.

The reporter on the news confirms the body of one of your fellow students had indeed been found on campus. Names and details were not yet available, but they were interviewing students about whether or not they felt safe on campus. By the second interview, Vernon was turning off the TV and leaning back.

“Freaky,” you murmur, tapping the arm of the couch. “Weird timing, right?”

“How so?”

“We just had a Halloween party in a weird murder house.”

Vernon goes silent. You turn to look at him, eyes searching. He stares at you, again the eye contact unsettling. Even though it feels like your Vernon sitting next to you, there is an edge to him that’s new. You don’t know what to do with it, shifting in your seat a little.

“Forget the murder house,” he says eventually, flicking his fingers in dismissal. “That party sucked and I’d rather forget it.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, eyeing him as he looks out the window. You swear he’s agitated, but you can’t pinpoint why. “Me too.”

-

Someone sitting down roughly next to you draws your attention away from your essay, barely audibly over the sound of Current Blue playing through your headphones. You raise a brow as Vernon slings his belongings on the table unceremoniously, uncaring how loud he is in the library.

You glance around, seeing that he’s attracted the attention of a few people at nearby tables, some scowling, others blushing. When you turn your gaze back to him, you see his mouth moving as he divests his bag of its contents, but you can’t hear him. 

Pulling your headphones from your head, you ask, “What?” 

“Can you help me with my organic chem assignment?” 

“I hate chemistry.” 

His mouth twitches as he opens his laptop. “Right, but you’re good at it. You’re the smartest person in school.”

Again, something nags at your instincts. You can’t pinpoint it, examining Vernon more closely. He looks totally normal, dressed in black jeans, a black shirt, and a jean jacket pulled over it. He’s without a hat today, his hair falling in messy strands over his brow as he sets up his area to study.

Sensing your gaze, he turns to look at you, eyebrow raised. “What?” 

“You seem different.”

“Different how?” He types on his computer to start bringing up his chemistry homework. “Different as in going to fail organic chem without your help?” 

“Oh shut up. I’m obviously going to help you.” 

His mouth is wicked when he grins. “Good.” 

When Vernon looks up at you, the world stops a little. His gaze today is fathomless, dark eyes smooth like the surface of a lake with no end. You tip into that gaze, letting yourself drown in it for a moment. Normally, Vernon would break eye contact by now, easily distracted or unrealizing that he’s got you stuck on him. 

Now, he doesn’t do that. He looks right back at you. Heat crawls up your neck and your breaths quicken. For the first time since you’ve known him, Vernon looks at you like he knows everything inside your locked-tight heart. 

You lick your lips and his gaze dips to your mouth. Inside your chest, your hummingbird heart hammers, threatening to break free. The corner of Vernon’s mouth tilts upward as his eyes meet yours again, and you watch, completely frozen, as he leans toward you. 

Vernon is so close you can smell the spicy cologne on his skin. It’s heady and makes you dizzy, and you watch, totally lost as he wraps his hand around the leg of your chair and tugs hard. You yelp, startling a few people around you as he yanks your chair next to his, your thighs pressed together. 

“What are you doing?” you whisper harshly at him, throwing an apologetic look at the people you’ve disturbed for a second time. 

“How are you going to help me from over there?”

“You could have asked me to move my chair.” 

The problem isn’t that he moved your chair. Not really. The problem is how close he is, leg pressed against yours and elbows touching as he shrugs and turns his computer screen toward you. The problem is how at ease he is with you nearly on top of him, his lazy smile making your thoughts tangle and your breath quicken. 

This Vernon is still the one you’re used to but there’s something about him that keeps you on edge. Keeps you looking at him when his hand brushes against yours to grab a pen, or when he leans back and puts his arm across the back of your chair, idly playing with the hood of your jacket.

It’s almost like he’s flirting, and you spend half the time stumbling through his homework, barely able to assist him in a meaningful way because you’re busy decoding the subtle touches and the light teasing. You feel yourself blush more and look the other way to collect yourself more in the hour you help him than you have your entire friendship, unsure what’s happening or how to handle it. 

Homework completed, Vernon stares off into the distance, his finger twisting in the string of your hoodie absently as you try to write the rest of your paper. It’s nearly impossible to concentrate like this, the intimacy more than you’re used to. 

“You’re very distracting today,” you comment as you reference a text to the right of your screen. “Are you aware of that?” 

He hums. “This is hardly a distraction. I could try harder, though.”

You cut a glance at him. He seems utterly serious, any sort of mirth nonexistent in his expression. There’s just that shadowed gaze, that spark of something right where you can’t reach it. You abruptly stand, surprising him as you knock his arm away from you and clear your throat. 

“I need a different text. It’s downstairs, though.” 

“I’ll come with you.” You raise your brows and he shrugs. “I’ve got nothing else to do.” 

“Sure.” 

Without another word, you pivot on your heel and nearly run for the far set of stairs that lead to the subterranean level of the library where all the old texts and books exist. Vernon follows you at a casual pace, still totally at ease despite the fact that you’re obviously unraveling.

You have no idea what his sudden interest in you is and it’s making you unspool, thoughts wild and racing as you reach the stairwell that leads down. 

Damp air greets you as you start down the steps and it smells like wet carpet. You cringe, hating every time you have to come here. It’s always poorly lit and damp, not at all what one would expect from a library trying to keep books from molding. But no one really comes down here anyway, only the history majors and people like you, who require weird books long retired from the main shelves.

It’s eerie in the old stacks. There are lamps above head casting a burnt orange glow over the green, shag carpet but otherwise it’s nearly impossible to see in the shadowy parts of the room. You certainly could never read a book down here. 

Vernon is silent behind you but you can feel him, his gaze burning into your back as you navigate toward the last set of rows. As you approach, you hear a sound, stopping you dead in your tracks. Vernon crashes into you, nearly knocking you over but his hands grab you, steadying you and holding you close to his chest. 

For the first time today, you’re able to ignore his nearness in favor of straining your ears for the sound you heard, a small whimper, perhaps. You hear it again, distinctly human. Your heart starts to pound as you remember that just the day before there was a body found on campus, mind racing with thoughts as you stand rooted to the spot, Vernon pressed against you.

Craning your head, you look up at him. His expression is unreadable as he looks at you through long lashes, face shadowed. There’s a soft bang, like someone knocking something over. He looks over your head and back at you, shrugging his shoulder as if to say your choice. 

Slowly, you move forward. Vernon keeps close, his heat radiating behind you like a furnace as you creep through the last few rows of shelving. As you near the third one, you stop and peer around the corner, eyes trying to adjust in the shitty lighting. 

What you see has you snapping back around the stack, mouth dropping open. Vernon, curious, leans around you to peer around the stack. He raises his brows and steps backward, mouth pressed in a firm line to conceal his laugh. 

In the next row over is a girl you vaguely recognize, naked from the waist down while someone who is very much not her boyfriend, pumps their fingers between her legs. Slapping Vernon’s chest you point toward the door, silently screaming at him to turn around and hightail it out of there. 

Vernon, for a second, bites his lower lip and wags his eyebrows at you, suggestive. You glare and shove his chest. He goes easily, grinning at you playfully as he turns on his heel and heads back up to the main floor. 

When you reach your table, you drop down in the chair, totally shocked. Vernon drops down next to you, laughing. “Listen, when the urge hits, I guess.”

“I guess,” you agree sharply, shaking your head. “That was not her boyfriend, though.”

“No shit?” 

“Yeah. She’s dating some dude in Sigma whatever.” 

Vernon’s gaze turns sharp and his eyes trail back toward the far side of the library, resting on the stairs. “Interesting.” 

“Not really. That seems to happen a lot among you Greek lifers.” 

“I would never do that.” The severity of his declaration has you looking up from your notebook. Vernon’s expression is cutting, his jaw flexing. “I would never participate in infidelity. Ever.” 

“I didn’t mean you, Vernon.” 

“I’m not like that.” 

You soften a little, guilt tugging at you. So often you remember that Vernon isn’t like a lot of the people around him and grouping him in is unfair and insensitive. 

“I know. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” 

He nods once, turning from you to pack up his stuff. Somehow, you can’t help but feel like you’ve said the wrong thing. 

-

“Oh shit,” Vernon mutters. You look up from where you’re flipping a grilled cheese in the pan. He holds his phone out to you from where he leans against his kitchen counter. “They found another body. Same MO or whatever as the first.” 

“No way?” 

Putting down the spatula, you grab his phone from him where he has the article pulled up. Sure enough, there’s been another murder on campus. Your eyes drink in the details, similar as before: student victim, stab wounds, message written on the wall. 

“What is the Hello Darling Murder?” you ask, more to yourself than Vernon. “It’s linked here as a reference to these being copycat murders.” He says nothing. You read out loud, “The Hello Darling Murder is a case of a murder suicide that happened in the same town in 1979. It was the town’s first violent domestic crime in years, and drew national media attention for the gruesome crime scene in which a message had been written on the wall in blood.” 

Vernon makes an amused sound. You look up at him sharply, staring. He has his arms crossed over his chest, staring at the floor with a mildly bemused expression. You kick him and he looks up at you. “What?”

“Why are you laughing? That’s not funny.”

“The way people sensationalize murder is weird.” 

“I mean, I agree. But what is funny?”

“It’s not funny as in funny ha ha,” he clarifies. “It’s funny stupid. The media is going to sensationalize this and turn it into an entire thing.” 

“Yeah, well. That’s their job.” 

Off put by his dark mirth, you turn back to the article, reading further. You skip over the old murder, more interested in the details of the two new ones. Your heart seizes in your chest when you see the name and picture of the second victim, stomach roiling. 

He sees your expression, pushing off the counter toward you, hands shooting your arms. “What? What’s wrong?” 

In any other scenario, you’d be overwhelmed by the sudden care and affection. Now, you just turn the phone toward him, showing him the photo. “It’s that girl from the library. Her name was Sidney. She’s the one I told you was cheating on her boyfriend.” 

Nothing registers in his face when he looks at the phone, his hands still resting on your arms lightly. He looks away from the screen and at you instead, a sharpness to his gaze that’s there so often you’re starting to grow used to it.

“You’re burning the grilled cheese, Lovecraft.” 

-

Mosquitos nip at your skin as you walk down the narrow path between trees. You slap your hand against your neck again, muttering under your breath. Vernon chuckles next to you, keeping his pace even as you struggle to step over a fallen tree branch. 

You hate the woods at night. It’s not your first time going to a bonfire deep in the woods off campus, but you don’t know why you keep coming back. Tripping over another branch, Vernon catches you by the arm and steadies you, stopping to make sure you’re okay before he lets go.

Scratch that. You do know why you keep coming back. For as long as you’ve been friends, you’ve been Vernon’s permanent plus one to all of his parties, formals and events, even if both of you hate going. It’s become a weird obligation to show up at things like this as a pair. 

They aren’t always terrible, you have to admit. When Mingyu isn’t absolutely hammered, he’s mostly tolerable to be around. Soonyoung isn’t bad either, though you’re still pissed off at him for the Halloween party incident, unwilling to talk to him. 

But nights like this where you have to trek out into the middle of the woods using your phone’s flashlight to navigate, you sort of loathe your unspoken oath to attend with Vernon. 

Instead of focusing on the distaste and the inherent anxiety the shadows of the trees give you, you let Vernon help you slide down a ditch and climb up the other side. His fingers are firm on your wrist, not quite holding your hand but keeping you connected. 

Your skin is warm and tingles when he lets go, deeming it safe enough to let you walk yourself. It’s easier to see now, too, the orange light of the massive bonfire casting a circle of orange glow that only grows as you near the party. 

Party is perhaps too strong of a word for it. There can’t be more than twenty people in the small clearing surrounding the roaring fire the Soonyoung tends to, foldable chairs and coolers arranged in a circle. Chan is trying to roast a marshmallow and failing, the white snack immediately catching fire and singing in the heat of the fire. 

Mingyu whistles when he sees you, catching your attention to wave you over to a pair of seats by him and Chan. You make your way there, navigating through groups of people clutching plastic cups and stepping over various sizes of coolers. 

The heat from Soonyoung’s inferno is nearly unbearable, making you cringe back as he adds something that cracks and pops, sending bits of orange ash floating toward the sky. 

“Jesus Christ, Soonyoung!” Seungcheol complains from his seat where a girl sits on his knee. “Enough, it’s fucking hot!” 

“Sorry,” Soonyoung answers, sheepish. 

Backing your chair away from the fire a little, you sit down and curl into the folding chair, accepting the drink Vernon hands you before moving his chair closer to yours and sitting down. A shiver ripples through you at the cool can in your hands. You crack the top and take a sip, trying to cool down from the blast of heat you’d taken while passing the fire.

Mingyu turns to you and Vernon as Chan pops a burned marshmallow in his mouth, the two of them immediately launching into discussions of the murders. You shift uncomfortably in your chair, listening as they recount the details in the news mixed with the rumors on campus. 

So far, two bodies have been discovered and linked together. The authorities don’t want to call it a serial killer, attempting to avoid a media craze and inspiring the killer to go on a spree, but denying the murders are connected is impossible.

You’re unsure what the victims have in common. The first had been a male senior who was in the business track, discovered by the dorms near the lake on campus. The second had been the girl you’d seen in the library in her apartment off campus, and Sidney had been in the education track and a junior. 

Neither of them were friends. You don’t go to a large university, but there are enough students that it’s normal to have a ton of people that you don’t know. From what anyone can tell, there was nothing the two victims had in common.

Except that they’d been murdered by someone who had left a bloody Hello Darling written at the crime scene.

A chill sweeps over you as Mingyu mentions the Hello Darling Murderer. It was the same story as before - a man had murdered his girlfriend in the 70s, a shocking and violent domestic crime that had unsettled the citizens and local university. He’d promptly killed himself after that, leaving only a bloody Hello Darling on the walls.

Authorities didn’t even know who the blood had belonged to - it took them so long to realize the couple was missing before they did a wellness check that by the time they investigated, they’d been dead a week. 

Vernon snorts at that and mutters something about the ineptitude of law enforcement. You cut your eyes at him. Though you agree, Vernon is usually the last person to make degrading comments - or comment at all really. 

Not for the first time in the last two weeks, you can’t help but sense that honed edge to him he has now. You’ve attributed it to him moving with more confidence, talking to people directly and making actual eye contact. You don’t know where the sudden swell in self-conviction has come from, but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t look good on him.

Still, it’s got you a little uneasy, trying to adjust to this version of him. 

The topic shifts to football and you find yourself tuning everyone out, sipping your cider and staring at the fire as it warms your feet. More people arrive and drag chairs up. Someone hauls a few kegs into the firelight, cheers going around the fire.

Vernon stands and holds his hand up for your empty can. You give it to him wordlessly and he heads to get you a refresh, tossing the trash into one of the trash bins.

Turning to Mingyu as he goes, you ask quietly, “Has he seemed different to you lately?” 

“Who?”

“Steve Jobs,” you deadpan. “Vernon, obviously.”

“I don’t think so? He’s around a lot more lately and actually talks to us.” Mingyu pauses, thinking as he cocks his head to the side. “I mean, I guess that is kind of weird for him. He also actually goes to places with us now.” 

“Exactly what I mean.”

“Hey! We are friends, you know?” 

You hum uncertainty, your attention trailing back to Vernon. You observe him, noticing all the little details that are different. He stands a little bit straighter, inserts himself in conversations where he didn’t before.

Now, he stands near the keg, nodding along to something the girl next to him is saying. They’re standing close - you realize it’s the same girl from the Halloween party that had been talking to him, except this time, he’s talking back. 

Vernon leans in close to her and says something, making her laugh. He bites his lower lip a little, watching her with half-lidded eyes. Your stomach turns a little, eyes glued as he brushes her arm when he reaches for the cup that Joshua hands him. 

Turning away from them, you tune yourself into Chan’s conversation, needing a distraction. You try not to count the minutes until Vernon returns. When he does, the girl is with him. He drags a chair over so she can sit on the other side of him. 

It’s close, their knees touching when he sits and hands her the drink he was holding for her. He turns and holds out your drink to you, which sloshes a little when you snatch the cup from his hand. He arches his brows but you say nothing, taking a large gulp and turning your back on him to ask Chan about football instead. 

“You watch football?” Chan asks cryptically. 

“Sure. Go Green Bay Ravens.” 

He stares. “Packers. Green Bay Packers.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Hey, I’m not arguing with you. In fact, if you want to tell me what’s what more often-”

You scoff. “Shut up, Chan!”

Stuck between Vernon flirting with the girl next to him and Chan and Mingyu being - Chan and Mingyu - sours your mood. You try to lose yourself in your cup, going mute as you stare at the fire. Vernon hardly notices the shift in your mood, leaning in to the girl as they chat. 

You can’t help but notice everything about them. It’s impossible not to see the way she leans into him, bumping shoulders when she laughs. He lets her, watching her with a gaze you can only describe as hungry. The grip on your cup tightens as he knocks their knees together when he shifts in his chair, leaving it pressed against hers. 

It reminds you of the way he’d behaved in the library with you, brushing against you on purpose, making his words come out in a playful pur instead of what you’re used to, and seeing him do it with her now makes you snap. 

You stand abruptly, drawing the attention of Chan and Mingyu but not who you want. 

“I’m going for a walk.”

“Need company?” Chan offers. It seems genuine, but you give him a sharp no before you’re walking away, sticks snapping underneath your boots as you go. 

Chill air licks your face as you get further from the fire. There are plenty of people dispersed throughout the general area, some people pulled far away for intimate conversations, others pulled away to pass a joint in a circle, the pungent smell chasing you as you pass them. 

Away from the smoke and the noise, you feel like you can breathe a little more. You find a fallen tree, thick enough to sit on. You test your weight on it first before deciding it’s safe, swinging your leg to straddle it and look off into the dark trees.

There’s just enough light from the silver moon above your head and from the distant fire to feel safe. Wrapping your arms around your middle, you hug yourself and close your eyes, breathing in deep. The fire smoke isn’t strong here, the air clean and crisp.

Opening your eyes, you look at the sky. This far out in the country, you can see the stars. Out of habit, you start mapping out all the constellations you know, eyes tracing Orion the Hunter. You skip over to Andromeda, counting each star before moving to the east to spot Cassiopeia. 

It reminds you of the time you taught Vernon all the different constellations. He’d been a silent and attentive listener, watching as you’d pointed them all out while sitting on a bench at the park. You’ve caught him drawing them more than once in his chemistry notebooks, little dots of perfect constellations memorized. 

An ache you’re familiar with fills your chest. It’s the same ache you had when you realized you had feelings for him but didn’t want to tell him. The same ache you had when he’d hurt your feelings on Halloween. The same ache as when you’d seen him actually look back at someone who's interested in him, for once. 

Crying seems silly, but suddenly you have the urge to, throat twisting as you stare at the sky and try to puzzle out the direction your friendship has gone since that night. As you sit on the tree, a prickling sense of awareness creeps up your spine, tugging at you. 

Looking around, you see nothing. You can generally see in a good circumference, but the sudden instinct that something or someone is watching you drives you to get off the branch, hitting the ground with both feet to stride back toward the fire. 

As you go, your foot gets stuck in a tangle of tree roots again, making you stumble. You curse, bending down through squinted eyes to untangle your foot. Your fingers are a little cold and shaking, anxiety creeping up slowly as you pull the weeds and roots away from your shoe. 

Something snaps behind you. Your fingers freeze, head whipping around to look for the source of the noise. Again, you see nothing but your heart is hammering. You don’t dare to breathe, holding your breath as you strain your ears to hear anything else. There’s only crickets and an owl in the distance, no more snapping branches.

In that moment, it occurs to you that you’ve decided to wander out in the woods at night and alone after two recent murders. The stupidity of your actions land like a blow.

Turning back around, you wrench your shoe free and stand up, nearly colliding with Vernon who leans backward to avoid smacking into you as you shriek in surprise, stepping backward. Vernon’s hand darts out to grab you, catching you and tugging you forward into him before you can lose your balance fully.

Heart hammering, your fingers dig into his biceps, keeping yourself standing as you hiss, “What are you doing?”

“What do you mean what am I doing? You’re wandering out in the middle of the woods while there is an active serial killer in town.” 

“Oh please, like you noticed.”

He frowns. You drop your hands and try to step away from him, eager to put some distance between you. Vernon’s grip on you tightens though, keeping you where you’re standing. “I’m here, I obviously noticed.” You snort derisively and his grip tightens a little. “Is there something you want to say?”

You open and close your mouth, scowling at him. He’s never so direct you’re unsure how to approach the question. So you try for a little bit of honesty. “I wasn’t having fun.” 

“Okay, so let’s leave.”

“You look like you were having fun.” 

Silence hangs in the air. Vernon’s face is indecipherable. Then, “Are you jealous?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Your response is so fast that it even sounds practiced and hollow to you. It’s hard not to wince, hoping that as always, he doesn’t see through your cellophane defense. Vernon’s touch drops from your biceps to your wrist, delicate. You’re afraid to look him in the eye, instead staring at the buttons on his jean jacket. 

“I noticed you were gone.” His voice is gentle, a low purr. You dart a quick glance at him to see the intensity of his gaze. It makes you squirm, unsure how to respond. “I always notice when you’re gone.”

“Alright. Well.” 

“I notice everything about you.” 

The way he says it is a soft whisper. A promise, a suggestion. Again, it feels like Vernon has discovered your loose thread, tugging lightly on it. If he tugs again, you think you might unspool all the way, showing him everything you don’t want him to see. 

It feels like he wants to, and that’s what scares you more. That suddenly he’s looking at you like he wants to see past the veneer of your words, like he’s ready to look inside. You hear the double meaning. It’s so terrifying that you look away from him, ready to hide. 

“Don’t tease me,” you whisper. 

“I’m not. If you’re not having fun, let’s go home. I came here with you.” He tugs your wrist. “Come on. You can’t be walking around out here alone with a killer on the loose, Lovecraft. I’ll be forced to fight them off.” 

The tension fades. You let out a breath and laugh, looking at him skeptically. “Yeah? You’re going to fight for me?” 

His grip on your wrist tightens. You wonder if he can feel the speed of your pulse under his thumb, the way it hammers when he smirks. “Yeah, I am.” 

-

Sal’s Pizzeria isn’t your favorite place to do school work. It’s too loud and bright, the promise of food is way too distracting for you to focus for much longer than a few minutes at a time, and usually your fingers are too slippery with pizza grease to type properly. 

You only have a narrow window to finish writing your paper before going to the bar for Jihoon’s birthday. You barely know him, but he’s someone Vernon is decently close enough too that you feel obligated to attend. More importantly, you’re finally almost done with your paper you’ve been working on for two weeks, eager to celebrate hitting submit. 

“You know that dude who was killed first was a rotten cheater?” 

The girls sitting behind you catch your attention. Your brows knit together and you turn your head a fraction to eavesdrop, eyes unfocusing on the words on your screen. There are four of them behind you that you don’t recognize but assume go to the same school as you, based on the attire and the backpacks. 

“Yeah! Sam told me about that. Apparently he was sleeping around with a bunch of freshmen. Maybe his girlfriend found out and went all psycho killer on him?” 

“Ew, how scummy. But what’s with the hello darling message shit? Can you say weird?” 

“I know, right?” 

Their words give you pause. The first victim had been someone known for his infidelity too? Turning back to your screen, you pull up your web browser and type in Hello Darling Murderer to the search. The original murder from the 70s hadn’t given you much thought beyond assuming someone was being a copycat, but now you feel something nagging at you. Something you’re missing. 

All of the top stories are of the recent murders. You amend your search to the 70s and get older articles and links to podcasts covering the initial incident. Clicking on a story from a reputable journal, you start reading in detail about the first murder and his victim, skin prickling as you go.

As an Occult Studies major, a lot of people think you’re into murder mysteries. In truth, you’re not. They have little to do with what you study, and you’ve spent countless times telling people that occult and people obsessed with true crime are two totally different things. You have no idea why they’re lumped together so often, but on more than one occasion you’ve had to explain you’re not interested in serial killers or their stories.

Except now. Chewing the inside of your cheek, you unwind the story of Thomas Ellswater, who had apparently murdered his girlfriend at the time before promptly killing himself. The initial investigation hadn’t dug up much, assuming that it was a case of domestic violence gone as bad as it could. 

But the journalist who had written the story had other details. Accounts from family friends that detailed Elsswater’s girlfriend, Maya, unhappy with their relationship. One even insinuated that she had been cheating on him for a long time, though with who, they were unsure. 

Further down in the article, you stop. Read the paragraph again. Look at the picture of the house. A sickly chill coats your skin as you lean forward, taking in the details of the house. You’ve seen it before, though your memory of it at night surrounded by floodlights and full of drunk college students makes it almost unrecognizable when you see it on the screen. 

Thomas Ellswater lived in the same house that you’d partied in on Halloween night, where Vernon had played that horrible prank in the closet. Thomas or Maya had been the haunting spirit Soonyoung had been attempting to summon.

And now someone was killing in the same exact style.. 

The server bringing you two trays of pizzas and a basket of fries breaks you from your trance. You close the article, a sick feeling in your stomach as you try to piece together the puzzle. Was it just a spurned lover who was paying homage to someone who related? Or was it a serial killer poking fun at the MO?

Vernon crashing into the seat across from you startles you. He gives you a grin, eyeing the pizza in front of him and rubbing his hands together. Rolling your eyes, you grab the red pepper flakes and salt, passing the latter over to him. 

“So I learned something weird today,” you venture, pulling a slice of pizza from the tray. 

“Tell me,” he answers over a mouthful of pizza, once again burning himself. You roll your eyes, shaking your red pepper onto your slice. “What is going on in the world of occult today?”

“Actually, not occult.” He gives you an appraising look, popping some fries into his mouth. “What, no salt today?”

He pauses, looking at the basket of fries. “Nah, I need to cut back on the sodium.”

“Good idea. Anyway, it’s about the murders.” 

“Do tell.”

“The girls behind me said the first victim was known for cheating.” 

“It’s college. Apparently there is a lot of that.” 

“But remember that day we saw Sidney in the library? She was cheating too.” 

“Right.” He rips into his pizza, gaze sharp as he looks at you. “So this town is full of a bunch of lowlife fucking cheaters.”

You flinch at his vehemence, leaning back in your seat. Vernon drops his gaze, tearing into his slice in silence. “Sorry,” he says after swallowing. “I’m hungry.”

“Right. As I was saying, I looked up that Hello Darling Murder.” 

He pauses, gaze flicking to you. “And?”

“And it was ruled as a case of domestic violence gone wrong, but there were some people who think the Maya Caravalo was cheating on Thomas Ellswater, who killed her.” 

“I’m sure cheating is the leading cause of crimes of passion.”

“In the house that we were in on Halloween.” 

Vernon frowns. “Ah. Weird.” 

He doesn’t elaborate. You watch him as he chews on more pizza, shoving fries into his mouth on occasion too. He seems totally at ease - and more normal than he’s been in weeks. You watch, mildly disgusted at the way college men eat. 

“That’s all you have to say?” You ask. “Weird.”

“It is weird.” 

“Kind of an insane coincidence.” 

He becomes still, only his eyes moving as he settles his inky gaze on you. For a second, you can’t help but think he looks a bit like the cat who ate the canary, eyes glittering. “So tell me what theory is in that pretty head of yours, Lovecraft.” 

Ignoring the way your heart leaps at him calling you pretty, you sigh, picking at the wooden table with a thumb nail. “I don’t really have one. I just think someone came across the original murder and thought I could write that at my crime scenes. I don’t study criminology, I can’t figure out motivation.”

“You’re the smartest person in school, Lovecraft. Try.” 

“I guess… I don’t know. The new killer was probably cheated on recently, came across what happened in the 70s, and has been taking out their rage on other adulterers because they feel some sort of kinship with Thomas. Maybe like finishing his work or ridding the world of a common enemy.” 

Vernon hums. “Maybe so. Do you think they deserve it?” You look at him sharply, mouth downturning. “The victims. Do you think they deserve to be killed for their infidelity?” 

“I don’t know that anyone is deserving of murder.” You chew the inside of your cheek, watching Vernon’s face for any sign of what he’s thinking. He’s totally closed off, a blank canvas. “This is why I’m in Occult Studies and not law, Vernon.” 

He gives a wolfish grin. “Touche. Come on, eat your pizza. We have a bar to go get drunk at.” 

-

The bar in question is teeming with people. You’re immediately overwhelmed, squeezing your way between chairs, tables and people as you navigate to your group of friends. Vernon keeps you close, his arm encircling your waist as pulling you to him as you go. 

He either ignores or doesn’t notice the sharp look you give him. Instead, he’s focused on keeping the two of you attached, shouldering his way through the crowd, the press of his fingers on your hip dizzying and steadying at the same time. 

At the far back of the bar, an entire section of people associated with Vernon’s fraternity crowd from wall to wall. Vernon manages to get you onto a stool at the bar top, shouldering one of the pledges off the seat with a narrow-eyed look. You raise your brows at him and he winks, leaning his elbow on the bar top to order you both drinks.

Spinning to face him in the stool, you give him a quick once over. You’d been so engrossed in your murdery mystery findings at the pizzeria that you haven't really looked at him until now. He looks good, dressed simply in dark jeans and a dark, long sleeve shirt that shows how broad he is. Has he always been that broad? 

Vernon catches you staring. “What are you looking at?” 

“Nothing.” 

He grins, accepting drinks from the bartender and sliding one over to you. You burn under the full weight of his attention as he pops his straw into his mouth. “Tell me.” 

“You look nice tonight.”

“You look nice every night.”

“Oh shut up.” 

“What?” he laughs. “I mean it.” 

“Whatever.”

Spinning in the chair again, you place your back to the bar, facing the crowd to watch people. Vernon is content to stand next to you in silence, both of you sipping your drinks as you observe the people around you. Someone jostles him a little closer, his arm shifting to lay across the bartop along your back. 

Heat creeps into your cheeks and you try to remain breathing normally. Vernon leaves his arm there, pressed against you but not exactly wrapped around you. There is a distinct difference, but this is still new. Still confusing. 

People who recognize you both come up and say hi. You keep the conversation polite and short, especially when you see the girl who has lingered at the last two parties slink toward you, her eyes only for Vernon. 

“Hi,” she yells over the crowd, totally ignoring you. “I didn’t expect to see you tonight!”

“Why wouldn’t you? I’m friends with Jihoon.”

The girl opens and closes her mouth, lips pursed at that. You sense the serrated edged to Vernon’s words, casting a glance his direction. He’s not looking at her, eyes instead scanning the crowd. Uninterested. Even you know she didn’t literally mean she wasn’t expecting to see him - it was just a conversation starter. 

Using the opportunity to sip from your straw to hide your laughter, you have to admit you’re a little relieved to see Vernon missing social cues again. It’s more him, a Vernon that you're used to. Maybe a little meaner than usual, but this is closer. 

“Right,” the girl says. Her eyes flicker to you for the first time. “It’s his birthday, right?” 

“According to the giant sign in the corner and all the balloons, yes.” 

Okay, maybe it’s not entirely normal Vernon. Usually he isn’t so callous. In this case, you don’t mind, watching as she tries to puzzle out how to keep the conversation going. Vernon decides for you, turning from her to press his mouth close to your ear. 

“I’ll be right back,” he murmurs, breath hot against you. “I’m gonna greet Jihoon really quickly.” 

All you can manage is a breathy, “Alright.” 

Vernon finishes his drink and pushes off the bar, fingers dragging against you as he goes. He ignores the girl standing and watching, her eyes darting from you to him until he vanishes in the sea of bodies. Without Vernon there, she has nothing to do. She tilts her chin up, sucking up her pride and turns on her heel to walk a direction distinctly not the same way as Vernon.

Alone at the bar, you swivel in your seat to order you both another drink. You assume Vernon is drinking a whiskey coke, hoping that’s right as you flag down the bartender. While you wait, someone slips into the spot next to you. You turn, thinking Vernon’s already back only to find someone you definitely don’t know. 

“Sorry,” he shouts over the loud voices and music. “Did not mean to get in your personal space, this spot was way smaller than I thought it was.” 

“That’s okay! Getting a spot kind of sucks.”

“No kidding.” He grins at you, turning his attention back to trying to get anyone to take his drink order. “How long do you think it’ll take for them to notice me?” 

“About seven years.”

“Yikes. I’m Seokmin, by the way.” You give him your name and he grins. “What brings you to this shit hole ass bar?”

“A friend of a friend's birthday. You?”

“A friend of a friend's birthday indeed.”

A bartender finally comes over to take Seokmin’s order. He leans forward to shout over the crowd, his shoulder knocking into yours. You don’t mind - he’s nice. He looks over at you, a question on his face. “You like tequila?”

“No!”

“Let me rephrase - want a shot of tequila?” 

“She doesn’t.”

Vernon slides behind you, his palm pressed flat to your back. You startle, looking up at him in surprise. He isn’t looking at you, his eyes zeroed in on Seokmin. You slide Vernon’s drink toward him, eager to dispel the sudden tension thrumming through him.

“Whiskey and coke?”

He looks down, eyes rounding out a little as he softens. “Mhmm. Thank you.”

Drink in hand, Seokmin turns to you both and waves. “Y’all have a good night!”

When he’s gone, Vernon leans against the counter again, his tone flat as he says, “He was nice.”

“He was, but what do you sound bothered by ?”

“Maybe I am.” 

“Why?” 

He lifts a shoulder. Instead of answering you, he picks up the lime in his drink and squeezes it, stirring it with his straw before taking a long pull straight from the rim of the glass. 

You nudge him. “I’m going to say this again: you’ve been different, lately.” 

“Different how.” 

“I don’t know. You talk more. You’re a lot more engaging. You’re a little…” 

“A little what?”

“Cockier?” He hims, eyes dropping down to your mouth. “Like that,” you point out, voice a little weaker. “You do that now, and you didn’t used to.”

“I always did. I’m just a little more obvious about it now.”

Tension crackles between the two of you. Your mouth feels dry as you watch him, reading the minute expressions of his face. Finally, when you can’t unpuzzle him, you say, “I don’t know what you’re doing.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t tell if you’re coming onto me or if it’s some sort of game to you.” That makes him frown as he sips his drink again. Your fear and frustration clash, wrestling for dominance. “It makes things confusing.”

“Why didn’t you say so? I’m happy to clear things up.” 

You grip your glass, trying to keep your fingers from quaking. This moment feels like it’s all or nothing. Vernon puts it out on the table so easily, leaving the option to you. Either you can ask for clarity, or keep playing this new game of cat and mouse. But you have to decide. 

“I would appreciate it if you did,” you say eventually. 

Vernon nods and finishes the rest of the drink. He sets the glass down before he leans forward, hand going to the underside of your chin to lightly tip your face upward with his knuckle so he can press the world’s most gentle kiss to your mouth. 

You freeze. When he doesn’t pull away, lips soft and warm, you sigh into the kiss, eyes fluttering shut. He feels you relax, mouth curling in a smile against yours. He steps into your space without breaking the kiss, finding the space between your legs as his lips press firmer to yours. 

Vernon smells like his cologne and something distinctly him. It makes you dizzy, and the way he tastes like whiskey and lime makes the room spin. When he pulls away from him, you feel like you’re going to fall from the stool, leaning toward him. 

His hands grip your thighs, squeezing generously as he leans in and drags his mouth to your ear. “Does that clear things up?” 

“Actually, no?” 

His groan is throaty, turning into laughter as he buries his face in your neck. Your hands tentatively settle on his waist, a little hesitant. “I always said you were the smartest person at school, but maybe not.”

“Hey!” 

“Come home with me.” He feels your delay, laughing. “Come home with me because I like you. Is that clearer? Because I want you to come home with me, and I don’t want anyone else here.” 

Your heart goes bolting like a rabbit, running in circles. Vernon pulls away from you to study your face. You watch him for any sign that he’s kidding, that he doesn’t mean it. You find none. In its place, you only see honesty. Hunger. Fiery desire burning at the surface. 

“Really?” Your question is small. Vulnerable. “Do you mean that?”

“I do.” He tugs on your thighs. “I’m not playing games with you. Come home with me - I’ll prove I’m serious about you. You are what I want. I just had to be sure.” 

Lightheaded and heart slamming, you let Vernon pull you from the seat and lead you out of the bar. 

-

Vernon’s apartment on the north side of town is a place you’ve been a million times. You recognize all the cars in the parking lot, and you know exactly what building and floor belongs to him. You even recognize his neighbors come in mat that you’ve always hated. 

He catches you staring at it with distaste now, laughing as he shakes his head and inserts his keys. “You and that mat.”

One hand works the keys into the door while the other is stretched behind him, fingers linked with yours. Your hand is warm and your heart is still racing as he gets the door open, pulling you inside the dark of his home. 

“They could be inviting anything in,” you assert, a little breathless as he pulls you to his chest. He kicks the door shut, the frame rattling as it slams. “You should never have a doormat that just welcomes whatever shows up at your door inside. You could end up with a vampire in your home.”

“A vampire, huh?” Vernon ducks his head towards your neck, lips skimming your throat. Your fingers twist in the hem of his shirt, eyes fluttering closed as his teeth scrape against your pulse point. “Sounds scary.” 

“It is. There’s nothing to disprove that vampires exist.” 

Vernon bites down and you whine, melting into him. His laugh vibrates through his chest as his tongue presses to the bite mark, soothing the pain. His mouth closes over the spot and he sucks gently, sending a shiver through your body. 

“I promise the only thing biting you will be me.”

The full weight of his words hit you between the legs. You feel like putty in his hand as he navigates you to the island counter in his kitchen. He presses your back into it, careful not to jam you too harshly against the marble. 

Heat licks through your stomach as Vernon steals your lips in a kiss. It’s different from the gentle one he gave you at the bar. This one drinks you in, pries you open and lets you spill out into him, all the feelings and bottled thoughts you have free for the taking.

You get lost in him, hands wrapping around his neck to pull him close, fingers sliding through his hair. He moans and you respond, curling your fingers to scrape your nails against his scalp. His hips twitch forward, pinning you between him in the counter as he sucks your bottom lip harshly. 

“Be careful,” he warns, a hand drifting from your chin to your neck. He doesn’t wrap his fingers around your throat, but his hand rests there, heavy and wanting. “I’m trying to be gentle.” 

You steal a kiss, nipping his bottom lip sharply. “Don’t be.”

His resounding groan makes you dizzy. His kisses become rough and heated, using his tongue as much as his teeth. He presses you hard into the countertop now, the marble digging into your back as he nearly folds you in half with the weight of his body. 

It feels like the air has left the room. Vernon is the only thing you need to breathe in, fueled by the way his tongue licks into you, the gentle squeeze of his hand at the base of your throat. His fingers press against your pulse, not enough to cut off any airflow but enough to send a bolt of pleasure and thrill through you. 

“You have no idea,” Vernon pants, pressing sloppy, wet kisses to your jawline. “How long I’ve waited to do this. I could have had you this entire fucking time, but I held myself back.” 

His thumb presses under your jaw, angling your head to the side. With more access to your throat, he peppers you in bites and kisses, tongue soothing each sting. “I have wasted so much time,” he mutters, almost like he’s talking to himself. “Being a fucking coward.”

“Don’t say that,” you gasp as his other hand presses between your legs. The ache in your cunt is already throbbing, and he does nothing but make it worse by adding pressure but doing nothing more. “Please don’t tease me.”

“I’m not.” He pulls away from you. Before you can complain, he gives you a quick kiss, tugging you toward his room. “I shouldn’t have waited until I had a little… encouragement to do this. I’m going to give you everything you want, love.”

A quiver slithers down your spine at the shortened version of your nickname. The new endearment hits home when you see the way he looks at you, the want and desire more unrestrained than anything else you’ve ever seen on his expression. 

Hand in yours, he pulls you into the bedroom, spinning you to sit you down on the edge of his bed. You look up at him through your lashes, admiring the shape of his face and the way you can just barely see his freckles in the soft glow from the nightlight in his bathroom as he slots himself between your knees. 

“I’ll give you whatever you want,” Vernon whispers, voice like velvet. He slides a finger under your chin, tilting your gaze even higher as he watches you, eyes blown. “I’m entirely devoted to you and you only. You know that, right?” 

Vernon’s thumb pulls at your bottom lip. You open your mouth on instinct and he growls low in his throat. He pushes his thumb past your swollen lips, pressing down on your tongue. You taste the lime from earlier and the hint of salt on his skin, closing your mouth as you suck gently. 

“Fuck,” he swears, thumb pressing harder. “You really have been a little slut for me this entire time, huh?” 

Hearing Vernon say it in that deep, whispered voice of his does something to you. There’s a note in his voice you’re unfamiliar with, a dangerous edge that you want to lean into and cut yourself on. So you nod, lashes fluttering as you bat them up at him. 

“Yeah, thought so.” He pulls his thumb from your mouth, dragging it spit-slicked down your chin. “Lay back on the bed for me, love.” 

You do so immediately, shuffling backward so that you can lean back. The sheets smell like him and you tilt your head to the side, nuzzling his comforter a little. You try to ground yourself, feeling a little staticky as he kneels on the bed, mattress dipping. 

Vernon plants a knee between your legs, leaning forward to cage you in with a hand on either side of your head. His kiss is all consuming, any sense of delicacy gone. You let him devour you, your hands pulling at his belt loops to bring him closer.

He’s not close enough, never close enough. 

Having him like this is everything you’ve ever wanted and more. He’s familiar, the scent of him and the warmth of his skin and the little sounds he makes but he’s also entirely new. He is rougher than you imagined, sharper than you thought. He drags his blunt nails over your collarbone as he pulls your shirt away from your neck, giving his mouth access to litter your skin with kisses. 

Your hands slip under his shirt, curious as you press the pads of your fingers into his stomach. You feel the muscles flex and he hums low in his throat, enjoying your exploration as you slide your hands around the perfect taper of his waist to the small of his back. 

Vernon slides his knee higher, pressing it directly to your clothed cunt. You twitch against him, a questioning sound leaving your lips as you breathe in sharply. 

“Go ahead,” he mumbles against your chest, one pulling sharply at your shirt. You hear the seams rip and you don’t even care. “Take what you need, love.” 

The rawness of his words fucks you up. You do as he says, rolling your hips against his thigh for any sort of pressure and friction. It helps relieve the tension a little, but not nearly enough. Your breathing turns ragged as he harshly bites and kisses his way to your bra. 

Yanking hard, he rips the rest of your shirt. You let out a throaty laugh and he looks up at you, eyes like burning coals. “What’s so funny, hmm?”

“I did not expect you to be able to rip my shirt.” 

“Oh?”

The dangerous note in his voice makes your hips stutter and stop. He runs the tip of his tongue around the soft curve of your chest, watching you all the while and fuck. If you’d realized that this was the type of Vernon you’d get, maybe you’d have been braver sooner. Because this Vernon is something else, confident and cocky and ravenous. 

“Want me to rip this too?” He teases, teeth pulling at the cup of your bra. Your chest rises and falls as you try to catch your breath, a little overwhelmed. “Say the word.”

“Maybe salvage some of my clothing, Vernon.”

“Fine. I will not salvage you, though.”

You believe him. Nothing about the way Vernon peels your bra off of you is gentle. Nothing about the way his hand cups your breast, squeezing before he lowers his mouth to give a generous suck to your nipple feels like he has your survival in mind. 

Squeezing your eyes shut, you let Vernon have his way. It feels like he’s peeling you open layer by layer, plucking every string connected to your pleasure that he can find.

His mouth is a weapon, tongue lazily circling your pert nipple until you’re whining and squirming under him. He laughs and drags his tongue to the other side of your chest, licking his way to your peak to tease you further. 

“Shit,” you whisper, one hand leaving his back to tangle in his hair. You don’t know if you’re pulling him away or pushing him closer - maybe both. “Vernon.”

His teeth scrape your nipple and you whine. He shuts you up by closing his mouth around you, sucking sharply. When he pulls away with a loud pop, you let out a shaky breath. 

“You can barely keep it together,” he observes. He placed closed mouth kisses on your stomach as he descends, pulling his knee from between your thighs. “What are you gonna do when I eat you out, huh?”

Flushed and embarrassed, you cover your face as his tongue licks the skin above your jeans. “Cat got your tongue, love?” 

“You - you’re - ugh!”

He chuckles, popping the button of your jeans. “I’m ugh?” 

“You know what I mean.” 

Vernon tugs on your jeans. You try to lift your hips to help him, but your thighs are like jelly already, turning you useless. He coos at you, pressing a kiss to your hip gently. “I got you.” 

Unsure if he means about your inability to get out your fucking pants or he understand what you mean, you let him peel them down the rest of the way. His hands skate up your calves, squeezing and firm as he sinks to his knees on the floor. 

Bracing yourself, you brave a look between your legs where he presses your thighs open gently with his palms. Veronon’s eyes are on the apex of your thighs, entirely focused on where your underwear stick to your folds. He licks his lips, hand brushing up and down your thighs. 

His gaze flickers to you. For a moment, the two of you just stare at one another. You feel overly exposed, naked from the waist up, cool air pebbling your spit-slicked chest. The weight of his gaze presses you down like a physical thing, but it’s comforting. Warm. Reassuring. 

The air is charged between you as he keeps watching you while he drags a hand up and between your legs. He presses a thumb between your folds and you whimper, feeling the way he prods at your aching entrance, only the thin fabric keeping him out.

“Are you always this wet for me?” he asks, thumb slowly dragging up the damp patch to your clit. He digs in sharply, pressing firm enough that your pleasure spikes and your hips pop off the bed. He hisses at you and smacks your thigh, making you lower your ass to the bed again. “Everytime we were together, did you get like this?” 

It takes effort to rasp, “Sometimes.”

Vernon hooks his thumb in the side of your pants, pulling. The fabric peels back achingly slow, cool air hitting your cunt and making you whine. He hums thoughtfully, placing the fabric to the side.

“Like what times?” he questions, blowing cool air against you. You thrash and he laughs, pinning you down by the hips. “I’m curious. Elaborate for me.” 

“Umm.” 

It’s the only word you can get out before he renders you speechless, the flat of his tongue sliding slowly up your pussy. You go boneless, breath stuck in your chest as his tongue lazily circles around your clit and drags back down. He repeats the motion, the slow-soft brush of his tongue driving you insane instantly. 

“You’re not elaborating,” Vernon notes. He presses a kiss that is far too sweet for the moment to your bundle of nerves. “I wanna know all the times you were with me where you felt like this. Go on.” 

“I don’t,” you breath catches when his tongue curls through your folds. He’s soft and slow as he licks you, a lazy smoothless to it that makes you see stars. “Know how to speak when you’re doing that.” 

“Should I stop?” 

“No.”

“Try,” he murmurs, dipping his tongue in your dripping entrance. “I want to know.” 

Fuck. Trying to pull together any coherent thoughts is like wading through thick water. You’re distracted by the way Vernon’s mouth closes on you, sucking gently. He takes his time, fingers pressed into the meat of your thighs as he keeps you open, enjoying you fully. 

“I - shit - I guess sometimes when we go out,” you manage. “I like when you wear your hat backwards.” 

He flicks his tongue back and forth over your clit, making you clench, toes curling. His mouth is wet and warm, closing around your throbbing bundle and sucking gently. Your hips lift but his grip is firm, keeping his mouth to you. 

When he pulls away, the suction is audible, a string of spit and arousal connecting his lips to your pussy. “Taste so fucking good,” he whispers. You think it’s more to himself than you, his tongue carving through you again. “Tell me more.” 

“Halloween night. When you were in skull makeup.”

His tongue starts circling your clit again, the indirect stimulation driving you wild. Your hands tangle in the sheets, sweat slicking your skin as Vernon works to firmer motions. You realize he knows exactly how you like it, gentle to start, working you to firmer motions, a little hungrier. 

It makes him all the more lethal, the way he can just figure you out like that. “Yeah?” he asks, sucking harshly against you. “Wanted me to fuck you like that?” 

“God, yeah.”

“You should have asked. I’ll fuck you however you want.” 

“Didn’t think you liked me.” 

Vernon is too busy to answer, increasing the attention of his mouth. Your hands slide down to his, nails digging into the tops of his hands where he holds you. He lets go of your hips in favor of linking your fingers, pressing your clasped hands to the mattress. 

His name drips from your mouth, eyes falling shut as you sink into the pleasure deep in your stomach. He makes little sounds of pleasure, grunting and groaning as his mouth becomes more fervent. You feel yourself toeing the edge of an orgasm, so so so close.

He can tell too. He finds a harsh rhythm, pulling you closer and closer to your high with each sharp suck of his lips. You twist in his grip, fingers squeezing his so hard you think you might break his hands. You don’t, feeling your breath catch and hold as you come hard, thighs squeezing as you writhe on the bed.

You draw in a ragged breath, desperate for air as he kisses your cunt once. Twice. His slick mouth presses against your thighs, teeth dragging against soft flesh as he mouths his way to your knee. He gives you a moment, letting you pant against the sheets. 

Fabric sticks to your skin as you wiggle against the bed. He stands up, crawling up you again to find your mouth. You lean forward, catching him in an open-mouth kiss that is more tongue than anything, your taste heady in the heat of his mouth. 

“Turn over on your stomach for me,” he groans. His hands squeeze your side as he gives you room to follow his direction. You do, but not without his help, your orgasm making you a little clumsy. “Can you get on your knees for me?”

“Maybe?”

“I’ll help you in a second.”

Instead of moving, you lay slumped on the bed, fully intending to let him do the work. You turn your head to watch him pull his shirt off, revealing firm, tan skin. Vernon is beautiful, the sleek lines of his body reminding you of a painting. He kicks off his jeans before shuffling back on the bed behind you, looking down and snorting.

“Didn’t want to move like I asked?” You shake your head. He pats your ass lightly. “Come on, darling. Help me get these panties off or I will rip them off.” 

Huffing, you do as he says. He does lend you his strength hauling you up by the arm as you lean up on your knees. The room is cold, making you shiver but he presses your back to his chest, mouth dusting kisses over your shoulders. 

Vernon’s fingers dance along your sides until he’s pulling your underwear the rest of the way down your thighs, helping you kick out of them. When he’s got you full naked, he presses your back to him, crowding your space as he angles your head to kiss you slowly. Fully. 

Behind you, his cock presses firmly into your ass. You push back against him, putting pressure against his shaft. He hisses, biting your shoulder harshly. 

“Careful,” he growls, teeth at your neck. “Or I won’t be very nice.” 

“Want you, though.”

“You’ll have me when I say you can.” 

One of his hands slides up to your neck, gripping your throat lightly. He pauses, leaning to catch your gaze. His eyes are round and soft. Honest. Open. “This okay?” He questions gently. He gives a little squeeze to indicate what he means. You nod eagerly, reaching a hand to close around his, making him press harder. “Fuck you’re perfect.” 

You lean your head back against his chest as he holds you by the throat, one of your hands dropping to his elbow, the other reaching behind you to sink your fingers in his hair and tug. The sound he makes is feral, the hand he has placed on your waist dropping between your legs, fingers pressing between them. 

“Oh,” you squeak, feeling his deft tough on your clit. His movements are aided by your earlier release, fingers circling smoothly as he squeezes your throat, thumb pressed perfectly, to make it just a little harder to breathe. “Shit.” 

“Can you tell me a safe word? Not gonna go hard, just wanna know if it becomes too much.” 

“Maenad.” He snorts and you huff. “I just wrote an essay on them, don’t start.”

He laughs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Alright. Just please use it if it’s too much - any of it. If you can’t talk, pat my arm, alright? Just wanna do this right.” 

You nod, so in love with him it takes all of you to stop yourself from blurting it. 

Vernon shuffles behind you, letting you tilt forward a little. The hand between your legs leaves and he instead brings it behind you, prodding at your pussy with his fingers from behind. You let out a loud sound and you can almost feel his grin as he presses a finger into your heat. 

He’s slow at first, the same way he was with his mouth. He explores what you like, testing the way his fingers drag against your walls combined with different grip strengths on your throat. You feel light headed. The room spins as he finds a rhythm that draws the most noises from you, that makes you clench down on his finger the most. 

All of your weight is against the hand around your neck, barely able to hold yourself up as he presses another finger in. This time, his fingers prod right against that soft spot inside of you, making you see stars. He must realize he’s found it, because he starts finger fucking you in earnest. 

The grip on your throat loosens a little, careful not to keep you short of breath for too long as he works your cunt with his hand. His lips find your shoulder, peppering you with light kisses that are delicate and butterfly soft in comparison to the way his fingers fuck into you. 

“Vernon,” you whisper, only able to think of his name. “Vernon vernon vernon.”

“Doing so good, darling,” he whispers against your skin. He kisses his way to your ear, sucking the sensitive spot on your neck. “So fucking good for me.” 

His words hit below the belt. You shudder in his hold, letting him drive you toward another release. You never imagined Vernon to be talkative in bed, but he is, his voice like velvet. Just like that. Perfect for me. There you go, come on. 

Everything about him is perfect, driving you to mania. His grip on your throat tightens suddenly, sensing how close you are to your second peak. Your breath quickens until you can’t breathe, going mute against him as his fingers press hardly into that spot over and over and over.

A high-pitched ring winds in your ears. You hold and hold and hold and when Vernon lets go of your throat, a gust of air flooding your lungs, you shatter around his hand. You collapse backward against him, head knocking into his. You don’t even care, twitching and gasping against him as his hand stills. 

For a few moments, you just lean against him like that, sweaty and lost and in a dream. Slowly, you become aware of his pounding heart against your back and the slick between your thighs. Vernon’s mouth is pressed to your shoulder, waiting patiently as you blink a few times, the room swimming into view.

“Hi,” he murmurs, watching you with shadowy eyes.

“Hi,” you croak, voice rough.

“Good?”

“Very.” 

“Want to stop?”

“No. Unless you want to.”

His gaze darkens. “I don’t.” 

“I want more. I can take more.” 

He lifts his head and presses a sweet kiss to your temple. “You’re perfect for me. Do you know that?” 

Reverent hands help you lay back against the pillows. Vernon touches you like you’re something delicate - not because he thinks you’re fragile, but because you’re something important to him. Valuable. You see it in the way he looks down at you, taking a moment to drink you in. 

There’s something else there too. Something edged with a knife, a little wild. Covetous. There is something in the way Vernon grips your leg briefly, a language he’s trying to communicate to you with touch. 

Mine, it says. Mine and no one else's.

With hooded eyes, you watch him peel his briefs off. Your eyes shoot to where his cock hangs heavy, beads of precum dripping at his tip. You reach a hand up toward him but he shakes his head, careful as he shuffles toward you.

“Later,” he promises. “I like touching you.” 

“I want you to feel good.”

“You make me feel good. Seeing you unravel makes me feel good. I like seeing how much you enjoy me touching you.”

You can tell he means it. His lips are swollen and soft when he kisses you. You open your legs open for him, letting him settle between the softness of your thighs. Vernon runs the head of his cock through your messy fluids, earning a whine for you.

“Sensitive?” he asks against your lips, nose nudging yours. You nod and you feel him smile. “Sorry.”

“Feels good,” you assure him, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Want more.” 

“Greedy thing.” 

“I’m Your greedy thing.”

Your words have the desired effect. You feel a shiver ripple through him, Vernon’s grip on your leg turning to iron as he opens you up wider. He presses his cock into your entrance slowly, pausing just as the tip pops in. You throb around him, whispering his name - begging him to keep going. 

Vernon’s grin is sharp as he sinks in further, the slide tortuous and wonderful and so much as he finally finds home, hips pressed as far as he can go. He stays like that, tangling your tongue in a messy kiss as he sits there, fully seated in your heat. Your pussy spasms around him, pressed open to the max. 

“Feels so good,” he whispers, dropping his forehead to yours. “I’m going to come embarrassingly fast.”

“So do it.” You wrap a leg around his waist, your hips tilting upward. Both of you moan at the angle change, so close to breaking. “I wanna see it.” 

Instead of answering, he nods. He drags his hips backward slowly before slamming back in. He punches the breath out of your lungs with each slide home, the stroke slow but deep. Your head falls to the side, breaths rasping as he sets a steady, slow pace. 

It feels good, your legs curling around him to keep you close, hands tangle in his hair to keep him tethered to you. His hair is damp with sweat, your fingers curled in the strands, tugging a little. He seems to like it, making a needy sound in his throat that has you grinning. 

“Mine,” Vernon whispers to you, words muffled by your neck. “You are only mine, darling. You will only ever be mine. You were made for me. No one else.”

“No one else,” you agree. 

His hips move faster, a little messier. You egg him on, legs squeeze, cunt spasming around him. He lets out a feral sound, driving himself further to his orgasm. He drags you with him, another swell reaching you. Vernon can tell, chasing it like a predator, pinning you down and slamming his cock into you until you’re melting around him again, vision blotted out. 

Vernon comes to the sound of his name on your lips. His movements become sloppy until he can’t go anymore, holding himself above you, trembling. Carefully, he drops next to you, pulling his cock free. You feel your joint fluids run down your leg, but you’re too tired to care. 

Reaching for him, your hand finds his chest. He wraps his fingers around yours, holding your palm to him, his heart thudding wildly under your touch.

“For you,” he mutters. “Only for you, darling.” 

You fall asleep like that, hand pressed to his chest.

-

Waking up in Vernon’s bed is not new to you. You’ve fallen asleep numerous times at his apartment or stayed the night after going out, but you’ve always had the bed to yourself, Vernon opting to take the couch. 

The bed is empty now, but still warm. You stretch as you roll over in his sheets, groaning as you feel the soreness between your legs and mostly everywhere else. Pressing your hand to your chest and shoulders, you feel all the tender places Vernon mapped his affection with tongue and teeth. It makes you smile fondly as you lay in bed alone for a minute, breathing in the scent of his room.

Slowly, you peel yourself from his bed. With an awkward waddle, you make it to the bathroom, flicking on the light. You shield your eyes at first, going about your morning routine and washing your face to try and feel human again. 

On your way out, something catches your eye. You frown, walking back toward his laundry hamper where you see brass glinting in the light. You reach for it, pulling the bell from the tangle of his clothes. It has an old wooden handle with cracks, a little hand bell used for-

Well. Used the night of halloween. You have no idea why Vernon still has it, the memory of that night like poison in your mouth. You toss it back into the hamper on top of another shirt that catches your eye. It’s one of his dark green t-shirts, but the collar is stained dark brown.

Curious, you pull it out, shaking the shirt out in front of you. It’s mostly unmarked, save for the spatter of something dark brown and dried. You run your finger around the edge of it, puzzled. It looks like dried blood, but you can’t recall any injuries he’s suffered recently. 

You take the shirt with you into his room, tossing it on his bed as you get dressed, stealing sweatpants and a hoodie. Grabbing the shirt again, you trail out toward the kitchen where Vernon is making breakfast, the smell of bacon crackling in the pan.

You grin, leaning against the doorframe for a second to watch him. He looks so at ease, flipping pieces of bacon while he sings to some seventies song you don’t know the name of. 

Pushing off the wall, you head toward him. He catches you in his peripheral, turning his head and smiling at you. “Hello, Darling.” 

The nickname gives you pause. You slow as you come around the corner of the counter, stopping completely as the endearment pricks you sharply on the back of your neck. Vernon goes back to flipping bacon, singing along a song you vaguely know, but don’t know why Vernon does. He’s never liked music from the 1970s, and-

Your ears start to ring. Several things occur to you at once. 

The memory of Vernon screaming and banging his fists against the door, begging for help. You’d been so afraid that you ripped the door open, crashing through the line of salt. 

Vernon, sharp and confident, the new edge to him as he interacts with people, a little harsher. A little darker.

Nah need to cut back on the sodium had said when you asked about the lack of salt on his fries.

The way he’d called you darling the night before, whispering it against your skin. 

70s music that Vernon has never listened to since you’ve known him.  

The bell sitting in the hamper used to call a spirit on Halloween. 

In the house that belonged to the Hello Darling Murderer.

Brown stains - like blood - on his shirt. 

Carefully, you learn toward the middle of the counter, watching Vernon like a prey skirts a predator. With trembling hands, you gently grab the salt from where it sits next to the pepper. You hold your breath, trying not to draw his attention as you unscrew the top of it, placing the metal lid on the shirt to keep it quiet. 

With as silent steps as you can manage, you cross to the other side of the kitchen where you’re out of his line of sight. Tipping the salt over, you pour it across the tile from counter to fridge, eyes darting between the barrier of white and the man standing in the kitchen humming. 

Your heart hammers. 

Your hands shake. 

Salt shaker empty, you set it on the counter and take a few steps back. It’s an unbroken line of salt, and though it doesn’t trap him in the kitchen, at least it’s there. 

Vernon turns around with the pan of bacon. He sees you and his humming stops, cocking his head to the side. He notices the empty salt shaker. Frowns. Looks at you. Looks at the ground where you’ve drawn a line of salt. 

For a second, he just stares at it. His eyes flick back up to you, warm and brown but narrowed. 

“Why is there salt all over my floor?” 

“Cross it.” 

“Huh?”

“Step over the line of salt.” 

Silence stretches between you. He remains standing in the kitchen, pan in hand, music playing in the background.

When Vernon doesn’t move, you can see everything so clearly. 

Vernon hadn’t been joking when he slammed his hands on the door begging for help on Halloween. A sick feeling roils in your stomach as you remember the panicked screams, the way his fists hammered the door. 

Your next words come out as a hiss. “Cross the line of salt, Vernon.”

He looks at the salt and purses his lips before sighing and setting the pan down on the stove. He tosses the rag from his shoulder and shakes his head, striding over to the white line you made against his tile. He stops in front of it, looking at you with his eyebrows raised as if to say really?

“Well, do it.”

Vernon looks down at the salt. Looks back up to you. Down at the salt. 

And then he laughs. 

“Fuck, you really are the smartest person in school.” He sighs heavily, a gaze darker than anything you’ve ever seen on his face as he stares at you. “You know I can’t cross that line of salt, darling.” 

@ddaddunugu @ourkivee @tie-nn @cookiearmy @thesunsfullmoon @stray-bi-kids @ldysmfrst @onlywon4u @hopeless-foolery @iamawkwardandshy @gyuguys @codeinebelle @ateez-atiny380 @bultaereume @yoongznme @kaitieskidmore97 @coffee-addict-kitten @gyubakeries @archivistworld @asyre @kaepjjangiya @fancypeacepersona @beckyloveshannie @imujings @do-you-remember-summer-127 @jbluen @mingumis @kimsaerom

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[jinniejjam]

I've never had my mind blown as hard as this, CRAZY!

[hanniebaeee]

The Illusionist

Hyunjin x fem!reader

Warnings: SMUT MDNI

Genre: Fantasy au, strangers to lovers

Summary: A mysterious circus arrives in your town. You are mesmerized by it and totally captivated by the Illusionist.

a/n: I wrote at last 🥹 Please forgive me for any mistakes. Enjoy!

The circus arrived out of nowhere.

It appeared overnight with tents of black and gold spiraling into the sky, strung with fairy lights that glimmered like the stars. The air thrummed with something alive and magical, making the townsfolk whisper of it over their morning coffee.

Your tiny little seaside town was drenched in fear and fascination. How did no one hear a single thing? Those elaborate tents obviously needed some work being set up. Didn't it?

There were no posters or fliers. It was just… there.

You wanted to go witness what lay beyond the gates of black and gold. You asked your mother, and she dismissed your excitement, calling you childish. But then there was Minho.

Minho worked for your mother, helping her manage the family business. And you knew that at some point in your life, you'd be marrying him. It was an unspoken fact. Your family grooming him to take over the family business, and including him in literally every family event was proof enough.

He treated you like a friend, but you knew that he obviously felt more. Unfortunately, you didn't. But today, you were desperate.

So, you begged Minho to take you. He’d frowned, his brows knitting together in that way that made him look older than his age. But he relented when you pouted, and your eyes filled up with unshed tears.

The night was heavy with mist as you ventured past the gold and black gates, Minho’s hand warm on your lower back. The air was thick with the scent of caramel and smoke and something floral.

You wore a simple dress, pale blue with tiny little daisies. You followed the crowd into the main tent, taking a seat close to the stage, your eyes wide with awe.

Then he appeared.

The Illusionist stepped onto the stage, his black suit hugging his frame, the golden embroidery catching the light in a way that made him seem less man, more…magic. His hat, tilted just a little, shadowed his eyes, but you could feel them - dark, piercing and completely holding you in his grip.

His movements were liquid, each gesture deliberate, as if he were weaving spells with his hands. Golden ribbons turned into doves. Doves turned to confetti. And confetti bloomed into a rose dusted with gold.

The crowd gasped as he made things happen with a flick of his wrist or the snap of his fingers. But you? It was like you couldn't breathe. Your eyes clouded, as if under a spell. Your chest felt tight as the illusionist’s gaze flickered to you, just for a moment. As if he were seeing you for the very first time. As if he didn't just perform just for you. As if he didn't wait his entire life… for you.

He saw the hunger you didn’t even know you had. The hunger he had buried deep inside him as he searched crowd after crowd for you. He'd finally found you.

He smirked, a slow, dangerous curve of his lips, letting you know that he saw you, and a flick of his wrist, had the gold dusted rose landed on your lap, ending the show.

The crowd spilled out into the night and you let Minho lead you away, his thumb brushing your knuckles as he told you that he'd be traveling in the morning. You nodded, but your mind was elsewhere. Back in that tent, under Illusionist’s spell.

What you didn't see was the shadow that lingered at the tent’s edge. Hwang Hyunjin, the Illusionist, watched you go, his hat tipped low, his eyes glinting like a predator’s in the dark.

The next night, you resisted the urge to go back. It clawed at you from the inside, stubborn and insistent. But you stayed in your bed. And it may have been the most difficult and painful night of your life.

But the next night, you caved. You didn't understand what it was, but if you didn't go, it felt like you'd die.

Minho was still traveling, and your mother wouldn't take you. So you waited for everyone to go to bed, before jumping out of your window, and running towards the circus. It called to you, its pull stronger than you could explain.

You realize that the illusionist's act was already done for the night. You couldn't help but feel disappointed as you stepped into the empty tent. You felt silly all of a sudden.

You turned to leave, but stopped still. You felt him before you saw him. You turned slowly, fully expecting to see him, but yet, your breath hitched.

He emerged from the shadows, and seeing him up close - his high cheekbones, full lips, and those eyes…it completely disarmed you.

“You came back,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, his eyes taking you in, the way you were panting. “Did you run all the way here just for me?”

You swallowed, your throat dry, but you lifted your chin, defiant despite the heat flooding your cheeks. “I wasn’t planning to come,” you said, but the words felt hollow.

Hyunjin laughed, a soft, wicked sound that made your skin prickle. He stepped closer, close enough that you could smell him - smoke and something sweeter.

“Liar,” he whispered, his breath warm against your ear. “You couldn’t stay away.”

Your heart stuttered, but you didn’t step back. His fingers brushed your wrist, light as a feather, and you shivered, your body betraying you.

“Who are you?” Ok, so it sounded silly as soon as you said it.

“You know I'm an Illusionist,”

“I don't think your mother named you that.”

“She named me Hyunjin,”

“What do you want from me?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He tilted his head, his eyes glinting with something dangerous, something hungry.

“What do I want, Y/N?” He leaned in, his lips so close to yours. “I want to see what happens when you stop fighting it. When you let go of this life you’re pretending to love.”

You stared at him, your heart literally struggling against your ribcage to burst out as he said your name. Because you wanted to say yes to everything he said. But you thought about Minho. You knew he liked you.

“There is someone -” you started, the words sounding weaker than you meant them to.

Hyunjin’s smirk didn’t falter. He stepped back, just enough to give you space to breathe.

“You don't love him,” he stated. “Tell me, darling, does he make your heart race like this?”

He reached out, his fingers grazing your collarbone, before settling right over your heart, sending a jolt of electricity through you. “Does he make you crave him?”

You couldn’t answer. But honestly, you didn’t need to. The truth was written in the way your body leaned toward him, in the way your lips parted, aching for something you couldn’t name. He saw it, and his smile, triumphant.

“Would you believe me if I told you I've been looking for you?” He asked, his voice low. “Crowd after crowd after crowd. I've searched for you. Across oceans. Everywhere. And now you're here.”

“Hyunjin -”

He closed his eyes, as if hearing you say his name physically hurt.

“Say it again,” He demanded.

“What?”

“My name. Say it again -”

“Hyunjin,” His head tipped back, and you could see what appeared like strands of gold glow in his neck.

You didn't know what you were seeing. You didn't know what to do, but when he looked at you again, you knew whatever he asked you next, you'd say yes.

“Do you trust me?”

You shouldn't. You didn't know this man. But you trusted him with your life. So you nodded.

Hyunjin raised his hand, and you froze when frim his fingertips came golden threads, as fine as spider silk. The glow filled the room as they moved like they were alive, slithering through the air and wrapped around your wrists and neck. You gasped as they sank into your skin, painless but warm, threading through your veins like liquid fire.

You felt them, pulsing under your flesh, all through your body - a connection so intimate. Your eyes widened as the glow around Hyunjin’s neck dimmed. And the threads running from Hyunjin's fingertips to your body merely went invisible rather than cut or separated.

“What did you do?” you whispered, your voice trembling with a mix of fear and intrigue.

He stepped closer, his breath warm against your cheek.

“Binding you to me,” he said softly, his eyes glinting with possessiveness. “You feel it, don’t you? Me, inside you.”

And you did. The threads weren’t just on your skin—they were deeper, woven into your very being, binding you to him completely. You could feel his heartbeat, faint but steady, echoing alongside your own. His emotions - hunger, need…love?

It was overwhelming, like he’d slipped into your soul and made himself at home.

“Why?” you managed, your voice barely audible.

“Because you belong with me.” That's all he said.

He raised his hand again, and the threads tightened, not painfully but enough to make you gasp, your body arching toward him instinctively.

You could clearly feel his desire coursing through you. It was intoxicating, to say the least. It made your arms and legs feel heavy. Your vision blurred. Hyunjin had his arms open when you fell into them, unconscious.

When you woke up in your bed the next morning, the threads stirred within you, a warm, teasing ripple that started at your wrists and spread like wildfire. You gasped, your body tensing as the sensation deepened, like invisible fingers tracing the curve of your spine.

You knew it was him, teasing you. You could hear his voice, a soft raspy whisper, “You feel me, don’t you?”

“Stop it,” You hissed, humiliated at how much you wanted it. With a huff, you were off the bed. You busied yourself with your household chores, determined to not give into him so easily.

But Hyunjin was relentless, his magic now lived inside you, coaxing shivers from your body that you couldn’t suppress.

By night time, you had decided not to go to the circus. Not tonight. It was your rebellion, your desperate attempt to claw back some control from Hyunjin’s spell. But the threads stirred under your skin and every time you closed your eyes, you saw him. His wicked smirk and his teasing gaze.

It was late and you were curled up on the couch with a book you couldn’t read. The words blurred, your focus stolen by the threads, which seemed to hum with a quiet irritation, like they knew you were defying him. You told yourself you were stronger than this, stronger than him. But Hyunjin didn’t take rebellion lightly.

It started as a ripple, a soft tug at the threads. You froze, your breath catching as the sensation grew, warm and teasing, like a fingertip tracing the curve of your neck. You set the book down, your hands trembling. Ok, so this was a bad idea.

But the warmth spread, curling low in your belly, igniting a heat you’d never felt before. Your body tensed, a soft gasp escaping your lips as the sensation sharpened, like invisible hands sliding up your thighs.

“Hyunjin,” you whispered, your voice shaking. The air grew heavy, the candle flickering wildly as the sensation shifted, no longer teasing but demanding. It was like his hands were on you, mapping every inch of your skin. Your dress felt too tight, your skin too sensitive, and you pressed your thighs together, trying to tame the ache building inside you.

But he wouldn’t let you.

The threads pulsed again, and it was like he was there, his breath hot against your ear, his fingers ghosting over your hips, your waist, lower. You arched against the couch, your head falling back, a whimper slipping past your lips as you felt him down your folds and your clit.

Your hands clutched the cushions, your body trembling as the threads worked you.

“Stop fighting me,” his voice whispered from inside you. “Close your eyes, feel me.”

The words pushed you over, and the pleasure crashed through you like a storm, blinding you. You cried out as the orgasm tore through you. It was too much, too intense, leaving you shaking and breathless. Your skin glowed, flushed and damp with sweat.

You collapsed back, panting, your heart pounding so loud. The threads fell quiet, but their presence didn’t fade.

You didn't want to fight it anymore. Hyunjin was inside you, in every pulse, every heartbeat, and the thought both terrified and thrilled you.

You wanted him. You wanted him so bad.

And he was waiting.

Dividers: @saradika-graphics

Tags: @moonchild9350 @velvetmoonlght @hwangjoanna @pixie-felix @sailor--sun @chancloud8 @captainchrisstan @hansmic @emilyywhyy @inlovewithstraykids @my-neurodivergent-world @nightmarenyxx @channie4lifeee143127 @lezleeferguson-120 @silly250 @pansexual-and-eating-pancakes @sammhisphere @soona-huh @princesskrystix @thecutiepieme @kenia4

[skzophreniic]

𝐒𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐩𝐚𝐰 | boxer!bang chan au 🥊

pairing: boxer!bang chan × med student!reader genre: sports drama · angst · smut · hurt/comfort status: ongoing warnings: violence, boxing injuries, blood, medical themes, corruption, grief, trauma, character death, explicit smut (eventually), unhealthy coping mechanisms

Christopher Bahng lives for the ring—the pain, the pressure, the promise of glory. You’ve already lost someone you loved to a fight they couldn’t win. When your worlds collide, obsession meets resistance, and every round brings you closer to a choice: protect him, or watch him destroy himself. Because in boxing, no one leaves the ring untouched—and not every fight is fair.

taglist: open! (comment under this post to be added) notes: writing a series is taking me back to my wattpad era. i just know this will be fun to write and hopefully fun for you guys to read lol. once this is finished, i'll be doing a bonus q&a chapter where you guys can send in questions for all the characters :)

𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Prologue

Chapter 1 — The Match

Chapter 2 — Clinician’s Eye

Chapter 3 — Signed

Chapter 4 — Blood in the Water

Chapter 5 — His Name Was Kim Seungmin

Chapter 6 — Betrayal in the Corner

Chapter 7 — The Fall (or The Rise)

Chapter 8 — The Bell Tolls

Epilogue

Bonus Chapter!

[chocosvt]

ghost ride | finale. (m)

✧✎ synopsis: post-graduate, your life sucks especially hard. two jobs, a lazy roommate, and an imperceptible social life have dulled you to grey. nothing seems like it's going to change. until your roommate decides to let her plug crash at your place, and you're bribed into a strange adventure that challenges everything you thought you were.

pairing: fem!reader x vernon chapter word count: 31k full length word count: 186k genres/tropes: drug dealer!vernon, reader is a post-grad w/ a flop degree lol, inclusion of OCs, gay!soonyoung for the lol, appearances from other svt characters, opposites attract, romance, teasinggg, tensionnn, unrequited love, angst, adventure, smut, relationship drama, sprinkling of comedy, another excruciating slowburn bc what else? + reader is a tad dramatic/sensitive but that's why i love her :]

(!) warnings: drugs (IE: weed, molly, coke, whippets, alcohol), mention of guns, mention of death/overdose, intense language, an instance of non-consensual touching to the reader by a side character, some toxic & possessive behaviour, degrading, aggression, mentions of physical abuse/harm, dips into grief and loss, fractured family dynamics on vernon's part.

✧✎ a/n: bc of t*mblr's paragraph limit my words here are forced into sparsity ;_; BUT PLS KNOW - I HAVE SO MUCH ❤️ IN MY HEART FOR EVERYONE WHO TOOK THIS FREAKIN' 7 WEEK JOURNEY WITH ME! everyone who wrote such thoughtful comments, added such hilarious and or kind reblogs, everyone who expressed their feedback anonymously - you made me feel so comfortable and excited to share this story! it might be a long while before i post another fic, so feel free to go float the universe and come back whenever! 🌈 i'm heading back to uni myself for my final year as a biochem major woooo. it's been a long, twisty journey 🥹 take care of urself above all!

hope everyone enjoys the finale! <3 xoxoxoxo

✎ 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07

PS: please note that i block contentless blogs who like my posts!

THIS WEEK: Let's Help Gaza Soup Kitchen!

leave a comment or make a reblog stating something you enjoyed abt the chapter! at the end of the week, i will tally all legitimate comments/reblogs and make a donation to said organization.

IE: this chapter gets 15 comments, 25 reblogs - i donate 40$! pls note that i am a uni student living away from home so i will vary my donations accordingly to my financial situation at the time <3

3 MONTHS AGO.

It was hot. Even the coarse fabric of your jean shorts kept sticking to your skin, and when you thought nobody was looking you would awkwardly readjust everything. Moo’s house had air conditioning—a little white box sticking out his living room window with a flimsy piece of cardboard wedged beside it—but the machine wasn’t on. He liked the heat, moving through the house in beige, baggy shorts armed with numerous pockets, a cargo t-shirt, and a tacky vest that a fisherman might wear if it wasn’t so clearly nibbled at by moths. You watched from your place on the sofa as Moo flopped down into a plaid green armchair and cracked open a sizzley beer can.

He proceeded to make a very loud slurping noise, his eyes skipping around the bright living room, finding you. “Want one?”

You dug out the water bottle that had slipped between a gap in the sofa. The springs dug at you from underneath the cushion. “I have this.”

Suddenly, you heard the house’s rickety front door shutter. In walked Vernon and Moo’s roommate, Snozz, who had gone outside to light for a brief moment, trailing in with them the scent of stale smoke from cheap, old cigarettes. Vernon sunk into place beside you on the sofa. Snozz leaned against the sliding glass door. You wondered if they were feeling the heat. Maybe you wanted Vernon to yell at Moo to use his damn AC unit.

Moo started rocking in his green armchair. “Okay, Vern. Tell us.”

Your boyfriend scoffed, jerked his thumb at you. “She can tell you.”

And your forehead creased. “I can?”

Vernon shrugged. “You were in the club. Not me.”

Moo cackled, pointed his finger. “He can’t get in the club!”

“Shut up,” Vernon coughed back. “Nice gear you fuckin’ loser.”

“Hey! I’m going dock-fishing later! I have worms in the fridge.”

You sucked on your lower lip. “What am I saying?”

Vernon nudged your shoulder, raised his sharp, clean eyebrows. His t-shirt was sticking to your bare arm. “Who did you chat to at Prerogative?”

“Woah, woah!” Moo hollered, sitting up straight in his chair, the flashy tackles on his vest twinkling. “Prerogative? You do insider trading?”

“Uh, no?”

“Dude, shut up so she can talk!” Vernon grunted.

Finally, the roaring waves that had crashed through the living room were now calmly ebbing away. You felt nervous, pinched along the seam of your jean shorts while all the boys stared at you from every angle, and the heat turned heavier. But then Vernon squeezed your shoulder, his fingers resting on your skin like cool stones.

So you spoke up. “Well… last week, I went to Prerogative with my friends. I didn’t get in ‘cause I’m secretly loaded, or doing… insider trading…” you eyed Moo from across the small room, “but I used, erm, someone else’s name. Anyways. Yeah, I talked to Jeonghan—”

Moo squealed, “El Timador?!” while slapping a splotchy hand to his mouth, and you nearly thought there was a ten-year-old girl in the room.

“Yes,” you continued, clearing your throat. “I know that Vernon has an issue with some territories that you guys lost, or something? That were taken over by Jeonghan. So… well… I got Jeonghan to agree… he told me he’s going to arrange some sort of meeting with Vernon, essentially. I’m assuming to work something out. And I know that it wasn’t my business to intervene. Trust me, I already got an ear,” you glanced sideways at your boyfriend. “But Vernon was really bent about it. Anyway, that’s the story.”

The patched armchair sounded a rusty squeak. Moo was leaning forward, nodding at you, his lips pursed with sympathy… gratitude... reverence… you had no idea, really. “Wow, you are so brave,” he said.

“Um… thanks?”

Snozz had been so still and silent by the sliding glass door that you somewhat jumped when he used his voice, much lower and scratchier in cadence, like there were barbs in his throat. “Heard anything, Vernon?”

He shook his head. “Nope.”

“Wait, so, what the fuck does this mean?” Moo questioned, lowering his beer can to the matted carpet. “You want them… back?”

Vernon scoffed. “Yes. What the fuck do you think?”

“But are we sure that’s a good idea?”

And Vernon shrugged. “Dunno. You want more money?”

“Well, always. But—”

Vernon leaned forward, the tattoos along his sunkissed skin flexing, prowling. “Me too. I mean, we don’t have Hylands anymore—Minghao fucked that for us—not to mention we lost Starlight, the whole underground scene at Smog, and that fuckin’ washed up Russian idiot popstar who had us on speed dial for all his celebrity parties. Dude, we were makin’ fuckin’ bank back then. Carryin’ it in duffle bags bustin’ at the zippers.”

Moo didn’t seem to flourish with his usual glow. “I know, but—”

“But, but, but,” Vernon interrupted, teasing him. “But what, man?”

Silence then permeated itself into the slippery folds of heat in the sweltering air, and you wished, for the love of all things holy, that someone would just whack that damn AC and turn it on—even just to hear a rattling hum that could somehow succeed in squashing the nauseating silence.

You watched Moo collapse back into the chair with dejection.

“But that’s when we had Dots…” he added listlessly.

And no one spoke. No one moved. Some drifting clouds had streamed their way over the blurry orange ball in the summer sky and the living room was washed in mournful, hurt dimness. Even you glanced down at your lap, bit the inside of your cheek, and refused to disrupt the atmosphere bleeding over everything in the room. It made you acknowledge how powerful another person’s impact could be, to the point where time visibly slowed at the mere summoning of their name, like the world was suddenly dipped into a clear molasses. You wondered if you were an intruder, spoiling the stillness of their memories to someone you hardly, transiently knew.

Vernon scratched his nose. The gesture was faint, simple, but it was a pair of scissors that sheared the conversation apart from the exhumed hurt. “We can get them back…” he spoke softly. “I know it. Jeonghan isn’t bulletproof.”

“You trust him?” Snozz croaked, his hands now pulled out from his pockets, arms folded stoutly across his chest. “You trust fucking Jeonghan?”

“Dude, this may be as far as we ever fuckin’ get with him. That man’s a ghost, okay? You can’t find him if he doesn’t wanna be found. I think he’s got a penthouse in the fuckin’ Shadow Realm or some shit.”

But Snozz didn’t twitch. “He fucked over Dots,” he said, vitriolic, his nose crinkling and lips peeling. “He fucked over all of us.”

“Yeah, I know,” Vernon bit back. “I was fuckin’ there.”

The cool water bottle was pressing against your thigh and you terribly craved a sip from it, but you didn’t want it to crinkle and pop.

Moo’s long fingers were pulling at threads on the armchair as he stepped back into his voice, a calmer shade of blue. “Vern, shit was different then, y’know? We were so much more structured with Dotsy. We had more distributors selling. More people to move product. I mean, yeah, shit was tough when we had to compete with Jeonghan. But we never fell off the rails, right?” He paused, lips rubbing together, contemplating. “Nothing’s been the same since he died. We don’t have the horsepower. Not like we did.”

Vernon sighed. He leaned over, the heels of his palms rubbing into his eyes, and you wanted to stroke his back, but sometimes Vernon’s emotions were thorny and he needed to feel everything first, as it came through him in slices. You wondered if he knew that Jeonghan had submitted that leaf for Dots at Sherwood. Perhaps that was why he seemed to believe so much that Jeonghan might yield. You touched the edge of your face and felt a sticky moisture.

“Then it’s a respect thing,” Vernon suddenly barked. “It’s a fuckin’ respect thing that he gives those territories back. He wouldn’t have them without Dots. He wouldn’t have half the shit he has without Dots.”

You saw Moo frown and your heart ached. “What’s the point—"

“I’m sick of him bein’ gone, and everyone fuckin’ mopin’ around, actin’ like they can’t do shit anymore!” Vernon crackled with electric emotions, his language stabs of thunderbolts. “We can be what we were, how the fuck do you guys not see that? We’re just complacent now, y’know? It’s like we don’t give a fuck. All the hard work. All the sweat and blood.” He collapsed back into the sofa, spreading out his legs and turning up his palms, two roughed surfaces calloused over with hard grit. “It’s just… I don’t wanna be that. I don’t wanna go back to havin’ fuckin’ nothin’ at all…”

And you tensed, realizing that you were hearing a part of him that you had never heard before. The fear of having nothing. Believing he was nothing. Just a spot rubbed away until there was only glaring bareness, falling back into a bubbling pit of black that would swallow him. You saw into him a little more. He was scared.

You thought that was impossible.

Sighing out tenderly through your nose, you reached for his hand, slotting your fingers in between his. “You won’t have nothing.”

He smiled at you, but it was somewhat empty and crestfallen, in a way that might communicate—you don’t understand, you never will, but I do get what you’re saying—and he leaned forward to sweetly kiss your cheek.

Moo sniffled, his bare knees tapping together, the hollow thudding of bone echoing around the room. “What do you think Danny?” He asked.

It was strange to hear. They always used nicknames. Sometimes you forgot they had actual names, actual lives beyond your dwindled snapshots into the brunt of their suspect business. Snozz, Danny, Daniel—he didn’t speak for a moment—looking out the smudged glass door, until he deeply sighed, “let’s just wait and see what happens with this meeting. If it happens.” Then he smacked the shoddy conditioning unit.

It spluttered, squeaked, rattled to life, and you almost threw yourself at his feet in prostration. He walked out the room, leaving behind the mild scent of smoke, his eyes skimming yours lithely, and disappeared.

“Well, that’s freakin’ that,” Moo mumbled. You all sat in silence for a few seconds, staring blankly. “Time for worms!” Moo suddenly shouted, scrambling into the kitchen, pulling open the fridge. “Don’t vanish yet, Snoodles! We can fish!”

Vernon rolled his eyes. “He hates fishing.”

“But he’s good at untangling lines and hooking worms!”

With the living room emptied out, you looked to Vernon. “I know it’s difficult. But you really won’t have nothing,” you murmured, admiring the perfect ferns of his eyelashes, dark and earthy. “I must count for something, right?”

“You count for everything,” he answered, pecking your mouth.

Later in the day, when it was a bit cooler, everyone gradually moved outside. You hadn’t realized it the first time you came by Moo’s house, but he lived on a rather sizeable lake, and his backyard had a dock that stuck out onto the water as well as a firepit surrounded by frayed and faded-looking lawn chairs. Trees beaming with all their full, healthy leaves swayed above your head as you sat upon a beach towel laid out in the uncut grass.

A few other people came to the house, seeming friendly. You were nervous, but the lapping feeling subsided when you realized that at least none of them were Kitty.

There was one girl you spoke to more than the others.

She was Moo’s younger sister, around your age, and she came outside in an orange bikini top decorated by hot pink flowers, wearing jean shorts similar to yours. Her hair was woven back in neat, thin cornrows that coiled down the back of her neck. She smelled like sweet sunscreen. She had stopped by your beach towel.

“I’ve never seen you here before.”

“Oh, I’m new, I guess.”

“A friend? Sibling?”

Your face held onto the heat tightly as you said, “Vernon’s girlfriend.”

Her eyes had widened, and you saw the surrounding leaves of the property's elms and maples reflected in their creaseless brown. “That Vernon?” She gawked, pointing her finger toward the dock, where Moo and Vernon were fooling around with the fishing rods. “I hope my surprise doesn’t offend you! That’s great.”

You had nodded back. “It’s okay. I get that reaction a lot.”

Jade, that was her name. She was pleasant to speak with, and she was surprisingly open about her experiences with the other boys. You didn’t want to interrupt her as she rambled, occasionally pulling at a piece of her dark, coiled hair or grabbing onto her small hand to inspect her plain but well-groomed nails. She told you about getting rides home from Dots. About the time she was yanked into an upstairs closet at their old group house and told to stay put, hearing a few terrifying pops from a gun while she hid. She talked to you about school—a more relatable topic—and you saw some pieces that were reminiscent of Diana in her.

“I didn’t really get along with Vernon initially,” she explained. “I don’t know. He didn’t have much interest in speaking to me. He kinda scared me.”

And you laughed, tossing your head back. “Tell me about it.”

“Auggie is a good brother. He always makes me laugh. And he tries really hard to keep me uninvolved in his stuff. So, y’know, I don’t get hurt. But it’s hard. I don’t always understand it. I want to protect him, too. So it gets frustrating.”

God—you had nearly shaken her hand—“I know right!”

She asked if you wanted to swim with her. But you didn’t have the right clothes, so she nodded and got ready to excuse herself from the corner of your Clifford: The Big Red Dog towel that Moo had tossed you earlier. While she was dusting herself off, Snozz came outside, smiled at her with closed, curled lips as he wandered down flat stones to the dock, the breeze fluffing through his overgrown locks. She watched him for a moment, then looked back to you, her eyes a bit weighted, cloudy, as she whispered, “we used to date. Not anymore. Auggie didn’t like it. But Danny’s so sweet. Honestly, they all are. But there's a lot of stuff there that hurts.”

And then she started running toward the bank. You watched her jump onto her brother’s shoulders, and he swung her around playfully, threatening to dip her in the water cold against the dock.

Naturally, your gaze floated in Vernon’s direction, bent down over a fishing rod laid out on wood, his hands clasped around a black-spotted pike that he managed to unhook and sink gently back into the dark, glittering blue.

“But there's a lot of stuff there that hurts.” You heard Jade in your ear, and your insides stirred with dread that you might lose him.

Vernon might be too much for you, after all.

But you hated to think about it. Hated it like a raw blister.

Inside Mr. York’s kitchen, you, Tara, and Lara were standing around a bare counter space beside two oil vats, picking away at a square tin of sweet potato fries that Costello had hidden in one of the sleek convection ovens. The restaurant was officially closed for the night, the kitchen sanitized, wiped down, mopped, and everything glinted in starry silver.

He had always been a kinder cook, often hiding food for the waitstaff to eat, especially for Lara, whom he had a silly little crush on. But she was on a strict no-dating policy, citing things like: I need to work on myself, I should get back into dance, relationships are so distracting, I know how to please myself better than anyone, I’ve been neglecting a lot, while she came into work with the same patented scowl and sloppy attitude completely untouched. You wouldn’t recognize her otherwise. There were bumpy nicks still visible through her thin eyebrow, the discolouration hidden by makeup. She said it kept getting her attention from masculinely dressed woman with windswept-looking hair and Tara was snickering, grinning.

“Oh! Oh! Guys!” Tara yelped. “Guess what just opened?”

Lara dipped a golden, crispy fry into a tiny plastic cup of garlic sauce. “Your brain?” she muttered, sticking the fry into her mouth.

“Ugh—no—shut up.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That new nail place? On Fifth?”

“No,” Tara said, “but that would be amazing, too. Catherine Love’s assistant position is finally open! They started accepting applications this morning. I’m totally sending mine in the second I get home.”

“Wow, awesome,” you acknowledged.

“I know! It is awesome. It’s the definition of awesome.”

Continuing to nod, you pushed over a floppier fry for a dark, flaky one hiding underneath. Its sweetness squished delectably between your teeth. You had helped Tara practice her interviewing skills so much that you betted you could recite almost all her answers just from memory alone. She was more polished than a pearl.

“Maybe I’ll apply, too,” Lara mumbled around a thick, salted fry.

And you laughed. “Me three.”

Tara licked her lips, removing some orange crumbs. “You guys can apply all you want,” she invited confidently. “But I was born to do this.”

Lara grunted. “You were born to be someone’s assistant?”

“Not just someone! She’s an icon.”

“I’ve been looking through her website,” you admitted, deciding to try the garlic sauce that Lara was hogging. “And her exhibits are really gorgeous. I don’t know, but they feel super light. She seems to enjoy art that feels like sunshine on your skin, or a breeze in your hair. Does that make any sense?” The aromatic flavour of the garlic melted buttery on your tongue.

“Can I use that line?” Tara suddenly queried.

You sipped some water from a mason jar. “Uh, sure?” There was a thrumming vibration against your back pocket, so you pulled out your phone to read a text message from Vernon. Quickly gulping the rest of the mild tap water, you swirled out the jar into the large, deep sink. “Okay, chatty time is over for me,” you announced. “Vernon’s here. I’m gonna grab my stuff.”

“Ou la la,” Tara trilled. “Your Dark Knight.”

“To take you away on his impressive, black stallion,” Lara goaded.

After throwing the cinnamon bag over your shoulder, you made sure to poke your head back into the kitchen to blow a raspberry at them, still picking their way through the orange fries. “Goodnight, losers.”

As usual, Vernon was leaned against the edge of his car, so casual, wrapped in the humid gauze of a late summer night. He smiled when he saw you trotting up—still dressed in your work clothes—a hand raking through his dust-black hair while his eyes immediately warmed. Before he could speak, your hands had settled politely on his shoulders, massaging the breezy fabric of his white t-shirt splattered with a band logo. You kissed him, short and sweet, tasting a lingering mintiness from the gum he kept in his driver’s console.

“Hello, there,” you crooned. “How was that for timing, hm?”

He fingered a loose, bulbed button on your shirt, and the way his gaze travelled your body was a delicious longing. “Can’t complain.”

Once you were both settled inside the car, he asked about work.

You shrugged. “Fine. Not a drag. We were eating fries…” and you contemplated whether or not to bring up Catherine Love. Upon cranking the window down slightly, a city breeze flittered in, touching along your temples and baby hairs. “Do you think it would be weird if I applied for something I’m completely unqualified for and have no chance of attaining?”

Vernon’s eyes skipped to yours in the rear-view mirror. “People do shit like that all the time. They were gonna make Moo a project manager for a hotel construction rig. Don’t think he even knows how to use a drill.” He glanced at you for a moment, red light flushing in. “What’ch’ya thinkin’?”

Teeth scraped the inside of your cheek. “It’s stupid.”

“Nah,” Vernon hummed. “What’s the gig, PJ’s?”

“Well, Tara is obsessed with this artist lady. Catherine Love. She sets up exhibits and stuff. Worldwide. Have you seen her stuff before?”

The car smoothly rolled across the intersection. “Uh, dunno.”

You figured he wouldn’t know. “Anyways, it doesn’t matter. But she’s opened up a position to be her assistant. I’ve done some research on the building she works from—it’s Skyline—and it’s totally gorgeous. Right along the coastline. The more Tara gabs about it, and the more I look into everything…” you trailed off, unsure. “Would it hurt to apply?”

Vernon shrugged, leafy shadows tumbling in through the street lamps and running over him in flickers. “Why don’t you just do whatever the hell you want.” He tapped the steering wheel. “Who cares what happens?”

“Yeah, but—what if I get an interview?”

“Then you go do the interview.”

“But I’m unqualified.”

“Not that unqualified if you got an interview.”

“Well, I suppose so, but—”

“Dude, why’d you even ask what I thought if you were just gonna shoot yourself down the entire time?” He laughed. “I can’t control you with puppet strings or whatever the fuck. No one can. Only person who can make you do or not do things is yourself. So just shut up and pick one.”

Typical Vernon advice. Straight to the point.

Shuffling up in the chair, you huffed. More wind fluttered inside and you could feel the cool tendrils slipping through little gaps between the buttons on your fresh-ironed shirt. You talked a little more, asked him if he heard anything from Jeonghan, and he said no.

Your street was quiet. Vernon helped you out from the car.

“Staying over?” You asked.

He shook his head. “Can’t. Business. I’ll be gone for a few days.”

“What?!” You cried. “Why wouldn’t you tell me?”

“It was recent stuff. An order never got dropped off. I’m gonna go investigate with Snozz. Nothin’ too major. It’s happened before.”

But you still got unusually quiet, your stinging eyes scanning the pavement, panging reverberations aching from deep inside your chest. Your different lines of work already separated you enough.

Vernon stepped closer to you. He cupped your soft face, burning over with hot emotions, in his calloused hands. You met his eyes lined in the ivory moonlight and immediately wanted to cry, shifting your hand over his and strumming at his rough knuckles. “I wanted to spend time with you…”

“I know, beautiful,” he murmured, stroking your cheek.

“Why do you have to leave tonight?”

“Need to be there at a certain time.”

You sighed, bit your lip, choked back a stupid whine. “Okay, fine.”

He chuckled. “I have your approval, is that it?”

“You shouldn’t have it, but you do. Unforch.”

And he clicked his teeth, repeated your colloquialism, “unforch,” in a way that mimicked your tone and made you laugh, smile. He suddenly fastened his arms around your waist, his muscles digging into your plump skin, setting you on the edge of the car’s hood. You giggled, shoved at his chest, could hardly breathe, as he smothered you with kisses—some left tingling on your warm lips, others ticklish down your neck—each pouring more and more reassurance inside you until you were slaked.

“Okay, okay!” You fought to articulate through the breathlessness and contagious laughter. “I-I g-get it!” When your head spilt back, and you saw the black quilt of a night sky with stars speckled across it like salt granules, and breathed in the foggy wind, and Vernon’s thick amber, and felt his hands squeeze into the back pockets on your work slacks, his hair brush your bare skin, his lips pulling bruises to the surface of your pulsing neck, you thought you could be someplace next to heaven. As long as he was there.

“You do, huh? You get it?” He purred.

Draping fingers through his hair to make the locks even messier, you nodded. “I guess you’ll miss me. Maybe. Is that it? The point?”

Then he pulled you off the hood. “Okay, smartass. Go to bed.”

As you stumbled onto the sidewalk, his palm thwacked your bum hard, enough to feel a jarring ripple that made you stagger, gasp.

“Hey!”

“Night!” He called, standing by his door.

You waved him off, smiling lopsidedly, limping up to the building despite trying your best not to. You said goodnight, too, but it was crinkled in the middle as your lower bum positively stung with the weight of his hand.

When Vernon called you, it was midday, Saturday. The summer air was weighted with a greasy humidity. Two whirring fans sat on the coffee table, one pointed at Ruby and another angled at you, while you watched a reality competition show. Neither of you really spoke or moved. The heat had made you drowsy. Some guy tumbled off a log dangling in the air, splashed into the flat, cold lake underneath, and you both groaned, jealous.

You picked up the vibrating phone, yawned, “hello?”

“PJ’s? What’chya up to?”

“Um, nothing, really. Watching people fumbling obstacle courses.”

“Well, grab a bag, pack some water. I’m gonna come get you.”

And you sat up from the indent you’d been making in the sofa, feeling the fan’s breeze tickle at your knees. “Huh? Why? What’s the matter?”

The sound of a car door slamming echoed across the line. “Dude, I got a note. Came outside from the store and it was tucked under my windshield wiper. Only got coordinates on it. Nothin’ else. Now, who the fuck do you think that is?”

You swallowed, touched your lips. “What? Really?”

“Really. Pack your shit. I’ll be there in twenty.” The phone beeped as the call collapsed. You glanced over at Ruby, the tanned glow of her olive skin, to see she was already looking back. “I’m going somewhere with Vernon.”

“If you’re going swimming, you have to invite me,” she huffed.

“Uh, I doubt it’s swimming.”

The heat had made her too lethargic to argue and pester. She was fanning herself with a cork coaster as you scrambled around the apartment, stuffing items into a tiny backpack—two bottles of water, a hydration drink, some sunblock, a change of clothes in case you sweated through your first outfit, apartment keys, and a little switchblade that you bought at a street market sale.

Vernon honked the horn when he arrived.

You said goodbye to your roommate and hurried outdoors, feeling the immediate scorch of the afternoon sun prickle you while the moisture made the air muggy. Escaping inside the car, you were relieved to get blasted by icy air conditioning.

“Here,” you offered Vernon a water bottle.

“Oh—fuck—thanks.”

The bottles crinkled as you each took lustily long sips.

“So—” you exhaled, breathless, “—you check the coordinates?”

“Mm. That’s why I know it’s him.”

“Oh. They go where?”

Vernon sighed, puffing out his chest. “Our old group house…” and there was a faint underbelly of sadness staining his words.

You nodded. “Jade told me about it. Briefly.” Your gaze wandered outside, to the woman trotting clumsily down the sidewalk with a newspaper clasped over her head, to the birds flapping their wings together along a shady tree branch. “Are you okay? Going there?”

He shrugged, running his thumb around the loose cap of the water bottle, a gleam on his forehead. “Dunno. It’ll sting. No two ways about it.”

“Yeah… but I’ll be there, if you need me.”

Vernon smiled.

While he drove to the location, you examined the note that he pulled from underneath his wipers. The paper was lined and margined, with hole punches, and a clear tear running down the side. The coordinates were written in dark purple, with the flakiness of a pencil crayon. Very neat handwriting. You wondered if Jeonghan tore the paper from his daughter’s notebook, used one of her crayons, though you couldn’t imagine he was the one to slide it under Vernon’s windshield wiper. He had people watching.

People watching.

And that made you feel mucky, thick fear in your gut.

The drive was longer than you expected. You passed landmarks you had never seen before, travelled across overpasses that revealed jagged neighbourhoods unfamiliar to your memory. Sometimes the streets were very thin, with the houses in between hardly houses, but scrappy shingles and skeletal structures and tarps that covered windows, doors, and garage openings. Sometimes the streets were wide and sunnily amicable, sprinklers chittering rainbows of spray across lush grass as children tossed beach balls at each other, splashing in their beautiful outdoor pools.

Sometimes there was nothing. Just road and dull, dull land. The liminal stretch that could not be avoided, linking unknowns together.

“We’re almost there,” Vernon said in a heavy, knotted tone.

The car bumped along a gravelly road. Each house was relatively spread apart. Some nicer than others—none well-groomed—but glittering in tiny charms that showed behind smudgy windows and aged patios. You hadn’t realized Vernon was pushing down a driveway until you saw something flicker through the dense trees.

The beginnings of a house.

The car settled. Vernon pulled out his keys. It was quiet.

“So…” you managed to croak. “This is the place?”

He nodded, let his eyes drift loosely. “Once upon a time.”

Your stomach writhed, getting out of the car. It wriggled and crawled and twisted. Swinging the backpack over your shoulder, you followed after Vernon toward the front door. But there was no door, just a bare threshold. Items littered the sprouting, wild grass. Some were mere decomposing lumps of brownish-black-rotting colour that were impossible to identify. Then there were plates, cups, metal rods, bottles, pieces of tile, brass knobs. You saw a broken alarm clock shattered into chunks, and a damn microwave sticking out from the earth at a strange angle, as though it had been thrown from above. When you glanced skyward, you noticed the upstairs windows were broken, embracing the full hail of seasons.

Suddenly, Vernon clutched your hand. “There’s glass,” he warned, nudging you to look at a splatter of hard edges close to your foot.

The humidity followed you inside. Dewiness and tangy, sour odours were hanging everywhere, cloaking you, and you wondered what kind of fever had soaked through the house, sucking things in and then spitting them out in pieces. Everything was positively ransacked.

It was total upturn.

Vernon was quiet, with a buried expression. He glanced into the kitchen but wouldn’t enter, his hand pressing into the peeling, graffitied wall.

You stood back and read the black letters.

G3M1N1 WAZ H3R3

TE EXTRAÑAMOS

More graffiti dried dripping in the rummaged living room.

761-8223 4 CANDY

COME HOME

EL TIMADOR DID IT

Emotions lingered. Certain spaces you walked past, and you could sense the immediate, blustery howl. The emotions were never going to leave. Even without people, the house was still full.

Vernon came up beside you. Together, you stood at the base of a staircase that extended toward a dark rectangle. Something was up there. It held the strongest emotion. Prowling in the decay and moldy blackness.

You swallowed. Hated to breathe the air. “Up there, right?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Up there.”

When you looked to Vernon, he was not himself. In the dimness and glossy heat, surrounded by fragile memories, he came to mirror a boy as opposed to the rugged, steely man you knew. It was in his blushing cheeks, his uncertain frown, and the vulnerable softness that stirred his eyes like a honey wand. His shoulders were not firm, and his forehead worried.

You touched his back, hoping the sensation was grounding. “I don’t think Jeonghan’s here yet. Should we wait in the car? What do you think?”

Instead, Vernon turned his back to the stairway, sat on one of the sturdier-looking steps, letting his elbows point into his knees. As he mused there in silence, you breathed out the dampness, and decided to gingerly fit beside him after brushing some grit off the step. It wasn’t comfortable at all.

At least not to you.

He clutched onto his hands, wringing them together. “Y’know, it wasn’t me who found him, Dots… it was Moo and Snozz. They went up to his room… saw him in bed with the covers pulled up to his waist. He looked asleep, they said. Nothin’ was weird. But then he just wouldn’t move. And they found the vomit under him. I remember, like, I was at this stupid waitin’ room, sittin’ in there with a bunch of other sweaty, nervous folk. For an interview. A sales position. At a car dealership of all goddamn places. N’ just as I got called into the big ole’ office, my phone started ringin’ off the hook. It was Moo, and he never calls. First thing I hear is ‘he won’t wake up, man—he’s not even breathing—he’s not anything—his heart’s gone’ and I fuckin’ collapsed into this old woman’s lap as she read a magazine about fuckin’ mental health and addiction.”

You watched him bite the nail of his thumb as he laughed, the clogged emotions starchy in his throat. “So I had to go over there, obviously, ditch the whole interview shit,” he sighed. “All three of us were in his room, just, fuckin’ stunned to silence, lookin’ at him in bed, so peaceful. Nothin’ was out of place. But he had the window open. Never. We were never allowed to have windows open or curtains open. It was a whole thing and you’d get slapped silly for ignorin’ it. And, like, the brightest fuckin’ light I had ever seen was comin’ through this damn window while we all stood around his bed, fucked in our heads, couldn’t even cry or talk.

Moo always says it was him comin’ to see us for the last time, spiritual shit like that. But, y’know, I always liked to think it was actually him leavin’, flowin’ away from us. ‘Cause he never should have been there. We knew it was over. We knew once word got out, shit would get hot quick. So we took all our stuff out and flipped the whole fuckin’ house. Ransacked it before anyone else could. I mean, this wasn’t all us. Who knows how many have been here since. But once it was over, we all sat down on the couch together for the last time, knew we’d never be back. That we’d have to accept not bein’ okay with anything, walkin’ around with holes in us, just empty sandbags, y’know? I can’t believe I’m here. It’s just numbness.”

You smiled, appreciating his honesty and openness. Interlocking your fingers through his, you grasped his hand tightly in the humid stairwell of the disembowelled house. “I know you’ll fill up. Drop by drop. Maybe drain a little, too. But that’s balance. I don’t think it ever truly goes away.”

Vernon squeezed your hand in return. “You fill me up well.” And his eyes were brighter, smiling in their own way, pleasant and uncoiling.

“Might I say, that is very, very touching.”

The unsuspecting, velvety voice made you crush together the bones in Vernon’s inked hand. Through the kitchen doorway, you saw Jeonghan, leaned against a dented countertop beside the bare outline of the wall where the fridge once stood. His hair was tied back, though a few loose strands tickled the pale edges of his smirking face. At your side, Vernon stiffened.

“Did you just get here?” You squeaked.

Jeonghan shook his head, and then slid his hands into the pockets of the black slacks he was wearing. “I’ve been here a while. Just wandering the property and that. Sorting through memories. No different than you two.”

Vernon stood up. “You picked a shitty day to do this.”

Upon drifting his way, unburdened, to the doorframe, Jeonghan shook his head. “Your manners are just as refined as I remember them. I think you should speak to the person you desire to negotiate with a bit more wise-mindedly.” Jeonghan flattened out a wrinkle in his glaring white shirt, a breezy button-up of tightly-woven lace, as he continued smiling. “Is that too much to ask, Hansol?”

You saw Vernon’s fingers twitch, his jaw flex.

Jeonghan sighed. “I know this house, too.” His stretched out his arms, clutched the doorway, squeezed the spongey wood in his fingers. “I helped with his body. I took the last look at him. Nothing but skin and bones, by then. Absent was his breath of life.”

And Vernon muttered something particularly guttural to himself that you failed to hear properly. So you let your hand sit on the boy’s shoulder, gave him a squeeze to smooth down his bristles.

“I knew you would bring her,” Jeonghan said, nodding at you. “I am glad to see you again, Clever Girl,” he called you. “I think Hansol must hold you very close to his heart if he’s showing you this place.”

Suddenly, Vernon jerked his head. “Let’s go talk.”

“Where would you like to talk?”

“Basement.”

“Ah, the old locker room. I used to count the money,” he remarked wistfully, letting his fingertip drag along a stain in the wallpaper. “You were never short, Hansol. Never. You were always so efficient.”

He rolled his eyes at Jeonghan, then strummed your arm into his warm fingers. “I think we should talk alone,” Vernon whispered. “I’m sorry, I can’t say how long this might take. He… he’s hard to deal with, always been that way, the cheeky fucker.” You felt something being pressed into your hand, and you noticed it was his bulky car keys attached to the carabiner. “If you need AC.” He kissed your cheek. “I owe you, ‘kay, baby? Thanks for comin’ with.”

“O-Okay,” you stuttered, clutching his keys.

Vernon waved at Jeonghan, and the man proceeded to follow him down the foyer into another room, where they disappeared from sight. You stood there for a moment, unsure, until you decided that the house was speaking too many things and you needed to be outside. But then you wondered where Jeonghan even came from. Upon walking into the kitchen, you noticed another doorway lacking a door. It led to a small porch, the wood stripped of its colour, a circular glass table tipped over and shattered.

Was anything in this house unwounded?

You slipped his keys into a pocket on your backpack.

The sun and heat were still singeing. Your feet moved carefully through the long blades of grass and matted weeds, finding a lighter, a spoon with a burnt underside, some tattered fabrics dried into lumps, and a molted book whose pages thunked lifelessly to the ground when you picked up the sleeveless hardcover. As you crouched down, pulled apart dried, wrinkly papers with faded script, one page was immediately yanked from your hand by a sudden breeze, bouncing and swirling back toward the porch. You stood up, turned around, noticed something astonishing.

A large mural painted to the back of the house, with heavy colours coated meticulously over the peeling boards, demonstrating prayer hands clasping a beaded, dangling rosary. The detail was bright and nimbus. Black font was sprayed under the shadow of the roofing, in a different language.

DIOS TE HA LIBERADO

VERNON.

His world started tilting the minute he got there and it wasn’t going to stop. The dizziness, the heat, the flashes of memories—voices, smells, laughter, and pain—all overwhelming him, like his head was dunked and held underwater. Right when he thought he might catch a breath, Jeonghan was there, with that tricky light in his eyes undimmed, pawing at Vernon’s raw hurt.

They hadn’t grown on each other immediately.

Jeonghan was older. He made rules and then broke them but no one else was allowed the same leisure. He rung aside stiffened curtains and busted open kitchen doors to the smell of burnt plastic and shifted through the downstairs deposits whenever he wanted.

He pickpocketed in elevators, subways, malls, cafés, movie theatres, markets, house parties—even in the line-up for the ATM—with his silkened fingers. He was also a slight lunatic. He reared his first car, a black corvette, into his old dealer’s Corolla for duping him with sugared-down coke, which sent the Corolla rolling into a boggy riverbank. He pulled out Basil’s tooth with pilers and kept it in one of those velvet charm pouches for bracelets after he caught him stealing from the depository.

He said he learned a magic trick and then proceeded to cough up an elusive, small key sticky in his saliva.

No, Jeonghan was fucking insane.

And after a while Vernon had no choice but to like him.

Jeonghan was gunpowder. He turned everyone into his sparks.

“I love you! I fucking love you Hansol Chwe!” He had started weeping uncontrollably into Vernon’s shoulder one night. “You understand me! You’re just like me! You don’t give a fucking fuck.” Then he took the can of compressed nitrous oxide and let the thin nozzle shoot a flushed stream up his nostril, and Vernon saw the glaze suffuse across Jeonghan’s eyes like a heated knife spreading butter.

He stared up into the starry night sky, his mouth hanging open in bliss. “Try it, try it! Holy fuck! Try it, Chwe! I’m fucking tingling everywhere. I’m floating!”

The next morning, with his head splintering into aching, stabbing pieces, teenage Vernon heard Dots yelling at Jeonghan from downstairs. He had never heard Dots yell.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?! You’re too wild sometimes, Jeonghan! He’s a fucking teenager. He shouldn’t be snorting fucking compressed air! Your faces are full of bruises! Were you punching the shit out of each other?”

It had trickled back to him slowly. Jeonghan leaning close, nothing in his eyes but twitching, sporadic blackness, entreating Vernon to punch him as hard as he could. So he did it. Right in the lip. The older boy knocked him back, bruising his jaw. And then they were grappling around in the soft beds of thick field grass, choking with laughter, with hoarse screams, with euphoria, as they punched and kicked and scratched and tore, midnight milky and clear overhead.

“Look, I fucking love Chwe. But you can’t save him, Paulo. You should fucking save yourself. He doesn’t want anything else. You can get out but he’ll still be here.”

Vernon looked around the basement. The windows were intact, placed high up the wall to be level with the overgrown grass consuming the outside. Although the light was sparse, it was adequate enough to see, and he observed in utmost intensity through the glowing green haze as Jeonghan grinned at the gaping hole busted into the concrete wall. The lockers were gone; had been for a while. Some people kept theirs. Others were destroyed.

“Do you still remember your number?” Jeonghan asked.

“Yeah.”

“I remember everyone’s. Snozz, Moo, Basil, Yo-Yo, Casper, 8-Ball, Tech, Froggy, Peppermint… when Peppermint kltch—” Jeonghan drew a line across his throat, “—and we had to replace him with Lipsy and we all hated Lipsy because he used to resell Snozz’s Provigil.” He sighed, hands bulging in his pants pockets. “And I remember yours, too.”

“Of all the places to fuckin’ meet, Jeonghan. Why this place?”

“I missed it.”

“You probably live in a fuckin’ castle by now. Hidden behind a waterfall or some majestic shit. Like hell you miss this place. Probably one of your fuckin’ weird mind games. Can’t ever do anything normal.”

“And you can? People look at you and they think a million things. I bet not one of those things is that you’re normal. But you know that. Who wants to be normal, anyway? Who doesn’t want to have a story that makes everyone stop and listen? You’re a walking storybook, Hansol. Everyone who lived in this house is or was a storybook. This house itself is a book.”

“Whatever, man.”

“I like to reread old books. That’s why I came here.”

“Are you gonna give me the territories back or not?”

“I don’t like that question. It’s very demanding. I always wonder how could you have spent so much time with Paulo and not adopt one ounce of his manners. No P’s and Q’s. You’re a man now, Hansol.”

“Oh, I have fuckin’ manners. Just not for you.”

“You know, what I did was not personal.”

“I really don’t care.”

“Then why are you so… angry? Impatient?”

“Maybe ‘cause you brought me to the fuckin’ house my friend died in on a hot-ass fuckin’ day after blue-ballin’ me for two weeks?”

 “That is your surface. But it’s not your insides.”

“What? You become a shrink?”

“No. But I know you Hansol. I know the ribs and the meat of your story. I know anger doesn’t come that easily to you unless it’s something very, very deep. You can be dismissive and cruel but not angry. The way I wanted to run things was different from Paulo. He held onto all of you too closely. He couldn’t get stern with you. He protected all your feelings.”

“S’not true. He just didn’t wanna pull out our fuckin’ teeth with pliers when we did somethin’ stupid, or burn off our fingerprints.”

“Basil never stole again, did he?”

“I don’t care what Basil did.”

“But when Moo lost Hylands? Mr. Shafaee? Prerogative?”

“So? Who gives a fuck! You just shuffle the cards!”

“He shouldn’t have any teeth at all.”

“Fuck off. Auggie doesn’t need this shit, anyway.”

“The only thing I’m pointing out is that while Dots did think strategically, he never put his foot all the way down. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. And I didn’t agree. And now I have Hylands. Mr. Shaefaee exclusively tunnels our LSD, and I’ve got Prerogative in between my teeth, like a toothpick, Hansol. I’m not giving you anything. I’m done owing you.”

“Y’know what? Fuck you.”

“Once all this anger is out, maybe you could consider coming to work for me. I know what you’re capable of. I find impressiveness in you, things that no one else will, because—well—you’re a criminal.”

“You never gave a fuck about Dots. You twisted him up.”

“That is a whole other can of worms, Hansol. Don’t open it.”

“He did all the heavy-liftin’ for your sorry ass. Then you fuckin’ stabbed him in the back and took it all out from under him. You’re so damn corrupt. You owe us those fuckin’ territories, you ungrateful freak. I bet he would still be here, y’know? If you didn’t fuckin’ gut him like a fish.”

“Hansol, you don’t know anything about the conversation—”

“Don’t fuckin’ call me that! Vernon! Vernon! Not fuckin’ Hansol!”

“Well… Vernon… you weren’t there for our conversation.”

“You killed him.”

“Vernon—”

“You crushed him! And you took away the only fuckin’ person who actually fuckin’ cared about me! You just crushed him up and stole him from us like he was one of your bullshit drugs! He was the only person who thought I could do somethin’ other than this and then you pushed everything down and you fuckin’ ruined everybody’s life in this house!”

“Vernon, I never asked to leave.”

“You didn’t need to.”

“No. Paulo. He asked me to go. He didn’t want me there.”

“Bullshit.”

“He did, Hans—Vernon. I knew the ways we did things were different, but that didn’t mean I wanted to leave. I felt the same community you did. I know I’m fucking strange and a mess and I know I did things that were unfair but I was a free spirit, you see? When we were sucking air up our noses and punching each other to pieces, I never wanted it to end. You remember that night. How we had to hold each other. All the blood we leaked over that gas station sink. Then we ate those hot dogs, spilling mustard and ketchup and relish all over our shirts, before we started feeling the pain in our mouths and we swore we were angels. You knocked out three of my teeth and I had them filled with gold caps. I busted the eyebrow you wanted to get your piercing in so you had to pierce the other.

I still think about that night. But Paulo was furious. I didn’t understand how he could be so ginger and protective of you, but then I was getting reamed by the boy I fucking saved from another halfway house and tarps under bridges and picking scraps out of dumpsters. But it was because he was getting you steady. He was giving you responsibility and confidence and trust and all the fancy little dressings that parents are supposed to do, except you never got that. And I was bulldozing through his work. It got too much. I was too much. I had no place there anymore. I told him if I left, everything between us would change, and he said it already had.

You see, I saved him, but I never saved myself. And then the same thing happened to Paulo. He tried to save you. Get you steady. But then he’s a corpse lying beneath his own vomit in the upstairs bedroom of a trap house. So I ask this of you Chwe: if you see yourself staying in this scummy little world we have for ourselves, then you are still my competitor, and I cannot simply hand you anything. But if you want to leave, get away from all this, then I can help you. I will help get you out for Paulo’s sake. I will wire you money earned from your old territories. Not just some little lump. It’ll give you quite the boost. And you can cut it up with Auggie and Danny. But I understand if you don’t want the charity. That’s as far as I’m willing to go, alright? It’s a hefty choice. So think on it. Think about you.”

You returned to sitting on the stairs. It was too hot to stay outside, directly under the sun. The knapsack was creating a line of dampness down your back so you removed it, now flipping through Vernon’s stacked carabiner to keep yourself entertained. You only recognized two: one for his car and the other for his bachelor. There was a tiny silver key with an engrained number, 623, looking a bit scuffed, worn, as your thumb brushed across it.

Maybe for unlocking a suitcase. You weren’t sure.

From around the corner, there was a shuttering sound, and Vernon was suddenly striding up to you with a very blank expression.

“C’mon.” He gestured, limply raising his hand. “Let’s go. I’m gonna fuckin’ melt.”

“Okay—” you stood back up, flung the bag on, “—how did it go?”

“Tell you later.”

“Did you get to see the mural? It’s painted against the house.”

“No. Let’s go, okay?”

There was no room for patience in his stone-flat tone. You assumed the conversation hadn’t gone the way he wanted it to. As you followed him toward the empty front door, studying the rigidness in his sharp shoulders, you heard calm, sweeping footsteps from behind you. Jeonghan.

He placed his hand against the wall, missing chunks of plaster and running in dried paint. A wave. “Goodbye Clever Girl, Vernon.”

You didn’t say anything back, and Vernon certainly didn’t, either. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to. But in that moment, as Jeonghan’s palm embraced the fragile wall and his smile touched both sides of his cheeks, left in the house’s dust, rot, and sadness, he looked so perfectly at home. As though he weren’t standing in a boneyard.

You couldn’t say anything.

It was sticky inside the car. You opened the pink hydration drink and took several sips, huffing to Vernon if he wanted any, but he shook his head. The drive back to his apartment was long and silent. Cool air revving through the filters gradually stifled the heat. You unpeeled your bare thighs from the leather seat. Let the air hit them.

Closed your eyes and breathed.

When they opened again, you were rolling into the parking lot behind his building. Vernon didn’t shut the car off, the vibrations continuing to gently shake the vehicle. “Go inside, alright?” He slipped the appropriate key off the carabiner and handed it to you. “I’m gonna hang back a few minutes.”

You knew he wanted space, so you didn’t question him, instead accepting the key wordlessly and pulling up the knapsack from its hiding place at your feet.

“My clothes are full of sweat. Is it okay if I shower?”

“Do whatever the hell you want, PJ’s,” he sighed.

Vernon had the same white box as Moo sticking out his window, with a few brown dials and buttons that you squinted between. You couldn’t imagine him caring that much about the heat in his apartment considering how little time he spent there, and you wondered if he pulled this out from some cobwebby closet just for your comfort. After turning the unit on, you entered his washroom, plopping the knapsack down on the closed toilet lid before craning your neck over your shoulder, examining the rivulet of sweat travelling down the back of your old t-shirt.

You immediately peeled the fabric off, twisted the tight knobs in the shower, let the water spray.

Oh, to be a fly on the wall for that conversation, you couldn’t stop thinking, fingers brushing at your arms and tangling through your sopping hair. What kind of things had they discussed? What had made Vernon so crusted and folded-in? You were worried, but he never liked the suffocation.

Turning around, you let the cool water thrum like trenchant needles against your face, eyes squeezed shut and lips tucked in, sinking fully into the sensation of liquid rinsing the sun’s sweaty film away. Your fingers slid everywhere, swirling and rubbing, until the water began turning colder and colder and you knew it was time to get out. Fuck—you stood there, dripping all over the tiles—without a towel. When you cracked the washroom door open no more than a tentative sliver, about to shout Vernon’s name and pray he had finally come inside, you noticed a towel hung from the doorknob.

You quickly tugged it inside to pat yourself dry, then searched through the knapsack for a palm-sized tube of white lotion with a pleasant lactonic smell. Dressed in a fresh tank-top and airy shorts, you then flung the moistured towel over the shower bar and quietly padded out into the living room, where you found Vernon slumped deeply into the swallowing futon, arms crossed and legs spread desultorily. You stood behind him, eased your fingers into his knotted shoulders and squeezed. “How are you feeling?”

“He made it impossible for me,” Vernon hummed, tired. “I’m supposed to choose. ‘Course it’s a fuckin’ choice. It’s always a choice.”

“How do you mean?” Coming to sit across from him on the coffee table, you let him see the softness in your eyes. “What’s the choice?”

But he didn’t speak again. His gaze was an absent line drifting toward the windows and the grey industrial spots of city. It was taking everything inside you not to press him like he was dough underneath your kneading palms, and every beat of your heart was heavy. Please, you wanted to entreat, please tell me, let me in, let me help you, let me understand. What kind of choice? It felt scary. But you sat there quietly as the air conditioning purred, scraping at the underside of the coffee table, knowing that Vernon’s words always came to him and that he was so uniquely eloquent when it mattered.

You sighed, “can I help you right now? At all?”

His eyes flickered to you, and there was a sudden opening in their cloudiness to the true copper beneath. Then his lips twitched, gentle, leaning into a smile with dizzying prettiness.

“C’mere,” he rumbled, gesturing for you.

So you straddled his lap, sunk down, hands massaging his shoulders to realize their usual looseness. You missed his body so badly. You missed tracing his corded veins and letting your fingers glide along his sharp jaw and feeling the bulb of metal in his lip dig at your mouth. You missed touching his sooty hair, squeezing your arms around his elbow, nuzzling into his black tattoos, intoxicating yourself with his smell. Smoke and amber. He had been so distracted and you had been distracted with his distractedness.

His hands smoothed to your waist, gripped you hard.

You shivered.

And then he pulled your face in close to his. “You know I need you, baby,” he whispered, and every word tingled on your lips like a hundred blended spices. He kissed you, nudging his warm, soft mouth against yours. The heat was still there. Once lingering, now unfurling, as you pushed back, falling into the slippery lulls of tongue, teeth, breath, and rhythm. His hands scooped underneath your bum. You were wrapped around him in threads as he carried you over to his untouched bed, threw you down such that you bounced against the sheets tinged in old detergent.

“That wasn’t nice!” You pouted.

“Whoever said I was nice, Miss?” He replied, proceeding to crawl toward you like a sleek panther, his muscles lean and rolling. There were pulses in your abdomen upon watching and feeling him rub his lips against your ankle, up your shin to your knee, the dampness of a silk tongue licking slowly along your thigh as your hands shaped into fists and you forgot how to act human. He sat back, bracketing your waist. “Look a little fuzzy, don’t you?”

“Shut up,” you mewled, beginning to open your chest with air and pull the sheets into your nervous fingers. “What the heck was that?”

Vernon leaned over you, imposing, obstructing the sunny light with the edges of his body, his favourite gold chain dangling down, feathering in cold strokes along your collarbone the closer he hovered. “You don’t like when I taste you?” He was practically humming the sensual words into your hovering lips. Then the boy gripped your boiling face, pushed his thumbs into your mouth where they pressed against your ribbed teeth. “Taste yourself from me,” he whispered throatily, replacing his thumbs with his tongue, and your chest bloomed up, rubbing against his, as you welcomed the sudden slipperiness that filled your mouth. 

You were jelly. Liquid. Holding form on the bed. His hair was wrapped in between your fingers, and then your arms were hanging around his neck. Anything to keep his mouth on yours, his tongue thickly coating your tongue, tweaking cords in your body like a trained musician. You noticed his palm drifting, and then it engulfed your right breast over the tank-top, no sort of bra to blur the intimate, squeezing feeling. Suddenly, you were back in Kitty’s pale bedroom as the night turned everything deep blue, with Vernon licking your neck and rubbing circles to your nipples.

But this was different.

You needed more. It was terrifying, unfamiliar, but if you were going to make this moment with anyone then you would only allow him.

“Vernon,” came the shaky whisper as his clever tongue receded. He leaned back, allowing you to sit up, your eyes tracing the room.

“You okay?” Vernon asked, brushing some saliva off your chin, the edge of your flushed lips. “Wanna stop? It’s fine with me, yeah?”

If you spoke, it would break everything you built up. Taking in a long breath, you suddenly pinched your eyes shut and gripped the hem of the thin tank-top, beginning to peel it, inch after inch of skin exposing, burning, thrumming, but you kept going until the top was off your body and now a fabric lump discarded to the side. You were tingling, couldn’t open your eyes because what if Vernon was scowling or angry or disappointed or regretting everything—“I’m sorry,” you panicked, reaching for your top, trying to unfold it as your hands shook. “I screwed this up. I’m sorry.”

But then you blinked, and the shirt was fucking gone.

Vernon had thrown it away, somewhere unknown.

Fingers clasped your bare shoulders and you were being pressed back into the bed, the pillow plumping around your head. You tried to find the air. Instead, Vernon’s lips, your cheeks in his hands, a kiss that drew stars to the slates of your eyelids like chalk to a blackboard. He let you breathe while his kisses sunk lower. Something stupid and probably incoherent was on the tip of your tongue, but then you felt his mouth—that fucking delinquent mouth—drape itself onto one of your bare breasts and you hollered. The feeling was completely wet and smooth and comfortingly warm. Suction. As he squeezed his lips and slurped your nipple deep into his feverish mouth, you grasped at his hair like long grass sprigs. “Vernon! Oh my g-god!”

His hand curled around your other breast, kneaded it, then let your swollen nipple slip out from his mouth, dressed in silver threads of connecting, sordid spit. He sat back, gripped each breast, let his fingers dig as harshly as they needed while you squirmed and keened under him. “I waited so goddamn long to see these perfect tits of yours,” Vernon growled. “So don’t you dare fuckin’ tease me, you insufferable fuckin' girl.” He leaned down toward the breast untainted with his saliva. Your mind faded, surging between white vignettes and startling consciousness. Vernon pursed spit from his mouth, watched with leery eyes as it fell to your pert nipple, unable to contain himself from suddenly flicking and laving his tongue.

You squealed again, wrangled at his hair, panted. “I-I just, I didn’t think you would—I thoughttt—” he let his teeth run over your erect nipple, and a spike of sensitivity melted throughout your abdomen like warmed honey. “I always thought you wouldn’t like me.”

Your breasts remained secured and massaged underneath his calloused hands. Another hot kiss smudged your mouth, the feeling of fresh embers. “I would fuckin’ kill someone with my bare hands for you, lovely girl. What the fuck do you mean? You’re so beautiful.” He nudged you with a second kiss, reassurance and light. “N’ your tits fit so fuckin’ perfectly in my hands, baby. So, so soft in my mouth.”

“Don’t,” you giggled, losing your breath.

Your wet nipple was slipped between his fingers and suddenly there was a careful, sweet pinch that made your entire body delightfully careen.

“Hm? Don’t what?” Vernon murmured into your ear, the tune of his husky voice causing you to shiver, grasp onto him. “Don’t like when I play with your gorgeous tits, baby?” He pinched again, a little harder, and it stung. “Then what should I play with? Hm?” The ceiling began to swirl and wobble like a still pool of water after a rock breaks its surface. The tender backs of his fingers swept down your ribs, your tummy, reaching the drawstring on your cloth shorts. “Any suggestions?” And then his hand started to sink, slowly, sliding between your legs. But Vernon stopped for a moment to look into your eyes, which you could only imagine were embarrassingly glazed in pleasure. “What do you think?” He smiled, and it alighted your heart. “You don’t have to let me, okay? You can stop me. Yeah?”

This is real, you thought, your chest drilling, I can ask him to touch me, I can really fucking ask him to touch me. It’s not like that time. I trust him. So you swallowed, nodded, speaking in a runny, scared whisper. “I want to.”

He nodded back. “You want to, baby?”

“Yes. Please.”

“Okay. Fuck. C’mere then.”

Vernon sat against the wall, gestured for you to come between his legs. You crawled over, timid, thrilled, afraid, eager, and proceeded to get comfortable leaning back into his chest. He stiffened a little. You were right against his erection. Gosh—don’t think about that—don’t think about how big he is and how he might feel and how much he’s going to stretch you apart.

The way his hands moved were delicate, pulling apart the drawstring on your shorts, getting the hem nice and loose. He rubbed up and down the sensitive, shivering insides of your thighs, the grit on his fingertips threatening to make you a puddle. All those little imperfections you thought would disappoint him, turn him away from you—thick downy hairs and razor bumps and translucent creases in your skin—he didn’t seem to give a fuck about.

He nuzzled your ear. “You touch yourself?”

“What?”

Then he laughed, and it rumbled against your back. “With your fingers. Inside. Just so I know what you’re used to. That’s all.”

“Oh… um…” you didn’t want to answer, so you sat coyly for a minute, fishing the sheets into your hands, thinking. “Sometimes… I mean, only a few times with my fingers. If that means anything to you.”

Vernon nodded. “M’kay, that’s fine.” His inked arms suddenly wove around your waist, his muscles tightening and pressing into you. “I just wanna make sure you’re comfortable, PJ’s,” he murmured.

“I am,” you smiled. “A little nervous.”

“That’s normal. I don’t fault you. Just breathe. You don’t gotta worry much. I’ll make you feel really good. Really fuckin’ good. Okay?” He placed a lingering, soft kiss to the pounding vein in your neck.

Rolling out your shoulders, you went limp as best you could, letting your boyfriend take control. The sunlight outside was dimming. Clouds were pouring in. Large, fuzzy, dark clouds, like smeared ashes in the sky. Vernon was gentle with every movement, his large hand sliding underneath your shorts, dipping down over your pastel underwear. You fisted the cool bedsheets. Let him rub you with the rough flat of his textured palm. Bit your lip because you hadn’t realized how damn slippery and sensitive and aroused you were. The heat from his skin was a pressure. It made your head tingle.

“How’s that, princess?” Vernon murmured. “Feel alright?”

You didn’t want to speak. Just feel. Soak. Instead, you nodded.

Then his fingers started to prod. They curled and pushed gently, moving up and down the damp blotches on your underwear, figuring you out, getting a grasp for your anatomy without being too abruptly invasive.

His thumb pushed against you in just the right spot and you rolled against him, grabbing onto his knees without thought. Vernon smiled at your ear. “Does that feel good, baby?” He exercised the spot in thick, sweeping circles, drawing and drawing, letting you twitch, wriggle, and buck your hips the more he dug. “That’s your favourite spot, isn’t it?” He continued teasing into your burning ear, his voice rubbing through you, invoking desires you had always kept hidden. “I bet you always touch your clit, don’t you, princess? That feels the best, right? So sensitive.” Then two of his fingers slipped your sticky, uncomfortable panties to the side, softly poked at you, stroked the slimy wetness until it was wrapped between the digits. You turned immediately into his neck and huffed a big, deep breath.

Vernon laughed. “Fuckin’ feels good, yeah?” His fingers slid easily between your folds, made silky with arousal. The cold touch of his silver rings quickly warmed, and he nuzzled around your clit, squeezed a little. “Can feel you gettin’ fuckin’ wetter by the second. Hm? Gonna soak through your shorts, baby?”

You shook your head. Still didn’t want to use your voice.

He nibbled at the cartilage cusp of your ear; his words raspy as they slithered off his tongue. “Don’t wanna talk to me?” His entire hand shifted underneath the panties. A finger rubbed carefully at the slit where you leaked from like a broken faucet while his thumb tended to your overwhelmed clit, pushing, circling. “Afraid you’re gonna moan?” He dipped his finger inside you, shallow, just feeling, and you tensed, breathed hot, frustrated, needy air against his amber-scented neck. You felt his finger sink in a little deeper, closer to the knuckle. Your thighs somehow tilted further apart without you realizing. He was holding your throat, now.

Wouldn’t let your head squirm around as he groaned, “slutty fuckin’ girl, wants my fingers in her desperate, virgin cunt.” Pressure pushed through his warm, gripping hand to your beating throat, and your eyelids fluttered, the world ebbing with haze. Little by little, his index finger slid into your slit with a slight, creeping stretch, past his knuckle, stopping at his ring. You whined against his scarred palm, breathed in ragged, untrimmed pieces that were hot and damp. “You like that, baby girl?” The finger stroked you from the inside, hithering. His thumb pushed back on your clit. “Or is this too much for you? Just my fingers?” Vernon began to submerge in another, and the skin of your slit stung dully. “Jesus Christ. How are you gonna take my dick, then? Hm? I can’t split you in half, can I? Or are you such a brainless, dumb girl that you’ll let me? Huh? You gonna let me ruin your pussy, baby?”

The pressure lifted from your throat. Air surged in as you gasped, moaned, scraped down his hard, carved thighs. “Yes!” You gritted into sharp fragments. “I want you t-to—ff-fuck—it’s gonna c-come. I-I think—“ without a damn clue what you were babbling, you braced for the inevitable ripple, building like a shockwave.

But there was no ripple.

Vernon’s hand was gone from your shorts. A second later, he was pulling you back by the hair, then sliding his slimy fingers coated in your tasteful musk inside your own mouth. You couldn’t help but swallow, losing every thought you ever had, as his digits pushed deeper, making you choke.

“My face,” he breathed hotly against your ear, his voice tight and twisted in need. “You’ll cum on my face like a good fuckin’ girl, hm?” The fingers proceeded to pop out your mouth, but not without thick webs of your glistening spit following, your eyes widening at how erotic it was. “Take your shorts off, your panties,” Vernon ordered while nudging you off him, coming to his feet at the bedside, staring at you with an electrical heat. When you were moving too slowly, fingers too shaky, Vernon grabbed your tattooed shin in blatant impatience and roughly dragged you down the bed toward him.

You yelped, could do nothing but observe in a stupefying sense of shock and arousal as he grasped the shorts and panties in his deft, inked hands, peeled them off you with hunger until they were another lump on the floor alongside your discarded top. There you were, stripped to bareness of which there was nowhere to hide, sweating in his dishevelled bed, soiling his sheets with tangy liquids dripping down your thighs. Vernon’s fingers skimmed up to your knee. He wouldn’t stop staring, and his dark eyes seemed like gaping mouths that were drinking you in complete headiness.

Both your knees were in his hands.

Slowly, he began to spread your bent legs open, and you winced, chewed your lip to bruises, as the unfamiliar sensation of intimate exposure tendered you in its powerful grip. His gaze slipped down. You writhed a bit, looked but then didn’t look, looked again, as Vernon’s fingers brushed down the tops of your tremouring thighs. He pulled you a little more, had your soaking, bare centre gingerly meeting the bulge of his clothed erection.

Your forehead creased. The friction was slight yet delicious.

But he wouldn’t say anything. Vernon studied you wordlessly, perhaps confined in his own overlapping musings, much like you.

Still, you felt that flutter of emerging fear. “V-Vernon? Are—”

He dropped to his knees, and your mouth buttoned shut. Then his soft, nimble lips were dusting the interior of your right thigh with the kind of kisses that left invisible burn marks. Your head dropped into the sheets and his name slipped out in a wispy, quiet moan, meanwhile the room darkened into shadows from the swathing rain clouds collecting outside, in the heat.

 “God…” his breath tickled you. “Look at you, PJ’s…” his hands swept up your thighs, pushing them further apart with care, curiosity, eagerness. “Soakin’ my fuckin’ bed with your pretty cunt.” You felt his thumbs, settling down onto your slickened folds, and then he spread you open right there, right in front of his goddamn face that was and always had been way too beautiful for you to compute or handle.

You squirmed, toes curling in embarrassment because your body was gleefully responding in coursing thrums that turned you swollen, sticky, ready for him. “Gosh.” Your teeth grinded, and you started to laugh. “Why do you have to look so freaking intensely?” In a timid gesture, your legs began to close.

But Vernon peeled them back open in a heartbeat, almost flattening them to the bed, his scary strength never quite evaporating. “Fuck off, PJ’s,” he warned. His thumbs opened you again. “So, so fuckin’ pretty, sweetheart. You're fuckin' gorgeous. Look at how ready you are for me to taste you. To be inside you.”

The sheets dampened in your perspiring hands as Vernon used the pointed, strong tip of his tongue to lick at a glossy trail along the crease of your inner thigh. Suddenly, the spellbound boy nuzzled into you without hesitation, his nose pressed deep against your clit and his mouth opened, tongue dragging at you, letting everything slowly melt. You turned the sheets in circles around your fists, keened at the ceiling. What was that fucking feeling? What was it doing to you? Why was everything slipping away and numbing apart from the hot, oozing sensation of his heavy tongue tasting you? Again and again, his wet tongue swept, his hands unwavering in their grip.

“Oh, baby, you taste so fuckin’ good,” he slurred into your buttery folds, speaking against skin. “M’gonna fuckin’ die in this cunt.” His lips finally secured around your clit that his nose had kept nudging. Immediate suction overwhelmed you. Sloppy, vibrating with his throaty groans. You almost screamed at the feeling, squeezed your thighs around his head, but then worried you might possibly be suffocating him and let them shakily flutter back open. Vernon laughed against you. “Go ahead, beautiful. You can fuckin’ drown me, alright?” He spoke between thorough, flat licks to your needy clit that plastered you in his bubbly spit. “Let me die with your pussy in my mouth, won’t you?” The boy chuckled again, dug his blunt nails into the tissue of your thigh. “Or give me a new pair of your cute panties so I have somethin’ to jack myself off with when you’re not around.”

Your hips jerked up to his pierced mouth. “D-Don’t talk anymore, holy hell,” you gasped, floating between the coherency for proper words and the pleasure from his skilled tongue working your clit. “Y-You shouldn’t be in jail for drugs. It’s—yy-your—d-damn—” you succumbed, forgot everything, when he pressed his mouth firmly against you, let his tongue flick, faster, faster, until he settled into a pace that was solid and consistent, relentless in the stimulation. The pleasure was causing your back to bend off the mattress, dampness flush to the wrinkly sheets below. Glistering thighs gripped around his head, fingers scraping, while his tongue knew nothing but fast, euphoric taps to your clit that made your eyes reel backward.

And then you burst, screaming his name with the volume of splintering wood because you fucking doubted this was the first time his neighbours had heard it and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. In sensitive twitches, you started to relax, unfurl, thighs collapsing wide open. For a brief moment, you were worried about Vernon.

But then he popped up, grinning, chin and lips and nose wet.

“Your mouth,” you finally completed the lost thought circling your buzzing mind. “You should be in jail for your damn mouth…”

“You should come with me,” he breathed laboriously.

“No…” your eyelids were limp, weighted by unseen fingers pulling them down, “never...” However, something slippery started gentle laps that maneuvered your clit and dipped between your folds. You shuddered, wanted to curl up. “Vernon, I can’t.”

“Mmm…” he ignored you, spread you open once more, suckled lazily on your sore clit that still pulsed under his lips. Again, your body jerked, twitched, overrun with fire. “A little longer, baby,” Vernon mumbled. “Be good for me, okay? Relax for a few minutes.” He was being much slower, much slighter, his warm hand pressing into your gut while his thumb comfortingly stroked a fold in your tummy. Another lick. Another suckle. Another kiss. You felt the climb start over, but softer, while you breathed out his name, your chest reaching for more, more, more. “That’s it,” he whispered scratchily. “I’ve got you, baby, okay?” More kisses. More tender suckling. More lentamente licks. “M’gonna take care of you.” A finger pressing in, wriggling deep, squelching. “You can cum for me again, yeah? Can’t you, pretty girl? Let me feel your cunt around my fingers. Get your clit right on my tongue. Wanna feel you, baby. Taste you. Forever.”

Another ripple. The intensity wasn’t as sharp, but strong and clanging, rolling through you like summer thunder. You throbbed hotly against his tongue and clamped onto his thick finger. After a minute—spent faded, loosened, drifting—Vernon had kissed his way back up your body, and now his scuffed knuckles were stroking against your cheek in a tenderness meant only for you.

“I wish I didn’t know why you’re so unfairly good at that,” you huffed, letting a hand pull some dewy sweat off your forehead.

He grinned. “I only care about you.”

It was quiet for a moment. Amongst the humid stillness of your breaths, you heard a sudden spattering noise, and when you both looked toward the windows, rain had started washed the glass. Not an inch of sky was visible. Just very ruffled, grey valleys of clouds.

“Nature’s gotta run its course, huh?” Vernon sighed.

You nodded.

The boy looked back at you, his gaze lightened with sweetness, and brushed your chin. “If you don’t want to continue,” he whispered, “that’s okay. I’m not in a rush. And I don’t want you to feel like it’s a rush. As long as I can be around you. That’s all I need.”

While the rain pattered at the windows, you thought. Fingers then settled at the back of his neck, and you pulled him down, sinking into a kiss that tasted of your star-speckled orgasm.

Your hand brushed past his belt buckle to reach the popping tent in his pants. Gently, you squeezed him, ran your tongue along his bottom lip and nibbled his metal piercing. “I want to.”

Vernon twitched as you continued groping his pants. “Yeah?”

“I think we've both waited enough.”

He chuckled. You proceeded to watch him steadily as he stood on his knees, grasped the hem of his white t-shirt, removed it from his body that always passed by in flitters whenever you dreamt. Oddly enough, you had never wondered if Vernon was tattooed in places other than his arms. But there was a winding vine tattooed at his waist, and it split in different directions, coiling in delicately needled loops of ink that wound from his chest to patterns unknown down his back. You reached up, placing your palm flat to his pronounced clavicle, and then slowly dragged it down his sturdy, lean body, along the definitions in his abdomen. He let the shirt drop.

“Who gave you that?” You asked.

Vernon took off the fragile gold chain, let it spool onto his nightstand. “Snozz,” he said. “A long time ago. In a desert.”

“Hm. Why a vine?”

“Why not?” He smirked. “Start growin’ and don’t seem to stop.”

“Creeping vines used to grow all over the side of our house.”

“Lucky you,” Vernon said.

He started kissing you again, and your hands explored his torso, the smoothness of his back, where your fingertips occasionally bumped over logged scars or dried scratches. His body held so much—you felt it underneath the skin and muscle—and when you started tinkering with his belt you hoped he understood that your touch could be healing. He helped you unwind the belt from his waist, and unbutton his pants, and push the fabric down and off. It was difficult to stop kissing him and breathe. But you were under a spell, you were in love, and as he stood up to kick the boxers from his ankles, your dizzy head spun like a twinkling carousel.

You held your lip in your teeth at his exposure. There were some elder scars on his hard thighs, a few more tattoos that you couldn’t possibly pick apart because gravity was focused someplace else. Vernon crawled back over you. His lips found yours, two opposing magnets, and he kissed you with powerful depth.

You hand reached down to brush him. He was nothing but heat and firmness, so heavy in your clammy fingers, twitching, straining. Trying to remember what you had practiced before, you stroked him, still finding the motion awkward but noticing more rhythm and less nerves. “Am I doing okay?” You asked, hushed. He was getting slipperier in your grip.

“Mmm, yes, baby,” Vernon’s words flushed in a hot breath against your neck as he continued throbbing in your hand. “Such a good job.” You applied more pressure, and your thumb came to circle his sensitive, reddened tip that was beading out premature ejaculate. “Fuck,” he hissed, at last nudging your hand away and swallowing audibly. “M’too fuckin’ hard for that. I’ll bust.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay.” He grabbed a pillow from his headboard, folded it in half, stuffed it politely behind your head. “Want me to show you somethin’ fuckin’ goddamn magical, sweetheart?” Vernon hummed.

“Okay,” you agreed, your smile loopy and crooked.

His arm braced beside your head. In between your bent, spread legs, he settled, and you felt yourself begin to wriggle and warm with anticipation as he grasped around the middle of his heavy erection. Suddenly, his smooth tip was rubbing against you, slippery in the gloss, and your cheeks pooled with so much heat that you swore they might sluice off your bones. Your arms fastened around his neck for support and closeness. He was biting his lip.

“What the fuck…” you whispered, watching, entranced. Vernon smirked, letting his tip catch your slit ever so slightly before it smeared up through your folds and nudged at your puffy clit. “That should be freaking illegal,” you whined, breathless. “It feels so good.” Going loose, your head pressed into the folded pillow, letting him continue to tease you, rub you, give you small slaps with the flat, hard base of his girth that tingled in a euphoric way you could not admit.

 “I fuckin’ love this,” Vernon said hoarsely. “Don’t even need to fuck you—can just tease you like this, yeah?” He chuckled, tapped his head against your clit again to make you pulse and writhe. “But you need to take it, don’t you?” He leaned closer to your face, rubbed circles into you with his tip until you were dizzy and flickering. “Tell me,” Vernon groaned across your parted mouth, hinged open and desperate. “Tell me you want my dick. Tell me how deep you want it inside your cunt. Tell me it’s the only thing you’ve ever wanted.”

Your heart slammed. “I want it.”

“No.” He shook his head. “Use your big girl words.”

“I-I can’t say what you said…” your eyes stung with water.

“Why?” Vernon murmured. “You never shut up half the time.”

“Y’know… it’s too… dirty.”

He grinned, and his honey-brown eyes were sharp. “But I wanna hear you be dirty,” the boy urged. “What’s wrong with that?” His lips hovered over yours, and there was his tip again, pressing shallowly into your slit, just breaching. “I know how much you like to be good, but I want you to be bad for me, Pyjamas. Just for me.”

“I-I can’t,” you whined, sweltering under him as he turned blurrier.

“Yes, you can, baby.”

“Vernon.”

His mouth was damp against your ear. “You’re gonna fuckin’ say it to me. You can cry if you want to. But you’re gonna say it. Say you want my dick deep in your cunt, that all you want is for me to fuck you.”

You tucked back your tears. “I-I want your dick…” you swallowed, bit your cheek, huffed out, “deep inside my… cunt… and all I want is for you to…” a helpless, desperate, aching sniffle, “is for you to fuck me.”

He stroked the edge of your cheek. “Good girl.” Then Vernon was leaning over to his nightstand, a drawer pulled out, and he rifled around inside until a golden-coloured foil in a square shape was revealed. He tore a strip off the top with his teeth, spat it out, and removed a clear, limp condom. Your fingertips rubbed together as he rolled it on, stretched over his erection, knowing that this was really going to fucking happen. Then he was back over you, his eyes much softer. “I’ll be slow,” he said, brushing a small tear from your cheek. “It’ll sting and stretch the more I push in, but it shouldn’t hurt, and if it does, you need to tell me, baby, hm?” You nodded; butterflies alive in your gut. “I care about you so fuckin’ much, okay? I want this to feel good. It’ll always feel good for me but it’s different for you, so you need to communicate with me, yeah? I’m gonna be real gentle, baby.”

“Yes,” you squeaked, “I know. I know.”

He steadied over you. With your thighs spread open, legs hanging loose as possible, Vernon had enough room to operate. Your eyes closed, and you listened for the constant thrumming of raindrops dappling the windows, the distant thunder that followed forked, glittery lightning. But you were inside. Safe. With a man you loved. A man that cared. A man that was not used to being gentle, or slow, or delicate, when it came to sex, but understood how important you were and how little he mattered in this moment that was about pleasing you. Vernon began to push inside, opening you up inch by inch, his eyes creasing as he fought against his typical antics of rough, lusty, heavy slaps from his hips that broke bedposts and rendered him enough noise complaints to fill a book. You squeezed his arms.

“Okay?” Vernon asked.

“Yes,” you whined. “I’m stretching. It’s stinging.”

He nuzzled your cheek. “I know, baby. Breathe.”

A moment after the pause, and he resumed, pressing deeper into your insides. Your thighs started to tremble; the muscles ached. Vernon was pulsing inside you, to which you felt every vein and groove rubbing. Further, further, the sensation foreign, a bit uncomfortable. He was so hard. You sucked in your bottom lip and tried not to cry, but Vernon told you to communicate, so you scratched his shoulders and sniffled. “It’s a lot. It’s really a lot.” Pressure spread between your hips. “Are you there?”

Vernon kissed your forehead; let you burn his arms with your prickling nails. “Almost, okay? I know it’s a lot. But you’re takin’ it so, so fuckin’ well, baby. It’s gonna settle. It’ll start to feel good. I won’t hurt you.” A few minutes later, Vernon’s hips were clicking against yours. No more room was possible. You were stuffed and weeping, your head full of teased fuzz, while he kissed across your face over and over, his whispers like warm, tickling feathers. “Good girl, breathe. I’m there. No more.” And your tears started to dry up, revealing his sweet, flushed cheeks and foggy golden eyes. “Hey,” he chuckled, kissing your mouth. “You okay? Nothin’ hurts?”

“Okay,” you answered. “It feels weird.”

“I know.”

“But not to you. What’s it like?”

He shook his head. “Dude, I can’t be thinkin’ about that shit too much, or I’ll have you flat under me, poundin' you through the bed.”

“O-Oh,” you stuttered, licking your lips.

Vernon smiled, the edges dreamy and faint. “Don’t wanna break you just yet, huh? Later, maybe.” Ever so slightly, you felt his hips stir, grind, buck against you, and each time, little shockwaves echoed under your skin, more and more pleasurable. “Just wanna love you,” he whispered against the side of your mouth, cracked open, as his grinding developed more depth and groove, soft moans building in the seamy air. You heard him. The tears that had dried up were dampened over with new tears. Vernon had his knees bent on either side of you, his hips jutting in tender and deep, the angle allowing you to feel something unbeknownst, sensitive. “How’s that?” He rumbled into your ear. “Do you like it, sweetheart? How buried I am inside you?” More rutting. It felt desperate. Passionate. His tip was sinking into a cushy spot that took your voice away, filled your mouth with stones.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…” Vernon groaned. “This pretty cunt wraps around me so fuckin’ well.” He started to squeeze your chest, pinch and pluck at your sore nipples. When you touched the corner of your mouth, you realized it was runny in sappy drool, and you promptly decided to not give a fuck, curling your arms around him, urging him closer. “If you ever let anyone else inside you, I’ll fuckin' rip them apart. I’ll make sure there's nothin' left of them.” A little harder, he was fucking you a little harder, slippery, sunctiony, smacking noises filling the room, breaking between the raindrops. His bed was squeaking in tandem with every thrust, its legs scarring the floor, practically sanding it down.

Finally, you untangled the words in your throat. “Feels so fucking good,” you choked out, face stinging with tears. “I fucking love you.”

He slotted his mouth onto yours. “Tell me again.”

Another slow, thick, hard rut from his hips. You scratched his toned back, tearing at the skin. “I fucking love you, Vernon.” He was reaching that spot, pressing into it so deeply, over and over, kissing it.

“No,” he grunted. “Hansol. Tell me again. Fuck. Please.”

You swallowed, then fastened your fingers into his hair. “I fucking love you, Hansol.” He reared you especially deep at that moment, the veins of his erection pulsing inside you, pumping, pumping. “I’m so fucking in love with you. I need you. I fucking need you. Give it to me. Please.”

Everything happened so quickly. Your shoulder was digging into the wall, elbow cramped against the mattress, your leg stretched up, ankle resting off his shoulder. He held your waist, fingertips moulding at the skin, fucking you, fucking you, forcing himself deeper, sweat glimmering on his pronounced collarbone, leaking down his chest, his tattoos seemingly crawling. You were a whining, whimpering, gushing mess, hardly able to keep your head up or the drool from tipping over the lip of your mouth like a spout.

“O-Oh, ff-fuck—” Vernon’s throat was dewy, tight, his jaw hinging open. “O-Oh, fuck this sloppy fuckin’ cunt. You pretty slut. Take me. Take this fuckin’ big dick deep in your pussy.” Tears piped down your face. Your hand clawed at the wall you were being crushed into. “Wanted t’fuck you for so goddamn long. Feel your guts around me.” Your leg started slipping off his hard shoulder from the sweat. He grabbed you by the shin, hoisted it back, licked his tongue along your tattoo of bundled rye tied up with ribbon. “If I didn’t have this fuckin’ dumbass condom, I’d fill you up so much, PJ’s. I’d stuff this pretty womb of yours. N’ you’d take it so well, baby, wouldn’t you?” He was bulging up into the base of your gut whenever he thrusted, and you were going weak, losing senses. “Tell me you’d take it.”

“I-I’d take it!” You cried, head thumping the wall.

He shook his head. “I’d take it, Hansol.”

You spluttered out, “I’d take it, Hansol.”

There was finality in it. Vernon kept thrusting, and the pulses you felt from the inside were ringing through you. Another snap. Another hoarse scream, as you clenched, wept, buckled. Where were you? What was happening? Why was there so much dampness underneath your body? How did you suddenly come to feel overwhelmingly empty and cold? Was that a cloth? A warm, wet cloth rubbing over your skin? That felt solacing. Oh—that place was fucking sore and raw—but the cloth was so gentle and there were sweet kisses against your thighs. You were still tremoring. There was a fabric being slipped over your dizzy head. It smelled like fresh, crisp laundry after hanging outside all day on a peg line. Gosh—you loved that—it was a big sweatshirt, you thought. Swallowed you. Now there were arms, lovely arms with storybooks of tattoos wrapping around you. There were lips on your forehead, then some sweet juice being tilted into your dry mouth.

Wherever you were, whoever you were with, you weren’t afraid.

You were safe, adored, and cared for.

The rain continued to pour all throughout the evening and late into the night. You woke up once, unsure of the time, to black in the windows and stormy rumbling echoing outside. Vernon was sat on the futon in the darkness, a small square of white light positioned on his lap, illuminating his face and the photographs he was passing between, and you remembered his furrowed brow, pushed down. You wanted him beside you, but you were too tired and confused. Instead, your eyes fluttered once, twice, perhaps three or four times more, before everything faded away and you were asleep again, your boyfriend’s haloed face the last thing outlined in your mind.

By morning, you were brittle and dry. A line of paste had crusted down your chin. The bright air made your eyes stinging and tender. A bone somewhere in your left shoulder popped when you shifted a little ways up the bed. Your mouth was dehydrated. For a moment, you sat up, rubbing away at your eye and smearing around the tears, until your hand reached backward in search of your phone, only to feel something human.

“Fuck!” You jumped, gasping. “What the fuck, Vernon?”

He was sitting criss-crossed, a pillow propped behind his back. You began noticing the scent of cinnamon and stewed apples. There was a bowl in his hand. A plastic spoon in the other, lumped in sticky oatmeal. “You’re in my bed, dumbass,” he mumbled around the utensil.

You sighed, scraping a line of white substance off your bottom lip, rubbing it away between your fingers. Glancing back, you stared at his bare upper body, decorated in that beautiful creeping vine, a few bruises around his neck, like splashes of red wine. Some thin scratches. You suddenly stroked at the dark green sweatshirt stitched with yellow letters, saw your clothes folded at the very edge of the bed, moved your legs and felt a raw, lingering soreness between the hips. “We had sex… I had sex…” you turned around, stared at Vernon. “I’m not… wait—” peaking underneath the covers, you realized just how damn naked you were. “Oh, shit.” Then back at Vernon. Shyness spread throughout your body, hot and tingling.

“Somethin’ like that,” he muttered, beginning to spoon up more oatmeal, though he put the bowl onto his nightstand when you looked frozen in ice. “Feel okay, PJ’s?” Vernon asked, scooting closer to you. His hand brushed along your cheek, which was warm and lined with imprints of wrinkled bedsheets, before he rubbed the dried drool off your chin.

“I’m okay,” you breathed unsteadily, shifting away from his touch.

He frowned, his eyebrows sloping. “What’s wrong?”

“Um…” you tucked the sweatshirt under your bum, surrounded your lap with the puffed covers. “I just can’t believe that happened.”

Vernon kept frowning, eyes a bit shiny. “Why?”

“Well… it’s always seemed so far-fetched in my mind, I guess. I always thought you would… recoil, or get grossed out, or—”

“Grossed out?” He scoffed. “Am I fuckin’ thirteen?”

“No! I mean, like, you wouldn’t find me… attractive. I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean it that way. I just—I’ve never had the greatest self-esteem or confidence in my body—so it’s strange to me, still, that you could… feel that way about me. That’s it. That’s what I meant.”

Vernon’s tight shoulders relaxed, caving in. He scooted closer to you, and the knee of his black sweats brushed yours underneath the comforter. His eyes were filled with sweetness in the morning light, ashy curls of hair tickling his forehead. “Last night was the fuckin’ happiest moment of my life. Not ‘cause we fucked—I mean, that’s a great bonus, don’t get me wrong—but ‘cause you trusted me. Enough to let me see all a’ you, touch you, get close to you.” His mouth smoothed into a smile, a perfect line. “That’s what made me so fuckin’ happy, PJ’s. Your trust.” His fingers stroked playfully under your chin and you giggled. “My beautiful girl. N’ don’t turn away from me like that, okay? Scared me a little. Thought you regretted it.”

You nodded, tying knots into the sheets. “Sorry.”

He shrugged. “It’s okay.” Then his gaze flitted toward your clothes stacked a few feet away, and he leaned forward to pull them closer. “Need these? Probably make you feel a little comfier.”

Grabbing the shorts from the folded pile, you quickly yanked them under the bed and wrestled them on, meanwhile Vernon fell backward onto his pillow with his hands cupped over his eyes. You proceeded to squirm on top of him, wrap yourself around his warm body like a koala hugging a tree, breathe in deeply the scent of his skin, his hair. He squeezed you back, pressing his thick arms around you so tightly that you felt flattened. Laugher caught in your squished lungs, beating like giddy wings.

“O-Okay!” You squeaked. “Y’re crushing me!”

So he let go, and you puffed back up, an ear cozied against the warm spot of his bare chest where you could clearly hear and feel his beating heart. With a fingertip, you traced a tattooed vine along his pectoral muscle, breathed in, wanted to stay against him forever.

Time slipped by. Hunger reached you. There was an empty cup on his nightstand holding a small tinge of juice, and his emptied bowl of oatmeal. He must have noticed you staring. Vernon set his phone down, tilted his head. “Need food?”

“Yes,” you answered. “I think I slept through dinner.”

He laughed. “Kinda, yeah. I’ll fix you breakfast. Think I have some sesame bagels and cream cheese. You good with that? Maybe a yogurt.”

“I’ll take anything.”

While he sliced the bagel in half at the kitchen countertop, you glanced around the apartment. “Have you seen my knapsack?”

“In the washroom.”

“Too far,” you sighed, collapsing back into his bed.

Vernon made himself a bagel, too. “Okay, you gotta move to the futon or some shit,” he said. “Can’t stand crumbs in my bed.”

“I’m not a messy eater!”

“That’s what every fuckin’ messy eater says.” He snapped his fingers, gestured toward the coffee table. “Move your ass, beautiful.”

Your bare feet planted on the cool, scuffed floor, but when you tried standing up, a sore quiver ran down your thighs and fluttered between your hips, similar to overworking a muscle. You were like a mermaid learning to use their jellied land legs. Vernon smiled at you while setting down the plates at the coffee table, laughed, enjoyed your wobbling. “Gonna get over here today?”

“Shut up!” You barked. “I’m trying.”

“I see that,” he sighed, crossing his arms. “You’re lucky you can even stand. But, as it was your first n’ all, had to dial back a little.”

You huffed. “You’re doing a lot of talking and not a lot of helping.”

He raised his dark eyebrow notched with a piercing, lipped sarcastically, “oh, you want help? Hard to tell ‘cause you didn’t—”

“Okay, okay. Blah, blah. Yes, I would like help.”

Vernon smirked. Before you were ready, he had you swept up in his arms, and you clung to the fabric of the zombie t-shirt he’d slipped on. But he set you down very gingerly on the futon.

“There you go, Miss.”

Together, you ate breakfast, albeit the bagel tasted a bit stale, though you would have noticed it more if you weren’t so hungry and it wasn’t so deliciously slathered in cream cheese. You shovelled the cold vanilla yogurt into your mouth, then threw back some tangy pineapple juice, finished eating long before Vernon. After making him take your knapsack out from the washroom to update Ruby on your whereabouts with a text, you wondered if he would be willing to discuss what had happened last night.

“Hey,” you murmured, petting down the back of his head after he finished eating. “Maybe you don’t wanna talk about it lots, and I get that, but I just gotta know even a little about what happened with Jeonghan.”

Vernon sighed, scraping his spoon around the empty cup of yogurt, tonguing against his inner cheek. “He didn’t give me what I asked for,” he announced in a large breath, shrugging. “Made it some stupid choice.”

Your hand settled atop his wrist, thumb drawing circles to his skin, and he finally stopped dragging the spoon. “What’s the choice?” The air was very still as your question drifted apart into pieces.

Whatever the choice was, it seemed to make Vernon stiff and reproachful, his eyes steadied on the coffee table, hardened. You didn’t push. Just waited in the stillness.

He then leaned forward, putting down the empty yogurt, leaving the plastic spoon sticking out. Vernon faced you, but his gaze didn’t connect, and it cut somewhere distant and unreachable to you. “It’s some moral bullshit, Pyjamas. Either I’m his charity case that got away off his money, or I’m his freakin’ competition and it’ll always stay that way. He told me to choose, think about it. Like he’s so high n’ mighty and not some stupid, fucked up kid at heart, like the rest of us. Smug asshole.”

Your lips pressed together. “He’s going to pay you off?”

“He said he would, if I leave this all behind.”

“Dealing? He doesn’t want you to deal?”

His words hit a wall and Vernon was within another one of his silent, internal conversations, leaving you to study the faint contortions and colours that passed along his face. You had grabbed his wrist tighter, thinking about something he had mentioned before—not wanting to be nothing, slipping back into nothingness, having nothing—and you realized he didn’t know how to place himself inside your trivial society. The things you dealt with were not familiar to him, and vice versa. Maybe you were the outstretched branch reaching between the worlds, a place to cross over, but you didn’t know if Vernon knew that, if he wanted that. It stoked conflict in your belly. But damn it—it wasn’t about you—and that was hard to swallow.

Your tight grip softened. “It’s a big choice.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“But not one you have to make right now. Right?”

“Yeah,” he repeated himself.

“So don’t make it,” you whispered, wrapping your arms around his elbow, curling close beside him, cheek nudging his shoulder. “Let’s just sit.”

Around evening, Vernon drove you home. The rain had cooled away much of the slick heat, and small street puddles still reflected the cloudy sky in potholes and dips. It was Sunday and tomorrow was another work week and greedy hours away from Vernon. After last night, you felt more tethered to him than ever before, but you threw back the emotions like a tart shot of alcohol and put on a flaky, thin smile. He had enough to think about. Vernon helped you out the car by offering a hand, which you held onto carefully yet firmly, not wanting to let go, feel him slip away into the pastel summer, but understanding your paths couldn’t always overlap.

“Alright,” you sighed. “Text me tomorrow?”

He nodded. “Sure.”

Before you drifted away, your fingers brushing down the scars of his warm palm, a feathery sensation tickled your throat. Should you say it? You hadn’t talked about it at all. Had it been something momentous? Or was it forever? You hesitated at first, but the tickle got stronger, and Vernon had his index finger wrapped around yours.

“Um… okay. Later. I love you.”

The words made your throat hot and you wanted to fling around, disappear inside the building before he could say anything—or not say anything—and you felt your body already begin to pull away.

Stamp up the cobbled walkway in heavy steps. Breaths getting tangled in your chest. He hadn’t said it back.

Fuck. He hadn’t said it back.

It was momentous, wasn’t it?

He wasn’t going to cross the branch.

Even though you weren’t in the mood to go, you decided to suck it up and attend Soonyoung’s going-away party. He was leaving, after all. And he had been excitedly mentioning it during your shifts together. You weren’t sure if anyone else was bringing gifts—you didn’t really know anybody else there—but you bought one, anyway: a new ballcap in his favourite colourway, purple and red, with the tag still freshly hanging off. It would have been nice to have someone else there with you. Ruby was on another excursion for work. Tara heard that they were going to start releasing call-backs for Catherine Love interviews, and she was too anxious to leave her house. Lara had gotten mono and was out sick for an entire week.

You waited patiently at the doorstep to Soonyoung’s building, staring through the glass door at the tiny lobby area; a wall with silver mailboxes and a dresser scattered in abandoned pamphlets, until you noticed someone inside swagger jauntily down a staircase.

“Damn. Finally here, huh?” Soonyoung said, opening the door.

“Sorry! Didn’t mean to be so late. I took the bus.” Inside, the building air felt somewhat damp, smelled like old paper, the walls faded, everything wooden or carpeted. “I brought you something, by the way,” you added, raising up the unassuming brown bag.

“Aw, you didn’t have to do that!” Soonyoung smiled, throwing an arm around your shoulders for a moment, creating a wind of his spicy, vanilla-noted cologne as he squeezed you. “Thanks, though.”

You followed after him up a winding staircase.

“The bus, you said?” Soonyoung questioned, tossing you a look. “I thought maybe you would get a drive from Mr. Bad Boy?” He stopped on the top floor, where you continued down a long hallway with robust, dark wooden doors on either side.

Different doormats passed by you. We Have Cats! Check Your Vibe Before You Come Inside. Stop Throwing My Packages at The Door. Welcome Home! If You Find Yourself Standing Here, You Should Probably Go Away.

“Uh, no, not today,” you answered, smiling smally. For once, Soonyoung seemed like he wanted to ask instead of blathering about his own issues, but you wouldn’t allow it. “Let’s go inside. I’m excited!”

His apartment was much nicer than you were expecting. It was an open-concept, somewhat rustic, with a ceiling that sloped upward and had beautiful, smooth logs of maple from which he draped soft yellow lights. His kitchen was spacious. Wide countertops organized in drink stations and snack bowls, stainless steel appliances, a glass cabinet just for wine bottles.

Numerous people mingled in the heart of the living room. The music was noticeable but not particularly loud. Maybe this would be okay.

“This is really nice, Soonyoung!” You complimented, setting your brown bag in between bowls of sourdough pretzels and cheese puffs, while he filled a blue glass with tap water that he handed off to you.

“Everyone says that. And with a lot of surprise, too. I think they expect me to live in a cardboard box or something.” He shrugged.

“Maybe you give off a cardboard box vibe.”

“Can’t fight it, right?”

A shallow set of steps slightly elevated the kitchen above the living room. Soonyoung had always blabbered names, and somehow, you were able to put some of those names to faces just by inspecting the crowd and their innate descriptors.

You sipped from the water. “Want to see your gift?”

“Fuck yeah I do,” Soonyoung chuckled. He pulled the brown bag toward him, carefully removed the ballcap that was concealed in an opaque fibre cover. You squeezed the glass tighter as Soonyoung slid the fibre off the hat, his slanted eyes alight, mouth softly gasping. “Woah! Nice pick!” He reached over to punch your shoulder, but it was gentle. Soonyoung brushed through his ashy blonde hair a few times, smoothing it backward. It was longer now, enough to curl at his ears. “Does it look good?” The boy asked while fitting the ballcap on backward, the tag dangling behind his head.

“Yeah, it looks great. Fits you really well, too.”

“I’ll have to go look in a mirror. Hit some poses. Uh—” he gestured around before walking off, “—make yourself at home. Fashion up a drank or get some snacks on a plate, there. Whatevs. Thanks for the gift!”

Once Soonyoung was gone, you were alone in the polished kitchen, holding the glass of water snuggly to your chest and watching the collected groups in the living room shift. Everyone seemed to know each other. You wanted to move, to involve yourself, to be that person who effortlessly sews their way into a group and becomes part of the seam. But you had never been good at doing that. It made you long for Vernon, who could talk to just about anybody like he knew them for years, because he didn’t care what they might think.

As you glanced between the snacks, unfocused, someone suddenly emerged at the kitchen countertop, standing across from you. He paused, perusing his options, and then ladled some red punch into a plastic cup.

“Hey,” you said, forced.

He went back into the bowl to ladle in a lemon slice and more ice cubes, which rattled inside his drink. “Hey,” he responded. His smile was warm, curled at the edges, and you thought he was a good place to start.

“Uh, I just got here. What’s the punch?”

“It’s Jungle Juice. Got some vodka, white rum, pink lemonade, and I think there might be another juice in there. Can’t remember.” He brought the cup to his mouth, tilted in some liquid. “Tasty, though!”

You nodded. “I’ll try some.” Not wanting him to walk away and leave you lonesome in the kitchen, you pinned him down with another question while mixing the concoction with the ladle. “What’s your name?”

“Josh.” He watched you for a moment, his eyes large and dewy, like melted, black jewels. “Are you chasing it with water?” He then laughed.

“Oh, no! Soonyoung handed this to me. Guess I looked super thirsty or something? Or he thinks I’m an alcoholic. Who knows.”

As you filled a plastic cup with a full ladle of punch, making sure to avoid the citrus slices, Josh laughed. It was delicate. A man could have a delicate laugh? Who knew.  “Soons might be the alcoholic.” “How do you know him?”

“I play recreational volleyball at Cumberland. He was part of our team for a few months, and he was actually pretty good. Saved us from a few losing streaks. A couple of us here are from the team, actually,” Josh said, turning around to glean the room briefly. “There’s Maddy, down there, with the braid. And Olive is here, too. She’s always going to the damn washroom so we tease her. There’s Seungkwan. Yeah. Anyway. It's a lot of fun.” He turned back to you, adjusted the cup to his other hand. “You like volleyball?”

You hadn’t tasted your drink yet, and the condensation from the ice was chilly but welcomed against your palm. “Well, I’m not sure. I played in high school. Because of the gym curriculum. I wasn’t great but I wasn’t awful.” Finally, you sipped from it, and tried not to make a bitter face.

Josh nodded. “Well, we’re always looking for new players ‘cause sometimes things shuffle around a lot. It’s fun. Really. And ‘cause it’s recreational, it’s not all that stressful. Cumberland. If you’re interested.”

“Cumberland. Got it,” you replied, trying to mirror his perfect curly smile that was so friendly but immediately gave up. “Is it all year ‘round?”

“Our team specifically plays in the summer and fall. But there’s multiple teams, so your options are wide. But—obviously—I would prefer it if you wanted to play with us.” Josh laughed again, tracing back a loose frond of chocolate hair that slipped down into his eyes. “No pressure. How do you know Soonyoung? Can’t say that I’ve seen you around before.”

“Co-workers,” you said, “at Common Cents.”

“Oh, shoot! That’s you? Okay, I think Soonyoung might have dropped your name a few times.” Josh placed his drink down, let his hands rest on the reflective countertop. “Said you were dating this mysterious, dreamy bad boy with coarse manners. I think he was a little jealous.”

You didn’t say anything.

He tapped the counter with a fingertip. “Gosh… what was his name... something with… Vernon, right? Weird but I actually know of him in a roundabout way, ‘cause Maddy used to buy weed off his frienddd…” he paused, reaching into the corners of his memory, eyes searching. “Dots? I think? This was a while ago, though. Yeah. Dots. Wonder why he was called that. I don’t really have a nickname. Just Josh, Joshy. Nothing cool.”

“Right,” you answered breathlessly, noticing a tightness pulling your chest into a confined box. The drink was trembling a bit in your hand, so you placed it down, pushed it away. “Where’s the washroom?”

Josh pointed to a corridor beside the flatscreen television. “Down there. Door on the right is Soonyoung’s bedroom, though.”

“Thanks,” you nodded, excusing yourself.

In a hurry, you were slipping down the dark corridor, immediately pressing into the washroom, not bothering to check if it was in use. But the door gave way and you quickly closed, locked it, taking a moment to pace in confused circles, passing back and forth across the sink mirror. The truth was, Vernon hadn’t texted you like he said he would. And you didn’t text him because you were so afraid that you biffed it all up by telling the boy you loved him. It probably made his choice easy. He probably told Jeonghan what he wanted to do already. You were on the curb with your bags. A week had passed. Nothing. Worry made you sick, but then realism grounded you, and you had been fighting between the two each day, unsure, afraid.

To calm down, you washed your hands. Let the cool, surging water gush between your fingers and create pools in your overheated palms. The liquid soap had a sweet melon scent. It was inside a fancy, stone bottle.

You were not going to be the anxious girl who hid inside a damn washroom, fretting, letting the time slowly bleed into wasted, uncollectable whorls. So you dried your hands off, brushed down your shirt, and walked back into the buzzing living room with a false sense of stillness, attempting to spot Josh with his volleyball crew or Soonyoung in his flashy hat.

But they were together, standing by a window housing a neat storage system of what you assumed were vinyls. One was rested flat against the window. You approached them, and were quickly acquainted with Maddy, Olive, and Seungkwan. Mostly, you listened to them talk, because their words flowed and bounced off each other so smoothly that your intervention felt unnecessary. They spoke of such normal things. Maddy was going to a bridal shower. Olive said she was taking a summer course on Ancient Greece, the Myceneans. Seungkwan wanted to go bowling but everyone in the group groaned, grumbling about how terrible they were at the game.

Sometimes you added a comment, laughed along with their jokes that weren’t particularly funny to an outsider but made them squawk, shriek, and slap each other’s arms. At times, they were curious about you, listening to your awkward anecdotes that seemed fitting in the moment, but rushing messily through the details in case they turned bored. It felt right. This was what people did and this was how friends were made and how you got involved. But, somehow, a wall was there, an invisible wall that you might not be able to press against or breathe on to see the spreading warmth, but still noticed. Perhaps it was pessimism, the thought that you were just a passing face through a glaring window, but these weren’t your people.

It could be that Josh, Maddy, Olive, and Seungkwan were supposed to be fleeting. You were never meant to understand their jokes, or tell the perfect story that they related to, or collect all their numbers and keep them close, hoping you had made enough of an impact for them to text you—wanna get a drink? Wanna get breakfast? Wanna come to a movie? Wanna join our next game?

That was okay.

Breathe. It was all okay.

Soonyoung’s party ended right before midnight. Everyone trickled out in groups, and he saw each down the staircase, through the front door.

You were amongst the last to leave. Alongside another girl, you stayed behind to help Soonyoung clean up, trashing plastic cups into a garbage bag, locking unemptied snacks inside fresh containers, throwing beer and soda cans into his recycling under the kitchen sink. Through mild conversation, you realized the girl helping was his cousin, staying over to help him pack up his things and make the move. “So he doesn’t forget anything,” she sighed heavily, shoving a sushi tray into her glimmery garbage bag.

Soonyoung hugged you before you left. He was a little drunk off the flavourful punch and it lingered faintly on his breath. “M’gonna miss you, kiddo,” he mumbled, leaning on you. “Y’re a freakin’ kick ass co-worker.”

Your fingers pushed into his shoulder blades. “So you are.”

“I’ll come visit. All my pals are here.” He pulled back. His hands were thick and warm, grabbing you by the arms, shaking you once, his eyes seeming blurry but focused. “N’listen. Don’t take shit from Patsy, okay? Or from anybody.” His hat was just about slanting off his blonde head. “You can get a little rough with the regulars. They always come back. Huh?”

A stone sat in your throat. The air was suddenly dry, stinging.

You nodded, promised him, “I won’t,” in a quivery voice.

Gosh, you were gonna miss Soonyoung. Why did things have to change just when they felt settled? He said goodnight, waved you off.

Outside in the dull heat of late July, you thought about calling a ride service. The trip to Soonyoung’s building was long and the specific bus you needed to get back home didn’t come frequently. You stood on the final step of the brick building, in between luscious, plump bushes, staring at the map on your phone. From somewhere down the street, you heard laughter.

You stepped onto the sidewalk.

The Camry was parked under a street lamp. Vernon was there, leaned against its side as usual, speaking to a girl with a braided ponytail that resembled the friend from Josh’s volleyball team, Maddy.

Anxiety and anger and confusion fizzled in your body, hot then cool, and back to hot again. Was he supposed to be her ride? Why didn’t she go home with Josh and the others? Did he know you were here? You were tempted to slink away down the shadows of the street, staying close to the frilly bushes until you got around the corner. But the longer you stood and watched them converse so cordially, Soonyoung’s pink, round face placed together in your mind like pieces of a tiled mosaic. No. Go forward.

You got closer, passing under the yellow orbs lighting up the sidewalk, watched Maddy reach out and squeeze Vernon’s shoulder.

She must have heard your stamping footsteps, because she looked your way with a smile that dropped slightly, but recovered. To be fair, you weren’t really upset at her.

She didn’t know your history with Vernon. At least, you thought.

“What are you guys chatting about?” You interrupted, but kept the fiery line of your gaze nailed to Vernon as to avoid scalding Maddy. He didn’t say anything, but stared at you deeply, so damn deeply, that you felt a pulse ripple inside you. It was staggering, disorientating, and you almost touched the cold edge of his car for balance as the night dragged in dizziness.

Maddy stepped away from him, her hands tucked politely at her abdomen. “Oh, we kinda know each other. Long story. I think.” She then pointed down the street, toward another similar looking building. “I live right there, actually. We were just talking about how I moved.”

“Vernon?” You asked.

He shrugged. “What she said.”

God—he was so infuriating—you wanted to take his beautifully featured face that you had missed terribly throughout the week and shove it against the car window. You twitched in anger. “Okay. Night.”

No, you couldn’t handle seeing him.

Once you started to walk away, you hoped, prayed, to feel a hand on your hand, preferably a tattooed hand with tough scars, a hand that had rubbed patterns across your back just like it had tightened around your fragile throat and stroked you from the inside.

But you felt nothing.

And it only forced you to stalk faster and faster, fingers wound up into balls. You rounded the corner, marched up to the empty bus stop placed along the quiet, residential street, sat down on the bench and inhaled the sticky, sweet smell of lilacs shedding behind you.

The moon was thin, a crescent that looked easily breakable. You craned your neck to stare at its gentle glow until someone had slid onto the bench, right next to you.

Husky amber melanged with the lilac.

Neither of you spoke for a few minutes.

Vernon opened his mouth, took in a breath.

“Shut up,” you hissed. “Don’t freaking talk to me.” When you looked his way, he seemed calm and expectant of your anger. “I told you I loved you, you—you take my virginity—or whatever the fucking fuck you want to call it, and then you don’t contact me for a week. Now, you show up down the street of Soonyoung’s going-away party, and you don’t even fucking care that I was there. You’re impossible Vernon. You’re so impossible.” Your arms were folded, squeezing yourself for comfort. “That is so not boyfriend of you. I don’t know what do anymore. Most people don’t have fucking drug dealers for boyfriends. They have boring boyfriends. At least with sense.”

He stayed silent. Your foot bobbed up and down.

After another minute went by, you sighed. “Thanks for the talk.”

Vernon started to smile. “Well, you said don’t talk to you.”

You looked at him again, going stiff.

He raised his eyebrows. “So, can I talk to you, Miss? Officially?”

“Stop calling me Miss! I don’t like it!”

Again, he was quiet, his lips tightened but grinning.

You huffed, annoyed, sinking defeatedly down the bench with your legs sticking out. “Fine, fine, whatever. Talk. You can officially talk to me. I should freaking slap you.” Your finger lurched at him. “Don’t turn that into a dirty joke, either. Or I will really slap you. For real. And don’t turn that into a joke. Don’t turn anything I’m saying into a joke because I’m so—”

He stood up. Grasped you by the hand. In a swift tug, he pulled you up from your slouching, brooding seat, and you found your body tucked close to his, the late, fragrant heat warm around you, melting you both together. His hand was gentle, stroking carefully along the curve of your face as though he were touching something thin and fragile. Instinctually, you pushed into the affection, your eyes beginning to close just to feel him more.

“I’m no good for you,” Vernon murmured.

Your eyes shot back open. His closeness wasn’t a memory anymore, nor the tenderness faint but full in his gaze, and you wanted to stitch your body to his so he could never leave. “Well, it’s just that I’m mad, but…”

“I’ve given Jeonghan’s choice some more thought. I think I know what I might do. I think.” His hands gripped your waist, smoothed along the fabric of your shirt to grasp your lower back, push you closer against him.

“Oh… that’s good. Um, yeah.” You didn’t want to know. “Vernon, I know that I’m upset. I still am. But you are good for me. Just because something doesn’t always feel good doesn’t mean it’s not good. Maybe I scared you a bit when I said it. Maybe it was supposed to stay inside that moment at your place and not go anywhere else. I just—I want you to be ready to say it, and say it sincerely—not feel forced for my sake. So, I guess I’m glad you didn’t say it. But we should have talked about it.” Your hands were resting against his chest, flat and feeling his heartbeat.

“PJ’s…” he said, and the way it caught deeply in his throat made your knees stupidly weak, spaghetti-like. “Come with me, okay?”

So you followed behind him, fingers wrapped in his, returning around the corner to his car parked underneath the foggy lamp. He opened the backdoor. You climbed inside first, and he slid in after you, tugging the door shut.

Everything was so still and silent. The leather buckled and squeaked when you climbed onto his lap. Your breathing was layered in the minty air as his hands drifted up the tingling bareness of your thighs, squeezing. The small, slick, suctioning noises of your intimate kissing was like quiet water droplets. His fingers undid the buttons on your shorts. Then his warm hand was down your underwear, softly feeling around your sticky, flooding centre, massaging between your folds, and pressing into you. His fingers made you gasp and twitch, moan against his ear, burn for more, until your clothes were useless piles sitting abandoned on the leather or fallen to the carpet floors under the backseat. His hands were spread flat to your hips, guiding you to move along the thick shaft of his hard, aching length. Not inside. Just feeling the skin to skin. Anticipating. Knowing. You lubricated him more with every movement. Breathed hard and heavy into his ear. Listened to the wet noises of him slipping between you. Right before you started sinking down, he held your face as opposed to your hips, and his eyes were full of you like a golden, reflective lake.

“I love you,” Vernon said, his thumbs running across your fleshy, hot cheeks. “I fuckin’ love you, okay? N’ I’m sorry I wimped out and couldn’t say it back, even when I knew how much you wanted to hear it. But it fuckin' scares me. I never thought it would but it does.”

You rested your forehead against his. “It scares me, too.”

He chuckled. “Guess you’re not as wimpy as me, huh?”

You smiled, let your thighs fall wider apart so that his tip brushed along the side of your folds, hugged him close. “I just need you. That’s all.”

Vernon took his length back into his hand, began to gently coax himself inside your heat, open and warm and waiting. “I need you, too, baby.”

Together, you went back to your apartment. Vernon took a hot shower while you laid in bed, his maroon sweatshirt draped across your lap, your fingertips rubbing at some of its pilling. You checked emails on your phone, gazing between notifications for old, free subscriptions you no longer cared about—Learning to Budget! Are You Still Interested in Building a Stellar Website? Check Out These Unclaimed Scholarships!—until your thumb paused over something unfamiliar. You sat up, opened the professional email, hardly read an ounce of text until the very bottom, where an electronic signature was twinkling at you.

If you are interested in proceeding with an interview for this position, please contact [email protected] for confirmation and further inquiry.

Small, excited throbs filled your veins. You looked around the room for someone to share your energy with, but it was just you, shaking on the bed, as you processed what had happened. Suddenly, you heard a thumping noise inside the walls, and you knew Vernon had just turned off the knobs for the shower. He came inside your bedroom a few minutes later, rubbing a hand towel from the toiletries closet against his damp, springy hair, bringing in with him a very clean, pleasant smell. You had the phone screen turned into your chest, hidden. The syllables were on your lips but wouldn’t form.

Vernon looked back at you, glanced up and down. “You good?”

“Something just happened,” you managed to exhale.

He squished the hand towel in his lap. “ And what’s that?”

You peeled the phone away from your chest, stared at the email again just to make sure you weren’t hallucinatory and that the words hadn’t morphed, before you handed the device to Vernon. He took the phone, leaned forward with elbows on his knees, and threw the white towel over his shoulder. You tried not to squirm around as he read the tiny printed information which he zoomed in to see better. Once he got to the end, he sat up again, nodded satisfactorily, and gave the phone back to you.

“Well?” You engaged. “Isn’t that… I don’t know? Freaking crazy?”

“Is it? You’re a talented girl.”

“My resume was hardly anything special or stand-outish.” You looked at the email again, smiling. “Maybe it was my cover letter?”

“Who knows, baby. Good news, though.”

For a moment, you wanted to message Tara, but she hadn’t texted you and it didn’t seem appropriate to flaunt the email to her when you weren’t sure if she had received one herself. So you let the phone clatter onto your nightstand. Instead, you crawled over to Vernon and threw your arms around his shoulders, breathing in the mild soapiness of the washed shampoo lingering in his damp hair.

“I have to thank you, ‘cause you motivated me to do it,” you hummed, closing your eyes, hugging him hard.

He said nothing, but grabbed onto your wrist and squeezed.

TWO MONTHS AGO.

You were sitting in a loungeroom at the Skyline. Several people were dispersed throughout the space. Some occupied the leather L-shaped sofa and unwrapped complementary truffles from the potter’s bowl on the coffee table. Others hovered by the countertop, sipping at teas whose soothing fragrance, a bit of rosehip and lavender, remedied the nerves. You were sitting on a stool at the island. The surface was clean, white marble, reflecting the light fixture overhead like still cream. A very small part of you felt prepared. However, the bigger, much more prominent part wanted to hurl into the large palm plant potted in the corner.

Tara was called in ten minutes ago. She left behind a teacup painted with bluebells, still steaming, and you pulled it closer. The warmth soaked through the porcelain and into your palms.

Reminded you to be calm, be steady.

Different strings of quiet conversation zipped through one ear and out the other. No one in the room dressed or looked alike. Everyone seemed to have a unique story. You could see it in how they styled their hair, where they placed their jewelry, the colours draping their bodies, hear it in the particular linguistics that flavoured their sentences. What kind of story did you portray—if any story at all?

Hey Catherine, I’ve spent nearly a year of my life falling in love with a drug dealer, and before that, I was lost, drifting, and probably depressed because my degree wasn’t what I thought it would be and I was too chicken to make a change! Don’t I seem like the perfect candidate to be your assistant?

Really, you didn’t know who she was looking for.

Maybe that would make you more unique than anyone.

The lounge door pushed open.

In walked Tara, her cream pantsuit swaying around her like weightless water. She seemed to have more vibrance in her skin than when she left. The same man who escorted everyone from the building’s ground lobby to the twentieth-floor lounge room was keeping the door held open with his back. Using a thin, white stylus, he made a calculated swipe at the tablet held against his arm, then looked up placidly and called, “Mariam Kestle?”

A woman stood from the couch. She quickly cleaned her fingertips of chocolatey truffle, dabbed at her lipstick, and hurried toward the door.

“Good luck!” Everyone sang collectively, though it sounded thicker than when Tara had gone for her interview twenty minutes ago.

She wasn’t allowed to linger in the loungeroom. You continued grasping her teacup, much cooler now, as she picked up her purse from the stool beside yours. “Don’t stress,” she whispered, her pearl-powdered eyes quickly meeting yours. “It’s easy.” And then she was gone, leaving behind a cloud of elegant, flowery perfume she had been saving for the occasion.

Yes, easy because she was more practiced than a heart surgeon! But you clung onto her words regardless, daring to hope.

Over the hour, nearly everybody in the loungeroom had gone, person after person returning to collect their things. It got quieter, and somehow heavier, each time someone disappeared. You moved to the bare sofa, spoke a little with an older man in a very colourful dress shirt full of popping nineties-esque shapes, until the door opened for the umpteenth time and the attendant finally, finally said your name.

The woman you passed on your way out seemed crestfallen. You tried hard, scrubbing and scrubbing, to erase the imagery of her downturned lips, distracted eyes, and solemn expression on your way toward Catherine’s office. When the attendant knocked, waiting for his superior’s response, you caught the puzzled look he shot your way, and just as she called out, you nearly grabbed his presumptuous little tablet and broke it over your knee.

“Good luck,” he said in his tinny, snotty voice.

You couldn’t help it—your face twisted in annoyance. “Keep it.”

Her office was bright, like it was founded on biblical firmament, and sunlight stung through the windows, rendering you bleary-eyed.

She stood up, reached across her desk. “Hello, there.”

You squinted, pawed at a space in the air and prayed her hand would be there. “Bright in here, isn’t it?” Her cool fingers brushed yours.

“Oh! Right, right. I always forget how bright the sun gets around this time. I love it.” You fumbled and tripped your way into a chair as she proceeded to tug the curtains shut, one by one. “But I also sit behind with my back to the windows. So I forget how the light seems to flashbang everyone who walks in here.”

She tugged on a bulbed chain, and the final curtain unravelled like a gigantic parchment, dropping down over the window. A soft, comfortable dimness touched her office. At last, Catherine settled back into her chair. “Thanks for pointing it out.”

You expected her office to be tidy. The kind that looked seldom used because it was kept so spiffy and neat. But there was clutter. Boxes sat against the walls, stuffed with packed files, papers, canvases, fabrics, a coffee machine, a printer, books, manuals, DVDs, corners and shiny pieces to things you couldn’t identify. Paintings and picture frames were taken down, ordered against one another. She had a shelf, but it was emptied out, and clear circles and squares where knickknacks once stood were surrounded by a faint layer of dust. Her desk was cluttered, too. There was a file split open, assumed to be your file, sitting on top of several thick catalogues.

She clicked on her desk lamp, aimed it down at the file.

“Is that man with the tablet the assistant that’s leaving?”

As she adjusted the lamp, she laughed. “No, no. He’s a substitute for now, until I decide on an assistant who permanently fills the role.”

“Okay, I see.”

You didn’t speak again. Instead, in the quiet and soft light, you let her glance across your file, watched how her eyes, a dark grey, moved lower, lower, until she reached the bottom. Then, she looked up, and her thin mouth adapted a smile that was neither comforting nor cold.

“Your resume doesn’t seem to align with the experience I require in this position, although you do have some lovely qualities.”

Sharpness poked your throat. “I know...”

Again, she said nothing, but flipped a page in the file and continued to read—even started humming—and it was a blended, silky sound that made your focus drift in and out, like a camera lens tinged by salted sea water. She giggled at something she read, brushed her finger over the ink. “Your letter has a sort of charm to it. I can feel you in the words. Your honesty.”

You swallowed. “Thanks.”

Catherine clasped her pale hands together on the humble-sized desk, not one finger with a ring. But she wore a thin gold bracelet made of links. “So, you say you know art through a friend. A friend lost and then rekindled. You call that rekindling in itself art. Because art makes you feel, think, discover, and question. I find that interesting.” She aimed the desk lamp away from the file, slightly toward your face, as though she were a detective and you, her suspect. “How did this rekindling come to be?”

That was something you couldn’t explain.

Didn’t really expect to be questioned on.

“Uh… well, to save you from a very long story, our friendship hit a fizzle, as those things often do. She had slipped away from herself, and I guess I did a little bit, too. But we had a good talk at your Winter Wonderland show, actually. And that sort of started things up again. She got clean. And I…” you peered into the lamp’s golden rings emanating toward you, let your shoulders drop. “I had to change my perspective. Stop moping around, getting all passive. I want life to come from me, not happen to me.”

She nodded. “Invictus.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s a good thing to realize. And good on your friend.”

“I wanted her to apply.”

“She never did?”

“Well, I didn’t see her today. Plus, she never said anything.”

“If this round is not successful, we hold another. There could still be a chance for her, if she wishes.” Catherine sat back, bouncing her chair, and tucked some fraying, wispy brown curls behind her ear. “You know, my assistant comes with me when I travel. I support having a tethered life, actually. Because that’s where home is. But this job is not for people who have those tethered lives. Things that hold them to home. Home has to be no more than a place. How do you feel about travel? What tethers you?”

So many pictures fell through your mind like stones dropping out from a sack. But the one picture that kept reappearing more than any other was Vernon—and he was deciding his own tethers.

Your hands tightened, and then released, blood rushing through your fingers. “I don’t know. I’ve never been that adventurous. But that’s changed a lot this past year.”

“Well,” she gestured around her office, at the boxes and paintings and odd spaces of spilling emptiness, “I ask for a reason. Because I’m going to be leaving Skyline for some time. I’m going to Seoul for my next series of exhibitions. But I also have family ties there. I know a handful of applicants were excited to settle into Skyline, but this job is like a magic carpet. It flies you places. It’s fun, but you need to be ready to work.”

Very little of what she said stuck to you. “Leaving? When?”

“By the end of the month.”

“Jeez, that’s—that’s sudden.”

“It is. And I understand that. So I’ve been letting all interviewees know that they have the option to join me in October. I will take Henry with me for the first month instead.” She tilted her head, smiled a little. “I must admit, it’s a bit of a selfish choice. I stayed at Skyline longer than I really should have…” you noticed her grey eyes adrift, lingering on a picture frame turned toward her, the photograph hidden from your curiosity.

“Well, if you have family there…” you laughed, though it sounded awkward and breathy in an unnecessary attempt to be comforting.

Catherine sighed. “I love your story, about losing a friendship and then rekindling it. How rare is that? Don’t you think that when people leave, it’s for a reason? Even if we are not meant to fully understand that reason?” She gripped her chin, shook her head. “I think about it often. How do we know if someone isn’t supposed to come back?”

Your throat was dry. “Wow. I-I’m not sure—” and you started to cough, splatter spit into your elbow, stinging bleariness flooding your eyes, feathers in your throat. Catherine stood up, said something about fetching you some water, before leaving you alone in the tenebrosity of her packaged office. There was a tissue box somewhere on her desk, and your hand reached around cluelessly as the tears in your eyes turned the world disorganized. You grabbed something cold and heavy in your hand, held it up to your hot, flushed face as your vision gradually cleared. Not tissues.

The photograph.

An adolescent boy with braces and shaggy hair holding onto a baby girl wrapped up in a starry pink swaddle. You held the picture underneath the lamp to make sure you were interpreting every detail correctly. Trembling fingertips reached out to touch the glass, its hard but fragile surface, along the boy’s face, his crooked teeth, his eyes. You knew him. You knew him. Hansol.

Catherine returned to the office. From over your shoulder, she sat a mug of water onto the desk. Then she said, “pretty, aren’t they?”

You set the frame down, turned it away from you.

She plopped back in the chair and smiled. There was a glint in her cinder eyes, a lopsided curl in her smile, and it all painfully, vividly, overwhelmingly reminded you of him. “It’s a clean mug,” she said. “Just some water from our machine. Are you alright? Got a tickle?”

The interview came to stand in your way.

You wanted out. Wanted the curtains whipped open again, with the blistering sunlight to turn the room to fire. But you stayed in your seat. “I’m fine. Sorry about that.” You pulled the mug into your grip but didn’t sip anything. “I shouldn’t have looked at your photograph.”

“No, it’s alright. I can’t pack it away just yet. Something inside won’t let me.” She grabbed the frame, angled it in a way she preferred.

“That’s the family you’re going to see?”

“Just my daughter. As you said before, it would be a long story.”

You nodded, teeth aching as though they might fall out. She looked to you again, except you couldn’t meet her gaze.

“Right. Things happen,” you said, attempting to be soothing.

Things happen. Things happen. Things happen.

You became a ticking timebomb in that seat.

Vernon was picking you up after the interview.

As you left behind the miraculous building and its infinite glass capturing the coastline blue, you stared down at your phone, reading his text message. Then you stalked down several blocks to his location, your heels practically grating through the flimsy flats stuck on your feet, barrelling across walkways and shouldering around unhurried people. You found the diner where he was eating a late lunch. Just as he was about to stick a salted, yellow fry in his mouth, you marched up to his booth and slapped it away.

He sat back. “Uh—excuse you, asshole?”

When you said nothing, he grabbed another fry off his plate—stopped to give you an expectant, skeptic look—only to have you smack it from his hand again, where it landed under a table on the checkered floor.

His arm dropped. “What? Your interview suck?”

“Don’t play dumb,” you hissed.

“So, it didn’t suck?”

You dropped down into the seat across from him, feeling the aged, cracked pleats of dark green leather under your fingertips. He must have just gotten his food. The plate was messily surrounded by fries and a big buttery burger with a gleaming bun, a small red flag wrapped around a toothpick sticking out. The interview had ended earlier than you originally surmised.

Vernon sighed, dragging the tall glass of brown soda toward him, dripping in condensation. “Dude, I can’t understand if you don’t tell.”

And you laughed. “Says you!”

“What?”

“Your freaking goddamn mother is Catherine Love!”

The diner wasn’t very full. Just some older folk taking their time perusing newspapers or writing onto notepads. Behind the counter, you could see two cooks, busying themselves in the greasy, steamy air. The blinds at the table were angled shut, patterning the surface in white lines.

Surprisingly, Vernon’s face didn’t change. “Not really.”

You scoffed, “what the hell does that mean?”

He slurped up some soda, swallowed. “Technically, her name’s Catherine Melody. That’s how I know her. It’s different.”

“Vernon,” you urged, leaning forward, shoulders sticking up, “she’s still your mother! Why—I just don’t get why? Why didn’t you tell me? Don’t you think that’s a huge thing? That I’m going to get interviewed by your mom?” The air fell flat out of you. Grabbing a napkin off the table, you slapped it over your forehead, perspiring with stress, and heaved.

Silence sat between you. Heavier than the loungeroom.

You pulled the napkin off your forehead, stared into him.

He shrugged. “You were excited about this. Why would I tell you that she’s my mom? Wouldn’t you agree it would change things? I wanted you to have that moment without my personal shit gettin’ in the way.”

It had to marinate. You couldn’t just spew up all your conflicted, rash feelings without considering his perspective, too. The napkin was squeezed into a ball in your hand, and you kept massaging it until a sense of quiet unfurled inside you. Letting the napkin open itself on the table, you rubbed down your thighs, glanced at him. “I suppose… you’re right. But I figured it out anyway. I’m sure I biffed it. It was all I could think about for the rest of the interview. Not that I was a fitting candidate from the start.”

Vernon pushed the soda across the table. You sipped from it, closed your eyes, enjoyed the rush of cold sweetness and fizzing bubbles.

He cleared his throat. “I mean, I’m sorry, PJ’s. Maybe I should have told you to avoid all this blindsided bullshit.” You nudged the glass back and he sipped, too. “But I didn’t think you would put it together right fuckin’ there. Did she have my goddamn grade school picture collaged to the wall?”

“Not really,” you sighed. “I don’t think I would have figured it out, but I picked up a picture frame off her desk when she left the room, and it was the same picture on your nightstand—you and your little sister—that made it quite obvious.” You noticed that Vernon’s face had started to creep with something that felt dark. It charcoaled shadows underneath his eyes and along his cheekbones. “And now that I think about it, some of the things she said make a lot more sense with context… she’s… going to Seoul.”

Vernon cackled a bit. “Yeah, off to Sofia.”

Was it your place to say more? You were uncertain. He seemed to have lost his interest in eating, so you pulled some fries off his plate, let him brood for a few minutes, stare at the blinds with the filtered sunlight.

“She said something about—” you had his plate now, grabbed the tiny spritzer of vinegar and shook it over the fries, “—about staying here longer than she should have. I think she was hoping to see you.”

“Yeah, so she can judge what I’ve become, no doubt.”

“Well, maybe… maybe not. There was hurt. A lot of it.” Wiping the crumbs off your fingers, you let Vernon have his plate back. “Look, I know it’s a sensitive subject for you, so if I’m overstepping, let me know. But would you ever consider talking to her? You don’t have to forgive, or accept anything she says, but just… to like… hear her? Would you ever do that?”

He dug some fries away from the burger. “Man, I don’t know…”

“I know you have a lot to think about right now,” you said tenderly, twining each word with thought, “but she’s leaving at the end of the month.”

Vernon sighed, picking up his burger and sliding out a crisp pickle to eat. Then he finally took a bite, and you noticed some tension vacate him.

A man stopped by the table. He was dressed fairly casually, but wore a black waist apron stuffed with a crinkled-up notepad. “Can I get you anything?” He asked politely, his hands clasped. After you thought for a moment, eyes trailing the menu, you asked for the ice cream sundae.

Because, damn. You deserved it.

VERNON.

It was quite easy to hang out with Moo. He could entertain himself to no end, which let Vernon be more absented-minded than usual.

Moo used a cube of blue chalk to powder the tip of the lacquered cue. Vernon leaned against the wall, smelled the beer in the air, the fried food, stale smoke. He always liked this bar. The smells comforted him, the sounds of cans being cracked open and hard balls splashing around a felted table were unchanged. Moo finally leaned over, lined up his cue, slid the stick back and then knocked it forward, but the tap was a little too hard.

He stood up, ground down on his cheek. “That’s fucking stupid.”

Vernon reached for his beer on the small table beside him. The glass was cold on his lips, and the beer was frothy in his mouth. “Loser.”

“Shut up, tool. You do better then.”

Vernon shrugged. He grabbed his cue, walked around the table to find the white ball. Similar to his friend, he leaned over, let the cue slide across a groove in his hand, and then struck, pocketing a ball.

Moo swatted his hand through the air. “Easiest shot I’ve seen in my life,” he muttered while picking at his plate of nachos. “Baby could do that.”

“You know a baby?”

“I will. Sharla’s due in three months.”

“Guess we’ll have to wait.”

Vernon sunk another ball, and then another, until he decided he wanted a break and purposefully let his cue falter. Moo rubbed his hands together, delighted to try again, leaving behind his plate of chips, stringy cheese, salsa, and blackened chicken bits. Vernon got comfortable against the wall while Moo studied the table, rubbing his chin.

“Now that I’m thinking about it …” Moo hummed, “isn’t it so fucking weird that Sharla’s pregnant? I mean, I’m gonna be a freakin’ uncle, man, and Jade’s gonna be an aunt, and Sharla’s gonna be a mom. A goddamn mom. A mother. Time flies, man. Straight like an arrow.”

“Yeah… sure does.”

“I mean, it feels like yesterday she would sneak out and make me cover for her, then get me to come pick her up in our dad’s car.” Moo chose a spot, blew at the tip of his cue. “She’s well-rounded and all. But she had a crazy streak dad never knew about.” He bent down, went quiet for a moment as he settled the cue into position. “You guys had a little thing, didn’t you? At one point? Back in the day, as we say. I always knew. She’d smell like you some days.” Then he struck the white ball into another, a loud clacking noise echoing around the bar just as the ball swiftly pocketed. Moo stood back, clutched his fist. “Fuck yeah. You see that angle? Finesse, Vern.”

“And you’re how many balls behind?”

“Slow and steady wins the race. Mrs. Yee’s class type shit.”

Vernon crossed his arms and laughed.

“Anyway.” Moo grabbed his drink and sipped. “I’m looking forward to being an uncle. To be honest, though, I always thought the first kid in my life would be yours.” He rubbed his nose, laughed a little. “But you’re not as promiscuous now. Guess PJ straightened that out.” He approached the table again, quieted down as he focused on making a particularly tricky shot, the edge of his tongue sticking out. The colourful balls scattered and Moo cheered before walking back to his mixed drink for a necessary victory sip.

It was true. Vernon was surprised too that he never got a girl pregnant, although there had been a few scares in the past he still remembered in uncomfortable vividness. Sex had never been multifaceted to him until he met you—it was pleasure and escape, another drug—but the way you grated on him was impossible to ignore. You made him feel things that he thought weren’t for him. Strong things. Things he didn’t always understand. Things that scared him. But things he came to want just like any other human being once he realized how starved he was of it. And then you were the most important thing. But not a thing. You. And he thought of you every day. His body started to ache like a sore tooth.

He was missing you.

“Oh, damn. Just fucked it,” Moo scoffed. “Alright. You go.”

Vernon sighed. “Dude, I can’t lie. I don’t feel like playin’.”

“No—what?! Come on! At least do your turn! Danny’s gonna be here soon and he call fill in for you. At least finish your turn. Please.”

He sighed again and grabbed his cue. Vernon’s shots were aimless and rushed. One ball sank but the other bumped off the side and zoomed down the green felt with no direction at all. After another taste of his beer, beginning to gradually warm, Vernon said he needed a few minutes alone.

Outside, the evening was warm.

The sky was luminous compared to the dusky lighting inside the bar. Calm clouds looked like stirred cream in a baby blue coffee cup. He breathed in. Lost was the scent of foaming beer, cooking oil, and faded cigarette smoke. Instead, there was a weightless nothingness. Vernon took out his phone as well as a toothpick to play with in his teeth, saw you had texted him, and started to smile.

omg! a spider in my shoe!! JPG_387456 i shook it outside i just can’t bear to squish it D:

In his head, he could hear your scream, see the way you jumped, raced around, got all trembly with freight. He could picture you squatted at the edge of the walkway outside your apartment, shaking your shoe to coax the spider out while your face puckered up and your lips got tight.

what a good person u are up to anything? been missing u all day

He walked across the tiny parking lot to his car and leaned against the driver’s door, circling the toothpick around his mouth with a prodding tongue, tasting its wood flavour. You had your interview about two weeks ago. Since that day, you hadn’t mentioned anything about the position again, and Vernon suspected you just didn’t want to stir the pot when it came to his mother as a topic. Which he understood. He hadn’t exactly built her up with much kindness. Hearing you compliment her artwork and exhibitions—it hadn’t been easy to keep a straight face—but your enthusiasm was too flowering and he was too soft about you to uproot it.

Vernon’s phone vibrated in his hand. When he glanced down, he saw an unrecognized number labeled above a text message. Skeptical, he opened the conversation initiated by the strange number.

Ready to make a decision? 709 Dooley Dr. 8pm. Let’s talk.

And he looked up, glancing around the quiet parking lot, then into the dark bar windows obscured with neon signs and dusty shutters.

It wasn’t like Vernon didn’t know who it was. But he wished he didn’t.

Pulling the toothpick out from his mouth, Vernon rubbed it between his fingers while continuing to read the text over again. The group house. He didn’t want to go back there, among the rot, the graffiti, the staleness of memories succumbing to age and seasons. He didn’t want to see Jeonghan’s face. It was like getting belted into a rollercoaster, thrust up a drop, and then over the precipice, pelted by stinging air that was hard to breathe.

Suddenly, his phone whirred again.

Don’t wait too long. Time flies, right?

He shut his phone off, flicked the toothpick aside.

Vernon swung into the car and started its engine. Without knowing what he was going to decide, Vernon followed the familiar route back to a place he once considered home.

He arrived a few minutes before eight o’clock. The sky was a melting gradient. A big ball of gold, stretching into peach, and then a long, long stretch of lilac that convulsed akin to a thin bedsheet fluttering on a peg line. Vernon entered through the broken doorway, careful in his steps, was about to walk past the threshold to the kitchen when he noticed someone there already. Jeonghan was sitting at a table. It looked old, plucked from a curb. The chair left for him to sit on was a scrappy lawn chair that might just rip.

“You’re here.” Jeonghan gestured to the chair. “I brought seats.”

Vernon stayed in the doorframe. “From a dumpster?”

“It matches the house.”

He stepped into the kitchen. The floor was strewn in dirt, dead leaves, scuffs from furniture and equipment being dragged about. It always seemed to be the heart of the house. On good days, where everyone gathered, sharing barbecue and playing music. On bad days, where arguments happened and cupboards rattled when fists came slamming down. Sometimes, a place of mystery that Vernon wasn’t allowed to see, simply because he was too young, even though he knew what was happening,

Vernon hooked his ankle around the chair leg, pulled it further away from Jeonghan and more toward himself. Finally, he sat, and the chair creaked. “If this snaps, man…” he warned, gritting his teeth.

“Oh, mine is much worse,” Jeonghan laughed. “I feel as though I’m about to fall through the bottom any minute now! But I can’t deny there’s a little fun in not knowing. Russian Roulette in shitty lawn chair form.”

“Nice to know you’ve got little informants sprinkled everywhere.”

“You only go to so many places.”

Vernon wanted to roll his eyes. Jeonghan’s power was much bigger than it seemed, but that had always been his allure. Sort of like an iceberg, the top seeming eerie enough, but the unseen much scarier.

“Has it been difficult?” Jeonghan asked. “Choosing?”

His blunt nails scraped the hard plastic of the chair arms, scribbled with crayon. “No,” Vernon scoffed, “it was all cookies n’ cream.”

“I thought it was courteous to ask, Vernon.”

“Well, I don’t really want your fuckin’ courtesy. Did you drag me all the way out here to socialize? I get you told me the truth and all, but I’ve spent so long upset at you that it isn’t really gonna fly away all that quick.”

Jeonghan nodded. “I understand.”

“Not that you really care how I feel about you.”

“I do, Vernon.”

And the boy shivered a little despite the warmth seeped into the kitchen. Jeonghan always called him Hansol. He was never one to use the nicknames they all coined for each other. It was another one of his natural mannerisms that set him apart, above, a discreet way of telling everybody that he knew them inside, not just their surface. But Vernon had exploded at him for continuing to call him Hansol. Was it a mind game or an honest attempt at proving his compassion? Vernon never knew with Jeonghan.

“You know,” Jeonghan said, setting his elbow onto the scratched table and letting his chin sit in his palm, “if you’re really in that much of a rush, then why don’t you just come out with it? What are you going to do?” His eyes were large, black like soaked bark. “I won’t judge you. Safe space and all.”

“Yeah,” Vernon tutted, leaning back in the chair, hearing its metal hinges stretch crustily. “You’re the person I’m worried about judgin’ me.”

“To think you’d worry about anyone judging you is not in your character, is it? Unless you’re thinking something big, Vernon.” Jeonghan smiled, ducked his head a little, and there was a sudden sinisterness.

“Well,” he huffed, “maybe I am...”

The kitchen was silent for a moment. Outside, he could hear the tall grass rustling in the evening wind, and when Vernon looked out the doorway onto the porch, he remembered all those nights in one big rush of nostalgia. Moo always manned the barbecue. Dots always controlled the music. Snozz made the drinks and passed out mint Swishers. Vernon would keep the little bonfire going, and across from him—in the translucent areas of hot flames—Jeonghan would be staring up at the stars, smiling. Before he pushed all those thoughts away, Vernon heard all their different laughs blending together, hoarse with Swisher smoke and then velvety with alcohol.

He closed his eyes tightly. You see, I saved him, but I never saved myself. And then the same thing happened to Paulo. He tried to save you. Get you steady. But then he’s a corpse lying beneath his own vomit in the upstairs bedroom of a trap house.

Vernon opened his eyes again to see Jeonghan, except not through the dancing heat of an alive fire, but in the sunset fragility of a broken kitchen.

Jeonghan tapped his finger. “Did you think about you?”

“I tried to.”

“Good. That’s good. You can’t make a decision like that clearly with anyone else in mind but yourself. What will you do, Vernon?”

He held the answer on his tongue for a moment. “There’s some sort of mural outside, isn’t there? You’ve seen it, yeah?”

Jeonghan nodded. “Would you care to take a look?”

Together, they moved through the kitchen, down the rotten porch where Jade used to do her homework, and around tall heaps of untended grass well-stoked by the summer sun and rain. They each turned around to glance at the back of the house. Vernon admired the paint. The thickness of the colours. How brightly the mural stood against the golden sky. He felt his eyes prick. Little tears had gathered. Jeonghan’s hand was on his shoulder, squeezing, as Vernon felt more and more like that misguided teenager isolated into a world that had already decided things for him.

Vernon sighed, “I’ve got to leave. I’ve just gotta.”

The hand on his shoulder slipped off. “I’m glad you finally feel like you can do that now, Hansol,” Jeonghan said, his tone warmer than it ever had been. They studied the mural until the sun seeped into blackness and the yard filled with the intermittent glow of fireflies, carrying flickers of their own charged starlight.

You and Vernon returned to the art shop to finish your pictures. At first, you had overgrown with worry that they threw the paintings out after receiving an email from the business about hitting their deadline. But you emailed them back, and to your relief, they held both your pictures. It was nearing the end of summer and you wanted each other to have something as a memory. The art shop was quieter than usual. Only a few tables were occupied. The air smelled like dried watercolour, acrylic, and soap.

Much like the first time, Vernon was quiet as he painted. The little girl’s apron with the bubblegum pink and stitched butterflies was gone, so he chose a regular black apron that matched his hair. While you suspected the quietness, something about it was different. Vernon would at least swear when he made a mistake, or sigh a lot, set the canvas back onto the easel and glare at it every few minutes. But he was moving along fluidly. You didn’t want to disturb his rhythm so you stayed quiet, too, occasionally pausing to sip from your water bottle or put the brush down to rest your wrist.

He was done before you.

“I need maybe… twenty more minutes? I think?”

“That’s fine,” Vernon said, getting up from the table. “Feelin’ a little warm. Gonna sit outside on the step for a minute. Be right back.”

“Uh, okay,” you answered, unsure of how to respond while watching him push open the door to the art shop. It closed, and he was gone. Sighing, you had to trust he would tell you, and returned to your painting.

Then you were finished. You insisted on showing him the product, an intense labour of love, but Vernon shook his head, told you that it was better to wait until you were back home. The drive was quiet. Your paintings were dried under a lamp at the shop and tucked safely into a paper bag that sat in your lap. Ruby wasn’t there. Vernon wandered into your bedroom before you could offer if he wanted anything (even when you knew how capable he was of getting things himself), so you followed, strangely loathing that sticky quietness because conversation with him was one of your favourites. Laughter. He always made you laugh, get teary.

You plopped down on the end of your bed, bounced a few times.

Vernon leaned against the dresser across from you.

Setting the bag down to the floor, you reached for a stuffed toy behind you. It was filled with so much cotton that you could feel the cloudy lumps under your fingers. “Is everything okay?” You hummed.

He grasped the dresser’s edges. “Yeah, but no.”

“What’s that mean?”

Vernon looked down at his golden chain, shiny against his black t-shirt. He touched it for a moment, then looked to you and smiled, but he didn’t speak. Your fingers pushed harder into the stuffed toy, thumbs pressing the beaded eyes deep into its head until you felt bad.

“PJ’s,” he said, and his voice shook a little. “I’m leavin’.”

You blinked. Put the stuffed toy aside. “Huh? Leaving?”

He nodded, like it was too difficult to speak.

“Uh, okay. Leaving to where? For what?” You wanted to seem calm, levelled, even though you had just burst on the inside like an old pipe, emotions sputtering everywhere, stepping over each other, gripping and crawling, agony. “Is this related to Jeonghan?”

Vernon nodded again. He wiped a hand across his face, and his skin turned a little flushed from the pressure. “Yeah. I talked to him a few days ago.” The hand dropped, his fingers starting to curl in and out, flex their tendons. “I really didn’t know what I was gonna do ‘til I got there and started talkin’ to him. I feel like the answer came from my gut, y’know? It was practically singin’ to me.”

“Well, that’s good,” you said, smiling. “You can’t ignore that.”

“I have to go see my mom. My sister. In Seoul.”

Suddenly, you felt very cold. It was late summer but, in your body, it was a winter storm. Everything started to freeze over. Become hard. You couldn’t look at Vernon. Then you were shaking, wanted to reach around yourself for comfort but found that you were rusted.

“Oh…” you managed to squeeze out. “Yes. That’s important. That’s big. You should do it.”

“PJ’s…”

“No, you should go. This is your life.” You stood up, accidentally kicked the paper bag with your foot and it crinkled loudly, almost a cry. “It’s just really unexpected that’s all. But I want you to go. I do. I really do, and I was the one who made you consider it, and—”

He grabbed your arms and pulled you against him. The frigidness inside you twisted around into nothing but withering heat. For a second, you resisted, beginning to push back on him, push away, shake your head as the stinging sensation engendered water from your eyes. But you gave up the pushing the second you smelled him. It was all too familiar. It was that winter night in the front seat of his car with his bomber jacket pulled up to your chin. When his scent soothed you for the first time. Found its way to an open fold in your memory and slotted inside like a handwritten letter.

“PJ’s, you can be upset,” Vernon whispered, stroking the back of your head tenderly as you sniffled, cried, ached, into his neck. “I didn’t expect you to be okay. If you were, I might be a little fuckin’ miffed,” he laughed, and you pressed your hands hard against his chest to feel that deep, hearty vibration; let it run through his skin and into yours.

“For how long?” You mumbled, closing your eyes.

Vernon held your waist, sighed. “Dunno. As long as I need t’be.”

“And… and… you want to go… alone?”

Your face was gently lifted from the dampness of his shoulder. You saw the emotion in his eyes, full like a fat water droplet threatening to spill apart. His thumbs casted away the tears. “PJ’s, you have steadiness here. A great support circle. Maybe things aren’t always sweet but that doesn’t make it so. I want you to be here and continue leadin’ this beautiful life of yours.”

“But I want to be with you…” you sniffled, grabbing his tattooed wrists, hoping the touch of your soft fingers was a magic spell. “I know you have to go but I just can’t imagine my life if you’re not beside me.”

He nodded. Then Vernon leaned forward, and his lips were kissing the thin, fragile skin of your closed eyelids, still trembling as tears pooled underneath. “I just wanted to tell you. I didn’t want it to be another big secret, hm?” He kissed your forehead, made sure it lasted. “We can talk about it more later. Let’s try to relax.” His hands gripped your weak, sunken shoulders. “There’s some paint on your face,” he said with a tiny smile, “and some more on your arms. I think you need a shower. Want to shower?”

For a moment, you stood and thought, looking off to the side feeling hurt, confused. You let the feelings exist, but took a deep, long breath, and willed them not to control you, such that you finally lost sight of that infinite, dark chasm, bearing a gravitational pull like no other. Vernon led you into the washroom. Water started spraying from the showerhead until there was hot steam dense in the air and fog slicking the mirror. In the misty heat, you both undressed. Vernon got under the water first while you huddled at the end of the tub, wincing at the temperature of the fiery droplets.

“C’mere—” he pulled at your arm.

And you wriggled him off. “It’s too hot you maniac.”

“Feels so good though.” He tugged you again.

You shrunk against his chest, hiding from the water, but it reached you anyway. Vernon gripped your shoulders and turned you around. There was a snapping noise, and then a soapy lathering noise. Before you could ask, his hands were beginning to glide along your body, dressing you in suds that smelled tropical and peachy. Even though his hands were slippery and wet, they maintained their textured roughness, and you couldn’t help but shiver, gasp, whenever they lingered around intimate areas.

His body was firm against yours. You bit your lip while watching his long, thick fingers drag slowly up the centre of your tummy, how they stroked underneath your breasts, gliding with water. He started to kiss along your shoulder, drag his tongue to your neck, press his gritty voice far inside your ear to feel your knees wobble. “I’ll always take care of you, my love.”

Everything was different in the shower. There was more echo, inescapable wetness, dizzying heat in your head and hot water stinging in your eyes and the sloppiest moans you had ever made finding their way up your throat. But he was right. Vernon always took care of you. The shower tiles lost their coolness the more he thrusted into you, pushing your body into the wall. That tattooed hand stayed hard but attentive around your neck.

It got messier and messier, the noises of skin slapping against skin getting louder, but at least you were in the shower. Vernon pulled your head back onto his shoulder, then clutched your hips tight in his fingers, and the fact you could already sense the dermal ache of bruises forming made you grin a little bit twisted.

He kept thrusting. The fullness intoxicated you.

“Good girl,” he grunted, rubbing your throat. “You take this big dick so well now, don’t you, yeah? Moan so loud whenever I get inside this gorgeous pussy.” He hugged you against him, squeezed you. “You don’t understand—” Vernon rasped, his hips intense and working, “—I fuckin’ love you so much, PJ’s. Make me think about crazy fuckin’ shit I never even considered. Gettin’ married n’ buyin’ a stupid house n’ havin’ babies. I love you. Just some shit I gotta do first, right?” Suddenly, he couldn’t manage to speak through the orgasm that throbbed at your insides, filling you deep with heat.

After showering, washing away the stress, you and Vernon spent some time in your bedroom. You thought about cooking or ordering food.

But then his phone started to rumble on your nightstand. He groaned, lifting his head from your stomach, where your fingers had been sweeping through his damp, black tresses. Vernon pulled the phone close to him, squinted at the screen, shoved himself up with a tired sigh.

You watched him stand and pull his t-shirt back on, hiding the hard, gilded lines of his back from your fond eyes that always wandered.

“Gotta take this.” He leaned down to kiss you. “Sorry. I’ll be back.”

Once you heard the echo of the front door closing, you decided to roll off the bed and check what groceries were available in the kitchen for you to cook with. Ruby had been quite busy with work, mostly eating pre-packaged meals she bought from their cafeteria, and you had been neglecting shopping for almost a week now. You touched the loose handle on the fridge, only to be grabbed by your shoulder a second later, and then yanked backward into Ruby’s bedroom that smelled like one of her fragrancy candles.

It happened so quickly you hadn’t time to scream.

“Ruby!” You exclaimed while she shut her bedroom door. “What the heck was that? When did you come home? Have you been here all day?”

“No.” She shook her head, still dressed in her black work pants and a fancy white button-up. But her hair was down, and she scraped her fingers through the molasses-brown strands. “I got home, like, twenty minutes ago.”

“Oh…” you said, your brow coming to furrow. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Ruby gawked, rolling her eyes. “Oh.”

Embarrassment unsheathed itself from the base of your stomach and you found that words were running off toward your mind’s distant horizon. You watched them go, blinking into twinkles, gone.

Ruby sighed, walking over to her large candle that she had lit, in a bright fuchsia jar. She inhaled the hibiscus smoke, looked at you. “I mean, I’m not upset! I promise I’m not. It just took me by surprise.” Then your roommate started laughing, unbuttoning the bottom of her shirt. “I’m pleased you two have such a prosperous sex life. At least, it sounds like it.”

Finally, your senses regrew, and you collapsed onto her bed, hands covering your eyes. “You should have slammed the door extra loud!” You cried out, laughing, too, in hiccups. “Like, five times! So we knew!”

The mattress dipped at her weight beside you. “I thought about it, but I’m not sure Vernon would care, actually. And, I consider it proper to leave you uninterrupted after my, erm, experiences in the past.”

Pulling the hands off your face, you saw Ruby’s soft expression peering down at you as she tucked a lock of thick hair behind her ear.

And you puffed out a breath, smiling. “I guess so…”

Ruby was probably your closest friend now. Naturally, you told her just about everything, including your first night with Vernon. At first, you thought it might be somewhat strange to mention it considering she had her own sexual history with him, in a different time, but it wasn’t awkward or weird at all. She wasn’t too picky when it came to detail—she was merely happy to listen as you stumbled through it—and said she would never be shy to offer advice or answer questions. So, despite your embarrassment that she heard Vernon plowing you in the damn shower, you were just relieved it was your roommate that walked in, not anybody’s parents or a friend of hers.

She sat on her side, tucked her knees up. “Babe, I’m literally jealous, if anything. But my dating life has been ultra-dry ‘cause of work.”

You decided to sit up. “What? There’re no cuties there?”

“No,” Ruby pouted, blowing out a stream of air from her lips that made some hair dance off her nose. “I mean, there are a few attractive guys, but their personality is awful, like—I don’t know—tissues.” She peeled off her ankle socks, rubbed at the indents they left against her olive skin. “I hate when attractive people think they don’t need a personality just ‘cause they’re attractive! I mean, look at me, girl. I’m the walking talking truth!”

Together, you laughed. “Never lower your standards, Ruby.”

“Yeah,” she sighed, her smile faint but remaining, “I won’t.” A flash of something reluctant passed across her face, and you noticed the restraint in her expression as she pondered, chewing her lip. But then she seemed to decide there was no reason to avoid it. “Well… I guess it makes the most sense to tell you this…” she began, and the apples of her cheeks suffused with a pretty redness. “But I’m kinda talking to Moo… I mean, he told me to call him August—Auggie—but I guess you call him Moo?”

“Ruby!” You trilled. “Are you really?!”

She nodded, pulled out the phone from her back pocket to show you the proof of a text message conversation. You scrolled through some of it while she cared to explain. “At first, I wasn’t taking it that serious. We started chatting on IG and then he asked for my number. I let the message sit for a couple days, but then I gave in.” Ruby smiled. “He’s just really funny. I like that he can entertain himself, too. And I can get him to do just about anything for me,” she snickered. “I was texting him at work that I was really craving a yogurt parfait for lunch, and those Mediterranean chips we tried one time. Then, like, just as I was about to go on my lunch, I got a buzz from the lobby. He left the snacks there for me. Isn’t that so sweet?”

You handed the phone back. “No, that is really sweet.”

Ruby nodded, put the phone away. “I mean, we’re not serious or anything, still talking and feelings things out. But… I might like him,” she said with a giggle, her hazel eyes alight as she pinched her fingers together.

“I support it,” you said, encouraging her.

“Thanks. TBD, I guess. How’s Vern doing?”

You paused, glancing over her decorative bedspread and pulling at a small thread that was much tighter than you expected it to be. Vernon had mentioned that you were the first person he told, and even though you were surging to tell Ruby—to let your emotions flow and tangle with hers in search of empathy—it wasn’t your place. So you straightened up, brushed at your bare knee, smiled. “He’s well. Like usual. I was thinking of either making dinner or ordering in? What do you think?” You asked.

“Oh, ordering in,” Ruby insisted. “He’ll pay, anyway.”

And so for dinner, Vernon ordered Souvlaki bowls. He was surprised to come back inside and find that Ruby was there, but, unlike you, he hadn’t flickered in one ounce of shame. Together, you ate at the couch and played a movie. You nibbled from your golden boiled potatoes and shovelled creamy, flavourful rice into your hungry mouth alongside a garlicky salad and strips of grilled chicken, at times wondering if Vernon was going to mention anything about his departure to Ruby. But he never said a word.

Dessert was a deep-dish marble cake from the back of the fridge, and you all scraped it apart with forks until you could see the yellow, shiny tin underneath amongst the chocolate crumbs and cheap icing. You tried not to think about how horribly you would miss this, tried to focus on the memory you were in the midst of creating as opposed to how it would feel to leave it behind. Whenever your eyes felt particularly watery, you would bury the feelings with another large mouthful of cake, to which Vernon would remove the icing from your lips with a sweep of his thumb.

Ruby eventually excused herself to her bedroom when she got a phone call from her parents. Once you and Vernon cleaned up the coffee table and kitchen counters, you went to your bedroom, too.

“Oh!” You picked up the brown paper bag. “We still have to do our paintings. It’s been long enough, hasn’t it?” He sat down next to you on the bed while you held the bag closed. “Should I just reach in and pull one out?”

“Sure.” Vernon shrugged.

“Do you think it will be mine or yours?” You hummed, your fingers picking a random canvas, the dried paint rough and full of texture.

He thought for a moment. “Yours.”

Then you pulled the canvas out. “Oh! It is mine!” You flipped it toward Vernon so he could see, your heart beating anticipatorily.

Vernon raised his sharp eyebrows. “Woah, nice,” the boy complimented, reaching out to take the picture from you. He held the canvas in both his hands, continued staring, as you took pride in the pleased edges of his impressed smile. “The old Camry, huh?” Vernon laughed. “I sent you a pic, didn’t I? I can tell you added some shine on the bumper.”

You nodded. “It was my reference photo.”

“This is fuckin’ great, PJ’s,” he said, meeting your eyeline.

Heat rubbed underneath your cheeks. “Thank you… I’m glad you like it. I know how much it means to you and everything.”

Vernon hummed, agreeing. “Guess mine’s next.”

A smile was wide and bursting on your mouth.

He snatched the brown paper bag from you. “Alright. Don’t look so damn eager, over there. I know you’re ready to see a trainwreck.” Vernon reached inside the bag, then let it drop to the floor between his legs as he pulled the canvas out. “I didn’t get the artsy bone, yeah?”

“I’m smiling so much because I’m genuinely excited!” You countered, proceeding to roughly grasp the painting from Vernon’s hand in retaliation. “I know how hard you worked on it. I was freakin’ there.” And you flipped it over, a hand immediately shooting to your mouth. “Vernon!”

The boy leaned back on his hands, shrugged. “What?”

“What is this even from?!” You exclaimed.

“Can’t you tell?”

“Am I wearing… my pony t-shirt?”

“Yeah. It’s the day I saw you for the first time. When you came outta your room.” He sat up, reached over to tap the picture. “I even drew your juice.” And you saw the funnily outlined pink glass in your hand.

“Why are my eyes so big?”

“You looked surprised as hell. Which I get. It’s not too often you see a face like mine,” he said while winking at you, and you pushed his arm. “I know it’s not perfect n’ all that. But—it’s like—one of my favourite memories. It’s how I think to like of you. Just tryin’ to drink some juice one mornin’ and then your entire life gets turned upside down. Funny, huh?”

“No. It is perfect, Vernon,” you told him, admiring the hues of effort and the gingerly painted-over mistakes and how detailed everything was in a crude mixture. “I love it. Genuinely. It’s amazing.” Then you leaned over to kiss his cheek, which felt warm and soft underneath your lips, like the surface of a blushed peach. “It’s the start of everything. Of us.”

Vernon nodded, a little sigh huffing through his nose. The sound was small but sorrowful. He stared around your room. “Yeah, the start…”

ONE MONTH AGO.

In early September, you said goodbye.

Vernon came to your apartment in the morning. Everything was exceptionally still as the sun began to rise. Its light broke through the dawn like a blossoming flower. But you were already awake, waiting, unable to sleep. In fact, you hadn’t slept properly in about a week. Instead, you dreamt in bursts, with intricate stories crammed into mere minutes of mistiness and restless tossing. But your body didn’t feel the tiredness. It could only feel that something was about to happen, and so it stayed awake in preparation.

Ruby had already said her goodbye. For the past two weeks she had been away in Tuscany visiting her sick grandmother, alongside her parents and some other relatives. Family was paramount to them. She was coming back tomorrow tonight and you planned to surprise her at the airport.

As it turned out, you hadn’t gotten Catherine Love’s assistant position. Tara didn’t either, and she came into her shift crying, blowing her reddened nose with a tissue while Lara helped her into the locker room, taking the purse off her friend’s shoulder while you sat next to Tara on the little bench, rubbing her back. She calmed down with you and Lara squeezing her soft, slender hands, and you had to admit it felt strange to hold a hand that wasn’t rough and hardened with earned callouses.

“I’m so lucky to have friends like you guys,” Tara sniffled.

A letter eventually came to your mailbox. You were pulling out crumpled fliers, advertisements, and old subscriptions from unchanged addresses, and you nearly tossed a blank, white envelope addressed to you straight into the mail room’s recycling bin. But you noticed the name at the top left corner, written in neat black pen that looked like perfect computer font—Diana Basu—and you gripped the envelope so tightly that you left behind imprints of your sweaty fingertips. Back in your apartment, you stood at the kitchen counter while recovering a handwritten letter from Diana.

In the first few sentences, she explained her decision to apply for Catherine’s assistant position, and she got the job. Diana wrote about getting ready to leave for Seoul. She wrote about her new sense of freedom and lightness, how she broke up with Darian, how a friend from the Sherwood narcotic’s group had helped her journey into steadfast sobriety, and, finally, that so many positive changes had happened to her because of you. That you had never stopped caring.

She wrote that it was your best quality.

You read the sentence over and over again, feeling the penned words become ink in your eyes glossy with tears. Then you saw her updated phone number written along the bottom of the paper, a small smiley face beside it—the same face she would doodle onto the corner of your notebooks during boring, clock-watching lectures—and you suddenly hugged the letter to your chest like it was her.

Before you came outside the apartment to see Vernon, you quickly stepped into Ruby’s old slippers whose heels were thin and flatly worn. The early air was still holding onto summer’s languorous heat, but there was permeating coolness now, and it felt fresh against your arms and legs. There he was, leaned against the vanilla car, dressed in a prim jean jacket you had never seen before with a white t-shirt underneath. He smiled at you, raised his dark eyebrows, and it somehow felt like the very first time—your heart remembering itself, that it could beat that rapidly for another person.

The morning stillness blurred around you.

His golden eyes embraced you before anything else, his sun-kissed summer skin reflecting the morning light in radiance. “Nice to see the famous shirt before I go. Startin’ to think you burned it.”

“This shirt is literal history. This is its own Library of Alexandria.”

“I’m sure the shirt feels charmed.”

You smiled, and then stood on your toes, attempting to peer around him and into the backseat. “Uh, where’s all your luggage?”

“Didn’t have much. Just a suitcase in the trunk. Auggie and Danny took some old stuff from my pad. And then I sold some other shit.”

You nodded. “Did Jeonghan wire you the money?”

“I told him to wire the guys.”

“Oh.” You blinked. “That’s good. But you didn’t take any?”

Vernon shook his head. “Nah. I’ve got enough. Whatever. But there are some leftovers if you need it. Jeonghan said so. I know you didn’t take the money from Minghao so I doubt you’ll take this. But it’s there regardless”

Crossing your arms, you laughed. “I wouldn’t know how to get it.”

“Just ask Auggie or Danny. And I’m not sure that’s true. You’re a lot fuckin’ sneakier than you let on,” Vernon chuckled, tilting his head.

You approached him, flattened out the collar of his jacket, tried not to breathe in his amber musk but doing so anyway because you never wanted the sentimental smell and all the memories it harboured to dissipate. “I like to call it resourceful,” you answered, flicking your tongue along your teeth. “But sneaky works, too.”

It was hard to stomach that you were his last goodbye.

Vernon didn’t know how long he was going to be in Seoul. He often said he didn’t know if anything was going to work out. Maybe he would see his mother’s face, softened by age, for the first time in years and feel deep in his bones that he was not ready. Or maybe he would sense the relief casting over him like raindrops that he was letting the weight finally fall. Regardless, it was time for his own quest of sorts. One that would not support your relationship as the distance stretched and his world opened in difficult, painful ways.

If Vernon was meant to come back, if you were meant to be, then you trusted the universe to handle your rekindling. You had already cried enough repeating the thought to yourself when nights were especially sleepless. Sometimes it was solacing.

And if not solacing then tormenting.

Like most thoughts were.

“Well,” you hummed thoughtfully, tucking your hands behind your back so he wouldn’t notice how they quivered, “you should get going, considering how terrible you are with time. It would be kinda awkward if you missed your flight and had to reschedule everything and we needed to do this a second time.” You laughed together, his nose crinkled like a rabbit. “Is the Camry coming with you to Seoul?”

“That would be sweet, huh? But the Camry's gonna get signed over to Auggie. He'll pick it up from the airport with Danny. Hey—he said he'd sell it to you for a cheap price, once you get your licence, of course. How's that sound, PJ's? Think you can handle the Camry?”

“Maybe. With a good driving teacher.”

“Ask Danny about that. Moo just grips it and rips it,” Vernon said.

“Sounds no different from you,” you teased.

Vernon cupped your cheek. “You wouldn't like me as a teacher. We'd spend more time in the backseat than the front.”

And you pressed on his chest, leaning back to loudly laugh, only to feel him encase you in his arms, his lips skimming the sensitive skin of your throat. “Okay, okay!” You giggled. “You'll be late!”

“No chance,” Vernon hummed, and his tattooed hands moved to hold your cheeks. “I can be responsible sometimes, yeah?”

You nodded, spoke in a broken whisper, “I know.” Promptly, your hands settled overtop his, brushing your fingers over his fingers, feeling his scuffed knuckles, his scratched skin. Your eyes closed for a moment and you felt the burning embellishment of a new memory, bittersweet, sink deep into your brain. “I’m really going to miss you,” came the fragile confession of total obviousness, half-stuck in your congested throat that was beginning to close up.

“I know, lovely girl. I’ll miss you, too, yeah?” Vernon said.

But the tears stayed in place, sealed by your own will. “And you have to come back at some point. Out of principal. You still owe me molotes and a new canteen. Don’t you dare forget. Moocher.”

He chuckled with an emotional rasp, the edges of his eyes wrinkling, his smile full. “I won’t. Not with your threat hangin’ over me.”

“If you’re going to use my canteen, at least fill it with some quality soju or something. I’ll know if you don’t. I have good spidey senses.”

“Not better than mine.”

“That’s debatable.”

“Smartass.”

“Remember your manners, too.”

“You know I have manners.”

“Yes—optional manners—of which you never choose the option to have manners. You know that Diana will be down there.”

“Is she your informant now?”

“She could be.” You grasped the edges of his jacket and pulled him close, enough to press your forehead against his and spurn out the sunlight from dazzling between unnecessary spaces that were meant for your energies, instead. “So you best behave, Hansol.”

He kissed you, lips flush and sacred on yours. A part of you wanted to kick and scream, tear everything into slivers, crush the sun between your ferocious hands until the fire oozed out like magma and darkness fell like a stage curtain. But another part of you was tranquil, and it felt every second of the intimate kiss, every movement, every emotion that combined into singularity at the warmth of your soft mouths. Your fingers swept down the tattoos on his wrists, touching the ink for the last time, holding their enigmatic stories.

“Okay,” Vernon sighed. “I should hit the road, PJ’s.”

“Yes.” You nodded, beginning to let him go. “Drive safely.”

He opened the door to the car. It suddenly stung, and you struggled to compute that his body had drifted away with the faintness of fog. Then he lowered himself into the seat. The door was pulled shut, and its echo embraced the quietness in the early September air.

You listened to the engine start. Its rumble. One you hated to hear but then grew to love because it meant your person was just outside, waiting for you. Then the car was moving. It started to roll. Roll away. You took a few steps forward, slippers scuffing down the centre of the road, wanted to chase that damn car and the charming, silver-tongued boy inside who had unnegotiably changed your life.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you studied the Camry until it disappeared.

Outside, stillness of movement and sound returned. The summer's dulled heat flirted with the incoming autumn coolness in some sort of persuasion to stay longer. You returned indoors.

While Vernon was gone, you knew part of him would always linger.

Almost like a ghost.

—THE END.

[shadowkoo]

Podium Pleasers - teaser

→ Summary: F1 driver Vernon is no stranger to stunning women whispering wicked things in his ear during race season, but no voice has stopped his heart quite like yours. The ‘missing’ younger sister of one of his oldest friends. The girl who disappeared two years ago without a word. And now, you’re on his lap with your bare breasts pressed against his chest. He’s horrified to learn that you’re working at an exclusive strip club, tangled in a complicated contract where sex appeal is currency, personal relationships are forbidden, and your freedom is nothing but a twisted illusion. He wants you out, but walking away from a fantasy life built on status and money isn’t that simple. So, in a last-ditch effort, he offers you something else. Something real. A fresh start on the circuit as his assistant, where you can rebuild your future, possibly even a future by his side.

↠ vernon x f.reader | 327 words | 18+ ↠ genre: smut, f1 sport au, estranged acquaintances, friend’s younger sister, forbidden romance, forced proximity, slow burn if you squint, redemption arc/second chance/fresh start, only one bed

→ Full Fic Warnings: racer!vern x stripper!reader, lots of mentions of tits (especially in the beginning club scene), he’s well known for being a bit of a dick, he’s also tatted up (YUM). morally grey decision making, toxic choices, unsafe driving/racing tactics, car crashes & fires, mentions of injuries, family issues/trauma, judgement/feeling out of place, alcohol consumption, mentions & accusations of prostitution, physical fighting, keeping secrets, secrets spilled, mentions of blood, strong language, unprotected & explicit sex, multiple smut scenes, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, dirty talk, pain kink (digging your heels into his skin, unsure who likes it more), breast & nipple play, fingering in public, mild exhibitionism, biting, hair pulling, pet names & name calling, praise, hansol has no self restraint when it comes to you, bratty!reader, bossy protective & posessive!hansol, soft & rough sex, throat fucking, sloppy oral, cock swallowing, choking on vern’s cock, jealousy, size kink, teasing, spanking, pussy slapping, body worship, creampie, begging, & prob more tbh

→ Networks: @ksmutsociety @k-vanity @lapydiaries @keopihaus @svthub @thediamondlifenetwork @cosyhomenet

→ Author Note: this is the official teaser of my piece for the Lights Out Collab hosted by cam @highvern & em @gyuswhore for @camandemstudios! check out the collab masterlist here and be sure to check out the other fics and support every wonderful writer!

⋆˙⟡ m.list ⟡⋆⟡ ao3 ⟡⋆⟡ wips ⟡⋆⟡ updates ⟡⋆⟡ shadow realm ⟡˙⋆

“Don’t you know red is my favorite color?” Vernon murmurs, his hands sliding over your silk-covered curves. “Your hair, that dress, even your lipstick–it’s all driving me fucking insane.”

Your arms loop around his neck, yanking him closer until your mouths collide in a fight for dominance. The kiss is wild and hungry, neither willing to surrender. His tongue dives into your mouth, stealing a moan from your throat, the noise making his length twitch inside his dress pants. It’s a sound he clearly hopes will be on repeat tonight.

When he finally breaks away, his thumb drags across the corner of your mouth, smearing the crimson that’s already starting to blur. He pauses, eyes dark with mischief. “Think what remains of your lipstick will stay in place while you choke on my cock? I want you ruined,” he says, voice thick with want. “I want visual proof of what I do to you.”

Your body tingles hearing his words, and heat rushes right to your core. "Let's find out," you breathe, lowering onto your knees. Your fingers fumble to undo his belt. At this point, you’re driven by need more than patience. You’re eager to taste him, craving for your mouth to be full of him.

Dropping down to your knees, your hands instinctively reach for his belt, forcefully undoing it before unzipping his pants and pushing them down a few inches.

Vernon's thick erection tents in his boxers, teasing you for what's to come. Licking your lips, you watch as one of his tattooed hands reaches in to pull his length out. He pumps it slowly before lining his swollen tip up to your parted lips.

He lets out a shaky breath as you enclose your warm, wet mouth around his cock.

He watches you with a slow, burning smile, his other hand reaching down to guide you closer to him, taking control of the pace.

“Open wide, babygirl," he demands, "We're just getting started..."

𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔 𝒐𝒏𝒆 + 𝒕𝒘𝒐 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒐𝒐𝒏! ↳ view series masterlist

→ Taglist: want to be notified when each part is posted? join my taglist here or follow @shadowkoo-fics & turn on post notifications. you can also join the collab-specific taglist here!

@aeristudios @yoonguurt @lovetaroandtaemin @daniela-f-uwu @fancypeacepersona @verogonewild @smiileflower @lezleeferguson-120 @livelaughloveseventeen @indyuhhhhh @ilikekpop-c @jiminie-08 @cheolscherryhair

©shadowkoo 2025. All rights reserved.

[chocosvt]

ghost ride | part six. (m)

✧✎ synopsis: post-graduate, your life sucks especially hard. two jobs, a lazy roommate, and an imperceptible social life have dulled you to grey. nothing seems like it's going to change. until your roommate decides to let her plug crash at your place, and you're bribed into a strange adventure that challenges everything you thought you were.

pairing: fem!reader x vernon chapter word count: 27k full length word count: 186k genres/tropes: drug dealer!vernon, reader is a post-grad w/ a flop degree lol, inclusion of OCs, gay!soonyoung for the lol, appearances from other svt characters, opposites attract, romance, teasinggg, tensionnn, unrequited love, angst, adventure, smut, relationship drama, sprinkling of comedy, another excruciating slowburn bc what else? + reader is a tad dramatic/sensitive but that's why i love her :]

(!) warnings: drugs (IE: weed, molly, coke, whippets, alcohol), mention of guns, mention of death/overdose, intense language, an instance of non-consensual touching to the reader by a side character, some toxic & possessive behaviour, degrading, aggression, mentions of physical abuse/harm, dips into grief and loss, fractured family dynamics on vernon's part.

✧✎ a/n: OKAY i know i have said this abt every gee dee chapter BUT THIS IS ACTUALLY ONE OF MY FAVES bc the lore gets even deeper! can't freakin believe this fic ends next week 😭

LET'S NOT THINK ABT THAT!

what to note:

there are seven parts in the series

releases are weekly, ~12am EST, sunday!

inspo playlist!

if at any point you want on or off the taglist, comment/inbox/msg me!

additionally, the chapters/parts are lengthy. the first six parts are between 24-27k while the finale/ending is 30k+!

✎ 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07

PS: please note that i block contentless blogs who like my posts!

THIS WEEK: Let's Provide Hygiene Products for Gaza Women!

leave a comment or make a reblog stating something you enjoyed abt the chapter! at the end of the week, i will tally all legitimate comments/reblogs and make a donation to said organization.

IE: this chapter gets 15 comments, 25 reblogs - i donate 40$! pls note that i am a uni student living away from home so i will vary my donations accordingly to my financial situation at the time <3

VERNON. 16.

It was after school. Vernon had wandered off the property by crossing the athletic yard, paying a brisk notice toward the group of boys dressed in royal blue jerseys, the material glimmering water-like under the sun. Some were sat amongst the grass, tying on cleats, while others bounced a ball up into the air using the edge of their foot, cawing at how many bumps they achieved until losing control.

A boy noticed him from across the field. His arm moved, like he wanted to wave at Vernon, but then he was pulled away toward the goal post and shoved to stand in its centre.

Vernon had made team tryouts in the fall. But he was removed less than two months later for 'poor academic standing' and defiant behaviour. He had also shoved another boy’s cheek into the dirt for looking through his knapsack, an arm pinned behind the boy's back as he squirmed underneath Vernon’s knee like a pinched worm.

“Now that you’ve lost this opportunity, maybe it’ll get you to think a little more about your actions, Mr. Chwe.” His principal was sat across from him, separated by a massive desk that smelled strongly of stained mahogany. A smell Vernon knew more than any other boy.

A thin, graceful hand landed on Vernon’s shoulder. “He will, sir.”

But it was all down the drain. He cared very little about losing his place on the team, and even less about the rehearsed sigh that his mother would perform on her umpteenth invite to the school, trying her hardest to convince everyone that she was still very upset and disappointed in her misfit son, when she was probably beyond a point of caring, too. She only cared about her paints, and going home to feed toddler Sofia cheese sandwiches cookie-cut into star shapes.

After crossing the athletic field, Vernon travelled down the trodden path between a picket fence and the trampled woods, the ground indented and worn from the numerous steps of high school students.

He adjusted his backpack—nearly empty, apart from one binder and a thin pencil case that carried wax gum wrappers and loose change more than school supplies—such that it pressed against his belly. Unfocused on the path, he zipped open his bag, reaching down to grab a thin box stuck underneath his Civics binder. Once he had the box, he maneuvered the bag back to thumping loosely at his tailbone.

But then someone bumped him.

A girl, wide-eyed, pulling off the cheap-looking headset she was wearing to pause her iPod. “Sorry!” She mollified, her cheeks red.

Vernon didn’t say anything, just pushed past the girl despite his unfair caprice to tell her she should watch where she was going. His brows thickly downcast, inexorable in anger, his twitchy lips finding themselves curled back like a teased mutt. Hurriedly, he unsheathed a cigarette from the box, let it hang from the corner of his mouth while he patted out the lighter in his pants pocket. With a few annoyed, vigourous flicks, the cigarette was lit, and he took a long drag, blowing out the fumes into a poisonous, dead cloud.

He had stopped going straight home over a year ago.

Instead, he would waste his time by wandering around town, finding new alleyways and avenues to peruse. Some shops had enticing displays, such as the one with the wicked bicycle, sparkling red, durable wheels, and a fancy, professional break on the handlebar. Not like his old bike, which had grown its own biome of rust after his father kept forgetting to help him fix it up. A summer project continuously postponed until Vernon wondered if he should just toss the bicycle away to test if his father even noticed its absence.

Other shop displays had fine-crafted jewelry. Vernon quite liked watches. The braided, heavy kinds that were for monetary show as opposed to practicality. He frequently imagined himself with a golden watch, not too flashy such that it became cheap, but had just enough spark to make people notice. For quite a while, Vernon pondered stealing. A watch was too ambitious, however, especially from an opulent jewelry store who were used to thieves and scruffy sixteen-year-old boys with oddly empty backpacks.

Then there was the bakery.

The older high schoolers who had privilege to leave school grounds during lunch or spare periods spoke of coming there, gave high praise to their sandwiches of thick, cloudy bread and their signature chocolate chip cookies that were almost too large to finish.

Vernon was old enough to have such a privilege, although it was another opportunity taken away in consequence to his behaviour.

Upon tossing the cigarette onto the street, Vernon shouldered into the bakery, which cued the pealing of a pleasant bell. An older man stood behind the counter wearing a white apron and a hairnet, the surface before him powdered with flour. He was pressing a circular-shaped cutter into a sheet of raw dough—perhaps biscuits—sliding each one onto a parchment-lined baking sheet. He acknowledged Vernon with a slight nod, and Vernon nodded back.

The aisles were few and short. Bagged bread, tortillas, muffins, croissants, puffed buns, and other packaged, baked goods lined him on either side. Something stirred in his stomach. He had nothing but nickels and pennies picked up off the school floors. The air inside was warm, but not sticky, and he felt the gentle breeze of the ceiling fan tickle the dark hairs on his head, meanwhile fluffing through the air the faint scent of yeast frothing in warm water.

Vernon lurked near the aisle’s end, away from the baker. He focused on a tiny plastic container of four biscuits with piped cream and jam in between. When he wasn’t removed from hospitality for eating the food, they made a similar dessert, but with chocolate instead.

He glanced around quick. No one.

The box was tiny and could easily slide into his bag. But it might make noise. It was the kind of thin, sharp plastic that hated being touched.

Maybe he could just hide it against his leg, away from the baker, so he couldn’t see what he was holding. Vernon knew he was overthinking and drawing suspicion. So he grabbed the box and walked perhaps a little too briskly toward the entrance, waving at the baker, somewhat afraid the doors might lock and some alarm would start shrieking and he would be captured inside, forced to confess and then work off the cost of the biscuits. But he felt the door give way, opening into relief and late-afternoon sunlight.

Vernon almost yelped in ebullience. His first theft. Low-hanging fruit, he knew, but it proved he was capable, slippery like liquid. He hustled down a short alley beside the bakery, no longer hiding the biscuits.

“You pay for that?”

He stopped. The ashy, suffusing scent of a smoked cigarette reached his nose, and Vernon suspected he might just get his ass handed to him for stealing strawberry cream biscuits. He looked. A heavy, faded green door with a doodle of indiscernible graffiti. Leaned beside it, a boy dressed in a dark blue apron scattered with powders. He was older than Vernon—he could tell—from the myriad of tattoos along his arms, which had more muscle and thickness and corded veins than Vernon’s did. The alley was silent as Vernon's mind floundered.

But the boy didn’t repeat his question.

His eyes were deep and dark, like wood rubbed with oil, and something about the stillness kept Vernon speared in place.

Vernon realized he was feeling a hotness—shame and embarrassment for his failure. But he would not let the stranger understand this—this taller, harder, relaxed stranger with his mature tattoos and his pierced dimple.

Vernon shrugged. “No, I didn’t. Gonna call the cops?”

“Those are five bucks. You don’t have five bucks?”

“Well—I just stole. Why the fuck would I have five bucks?” He almost wanted to ask if the stranger was stupid, but clamped his tongue.

“You look about sixteen. No job.” It wasn’t a question. He stated it with an evidentiary tone, like it was more obvious than the earth. Cigarette smoke had then curled out from his mouth, very slowly, almost chicly, like he was bending it. Like he knew how cool he was.

Vernon bristled. “And who the fuck are you? Social services?”

“I can give you five dollars. Go back in and pay for it.”

He scoffed, totally aghast by this bothersome stranger and his holier-than-thou audacity. Vernon bared his teeth. Couldn’t find the words.

The stranger stuck the cigarette behind his ear. Then, he proceeded to reach into his back pocket, pulling out a simple leather wallet with some weathered cracks and a sticker of a jewelled red cross. “You’re not a usual,” he said, sifting through a slim pocket filled with paper bills. “They come around at lunch. Loud and laughing. Buy sandwiches and juice. They don’t let you out, huh? What’d you do?”

“Nothing,” Vernon nearly growled when he spoke, making sure to sound out the word slower than usual because if he didn’t then that twang—that conglomerated singularity of a travelled boy who never found his home—would soak his voice and that might give the stranger more ammunition to fire. “You don’t know me.”

“Here,” he stuck out a five-dollar bill.

“Shove it up your ass, Jesus. I don’t need your charity.”

“You’re very funny,” he pointed out with warmth.

Vernon froze, his grip tightening around the plastic box of biscuits such that it crackled. The stranger was smiling at him politely. Now closer, too, standing in the fluid of sunlight, Vernon saw that the bronze skin of his face—especially around his nose and underneath his eyes—was scattered with freckles. The fibres of his hair were long, thick and lustrous, appearing dark brown but flashing with more reddish shimmers under the sun. Girls must love him. That must be why so many rushed there during lunch.

He didn’t thank him. “I don’t want the money.”

“Not really for you. For my boss.”

“Then you give it to him.”

“Why would I cover for your shame and dishonesty?” He laughed.

Vernon shrank, packing into himself. For some reason, it hurt to hear this young man, almost his age, suave and collected, poke his feelings, more than his own parents, his school principal. He wanted to snap and sneer at him like a wounded dog backed into a corner.

“Y’know what?” Vernon grumbled. “Take this shit.” He shoved the desserts at the stranger. “You’re weird and this isn’t worth it.”

Looking down at the biscuits, the stranger nodded satisfactorily, and then made his way toward a few stacked crates beside the door. He put his wallet away and sat down. Popped open the box. Picked up a strawberry cream biscuit and ate it. “Good. Made this morning.”

And Vernon almost screamed, fists crumpled, on fire.

The stranger licked some jam off his thumb.

Vernon charged up to him. “You’re a fuckin’ twat.”

He was unbothered at the teenager with splotchy skin and wires along his teeth seething in his face. “You have a very colourful language. I’m sure your great at English. Essays and that.”

Whatever guise of decorum Vernon had left—it was bare particles in his hands now—dust and imagination. Even if this stranger could physically best him in the most humiliating way, Vernon was too emboldened by insecurity and its underbelly of rage. His fingers lurched through the boy’s white shirt collar. He could smell the vanilla flavouring, the sugar and egg whites of a whipped meringue, cloves and nutmeg, all over his skin and clothes. But the cigarette, still burning above his ear, tainted all that sweetness. That was the stranger. A mask. Something Vernon knew.

“I’ll beat the fuck outta you,” Vernon huffed.

But it became an empty, pale husk of a threat.

“Hey!” Someone shouted, grabbing Vernon’s shoulder and lugging him away from the composed stranger. “What the fuck’s all this?”

Vernon stumbled. There was something being pointed at him, but his eyesight had gone momentarily blurry. All Vernon knew was that the object was a dull colour, with a skinny-kinked shape. His heart nearly flatlined when everything reoriented itself and he saw the object was a gun, clasped in one straight-shooting hand of a teenage boy with frumpy, loose brown hair and hollowed out, sunken eyes that made him look like a porcelain doll left out in the rain. He wore a blue apron, too. But it seemed fresh. No stains of any kind.

Without thought, Vernon’s hands flew up.

The stranger shook his head, setting his desserts aside, and spoke in a plain, undisturbed tone that suggested this was nothing new. “Not necessary. I’ll have it back, Danny. Before someone sees, alright?” And then the weapon was forfeited from the newcomer's hand. The freckled stranger tucked the gun somewhere behind his back, in a place unknown and sightless to Vernon. “Go inside and clock-in so he knows you’re here. You’ve been late too many times.”

He lingered. “Who the fuck is that?”

“A kid.”

Even though he was terrified of what the situation had morphed into, his battered ego urged him to correct the stranger. Vernon was certainly not a kid, and it was insulting to be called such when he was likely no less than two or three years younger than these teenagers.

Despite the drained nature of the friend’s hooded eyes, there was a metallic sharpness about them, scraping across Vernon like a wild cat's claw as he began leaving the alleyway, even keeping his head turned to maintain the intense contact until disappearing around the corner.

“Sorry,” the stranger sighed, “bad timing, bad luck. I needed the gun back, for obvious reasons. He’s just loyal, is all. A good friend.”

“I don’t care,” Vernon laughed churlishly, throwing up his hands. “I’m goin’. Whatever. You're fucked up. Keep your cookies.”

His march down the alley was notably hasty. When Vernon finally emerged onto the street, the sky was dense with clouds and the haloing light from before had been snuffed into a greyness. Just as he felt inside. Vernon was not a kid. But he was certainly not whatever those teenagers were, either. The one with the brown dots all over his face—Vernon would not forget him. Maybe there was no mask. Maybe it was just too chilling to realize that people with his unshaken sense walked the same roads as he did.

Just a little bit, Vernon suddenly wanted to be him.

VERNON. 18.

He spent most of his time in a house that wasn’t his. Consistently, the spaces filled with strangers. There were voices he could not recognize, vibrating through the walls, and colognes and perfumes that were foreign to his nose, lingering behind like energy. Very rarely was there ever a moment of quiet. Action popped loose at any time. He wasn’t allowed to sit by the windows. The curtains were never allowed open. Only recently was he allowed to enter the basement without having someone else escort him. If he saw that the doors to the kitchen were closed, then he was better off not entering. He could always smell the acridness. Like degrading plastic caught underneath a burner. Vernon had tried a lot. But never that.

Dots wouldn’t condone it.

Vernon came by the house in the afternoon. It was early September, and so the mornings were rife with freshness. He had taken the Light Rail. It was crammed with university students. Pressed against the wall, Vernon hadn’t had much space to move, and the girl who got on the train at the same time as him had only gotten more and more squished into his body. He could smell her fruity shampoo, peered at the textbook she was holding from over her shoulder.

The Art of Music in Film-Making. 8th Edition.

He had stared at her head, and inside, Vernon couldn’t understand if he was envious or angry. Students exploded out from the train once it hit the university, like a plastic bag filled with water, now punctured and bursting. The girl glanced sideways at Vernon as she was getting off. He wanted to scowl at her, say, “what? It’s not my fuckin’ fault we were trapped against each other for fifteen minutes.” But he didn’t. Maybe she had been wondering if he might get off, too, only for the Light Rail to whisk him away in a smooth bullet.

For once, the house wasn’t crawling with people. A few. But not an onslaught. Vernon had entered through the back door—one of the two leading into the kitchen—as it was already propped open by a dented tin bucket with a brick sitting inside. Two older men sat at the dining table, flicking cards onto the crinkly plastic sheet thrown overtop its surface. With the back door open, the air inside lacked its usual heaviness and potency.

“Hey,” Vernon sighed. “I’m makin’ a deposit.”

One of them removed his cigarette, tapped off its ashes into a tray, and proceeded to point his finger in the direction of the living room.

“He’s asleep,” the other man said.

“No, he’s not. He was walking around. I saw him.”

Vernon shrugged. “It’s fine. I just need the key.”

Wandering into the living room, Vernon stopped short of trekking his sneakers onto the carpeting. Nobody else seemed to care about it but him. The two armchairs were sunken yet empty, and the couch wasn’t laboured with a slumped-over bod slurried in drunkenness or euphoria. Fierce sunlight pushed against the closed emerald curtains, and the space was flooded with the sheerness of glowing green.

“Vernon?”

He looked to the staircase. Snozz was hobbling down.

“Uh, hey. Is Dotsy here?”

“No. Business.” That was what everybody said when they were tending to something serious but not serious enough that it needed to be said. Snozz sighed aloud harshly while he stepped onto the floor, and Vernon thought his expression was coiled like wire, as though he were in pain. “What’s the sitch? Are you depositing?”

“Yeah.”

“M’kay.”

He followed Snozz around the staircase.

The boy’s movements were stiffened and listless. Vernon could hear his breathing. Snozz was always having some sort of health problem. Vernon wanted to ask—maybe his asthma was acting up again—but Snozz didn’t talk much. For the most part, he was plain and distant, not speaking unless spoken to, and had the most removed eyes, though they were usually covered by his tufted, chestnut fringe, like he knew and didn’t want anybody pitying him.

After Snozz unlocked the basement door, he handed Vernon a different key that was much smaller. A shiny silver. Vernon then stepped down into the cool basement of the house, to which he could smell the moistness and soil that the forest breathed. No one was allowed to dawdle in the basement. Everything was done quickly. Vernon pushed aside the wooden shelf against the wall, uncovering a square cut into the cement, filled by compact, box-shaped lockers. He opened his, marked by a three-digit number, proceeding to leave inside the money he had just removed from his backpack. Vernon closed up the locker, moved the shelf back, and returned the miniature key to Snozz who was waiting upstairs.

“When is Dots comin’ by?” Vernon asked.

“Sometime tonight. You can wait here if you want.”

“Alright. Thanks. City’s crawlin’ with uni kids. Train was fuckin’ ridiculous. I need a better way of comin’ here, man. A damn car.”

Snozz smiled very loosely at Vernon. “Ask Dots.”

The longer Vernon waited at the house, the more people gradually came and left, flipping past like book pages in a breeze. Some stayed. Sharla, for instance. She was older than Vernon. Twenty-one. An advanced university student who would begin writing her thesis that year, as Vernon had learned through their numerous conversations. She had two younger siblings that often came to the house with her: a nineteen-year-old brother with vitiligo, and a quiet sister who was Vernon’s age. He had spoken to Sharla’s brother before. He was louder, with an energy that could easily engulf a room, talking about almost anything like he was some sort of expert when in reality he only read a few sentences from an article and then a commenter’s critique. “You had to pay for the full thing! Imagine fucking cock-blocking words! How do people get away with that shit?”

It always made Vernon laugh. He enjoyed being around him.

“Call me Moo!” But his real name was August.

Their sister on the other hand, Jade, was small and reticent. She didn’t like coming inside, would rather sit at the glass table on the back patio and do her homework in the shade.

Consequently, Vernon never really talked to her.

He knew Sharla the best out of the siblings. He liked her intelligence; the way she spoke was lentamente and smooth with confidence, and there was an expressional grace in her gentle hand motions. Every now and again she would stop Moo in his blathering, make a thoughtful correction that seemed so obvious even though it was deeply rooted into readings Vernon wouldn’t even know where to find. He would always watch her heart-shaped lips when she spoke, shining with gloss. And when she was distracted, he might have spent a few seconds staring at her chest and how nicely those rounded, low-cut tops framed her body. The black wig she wore was gleaming with expense, reaching down to her waist, scented with hibiscus and something else lush, perfumy, just like her dark skin.

Vernon did know her well.

They had sex for the first time last month.

“I went to the mechanic without Daddy yesterday. You should have heard the way they spoke to me. It was terrible. They would never speak to me like that if Daddy were there, obviously. There was another woman working on an engine or something across the room. She had a very sympathetic look. She wouldn’t let them try to sell me a new air-filter. The oil valve was the problem!”

Vernon nodded along; his face looped in a soft, lost smile. Sharla paused, looking to him expectantly, searching for a response that proved he was listening and not caught in a reverie.

He immediately straightened up, pulling his elbow off the back of the couch. “I’d be a mechanic.”

“Would you?” She laughed in the most heavenly way a person could laugh. “I suppose I could see you doing that…”

“You know I don’t mind gettin’ my hands dirty.”

Sharla shoved his chest and smiled. “Be polite,” she lilted in warning, though a sparkle had jumped through her eyes like a shooting star.

“What’re you up to this Saturday?”

“I don’t know… what are you up to?” With her head rested against a thoughtfully poised fist, and her lips flitting up at the edges, she was already beginning to draw Vernon in.

He could devour her right there on the couch.

But he merely smirked. “Up on you, potentially.”

She had a small black purse sitting on her lap, textured with glazed, faux alligator print. From inside, something started to ring. Sharla rummaged for her phone. “We’ll see,” she acknowledged with an effortless wink, taking the phone to answer privately somewhere upstairs.

Vernon threw himself into a starfish on the couch once she had left, groaning aloud, smelling the juicy, floral tinges of her perfume drift through the air, leaving him frustrated. He wondered if Dots was back yet, even though he hadn’t heard any noise from the driveway.

Sometimes he would be too absorbed talking to Sharla to notice anything. Vernon wandered into the empty kitchen. He approached the back door to the patio, pulled aside the square lace covering the window. Jade was there, at the glass table, a notebook open in front of her scrawled with text Vernon couldn’t read alongside an awfully thick book. Sat beside her was Dots. Leaned forward in his seat, elbows on his knees, seemingly listening intently to something Jade was explaining. Vernon cracked the door open slightly.

“—I don’t mind her as a professor. She explains things well. But she’s kinda old fashioned and uses a chalkboard. And then she’ll erase something as I’m trying to write it down!” Jade laughed into a hand covering her mouth. “It’s mostly review of pre-calculus right now.”

“Are you nervous?” Dots asked her.

Jade paused, taking a moment to glance down at her lap, and then at her notebook, and finally she looked at him. “Yeah. Calc is so hard.”

“It is. But I know you’re smart. And resourceful,” he told her with a tone full of warmth, the kind that was nourishing and sincere.

Vernon wondered when he had come back. And for how long he had been sitting outside, talking to Jade. Nobody in the house really conversed with her apart from a few words, sensing that she probably shouldn’t be there, but was courted along by her sister as she was her usual ride. Dots talked to her. Typically about her school. Her future. Her plans. Her friends. Her life. Sometimes Vernon listened in secret. Her issues were so ordinary that he wondered how they could even be considered issues.

“It’s just hard ‘cause… you know… Sharla is the intelligent, pretty one who makes Daddy proud. Auggie has his humour. And he knows how to hustle,” Jade explained her musings, letting her pencil weakly tap the table. “But I kind of float this space… where I’m not sure what I contribute. Or what people think of me. Probably nothing. Maybe that I’m nice?” She winced.

“What’s wrong with nice?” Dots encouraged. “Nice people are hard to come by in my opinion. I guess it’s a ubiquitous word, so maybe it feels lesser in value. But why have the word if it didn’t have its place? Right?”

She brushed under the glasses resting on her nose. “Yeah.”

“It’s getting late,” Dots said, checking his wrist watch—a braided silver watch that he often wore. “Is Sharla driving you home?”

“I have no clue,” Jade huffed. “She probably wants to stay.”

Vernon’s lips buzzed at the edges with a grin. He hoped so.

Dots scooted his chair backward. “I can give you a ride.”

Jade grabbed her pencil with both hands, eyes flaring open. “You don’t have to do that. It’s only seven. I mean, our house is kinda far and I’m sure if I annoy Sharla with enough texts, she’ll get a clue.”

“Are you sure?” He questioned softly, standing up from the chair and pushing it back under the table. “I don’t mind. Why don’t you think about it? Finish your homework and then come find me inside.”

She sat, staring at her notes, before nodding. “Okay.”

Vernon moved away from the door. He opened one of the aged wooden cupboards and pulled out a glass, which he proceeded to fill with unattractively spluttering water from the kitchen tap. As Dots came inside off the porch, Vernon sipped at the water and had his phone in hand, feigning a little display of furtiveness. Dots threw his car keys onto the dining table and tugged off his dark green sweatshirt with the yellow stitching, letting it bundle into a chair.

Vernon kept drinking the water nonchalantly.

“You’re here,” Dots finally acknowledged. “Deposit?”

Vernon set the water aside. It always tasted horrible. Like a mouthful of grit and coins. “Yeah. Got all the dudes on Gemini.”

“No trouble?”

“Some restlessness.”

“Well, tell them to stop using it so damn fast.”

They both chuckled. Vernon found himself examining the silver watch that his friend was wearing. It wasn’t too gaudy. Just the right amount of shine at the distance he was away, paired nicely with the small diamond studs that Dots often wore in his ears. His style was never overbearing, even if he had the money to be. Vernon appreciated his subtleness.

“You need a ride, too?” Dots asked.

Vernon tensed his shoulders. “Huh?”

“I can give you a ride with Jade.” His eyes darted with a flash of knowingness, and Vernon wanted to become invisible.

“Uh, no. That’s alright…” Vernon laughed to pulverise the suddenly awkward warmth that flooded his face. It was already humiliating enough to realize he had been caught. And sitting in a car with Jade, who he had no interest in speaking with, wasn’t going to make it better. “Actually, though. I was wonderin’ if it’s cool and all… if I stay the night here?”

Dots folded his arms. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His friend paused, letting his bottom lip slip through his teeth, and he gave Vernon one of those earnest, heartfelt stares. “That’s would be your third time this week. If you need to crash somewhere for a while—”

“I won’t anymore,” Vernon interrupted. “I’ll be more… diligent.”

“No—look—I get it,” Dots sighed empathetically, almost like a parent. “You know you can stay here, right? My room is always open. I like sleeping on the couch better, anyway. Snozz wouldn’t care. How do you think he ended up here?” The lambent, gently flickering lights of the buzzing kitchen created a solacing glow that Vernon sensed in his chest. He saw the glow reflected in his friend’s expression, that of wholesomeness. Such openness. Such compassion.

“I dunno…” Vernon murmured, sniffing. An odd bought of shyness had made him stiff. He never felt his age that frequently, and it was difficult to understand that being subject to another’s welcome was not pitiful. He wasn’t built to brave every little thing and do so unbreakably, which his teenage self—used to fighting alone—was finding difficult to accept. “It’s generous stuff, Dotsy. It already sucks enough comin’ here.”

His friend shrugged. “So stay.”

Suddenly, the back door squeaked open wide. Jade was stood at the threshold, pencil twitching between her fingers. She glanced at Vernon for no less than a second. “Hey—sorry to interrupt—I, um, I’ve been doing some thinking and I would really like a ride home… thanks.”

Dots nodded. “Sure thing.”

“I’ll just pack my bag,” Jade said, looking coy. As she let the door swing shut, Vernon found that her gaze seared across him as though he were beaming with radiation. Like she was grappling with the image that someone her age had such a different life than hers, without her ordinary problems. It reminded him of the girl who gave him that expectant glimmer on the train, waiting for him to follow her into campus. And he found that such looks were always spotted with sadness. His life must be so dampened, cold, without parents to guide him and love him, without a hopeful future backed by education or some pertinent trade. Wandering and lacking purpose.

Vernon felt angry the more he thought into it.

“Sleep on it,” Dots said as he readied to leave.

He returned to drinking the glass of horrible tasting water, finding the metallic flavour easier to palate than his creeping temper, looming up from his skin like vines. Vernon’s eyes then flitted over the lip of the glass, watching his friend leave with Jade.

His existence could not be a waste.

But he wasn’t sure how to tell.

Vernon had no idea who she was. A friend of Sharla’s that ended up coming to the house a few hours later, name forgotten mere minutes after being introduced to each other because all Vernon cared about was getting his hands on was the particular strain of weed she had brought. They bunched into an empty room upstairs. There was only a mattress on the floor, and Vernon found himself squished between Sharla and her frisky friend, still dressed in her work attire, steamed black slacks and a white button-down shirt. She smelled lightly of vanilla and subway dust, the gold bracelets on her wrist clacking whenever she moved. In passing, he would have never pegged her to be lighting a spliff at a drug dealer’s house.

The strain was Loud. Vernon immediately understood why. Its potency and sting were punchier than other types of weed, and from the very first hit, he could already sense the euphoria power through him like a careen of howling wind. The flavour lingered in his throat. Burning. Dense. It felt like he was breathing in earthy fumes. He fell backward onto the mattress while Sharla and her friend continued exchanging the spliff. Their giggles formed visible notes that he could identify in the air, a floating sheet music.

“Another hit, Prince Charming?” Sharla enticed as she leaned over him, her pupils full and swirling like two freshly poured shots of whiskey. “Pass me the spliff,” she said, motioning at her friend who was exhaling smoke.

The night only continued to divulge.

Vernon was elsewhere. Weightless as a feather.

At some point, he found Sharla’s pampered lips on his. And then he was kissing her ambiguous friend who felt more like a shadow, fluttering in and out, disappearing and then reappearing, passing through his grip with such hummingbird fleetingness. The room was cloudy and the air was sparse. There were extreme crests of warmth, around him and inside his body. Hairs were stuck to his forehead by sweat. Glimmers of bare skin twinkled past his eyes and pressed up against him, sticky, unforgivably hot.

But then morning came.

The mattress was surrounded by lumps of clothes, discarded jewelry, and two wealthy handbags. Vernon noticed that his cheek was lying against a pale shoulder blade tattooed with an ornate angel wing, whorls of ashen blonde, curly hair tickling his forehead. When he groggily squinted behind him, he saw the effluent flow of a dark wig down a lean, smooth back.

He stared up at the ceiling and grinned.

VERNON. 20.

He sat beside Moo, shoulder pressed to shoulder, on the end of a bed whose sheets were stiff and cold. There was minimal light. Most came from the bubbling fish tank set up on a long, wide dresser, an aquamarine of splashing blue. A small shrimp with translucent edges scurried along the glass. Vernon watched, expression blank, until Moo pulled out his lighter and started sparking it.

Both Vernon and Snozz looked at him. The silence was mutually accepted without communicating, but now broken, by a hissing flame.

Moo glanced between each boy. “What? I’m bored.”

Vernon was bored, too. They had been waiting in the bedroom for almost half an hour, hurried in by Snozz on account of an important discussion that must happen immediately, as soon as Dots arrived back at the house. Snozz wouldn’t reveal much, just leaned against the shut closet doors, arms crossed, staring at some random stain on the carpet. Typically his quietness wasn’t anything alarming; however, Vernon sensed a portent pressure in the room’s atmosphere that made him solemn and pensive.

“Is he buying groceries or something?” Moo grumbled, proceeding to lean forward on his knees, spark the lighter again out of boredom. “He needs to stock the fridge for summer. It sucked major ass when we were out of Freezies. I bet the forty-pack is on sale right now. I saw it last week.”

Snozz stared at him, his glance muddled by shadows, and Vernon couldn’t decipher if he was annoyed or impartial to the conversation. The boy’s feelings were always cloudy—Vernon spent the first two years of their friendship believing that Snozz loathed him—until he realized that he was just naturally distant and circumstantially numb. Vernon’s first few tattoos along his bicep were done by Snozz, either half-price or totally free.

Vernon decided to nudge Moo’s shoulder. “Why didn’t you get em’ then, huh? If you were standin’ right fuckin’ there. Hypocrite.”

“Erm, I was on duty,” Moo answered in a sarcastic, nasally tone.

“Doesn’t sound like it.”

“Shut up, tool. I move more than you,” his friend scoffed. It was another one of their soft-hearted spats. “You were kicked off Country Club.”

Vernon rolled his eyes, half-smirked, and picked at a hang nail on his thumb. “Yeah—you’re better at suckin’ up to rich assholes. Congrats.”

“Mad ‘cause you don’t get free margs?”

“After you wipe down their clubs, Ball Boy.”

They started to giggle. Then, their laughter, completely pulling apart the threads of silence sewn into the air. Vernon slapped his knee while Moo leaned over, snickering to himself, shoulder blades contracting and rippling under his shirt.

Across the room, the closet heaved loudly as Snozz had stopped leaning against the shuttered, aged wood. Keeping his arms folded, the boy took firm steps toward the bedroom door, the countenance thinly moulded to his face stern and unimpressed. “Country Club isn’t yours anymore,” he muttered into the dusk, almost too smooth to hear, the smoothest his voice had been, before he left the room.

Moo’s wiry brows furrowed, staring back at Vernon in confusion and slight amazement, as such hostility from Snozz was rare. Vernon had not a clue, either, demonstrating a limp shrug that hardly moved his shoulders. The room slipped back into silence, the fish tank occasionally bubbling or whirring or making some paucity of gentle noise. Whatever the issue was, he was starting to swallow its occluded weight, and in the very back of his mouth, he tasted the same sourness that Snozz had perhaps tasted.

“What the fuck do you mean Country Club isn’t mine?!” Moo bellowed from the corner of the bedroom, spread out in a cheap swivel chair, hands pressing through his teased afro. “I was just fucking there! Last week!”

Dots was finally back. He had returned to the upstairs bedroom with Snozz, who resumed his post of leaning against the closet doors, observing the befuddlement hit the ground with the force of a meteor. Vernon stayed silent. Dots was sitting behind him on the bed, and he could feel his friend’s weight dip into the mattress, like a bending gravity, as he spoke factually to Moo.

“Nothing’s secure,” Dots said. “You know that.”

“Well, yeah, but—I was just laughing it up with the freaking owner!”

Vernon bit his lip. Moo often confused cordiality with business, which wasn’t particularly a concept in their world, especially when it came to the privatized rich. It was almost worse when someone who was supposed to be your esteemed buyer laughed with you, cut the fresh lime to your cold beer, grabbed onto your shoulder and shook it amicably when the conversation got good. It wasn’t bond at all. It was disposability. A definitive lack of seriousness. And Moo was painfully bad at being serious.

Dots sighed, “that’s the problem.”

“Why’d you even put me on then? Why not keep Vern?”

He tensed, almost wanted to glance over his shoulder and scowl.

“They won’t go near him with a ten-foot pole. His roughness is better on the streets, and with the arrogant college kids. You’ve got prestige because of your father. But you danced around too much. They stopped taking you serious even if you moved good product. How do they know you won’t get flighty when something screws up? That you can sack up. Take charge. They don’t.”

Vernon heard the chair creak. Moo was up on his feet, wandering around the room, pacing through the tank’s blue mirage that was stretching across the carpet like a northern aurora. He knew the feeling. He had lost streets, too. It was disorientating, uprising anger clashing in waves with the ignominy of incompetence. But Vernon always showed his grit, pushing back, taking a stance—something Moo had yet to demonstrate.

After exhaling a deep, long breath, Moo paused, removing the hands that were cushioning behind his head. “So, what’s the sitch? You want me to get Country Club back, right? Which assholes swindled me?”

Dots remained quiet. Vernon glanced back at him, watched him friend stare at the blankness of the beige wall until he huffed, coming to his feet. He walked over to his bubbling fish tank, grabbed a package of flaked food, and shook some inside. Vernon heard tiny nibbles and ripples.

Moo sighed, cheeks blowing out air, “I’m fucked, is that it?”

“No,” Dots said impassively, with stillness. “Moo, Snozz, go downstairs and review the deposits from this week. It’s late.” He proceeded to turn around from his fish tank. “We’ll regroup soon.”

Snozz was already opening the door. But Moo stood in place, frozen for a moment too long, likely understanding that the dismissal wasn’t hiding anything propitious. When Snozz called out to him, Moo begrudgingly left, scratching a white patch on his arm with twitchy, irritated fingers. Once his friends were gone, Vernon felt somewhat awkward about staying behind, especially since Dots seemed more detached and aloof than usual, letting silence thicken the air.

Sometimes things scattered, rolling chaotically, like slippery marbles shooting across a smooth floor, bouncing down stairs, swivelling under beds. And much of the pressure to make things whole again swelled up in Dots’ hands. Vernon shifted, staring down at the carpet.

“You’ll do it,” Dots said.

He stiffened. “Huh?”

Dots sat beside Vernon on the bed, where Moo once sat. His friend opened up his hands, and his palms were coordinates of ghostly, etched scars and welted callouses. When Vernon peeked at his own palms, they looked like the prelude. He saw openness in the spaces where skin was unmarred, like an unplowed field.

“I want you to get back Hylands.”

Vernon closed his hand into a fist. “You took me off.”

“This isn’t about dealing. You know who took Hylands?”

He shook his head. “No idea. Someone from the big leagues?”

“No. He’s around your age. He’s new here, but he’s been creeping his way in little by little. He’s Chinese. You know Mr. Zhang is, too.”

Vernon scoffed, rubbing his knuckles. “Then where’s he gettin’ product? Especially in quantity, if he’s just a one-man show. Sure they can communicate well, but it can’t be talk only. They don’t want promises.”

“He obviously has suppliers. Foreign, likely.”

“Hm… so… what am I supposed to do?”

Dots smiled. “If we get him, we get Country Club.”

“You think he’s free range?”

“Here, he is. For now. Hylands is big money. Moo fucked up. But so did I in believing he wouldn’t fool around. I’m sure there are others thinking the same thing. If he is free range, he won’t be for long.”

Vernon sighed, emptying out the pressure in his chest. “I just don’t understand… like… why are you pickin’ me? What am I supposed to say to the dude? Does he even speak English? How are we gonna communicate?”

“I’ve set up a meeting,” Dots said. Vernon thought he could relax until his friend continued, “’it’s tomorrow. You’ll meet your translator at the coffeehouse—Jitters—she’ll be sitting at the far-left window in a dark purple dress. She’s clever. I’ve contacted her before when we needed to deal with the Yuáns poaching around Bronson. You need to be at Hylands by five o’clock. There’s an old storage house behind the cart corral. That’s where the three of you will rendezvous. I don’t suspect there’ll be much trouble. If he’s new, he’s looking for allies. Just to be safe, though, Snozz will give you one of his Glocks. It’s smaller, fits easily in between your waistband, so a good jacket will cover it. Don’t pull it out unless you absolutely have to. Even then, don’t shoot it. Like I said, I wouldn’t expect much trouble.”

Letting the advice simmer, Vernon stared at the floor, wondering how he was supposed to react, what he should say. This wasn’t the kind of responsibility he was expecting. He was just a dealer with a witty tongue, no different than the slick, contortionist salespeople attempting to sell miraculous weight loss pills over the phone, except with a lot more gutturalness, and the pills weren’t dressed-up lies. The responsibility meant trust, Vernon knew that, but it didn’t make his acceptance any easier.

He felt a hand squeeze his shoulder. “Do you want to do this?”

Now he was being given a choice. That almost seemed worse.

Vernon shrugged. “I just don’t know why you picked me. I mean, I do the street deals for a reason. I’m not exactly fuckin’ Shakespeare with my words. I’m workin’ with people who don’t need much convincin’.”

“Exactly,” Dots said. “You’re just you.”

Vernon winced. “And how is that gonna help?”

“Your authenticity. It’s not about the purple prose, right? You don’t pull walls over people’s eyes. You take it or leave it. There’s no ambiguity.”

Vernon didn’t respond. He leaned forward, elbows digging into his knees, hands pulling down his face. This was a job he was good at. He didn’t need to augment himself into different versions to fit some tacky mold. The money was good. He could talk and dress however he wanted. Most of his work was done alone, which he appreciated, still with a tightknit crew waiting for him to come back. It was the closest to freedom he would ever taste. Vernon was happy where he was. But complacency often made him wary. Adventure sparked at his feet like popping pieces of scorched wood.

Sometimes he did want more.

Even if the ‘more’ wasn’t what most people dreamed of.

He sat back, exhaled loudly. “Okay, Dotsy. I’ll do it.” Vernon looked to his friend and stuck out a pointing finger. “But you can’t throw me out to the fuckin’ wolves if I lose this little twerp. Give them Moo,” he laughed.

Dots had a warm, gleaming smile, a picture of dappled sunlight. He grabbed onto Vernon’s hand and pulled him in close. They both slapped each other’s backs in camaraderie and trust. Dots’ fingers suddenly ruffled through Vernon’s tamed hair with liveliness and the boy wriggled away, pushing his friend’s sturdy arm. “Fuck off. I showered today.”

“I knew I smelled passionfruit.” He smiled again. “You’ll do fine.”

“What’s this dude’s name, anyway?”

“Minghao.”

“And he’s my age?”

“Something close.”

“I bet you that translator chick is gonna turn my words around,” he said tartly.” I’ll sound like freakin’ cotton candy and Skittles.”

Dots shook his head. “You won’t be the easiest person to translate for, but she’ll do her best. Besides, your gruffness doesn’t need translation.”

Vernon traced a path of smooth skin on his palm, marvelling at the softness, before closing his hand concludingly into a fist. “Damn right.”

You stepped out from the hot shower, your body wrapped into a white towel that held floral remnants of sweet oils. Your wet feet left imprints upon the absorbent, spongey mat. While patting yourself down, you couldn’t help but occasionally pick through the expensive items lining the enormous marble of the washroom sink. It was like a beauty store—jellied lip masks and ceramide-protective skin creams and tall, thin spray bottles labelled with exotic scents that you would walk past in those overpriced sections of a mall. 

You opened a tiny lip-sized tin to see a pale pink balm inside and sniffed its cherry blossom aroma. You uncapped the lid to an unused perfume bottle shaped like a ballerina’s slipper and immediately recoiled at the overbearing, sugary notes. You squirted out some peach-toned lotion into your hands and rubbed its whipped, heavy texture down your arm, dazzled by the healthy, moisturized glow it left behind. It was like you were a little girl sifting through your mother’s secretive drawers, when everything felt unusually extraordinary. But the feeling had pleasantly unearthed itself and you were helpless to deny something you had believed was long gone.

By the next morning, you and Vernon said goodbye to Kitty’s coastline manor. You were worried that the cleaners might realize her bedroom had been perturbed, but Vernon said they wouldn’t—and even if they did—they would probably be glad to have something they could fix.

He asked if you wanted breakfast. After unnecessarily contemplating for a moment (because you didn’t want to seem childishly eager), you agreed, and proceeded to sink backward into his passenger seat as he drove further into the sunny estate of villas and reserved, coastal splendors. Vernon took you to a restaurant called Sea Sides. It was circular in shape, with boastful glass windows that ensured you an unnegotiable view of the water. Walking into its chic brightness, you felt like an imposter, with your lazy button-down shirt and wrinkled lounge shorts. A woman sailed past you in a flowing, pale dress, her skin sun-kissed and cheeks tinged like ripe berries. You two perhaps stood out in a rough, jarring way. But Vernon wasn’t concerned.

“Watch this,” he whispered to you as a hostess stopped by.

“Hello! How can I help you two?” Her voice had a polished quality to it, just like her slicked-back hair and clean, shining clothes—so luminous it was difficult to look at without falling into a squint.

Vernon smiled. “We’re here under Pollezna.”

She was behind a tiny podium. Her large eyes reflected the screen of the sleek monitor she was examining. A click later and scroll later. “Oh! Yes, of course!” She grabbed two menus, small and neat, on cream cardstock. “Follow me,” the hostess said. She walked in swift, long steps that you hurried after, weaving between tables laid with white tablecloths and the royalty of orchid centrepieces. “I haven’t seen Miss Catarina in quite a while. Is she doing well?”

“She’s dandy,” Vernon replied. “Off in Europe.”

“Quite the traveller, isn’t she? You must miss her!”

He nodded solemnly; his lips downturned. “Terribly.”

You were in the midst of sitting down when Vernon bumped your elbow, tipping his head toward the opposite seat. Thinking it was associated with the window view, you shrugged, and let him sit where he wanted.

The hostess’s face was a mirror of Vernon’s, softened and empathetic to the imaginary lonesome he was crafting. “You’ll need to come back here for breakfast once she returns. What can I start you both with?”

Vernon glanced at you.

“Uh, water is fine,” you mumbled, forgetting you could speak.

“Same,” Vernon said.

“I’ll get that for you right away!”

Once she was gone, your eyebrows piqued. “What stunt is this?”

He cleared his throat in mocking sophistication, settling the tiny cardstock of dishes before his face. “Friends and family discount.”

You snickered, sliding your menu toward you. “It seems so.”

“I came here enough times that they added me to the Pollezna tab.”

“And she hasn’t noticed?”

Vernon lowered the menu and smirked. “AKA her Daddy’s tab. And he doesn’t give a fuck, anyway. We’re spendin’ pennies, here. Get whatever you want. The Belgian waffles are always a slam dunk. Super fluffy. Gelato’s in-house.”

Your eyes gleaned over the embossed, golden script, and you straightened up in your chair as though you were supposed to be sitting there, stolid and elegant, even though you ate burnt toast most mornings. A moment later, and your hostess returned with a glass carafe. Slices of orange and lemon bobbed around inside. She poured the icy water into both your cups before settling the jug down onto the table coaster. You never understood the trope of citrus in water. It felt meretricious. And sometimes the seeds would slip out and catch in your throat. But you smiled at her and sipped up a tiny bit so she would see you were still appeased.

After placing your orders, the hostess left. You immediately unwrapped your fork from a cloth napkin and used it to spear out the oranges and lemons, which you layered onto a small bread plate.

Vernon snorted, chuckling into his hand. “Gosh, you have less fuckin’ table etiquette than I do, PJ’s. Never thought that would happen.”

“Shush,” you whispered. “You know how I feel about oranges!”

He kept giggling, and you were tempted to fling a wet slice of citrus at him, but you weren’t about to prove his point. No one in the surrounding dining area seemed to notice, anyway, likely too engrossed by their own riveting tales of luxuriant lifestyles. Vernon reached onto your plate to grab an orange slice. You assumed it was tasteless and watery, but Vernon ate pretty much anything you gave him, and he never stopped feeling hungry.

“Much better,” you hummed having removed all the fruit, and took a big gulp without wondering if you were going to start choking.

“Such a weirdo,” Vernon tsked.

Behind him, you spotted a very large painting hung up on the restaurant’s distant wall. It was so large that you feared it may squish flat the diners who were eating their breakfast underneath it. You supposed it fit the theme—a clashing of delicate blue waves spraying mist into the air—and you could see that the hues came alive with the incorporation of dazzling glass bits cut into petite tiles. Beside the painting was a plaque, looking comedically small.

You tipped your finger at the painting. “That’s gorgeous.”

Vernon finishing chewing at another orange slice from your plate and discarded his rind. He didn’t bother turning around. You figured he had already seen the painting before.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, licking his thumb.

“I wish I could create stuff like that.”

He shrugged. “You can.”

“Well, you have to be inspired. And have some skill.”

As he sipped from his water, he scoffed. “Right. It's just practice.”

You suddenly remembered that his mother was an artist. From what he had told you, their relationship was virtually non-existent, and you shrunk slightly into your cushioned chair for the unintended negligence.

Since you ran into Diana outside Mr. York’s that one evening, and saw how much healthier she looked, how much freer she acted, you wondered if she had reconsidered applying for Catherine Love’s assistant position. Tara was still practicing her interview skills, but you told her to be wary that she didn’t sound too rehearsed. You remembered Diana saying that you could apply for the position despite your gaping inexperience. Back then, there was nothing you could do but laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it, knowing you were being undermining to your own skill, but, now, you couldn’t deny that were was something about the job that enticed you.

Maybe it was the idea that you could live a life similar to this.

Or maybe it was to prove your past-self wrong.

Breakfast was served to you off a rolling silver tray that the hostess aligned beside the table. You decided to pick Vernon’s recommendation, two stacked Belgian waffles with creamy coffee gelato and fresh berries scooped on top, while he chose a toasted sandwich that oozed with saucy egg yolks, yellow like mangoes.

Everything that touched your tongue was perfection.

“Are you even chewin’ it? Damn.” Vernon laughed.

There was a mangled piece of waffle stuck in your mouth. It took you quite long to swallow. After gulping down some water and cleaning a smear of gelato off your cheek, you finally had the breath to speak.

“Yes.”

He smiled. “I like a girl who eats ravenously.”

“I can’t tell if I should feel offended by that or not.”

“It’s a compliment.”

And you smiled, too. The fact he could sit across from you ripping apart your waffles like a junkyard animal and forking out slices of citrus from your fancy water and having melted gelato sticky on your chin while finding the room to compliment you was a miraculous, freeing feeling. You didn’t need to cosplay anyone but yourself. And you had been morbidly hungry.

But you did slow down, enough to converse. “So,” you cleared your throat, running a strawberry through some syrup, “are you done with your… you know… stuff? Do you still need to get more… stuff?”

He licked his teeth. “Money?”

“Well… yeah.”

“Trust me, that’s not a taboo word here, PJ’s.”

“I just mean what it’s associated with.”

Vernon folded his arms and leaned back. “One more thing.”

“Really?” There was a spike of vigour in your tone.

He nodded. “Yeah.”

“Is it a lot of money?”

“In a way,” he sighed rather desultorily, tongue swirling against his cheek, eyes adrift and chasing seagulls that flocked through the open air in white tufts. His energy seemed different.

When it came to Diana and Minghao, he was pouring with resilience. He was his own gasoline and match. But sitting across from him, you could feel a cleft, like soaring along on a bicycle and suddenly the wheel got trapped. Helping Vernon in the past was a mixed bag for you. It was always fun treading where you shouldn’t, but having the consequence flash a knife from its pocket wasn’t as endearing.

Nonetheless, you wanted things to go well on his behalf.

“Should I be worrying?” You queried, making sure to adorn your lips with a soft smile so he knew not to take the question too literally.

He stared back. “Guess not.”

“That wasn’t convincing at all.”

“You don’t need to worry more than you already do.”

Slipping the strawberry off the fork with your teeth, you began to nod and bite into its sweet juiciness. “Okay. I can work with that.” But you wanted to know more. However, this wasn’t the place to discuss it.

What kind of cleft had Vernon stumbled into?

Before ending breakfast, you and Vernon shared a dessert, which was a plate containing small, puffed buns with delicious cream and fresh jam spread in between. Vernon stuffed an entire one in his mouth, and nearly coughed it back out into his napkin, which made you snort and giggle. Then you tried doing the same, and ended up spitting some jam onto his face.

“Fuckin’ dweeb,” he cursed as you reached over the table to wipe it away with a polite thumb, your mouth still full, as you choked out inaudible apologies. But his smile was lazy with ease and fondness.

The hostess returned, again wearing her polished, tight expression, not a single thread to her uniform or brushed hair out of place.

Vernon picked up your hand as he helped you out from the chair, and then grinned at the hostess.

“You can put that on Miss Catarina’s tab.”

4 MONTHS AGO.

When Soonyoung told you he was planning on leaving Common Cents, you nearly lost your hearing, and the disorientation had you stumbling around until you gripped the supplement shelf for balance. You wanted it to be a joke. Soonyoung made many jokes, and none of had ever been funny, and that would take the cake as his unfunniest by far. But his expression was betrayingly flat, like a paper sheet glued and hardened over his face, and you deflated. You forgot Soonyoung had a degree. It was seldom mentioned because he enjoyed talking about his social life too much.

“I’m going to work with several cat species at a rehabilitation clinic. I start at the end of July. I’m gonna get some friends to help me pack. And I’ll probably throw a shindig at my place for one last hoorah. Feel free to come. Just don’t get too cramped.”

And you smiled at him like your lips were made of thin strings. He couldn’t leave. What were you supposed to do five mornings out of your week without him there to boss you around and engage you in shiny gossip and overexplain his bizarre sexual encounters with older men? You always made him deal with the nitpicky regulars. You often subjected him to your personal qualms because there was a time when he felt like the only person who couldn’t possibly judge you. Who would have the audacity to replace his coarse bleached hair and oversized shorts and splashy backward caps and his terrible, terrible hearing? Such thoughts hung over you in a palling manner—they chased you around the store like cackling witches—and suddenly you realized that Soonyoung had become important to you.

On your break, you wanted to text Vernon.

You sat out back on an upturned bucket and used a TV-dinner table that Soonyoung dragged over from across the street to place your food on. Tikka Masala—still steaming—so you let it rest. The thing was, Vernon hadn’t been very present lately. He sometimes went hours without responding to your messages, and his appearances at the apartment began dwindling. When you were together, he didn’t act all that different. Maybe there was a soft wind of distraction in his eyes that carried him away every now and then, but once he looked at you, he refocused. You pondered asking. You wanted there to be no more secrets. But part of you was very anxious to peel him back too many times and confront something that was better off staying unbeknownst. It drove you to restlessness.

After your break was over, you replaced Soonyoung at the cash register so he could take his lunch—an energy drink in an eclectically designed can and a packet of salted peanuts—where you continued contemplating whether or not to text Vernon. Your previous messages were about glow-in-the-dark mini-putting, though he ended up cancelling the night before, citing some trouble a spoiled college student was giving him.

The worry nettled you all over.

Was he lying? Was it worse to know or not know?

“Hey! PJ!”

You shoved your phone away. For half a second, you wanted to believe the person chiming out your nickname so smoothly was him.

But it was Moo.

“Oh, hey,” you answered, smiling awkwardly, not sure what he was doing at a convenience store so far from where he lived. “How are you?”

He sauntered up to the counter in his usual swagger, a frame of loose shoulders and casual glances to every corner, like he was trying to spot someone he knew without making it obvious. No more was his fluffed afro. Instead, his hair was tucked into tight, neat cornrows that flowed down to the back of his neck. He wore a blue and white windbreaker with some flashy red patches. He picked up ginger-flavoured mints in a compact tin, sniffed. “Just hanging.”

And you nodded back. “Cool.”

Moo put the mints down. “Didn’t know you worked here.”

You almost laughed.

There was basically nothing he knew about you—not even your real name—just that you were close to Vernon. But he said it so effortlessly, in a way that made it seem like you were more than acquaintances and that was just a simple grey area. “Over a year.”

“That’s awesome,” he sniffled, sounding genuine. “Yeah, thought I’d come in and get a drink or something. Never been in here before.”

“Well, drinks are in the back.”

His nails started tapping a rhythm against the plastic cover for the lottery tickets, a beat that existed for only a transient moment, before he glanced at you with his wandering eyes and asked, “Ruby—how’s she doing?”

You wondered if that was his intention from the start. “She’s been doing well. She got back from a corporate trip, twoish weeks ago?”

Moo nodded. “I still feel bad about you guys leaving early. At the party-thing I threw. Uh, sorry, and shit.” Your head tilted in astonishment. “I feel like I didn’t get the chance to really know you guys. Maybe you can come over another time. I’ll get the barbeque out this summer. Sound fun?”

“Uh,” you swallowed, contemplating. “Sure.”

“It won’t be a huge thing. Vernon said you don’t like crowds.”

At his name being mentioned, your chest tensed.

“You guys are dating? Is that it?” He continued, scratching his scalp. “I haven’t seen him much lately. It’s crazy. I never thought I’d see the day that Vernon gets a girlfriend… before me! Actually, I did have a girlfriend last fall, but it was rough. She stole from me, and—”

“How’s he doing?”

“Vern?”

Your fingers furled up, and you nodded. “Yeah.”

Moo sighed, long and large, let his elbows tumble down onto the counter as though he were at his favourite bar after a hard day’s work. “Busy with some shit, I guess. Snozz talked to him a few days ago.” His brown eyes perused over the lottery tickets. “Is something wrong between you guys?”

“No,” you were quick to clarify. “But he’s been a little distant.”

“Yeah, he gets like that,” Moo huffed, tapping his fingers again, this time a different rhythm reminiscent of a song you heard before.  “Just kinda goes off the grid for a bit. Usually when he has to catch a big fish.”

“What’s that mean? A big fish?”

“Like, if he has to close a big deal, or handle some bullshit.”

“Oh…” you murmured, letting your curiosity dampen and drift, and then a cloudy weight sinking into your chest, like soaked cotton. And you wondered how much Moo knew of Vernon’s business. He seemed rather guileless, talking to you without restraint, as though you were now part of their shadowy world and therefore had access to whatever files you wanted. But was it wrong to meddle simply because you cared? Would it benefit you to know? Sucking your teeth, you sighed, “a big fish indeed.”

“Shit’s not all sugarplums and fucking fairies, right?”

“Uh… yeah. True.”

“Well, I’m gonna grab my drink.”

You watched him continue his lazy, practiced saunter, arms swaying jauntily. He stopped by some candy, picked up a yellow chocolate bar, and flashed it to you. “Charleston Chews! These are old school!”

There were glimmers of Vernon in him.

It was unalloyed torment.

Moo returned to the counter with a soda bottle. As you rang up his drink, he pulled out a bill from his wallet, and you returned the change. He cracked the bottle open right there at the counter, took a sip that sounded like bubbles popping in his throat, and swallowed densely. “I love me some orange cream.”

“Hey, is it okay if I ask you something?”

He shrugged. “Just treat me like your search engine.”

“Uh—” you laughed nervously, “—do you know what Vernon’s been up to? I’m just a little anxious. He’s been slow texting back.”

“Well, I don’t know all the deets. He’s been trying to set up a meeting or something. With this guy. We don’t like saying his name,” Moo laughed, taking another swig from his bottle. “Like Voldemort!” When your face remained stiff and hollowed in with unnerved tension, Moo coughed against his fist and continued. “Uh, but his name’s Jeonghan. Sometimes we call him El Timador for code. Our friend coined it. Means trickster or tricky or some shit. Anyway, he’s this huge kingpin that’s been fucking over some of our territories for a while now. Vernon has issues with it.”

You forced a cheap, bent smile. “Oh, cool. Thanks.”

“Hey, I wouldn’t worry,” Moo soothed. “Vern’s clever. And he’ll get back to his normal self once it’s off his plate. Does that help?”

“Yeah.” No. It didn’t help at all. It was like pushing salt deep into cuts you didn’t know existed, and now each one was tingling hot in pain.

Moo nodded, satisfied. Then, he proceeded to lean forward, squinting at something on your bright red uniform shirt. “Hmm… so, that’s your name,” he said in an assured tone, taking another bubbly sip from his soda. You realized he had discovered your nameplate.

“Okay, I should go.”

Moo left.

And he took every thread of your composure with him.

Vernon was staying the night at your apartment. When he first arrived, you tended to him almost suffocatingly, a hand ruffling through his black locks to feel for bumps on his scalp, then your fingers squeezing his chin, turning his head from side to side to look for scratches, and having him splay open his palms for your fastidious inspection. He swerved away from you, seeming tightened like a jar, as he joined Ruby in the kitchen.

Later on, you all watched a comedy film in the living room.

You weren’t the biggest fan of comedies. But you were wary to begin the action-thriller that Ruby suggested in case it impeded too heavily on Vernon, though you hadn’t said anything because he was acting touchier than usual. He sat next to you on the sofa. Your arms curled around his elbow. Even though his skin felt warm, there was a coldness emanating from the boy’s bones, his movements few and far between, creaking metal.

When your head laid against his shoulder, he sighed a cumbersome sort of sigh that summoned a hard lump upon your throat, and rather than smelling his characteristic amber, you smelled the bitterness of stress, cigarettes and stale coffee. He excused himself halfway into the film to smoke. Ruby stayed inside with you.

Despite your implacable burn to ask her if she was sensing his distance, you remained silent, because you already knew you wouldn’t like her answer. When he returned from outdoors, he didn’t even ask what he had missed—just collapsed back down in his seat, arms stretched out behind the couch, but never reaching around your shoulders to pull you closer like usual. At that point, your eyes began to sting, and a sharp, demanding fire crackled in your mouth. But you swallowed it down until the movie ended.

Ruby wished you goodnight. She slipped into her bedroom.

Vernon said he needed to make a call and disappeared again, the wind of his iciness drawing chills. You waddled into your bedroom moodily, sat back against your headboard, and hugged a stuffed toy into your chest, hating how timid and afraid you felt to question him.

He came into your room about twenty minutes later, the door clicking shut softly, as you laid on your side away from him so you could stare out the window, at the glitters of small bugs around a street lamp. 

The mattress dipped, and his hand was on your hip. “I’m sorry.”

You couldn’t say anything since your throat was too tight. Even if you wanted to speak, each word would splinter like an axe coming down on a dry log of wood. You would start to cry.

He sighed. This time, it lacked encumbrance. His hand drifted to your shoulder, so heightened and pointy, a mountain. And then he kissed your temple with such tenderness, the sour of his smoking now stitched into his clothes, but you breathed it in deeply anyway. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again, massaging your shoulder. “I missed you.”

“Clearly, you haven’t,” you managed to pronounce waspily, the rumble of emotional thunder toiling in your chest. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not,” he murmured. His forehead pressed into your hair.

For a moment, you bit your lip, and while you felt fearful, you pushed its burring aside. “I don’t appreciate being treated that way.”

“It was my mistake.”

“Yes,” you said, peering over your shoulder to glare at him, ensuring he felt the scorch that was solar in your narrow eyes, “it was.”

He was grinning at you. Laid comfortably on his side. Hand supporting his head. A malleable depth created liquidness in his golden eyes, and so they glimmered, and the twisted vestiges of bitterness digging inside your throat unwound. He leaned forward, proceeded to cup your cheek, and a kiss was sweetly moulded to your lips with expert care. “I missed you, baby.”

You sniffled, gulped. “I hate how many times I’ve cried over you.”

“Wanna cry in a different way?” He purred, squeezing your hip, letting his teeth graze along the cusp of your tingling ear.

Quickly, before you could feel lust surround you with its tendrils, you shoved his hand away. “No. Never.” And turned back on your side.

He chuckled. “Never?!”

You nodded. “Never.”

“I’m gonna kill myself.”

“Bye.”

He chuckled again, taking pleasure in your dryness, how you refused to fold, keep him on the outside like a pacing dog. Vernon then slipped further down the pillow, adjusting himself tightly behind you, one arm sneaking underneath your waist while the other caged overtop in a sling. He squeezed you, nuzzled at your hair. “And for how long will you be mad?”

Sighing, you slotted your fingers through his. “Are you stressed because of the money thing? How do you normally deal with stress?”

He shrugged. “Drugs and sex.”

“You know that’s not healthy.”

“Thank you, Harvard medical graduate.”

Your elbow jutted back, finding the sinewy flesh of his ribs. “Shut up. I’m asking because… well… I think it would be better if we talked things out more, you know? Even just a little bit…” Glancing down at a thick, silver band on his finger, you began playing with it, twisting the ring around while you mumbled, “it hurts when I feel like your stress is targeting me. And right now, I can’t give you sex, and I definitely can’t give you drugs.”

Vernon breathed in the scent of your hair. “I know, PJ’s.”

“So… is everything alright?”

“Not entirely. M’tired. It’s just hard to get a hold of this guy. He’s slippery, and all his people are slippery. It feels like chasin’ an eel.”

“The guy you need money from?”

He paused. “Yeah.”

“Need any help?”

His entire body jerked with laughter. “Uh, no. This really isn’t somethin’ you should be gettin’ involved with, PJ’s. I’ll figure it out, alright? I want you away from this stuff. I don't want you thinkin' it's a playground and shit. You've done enough.”

You stroked along his arm, running over years of intricate ink, and took in a deep breath that rolled through you from top to bottom while recalling your conversation with Moo. Vernon didn’t know that you spoke to him. He didn’t know that you knew the mystery’s name.

Jeonghan. The kingpin. El Timador.

Angling around, you slipped an arm behind Vernon’s head and moved your fingers fluidly through his velvet hair. You pushed into his forehead and softly moved your lips against his, feeling him immediately perk in response, the pressure around your waist tightening. The tartness of a smoked blunt had never smelled so desirable on somehow, and his slick tongue was impressively gentle, always eager to taste you. His hand squeezed up your flaming body, his fingers coming to curl at the beating base of your throat, and if you weren’t still clamped onto that angry red kite, you might have let him submerge into you, drink you from the inside out.

But you didn’t.

“Why don’t you rest a bit?” You murmured, licking off his sheening spit that smeared your lip like a constellation. “Would that hurt?”

He stared at you with a wild, cosmic infatuation. “No.”

This isn’t really somethin’ that you should be gettin’ involved with.

You wanted to listen.

But you could not. Would not.

It seemed that all you had done your entire life was listening. The words of others had continuously filled you like droplets from a bamboo spout, and you had lugged around the sloshing weight sensing it was there but not wanting to believe it. Consequently, you were pruned on the inside, wrinkled and sodden, from never letting the water drain, and now you needed to dry yourself out under a lovely, dappled heat. Unfortunately, that meant you must meddle.

Even if Vernon did not want it.

He didn’t need to know. At least not for now.

Tara was brushing out her long, pearlescent strands of syrupy hair at her locker when you asked if she was willing to help you with a strange favour. She kept brushing her hair, eyebrows raised, as she waited for you to elaborate. When you told her you wanted to a drive to the Kichesippi scarp yard, the baby pink hairbrush that she had likely preserved since girlhood days in Farringdon nearly flew out of her hand. You understood it was an odd request, and you couldn’t be too generous detail-wise, and for a long moment, she gathered her things quietly, face contorted with the heft of an internal dialogue.

But then she agreed.

“You’ve helped me a lot with my interviewing… I guess I can.”

To which you almost leapt on her in relief.

She drove you to the scrap yard that weekend.

You shot past the abandoned hanger that you and Vernon had waited at, when you were twisted up inside with emotions, a canon ready to sizzle and pop. The fields were greener, with a refreshed shimmer, and the forest was much denser, almost overflowing in regrowth, compared to your last visit.

“There’s the gate,” Tara said. “What should I do?”

“Stay here,” you told her. “I’ll be back soon. I think.”

Her fingers flexed around the steering wheel, and she peered at the tall fence with her slim brows worried. “How are you going to get in?”

Upon thrusting open the car door, you shrugged. “I’ll climb it.”

You could only imagine Tara’s expression as she watched you approach the fence, your fingers curling at the metal, the tips of your shoes wedging into every little space, until you reached the top. It wasn’t easy. You were still breathless coming down the other side. But you wanted this to be quick, and so you did it the only way you knew how. Marching past the distributed piles of abandoned rubbish, you approached one trailer in particular, caught in the shadows cast by monstrously sized conifers. Without letting yourself think too much, you knocked on the door, which rattled loosely as though it could be pushed open with a limp shove.

About a minute passed. Maybe no one was there.

You noticed a curtain fall back in place. The door suddenly opened.

It was not surprise that controlled Minghao’s face. Rather, an absence of anything. His countenance was flat, dull. Uninterested. And you would have felt offended if not for the fear fumigating your other emotions.

“What do you want?” He said, his tone a deft line.

Your lips were dry, and you could not stop pulling at the skin with your teeth. Licking them off, you smiled, very weak. “Can I come in?”

“No,” Minghao answered immediately, like a slap. “Leave.”

He attempted to close his flimsy door, but you stepped forward, stopping him. “Please, just for a few minutes. I’m not here to cause trouble.”

Finally, a split in his paper expression. A brittleness. “You are only trouble,” Minghao said. “You and your boyfriend.” He tried the door again.

You stopped him. Again. “Vernon—I-I know he stole from you, or he was stealing back what you stole—I know there’s some bad blood. The bottom line is I need to speak to someone. And I think you might be able to help me. Please. I’ll never bother you again. Cross my heart.”

“Girl, you need to leave,” he hissed, pushing back on the door.

“I need to speak to Jeonghan.”

And Minghao slightened. His colour became that of bleached bones. You felt the door give away, and it swung open silently until it banged the wall. An aroma of fragrant herbs touched your nose. Earthy sage, burned. A fresh and lemony tinge. Minghao muttered something under his breath in an unfamiliar language while pressing his fingertips against his nose. There were red prints left behind as he made a soft rumbling noise in his throat. “Okay.”

“I can come in?” You squeaked.

“Come in. Quick.”

And so you fluttered inside Minghao’s trailer like a curious, timid butterfly, still on edge, still skittish, but enjoying the relief. All his curtains were dark orange, drawn tightly shut, turning the dust in the air to a desert sand. His walls were covered with canvas’s, each smeared in unique patterns of paint where colours messily clashed and faces were hidden between thick strokes, though they might stop looking like faces if you stared too hard. He had a metal bowl sitting on his small dining table, a charred powder at its bottom, with twirling smoke ablaze. You breathed in the herbs and lemon.

He pulled out a chair from underneath the table, used his foot to kick out the chair oblique to his, the one you settled into, uncomfortably.

You flashed him another nervous, teethless smile. “It’s nice in here,” despite knowing he had very little interest for your prevaricating.

Minghao folded his long, lithe arms. There was a hooded narrowness weighing down his eyelids as he observed you like some sort of bad curse staining his abode with your energy.

“Why speak to Jeonghan?”

“Um…” you exhaled, swallowing. “I just need to, I guess.”

“Are you turning on Hansol? You need him dead?”

Your foot kicked the table leg especially hard in hysterics and the metal bowl quivered, the cinder smoke wobbling in the dusk. “No!” You spluttered. “No, no, no. Gosh no. Nothing like that. It’s hard to explain. But it… it has nothing to do with you.” Unfurling your tense fingers, you inhaled the flavourful odours. “I’m not turning on anybody. I just need to talk to him.”

Minghao leaned closer, the orange glow of the cloth curtains shining like ribboned fire in his cherry hair, while the moons beneath his eyes darkened. “You do not talk to El Timador unless you want to make a deal, or someone to die.”

Paste dried on your tongue. A horrible, chalky paste that you wanted to scrape off because it felt so thick. Minghao allowed the intensity of the moment to hover, to seep, before he leaned back, his chair creaking.

You rolled out your shoulders. “Then… I guess it’s a deal.” Looking to him and his stone-face, you continued. “Where can I find him?”

His brow raised and his round bottom lip pursed, perhaps a flash of impressiveness that you were not shaken off like a flea from a dog’s coat. “Do you know what you’re doing?” He said. “El Timador plays no-fun games.”

No-fun games.

Something about that stuck to you, webbed under your skin. “I don’t know,” you admitted, clammy hands rubbing together beneath the table, smooth and warm. “But I have to. I don’t know how else to explain.”

Minghao was quiet, his attention moved to the curdles of smoke rising from the metal bowl and its charred ingredients. You were urged to keep speaking and pleading your case, but you knew better than to bulldoze the moment. The silence kept lasting. It was astonishing that Minghao could sit so still, like he had taken out his heart, his insides, and was nothing but a husk of flesh stuffed with grain. A doll. But then he shifted, reaching behind him to a kitchen countertop, where he placed a metal lid over the bowl.

He sighed. “You know Paulo?”

That name again. You nodded. “No, but yes. Not personally.”

“Everything scattered when he died. Everything. I was scared. I sold off product that was not mine. I thought moving back to China will fix the mess. I always argue with Hansol back then. The way he talks and does things. I don’t like it.” Minghao bit his lip, and it lost some colour. “But he is good. He brings me into a safe place, back then. He helps me adjust. He warns me to stay away from El Timador when they approach me and ask me to work for them. Hansol said that to me: you do not talk to El Timador unless you want to make a deal, or someone to die. But in his stupid way I cannot understand very well. Now, I am under El Timador’s thumb because I try to harm you. I just wanted the money. But now I cannot care.” His eyes flickered up, unexpectedly glossy. “You see why you are trouble?”

In that moment, you became frozen, just like he was. To hear the slight rasp develop in Minghao’s tone, notice the shine splotchy in his eyes. His mistakes unravelling at his feet like dropped, unorganized film, because he was scared, and confused.

You softened up. You weren’t fearful anymore.

And you smiled. “I’m glad I came to speak with you. I promise, I won’t be the reason Jeonghan plays games. You shouldn’t worry.”

Minghao shook his head. “Naïve,” he mispronounced.

Perhaps true. You accepted it. “Where can I find him?”

Another beat of silence passed by. Minghao’s final moment to ponder, and you saw his chest rise and fall deeply. He reached behind him again, grabbing a pen and a magazine. With the pen in his teeth, he tore off a strip from the magazine's corner and proceeded to write something. “Here—I cannot say this word to save my life.”

You accepted the torn corner. “Prerogative. What's that?”

“A club. Once a month, he has business meeting in the basement.”

“Do you know when?”

“Try end of the month.”

“Okay. Thanks.” You nodded satisfactorily.

Tara had sent you a text, asking if you were alright. You messaged her you would be back shortly and took the torn paper in your pocket.

As Minghao walked you to the door, you stopped, turning around to examine him. “I really like your octopus graffiti.”

His face creased, marginally; the edges of a shy smile. “Me too.”

It was amusing to behold Vernon out of his element, and adorable that he was trying so hard. You sat across the table from him. Rather than letting his canvas sit on the easel like most refined people in the studio, he was gripping it at an odd, stabbing angle to his chest, clasping the paintbrush like it hurt, while he focused hard enough on his work to make heat come from his eyes. You were so enraptured in watching him that your small canvas was noticeably bare, mottled with few dabs of vibrant colour.

Ruby introduced you to the studio not long ago. They hosted weekly paint nights for adults. There were various wines, complicated Hors d’Oeuvres organized on lazy Susans, mellow music threaded with daintily-pressed piano keys, and an entire wall dedicated to acrylic paint swatches in the form of dried, ceramic tiles.

You didn’t care for wine, and neither did Vernon.

But he got up from his seat only ten minutes in to slosh himself a glass that had a woman with curled hair, a purple beret, and flashy spectacles pompously side-eyeing him. You urged him that this wasn’t supposed to be stressful. That it didn’t matter if his art looked messy.

He grumbled, “it’s for you, PJ’s. It has to look perfect.”

And that had made you swell up with joy like a helium balloon.

Since he was putting in the effort to paint you something, you wanted to return the favour, and so you settled on a photo of his Camry that he sent you a while back upon buffing out some of its rusted age. Your phone was rested against a container filled with different sized brushes.

“How’s it coming along?” You asked.

Vernon was quiet—quieter than he ever had been—while the tip to his very thin brush stroked so timidly on the surface of the canvas. You had given him a tiny elastic from your bag when he kept complaining about the hair sloping down over his eyes. Now he had a black, sooty tree sprouting from the crown of his head. All the modest aprons were taken. He was wearing an apron that was bubblegum pink, stitched with daisies and honeybees. You took a picture with your phone when he was busy choosing his canvas size, giggling at how paradoxical it looked.

“Can’t… talk…” he mumbled. “Focusin’… hard…”

“If only you could see yourself.”

As you began shaking a bottle to mix the paint inside, Vernon suddenly slammed his detailing brush onto the table. “Fuck!” He shouted, collapsing back into his seat. “I fucked up the fuckin’—ah—fuck it.”

You pressed your lips together, trying to disappear behind your canvas while squirting out the sky-blue paint onto your palette. The thing with Vernon was that his gutturalness never really turned off. Sometimes you loved it. Sometimes it was complicated. He could be in the most high-class restaurant, eating with kings, and he would still not forfeit his untrimmed spirit.

The lady sitting at the table beside yours—the same lady who watched him pour his wine like it was a beer keg—reached over to tap him on the shoulder, and you could only suck in your teeth.

“Excuse me? Could you please refrain from that sort of language? This is a public space. It's shared. It’s important to be polite.”

“Lady, I’m in the middle of some serious shit, alright? Fuck.” He dismissed her slim fingers and long, coffin nails off his shoulder, sighing aloud while squinting at his canvas. “Guess it’s not that fucked up.”

She proceeded to throw you a very specific look, almost sympathetic, mournful, as if to express her condolences that you were perhaps trapped with this profanity-mouthed man and his concerningly full wine glass. But you didn’t return the look in any capacity.

You were happy.

“If you get kicked out of Wine and Paint, I’m never taking you anywhere, ever,” you warned him, smiling, from over your canvas.

Vernon grabbed onto his glass and sipped at the red wine, to which his face instantly puckered and he shook out his head. “Tastes like batteries.”

“You shouldn’t have poured so much.”

“Help me finish it.”

Swirling your brush around in the blue paint, you cackled. “Nope!”

He groaned, setting his canvas back on the wood easel. “Fuck you.”

“Don’t make me tell the art teacher.”

Vernon got up, stretched out his arms and their silky gilded tattoos, the tight, youthful pink apron squeezing around his waist. “Can we get ice cream after this? Otherwise I’m gonna need a line off your tits.”

“Okay! Shut your mouth, first of all,” you gritted. “Second of all, behave. Or else.”

He narrowed his gaze at you. “N’ that means what?”

You eyed the lady at the table beside you and smirked.

Vernon swatted his hand at you dismissively, then pressed into his lower back. “Whatever. I’m goin’ to the washroom.” He started walking away, but turned around. “N’ don’t peek at my canvas while I’m gone!”

Without him being so distractingly cute, you managed to make some actual progress on your painting, filling the white space with an eggshell blue sky, stippling in fluffy grass, attempting to create the street even though it looked very amateurish. But you did like to paint when you were younger. Without the strict regulations of a teacher. As your brush swirled a liquidy yellow sun into the cloth, you thought of Diana and how much she would enjoy doing something like this.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed someone approaching the table, and you assumed it was Vernon returning from the washroom.

Upon picking up some creamy paint on your detailing brush, you glanced up and smiled, expecting to see the tree of hair on his head and his pink apron.

But it was not your Vernon.

It was Lee.

And a thousand feelings collapsed, bones snapping like tightwires, as your emotionally intact infrastructure suddenly smashed to the ground. Your chest and lungs became spongey. They absorbed and absorbed but they did not give back. You were gripping the paintbrush as though it were a weapon.

“Hey!” He chirped, a friendly sound. “I thought that was you.”

Now he knew it was you.

What the hell was Vernon doing in the washroom? You hoped to god he hadn’t smuggled in a blunt. The woman’s washroom had a window in the last stall, although you would need to stand on the toilet to reach and open it. Maybe it was the same for the men’s. Maybe Vernon would sense your distress, how it glimmered on your skin like an oil, smothered the air.

Lee cleared his throat. “I know this is probably a little weird…”

A little? You wanted to shriek. You had your filthy hands dipping and diving all over my body! You treated me as though I were some lifeless shell! But you did not say anything of the sort. “It is,” you sighed, and it was shaky. “Very weird.”

He didn’t look much different physically. Nonetheless, you sensed something. Your gut was suddenly inside your mind, and it granted you a sort of power to see through him, at his tangled intentions and the unattractive miasma festering within. Though his words were soft, slipping off his lips like fallen petals, his eyes were gritty and unclear.

Lee laughed. “Yeah! Trust me, I get it.”

You deadpanned, “is there something you want?”

And Lee’s smile hung a little crooked. “Well… we really haven’t seen each other in a while. I guess you blocked me. Ruby doesn’t answer my texts. So I wanted to know if we could… well… talk about it?”

“Here?”

“No,” he laughed again, swallowed tightly. “Not here.”

The paintbrush twitched in your fingers; the acrylic pressed into its bristles beginning to dry. “No thank you. I’m not interested.”

He scoffed. You wanted to slap him, hard enough to leave a sizzling, stinging imprint of your hand chaffing his cheek. “Not interested? Can you explain that to me, or something… because I feel like it would help us—”

“Help you. Not us. I know what happened. You should figure it out on your own.” Turning back to the canvas, you nearly touched the cloth.

Nearly.

“Well, no offense, but that’s kind of fucked up.”

Your mouth was about to drop open. But then you noticed Vernon, how he sidled up to Lee with his tongue prodding at his cheek, his eyes cool, settled, but with a craftiness underneath the copper. He proceeded to slip his arm around the younger boy’s shoulders. It hung there loosely, but could fasten in an instant.

“Hey, look at you Suits. Been a while, yeah?”

Lee glanced at him. You weren’t sure how else to explain his expression apart from the kind of paleness you see of dead, stiff limbs. “Uh, Vernon. Hey…” he attempted to laugh, though it turned to fleeing breaths.

Vernon’s hand gripped his shoulder, shook it. “Thought I might go outside.” His eyes were bullet holes into Lee’s head, a smirk forming. “You wanna come? No wind in the back alley. Easier to light.”

Lee shook his head. You shouldn’t let Vernon subtly tease and threaten him. But you didn’t want to move or speak. “No—uh—that’s fine. I was just catching up. We haven’t seen each other in a while—”

“But you haven’t seen me in even longer. C’mon. Let’s step out.”

“I’m here with a friend. I should get back to our table.”

“Your friend, huh? They a lawyer, too?”

“Well,” Lee gulped. “He’s not. We’re still in school.”

“Shit. This will be good fuckin’ practice then. Let’s bring him outside with us.” Vernon jutted his finger into Lee’s chest, his eyes changing tone, flashing with streams of electricity. “And I’ll have him mock up my defense trial after I beat the fuck out of you, you spineless cunt.”

“Vernon, enough.” You stood up. “I’ll talk to Lee outside.”

Surprisingly, he listened, and sat back down. His index finger was tapping harshly on the table. There was no hiding what he was thinking as you pulled Lee outside the studio, into the evening’s gentle warmth.

Immediately, the boy shivered, and the colour gradually seeped back into his once blanched and hollow face. “Did I almost just die?”

You exhaled, enjoying the sensation of the calmer sun rays tingeing your skin, instilling you with a deep, pulsing strength. “Lee, I was being serious back there. I don’t want to talk to you about what happened. I have no interest in digging it back up. I have no interest in being the one to make you feel better about a shitty thing you did. The truth is, you need to sack up, alright? Because I know you’ll feel a lot lighter afterward.” He didn’t say anything, but the look he gave you was strange, a clouded look; a look you give to a stranger who said something you struggled to catch because it sounded like syllables chopped up in a blender. But you knew that he heard you.

He just wasn’t aligning such striking boldness to his memories of you. In a way, you were a stranger.

Lee kicked a stone at his feet. “Vernon is your boyfriend?”

“Yes.”

Again, he said nothing. Only hung his head, rubbed off his nose, and walked back into the mellowness of the painting studio, making sure to avoid Vernon by taking a sharp turn. You let the sun energize you for another minute, and then said goodbye to its sweet tangerine rays.

When you approached Vernon, who had been diligently waiting for you, tense in his seat, you bent down and kissed his cheek. “Not your best, but still very good behaviour,” you whispered into his ear, plucking out the elastic tying up his hair in order to adoringly ruffle the strands between your fingers. “I think we can go get some ice cream.”

You sat on the hood of the car, running the plastic spoon through vanilla and chocolatey, rich syrup. It was your favourite flavour, a childhood comfort, and its taste had never changed. Vernon preferred his mint chocolate chip—a polarizing choice—one that suited him. Since neither of you got to complete your paintings, the studio offered to hold them until you could book another session. You were ineffably curious to know what had been giving Vernon so much trouble. Or perhaps it was merely his ineptness with a paintbrush and having to execute fine detail.

He was standing in front of you. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes,” you mumbled around the spoon in your mouth. “I’m sure.”

His eyes studied you, carefully flitting. “He should die.”

A lump of ice cream was sucked into your windpipe and you started to cough into your elbow. “Vernon!” You spluttered. “Uncalled for!”

“I’m just sayin’, you know.” He shrugged, dragging his spoon around the flurry of pale green mint and small chocolate chunks. “I don’t like the idea of someone so slimy, who caused you so much pain, walkin’ around on the same Earth as you. He’s so fuckin’ privileged and he doesn’t even realize it.”

Sighing, you scraped some hot fudge onto your spoon, tried not to smile and condone his morbid perspective but smiled anyway. Vernon didn’t fit into the unspoken conformations of life the way others did, or forced themselves to, and as much as his roughness perplexed you, you would never ask him to change.

You couldn’t imagine him any other way.

“That was pretty funny,” you hummed, planting your shoes onto the car’s newly furbished chrome bumper. “Getting all scary with him when you had your hair in a palm tree and a little girl’s apron on.”

Vernon shrugged. “It’s my Power Puff fit.”

And you giggled, staring up at him through your lashes, turning him into a portrait against the pulpy clouds and daffodil sky. You let your ice cream sit on the car’s vanilla hood and hooked your arms around his neck, pulling him in closer, admiring the faint crests of pink dusting his cheeks, the robust amber smell on his clothes.

“I’m so thankful for you,” you told him.

Vernon took a scoop of chilly mint chocolate chip and shoved it in your mouth. You laughed, half-swallowing, half-choking, until he kissed you and everything splendidly melted into the late spring heat.

Ruby couldn’t believe that you wanted to go to a club. You mentioned it about a week in advance while you two were cooking in the kitchen—Ruby was browning up ground beef while you chopped ingredients for a fresh pico de gallo—and she immediately started laughing and snorting like a pig, bending over the stove top. For a moment, you let her enjoy the joke that was only a joke to her, and then blinked at her flatly. “I’m serious, I want to go to Prerogative,” you said. Ruby straightened up, her luminous hazel eyes widening as she pursed her lips. “How do you know about Prerogative?”

She went on to explain that it wasn’t a typical club. The atmosphere was stuffy, its patrons being the rich and shady, that it was rather difficult to get inside unless you knew someone who was a needle mover with moneybags. Those who weren’t accustomed to their snide, supercilious culture usually stuck out like sore thumbs, becoming raw roadkill circled by eerie vultures dressed in designer brands. Ruby had gone twice, though she said it was a long time ago, when she was still friends with a wealthy businesswoman’s daughter. But she no longer had the connection.

You had pushed your diced red bell pepper into a mound. “I think I know someone who might be able to get us inside,” and Ruby glanced from side to side, uncertain, desultory, like your roles had suddenly flipped.

“I mean, I’ll go with you. Just… why?”

“I can tell you afterward.”

“This reeks of Vernon.”

But you didn’t say anything, instead tossing the chopped vegetables into a bowl and squirting in some tangy juice from a lime wedge. In between slower periods at work, you asked Tara and Lara if they were interested in coming along, too. Tara squealed, “I haven’t been out in so long!” while Lara played with the tips of her soft hair, her nose wrinkling. “Isn’t that the place where all the fancy, pretentious rich people go? Purse Dog Lady will be there, I bet.”

She still agreed to come.

However, you desperately needed an outfit that wasn’t a loose, flappy t-shirt and weather-bleached jean shorts. That weekend, you and Ruby went to the one of the larger malls, slipping in between stores, your head aching from the obsessive use of fluorescent lights, your nose overwhelmed by the gaudy perfumes the sales staff wore, and your patience falling out from under you like suspended tiles. You would waddle out the changerooms, disgust ample in your face, as some tight-fitting fabric clung to your body akin to a moth silkily wrapped into an inescapable, sticky spiderweb. Ruby would excitedly clap whenever she adored an outfit, squinch up her nose when she wasn’t a fan, and give you a mild half-smile when the outfit was passable. You bought a few, to have options.

Except you didn’t really like any of them.

It was merely to play a part.

When the night finally came, you spent such a long time thinking in the shower about what an awful, terrible idea this was, that the water began running ice cold and you had to hop out with half your conditioner unwashed. Ruby helped with your makeup. She didn’t play any music like usual—when you were that anxious, you needed silence—anything else was irritating and grating and salt-to-wound on your nerves. Once she was finished, she took a tiny bottle and started misting your skin with a product that had a synthetic yet fragrant smell, enough to make you cough.

Then she let you see yourself in the washroom mirror.

“Holy shit,” were the first words from your rouge mouth, made slippery by a gloss. “I hardly recognize myself…” fingers drifted lightly at your skin, hidden underneath foundation, concealer, cream contour, blush, as though you were touching a costume mask that could be unwound and removed. “Are you sure these lashes won’t fall off? They feel a little heavy.”

Ruby shook her head. “Trust me—you could get dunked upside down into a pool and they wouldn’t fall off. This is, like, illegal lash glue.”

“How will I take them off?”

“Just peel! And then some makeup remover on a Q-tip.” She gave you a push out the door. “Put your dress on!”

Back in your room, you opened up your closet, removing the hanger that the spandex dress hung from—the colour of a dark, succulent cherry—and sighed. It wasn’t that you hated dresses. You loved them, just on other people. Like Ruby. Like Tara and Lara. Their bodies were the reasons people made dresses in the first place. You always thought your body was built for aged, wrinkly t-shirts and non-accentuating pants that made you look somewhat like a little boy. So putting on the dress was hard. You constantly plucked, pinched, and readjusted the material to make sure you could be reminiscent of them, Ruby and Tara and Lara, even though you never would be, not even in a faraway dream where reality blurred.

Ruby clapped ecstatically when you left your room. “I love it! I knew that was the one! How do you feel? Because you look so sexy.”

You shrugged, fingers rubbing together. “I feel fine.”

“That’s ‘cause you don’t wear a lot of dresses, so it’ll feel strange.”

“I guess so.”

“Where are your kitten heels?”

You pointed to the closet space by the front door. While sinking down on the couch, unhelpful, you watched Ruby search for them.

“They aren’t even out of the box!” She exclaimed, scurrying over to you and sitting on the coffee table.

“I forgot.”

Ruby tossed aside the frilly layers of cream tissue paper. “So adorable, right?” the girl fawned, handing you one to examine.

Your fingers ran along its smooth, sleek texture, black and slim. It was unbeknownst to you how you were going to survive with these strapped to your feet all night. Your soles were made for dirty sneakers and tennis shoes. A flash of your reflection appeared in the kitten heel, distorted by ebbing, pale light, and when you could not find comfort in the lost expression that was supposed to be familiar to you, tears pushed, stung, burned your eyes. Ruby was setting the matte box aside when you squeaked out a high-pitched whine of frustration, and it felt like your throat cracked.

“What’s wrong?” She cooed.

Sniffling, your head wrung back and forth. “I’m so ugly, Ruby.”

And she gasped with such immediate sharpness that it nearly cut you. “No!” Ruby said, exasperated, tucking back her hair. “No, you’re not!”

“Even this makeup can’t hide it. I think it’s making it worse.”

For a moment, your roommate quieted. The living room rippled with the pained, insecure hymns of your crying. But then Ruby sighed, and she sat down on the rug, and laid her head on your lap. One arm wrapped around your legs and squeezed them.

You suckled in, confused, laughing, wiping carefully at your runny nose. “What are you doing?”

“You’re not ugly. You’re gorgeous. And I will keep you here all night by your legs until you agree. And give yourself some damn grace.”

She always smelled of jasmines. A subtle sweetness, and then a deep, powerful richness, like a garden leading down into a moonlit cave. There was something in the scent that grounded you, similar to Vernon’s amber musk, and your wet eyes closed to enjoy the weighted warmth of Ruby’s crimson hair spilling on your lap. After a minute, you stroked her head, smiled, noticed that you weren’t itching from the inside out as though you had swallowed a poisonous plant. “Thank you, Ruby,” you sighed.

Her eyes glinted; two green summer ponds drifting with yellowed gingko leaves. “Do you feel better?” She asked, patting your knee.

“I think so…” your fingers pinched at the spandex to massage the stretchy fabric. “Don’t take offense to this—you did such an amazing job and I think you might have sprayed twenty dollars on my face—but this makeup is kinda suffocating me. Would it matter if I took it off?”

“I think you feeling comfortable is top priority.”

“Okay,” you said with a relieved exhale. “I’ll remove it.”

About an hour later—after rubbing soaked cotton pads of witch hazel to your face—you and Ruby rendezvoused with Tara and Lara, who were already downtown, each dressed in a sultry black dress. Tara’s dress was very short compared to Lara’s, hers adorned with a halter design that hugged over her hips but flared gently at the legs. They had been waiting outside a pub. Lara was smoking a cigarette, which turned the air acrid and sharp.

“I’m so excited!” Tara rallied. “I’ve never been to this club.”

Lara’s arms were folded unenthusiastically, her shoulders slumped forward. “You are going to have rich nepotism children fighting the urge to spit on you because you don’t work a six-figure job,” she explained while taking a puff from her cigarette. “Proceed with caution, Tars.”

“It doesn’t matter!” Tara quipped back. She was practically wearing her sparkly optimism like a cloak. “We’ll stick together! It’ll be fun!”

You smiled, not letting the honesty of your bumpy seams show.

“Should we start heading over?” Ruby asked.

“I think so! Who knows how long the line is,” Tara pointed out.

Lara looked to you, her eyes low, tracing. She made sure to get one lasting, long inhalation of bitter smoke before chucking her cigarette onto the street, where it fizzled into orange, peeling paper like a fading firefly. “Fine,” Lara sighed.

Ruby and Tara took the lead, striding and chatting. You walked beside Lara. “I’m sorry if Tara forced you into this,” you murmured.

She hummed. “No need to be sorry. I know you’re scheming.”

And you choked a bit. “Scheming?”

“Nobody willingly goes to Prerogative.”

That made you snort. “Rich people.”

“When I say nobody, I mean us regulars. The Averages of the world.”

“Lara, you’re far from average.”

She glanced at you, quirking her groomed eyebrow, and the way her lips calmly reached into a smile was charming. “So are you, it seems.”

“Then I suppose we’ll fit right in.”

While waiting in Prerogative’s long line, you understood very quickly the specific archetype of people that belonged here. They almost didn’t seem human. Most were tall, thin, as though beneath the dapper suits and eccentric dresses, there were only ivory bones for the wind to whistle through. Their movements lacked fluidity. It reminded you of a flip-cartoon with frames removed, such that you would suddenly blink and find them contorted into another stiff, waxy facial expression, eyes like marbles; polished, shiny, but lifeless. Standing amongst them, you felt as though you were not alive in the same way they were. And they could smell it. The sticky city plumes on your skin, the cheap perfume tangled into your hair, how smoothly your face could move. Stares lingered. Empty yet deep.

Upon reaching the front of the line, you were met by a single bouncer whose chest was wide enough, sturdy enough, to land a jet. Tinted glasses were shifted down to the tip of his big nose. He didn’t speak. A machine. Waiting to hear a human’s call before it could activate.

“My ID,” you showed him.

He glanced at it, uninterested, saying nothing.

Stay calm, you reminded yourself. “We’re with the Polleznas.”

Thick, bulging arms folded overtop his chest. “Who?”

“Georgio and Catarina Pollezna, to be exact.”

The bouncer’s eyes skipped between you. He stood up straighter, and the entrance behind him swallowed. “Don’t look like it.”

“I was just there, at their beach house,” you explained. “We all went, actually. Have you ever been up Windermere Boulevard? There’s the blue house—big, like a colosseum—the seafoam green one, and the one with all those pretty grey bricks belongs to the Polleznas. Backyard pool. Gigantic yellow curly slide. Has the turrets and baskets of bright pink Hibiscus. Anyway, Catarina’s visiting Georgio in Italy right now. He’s been working on a new shoe design with his leather suppliers.” Pulling out your phone, you showed him a photograph, the same photograph of Kitty and her friends partying in Italy, which you downloaded from her social media. “This was us at Blanco Beach.” You don’t let him glean for too long. “And she has to board a flight tomorrow, to Florence. She tests the shoes!” You grabbed Ruby by the arm, lugged her forward. Her parents were from Italy, and she even knew how to speak the language, though it wasn’t perfect and tended to degrade the less she was around them.

Ruby smiled. “Sì signore. Come stai? Piacere di conoscerti?”

The bouncer was unmoving, until he pushed the tinted glasses further up his nose. In a husky voice, he gestured at Ruby. “ID?”

A few moments later, you were all let inside the black, glassy building, and you nearly stumbled over each other—hips bumping, arms smacking, heels wobbling—in a buzzing, livewire excitement. You rounded a long, curved hallway with matte silver walls and elegant streams of violet lights that flowed along the ceiling like galactic water. “I can’t fucking believe that actually worked!” Tara squealed. “I almost forgot how to speak,” Ruby giggled, nerves still breathy in her voice. “The lady behind me kept stepping on my heel and I almost tore her breast implants out,” Lara spat.

You were so relieved to be let inside the club that you nearly forgot the reason you were there. But it emerged, bobbing at the surface of your consciousness, and you felt the edges crafting your exhilarated smile dampen slightly. Different sized globs of people consumed the room, all stuck to each other like gum, refusing to mingle, as though brushing shoulders with someone outside their circle was essentially reinstituting the plague. The bar was quite large and easy to identify. Its counter was glowing white, something of a spaceship, and numerous bartenders swarmed behind it, handling bottles and glasses and shakers. The music was simply a deep, thrumming beat without lyrics, high energy, full of magnetic pulses.

“Who wants a drink?!” Tara offered.

Ruby agreed. “Let’s check it out.”

She held your hand as you grooved in between bodies. Though the atmosphere was dim and people’s faces were powdered in smoky shadows, that didn’t seem to stop the occasional preened onlooker, glancing you over from top to bottom, their eyes metallic in the seedy, sensual light.

You all squeezed against the bar’s glowing countertop, lined up like awkward ducklings while your elbows dug into each other.

Almost immediately, a pale man swooped in from what you assumed was a rift in the staunch air, his lips thin and pink, his eyebrows dark and thick, and his voice a low, errorless purr. “Who’s going first?”

“What’s your special?” Tara asked.

“Can I have three shots of tequila?” Lara muttered.

“I’d love a vodka cran!” Ruby chirped.

You said nothing. Instead, your head swivelled around the room, refusing to let any detail go unmissed. Two walls were bracketed by staircases that led to the balcony, and you couldn’t help but wonder if that’s where he was lurking. Above ground, tracing the murkiness, alert to everything and everyone. But it didn’t feel right. Too obvious.

Ruby nudged your side. “You want a VC?”

“What’s that?”

She laughed, “vodka cran!”

“Oh, uh, sure.” It was hard to care about which shitty alcoholic beverage you were going to be forced to sip for the rest of the night when you had much, much bigger concerns. The bartender slid you a glass filled with dark pink liquid, a black straw, and balls of ice. You took a shallow sip from the straw while tilting your phone against the fancy card reader, and bristled slightly upon tasting the expensive vodka’s lingering sterileness. “Let’s wander around,” you suggested, shrugging. “Maybe we can sit somewhere.”

“These people look like aliens,” Lara grunted.

“It’s called face fillers,” Ruby said. “And botox.”

“The bartender’s teeth were literal piano keys!” Tara exclaimed.

“Don’t you play piano, Tars?” Lara asked. “Why not practice a tune on his blinding teeth. Dance of the Sugarplum Fairy? Fur Elise?”

Tara’s face wrinkled. “I haven’t played in a year!”

“For how long did you practice?” Ruby questioned.

“I’ve been playing since I was eight. Started ballet at nine.”

“I knew the ballet part,” Ruby laughed. “That was one of the first stories I remember you explaining. You started doing pliés and relevés beside the hot plate! I thought you were going to get fired right then!” 

“She likes to relive her glory days,” Lara muttered.

“Like you don’t!” Tara shot back, playfully slapping her friend’s arm. “When I came to your flat for the first time, the first thing I saw was a gigantic poster of yourself when you headlined The Nutcracker! And you keep your original ballet slippers in a glass display case!”

Their squabbling began to disintegrate, fall through your ears like sprinkling sand, and no longer were you listening to Lara and Tara argue whose pirouette was better while Ruby refereed their biased quipping. You saw another staircase, except it led downward, was secured by red rope, and had a bulky guard with an earpiece standing right in front of it.

You shrivelled.

How on earth were you supposed to slip past him?

Lacing your arm around Ruby’s elbow, you tugged her off to the side while Tara and Lara continued to hopelessly blather at each other. She pressed the straw of her drink between her lips, sipped, eyebrows lifted.

“I need to get down there,” you said, nodding toward the stairs.

Ruby swallowed, glanced at the guard. “Uh… there?”

“Yes.”

She sipped from her drink again, then stirred around the spherical ice cubes. “I think that might be for VIP’s, babe.” The ice clinked against the glass. Ruby suddenly furrowed her brow. “Do you know a VIP?”

You sighed, shoulders sagging. “No… but I need to meet one.”

“Who?”

“It’s… well… I can’t really tell you. Not yet. It all depends on if I can get downstairs or not. But how am I supposed to get past the guard?”

Ruby’s expression folded with skepticism. “This doesn’t feel like a good idea… this does have something to do with Vern, doesn’t it?”

In that moment, you wanted to snap at her. Ruby spent the entirety of her career getting wasted, making stupid choices, and wreaking havoc on the city with her substance-snorting friends. She had cooled down the rambunctious behaviour over a few months, put more focus into her job, and while you were immensely proud, now was not the time for her to tell you that something wasn’t a good idea. So you breathed, and breathed some more, and tried to wrestle down your feisty tongue that was ready to exhale your vodka into a blue flame. “It does,” you admitted. “Because I love him.”

She looked like someone had just popped a balloon in her face. Both her hands white-knuckled around the glass. “Wait… are you being serious?”

You smiled at her. “The seriousest.”

And Ruby squealed. She hugged you. “Have you told him?!”

“Uh, no…” you responded awkwardly, noticing a few dark blotches on your dress from the slightly spilled drink in your hand. “Not yet.”

“You gotta tell him!” She urged, passion alighting her like sparks.

“I will, I will.”

“I know he feels the same way,” Ruby remarked. “He’s never been like this about anyone. And… actually… I’m so freakin’ proud of both you guys. I see how you’ve impacted each other. This is, like, destiny.” She proceeded to sigh dreamily, nursing another savoury sip from her drink.

You started to smile at your roommate, but then you noticed something unraveling over her shoulder, and a weight smacked the pit of your stomach in one gigantic earthquake.

Ruby seemed to notice, too.

Lara, her lips peeled back in contempt, engaged with another woman who stood concerningly close. She looked older than Lara, with flat black hair trimmed to unnegotiable precision around her chin, short bangs, and a face that seemed as though it were carved from white wood. There was a taunting, antagonizing flicker in her eyes. You gathered Ruby and rushed toward Tara, who was standing off to the side, nibbling at her nails.

“What’s happening?” You queried.

Tara sighed; gaze pinned to her best friend, her vitriolic flare. “It’s that woman who was stepping on Lara’s heel when we were outside, waiting in line. She bumped into Lara and, of course, Lara wouldn’t let it go.”

Ruby frowned. “She’s not… a fighter… is she?”

The look on Tara’s face was deadpanned. “Gosh. I wish.”

Suddenly, there was an audible soundwave of gasps that emanated from the crowd the two women were garnering. Each stranger looked like an oilifed painting as they stood in shock. Strobing light cascaded around the room, occasionally glittering off bejewelled watches or rhinestone necklaces.

“What the hell happened?” Ruby dared to question; her jaw taunt.

“I think Lara just threw a drink on her!” Tara cried.

The next thing you saw was the glimmer of a pale, bony fist swinging toward Lara, and within seconds, the entire room swayed—a  rocky platform riding a dastardly wave—and you had nothing to hold.

Everything moved in flashes. Tara started unhooking her earrings.

“Uh—what are you doing?” Ruby stuttered as Tara poured them into her hand. “Are you—shouldn’t we—what the fuck is going on?”

She tightened her ponytail. “Lara would do the same for me,” was all Tara said, gulping in a breath, the anxiousness in her eyes suffusing into something so stern it almost made you shiver. Both you and Ruby watched, mouths agape, as Tara started elbowing her way through the crocheted crowd, swinging, before she seemingly got sucked down into a whirlwind of fists and screams. You froze, feeling the warm strobe light pass over you.

But then Ruby bumped your side. “Go!” She whispered harshly.

“What? Go where?”

“The stairs!” She grabbed your chin and turned it toward the red rope, waiting for you to slip underneath, without the looming bouncer and his craggy scowl.  “He’s trying to stop the fight! Go right now! I’ll hold your drink since I’m already holding fucking everything at this point.”

And so you didn’t think. You ran toward the stairs, budging in between a few strangers and their stick-like bodies. Lithely, you slid underneath the rope, and with your kitten heels quivering on every step you took, your sweaty hands lurched for the banister.

There was a long, disorientating corridor waiting for you. Tiny bulbs of blue light bordered the floor, leading down, down, down, without an end in sight. A sharp kink twisted inside your stomach, as though someone was turning a corkscrew, and you needed a moment to breathe like a mother on the verge of giving birth. But you couldn’t wait forever. The opportunity, while unplanned and terribly concerning, had fallen right at your feet and you could not afford to squander it. So you gulped in the thick vapour of your own fear and started progressing down the corridor, moving through the foggy orbs of blue light.

The further you walked, the less you heard the pulsing club beat, until nothing remained but a faint echo tickling your ear’s outer shell. You noticed the air became moister. Cooler. You walked until you reached a dark metal door perimetered by bolts, and you felt something like an explorer outside an ancient tomb filled with oracular secrets.

Behind that door… you almost wouldn’t allow yourself to imagine it.

You do not talk to El Timador unless you want to make a deal, or someone to die. At that point, you wanted to die from anxiousness.

“How sneaky of you.”

 You whipped around, gasping up your entire soul.

A man was standing behind you. Not uncomfortably close, but closer than you’d like him to be. A beautiful man, with the dewy, pearlescent skin of a siren, and deep, rich brown eyes, almond-shaped, that seemed to swim with darkness you would not find above ground. His hair was lengthy, swooping elegantly above his shoulders in black rivulets. Interestingly, he smelled of sterile, pure nothingness—a complete lack of existence—like he was a void. In that moment, terror grabbed you with its cold, icy hand.

“Jeonghan,” you said.

And he said your name back to you.

Not a nickname. Not a mispronunciation. Not a mix-up.

You.

“I was—I thought—”

“Yes, I was on the balcony,” he said, and his smile was wicked.

El Timador plays no-fun games.

Your throat was paper-dry. All you could mumble was, “oh…”

“That fight. What a commotion. And—how very clever of you—to slip away so delicately. Like a loose fish. I almost didn’t catch you going underneath the rope.” He tilted his head. “Good thing I did.” And then he took a step forward, his movements eerily silent. Your head cocked at him, the sheer intensity of his closeness, how consuming he was. “Do you know what would have happened if you knocked on that door?” He asked you in a low, slithering whisper. He didn’t blink. His dark eyes bulged as though they were being pressed on.

“N-No…” you choked out, lips trembling.

Jeonghan pulled a hand down his face, though it paused to cover his mouth, and it stayed there for a slow, ticking, nauseating moment. But then he quickly removed his hand, sharply turned his sculpted face away, and stepped around you.

“Nothing,” he said. “There’s no one in there.”

You felt lightheaded.

He now had a key that he slid into the door’s lock.

Another shiver tingled down your spine.

The room he revealed was bare; not one person inside. Jeonghan waltzed straight in, but you hovered at the threshold, your eyes probing the space with snowballing apprehension. There were two white, glowing platforms elevated from the ground, each with a shiny pole, but no dancer to work the room. And then the booth against the wall, black leather, tight like snakeskin. Jeonghan slid himself into the booth until he was sat in the very middle, his hands clasped together, laid on the golden wood of the broad tabletop, as he smiled at you, waiting to see if you would enter.

He tilted his head. “I promise, there are no tripwires that trigger swinging axes or pits full of spikes. But you are welcome to stand there, if that makes you feel…” his wispy voice drifted off, “comfortable.”

And so you stepped inside. Paused. “Should I… close the door?”

“Well, are doors made to be open or closed?”

You stared at him, your heart pattering heavily. “It depends.”

Jeonghan nodded. “Yes, it does. Do you want us to have an easy, smooth conversation with the door closed? Or a conversation that is stilted and terribly lost because the only thing you can think about is how fast you will bolt to that open door if something goes South between us?”

So you closed the door, watched the blue, hazy lights fade outside in the hallway, knowing it was all a game of trust, or perhaps a gullible cage you had just locked yourself inside because this man had all the control. You approached Jeonghan, hands flattening over the thighs of your spandex dress, and proceeded to slide your way across the leather.

But he stopped you. “Stay right there.” You were not beside him, but at an angle. “If we sit beside each other, I cannot see your face. You know, I always make my men sit right where you’re sitting, instead of those who come to make deals. I can read my men’s face faster.”

The inside of your mouth was sticky. “Keep your friends close...” you sighed, only half-finishing the saying because your breath was falling fast.

“Yes,” Jeonghan agreed. “And your enemies closer. Literally!” He started chuckling, and it was such a sweet sound, childlike, nasally, the tinkling of windchimes. It reminded you of when Vernon laughed especially hard—all his prickled edges became bright clouds on a sunny day—and there was some warmth that found its way inside you, a beam of courage to hold your ground.

“I was told something,” you said.

Jeonghan nodded. “I’m sure you were.”

“That one only goes to you to make a deal, or for someone to die.”

He tossed an arm around the booth. “Ah—is that what the kids are saying these days?” His other hand dug into his pocket. Out came a slim, tiny cardboard box, which you assumed to be cigarettes. Instead, he pulled out a hard candy, popped it into his mouth. “Would you like one?”

“Uh… what are they?”

“Hong Yuan candies. Guava.” He let the green candy move from cheek to cheek. “My daughter quite likes these. I’ve grown fond, too.”

You could not help your face flickering in astonishment. “A daughter?” And then immediately regretted that you had let the absentminded question slip. There was no ring on his finger. Given the fact the room had two poles for dancing, you weren’t sure if he was in any sort of committed relationship, either.

Jeonghan grooved fingers through his hair, the colour of a raven’s feathers, and you watched how the strands fell calmly back into place. “Yes, she turns eight this year.” He stared at you, held out the very small box assorted with different flavours of candy. “Would you like one?”

“No, that’s alright.”

He shrugged, placing the box into a pocket on his suit jacket. “And what are you here for then?” Jeonghan murmured. “A deal?” He settled his clasped hands back onto the table. “Or for someone to die?”

“Um… a deal.”

“You should say it with conviction.”

“I’m here for a deal,” you repeated, forcing the sternness into your voice while you held the gravity-like power of his gaze. He let a palm fall open, and it was impressively soft-looking, akin to the surface of an untouched pillow. It was a simple gesture for you to continue. “I would like you to speak with Vernon. He wants to see you.”

“Okay. And?”

Your shoulders felt heavy. “And… that’s it.”

“Ah, see, that is not a deal,” Jeonghan was swift to correct, and he pocketed the fruity candy into his cheek. “When I make a deal, there is an exchange. Contraband for money, most likely. But you have not come to me with a deal. What you have, is a request. And I don’t do requests. Even to make someone disappear, I must receive something in return.”

“I just—I don’t know what I can give you.”

“Interesting.” His hands clapped his thighs. “Well, you should have thought of that before you dragged yourself to an insufferable, staunchly club where everyone believes you are the equivalent of a dirty plastic bag floating down an exhaust-soaked street.” He made a dilated pause. “Do you agree?”

Your throat was sewn shut. It ached and stung.

Jeonghan wouldn’t let his gaze falter for even a second. He stared you down, his dark, dark eyes a suckling abyss, and you were circling the swallow, helpless, spluttering, crying out for a hand to save you, pull you to dry land. His fingertip began tapping the tabletop, and you imaged a gothic piano before him, where he continued to press that one shrill, eerie key. The imagined sound crawled through your bones in a cold, spidery sensation, and when you glanced down at your lap, you realized just how tightly you had the succulent cherry spandex wrapped into your grip.

“Silence tells me everything you are not,” Jeonghan murmured.

“Did you kill Dots?”

He sat back. His eyebrows twitched. “Pardon?”

“Paulo. Vernon’s friend. He was all their friends.”

“Whose friends?”

You swallowed. “Moo, Snozz. Others, I assume.”

Something spilt into Jeonghan’s eyes, like a bumped-over inkwell, and when he spoke, his voice was grittier, the texture of rubbing sand between your fingertips. “You mean August and Daniel.”

“Their real names?”

“Yes. And what do you know of them?”

“Well… nothing, really.”

“I can tell you a little about them. They are fascinating people.”

The conversation's direction seemed to be whirling, a compass confused. But you were in no position to act mighty. You didn't want to become a shadow. Before you could think to answer, Jeonghan rolled back his shoulders, cleared his throat.

“August. I always think about him. His father was once CEO of an extremely powerful bank in Kenya, you know? Silver spoon. Extravagance. The things we tend to envy. But he was not allowed any handouts, and this turned him to a series of transient jobs. He is boisterous, loud, but has an odd charm that still persists even when he is terribly wrong about anything and everything, but believes he is right because obliviousness is mighty. Why does someone like him need to deal in the first place? Because he wants to. Simply that.

Daniel, my poor Daniel, was damned from the start. Sometimes I awake at night and feel myself still ache for him. His mother was in an abusive relationship. His father almost cut his mother’s throat with a shard from a beer bottle, and poor Daniel had to strangle his father using a utility cord from behind their television. He has stumbled a lot. I'm sure he'll stumble many more times. You will know him best for his silence, but he is always watching, and his loyalty to those who show him grace is commendably strong.

Now, Mr. Hansol Chwe. Mr. No-Manners. We have always had a tumultuous sort of relationship, to say the least. We never mixed that well, but when we did it was always trouble of the most fun kind. He was pulled all around the world by his struggling parents who desperately needed a break. Nothing ever lasted. The ground constantly shook under his feet. He was a snowball that never stopped snowballing until he was essentially wandering the streets at sixteen with enough anger to collapse a town, while his little sister was paraded as a blossom. Sofia. I hear she goes to school in Korea, now. He is rough and jagged. He is not meant for society. But he will always find a way because his world never stops moving.

Paulo... he is most difficult to speak of... he moved between halfway houses and clinical facilities like a coin toss. His parents disappeared, and so he was his own parent. I caught him stealing half-eaten sandwiches from a coffeehouse dumpster when he was fifteen. I was eighteen at the time, in university, working at the coffeehouse, Grit. He was scruffy and dirty. But he was sharper than I would ever be. And no matter how unliveable his life became you could not remove his humanity and kindness. Together, we were pure energy.

I found Paulo behind a dumpster. Paulo found Daniel cooking cough syrup on a car engine. Daniel found August hustling gullibles in street games. And then Paulo found Hansol stealing from a bakery. Before you knew any of those boys existed—Dots, Moo, Snozz, Vernon—selling weed, and dope, and pills, I was there. I protected them. They were like my little brothers. Before I knew your street-rat boyfriend, and the depressed narcoleptic, and the vitiligo lunatic, I knew Paulo. And now, my friend, my beautifully polka-dotted friend with the dappled eyes, he is gone forever.”

You shifted, and the booth made a horrible squeaking noise, and you suddenly wanted to rip the entire thing to shreds. “I’m sorry.”

“Paulo and I did not agree on things as we got older. He was tender inside. Everyone was his friend. But in a business like this, your dealers are your dealers, not your friends. And so we split apart, a bifurcated road.”

“And you started taking over his territories.”

Jeonghan nodded. “Yes.”

“I think Vernon wants them back.”

Finally, Jeonghan crunched the hard candy, and it splintered in his mouth to sugary shards. “I know he does. But he will not have them.”

You sighed, palms humid and damp, pressing an outline of your fingers into the flexible dress. “I don’t know… but it feels like you two are fighting for pieces of the same person. A person you shared.”

Jeonghan’s eyebrow quirked. “Do you think that’s it?”

“Well, I-I’m just, you know, don’t take that too literally—”

“No,” Jeonghan interrupted with gentleness. “I am genuinely asking. The way you put it—I had never thought of that before.”

You weren’t sure what to say. In the low-lit, misty-aired room, far away from the club’s stifling arrogance, you both maintained a mutual silence. Jeonghan opened up his palm, moved his thumb across a mapped line, and you watched him, wondering what he was lost thinking about.

Finally, he sat back. “I did not kill Paulo. But I have often thought I contributed indirectly. By creating this empire with him. And it was a formidable empire. He could have gone to school. I bet he had the ability to become an astrophysicist, or a renowned professor. Though I see him choosing a quieter path. Like a librarian.” He smiled, his ivory face becoming warm in the dimness. “I do miss him. It never stops hurting.”

For a moment, a sharp thought cut into your brain. You found that you were leaning forward, arms squishing against the table. “Did you…” he looked your way curiously. “Did you submit a leaf for Paulo at Sherwood?”

“Sherwood Hospital?”

“Yes, by their recreation room.”

“How would you know?”

“Well… I guess I don’t. Vernon goes there.”

“To Sherwood?”

“Yeah. He sits and looks at the big tree. I never asked if he did it because it seemed so personal. But my friend saw him there, during one of her narcotics meetings—said he stared for a really long time.”

For a moment, Jeonghan slipped into a different skin. His solid, stern shoulders seemed to melt, and the little smirk that never really left his mouth was finally at ease. You saw in his eyes a brightness as the abyss shrunk, revealing a marvelous sun underneath. He glanced at you. “I submitted the leaf a week after his death. But I told no one. I wonder how he discovered it… he does tend to travel about. Never still.”

You swallowed in nettles. “I don’t think he stops hurting either.”

Jeonghan nodded. “It seems so.” Again, silence was threaded delicately through the air. “Okay,” he then huffed. “I will see him.”

A spark jumped to life in your stomach. “You’ll see Vernon?”

“I will.”

You damn near threw your body over the table to hug him. Relief and glee and fondness was soaring in circles, from your head to your toes, to the point you were surprised you weren’t floating. Instead, your hands clenched together, and you spewed out a thank you that made him squint.

“So,” Jeonghan hummed. “You are dating Chwe, hm?”

Nodding, you said, “yes,” with a little too much excitement.

“He is gritty, isn’t he? Like a handful of gravel. We got along better than I let on, actually, back then. Always egging each other on. We reconnected when he asked me that special favour. I realize he’s still got that cocky attitude.”

“I know,” you answered, smiling lopsidedly.

Jeonghan seemed to inspect you, his fingers again tapping the golden tabletop, head falling to the side along with full, thick ribbons of his velvety hair. “You are not what I was expecting Chwe to like.” That faint smirk returned to his hydrated lips. “I remember you, from many months ago. You ran in front of my car to chase the bus and we almost flattened you into an animal hide. Such a helpless nature about you, I thought. You will get chewed up and spat out many times. But you don’t seem so helpless now.”

“Holy fucking shit…” the words tumbled out in dense blocks, bereft of any grace. “That was you? That’s batshit crazy. I can’t believe it.”

“Funny how the world works.”

“No kidding.”

“Well,” Jeonghan huffed while pushing up from the table, making a shooing motion with his hand, so you slid out the booth hurriedly, “I hope the best for you two. Chwe has hardened you up a bit, it seems. Maybe you have softened him somewhat in return. Maybe he will finally be still.”

You nodded, following Jeonghan to the door. “Maybe.”

Ruby, Tara, and Lara had all been kicked out the club.

Following the address from Ruby’s text message, you found them inside a packed bar, all slumped together at a table, surrounded by glasses of alcohol and a huge basket of chicken tenders with checkered paper, each girl gobbling away, grease shiny on their mouths. The music was bursting and the lighting was terrible. A stranger touched your shoulder in the corridor to tell you she loved your dress. When you greeted them, they all exploded into an overlapping quarrel of questions, and you didn’t understand even one.

Lara’s eyebrow was already beginning to swell. Tara had scratches on her arms. Ruby said the black-haired woman with the bob was also thrown out, and that Lara had stolen some money from her handbag.

“To pay for the tenders,” Lara mumbled while eagerly devouring the accompanying potatoes wedges that came on the side. And you apologized for the awful chaos. “Not your fault,” Tara mollified, her eyes cheery. Ruby let you have a sip of her iced tea. “This was actually a pretty great night,” she said.

An hour later, you and Ruby waved goodbye to the British twins huddling together in the backseat of a yellow taxi. She asked if you had met your VIP, and you told her yes, and that if she saw him, she would be swooning for a month straight.

“Please don’t tempt me,” she grumbled back.

When you returned to the apartment, Ruby didn’t waste any time half-heartedly showering and promptly throwing herself into bed. There were times she came home at dawn, heels deserted across the kitchen floor, outfit still adorned, face-planted into a makeup-stained pillow. You always worried about her back then. But now she could hardly make it to midnight.

However, you weren’t tired. Jitters of anxiety and relief still quivered in your muscles, plucked like guitar strings. The inherent dulcetness of Jeonghan’s tone lingered in your ears. His playful grin. How he manoeuvred between power and empathy with such easy flicks. How well he knew the boys, each with their own story and scars, as if they were his, too. Chwe has hardened you up a bit, it seems. Maybe you have softened him somewhat in return. Maybe he will finally be still. You chewed on those words. They settled in your teeth.

Maybe he will finally be still.

But as you sat on the edge of your bed, still pinching the stretchy spandex in your restive fingers, you wondered how Vernon would feel. Would Jeonghan tell him that you were there, at Prerogative?

He didn’t want you involved, and you understood why, and yet, you did not listen. That, he would not like. Not at all.

Suddenly, there were knocks banging at your window. You lurched, gasping, feeling over your heart—a hurdling stampede of horses.

He knew. Oh, gosh. Oh, fucking hell. He knew.

And you prepared to get weathered.

Shucking aside your curtains and lifting open the window, Vernon was hopping inside and over your desk with polished habit. He was mad, you could sense it in the air, how it crackled around his body, as he began pacing back and forth, smelling like cool smoke.

You didn’t move or speak.

He dragged a hand through his hair, already disheveled. He pulled his adored gold chain between his teeth and grinded it. He rolled up the sleeves to his black windbreaker. Finally stopped pacing. Then he looked at you, and his eyes were a soaked mixture of cinders.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He seethed.

You didn’t say a word, hands behind you, gripping the desk.

Vernon raked his bottom lip into his mouth with wolfish teeth. “You had no fuckin’ right.” He proceeded to spit. And suddenly you understood Jeonghan with striking clarity when he had said Vernon was a handful of gravel—roughened edges, uneven yet sharp, cutting as clean as knives—his street grit. “You put yourself in that fuckin’ conceited shithole of a club, to talk to him, that slippery fuckin’ snake, on some bullshit I could have done myself.” His breath was harsh, flaring out his nostrils, as though his belly was boiling rocks.

Behind you, your hands squeezed together. “I got you what you wanted,” came the soft tremble of your voice, and for some reason, your own words sounded so distant and echoing, like there were seashells covering your ears. “He’s going to see you.”

“I don’t give a fuck!” Vernon bellowed, and you feared that Ruby might hear everything. “I don’t give a fuck, do you understand?! That wasn’t your authority to handle! That's not a choice you get to fuckin' make for me! It's my goddamn business at the end of the day! How the fuck do you not understand that?!”

Your lips separated, dry, afraid. “I do understand, but—”

He stepped closer to you. “Fuckin’ bullshit you do.”

“I told you that—that I won’t be able to stay out—”

“So smarten the fuck up!” Vernon chastised. “Don’t be so fuckin’ stupid thinkin’ every little thing’s always gonna go your way, especially shit you have no fuckin’ knowledge about.” He tongued his cheek, grasped at his frayed, stressed locks of sooty hair. “But that’s you, huh? Everything fuckin’ goes your way.” He sniffled and rubbed his nose, smirking, but it lacked his supplemental warmth. “You’re so fuckin’ lucky. All your damn issues are so mundane and simple. You’re just some outsider lookin’ in, thinkin’ you can play around, move things like dolls. But you’ll never understand.”

There was a deep, throbbing pain in your throat, as though something was there, digging. A small part of it was from his anger at you, but the majority was from the cataclysmic hurt, rumbling down around him like surges of breaking earth. So many wounds you couldn’t see, wounds that had barbed his interior since childhood and had been wearing him down from the inside progressively. And you, a perceived safety, a relief, now swiftly taking it all away.

You swallowed bitterly. “I swear, I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just wanted to make everything easier. I-I thought I was helping.”

Vernon glared at you. “Then learn when it's time to fuck off.”

A sharp sensation in your gut. Something was pulling, moving its way up your stomach, into your esophagus. You wanted to cut it free, but you didn’t know how. Your eyes narrowed. “Meaning what?”

“Leave me the fuck alone, is what it means!”

“You’re the one in my bedroom.”

He pinched his nose, irritation singeing off him like a flame eating up a waxy candle wick. “Don’t get fuckin’ smart with that mouth of yours. You know exactly why I’m here.” Moonlight shone through the window, bathed him in silver, made his chain glint and sparkle.

You paused, about to rescind the jeering urge back into yourself. But your body wanted the urge gone. Refused to let it settle.

“Did you not just tell me to smarten up? Which is it?”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“No, what the fuck is wrong with you?” There was a spear down your throat, splitting you open, unearthing a sap full of unspoken, smothering weight. “I fucking told you that I wouldn’t be able to stay out of your business! I fucking told you! How come you get to break rules when it comes to us? Why don’t I get that?!”

Vernon's teeth flashed. “You could fuckin’ die you idiot! You could get caught in the middle of some stupid bullshit! I know when it’s okay to let you, and when it’s not okay! But you don’t fuckin’ listen!”

“If I’m ruining your life, then just tell me.”

“God—even now—you’re not fuckin’ listenin’, you stupid girl.” He tossed up a helpless hand, chuckled in frustration. “You fuckin’ stupid spoiled people. Playin' house with people's issues. Playin' fuckin' doctor. Thinkin' you can come in and open us up like a broken toy and fix everything you think is wrong and we'll just accept it.”

“I never asked for you to change!”

“So stay the fuck out of my business!”

The feeling was a wilted rose head, finally snipped, and the weight of holding back disappeared with a windy whoosh of wrinkled petals.

Without control, you shoved his contoured chest.

He hardly moved.

You shoved him again, again, again, started pounding your fists against the boy while he just stood there like a stable mountain and absorbed your every furious shock. “Fucking hate you!” you cried aloud into the silver-stained room, your eyes pinched shut to avoid seeing his expression. “You fuck off! I fucking live here!” His smell consumed you—that heady amber, the tangy smoke, the sweetness tangled in his thick strands of dark hair—and with one final shove, you bumped past him, cheeks glazed in a sheen of tears.

But he refused.

“Let go!” You hollered, swinging your elbow about haphazardly while his fingers lodged into your skin. “I freaking hate you! I’m never doing anything for you ever again! You, you—"

Vernon lurched you closer. “Shut your mouth,” he hissed.

“No! No! You shut your mouth!”

He wrestled with your arms. “God, you annoyin’ fuckin’ girl.”

“And you’re a drug dealer! I should report you!”

But then he had your warm, fleshy arms pierced to your sides, his fingers pressing deep into the skin and rubbing bone. He was everywhere in your senses. His nose an inch from your nose. His eyes seething into your eyes. And suddenly, you wanted him to grind you up into a crystally, scintillating powder, like the ones he snorted so casually, have you inside his blood, kicking his synaptic receptors.

“Yeah?” He gritted his teeth, stared into your soul. “Is that what you’re gonna do, you fuckin’ psychotic girl? Gonna go run your fuckin’ dumb mouth, huh? That’s all you're good for, isn’t it?”

“You’re the—” you grunted, twisting, “—psychotic one.” His skin was melting into your skin. “M’never gonna speak t-to you again.”

And then, he let go.

You stood there, clueless, confused, splotchy in tears.

Vernon flicked his head. “Go. Tell. Get me fuckin’ arrested.”

For a moment, you froze. His heat was gone. His smell. His rough voice so close to your skin. Everything was gone.

You felt empty and dull.

So you dared push him again.

And he had your lower back hitting the curve of your desk. You squealed aloud at the sudden pain, but Vernon’s mouth dampened it.

He had never kissed you so hungrily. Your arms wrapped around his neck, tugged him closer, eager to float in his addictive scent and submit to his touches. The boy’s weight pushed you harder into the desk. It only opened your lips wider, left more room for his hot tongue to fill your mouth and stroke you sloppily from the inside. You started to scratch and claw. You were desperate. So, so desperate. So blitzed in passionate, surging feelings that you could think nothing.

“You stupid girl,” he groaned. “You stupid, stupid girl.” His slippery lips suckled you, then his daggered teeth bit you. “My stupid girl,” he breathed across your mouth in a fluttering huskiness, which was already swelling, tender. “Why don’t you fuckin’ listen to me? Hm?”

“I do,” you whined. “I promise I do. I fucking promise.”

His calloused, tattooed hand was pressing at the base of your aching throat, soft pressure, and his eyes were hooded in a lascivious way that you had never seen. He hovered close to your glossy face. “Then prove it to me,” Vernon’s warm, whispered words tickled you, though, for not a moment longer. He gripped behind your neck, shoved you down onto your knees in a smothered thud. You gulped, peering up at his intention evident in the moonlight. Your lashes danced with nerves, anticipation. He gripped your chin. “Suck me off. Now.”

You paused. Never had you done anything like this.

He knew that.

Even if the desire had crossed your mind.

The hardened tent in his pants was making you dizzy, and you were right at eye-level with it, the moisture between your cheeks desiccated. Choking down a lump in your throat, you glanced up at him again to notice some softness in his steely gaze.

He reached out, fingers brushing over your raw lips with a sort of tenderness you wanted to greedily swallow. Vernon hummed, “do you want this, baby?” as his thumb feathered across a stinging split in your bottom lip. “You can say no. Hm?”

But you didn’t want no.

You wanted him in deep, dark, twisted ways that made no sense.

Afraid but willing, you licked at his thumb, grabbed his wrist, pushed the digit further into your warm, slippery mouth. “I want this,” you mumbled, and tested circling his thumb.

He smirked. Removed his thumb from your wet mouth, drawing along a shiny thread of your spit that you tried not to grimace at. You breathed in the room's defining warmth, watching him take hold of his belt, the rings flashing on his fingers, as he started the process of unbuckling it. And then he popped his button, grabbed his zipper, started pulling it down. The air was so ineffably dense in your nose that you struggled to breathe, and your lungs were dried fruit.

There was another sweet, lentamente brush along your cheek, drawing you into groundedness. “Relax, PJ’s,” he whispered, and the sound of your coined nickname rolling so naturally off his tongue alleviated some tension. “Just relax. I’ll help you, baby. Yeah?”

So you nodded obediently. “Yes.”

He smirked. “My good girl.”

Nothing else in the universe mattered as Vernon dug an inked hand underneath his black pants, grunted a bit, pulled himself out. You wanted to scream. Human nature was… biased. It stuck a fork into your brain and scrambled it into a fluffy pile of mush. Vernon was big. He was big and thick and certain engorged veins were curving along his daunting length to his flushed tip. You couldn’t do anything but stare, stare, stare, breathe, breathe, breathe, gulp, gulp, gulp. And then his hand, starting at his shaft and gripping upward, pushing out something milky-looking from his tip.

You finally glanced up at him.

And he shrugged. “Can’t make it any smaller. Your fault.”

“Vernon,” you said nervously, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

His brows mellowed. “I know. Give me your hand, okay?”

You were shaking. He took your clammy hand, had it wrap delicately around him, and you immediately squeaked, “you’re so hard.”

His chuckle was deliciously raspy. “I know.” His toughened hand laid over yours, and slowly, he began to guide your motions, having you stroke him, feel him, his heat and texture and the odd pulses. “Like this, yeah?” He hummed. But then his grip tightened, made your hand twist in more skillful demonstration. “That’s good, too. But you can explore a bit, see what you do best.” His hand fell away and your stomach lined with fear—now left to your own novice.

“What if what I do doesn’t feel good?”

“I’ll tell you.”

“But what if you don’t like anything I do?”

“Don't scare me like that, PJ's. Not a whole lot you really gotta do to suck a dick well. What kind of fucked up porn are you watchin'?”

“I'm not watching—I just mean, l-like—what if I'm bad at it?”

“I'll guide you.”

“But what if that's not—”

He tossed his head back, snorted with dry laughter, ruffled his loose hair. “God, shut up! Do you not see what the fuck’s in front a’ you? Do you not see how good I’m clearly fuckin’ feelin’? I trust you, alright?”

You nodded. “Okay, sorry.” Flexed your fingers around him, remembered to breathe. “I’m just a little scared that you won’t like it.”

“Only a little, huh?” He abruptly tickled your cheek and you couldn't help giggling. “I know. I hear you, beautiful. But I’m gonna cum from just lookin’ at you on your damn knees, so please start.”

Really? That seemed to motivate you. Fill you with warm, liquid, oozing heat. So you began stroking him, up and down, up and down, at times attempting to incorporate that snappy wrist trick but finding it unusually awkward for you to accomplish. When you glanced up for a moment, saw how he was staring at you with such wild dilation in his gorgeous eyes, you prickled with something adventurous. You moved forward, refused to breathe, and let your tongue lick over his tip. His hips suddenly twitched. Vernon’s bottom lip pulled through his teeth and he groaned, tilting his head back, revealing the hard column of his neck. You loved the reaction, so you tried it again, ignoring the saltish taste and gluey texture of his leaking semen.

“Fuckkk,” he moaned, crackly and deep, stirring up your insides. “Give me more of your perfect mouth, sweetheart,” he cooed.

You listened, slacking your jaw, tampering with his size pressing in past your lips, getting in a little ways before it felt too big, too much, too strange, and you had to slip him back out. “Sorry.”

“Try again. Take a big breath. Close your eyes.”

Determined, you heeded his advice, getting him further into your trembling mouth, feeling his grooves and veins glide along your tongue. An urge lurched in your throat to spit him out from the intruding thickness and length, but you willfully ignored it, eyes squeezed shut, kept pushing your head down.

“Yes, yes,” he breathed so raggedly, “fuck yes, baby. Just like that.”

But then his tip hit the back of your throat and you gagged, coughing up slimy spit that forced him back out. You wiped your mouth, hacked into your elbow. “Can’t fit—wasn’t even close,” you panted.

“M’not expectin’ that on your first go,” Vernon chuckled. “That was so fuckin’ good. Don’t wanna cum yet but you make it so hard.”

You smiled. Prepared yourself to try again.

Letting your sore jaw fall loose, you closed your eyes and held onto him, directing his girth back into your mouth. The spit from your previous attempt had lubricated him, made him easier to slide. Hot tears were pushing against your eyes and your throat irritably hitched, but at that moment you managed to swallow rather than messily choke. Vernon shuddered. The silkiness and warm pressure must feel indescribable. Lightly, your teeth grazed him, and then you felt his hand cradle the back of your scalp. “Let me push your head, baby girl,” he mumbled, “just a bit.” You let him.

Tears drifted down your cheeks and lined your chin like morning dew droplets. Why was it so delicious? Allowing him such control over you? Your jaw was aching terribly, his leaking cum dripping down your throat, but you didn’t want any of what he was doing to stop.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Vernon praised you for his pleasure, his thumb delicately stroking your head. “Let me inside your mouth, pretty fuckin’ girl.” He was suffocating you. Saliva flooded your hollowed cheeks, trickled from your stretched lips, and you felt a vulnerable ugliness. “God—you look so fuckin’ dirty like this, hm? On your fuckin’ knees, gettin’ that loud mouth of yours stuffed with dick.”

He chuckled with a possessive darkness, pressed your head deeper, let you whimper and drool. “Dressed in that tight, tight dress. Shows off your tits and your ass for those inflated, braindead fuckin’ rich pricks.” Your hands braced against his hard, muscular thighs. Tears were overwhelming your slimmed cheeks, tiny silver streams. “You slutty girl, hm? I bet you’re a fuckin’ freak. I should fuck you over this desk n’ make your pussy cry until you’re just a sloppy mess of my cum. Make you mine.” He suddenly tensed. Then his hips bucked forward, and you couldn’t handle it anymore, but his grip on your head was too focused, strong. You cried and shrivelled around him, scratched his thighs with your nails. He started to wickedly pulse.

Gone.

He was outside your mouth. Coldness replaced him. You breathed in like your lungs were tasting air for the first time, gasped and whimpered while feeling a metaphorical winter freeze you over.

But then something was being squirted onto your ruined, glistering face—white ropes, slippery—in your hair, along your lips, down your dress. And you just kneeled there, stupefied, accepting it.

“Fuck, fff-fuck,” Vernon swore, pumping himself intensely.

A moment later, and you collapsed back against the desk.

It was over.

Leaving you an absolute soiled, seamy mess.

Your bed was a cloud. A cushioned cloud. No hard floors. No sharp edges. Just cotton blankets that breathed around you and plump pillows. He was there, too. His arms opened for you, and you crawled into them, immediately softening into his embrace and his rich, luxurious amber scent. Your skin was pampered due to a hot shower.

No more sweat or drool or your boyfriend’s sticky ejaculate. Only the moisture from a jojoba oil lotion. Clean hair.

But still an aching jaw and a very sore throat.

He held you, pressed kiss after kiss into your temples, your dampened locks that smelled like lush hibiscus, and you held him back, fingers skimming his tattoos, a thumb running reassuring circles over the scars engrained into his palm. You wanted to tell him—I love you, I fucking love you Hansol Vernon Chwe—but you stayed silent because the moment was meant to be only tender kisses and warm brushes of bare skin and eased smiles as you relinquished the infatuation from each other.

Vernon murmured against your forehead, “you know I need you.”

You listened to his heartbeat through his chest. “Yes. I know.”

He paused, breathing in your shampoo. “But I’m no good at relationships. I’m no good at anger. I dunno. I just care about you. If you get hurt, I’ll never forgive myself, you know that, right? You’re an angel. You’re such an angel.”

“We can’t fight like that,” you sighed, letting your fingertips drift along the sliver of warm, downy skin above his waistline. Was it terrible that you would let him take control of your mouth again, at that very moment, even though your jaw was pounding and your throat was too taunt? “Do you really think that I’m…spoiled? That I’m trying to change you, or fix you?”

His fingers squeezed the top of your shoulder. “Our lives are just different,” he mumbled, the words vibrating through his hard chest. “I know, it was shitty of me to say that. You’re not spoiled. Sometimes I just get frustrated by the lucky cards other people have, y’know? Most times, it never bothers me. I’ve always managed to get by. I make my own luck.”

Your lips flattened into a small smile. “You do.”

“But you really don’t listen,” he laughed quietly.

You stared up at him, scrunched your nose. “I told you!”

He muffled you with a kiss. “I know, yeah? Brat.”

“Shush,” you mumbled back, proceeding to rub your hand down his chest, following the path of his lean, well-tended muscle. He had been with so many women. But it was only you he adored. Maybe that thought shouldn't cushion you. Nonetheless, it did. “I wonder if Ruby heard any of that,” you sighed. “If she’s tired enough, she would sleep through a freaking house fire.”

Vernon snickered. “Guess you’ll find out tomorrow.”

“I really did it because I care so much. Are you still mad?”

“Does it look like I’m mad, PJ’s?”

“No. But you were so hurt before.”

“When you go so long without lettin’ people hurt you, you kinda forget how to deal with it when it comes back.” He grabbed the top of your head, shook it playfully. “It was a stupid idea. Dolt.”

You smiled, giggling as he toyed with your hair, scattering his hand away. “Whatever.” You then looked up at him. “How the hell did you even figure out I was there? I didn't think you would know so fast!”

“Dumbass. You don't think I know Jeonghan has little meet-ups at Prerogative? You don't think I can get eyes there to scope things?”

“I was faster.”

“Stupider, too.”

Rolling your eyes, you curled back up against his chest. It was almost three in the morning. His hand brushed caresses along your back, so smooth, comforting, and you took in a long, slow, blissful breath. You wanted to be with him forever. Time should not have the right to ever separate you; take him away. Your rough, clever, unpolished boy.

He bent down, his lips pressing drifting, soft kisses to your jaw, the metal through his mouth warm, ticklish. “You’re so beautiful on your knees.”

Your lower abdomen fluttered. “We are never having sex,” you grinned, nuzzling his t-shirt. “You are too big. My mouth almost fell off.”

“That’s your mind sayin’ that. Not your body.” But he still kissed your jaw again with a sort of apologetic grace, wrapped his arms around you and squeezed, as though to press out the sensitive pain. “Sorry, baby.”

I love you, you wanted to say. But you didn’t.

“That’s okay.”

—END OF PART SIX.

[chocosvt]

ghost ride | part five. (m)

✧✎ synopsis: post-graduate, your life sucks especially hard. two jobs, a lazy roommate, and an imperceptible social life have dulled you to grey. nothing seems like it's going to change. until your roommate decides to let her plug crash at your place, and you're bribed into a strange adventure that challenges everything you thought you were.

pairing: fem!reader x vernon chapter word count: 24k full length word count: 186k genres/tropes: drug dealer!vernon, reader is a post-grad w/ a flop degree lol, inclusion of OCs, gay!soonyoung for the lol, appearances from other svt characters, opposites attract, romance, teasinggg, tensionnn, unrequited love, angst, adventure, smut, relationship drama, sprinkling of comedy, another excruciating slowburn bc what else? + reader is a tad dramatic/sensitive but that's why i love her :]

(!) warnings: drugs (IE: weed, molly, coke, whippets, alcohol), mention of guns, mention of death/overdose, intense language, an instance of non-consensual touching to the reader by a side character, some toxic & possessive behaviour, degrading, aggression, mentions of physical abuse/harm, dips into grief and loss, fractured family dynamics on vernon's part.

✧✎ a/n: another early-ish upload as i will be getting up bright and early tmo morning 😀 i'm sure some of u frisky fiends will find this chapter satiating. but aside from the spice, this chapter has some of my favourite scenes <3 maybe u can spot them :D

ENJOY!! ❤️‍🔥

what to note:

there are seven parts in the series

releases are weekly, ~12am EST, sunday!

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if at any point you want on or off the taglist, comment/inbox/msg me!

additionally, the chapters/parts are lengthy. the first six parts are between 24-27k while the finale/ending is 30k+!

✎ 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07

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6 MONTHS AGO.

The trash bag weighed more than you would care to admit, causing you to stumble and grunt and puff as you lugged it over your shoulder. It kept clunking against your back, all the hard edges hitting bone, until you managed to reach the tastefully graffitied dumpster.

Lara was typically on trash duty, but she was gone for the week, visiting a sick family member back in London. Tara had booked three days off to attend a wedding. You missed your usual cohorts. The two substitutes were used to working the opening shift. They didn’t respond well to your jokes or seem to take direction from you cooperatively, and the night’s fluidity rested mostly on your aching, pained back. Picking up the trash bag, you start hoisting it over your shoulder, letting it rest on the lip of the dumpster before you nudged it in with a jumpy, overdramatic squeal.

“What the—ew!”

Something cold and wet had leaked onto your arm, resembling coffee grounds. You shook it off, groaning, irritably knowing that it wasn’t even your duty to take out the trash. But if you didn’t, it wouldn’t happen.

Walking toward the restaurant’s back entrance, you noticed that one of the evening cooks, Costello, was outside, enjoying his nightly cigarette, wrapped in the comfortable burgundy of his wool coat. He smiled at you, his coarse, wiry moustache following the curvature of his lips, though he didn’t end up saying a word. Honestly, it was more humiliating that way.

Back in the dining room, you weren’t surprised to find your two subordinates right where you had left them—polishing tables—except they were at the exact same table, chattering, hardly moving their rags with any sort of vigour. You hated being authoritative, the one to dampen the younger employee’s fun, but you refused to be held accountable for whatever complaints about the poor cleaning might surface come tomorrow morning.

“Hey guys,” you sighed, awkwardly greeting the two young girls with an exhausted, forced smile. “I know the store’s closed, but everyone is still expected to leave at a certain time. How many tables are left?”

One girl blinked, staring from table to table, as though she couldn’t even remember what was done and what wasn’t, meanwhile the other girl picked up her rag, tucking it through her waist-apron. “I guess Shelby can finish up the tables,” she said. “Well, since the restaurant’s closed, can I be the one to tell that super hot guy outside he doesn’t need to wait up?”

“Pardon?” You questioned her, itching inside your ear.

She then pointed across the restaurant, toward the windows. “A guy has been waiting outside for like, fifteen minutes. Right there—” she took a step closer, straightening out her arm, “—leaning against the white car.”

You didn’t look long.

In fact, you didn’t need to look at all.

“I’m sure he’ll figure it out,” you decided to answer, ignoring the instant pounding from within your chest. “Help Shelby out with the tables, okay? I’ll get the mop for behind the counter. Let’s be quick.”

Vernon had done pretty well to give you space. He hadn’t texted you once, nor had he shown by the apartment. It was the respectful, considerate thing to do on his part, and you could appreciate that—however—it had also sharply offended you. To not even text you once was baffling—not that you would have responded out of stubbornness—and to not even text Ruby to ask about you discreetly was even more baffling! This entire week had been nothing but agony. Breakdowns in the shower, dramatic upheavals of emotion while spinning your favourite angst tracks, Ruby constantly being on the alert for your next heartbreak craving. You had gone from marble brownies to mozzarella sticks to caesar salad in just a week!

You thought he had some nerve to wait outside Mr. York’s unannounced. But Vernon always had nerve. He seemed born with it.

Thankfully, everyone was able to clock out on time. The two younger girls left through the back via a friend’s carpool. You said goodnight to Costello as he changed his shoes in the locker area, and popped in on your supervisor to let him know you were leaving. He asked you how it was working with Shelby and Julianne.

You said they were equally great.

You lied. You didn’t care.

Besides, there were bigger dragons to slay, and one in particular was lying in wait for you outside, seated on the hood of his vanilla Camry, twirling a sucker around in his mouth.

He spotted you relatively quickly.

“Hello, Miss,” Vernon purred as you approached the vehicle.

It wouldn’t have made any sense to stride past him, acting as though he were simply a mirage in the bitter, quiet night. He wouldn’t have let you get far, nor would you be able to resist him, anyway.

Guilty as charged.

“Hello,” you sighed, adjusting the strap of your bag.

That sorrowful clanging in your chest was thickly gravid, sluicing like sharp tides of flat water. All it took was a single moment of your gaze locking with the likes of his softening, dark golden eyes, and you were completely ensnared. Who ever thought it would be a good idea to make boys like him? How did you become a victim?

“Somewhat on time for you,” Vernon commented, checking the braided silver watch trapped around his wrist. “A bit later than usual.”

Shrugging, you answered with a weak smile. “New hires.”

He didn’t prevaricate. Vernon slipped off the car, straightened out the t-shirt underneath his thick zip-up sweater, and closed the distance between you. There were just mere inches of space, hardly enough to breathe and not smell the sweet, sticky strawberry of his sucker.

Please Universe, you begged inside your head, don’t let me fold.

“How ‘bout I drive you home?” Vernon murmured, pulling out the sucker from his glossy mouth, upholding your tentative gaze with the daring, confident nature of his own, as though you had never fought, the memories ebbed away.

Your fingers twitched. “My bus comes in about five minutes.”

He looked across the street, turned back to you. “And?”

“And…” you filled in the gap, “I plan on taking it.”

“That feels oddly familiar,” Vernon said. “Wonder why.”

“Yeah,” you breathed out, nervously licking the top corner of your lip, eyes fluttering the ground. “I wonder.” Choking down a hard swallow, you stepped away from Vernon, about to cross the street. “Night.”

“Woah, park your ass for a sec,” the boy laughed, stepping off the curb and into your way. He backed you up a bit. “I wanna chat.”

“Vernon,” you huffed sternly. “I have to catch the bus.”

“No, you fuckin’ don’t, ‘cause I’m gonna drive you home, anyway.”

“Uh, and who decided that—”

“I can’t do this anymore,” Vernon interrupted, sounding uncharacteristically exhausted. “I went and did all the space bullshit. But I can’t keep it up or else I’m gonna go mad. I need to see you.”

“Well…” you gulped, your blood bubbling like lava. “You are.”

“No,” he pushed back in response, tsking his teeth. “I don’t mean it like that, I-I mean it, like, I need to be around you. I need to hear your annoyin’ voice, have you close to me.” A slight wind ruffled his displaced locks, causing the strands to dance as though they were fronds of blackened wheat, tickling his honey eyes. It took every part of you to not reach out and smooth the hair back. “And I know you feel the same way, Pyjamas. Even if you don’t fuckin’ admit it.”

He was right—you did feel the same way—but you were much more fragile in comparison to rugged, forthcoming Vernon, and letting even a drop of your emotion fall would be a prelude for a waterfall.

Clearing your throat, you attempted to look firm, certain. Vernon examined you with intrigue, popping the sucker back in his mouth.

“Okay, I understand you might not have the best memory of last week, since you were evidently buzzing off coke,” you began, clasping your hands together pointedly, “but I made it very, very clear that we can’t keep doing this. We’re too different. Nothing about our lives mesh. And it’s unfair, to both of us, if we keep this going when we know how it will end.” From the corner of your eye, you noticed the bus—41 Alta Heights—shining in orange neon. “And since my bus is quite literally thirty seconds away, I really have to go.”

“No you don’t.” Vernon secured his hand around your upper arm, pulling you, until you were nudged against his car’s bumper.

Upon watching the bus stroll away, you thumped on his hard chest like you were smacking a drum of tight animal hide. “You idiot! How are you so frustrating!” He remained impressively still, waiting until the smoke cleared, giving you a moment to grumble and recklessly pull at the skin of your bottom lip just to feel the sting. “Well,” you chimed, rubbing off your numb nose, “you must be so damn proud, cornering me here, just so we can talk in freaking circles about something I’ve already made up my mind on!”

“You haven’t made up your mind on shit,” Vernon taunted.

“Shut up!” You seethed at him. “Don’t talk to me like that!”

“Y'know why it’s not gonna work?” He asked, although he didn’t allow you the breadth to answer. “It’s ‘cause you freakin’ think too much, overcomplicate things, give yourself a million reasons not to do somethin’ even when you want it, deep down, more than anything.”

Arms crossed, lip jutted out, you leaned against Vernon’s car, refusing to meet the intensity of his eyeline that was drilling into your face because you knew the intimacy would otherwise crack you into vulnerable gobbets. He took a step closer, and suddenly, his fingers were squeezing the sides of your cold cheeks, turning your raw, emotional countenance in his direction. It felt like there was no other choice but to be swallowed whole by his beautiful eyes.

“I like you,” Vernon whispered, his nose brushing yours as you stood there helplessly, ready to buckle to your knees. “And until you can look me dead in the face and say that you want me to completely fuck off out of your life, I’ll keep botherin’ you. Like I am right now.” The pressure from his calloused fingertips hardened against your cheeks, squeezing deeper into the pliant skin. “So…” the boy enticed in a throaty, crisp voice, staring down at your trembling lips as though they were candied. “Be a big girl and tell me to fuck off, then.” Something in your lower abdomen melted, gushed. “Hm?”

“J-Just…” you spluttered, your warm, choppy breath fanning against his pierced mouth. “Take me home, okay? Please?”

He let go of you, poking the strawberry sucker between his lips, fluffing a hand through his windswept, messy hair. “I’m happy to.”

Damn. You had officially folded.

At a certain point, you stopped engaging Soonyoung in your personal drama. He had always seemed like a safe, someone you could chatter to endlessly because you knew the gossip wasn’t going anywhere, even if it wanted to. There just wasn’t enough mutual overlap between your lives. But that had changed once you surmised Soonyoung told Minghao about your relationship with Vernon. You never confronted him on it, nor did the boy seem to notice that you were far less complain-y than you usually were, and you were totally fine with that. Though, some part of you did admit to missing the work spill sessions. It would make the time fly.

Your entire week was threaded by the memory of Vernon’s ambush, how you were served the perfect opportunity to swear him off for good, but ultimately chose to reject the cake. It’s not like you had never missed a bus before. Your fallback was typically an Uber, and when you had been dating Lee he offered to drive you home most nights. A few instances involved a taxi ride paid for by your manager who likely felt pitiful that you were still outside the restaurant at the time he’d wrapped up his office work.

But your mind had seemed to think there was no choice. Something about Vernon’s brash persistence had charmed you deep down. No one had ever fought for you. No one had ever told you that you were all they could think about. It was foreign to hear the gutted desperation behind his words as he stared past your stubbornness and into your desire. The car ride itself wasn’t exactly pleasant as the two of you sat in your own bubbles of silence, steeping in selfish thoughts driven by emotion. You were infuriated at yourself for folding like a deck of cards. Vernon knew how to play you.

It had never been the other way around.

Suddenly, a large bag of chips and a chocolate bar was being plopped onto the counter. You flinched, immediately pulling your elbows off the lottery ticket display and straightening up, trying not to look distracted and aloof, though you were probably failing at it.

“Are you gonna ring up my goodies?” The man asked in a congested, strained voice, gesturing at the items with his old wallet.

“Oh, yeah,” you hummed, shaking your head. “Of course.”

He snickered, pushing up his dark sunglasses. “Working hard or hardly working?” That was the typical comment you got from men like him, dressed in a tattered cap, a faded jacket, and a button-up busting at his belly.

Smiling crookedly, you answered, “a mix of both.”

As he fished through his thick, stubby wallet for cash, your eyes wandered to the outside. It wouldn’t be Spring for another month, not that you would catch much of the fresh greenery from within a concession store along a busy city block. However, you noticed an uncharacteristic flash of bright red across the intersection, which you nearly mistook for a damn flower pot, until you realized that the unusually tall and moving flower pot was Minghao. Next to him, his friend, both dressed similarly to when you first encountered them unknowingly. The second the customer held out his cash, you punched the number into the computer, the till smacking your hip as it popped open, and counted out the change into his hand.

“Now you’re on a roll!” He chuckled in a rasp.

You laughed meekly, shortly, in response, letting the customer fade into the background as you focused on Minghao stalking toward Common Cents, looking like he had come straight from a Paris runway.

Soonyoung wasn’t far.

He was stocking energy supplements down the hall.

Testing out a shout, you called for him twice.

Of course, with his headset on, he was never going to hear you, even if you hopped onto the counter and started screaming. Instead, you picked up one of the candy bars from the counter’s colourful display, taking a brief moment to aim before you whipped it down the hall. The bar smacked his head and bounced onto the floor.

Minghao was getting closer with every stride, his friend hurrying to keep pace with his long legs, carrying him like a spider.

Soonyoung peeled off his headset. He glanced at the ground in question. “Did you just fucking hit me in the head with a Nutter Butter?”

“Get over here!” You demanded, gesturing at him wildly. “Now!”

“That hurt, y'know?” He lamented, rubbing the back of his head.

The second he was close enough, you grabbed him, yanking him behind the counter despite his flourishing surprise. “What the hell?”

“Please,” you urged in a huff, “handle cash for me. And if anyone asks you if I’m here today, just tell them no. Please? Can you do that?”

“Well, I’d be more inclined if I knew the reason—”

Minghao started trotting up the steps. Instantly, you ducked down, squishing yourself into the counter as much as possible while Soonyoung furrowed his bleached eyebrows at you in complete confusion. Whacking his leg, you whisper-shouted, “don’t stare at me! Act like I’m not here!”

Gosh, you prayed he would just go along with it!

No way could you let the brooding, evidently-determined Minghao get you in his sights after bothering his neighbour. Hearing the small chime ding above the doorway, you proceeded to wrap your arms around your knees, as though it would make you more compact and susceptible to becoming part of the counter. Unable to see anything but Soonyoung’s legs and dusty bottles of cleaning supplies, you could only listen, your ears practically on a swivel.

“Hey, Minghao, Qian!” Soonyoung chirped. “Wasn’t expecting to see you guys today. Looking for more of that plum drink, is that it?”

You heard shoes click in timely steps toward the counter.

“Yes. We’ll look around.”

“M’kay. Come grab me if need be.” As the footsteps echoed away,  you were met with a downward glance from Soonyoung, unable to quell his smile as he noticed how buckled you were.

“What’s the ish?” He mumbled.

But you placed a finger to your lips, shaking your head.

Obviously Minghao was going to meander around the store on his own instead of posing a direct, off-putting question. You noted his slyness, would not be fooled by it, and continued to keep huddled. In your head, you were already sculpting a patronizing text message to Vernon that rivaled the length of your high school essay for Catcher in the Rye. He said it wouldn’t come back to you! Well, if that were true, you wouldn’t be pressed into a box on the floor. Soonyoung lazily leaned against the counter, keeping one muff to his headset over his ear, stretching an elastic band in his fingers, cool as a cucumber. You weren’t keeping track of time, although it felt like an entire day had whisked by once Minghao returned to the register.

“How’s it been?” Soonyoung asked while scanning something.

“Fine.”

“Good to know. That’s twelve dollars and ninety-nine cents.”

“Only you?”

“Hm?”

“Only you in the store?”

Every fibre inside your heart squeezed. If Soonyoung owed you anything after subjecting you to months and months of his unprompted, un-asked-for anecdotes of debauchery, it was this stupid little white lie.

You glanced up, watching Soonyoung nod. “Yeah.”

“What happened to the girl?” Minghao asked in his airy, floating voice.

“Which girl is that?”

“She was here last time. The cashier.”

“Oh, uh, she’s been sick or something—thanks.”

The unexpected noise of the till shooting open made you flinch, causing your elbow to bump against the counter. You immediately held onto your mouth in shock, hoping the till was loud enough to cover your blunder.

“If I need to speak to her,” Minghao asked, leaving a long, stressful pause between his question, “how can I get in touch with her?”

“Oh,” Soonyoung replied innocently, dropping his shoulders. “I mean, I can always relay a message to her, if you want.”

There was another pause. A deep breath. “I’d rather not.”

“Well, I would try Ruby—”

Your fingers lurched around Soonyoung’s leg, nails sinking into the boy’s skin until he winced, ripping himself free. “A-Aw! Sorry… uh… I just got one of those nerve pinches,” he stuttered. “You ever get those in your side? And it makes it feel like you’re dying? Um… what was the question?”

“I’ll come back another time.”

“Uh, m’kay. Later, fellas.”

Once the door chimed, indicating their departure, Soonyoung was crossing his arms and aiming a scornful look in your direction. Maybe you didn’t need to claw into his leg that teethingly, but you couldn’t risk it!

“They’re gone, right?” You whispered, squinting up at him.

Soonyoung gestured blankly. “Like the wind.”

Groaning, you began to unfurl yourself from the crumpled, uncomfortable position, a dull pop sounding from somewhere in your knee.

The boy stuck a hand on his hip. “What was that shit all about?”

“Long story,” you huffed in response. “Thanks for the cover.”

“Did it go South between him and Ruby?”

“Uh, yeah... best not to bring it up.”

Thankfully, Soonyoung didn’t seem to care enough to ask another question. Either that or he figured you were being a little too weird and vague for his liking. At least he could listen to his gut. He wove around you with a sigh, returning to his post down the hallway, headphones snapped back over his ears.

Of course, the problem was only half-solved.

At least until the end of your shift.

Both Tara and Lara were willing to make an excuse for you being late to Mr. York’s—you didn’t really care what they told your manager, as long as it provided you enough time to pin down Vernon for a good half-hour. He answered your inquiring text surprisingly fast, stating that he was fixing a problem with his Camry’s engine at a friend’s house. It wasn’t until you asked for the address that his responsivity unfavourably tapered. You were stood outside Common Cents, irritably and impatiently tapping your foot, until his reluctant reply vibrated your phone.

Upon swinging out your arm at the first taxi making its way by, you were being dropped off about ten minutes later within a small, dead-end street, bordered by unassuming, uniform houses.

Vernon was easy to spot. It was the only house with its garage open—the only house with a vanilla Camry that had a dark-haired, tattooed boy hung over an engine.

You trod up the driveway, past the kicked-over recycling bins and the basketball hoop with the torn, fluttering net. Vernon was humming to himself as he seemingly tinkered with something you couldn’t see.

Stood right behind him, you simply said, “hey.”

The boy flinched, smacking his head on the car’s hood.

You didn’t want to giggle, but it escaped you effortlessly.

He groaned, fingers pressing into his scalp as he turned around, his expression contorted. “What the fuck is your problem?” Vernon whined.

“That’s a spectacular question.”

Pulling the small, dirtied towel off his shoulder, Vernon proceeded to wipe the smudges of engine grease from his hands. Notably, his grey t-shirt was far from clean, and there was a soft brushstroke of oil along his gleaming forehead. Your gaze was heavily enticed to wander. Your heartbeat jumped. But you were here for a reason. Besides, if he caught you ogling, even for a second, you would never live it down.

“Well, enlighten me, please,” Vernon scoffed, slapping the towel back over his shoulder, his head tilted. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work or some shit? Why the fuck are you over here botherin’ me?”

You paused, taking a moment to look around the garage. All the walls were plastered with organized tools, hung-up bicycles, wheels, metal parts. Vernon had a connection for just about anything, it seemed.

Swallowing down the stench of grease, you stared at him. “Minghao came through Common Cents,” you said. “And he asked about me.”

The boy pursed his lip, glanced from side to side. “Okay?”

His nonchalance pulled out a deep-chested laugh, though it was fueled by outrage. “Okay?! What do you mean, okay?! He obviously knows it was you and I that went to the scrap yard! He obviously knows it was us messing with his neighbour! And now he’s tracing back for answers!”

Vernon settled his hands against the rim of the car. “Look at the logic, here. What the hell is he supposed to do to you at Common Cents? Threaten you for information or else he steals a Twix bar? A magazine? Some gum? Who gives a fuck? He’s just tryin’ to intimidate.”

“I give a fuck!” You countered, pacing in an anxious circle, nearly tripping over your own feet. “I don’t want this coming back to me!”

“It won’t.”

“It did, already.”

“Alright, don’t get sassy with me,” Vernon proceeded to warn while adjusting the cuff to his fitting, dirtied shirt. “If I recall correctly, it was you who was insistent on helpin’ me, even when I was against it. Now you’re up in my fuckin’ business ‘cause the water’s gettin’ a little murky.”

“I wanted to help you when I thought we could still be friends. But our situation has changed. So whatever I said before doesn’t apply now.”

“And what’s our situation?”

“Oh, no,” you scoffed, teething at your lip. “I’m not falling for that.”

Vernon smirked. “For what?”

“I’m not going to be the one who spells it out. You do it.”

“Well, I can’t spell.”

“Not true.”

“It’s partially true.”

“I don’t have time for this!” You grimaced, beginning to pace again, tucking your arms against your sides in an attempt to comfort. “I need to know that all my terrible decisions won’t ambush me in the dead of night! I mean, I’m an accomplice! I’ll have to look over my shoulder for the rest—”

“Okay, okay,” Vernon chided. “You want the Oscar?” He picked up a large, silver wrench that was resting on the car’s engine, extending it in your direction. “Here, take it. But you don’t get an acceptance speech.”

Sighing gruffly, you ignored his comical offering, instead choosing to lean beside him along the rim of the car. Were you overthinking it? Were you making a mountain out of a molehill?

You stared down at your dry hands, pressing at the cuticle of your thumb, trying to catch your breath. And then you gulped, glancing at Vernon as he was already eyeing you intently. “Are you really not worried?” You asked, shoulders slugging.

“I look worried to you?”

“No…”

He simply shrugged in response, smiling.

You looked down the driveway, at the house across the road, noticing all the grey, matted grass and barren, skeletal trees. This street would probably look much prettier in the Spring. The trees in the neighbour’s yard were tall and thick-trunked, with the branches stretching out in all directions. It must be nice to watch how the leaves might sway in a dewy breeze, how green and lush the grass might twinkle under the sun.

Still fidgeting your fingers, you sighed, “I can’t help being worried.”

“I know,” Vernon said with warmth. You felt his hand settle at the top of your jacket, where he applied a tough yet relaxing pressure. “But I’ll be damned if I let anything happen to you, PJ’s. You know that.”

“Yeah…” you mumbled, feet kicking.

In the moment, you let your head tilt onto his strong, supporting shoulder, uncaring that he smelled like metal and grease. When you stopped letting your mind run itself in exhausted circles, the things you truly wanted and ached for came to the surface much easier. Like Vernon’s touch. His closeness. He rubbed down your back, seemingly removing the distress with every stroke from his hand. You grabbed onto his knee and squeezed it.

“Not friends, right?” He murmured against your hair. The smirk was evident in his voice, enough for you to paint a detailed picture.

“Don’t freaking ruin it,” you whined at him.

“Seriously, though,” Vernon began, “don’t you have work?”

“I do,” you exhaled disappointedly, nudging yourself further into the warmth of his neck. “But I don’t wanna go… I was prepared to come over here and yell at you for half an hour.” However, you realized it was probably best to move along, before you got too caught up in him and became utterly senseless. Reluctantly, your head was pulled from the boy’s shoulder. “I guess I should go.”

“Well, let me check my engine one more time,” Vernon offered, placing his hand over top yours. “Maybe it’ll start.”

“That would be helpful.”

He smiled at you, staring deep into your eyes, and you smiled back, everything surrounding you turning into a fuzzy, fading haze.

And then he sprung a quick kiss onto your forehead.

“Vernon!” You squealed.

He pushed himself off the car, shrugging. “What? Move your ass.”

You stood up, letting the boy remove some tools off the car before propping the hood back down with a slam. Fingers clenched, heart thundering, face melting, you merely gawked at him as he threw open the driver’s side door and sunk inside. He tried the key, letting the engine gurgle and wheeze a few times before it rumbled to life. Through the windshield, you saw him gesture at you to get in the car. At last, you wiped the gobsmacked expression from your face. It wasn’t even worth it to scold him.

You would be grinning too much for it to feel convincing.

5 MONTHS AGO.

Sat awkwardly on the edge of a leather sofa, you watched a small boy across the room. His knees were digging into the floor, using the armchair before him as a surface for the random Etch-A-Sketch that had been laid on the coffee table. This was your first time in a tattoo parlour. Coming in, you had little expectations. Now, you had none.

The little boy then stumbled to his feet, completely unbothered by the fact his sky-blue t-shirt was bunched up around his round tummy, and wandered off down some random corridor, taking the Etch-A-Sketch that you may have wanted to play with.

Vernon was beside you, flipping his way through a laminated bound-booklet. He stopped on one page in particular, suddenly turning the book in your direction with his studded eyebrow raised. “Thoughts?”

It was a gigantic back tattoo of a hyper-realistic lion stretching its jaws open in what you assumed to be a primal roar. “Yes,” you sighed, pinching a wrinkle in your jeans. “Because that just screams me, doesn’t it?”

“Ballsy fuckin’ choice for your first tattoo.”

“I’m not putting that on my body.”

“M’kay,” Vernon hummed, his lips pressed together in concentration and challenge as he flicked a few pages forward. “What about this?” The booklet was opened once more in your direction, and you couldn’t help but physically gasp, eyes bulging, while you attempted to discern the vulgar tattoo of a woman’s mouth filled by a…. well… you weren’t going to paint the picture in any more detail than necessary… but a man’s—“that’s actually foul!” You laughed in disgust, heart racing. “Get it away from me.”

“Dude got this shit on his upper thigh…” Vernon remarked casually, like he was reading a bland newspaper column. “YOLO, right?”

“Who in their right mind actually thinks it’s okay to have that on their body? Who would even agree to do it?” Still exasperated, you glanced around the empty lobby of the tattoo parlour shiftily. “Why was there—like—why was the… thing… so detailed?”

Vernon cackled. “The dick? Yeah, facts, PJ’s. Veins and everything.”

“Please stop talking,” you half-groaned, half-pleaded.

He continued examining the photographed tattoo underneath its glossy covering. “Doesn’t compare to mine, though. Mine’s got—”

“Vernon! Shut up! Please! Shut up!” Immediately, you were off the sticky leather sofa, unable to sit there any longer, stomach flopping with nerves, while Vernon rambled about intimate things you had absolutely no desire to hear at that moment. “And give me this!” You snatched the bound-booklet from his roughed hands, throwing it back onto the coffee table.

“My, my,” the boy snickered, slouching down the sofa and sticking his foot onto the edge of the table. “Not in the mood, huh?” He proceeded to taunt you, an arm propped behind his head. “Take a chill pill, Miss.”

“I’m sure you’ve got one handy,” you muttered back in spite.

“In the car. Blue or green?”

“You’re such an idiot.”

Suddenly, a girl popped out from the corridor. She had originally been behind the service desk in the lobby, but ended up disappearing shortly after you arrived. You couldn’t remember her name, but she was exactly the type of woman you pictured running a tattoo parlour—the classic nose ring, heavy gauges through her ear lobes, vape in hand, and not an inch of her arms left uncovered by aged ink starting to migrate—and yet, she seemed quite sweet.

“He’s ready for you,” she said, offering a polite, encouraging smile while gesturing. “Down this hallway. First open door on the right!”

“Thanks,” you sighed, shuffling past her.

However, you noticed Vernon still sat on the sofa, looking dazed.

“Hello?” You chirped, fingers snapping. “Coming?”

“Oh,” he grunted, ruffling his hair. “Really?”

“I am not getting my skin needled alone. Besides, I’m counting on your stupid comments to distract me.” Lowering your voice, you whispered to him sharply while the lady returned to the desk, “unless you want to keep sitting out here, critiquing a tattooed weewee in some girl’s mouth.”

Persuaded, Vernon threw up his arms in defense, following after you into the small studio room where the tattoo artist was waiting. A fresh sheet of parchment paper was laid overtop a thin, flat leather bed, though you didn’t sit down until the artist nodded at you, readying his tray of ink and tools. The paper crinkled under your thighs, and you exhaled nervously while glancing around the studio, noting the various picture frames showcasing his artwork, swinging your feet to his music. Actually, you were somewhat familiar with him—Snozz, as he was nicknamed—Vernon’s friend and Moo’s roommate.

“That’s new. Looks sick.” Vernon nodded at neon signage placarded above a mirror, a bright, toxic green, spelling out his friend’s contact handle.

“Yeah,” Snozz sniffed, tugging on black, sterile gloves, “thanks.” He already had his stencil printed out, which he proceeded to show you. “Uh, so, this is about the size. I can make it a little bigger if you like… don’t wanna go too small. This is a delicate design, so…” he sniffed again, taking a moment to swallow, clear his throat. It sounded like he had a cold, his voice scratchy and raw. “So, y’know, don’t wanna compromise anything,” he finished with a hefty sigh.

“No, it’s perfect,” you reassured him. “No reprinting required.”

“Okay. Uh, wanna lay back?”

Your nervous gaze skipped to Vernon. He was relaxing in a chair across the studio, gave you a confident nod and a faint smile. If only you weren’t too timid, you would have liked him closer, at least so you could squeeze his hand the first time the needle pricked you. Biting the bullet, you reclined, feeling the tissue paper continue to crinkle and tear underneath your warm body. Snozz took a bottle from his tray, spraying some sort of solution onto a tufted white cloth that he then applied to your ankle.

“It preps the skin,” was all he said as you bristled at the cold sensation. Then he was sticking the stencil paper to your lower shin, letting a moment pass before he slowly peeled it off.

“Go easy on her, Snozz,” Vernon called. “She’s a can ‘a nerves.”

“Alright. We can start. Ready?”

You gave him a blank stare, void of acknowledgement, that you were even sitting in his studio with the design fresh on your disinfected skin.

“Tattoos are permanent,” your father had routinely advised you as a child. “Get one when you’re young and foolish, then spend the rest of your life regretting it.” He himself had only a single tattoo, buried under the dense hairs on his arm—the initials belonging to his first ex-girlfriend—in faded, sloppy blue ink that seemed reminiscent of a high-school stick-and-poke. “You’ll struggle to get a job the more it goes. It’ll take all your money.” He would keep going on and on as you stood there silently, clasping a clunky flashlight aimed down at an engine. After a while, you stopped listening to the drawl, opting to watch the sea of swaying, golden rye that stretched out for acres across the road.

His speech was discreetly code for: don’t ever think about bringing home anyone who has tattoos, because who you associate with is who you are.

Snozz revved his gun. “You good?”

Snapped from the surge of memory, you came back to the studio, finding yourself staring at Vernon, hypnotized, the same way you once stared at the swimming rye.

“Yeah, I am, sorry,” you apologized to Snozz.

He merely blinked. “Most people say it feels like a cat scratch. Let me know if you need a break.” And without further ado, the buzzing needle started pulsing just above your ankle. The fingers placed quaintly overtop your stomach interlaced, squeezing each other, as your brain registered the sensation for the very first time. There was sharpness, but not weighted. It wasn’t unbearable.

“Well,” Vernon cawed from across the studio, “what-chya’ think?”

You swallowed, focusing on the ceiling. “It’s not bad.” Snozz moved the pricking needle further along your skin, reaching new landscape, and suddenly, there was an unbridled twitch.

Immediately, you tensed. “Sorry!”

He removed the gun, stopped slouching over your leg. “Probably a good nerve there,” Snozz mumbled, wiping the needle’s tip onto a tiny mound of blue, waxy substance. “Take deep breaths. It’ll help.”

Heeding his advice, you filled your lungs with air. “I really am sorry,” you apologized again. “I don’t mean to make you screw up.”

For the first time, you saw his lips pull a little, into a soft, barely-there smile. “I don’t screw up,” was all he said, quiet but firm, his tired, dreary eyes glinting with a grain of confidence. Was a tattoo artist even allowed to say that? You didn’t know, or care, really. All you knew was that you now trusted him, probably just as much as Vernon, in the span of a few seconds. The gun whirred to life again. Snozz proceeded to lean over your shin, his chestnut hair pushed backward by a crimped metal band.

Since the tattoo was small, it didn’t take longer than twenty minutes, much to your relief. You had skipped breakfast out of anxiousness. Once the session ended, Snozz gave you a rundown of some rules while he protected the fresh ink with a stretchy, translucent covering, called second skin.

“There might be some blood—plasma and shit—when you take it off. Easiest to do it in the shower. Give the area a gentle wash with some safe soap. No rubbing to dry it, just pat the skin down with a towel,” he instructed while you and Vernon followed him out from the studio, back to the counter where the girl was filing her nails. “Keep it moisturized, but don’t overdo it. Make sure you’re letting the skin breathe. We’ve got some butters here, meant specifically for tattoos, but Cetaphil is good, too. A little goes a long way.”

“Oh, really?” You piped up, smiling with interest.

Vernon nudged your hip while you readied a credit card. “Dude, I’ve got three butters layin’ around my pad. You can have one.”

“That’s if you can find them.”

“I will.”

The girl set her nail file aside. “Cost?” She asked Snozz.

He shrugged, sighed, pulling out a delicate gold chain hiding underneath his shirt collar. “It was small. No hassle. Fifteen.”

“Fifteen?!” She exclaimed, turning around in her swivel chair. “Go outside and have your cigarette. You’re crazy talk today.” Proceeding to look between you and her co-worker, she snorted, “you two a thing? That why?”

Vernon threw his ruggedly questionable wallet onto the counter, rolling his eyes at the shrewd woman. “God—pipe down, Lily. I’ll pay him.”

“No!” You quipped, pushing Vernon aside. “I’m gonna do it! And I’ll give you more, Snozz. You did such a good job. I really mean it.”

Vernon pushed you back, elbow jabbing into your side, making you stumble a foot. “He’s not gonna change it, alright? He’s just doin’ it to be sweet. I’ll give you fifty—” out from his wallet came a wrinkled bill that curled around his fingers, which he extended toward his friend, “—take it now before she starts a big fit and I have to carry her out over my shoulder.”

Reluctantly, poor Snozz plucked the money from Vernon.

“I could have done that if I had cash!” You lamented, groaning.

Vernon smirked at you. “Yeah, well, you didn’t.” Fiercely, you glared into his arrogance, watching him bite his lip and taunt, “tough.”

“Ah, I’m sorely mistaken,” Lily laughed, leaning back in her chair while she smiled between the two of you, “it’s you two that are a thing.”

“We’re not,” you corrected, frustrated at Vernon for his antics, but attempted to shed the indignance from your tone before you thanked Snozz again. He nodded in acknowledgment, nibbling his rosy lip.

“M’kay, catch you guys later,” Vernon huffed.

Just before exiting the parlour, you noticed the red Etch-A-Sketch returned to the coffee table. Dang it. Right when you were leaving, too. You trailed after Vernon into the parking lot behind the building, walking a bit funnily, until you noticed your ankle felt fine. It wasn’t sore, or stinging, like you thought it might. Some of the instructions that Snozz told you were already fading from your memory. Vernon probably knew them just as well.

“Gosh, I’m hungry,” you sighed, strapping on your seatbelt.

“I told you to eat.”

“And I told you I was too nervous to eat.”

“So let’s go somewhere,” he offered, turning his key.

Your head clunked against the seat rest. “No… I can’t.”

Vernon scoffed, “why?”

“Because I can’t.”

“You don’t wanna do anything that insinuates a date.”

“No!” Yes! Obviously, that was the answer.

It was all mind games; casual breakfasts turned into late lunches, late lunches into dinners—cooking together, tidying up the kitchen together, elbows brushing as you washed dishes together, settling down for an evening film together, cozying up in bed together—you were not going to fall for it! Even if you wanted it so badly that words might fail to bring justice to the extent of your desire.

“This is gonna turn into a bullshit argument, isn’t it?” Vernon said knowingly, meanwhile stretching his hand behind your headrest in order to back his Camry out from the cramped parking space.

You nodded. “Probably.”

“Well, in other words, I have news,” he announced, changing the topic of breakfast. “Good news. Productive news. All the above.”

“Okay…” you answered with a hint of dragging apprehension. His news was vastly different from the average person’s news, and was likely to make you associated without choice to a crime. “What news would that be?”

Vernon glanced at you smarmily for a second before pulling onto the street, almost as though he knew the reaction he was going to elicit. You jostled slightly in the seat when the car shifted over the curb, wanting to clasp the silence in your fingertips and rip it to bits like a failed watercolour.

“What?!” You barged.

“This week, I’m gonna do it. Minghao’s money. It’s mine.”

A broken record. “What?!”

“Yeah.”

“Why are you telling me this?!”

He lazily shrugged a shoulder. “Thought you might want to know.”

Alight with tension and fire, you bristled. “I don’t! I don’t want to know anything about it! Not being involved also means not knowing! Isn’t that just common sense?!” Gulping heavily, you continued to squirm, your echoing words consuming the silence. “I forgot you don’t have any.”

“Well—I guess I should rephrase that—” Vernon said, clearing his throat. “I wanted you to know even if you didn’t want to know.”

“Seek help. Please.”

“I want you to be awake in your bed, worried about me.”

“I’m seriously going to hit you.”

“And I won’t text you any updates about what happened. So you’ll get even more worried. You’ll debate back n' forth in your head, tripped up about what to do, but you'll be too stubborn to actually call me. And right when you're startin' to fall asleep, your eyes gettin' all heavy as your consciousness fades, you'll hear a big tap on your window, and I'll be out there. And you'll fall right into my arms.”

That was that. You didn’t say one word for the rest of the drive, and neither did Vernon, reclined comfortably, triumphantly, mouth pulled in an edgy smirk that had dried to his face. Once he was stopped outside the curb to your apartment, and you had unbuckled your seatbelt, you noticed a half-empty water bottle sitting in the cupholder. It was your only chance. Vernon caught on a second too late. You quickly undid its cap, tossing the remaining water out from the bottle, letting it splash against the boy’s face, drip down his angular collarbone, dribble along his shirt.

“Thanks for the drive, asshole,” you chastised, monotone but cutting, like a flattened stone, before removing yourself from the car.

He shook out his sooty hair, a few water droplets hitting the window. “Where the hell did that come from?” Vernon had the audacity to laugh, grin. “Who even are you these days? Can you pass that towel before you head out?” He suddenly pointed into the backseat, at a white cloth draping the upholstery.

“No,” you replied, tossing the bottle at him, caught into his slippery hands. “Good luck with getting arrested.”

“Expecting a phone call?”

“Uh—what? No.”

“I did the Wordle already. It was dummy. Took me four tries.”

“Spoiler alert, much?”

Tara slanted her faint, thin eyebrows at you, smirking, but not in an overly-presumptuous way. It was only an implication that she knew something was off-kilter with you, but wasn’t going to be the one who shook it out like the last few coins rattling inside a piggy bank. Feeling her continue to watch you, the phone flush against your palm was now being slid into a pocket on your waist-apron, as though you hadn’t been fondling it all night.

Someone jousted the service bell. It was your order of sandwiches, slid onto the pass in a tray, underneath the caged heat lamps.

“I’ll hold onto it, if you want,” Tara teased, making sure she got one little humourous comment in before you walked off with the food, her snicker still as posh as ever. “A contact I need to be closely monitoring? Do you need me to block someone?”

“Worry about monitoring your tables before I take your tips,” you responded in the same frivolity, back pressing against the two-way swinging doors.

The last you saw of the English girl was her tongue poking out at you before the doors winged shut. Navigating the dining room, you approached the table you had been serving off in the corner, two younger-looking girls that quieted quickly whenever you got close, probably undergraduates in their first year, new to the city, attempting to find the best restaurants that didn’t overly skin their pockets. They were most likely to order the grilled-chicken sandwiches. It was the least expensive, least fancy dinner item, the easiest to both understand and palate.

“Anything else you guys need? A refill on your Long Islands?” You offered thoughtfully, sensing that they needed to be asked because they were likely too reserved and unthawed to inquire themselves.

For a split second, they looked between each other with widened eyes and stiffness, as if to wordlessly question, ‘are you asking, or am I?’ until one plucked up the courage to say: “is it too late for us to order an appetizer?”

“Not at all. What do you have—”

You felt a vibration in your waist-apron. It cut the words right off your tongue like a hot knife splitting butter. Neither girl decided to speak, instead watching, reflecting concern, as you stood there, suddenly beginning to perspire under the soft lighting. But you shouldered it off. “Sorry, what are you—” the phone vibrated again, and you couldn’t maintain your professionalism. They were young college girls—they would understand, not be too judgemental. “Just—I’m so sorry—one second,” you said, flustered, turning your back to them, walking a few steps away to check your texts.

Oh, gosh.

It was just Soonyoung saying he was sick. He wouldn’t be able to make his opening shift tomorrow morning. Blah, blah. Who cared. In fact, it almost made you angry, even though you knew it was unreasonable, as if his innocent texts were stuffing up a hotline of people who needed to reach you.

Well, not people.

Vernon.

“Uh, okay, I’m really sorry,” you apologized again, hiding the phone away. “Just—you know—personal shenanigans.” Pulling out your messy notepad and a pen, you asked about which appetizer they wanted.

It was something along the lines of house-made tzatziki and fresh pitas—you didn’t write it down—only smiled at them like life was perfect, and all its perfectness could somehow be captured in your smile. You stalked away from the table not thinking about whether they requested the olives be removed, whether they asked for their pita wedges on the side, whether one of them mentioned a refill on their Long Island. You couldn’t possibly think about those things because they had become severely trivialized in light of someone very stupid, about to do something stupid, and not tell you about it until the moment of utmost inconvenience. How… stupid.

Back at the pass, you sloppily wrote down what you thought the two college girls had asked for, likening it to your own tastes at their age.

You felt fingers jab into the fleshiness of your waist. “Lara!”

“Greetings, Spicy.”

“Don’t—” you bumped her away with your hip, “—I’m writing.”

She had started calling you Spicy after you confused wasabi for guacamole last week, during a tasting session for several new restaurant dishes. It was actually Costello who branded the nickname, but it had spread to a few others. How many nicknames were you going to conjure?

Lara peered over your shoulder, enveloping you with the juiciness of her scent, something aromatically tropical. “Hmm… the tzatziki dip… pita slices on the side… no olives… a Long Island. Let me guess: you’ve got girls aged nineteen to twenty-two who kept it simple with chicken sandwiches?”

“Fork found in the kitchen” you said, clipping the ticket to the line.

“Tara says you’re expecting a text.”

You scoffed, moving away from the pass. “Of course she did.”

“From who?” Lara dug, folding her arms. “Vernon?”

Tara definitely had her moments of nosiness, though she was more tender and compassionate in her approach. Lara was a straight-shooter. She didn’t care about the pragmatics of conversation, sidling from point A to point B like a practiced dance. She sunk her teeth into most things.

And during the dinner service rush, there was no time to dance.

You shrugged. “He’s being an idiot.”

“No surprise there.”

“He told me about something he was going to do, even though I made it clear I had no desire to know. He only told me to take advantage of my feelings—make me feel worried, on edge, disoriented—like the total push-over I am for him.” You breathed out, trying to replace the heat with coolness, both literally and metaphorically. “I am worried. I’ve been obsessing over my phone all week. I almost want to lock it in a box, drive out to the coast, and chuck it into the water off a cliffside.” There was a pause as your gaze dusted the floor, avoidant of Lara, afraid she would be able to tell how quickly and easily you would scramble to recover the locked box at the slightest whim that Vernon was hurt, or in trouble.

That he needed you.

The bell dinged. “Lemon-crusted salmon!”

“I don’t think you’re a push-over for him,” Lara stated with unusual softness as she took hold of the tray with her pink, steaming salmons, the lemon especially fragrant. “I think you’re in love with him, actually.”

You didn’t say anything. You couldn’t.

In love? With Vernon? No manners, no off-switch, no social awareness. A drug dealer, a rule-breaker, a silver-tongued smooth talker who had never been in one stable relationship that wasn’t sex-central. She couldn’t have been more… right.

And you couldn’t have been more screwed.

By the time the restaurant closed, you emerged with a reasonable turnout of tips. The two students, whose appetizer you managed to get exactly right, were unexpectedly generous with their tips, though you somewhat suspected it might be due to the fact they didn’t understand the tipping system on the card machine. You certainly hadn’t.

Oppositely, you were a victim of tipping five cents as opposed to dollars. Diana said you could never go back to that restaurant again.

While you started getting rides from Tara most nights, you decided to take the bus for the first time in a few weeks. Sometimes you needed the quiet, to stand alone, leaned against the pole, staring aloof into the street like you were a deep, philosophical thinker others couldn’t possibility understand. But if they spoke to you, they would realize how disorganized you really were. Flighty, awkward—meticulously picking your words like they needed to be a perfectly aligned poker hand—only to fumble it all at the last moment because no one would even remember talking to you, so why did it matter, anyway? At least there was no one blocking Mr. York’s entrance.

“Woah—hey!”

You stopped, taking out a wired earbud, staring around the dark street in puzzlement until someone’s hand brushed your shoulder.

“Jesus!” You then exclaimed, ripping the other earbud out without bothering to pause the music. “Diana?! What are you doing here?” It had been months since you last saw her—back then—inside Liuna Station, the esteemed winter art gallery, side by side on a bench, emotionally whispering to each other akin to two church-goers wedged along an uncomfortable pew.

“Oh, gosh,” the girl snuffled, “I’m waiting for someone. We decided to meet up here.” She waved around, gesturing at nothing particular.

“What a coincidence!”

“Yeah, totally.”

She looked better, so much better. Not as full as she used to be, but steadily getting there. Gone was her dullness of torpor. Instead, an earthly glow, natural like verdant spring flowers. Her hair was shiny enough to think someone had cracked apart pearls and powdered the thick strands with their lustre. You were beginning to see her as you once did, and time felt warped.

“I can’t get over how amazing you look.” Maybe the compliment seemed too sugary, like you were purposefully outlining her beauty in a stale, expected way. But you truly meant it. “I’m a sweaty, sore mess right now.”

“Thank you,” Diana replied, shy and earnest. “You don’t look too bad,” she teased. “Nothing like you did after exams. You were losing hair.”

“Who’s to say this isn’t a wig?” You answered, tugging at your scalp.

“It’s a gorgeous wig.”

“No shake-and-go here.”

You both laughed, and you could tell the laugh was warm. Not the cheap, half-spirited laughter used to make conversations swell by quicker.

“What are you up to tonight?” You asked.

“A play,” Diana stated, smiling, “with someone from my narcotics group. We’ve become really close. It’s an Oscar Wilde script.”

“Sounds extremely you.” It made your chest full to know that Diana was slowly reintegrating into the things that brought her joy. She had always wanted to show you numerous plays during your university days, although you were heavily insistent you were not a play person by nature until she convinced you to watch a Legally Blonde production set up by a local theatre. Baby steps.

Diana nodded. For a moment, she looked coy, stuck between two sides of a thought and sliding down the middle. “Are you catching a bus?”

“Yeah. I got out earlier than usual. I give it ten minutes.”

“Well, I actually have a small story.”

“Really? About what?”

She paused, nearly whispering, “Vernon.”

That was unpredictable. You weren’t sure what to say—you only knew that your stomach wobbled, swaying skyscrapers inside you.

“I mean, I guess it's not that important—”

“No,” you encouraged, suddenly steadfast, “I want to hear.”

Both of you stood closer against the building as to not block the sidewalk, and something about it felt achingly familiar.

“Well,” Diana began, her breathing sounding faster, “I’ve been going to my narcotics group for quite a while. It’s in the recreation room that branches off from the Sherwood Hospital. I usually leave through the exit attached directly to the room, but a few nights ago, I decided to leave through the lobby instead. Anyway, I saw Vernon…” she stopped, almost testing your facial expression and its signature tells. You felt busting with anticipation and worry, a super-filled balloon. “He didn’t see me. He was sitting on this leather footstool thing, looking at the wall art. It’s this huge, engraved maple tree. Every leaf is made from copper. Each has a name. People make submissions to have maple leaves of loved ones who passed from drug use added to the wall. I guess… he came to remember someone? To think? It seemed like he’d been sitting there a while. He didn’t move a muscle.”

It took a few seconds of silence before you realized that Diana had finished speaking. Her doe eyes fell to you, not expectantly, but with delicateness. She didn’t know anything of your relationship to Vernon apart from accompanying him to ask about her payment all those months ago. Diana likely thought she knew him better than you, and was only sharing the anecdote to bring her confusion to words.

“Well,” you swallowed, and your throat stung, “maybe it’s not that weird for a dealer to be there. Who knows how it’s affected him?”

That was something you were still fighting to place.

Vernon never talked about his youth much. Exempt for Dots.

Dots.

Did Vernon request for him to have his own maple leaf? Or was it someone else—friend, family, or perhaps even a rival? How often did he go there? What did he think, sat, alone, staring at the copper? What did it mean to him? Was there more emotional depth to him than you could have estimated? Were you childish and small-minded for even making the assumption?

“Yeah,” Diana hummed, as lost as you. “I guess I thought… I dunno… it felt so odd. I didn’t want to interrupt him in case he was mourning, or praying, or… yeah—who knows. I keep thinking about it.”

And now you would keep thinking about it, too.

“Ah, okay,” the girl huffed. “My friend says she got turned around. She put in the wrong street number. I’m gonna go find her.” Diana looked up, her cheeks round and golden as burnished ingots. She smiled. “And you should make the bus.”

“Good point. Stay safe, alright?”

She waved, hurrying off down the street. “You too!”

“Here it comes, here it comes!”

“Are you sure she really does that?”

“Yes! See—look! There goes the bitch-slap slipper!”

“Woah… that’s nearly on par with the bubblegum headshot from Mortal Kombat.” Your hand plunged into the oily bag of chips, rummaging around until you brushed one with a satisfying number of ruffles. “They should be added as characters to the game. I’d play it.”

“I’ve seen her use both slippers—I mean, not simultaneously—but she goes one after the other,” Ruby chided, refusing to let her attention falter from the argument taking place in your complex parking lot.

It was late. Ruby had the curtains on her window unabashedly pulled wide open. The parking lot motion lights turned an ugly, barren backyard into a theatrical stage, where two main characters sneered at each other with passion, a love’s eternal rage, and the intuition that they would be sewn back together in spite of their emotional burnout. It had been a while since you last heard from them. There were murmurs throughout the building that they had finally cut ties. Sometimes you wondered if they even lived here; perhaps they made their way through the township like artists on tour, and you were just a single stop on a long, twisting roadmap.

“Now, watch this,” Ruby said, her tone bubbling over with unkempt excitement. “I know exactly what’s going to happen next.”

You grinned, holding yourself back from grappling out more chips.

It sounded perfectly rehearsed. Your voices blended with the hollering from outside. Everyone knew the lines. It was seared into your memory without you even realizing it, like a line of precious dialogue from a movie you had seen and treasured more than the film’s entirety—the line you watched the entire movie for—waiting to hear the pin drop.

“Go shove it, asshole! I’m calling the cops next time!”

“I bet you will! Raging bitch!”

Immediately, you and Ruby shrivelled into laughter.

She let herself slide off the bed, onto the floor, kicking out her feet as though she had reverted to a toddler. You bent over, wheezing, the breath flattened out from your body, everything turning blurry.

Ruby slapped her knee. “The way she always says, I’m calling the cops next time! Does she even know the number? Have the cops ever been called?”

Smearing away the tears that soaked your lashes, you nodded. “The budget isn’t big enough for that yet. Are we supposed to be the cops?”

“Ew, no!” Ruby huffed, crawling onto the bed. “I don’t wanna get bitch-slapped by her slipper. She has that softball arm. It’ll sting for days.” She plucked the chips back into her lap, shoving a handful into her mouth.

“Now, the parking lot tear-out,” you emphasized, watching the iconic moment of defeat—in which the man accepted his fate sealed by a flying, scathing slipper, dealt by a woman in a bathrobe and curlers—jump back into his crummy car and alight the air with the scent of hot rubber as he whipped into the night. “I bet he changes his tires between shows.”

“Damn, it’s over,” Ruby pouted. “Until next month!” She started picking at her teeth, running over bits of masticated salt-and-vinegar.

Usually, the duo was a nuisance.

Tonight, however, they had made for a lovely distraction, alongside Ruby’s tasteful, knowledgeable commentary on the art of slipper-slapping. It was the one moment where you hadn’t ruminated over Vernon, the one moment where your stomach hadn’t been fizzling due to anxiousness. The inner cushions of your cheeks stung from tartly flavoured chips as opposed to your biting teeth.

“Aw, that was funny,” your roommate sighed, yawning. “But I’m absolutely exhausted. That’s one special I can’t risk missing.”

“Me too,” you agreed. “Can I have the clip for the bag?”

After closing the chips, putting them away inside the kitchen pantry cupboard, and brushing your teeth sloppily in the washroom, you were back in your own bedroom. This time, a loud, uneasy silence. Tossing, turning, mangling your sheets from their tightly-tucked neatness. You refused to check your phone, almost contemplated throwing it into your nightstand as though it were the locked box, but knew the temptation of merely having the device in your hand would be too much. So you turned your back to it.

Instead, your forehead creased unconsciously in thought as you attempted to imagine a distant place. A lake. Wide and flat. Its surface still enough to mistake for glass, reflecting the trees, the sky, the clouds, with magical crystal clarity. And you, a tiny stone, plunging through the water, twirling down in rhythmic circles to the soft, sandy bed beneath. Bubbles surrounded you, the shape of the sun distorting into amorphously scattered sparkles. The silence inside your bedroom was the same silence thick in the water, and you pressed into the mattress as though it was the smooth sand.

And suddenly, you felt the first twitch of sleep.

“Yo! Pyjamas!”

Whining frustratedly, you dismissed the throaty, permeating voice.

“I know it’s late, but I need you awake!”

Promptly, you snuggled deeper into the covers. Unsure what the time was, concerns foggy, sluggishly refusing to connect with reality.

I’m a stone, you thought, go away.

“My head’s a rock, right? Don’t make me use it!”

What?

You shot up in bed, fast enough that you nearly gave yourself whiplash. Without thinking, your body parts started to move. It was a horrifying case of complete autopilot. Before you even understood what you were doing, the drapes to your window were shucked aside, and you were squinting at someone from perhaps a dream.

He smiled at you, bursting cracks of relief, and it all came whirling back, like falling through a vortex.

“Vernon?!” You choked out. “What in the hell is going on?!”

He gestured at you. “Dude! Come with me!” His voice sounded distant through the glass, but still recognizable. “I’m serious!”

Wincing, you shoved open the window. “I was sleeping!”

“Come with me!” The boy gestured again, with more impatience, unable to stop smiling. He didn’t care that you were sleeping. That you had been a stone embraced by the soft, unmarred sands at the bottom of a secluded lake. In fact, he was almost like a child. Wanting desperately to show you something, knowing only their own thrill and how intense it was.

You stiffened. “Wait… did you… did you do it?” Now you were the centre of drama. The timeslot changed. There was a new play, new artists.

Vernon didn’t answer. “Come with me,” he said again, calmer, taming his fire as to not burn you, even though you could practically see his heart beating, his aura crackling with lasting surges of adventure.

“I’m… I’m not really dressed—”

“You’re dressed enough.”

“I have no shoes on, or socks—”

He grabbed onto your bicep. With a muscley tug, you were being dragged onto the desk, forced toward the window. Were you supposed to fight this? Were you supposed to care? Your heart was racing, too. Suddenly, you became putty in his arms, clutched onto his neck as he carried you to his car, left running and smoking.

He practically threw you into the passenger seat.

It was final. You shimmied up against the leather, barefoot, improperly dressed, misty, watching Vernon circle the car until he came to the driver’s side. The car started to move, and observing your brick apartment building become nothing but a non-existent outline wasn’t as startling as you thought. You didn’t dare trifle with the bulky knapsack in the backseat, ask about it, or look at it for longer than necessary. What do you say, anyway? What’s worth it?

Upon reaching Vernon’s weathered apartment, the vehicle lunged to a stop right beside the curb, thrusting you forward with inertia. He gave you his carabiner of keys, told you to go inside, up to his room, and wait for him. Walking pointedly on your tiptoes, dancing around discarded cigarette butts, you unlocked the front entrance, for once not a mess of shattered glass. Quickly, you skipped up the winding stairway as though a malicious shadow were chasing you, not stopping to look back, not stopping until you came to his door, sliding in the key like you lived there.

Like you had committed the crime yourself.

Then you pressed the door shut softly and flicked the light switch on the wall, a sheer fuzziness enveloping the bachelor, your eyesight needing a moment to settle.

Upon leaving the keys on his dresser, you felt different.

Where was your annoyance? Your ridiculing bite? Your uncontrolled quips? Instead, anticipation fluttered up from the depths of your stomach, a sizzling energy that didn’t afford you the underrated luxury of stillness. When the door budged, you flung around, practically twirling on your toes as Vernon bolstered into the room with the black knapsack hung over his shoulder. He approached his bed, letting it slide off onto the navy-blue covers. You scurried up next to him, jittering, hands rubbing.

Vernon grabbed onto the bag’s zipper, but didn’t open it. The boy glanced at you, smirked. “Have you ever seen ten-thousand in cash?”

“Yeah, all the time,” you returned drolly, not bothering to mask your impatience or put on a charade. “No! Are you nuts? Just open it!”

“I’m poisoning you,” he said, sounding indifferent to his own words, knowing you would be indifferent, too. The zipper tugged, moving fluidly, until the bag was open. Vernon used his hands to spread the compartment apart, and you felt something like a damn leprechaun with a pot about to be filled by clinking pieces of gold.

But you didn’t speak, only stared.

The bag was filled to the top in green stacks of cash, some pink, fastened together by rubber bands. You wanted to delve straight in, a diver on a board, meeting plastic currency and not water. So much for being the stone. Stones didn’t need money.

“This… this is…” you swallowed incompletely; the words fading.

“What I’m owed,” Vernon said, reaching into the bag, plucking out a stack that his thumb whisked through. “Plus some extra.”

“Extra?!”

“For you.”

“No, I-I can’t—what? Are you crazy?” Suddenly, the gravity of the situation broke through the ceiling. The money was like an elixir, one you had thirsted for since getting flipped inside out by university. “That’s drug money! Blood money, for all I know!” Whipping away, you walked aimlessly in a circle, arms folded together, a few minuscule pebbles coming loose from your tough heels. “Why am I even here?! What am I doing?! How did you—” No! Do not ask, you berated yourself. Do not give him the satisfaction of your curiosity or temptation. It’s more of an elixir to him than the money to you.

“Fine—don’t take it,” Vernon chuckled. “But I’ll put it away for you if you ever change your mind.” He turned the backpack over, started shaking the money out into lumps on his bed. “I’m gonna sleep like a baby.”

“Aren’t you worried in the slightest?”

“Nope.”

“Did you—did you get hurt?”

“No,” he said casually, throwing his bag onto the floor, making a divot for himself to sit down on the bed without crushing the money. Vernon picked up a stack of twenties, sliding off its rubber band. He thumbed through the money like it was second-nature, bill after bill after bill, his eyes glistening, until he gave up and made a flared, showy spread of it. “You ever seen this kinda action, PJ’s? This isn’t even my favourite. Twenties are too basic, with the green. What I like—” he suddenly closed the stack, let it flop all mismatched onto the bed, “—is the fifties. Pretty in pink, yeah?” Again, he removed the rubber band, started spreading out the money into a fan.

“This is freaking preposterous.”

“You ever did a money spread?”

“With what? Grocery receipts and bank statements?”

“C’mere.” He motioned for you.

“I’m not touching that! I don’t want a single fingerprint on it!”

“You’ll feel like a king.”

“More like a criminal.”

“Same thing.”

You didn’t comprehend how he could talk so perfunctorily. This hadn’t been some merry stroll into town for an ice cream cone, or, maybe it was, knowing Vernon, how he treated things. His bed became a pool of money, one you didn’t want to swim in, although, you felt the allure, the attraction, that same crackle of energy strike in your chest like a hot lightning bolt. You imagined your parents—the expressions shaping over their faces as they beheld you, letting stolen money cascade down your arm—and while you desperately wanted the imagery to persuade you anywhere else but his bed, you still ended up walking toward him. Steps uncertain, but growing firmer. Vernon had hooked onto you like an astute fisherman.

“If you tell anyone I touched this money…” you breathed out, your vocal cords trembling and aching from tightness, “I’ll throat punch you.”

“My pleasure,” he teased.

It was always his pleasure.

He handed you the stack of pale pink fifties. Money with heft. Since when did money have heft? It had always felt lighter than air to you, as though it didn’t exist. Something to hold and look at but never actually use because getting it back was too difficult and losing it was too easy. The bills weren’t wrinkled like the few stuffed into the creases of your wallet, but smooth, glossy, as fresh as a new magazine. Then you started to sift between them, finding it never-ending, feeling your heart pump faster and faster when you weren’t even halfway through the stack.

“Fuckin’ magical, isn’t it?” Vernon sang.

“I feel evil,” you laughed, still nervous. “I mean… if everyone knew what this felt like… it’s delirium. I burned through so much of this shit during university. Just pieces of papery-plastic. But it means everything.”

“It makes the world go ‘round.”

“No wonder people don’t carry cash. I feel so pretentious.”

“I love pretentious.”

You glanced up at him, smiled. “No you don’t.” Then back down at the money, shimmery in your hands like mature summer leaves slicked with wax. “Nobody likes pretentious people. I don’t even think pretentious people like other pretentious people.”

Vernon got to his feet. He took the money back from you and proceeded to reorganize it gently. “True. But if you stroke their ego just right, they pay the prettiest pennies.” You watched him stick out his arm, let the stack sit just underneath his shoulder, and then he shifted his fingertips slightly, letting the individual bills slide down his inked skin like a loose sleeve, catching the overflow in his palm.

“Now, that’s a spread. You try.”

“Uh—I can’t do that!”

“Sure you can. What else is a degree good for?”

Like clockwork, your eyes rolled. “It’ll spill all over the floor.”

“Some’s already on the floor.”

Stiltedly, you took the money back. Rather than attempt the clever arm trick, the best you could do was pinch the stack at its base and flare out the champagne bills into a frilly circle, a pink peony, of sorts.

Vernon clapped. “Woo! She’s loaded!”

“Borrowing, more like.”

He jumped onto his bed, started hopping up and down as though he hit a sugar rush, engendering the floorboards to creak and the frame to dramatically heave. You laughed, wondering how often his downstairs neighbour might hear such a sound, only to realize a moment later that a poster from his wall was missing. Bikini girl—the supposed gift—in all her sun-kissed, toned, teeth-bleached glory.

Maybe his first real breakup.

The money bounced at his feet. “Make it rain on me, PJ’s!”

“No!” You giggled. “Jumping isn’t very impressive!”

“I don’t have a pole!” He laughed.

Playing along jokingly, because it was late, and you were whiffing monetary fumes, and you had a pretty boy asking you to throw illegal money on him, you fanned yourself with the bills. “I need to see more!”

“Like what? A back flip?”

“Yes,” you stated matter-of-factly, with some sass, “a back flip.”

In all honesty, you didn’t think he was going to do it. Not once had you ever seen him back flip, nor did you ever suspect he was the special kind of person who just randomly knew how to do one. But he started jumping higher—even practiced tucking in his knees a few times—while the money continued to jounce all across the comforter. He caught just the right amount of air, to which you immediately smacked the fifties against your mouth, feeling your warm breath reflect off the paper. Vernon flipped, and something struck the ceiling fan that proceeded to concerningly wobble. He managed to land on his feet, though he stumbled over his pillows, colliding with the wall. You both froze in silence. The fan’s blades started whirring.

“Did I…” he murmured, quirking an eyebrow, “turn the fan on?”

“I think you did.”

Vernon threw his arms up. “Now, that’s a trick! Where’s my rain!”

“Fine,” you huffed. “For not breaking the ceiling.” Getting close to the edge of the bed, you smirked, right before tossing the money up, straight into the air, and like a flurry of cherry blossoms coming loose in a vivacious whirlwind, the bills caught the breeze and danced in a chaotic swirl. Vernon grabbed your wrist. You were tugged onto the bed with him. He bent down, settling a thick stack between his teeth while he snapped the rubber band off another. Inspired by your frivolity, he proceeded to toss the money. You shrieked as the propellers made a loud thwipping noise, colliding and hitting the bills, spraying them everywhere, pink rain, until you could hardly see.

Pressing into Vernon, you giggled, “why would you do that?!”

“Fuck—you did it first!”

“I did it reasonably!”

He tripped you, and whether or not that was intentional was outside your concern. Together, you toppled onto the boy’s sheets, melting into a springy landslide of fluttering money—surrounded by the most tangible resplendence—but focused on what was warm, alive, underneath you. His eyes, richer in colour than the most expensive coffee that the money could buy, finding yours, and only yours. His hands, calloused in stories that would only make you squirm, now reaching into the back pockets of your cotton pyjama shorts. His hips, bucking you forward, putting you nose-to-nose. Closer than you had ever been. Still not as close as you wanted to be.

You swallowed. It was crisp and audible. “I don’t remember this part of your story,” you whispered, feeling the heat suffuse underneath your fragile skin as the boy’s hands squeezed your ass with domineering pressure.

“I like keepin’ a play or two t'myself,” he murmured, and there was a smokiness in his voice that made your back arch even deeper.

His hands slid up from your shorts. The second his scuffed knuckles drifted along your bare, soft waist, you were liquid inside. And then his grip, his thumbs pushing into your flesh, as though you were made from moist clay and he was moulding you with his concupiscence. Too overwhelmed, strength bleeding out, your forehead pressed against his, succumbed by just a touch.

“Vernon,” you breathed across his lips. “I… I don’t know if…” you wanted to say that you couldn’t, repeat the exact same speech from a past qualm. But how could you? It wouldn’t mean anything.

And he knew that.

“Shut up,” he chuckled, brushing some bills off your body. “Let another part of you speak instead of that goddamn mouth.”

Your head nipped back slightly. “You are so rude—"

He gripped your face in both hands. His lips pressed to yours.

Oh, God. Oh, fuck. Not an inch of fight in you. He was so capable. He knew how to kiss you, as though he had imagined it to exact preciseness. It started out deep, to really suck you in and melt your mind, but then it eased into something softer, with room to breathe, to understand his lips, how it felt to have a metal ring brush your mouth. But just like he pushed your buttons with his immovable attitude, he pushed your body chemistry into mayhem. What once was delicate became sloppy. It was the kind of kissing you never tried with Lee, because you were too distant, too unyielding, too unattracted. Your hips pushed down against his waist, feeling the boy’s tongue move with yours, confused at the sensation while simultaneously relishing at how deliciously erotic it was. You didn’t want to breathe. You wanted to keep your mouths clashing; lips slippery with each other’s spit.

His hands slid into your back pockets again, kneading at your ass, almost urging you to move, to test your hips and what they could do.

“I’m not good at this,” you flustered into his cheek, letting him kiss his way to your ear. “It won’t feel—ah!” His tongue swirled slowly, right into a pliant, sensitive patch of skin behind your ear.

“You are,” he told you.

He found your mouth again, filling it with his tongue, and your hips seemed to move on their own accord. You felt him, hard, beneath his pants, and your mind went hedonistically blank.

Because of you? How is that possible?

“Fuck, just like that,” Vernon groaned against your wet lips, his tone layered with so many viscous notes—satisfaction, relief, lust—grainy and full of husk. He helped guide your movement when his affirming words weakened you, turned you mushy, incoherent. “Can you feel me?” He whispered into your ear, his smirk on your skin, letting his hands sink underneath your thin shorts to properly grip your bare hips. “You can feel that, yeah? How fuckin’ hard I am ‘cause you of? I don’t even need you here with me to get this hard. Just thinkin’ of you in my head, PJ's. That’s all it takes.”

You couldn’t possibly tell him how wet you were.

It was embarrassing, and also unknown. Lee had never made you feel this way; you alone, blankets pulled over top your head, working yourself with your fingers, had never made you feel this way. But your underwear was sticky and soaked, and Vernon’s dirty language certainly didn’t reverse anything.

Nonetheless, you just weren’t… ready.

Despite your body peeling itself open, making itself unfettered, pushing and pulling throes of desire such that you were nothing but sea waves, you had to find the buoy. And so you gripped onto his chin with one hand, pressed your lips firmly onto his as to absorb the warmth and intimacy into your own fibres.

He chased your mouth when you reclined.

“Vernon,” you whispered.

His eyes fluttered open.

How should he know how to flutter his eyes?

“Mm?” He murmured.

“You know I’m not… that I’m not…” you paused, sensing your body almost turn against you, roar at you. There was such a strong ache.

But then he was touching along your cheek. “I know.”

“I’ve never made it this far with anyone.”

He smiled. It wasn’t teasing, or the kind of smile you give to someone that can’t help but seem naturally patronizing. “I know,” he repeated. It was just a simple, accepting smile. One that said he knew you.

And you huffed, smiling, too, so grateful that he understood.

Without thinking, you sat back on your haunches.

Vernon immediately sprang onto his elbows, grabbing your hips cautiously. “Maybe don’t do that,” he laughed, biting his lip. “You’re kinda, right on my—”

“Oh! Oh—sorry!” You flustered, immediately shuffling off him.

He rubbed along his hair, smoothing the fronds back down. “Nah, it’s okay. Don’t mind if I take a quick shower, do you?” When you didn’t say anything, the boy took note of your quiet pensiveness. “Unless?”

“Well—it is your place—but could I use the washroom really quickly before you? It will only take me a few minutes.” That was your most diplomatic and polite way of communicating that your underwear were uncomfortably wet and sticky without humiliating yourself.

Vernon fell back on the mattress. “Go for it. Need anything?”

“Uh, no,” you stammered while awkwardly climbing over him.

In the washroom, you hurried to clean yourself up. The loose pyjama shorts and underwear fell down around your ankles. You spent no time ogling the extensive damp patch against the fabric. Where the hell were you supposed to put your underwear, anyway? Your pyjama shorts had pockets… you supposed you could get away with stuffing them there. It didn’t feel pragmatic, but then again, you were pulled from your bedroom window without even wearing socks, so you supposed the odds were against you. After emerging from Vernon’s washroom, you saw him sprawled all relaxed against the bed, an arm tucked behind his head while he scrolled through his phone. You wondered if this was a normal practice for him.

“All yours,” you said.

“Cool.”

“What about the money?”

“I’ll tidy it up tomorrow,” he remarked on his way past you, as though tomorrow was an entire year away and not in several hours, when the first brushstrokes of daylight would colour the sky. The washroom door shut and within a few minutes you heard running water.

Not wanting to muddle your mind with impure thoughts of what Vernon was taking care of in the shower, you made yourself comfortable in his bed, trying your hardest to accept the money scattered around you.

The older photograph you noticed during a previous visit was still displayed on his nightstand. Months later, you had yet to know who the baby girl was, bundled up in starry-pink cloth and cradled in his adolescent arms. There was much to think about, things you would have to know if you wanted your relationship with Vernon to keep progressing. But you didn’t bother fretting over that, tonight. Instead, you rolled onto your side, facing the wall, and waited for him to finish showering, holding a shiny fifty-dollar bill in your hand. Sleeping on money. It didn’t feel real.

Vernon joined you in bed after his shower, making sure to flick the light off, and no longer could you differentiate the bills surrounding you, the craggy faces of those who occupied them in thin lines.

His shaggy, damp hair was adorable, brushed down and fluffy over his forehead, and smelled strongly of something beachy, breezy. His pyjama pants were pale blue plaid, his t-shirt plain white.

You let him embrace you from behind, felt his frontside press gently against your backside, his tattooed arms curled around your waist, squeezing you. And it suddenly all made sense why so many people were obsessed with chasing love. His nose was buried deep in your hair, though it probably didn’t smell as fragrant as his, but maybe you had your own scent.

You smiled, nibbling your lip. “What happened to her?”

He hummed, his voice heavier than usual, “who?”

“Bikini girl.”

“Gave it to the dude downstairs…” he muttered sleepily.

“Why?”

The pressure around your waist tightened. “I have you.”

Vernon had you.

From the moment he ungraciously ate your molotes, he had you, and every other moment leading up to the one you were making now. But did you have him? Without question? Without hesitation? You were not the relaxed, mellow Ruby who floated through life holding onto a hacked-open coconut, all breeze and sunshine, nor were you the lissome, headstrong Lara with a youth’s experience of beautiful ballet and the type of mystique that men find deeply sensual. You weren’t Kitty, well-seasoned in travel to underground clubs, edgy and just toeing the line of arrogance such that you bent to her whim before you even realized. You didn’t see yourself as remarkable, or interesting, adventuristic, or brave. You were unnoticeably replaced by any one of those girls. Easily swallowed, sinking.

Gone.

You wanted to ask Vernon about everything, flesh open your insecurities like a surgeon. The urge hit you hard. But he was tired—for once in his life—and you already depicted from the rhythm of his hard chest swelling against your back that he was drifting off.

There was no use.

So you shut your eyes and slept beside him, letting it all go.

By morning, your senses started to defrost. You could hear the distant burring of construction, feel hot sunlight caress your cheek, and smell the distinct soapiness of laundry detergent from Vernon’s shirt collar. When you tugged at the navy covers to pull them further up, money started rustling across the bed in hisses. But it didn’t prick you awake in the way you had thought.

You didn’t want to wake up. You wanted to stay against him. Your chest pressed to his chest. Legs tangled together. All your weight pushing him into the mattress, but Vernon’s mouth remained slightly agape as he continued to sleep soundly, the ferns of his eyelashes twitching, black hair a tufted, messy nest. Well, you didn’t particularly mind being awake, using your dainty fingertip to graze across his warm temple, comb adoringly at his hair—it was more so that you didn’t want to move—wanted to lay in bed forever, admiring him, wondering how he got so lucky with his features.

But then you remembered.

Fuck!

What about Ruby? What was she to think when it was unusually late in the day and you had yet to bumble out of your room? What was she to think when she realized your bed was cold and empty, your window left wide open, without any of your clothes or shoes or coats missing? God—she would think you were kidnapped—plucked straight out of your room like a ripened grape off its stem. You sat up, straddling Vernon’s waist. The covers fell from your shoulders in a soft puff and you felt the whirring fan tickle some hairs on the crown of your head. But you had no phone. Nothing.

“Vernon,” you whispered, clutching the boy’s loose shoulders.

He shifted, hardly awake, not saying anything.

Again, you wrestled his shoulders. “Vernon? Where’s your phone?”

“My wha...?” He mumbled blearily; pronunciation tapering.

“Your phone, where is it?”

“Dunno…” he turned his pink cheek into the pillow, nuzzled his nose against the fabric. “Coffee table or some shit… washroom, maybe.”

“Okay,” you said, smiling, bending down to kiss his jaw. “Thanks.”

As you moved off his waist and found your bare feet meeting the wooden floor warmed by the sun, his arm reached out for you, grasping with haze, wanting to feel your skin but falling short. “Come back t’bed,” he groaned scratchily, his sharp brow knotting, eyes still closed.

“I have to text Ruby,” you told him.

His arm fell flat. “Whatever…”

Money was blown all across the floor—much more than you realized—and it had never looked so useless. You picked around the coffee table. There wasn’t much on it, anyway. Some remote controls, a dusty book, a maroon-coloured hoodie, a glass bong, a card deck, and a lighter. So you padded into the washroom instead, the tiles cool underneath your feet.

Upon flicking on the irritable, sterile light, your stomach plummeted. You saw his cracked phone sitting on the edge of the sink. Right next to it, a charcoal Glock with a ribbed handle. You couldn’t believe the sight—how it was seemingly left there with such insouciance—akin to a toy, or house keys, or a water bottle you nearly forget while scrambling out the door. It was sobering. Had he used it? Was it just a precaution, for scare? Did he always carry it on him, in a place you couldn’t see? The boy’s phone proceeded to buzz against the porcelain lip of the sink and you flinched at the rumbling, grating sound. Carefully, you picked his phone up, choosing to ignore the gun even though it was something that couldn’t really be ignored.

You sat on the sofa. It had been a text from Kitty.

Vernon was rolled onto his side, now. Facing the wall. You could see the streams of his hard back through the white shirt clinging to his muscle. Even though your chest and stomach were burning with the urge to look, you chose to ignore it.

Another thing that couldn’t really be ignored.

Ruby’s name was no longer gilded by 'fat ass' in his contacts, which was almost a shame to admit, because it made it difficult to discern which of the two Ruby’s was your Ruby without being nosy and reading his texts. But you figured it out relatively quickly. You sat there, still, for a moment, trying to understand the best way to explain everything without giving away more detail than necessary. The best you could conjure was a simple “not at home, be back later in the day, love you,” with your name signed at the end.

His phone pulsed again in your hand.

It was another text from Kitty—this time a photograph that disappeared way too quickly for you to gauge what it showed—followed by a message that read, “U sure u not coming? Can I change ur mind?”

You wanted to start leaping on the sofa, hollering and screaming.

He’s not yours! Don’t ever text him again! He’s with me! Before realizing how utterly insane you sounded. Immature and dipped upside down by your feet into insecurity. Shyly, you flicked another glance at Vernon, then at the barren wall with a noticeably bright rectangle and putty marks. Things were different in subtle ways. Changing, slowly, in a manner that meant something, as opposed to being tawdry and rushed with emptiness. You exhaled deeply, leaving the boy’s phone behind on the coffee table, his texts untouched.

Criss-crossed, you sat on the bed, began running a hand through his thick fray of freshly-clean hair, black and smooth, a few tangles here and there, nothing your gentle fingers couldn’t work through.

He was awake, just resting his eyes, letting his body unspool.

Neither of you spoke. The silence held its own comfort.

“My mom used to do this…” Vernon mumbled after a few minutes.

Swallowing a lump in your narrow, stinging throat, you nodded.

“Yeah… mine, too.”

You never took the money from Vernon. He offered it again, right before he drove you home, but you couldn’t bring yourself to accept it. Two-thousand dollars. In cash. Where were you supposed to keep it? How were you supposed to spend it? It was still drug money. It was still stolen. And you were not a criminal, even if you had certainly blurred the line at times.

Vernon gave you a bowl of Lucky Charms for breakfast. Together, you shared cloves from an orange, and he amply judged you for tearing off the stringy white bits and inspecting each piece fastidiously. “Little Miss Princess, over here,” he’d jousted, “can’t eat a fuckin’ orange. You want a knife and fork while you’re at it?” To which you told him about the time you ate an orange in primary school, on the rug, during snack time, and began choking on a stringy white bit, leading you to throw up all over your Velcro shoes.

“Funny how you let one little thing control your life.”

“It doesn’t control my life. It controls how I eat oranges!”

But you thought about what he said in brooding silence afterward.

“Oh—by the way—your gun is in the washroom.”

“Shit. Forgot about that. Thanks.”

He didn’t move to grab it, instead continued eating his half of the orange while you sipped at the milk left in your cereal bowl. You didn’t understand Vernon sometimes. The differences between you stretched in ways that felt too vast to accept, like a gorge that couldn’t be crossed. You thought to be in love was to accept someone, which in turn showed that you understood them fully. But you didn’t accept all the aspects of Vernon’s life, nor did you understand his choices. And yet, you still loved him.

You still wanted your life in his.

It was unlike you to work the closing shift at Common Cents. But the concession store had a very finite rolodex of employees, and you were certain the responsibility had fallen to you since there was no chance in heaven or hell that Soonyoung would ever forfeit a Sunday night. That left you with your manager, Patsy. You never saw much of her. She was a whole foot shorter than you, wobbling around the store with vigour, insisting on everything a certain way as though you were a new hire who couldn’t be trusted to tell a quarter apart from a dime. You weren’t allowed to simply stand. You needed to look busy.

Even when the store was dead empty.

“Have you cleaned the countertops?”

“I did.”

“What about this cupboard space, underneath?”

“Yes. Done.”

“The drawer needs to be organized. We got new receipt rolls.”

“I did it before my break.”

There was almost nothing she could ask of you that wasn’t already done. You watched her rotund face grow increasingly pink and clotted that you were perhaps not as inadequate as she thought, until she grabbed a microfibre rag and dropped it closer to you, which felt unnecessary.

“The packages of gum. They should be dusted.”

Now she was just making things up. But you didn’t argue. Dragging the rag off the counter, you walked around to the display, mostly candies and different types of chewing gum. Patsy hovered by the door to the office, eyes slimmed through her dense glasses as she observed you like a preschool teacher, making sure you were committed to the profligate task. It made you miss Soonyoung. He might be blustering, but at least he had faith in you, and didn’t pestilently hover, and didn’t care that you spent an hour of your time filling out a crossword puzzle because he did it, too.

Your mind drifted as you dusted each package of gum, tethered to no thought in particular. Until you thought about Vernon. An emotional blade scythed through your chest. You missed him badly. You missed the way he spoke, gutturally, ungracefully, but entirely him. You missed his scent, always rich with amber, but sometimes carrying notes of things much more ambiguous: metal, smoke, city air, gasoline, takeout, mulch, fog. You missed his face. His perfectly arched brows, the lusciousness of his lashes, the depth and hardened gold that gave structure to his eyes. You missed tracing the thick lines of his tattoos, wondering about the story behind each one.

And you missed when you hated him.

It felt so much easier.

Ruby wasn’t nearly as drilling as you anticipated when Vernon dropped you off after the night at his bachelor. She listened to your evasively-detailed story while eating macaroni straight from the pot, sat on the countertop, eyes flickering between you and the stretchy cheese on her wooden spoon. Lots of mhm’s and yeah’s and right’s suffused throughout.

But you didn’t mention anything about the money.

After the store closed, Patsy removed the till from the cash register and carried it into the office, which left you to mop down the floors. At one point, Patsy came outside the office to inform you that you weren’t mopping correctly. “You’re just pushing the water around,” she said, to which you almost spat back at her, “that’s essentially what mopping is!” Instead, you apologized, told her you would wring out the water better, and that seemed to satisfy her superciliousness enough that she disappeared into the office again.

You couldn’t help but shoot the security camera a scowl, wondering if Patsy would be able to differentiate it between the pixels rather than actually do her job.

The moment you collected all your belongings and left the store for the night, you genuinely considered quitting—living off the two-thousand dollars Vernon stole for you while searching for a new job—until you realized how dramatic you were being. Patsy wasn’t going to control your life. Perhaps she could hardly control her own, and that’s why she was so adamant and particular about how a subordinate mopped the tiled floor, or dusted gum, or organized a drawer full of receipt paper rolls.

Upon reaching the park, you contemplated whether or not to walk along the path you usually took during the daytime. Very rarely were you here at such an hour. The moon was full and bright, its sheeted rays touching the sprigs of juvenile grass. Few lanterns dotted the walkway, like orbs of undulating fireflies. You plucked out your wired earbuds, wrapping them up in your hand as you thought.

“I found you.”

At the sensation of fingers brushing along your shoulder, you curdled akin to aged milk, knees jellying, chest tightening. When you spun around on your heel, you saw him—Minghao—smiling, but not in a hospitable way. It was like he found something he had been searching for relentlessly, and his eyes glimmered with the slaked relief of discovery. You weren’t sure what to say. Words failed you.

Minghao’s coat was long and black. He would blend right into an inky street. He would go unseen if not for his hair. The juicy red colour was being pushed out by his dark roots near the crowd of his head.

“PJ,” he said, like it was your birthname. “I found you.”

“I’m sorry,” you answered, “I’m not sure I understand.”

“You took it from me,” Minghao insisted.

“Took what? I don’t know you. I think you’ve got me mixed up.”

“You and your boyfriend took it.”

“Took what?”

His hand flexed in his coat pocket, the tendons of his wrist shifting. You watched, trepidation and fear drumming through you, driving in panic and pushing out rational thought. Where was everybody? What if you screamed? Would someone distant hear you and take your cry seriously? Or would you be tossed aside, disregarded as an inebriated university student causing a fuss.

Minghao’s hand stopped moving. “You know.”

You swallowed. It came out in a croak. “Know what?” And then he flashed his knife. It wasn’t particularly big, but the blade looked fresh and it curved in unsettling ways that made your stomach fill up with sickness. You took a step back, refusing to look away from the knife.

“What are you doing?”

“We will go get it back,” Minghao hummed softly, “together.”

“I-I don’t know you,” you warbled. “This is a mistake.”

“You come to the woods,” he said, pressing you forward for every step you took back. “And you enter my trailer. You and him. Hansol.”

“I didn’t take anything,” your tone turned pleading.

After all, it was true. You may have sniffed around, but you never stole. However, you knew that nothing would convince him. Not your pooling eyes, or your strained, hoarse voice, or the manner in which your hands trembled. “Please. You’re wrong.”

Minghao moved the knife into his other hand. It was like he was orchestrating a game, forcing your mind to stretch, anticipate, calculate a pop or a slash that might never happen.

“Together. We grab it.”

You said nothing.

He reached for your arm. “Together. Then it’s over.”

At the outskirt of the park, by the street and its picket of shapely elms, you heard a shout. You froze, meanwhile Minghao’s head snapped around. A black SUV was sat along the curb. You weren’t sure black was the right word—it seemed much glossier, much darker, almost like a void of space cut out from the world. A window was rolled down and whoever shouted shouted again. “Guò lái!”

Minghao’s tall, lithe body seemed to stiffen. He closed the knife into his hand, concealing it, and suddenly, he was stalking across the grass, toward the enigmatic SUV. You pulsed with the urgency to sprint away, but your feet were sinking deep into the dirt as though it were a pot of quicksand. Curiosity prickled up your neck and you could not stop yourself from watching as the red-haired boy approached the window, speaking to a black space without a face or body. After a minute or so, Minghao turned around to stare at you, and your skin felt chilly under the moonlight.

He then opened the vehicle’s back door and climbed inside.

The door slammed shut, the sound echoing throughout the park.

You saw the window slowly roll up, but not before an arm appeared, tapping what appeared to be flakey ashes from a cigarette onto the curb. The SUV then pulled away, tearing through the night like shears, and silence returned like a falling duvet.

You called nobody, completing the walk home in silence.

Vernon came by the apartment.

His breath smelled strongly of cinnamon gum. He bought it from your corner store, and mentioned that the girl who sold it to him had been using a broom to dust at a ceiling corner while your manager watched. He sunk into your sofa, lacking his usual lustre, his eyes staring foggily at the flickering images on the television screen in a way that told you he was seldom listening. You were quieter, too. Sitting beside him, breathing in the outdoors on his clothes.

You glanced down at the chipped shade of seafoam green on your fingernails. Lara had used your hand to test the consistency during a lunch break that past Friday. “I’m way better at painting other people’s nails.”

Ruby’s job had swept her away for the week, into another city much fancier than yours, for a Humanitarian conference where she was needed on the technological side. She had packed a bag Sunday night and went to bed early. This was the first time she accepted the invitation. She would always decline, and the responsibility would be shouldered onto someone else. You even saw her ironing the pantsuit she bought in preparation the day before.

After the confrontation by Minghao at the park, you texted Patsy and your manager at Mr. York’s, saying you needed to take some time off due to a strange sickness that came out of nowhere and had you profusely sweating while your stomach pinched into knots. It wasn’t exactly a lie. You thought the thorns in your abdomen would disappear by morning, but once you started moving around—checking inside Ruby’s bedroom to see she was already gone—you felt them emerge from their sheaths, take away your breath, as you collapsed onto the sofa, a warm hand on your aching tummy.

All day you had writhed and wriggled like a butterfly attempting to break free from its chrysalis, moving from show to show, movie to movie, trying to distract yourself from the sharp, muddled discomfort burrowing inside you. It didn’t feel like any emotion you had ever experienced before, if you could remember, that is. When you were angry, you were sticky and buzzing, almost daring things to go wrong, but finding that the anger never made its way out until months or years later. When you were disappointed, you were a lead weight, dragging your own ineptitude around like ball and chain and wondering why it suddenly seemed so hard to sprint.

When you were anxious, your body folded in on itself, a deck of timbering cards. Nothing could penetrate the whirlwind flinging out all your unspooled thoughts until the source of the anxiety came and went and you were stood, exhausted, without the spark to tidy everything up, so you just lay amongst the debris and slept.

But this feeling was somehow different.

It was an unknown. Not of yourself—of someone else.

“Chef Anne said his knife cuts need work. Why are his carrots rangin’ from Baby Bear to fuckin’ Papa Bear. And his roux is burnt.”

Your cheek nuzzled against Vernon’s shoulder. “What?”

“This dude—he just fucked up his carrots.”

He was watching a cooking show about amateur chefs learning to improve their skills in the kitchen. You laughed, because what did Vernon know about cooking, anyway? You had learned about cooking in high school, from a hospitality class, where you were quizzed on a variety of artful knife cuts and your ability to make cheddar biscuits that weren’t full of hard flour. You had to make crepes, practice getting them thinned and golden-brown without breaking apart their fragile skin, and clean russet potatoes to make hash browns eaten with fresh eggs—sunny side, scrambled, over-easy, hardboiled—you had learned to make each one or else you wouldn’t pass.

You almost wanted to say, “what do you know about cooking? Have you ever cooked for anyone? A parent, a friend, a sibling? Did you ever take a hospitality class? What about the class where you had to bake cupcakes and then sell them to the school for a grade? Did your mom ever help you decorate the cupcakes or fasten tips to the piping bags? Did your dad tell you to buckle the container into the backseat? Did he watch you walk up the stairway into the front entrance, smiling awkwardly while you held it?”

You wanted him to fill the hole that he pulled apart inside you.

“Vernon.”

He yawned, stretching out his arms. “Yeah?” One fell around your shoulders. His warmth. His weight. His smell. But without his soul.

“Last night, in Cedar Park, Minghao pulled a knife on me,” you said plainly, blanched of emotion. “But he was called into an SUV, and left.”

The arm settled around your shoulders lifted, cold air stippling your neck. “He did what?” Vernon queried, staring back at you. It was the kind of question that didn’t need an answer as the question itself was nothing but space to process the gritty information. “He pulled a knife?” He repeated.

“Yeah.”

“But nothin’ happened? You’re okay?”

Nothing? That’s not what you had said. But you realized to Vernon, the word inside your situation suddenly bore a different meaning. Getting a knife pulled on you was nothing.

Getting stabbed was perhaps something.

 “No,” you answered, accepting his version of nothing. “I was fine.”

Vernon sat on the sofa’s edge. His eyes drifted around the room in glimmering relief, and he began rubbing along the bridge of his nose. The reaction wasn’t what you had expected. You thought Vernon would burst to his feet, colour the air red as he peppered rage from his scathing, uncouth mouth. But then you remembered the moment you had told him about the incident with Lee, and the softness he laid over you, like a knitted blanket, ushering you into his garish compassion such that the guilt couldn’t touch you. It would burn up in his light. You wanted to believe this was the same.

He cleared his throat. “It worked.”

You blinked, fingers tucking together. “What?”

“Nothin’—just—it worked out.”

Again, the word nothing kept changing shape. Now it was evasive, throwing a tarp over a pile of secrets. You sensed the hole widen and it felt as though pieces of your stomach were being shaved off to make more room.

“What worked out?”

He chuckled, swinging his head, preparing himself to sink back into the sofa so he could learn more about julienne carrots and white roux sauce through another person’s mistakes. “Look, the less you know, the better.”

“I want to know.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Dude, I don’t have the gas to argue.”

“Well, then why would you say something like that? Something so damn ambiguous and shady? Vernon, I had a knife pulled on me!” You grabbed the remote control off the coffee table, clicking at the television to silence the noise. “I deserve to know whatever twisted business you shoved me into without my consent!”

He groaned, letting his head roll against the back of the sofa.

“I’m serious!” You shouted, feeling the complex conglomeration of emotions wrestled away the night before start flourishing, gestating. “Tell me! Or I’ll never speak to you ever again!” Snatching your phone off the couch pillow, you waved it around. “I’ll tell the cops!”

Vernon sat up. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“Tell me! I’m not kidding!”

“You said you wanted to stay the fuck out of my business. So, I keep you the fuck out of my business, and now you want back in?” He tossed his arms up in pure defeat, collapsing against the sofa and massaging his temples. “Why the fuck do I even bother with you?”

“Tell. Me.”

He scoffed, biting his inner cheek. “Fuck off. You won’t.”

“I will.”

You watched him shrug. “Do it then. Call the cops. Get me arrested. Fuckin’ tattletale. Go run your fuckin’ mouth, PJ’s.”

His words were like sawdust in your eyes. Upon staring down at the phone screen, the shapes and colours and words began to blur, as though your mind was wiring your tenacity while your heart wired your will to always protect him. Frustration bubbled up. It melted the tangled wires together, and in a clash of indecision, you whipped your phone across the room, hearing it smack into the wall with a hollow thud.

“God! You’re such a prick!” You cried. Crumpling back onto the sofa, you began to sniffle and puff, tears silvering in your eyes like ice beginning to melt. “I can’t get anything out of you. Nothing. You won’t ever tell me. It is so you can leave me that much easier? If I know nothing? So you can wash me out of your memory like a stain when you decide I have nothing you want?” Your mouth flooded with an acrid, metallic taste, almost burning, like the melted wires were coming back up. “I don’t understand your games, Vernon.”

He sighed, letting you wet your hands in tears.

Then, after a moment, he tugged at your arm. “C'mere.”

“No,” you choked out, shrugging him off.

Another moment went by, and then you heard him swallow. “It’s my first time doin’ this too, y’know? I guess I suck at it.”

Through salted, damp eyelashes, you glanced up at him. “Huh?”

He smiled at you, and there was an ease in his face, the same kind that appears in the sky after a humid, pelting rain. “A relationship.”

You became firm. “A relationship?”

Vernon nodded.

“What do you mean?” Your voice crackled, desperate for him to elaborate, to make a picture with no doubt. “We’re in a relationship?”

“Aren’t we?”

“I thought you didn’t want that…” you murmured, suddenly regretting shaking off his touch. “I thought we were just breezing. Going wherever the wind takes us. I didn’t think you wanted… commitment. Not that we ever explicitly stated what we were doing. We were kind of just… doing it. I mean, I want a relationship. You know that…” 

Vernon leaned toward you. His hand cupped your warm, sheening cheek. Then, his lips were slowly pressing against yours, and you felt the wings sprout from your back. You pushed reciprocally into his tenderness, reaching behind his neck, as your noses rubbed, and the kiss became a heady fusion of brackish tears and cinnamon. His slippery tongue touched yours, not lasting, but just enough that you went fuzzy, running your hand down his chest.

Vernon grasped it, folding your fingers into his. “I want to take you somewhere,” he whispered, kissing you again, a short peck.

“I won’t go,” you whispered back. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what you meant. Am I your girlfriend? I’ve never been a girlfriend to anyone. Well, not romantically. Not with a boy. Not with a drug-dealing boy who carries around guns and knows strange people.”

He strummed your knuckles. “Do you want to be my girlfriend?”

You nodded, speaking beneath a whisper, unable to stop yourself from staring intensely into his burnished, bronzed eyes. “Yes.”

Vernon knocked into your forehead playfully. “You can keep me a secret. I don’t mind. Put me in your closet and get me when you need me.”

You laughed, feeling down the contours of his chest with both hands, appreciating his muscle and beating heart, pounding with fervour, just like yours. “No!” After a hum of silence, you shook your head. “Never,” you sighed softly. “No more secrets. I want to know as much as you'll let me. I can’t separate you from it. I’ve given up trying.”

“Then let me take you somewhere,” he said. “And we can talk.”

Vernon didn’t say where. You didn’t ask.

Instead, you slumped into the Camry’s worn passenger seat, the window cranked down, watching the various infrastructures of the city glow beneath the sunset as you breezed by. Perhaps you flew past a hundred different lives, a hundred different stories, the wind picking each up and swirling them away. Half an hour later, and you were outside the skyscrapers, mega-malls, and apartment buildings. The air coming in through your window actually felt like air, and not the heavy plumes of dirt and smoke you grew accustomed to.

He drove along a winding road, the landscape hilly and dry-looking, blended patches of grass and orangish rock. But to your right, it all fell away, like a knife had serrated through the terrain. The coastline. You had maybe seen it once or twice with your dad, who preferred the longer, scenic routes with less traffic, as opposed to your mom, who didn’t care much for anything scenic and opted to follow the same GPS route even if it was more congested than a mall food court. The water wasn’t particularly rough, instead moving in languorous, smooth waves with disappearing and reappearing lines of white silk. Above it, the soft, yellow sky, reminding you of the sweet custard your mom used to make her angel cake dessert.

“Do you drive along here often?” You asked Vernon.

“All the time,” he answered. “Good to clear your head.”

The coastline was pulled away from you when Vernon took a turn that began leading you up a tall, chunky elevation. It was a disorientating zigzag until you came upon the flattened top, and suddenly, there were several large, beautifully expensive-looking houses placed like tumbled blocks, each facing the water, ignited embers under the watery, burning sun.

“What the hell is this place?” You cooed in awe and envy. A gigantic house of pale blue brick and colosseum white pillar skipped past your window, and you peered back at it. “Do Greek gods live here?”

Vernon laughed. “Feels like it. Just a bunch a’ rich people and their overpriced villas that they visit twice a year. What a waste.”

“No kidding,” you sighed, and underneath the wistfulness, you couldn’t help but wonder why Vernon brought you here. If it was to make your life seem pebbles in comparison, then he was well accomplished. Or perhaps you were going to meet a drug lord.

You almost snickered.

“Feast your eyes on this bullshit, PJ’s,” Vernon said.

Again, you proceeded along a road slanted upwards, and then turned into a wide, grey driveway that looped around to the face of the house—if house was even a suitable word—it was more like an esteemed manor, something from a reality television show that celebrities schlepped around in as though it was average. Your elbows laid across the door and your head poked out the window. Nothing escaped your mouth but a warm, impressed breath. This was definitely owned by a drug lord. Or some business tycoon who probably did illegal things, anyway. Vernon stopped the car right by a series of shallow staircases leading up to the entrance.

You pulled your head back inside, stared at the boy incredulously. “Is this yours?” Came the exclamation, charged with disbelief.

Vernon cackled. “No! Although I’m flattered you think I rake in this much dough from dealin’ to a few pompous-ass college kids, street rats, and the occasional rich twat. Not mine at all. Couldn’t be fucked to clean it.”

“Well, whoever owns this definitely employs housekeeping,” you commented, admiring the rows of garden space beside the stairway, the occasional flower, fulgurant and bright pink, beginning to sprout. “Are you the housekeeping?” You joked, staring back at the boy.

“Somethin’ like that,” Vernon lilted mischievously, smirking. He pulled out his keys from the ignition. “Let’s go explore it.”

“What?!” You gasped. “No—you said it wasn’t yours.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t know who owns it.” He winked.

“Who?”

“Miss Catarina Pollezna.”

Your face puckered. “Am I supposed to know who that is?”

He sighed, “Kitty.”

“Wait—really? This is hers? She paid for all this? She’s like, twenty-something. Late twenties. But she also buys drugs from Europe.”

“To be more specific, it’s her father’s. He has a killer shoe business set up in Italy. So that’s where he spends most of his time. To him, this is just some playhouse that Kitty can parade around in, throwin’ parties and hirin’ strippers and snortin’ blow, with all that money that he sends her,” he explained with a simmer of vitriol. “And also go to Europe every month.”

You swallowed, feeling a breeze curl through your hair, which made you shiver as though Kitty were somewhere inside, lurking. “Woah.”

Vernon nodded. “But guess where she is?”

Glancing at him, your heart thrust urgently, and energy tingled underneath your skin in hot surges. Your brows raised. “In Europe?”

He leaned forward, kissing the tip of your nose. “Exactly, my girl.”

Amongst the keys cluttered together on his carabiner, Vernon had one key for the house. When you barked at him about where he got the key, he told you simply that Kitty had gotten an extra made for him a few years ago, when he had been helping her set up for a massive party. He went on to express that the party lasted days. It had its swells and troughs. Whenever it seemed like the flame was about to die out, it would take one little kick of a mysterious powder going around to get everything thrumming again.

You commented that it sounded miserable. He agreed that it was.

“People don’t go to sixty-four-hour parties ‘cause their lives are buckets of sunshine,” Vernon laughed wickedly.

“Then why did you go?”

“I was kinda like a bouncer. Kitty paid me. And whenever I wanted a break, I could go smoke a blunt and have some girl’s titties in my face. Win-win, huh?”

“I don’t want to hear about you having a girl’s breasts in your face.”

“Right. Sorry,” he had apologized like a child caught taking a biscuit.

You spent ample time exploring the house. Vernon had apparently been there enough to know every possible nook and cranny, taking on the role of an unprofessional tour guide. The halls were grand and long, armoured with spotless carpets, jeweled chandeliers, and overwhelmingly large pictures with lustre-painted frames. Every window you passed by was tall, gaping, and the light from outside would pour straight in, like the sky was a bottle of sparkling champagne and the house a beautiful flute. The orange sunset would tinge the cream walls, your shadows floating along behind you, travelling through the colours in a way you could not.

Each room you walked into was so perfectly displayed. Not a single item out of place. Still, no dust. Housekeeping must be annoyed, knowing they would only come here to feather everything, move a candlestick a centimeter—adjust a vase only to make it more off-centre than it was before touching it—knowing it would give them something to do the next time they came by to clean. You thought you would feel more distress. But you didn’t feel even a flicker of it as you chased Vernon around the manor. He would sail down the infinite corridors, and you would barrel after him, running past the glowing windows like two children playing an aimless game.

At one point, he shoved against a door, and it popped open to reveal a theatre. “We watched a slasher flick in here once,” Vernon said. When you asked with who, he rambled off a long list of names, where only a few in between sounded familiar. “You could scream as loud as you wanted.”

“You're all a bunch of pansies,” you joked. “Stuff like that doesn't scare me because it's so obviously fake.”

Vernon grabbed your waist from behind and tugged you against his body, meanwhile your fingers brushed along the back of a cold leather chair, probably never even sat in.

“Yeah, right,” he whispered into your ear, and the scattering of his warm breath across your skin turned you mushy.

When he began pulling you toward Kitty’s bedroom on the top floor, you wriggled weakly in protest—not because you were concerned about intruding her personal space—but because it felt like something your old self would care about, and you had not lost her completely. But you yielded, following behind Vernon into the still, silent room. It was bereft of personality for a bedroom. You figured it made sense, as Kitty was probably hardly ever there apart from when she wanted to throw a party. The bedsheets were puffy, white, sewn from clouds, and had little frilly tassels hanging along the bottom, while the headboard was a very sophisticated arrangement of satin pillows, from teal blues to mossy greens and glimmering golds.

There were a few things left behind.

A dark purple robe hung on a hook jutting from behind the door. You didn’t dare touch it, imagining the fabric to be a thick, squishy velvet that would reveal your trespassing fingerprints. Some lipsticks were lined by the vanity, a few pairs of earrings resting on black-boxed cushions. A photograph was stuck between the mirror and the wooden frame, filled with people, all crowded together, sweaty, smiling. You tried tracing the faces to see if you could find Vernon.

“I’m not on there,” he said. “That’s a photo from Italy.”

“Oh,” you answered, noting the airy relief in your chest.

He pulled aside cloth curtains on rungs to reveal a sliding-glass door. Walking over, you were in a silent stupor. She had the entire coastline and all its vast, epic glory just outside her bedroom, and she was never there.

Your mouth tightened in jealousy. “Of course she has a terrace.”

“Why wouldn’t she?” Vernon sneered. “She has everything.”

The door made a suction-popping noise when he forced it open, rolling it aside. Immediately, a cool breeze—almost a mist—flushed in through the threshold, finding its way to your face with an inspecting caress, and for a moment, you felt like you were being lifted up, taken away by mother Earth. It was the closest connection you had ever experienced with something that wasn’t another person.

Openness rushed into your chest.

You glanced at Vernon, the breeze tickling his hair. The key to this palace was in his pocket. What freedom. He always found a way.

“Let’s step outside,” he invited with a gesture. “Ladies first.”

Entering onto the terrace, you were nervous. Someone might see you, piece together that you were a stranger, that you didn’t have the svelte to live in such a gorgeous house. You were a mistake accidentally smeared onto the portrait that ruined its entirety. But when Vernon stepped out beside you, shoulders back, chin up, eyes meeting the bleeding, scarlet line of the horizon like he was not only the owner but the damn architect, your nerves retreated. Beside him, you fell into a deep calm. He knew how to take care of things that others didn’t in ways unthought of. Like you.

“Pretty, huh?” He asked. His hands pressed into the balcony railing.

You joined him, touching the white, coarse stone. “It’s seraphic.”

“What?”

“Like, heavenly.”

“Oh,” he muttered. “Spellin’-bee ass word.”

You laughed, and the joyful notes were carried away in the wind like a song. Without haste, you both admired the view. You thought about taking a picture, but what good would it do? A screen tapered at the beauty, syringing out its vibrancy and hues. There would be no fresh air, or distant static of lapping water. The best you could do was appreciate it now. Then, you looked to Vernon, leaned forward on his elbows, tangled up in the colours of a marigold sunset. He glanced over at you, smirked a little.

“Why did you bring me here?” You asked. “I mean, not to say this isn’t wonderful. It is. But why here? What about you?”

“It’s away from the city,” he said. “Makes me feel like I can breathe a little easier. I’m not surrounded, towered in. I have all this.” He turned in a circle while sticking out his arms. “No losers around. No noise.”

“You’ve definitely called me a loser,” you chuckled.

“I mean actual fuckin' losers,” he rumbled in response. “You really care about people. You work hard. You try to be honest. You can be stiff but it’s for good reason. I see you dream and wonder. You’re not a loser.”

A smile burned on your face. “Thank you. That’s lovely.”

“I tried to be somethin’ like that,” he said, sounding adrift. “But I just never got my footin’ right. My mom was an artist, you see. She moved us all over the place ‘cause she was so hungry for inspiration. But it would always be the same. Another busted city. Another lousy school. She said it was the people who inspired her. I didn’t fuckin’ get it. I was around fuckin’ dweebs all day. Not that I wasn’t a dweeb. I was the troublemaker dweeb, though. Write-ups, detentions, extra homework. You name it, I got it.

Didn’t exactly help my mom’s career out much, when she spent most of my childhood in a principal’s office. She looked at me like I emptied her out, y’know? Then my baby sister was born. You should’ve seen how much my mom perked up. She got that big surge of inspiration she was lookin’ for, and her art career just took off.” Momentarily, his face soured, and his eyes darkened with dusky clouds of memory. His grip around the banister hardened, and his knuckles seemed paler. “Little baby Sofia. She was a gift. Always with my mom. Always on her hip. Always sittin’ in the centre of a big paper sheet coverin’ the floor, surrounded by tubes of paint. My mom would always say, ‘I have Sofia now. It's too much. I just can’t deal with your behaviour anymore.’ I don’t wanna say I hated them. I guess I hated that it took my baby sister bein’ born before my mom thought she was worth somethin’.”

You nodded, listening along carefully, coddling every word, as your heart ached inside your chest. Vernon had never sounded so bare before, stripped down of his ego and clever quirk. You knew then that the picture on his nightstand was him and his baby sister. Swathed over with dust. But not hidden away. Maybe that meant something.

“Shit started hittin’ the fan real bad,” he continued. “The less attention I got, the more shit I did. I made older friends buy me cigarettes and smoked after school with ‘em. We played around in empty construction sites, sat in the big loaders. I tried ecstasy for the first time at fifteen in this girl’s sad little excuse for a bedroom. Stayed there all night. Came back home in the mornin’ and it felt like no one even noticed. Or they did, and they just didn’t give a fuck. As long as they had Sofia. But I got too lax. I brought home some darts and pills. My mom found ‘em inside a sock that I kept in my drawer. It was a big conversation, my dad just noddin’ along, probably fuckin’ high himself. A whole lot of nothin’, you hear?”

“Right…” you said solemnly, so he knew you were listening.

“But I stopped carin’ about what they thought of me long before we ever had that talk. They collaborated to pull me out of school after I cracked this kid in the jaw over a few grams a’ weed. The tension finally got to my parents. They split up—the whole sob story—and it was joint custody. The same year, I met Dots. He was the first person in my life that seemed to actually care about me. You might think, if he really cared, why did he help me get more involved into all the drug shit. But it wasn’t like that. It taught me order, discipline, how to be sharp, think on my feet, handle the tough situations. Not that I’m tryin’ to make what I do sound like a damn cheat code. It’s not. It’s dangerous and fleetin’ and as smart as you are, or as successful as you are at it, there’s always a place to trip. But when I got to really know him, I actually understood somethin’ about my mom, what she meant when she said people inspired her. That was him. Solid dude.”

“That’s amazing,” you commemorated with a weightless sigh, only to catch a hitch in your throat a second later. “I mean, not that—not all that other stuff—but that you made such a reliable friend in Dots.”

He huffed dryly. “I know what you meant.”

“Sorry.”

You could tell a rawness had been poked open inside him. His tone was heavy, somewhat stinging. How awful it must feel to think you didn’t matter to the people who you were supposed to matter to the most. To see it in their treatment of you, and their ignorance. You thought Vernon must feel so wounded inside. Despite that, he covered it well. When you first met him, his audacity and coolness irritated you to no end. You thought he walked through life on a silver-platter where everyone bended to him. You thought he had no depth, no empathy, and no moral compass. He sold drugs and frequented meaningless sex and disrupted everyone else’s life so he could live the one he wanted. But it all came from somewhere ugly.

He tugged on his jacket and watched the sun press down into the fiery gloss of the water. “I’m nothin’ like you,” Vernon mumbled.

“I don’t want you to be,” you reassured him. Standing close, you leaned your head on his shoulder, placed your much softer hand over his that grasped the terrace balcony, moved your fingers into the spaces between his. “If you were anything like me, we would be an anxious, spiralling, dead-end mess. Like limp noodles,” you giggled.

Vernon breathed in. “I like noodles.” He paused. “Spicy noodles.”

“I’m cold, salty noodles.”

“Shut up,” he rasped, turning his head to press his lips against your forehead, and you were soaring through the wind with arms outstretched. “You’re kinda like my miracle.”

“How romantic,” you laughed, though you pushed up to kiss his waiting lips, appreciating the compliment in every bone of your body, making it become part of you, part of the hole he was filling. “Did you ever imagine yourself saying something so cloying to someone else?” Before he could speak, you clarified. “I mean, sickly sweet.”

“I could never say what I never felt,” he answered.

“I’m very special, then.”

Again, he kissed you, delicate but savoury. “You are.”

“So,” you swallowed, tracing a blacked-out star on his hand with your fingernail. “What was the whole thingamajig with Minghao?” Abruptly, with attitude, you leaned away from him, though it was harmless, and you were smiling. “I almost got cut up, and you weren’t caring enough for me!”

“Of course I care.”

“What happened, then? Why did you say that weird thing about it working out? What worked out? Who was in the SUV?” You pestered him with questions, attempting to catch the copper flame in his eyes.

“Someone owned me a favour,” he began to explain. “I used that favour to make sure Minghao wouldn’t be able to fuck with you.”

Unsatisfactorily, you sniffled. “That wasn’t anything.”

“It was.”

“Why were you owed a favour?”

He sighed, scratching his eyebrow.

You grabbed onto his arm and shook it, unafraid to whine and beseech. “Please! Can’t I know a little bit more? I’m not asking to know every single detail. But don’t you think as the person who was almost freakin' stabbed, I deserve more discretion?”

Vernon stared at you, sighing, and it seemed that you had administered the final tap of your insistent chisel. “He’s a drug lord that was close to Dots, like I was. When Dots died, he said I could ask him one favour as an act of sympathy or condolence or whatever the fuck. But only one, and he had to deem it reasonable.” He picked up your clammy hand in his and squeezed it. “I chose to protect you.”

“O-Oh…” you stuttered. “Uh… wow. Okay. C-Cool, I guess?”

How was one supposed to feel about their boyfriend hailing the promise of a surreptitious drug lord to protect you in his favour?

Your mind went a chaffing, stark blank. With the sun continuing to lower, the terrace’s brightness began to fade, and a deep gradient of dark blue had started diffusing toward the horizon. There was a colder tinge in the air pushed forward by the stirring ocean.

“That make you happy, princess?” He quipped arrogantly.

“Sure.” You couldn’t argue, even if you wanted to.

Back inside, you two sat on the edge of Kitty’s bed. Vernon had plopped down without thought, though you were more hesitant, not wanting to soil the luxurious sheets by leaving behind even a thread or a wrinkle or a speck of stray dirt. Through the opened curtains, you watched the sun wink a final goodbye, sinking down into the windy night and taking its last easel of orange with it. Tall trees flourished by expansive palms bobbed outside, merely silhouettes, and you could hear the breeze slap and whither against the glass, as though it were begging you to come back outside, to have someone appreciate the views that a rich man paid so much to acquire and then leave.

Vernon was leaned back on his elbows now, jacket tossed off.

“Have you ever slept here?” You asked, and it immediately hit you how stupid the question was. Of course he had slept here.

Where hadn’t he slept?

“In this bedroom?” He wondered.

“Never mind.” Your head shook back and forth. “Dumb question.”

A moment later, his fingers touched down your elbow, and then his hand was curling into your fleshy arm, and you felt him pull at you.

You stared back, half-smiling. “What?”

His little grin was all moonlight. “Come closer to me.”

“Why?” The pit of your stomach pulsed.

He shrugged casually, but his eyes were alive and spry, studying your face. “Why not? No fun starin’ at the back of your dense head.”

“There you go with your rudeness.”

Vernon propped his head up at you. “Wanna punish me, Miss?”

“Go die.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Anywhere.”

“Between your legs, Miss?”

“Vernon!” You screamed. Pulling loose a neatly placed pillow, you smacked him across his face. “Gosh! You’re so dirty. I can’t stand it.”

You didn’t want him to know that you were fizzling in the shadows of the bedroom. On fire. His games were dangerous, magnetic. And shamefully, they defrosted you like ice in the midst of a spring thaw every time. Your legs crossed together, as if to convince yourself your body didn’t want him and his leeriness, but that only pressed the panging deeper into your abdomen.

He threw the pillow off his face. “What’s with you and pillows?”

“Idiot protection,” you mumbled.

“I was just joshin’ around.”

“About which part?” Your voice sharpened as your arms folded and you glared back at him. “It’s not appropriate to say things like that.”

“Shut me up, then.”

Upon leaning over to collect another pillow, Vernon grabbed your waist in his hands, and with an impressive show of strength you were hauled overtop him like a limply filled doll. The heat broke loose. It was radiating off you, hot wind blowing across a sand dune.

“Vernon!” You grumbled, wriggling. His knee was bent in between your thighs, not pushing into you, but hovering, while his hands flattened against your lower back. “I can’t believe you’re so tricky!”

He tilted toward your elbow braced next to his head. And then his lips, cushioning softly against your bare skin. “You won’t win,” he chuckled, moving his lips further along your arm, drifting, warm. “I know you wanna give in to me. Can feel it,” he emphasized with a rough, commanding squeeze at your waist, your body responding in a tremble. “You make it so hard for me to relax when you run your clumsy mouth. Makes me just wanna fill it with my tongue.” His voice was gritty, but words slippery as an emollient. He got you.

And you buckled.

Pathetically, your mouth sunk deep against his, and all you wanted was for him to follow through on his filth. His tongue was there, not prodding, but devouring, tangling inside your wet mouth, and you tasted the faded hints of cinnamon gum he had been chewing earlier.

“I—h-hate—mmf—I hh-hate you.” The emotions struggled to find the space to escape, struggled to find the breath they needed. There were only your tongues swirling around messily, finding groove. His spit glimmery on your chin. Your spit on his. You grasped at his hair, so healthy and strong between your fingers, letting him suckle on you like a hard candy. At that moment, your hips canted backward and your sensitiveness found the texture of his knee. It was an unexpected, almost pained cry into his mouth.

Immediately, he grinned. “Hit somethin’ sweet, did I?”

“That was embarrassing…” you choked out. How could you make such a sound? It wasn’t from you. It was too primal. You buried into the boy’s shoulder to shield yourself from its ring echoing in the air.

“No.” Vernon kissed your temple. “No it wasn’t, baby.”

“I sounded so weird and awful.”

“Then you don’t hear what I hear,” he laughed. You felt his body begin to shift—he was sitting up—and you sat up with him, arms looped around his neck and your thighs straddling his firm lap. The boy’s hands were warm and steady on your back like two heated sunstones. “You don’t understand,” Vernon continued, his eyes inflated and round with sparks. “How you sound when you feel good is what makes me lose my mind. I can’t think straight.”

You sighed, and your chests pressed together. His heart was racing, just like yours. “I’m not good at this, especially with you. I know that… I know that—I can’t—like…” it was incredibly frustrating, trying to grasp the words but then feeling them slip away akin to a watery handful of fish. “I know that I won’t ever make you feel as good as other girls do, or whatever… like…” you sighed grumpily, not wanting to say her name, though it came out anyway. “Like Kitty. She said that you told her she was the best at… you know… being with you, or taking you.”

Vernon looked confused. “Kitty said that?”

“At the party… Moo’s thing.”

He stared deeper into your eyes, and there was a bright strike. “Is that why you left so upset?” His hand moved to caress along your cheek, pausing to cup your face. “She runs her fuckin’ trash mouth, you know that?” Vernon said waspily.

“I was upset for a lot of reasons. But, it’s probably true.”

“What’s true?” He demanded, his voice thick and stern.

You glanced away from him, afraid. “I can’t please you.”

Vernon grabbed your hand. You were surprised at the sudden roughness of the touch. But it fell apart into a head-spinning delirium. He placed your palm at the tent in his heavy pants. Every inch of your mouth went arid. It was his erection, twitching through his clothes, feeling that it was growing under your touch, and you couldn’t think one damn word.

“Don’t you feel this, PJ’s?” Vernon rasped, squeezing around your hand so that you squeezed him, his eyes fully drawn to yours. “Don’t you fuckin’ feel how insanely hard I am? This is how badly I want you. Every day. You know you left your panties at my apartment, right? The ones in your pocket? You know that I used ‘em to touch myself? Tryin’ to get some sort of fuckin’ semblance that you were there with me. I’ve never done such pathetic, needy shit for anybody, yeah? But I couldn’t fuckin’ help it ‘cause of how you make me feel. I always ache for you. I can’t stop.”

Your mouth opened, quivering. “Vernon, I—”

“Don’t ever say bullshit like that,” he warned you, and his shoulders seemed hardened and crusted with anger—not at you—but that you had been made to feel so inadequate. “I don’t give a fuck about Kitty. She’s never made me feel the way you do. Never.” His expression began to soften in the darkness, and the anger diffused. “Do you understand, baby? How can I make it clearer?”

“I understand,” you squeaked out, smiling a faint, hot smile.

“Good.” Vernon ran his hands down your face, along the edges of your breasts, until they settled at your hips. “And if anyone ever taunts you like that again, tell me, so I can put Ex-lax in their coke.”

You giggled. “That’s quite evil.”

“Don’t give a fuck,” he said, nuzzling his nose to yours.

Glancing down, you realized your hand was still sitting over his erection, but you didn’t move it away. To feel him physically respond to you was a sort of ecstasy that made you frayed, jellied, and hungry in places other than your stomach. You kissed him, gently, and pressed down on the stiff tent in his pants with a light pressure. His body quivered underneath you, his shallow groan vibrating your tongue. And so you tested out more pressure, more movement, heady on the pleasure you were gifting to him.

“Fuck,” he breathed across your lips, “such a good girl for me, aren’t you, baby?” Your shirt was loose and buttoned, with nothing but a sheer bralette on underneath. His hands started creeping up your stomach.

“Yes,” you hummed back complicitly, combusting at his words and how layered there were with lust—how they caressed you without caressing you, how they lapped at you, squeezed you. “Are you going to touch me?”

Vernon chuckled. “Uh, what?”

Your hand drifted off his erection. “My chest?”

He paused. “Do you want me to?”

For a moment, you thought. “Yes… but I don’t want you to see.” A nervous breath hit the roof of your mouth. “Can we keep my shirt on?”

Vernon smiled. “You can keep whatever you want on, baby.” He kissed you once, twice, a third time. “And you can say no. Always.”

You nodded, too buzzing, too anxious, too excited, to speak. But you were practically glistening with relief and contentment from what he said—making sure you knew you had a choice and there was no shame in taking advantage of it—he wouldn’t be upset at you. His eyes had been still and sincere when he said it, pouring into your soul, and you felt the stir.

“I know,” you whispered. “Thanks.”

To your gratefulness, he left your mouth alone so you could breathe, gasp, and claw for air whenever needed. Instead, his kisses tasted down the slope of your neck, moving slow, leaving a damp chill, the occasional graze from his teeth. He would suck at your pulse through every constricting vein as though he were trying to absorb your heartbeat. There were rings on his fingers, cold against your ribs. He thumbs rubbed along the uncomfortable underwire of the bralette, teetering, to give you room to decide if you wanted more, and you did. His large palms were over top the bralette’s sheer material. Fuck—he was touching you—actually touching you, and you grabbed his shoulders tight so you wouldn’t fall backward.

“This feels sexy,” he purred into your neck.

You shook your head, giggling, “it’s a cheap bralette.”

“What’s not sexy about that?” He chuckled.

He started to squeeze, and you moaned. It was difficult not to revolt at how you sounded, shaky and sharp-pitched in a way that would make your parents collapse, but Vernon smiled, slaked, into your cheek. “Does that feel good?” His voice pressed inside your ear as he continued massaging your breasts through the fabric, gripping a bit tighter, groping a little harder, only to make everything feel soft again.

“Yes—I can’t explain it.”

Vernon kissed your jaw, then licked, and you smelled the beachy fragrance in his hair. “Can I go underneath, baby?” He asked, and there was almost a fragility to his voice, like he was entreating more than asking.

“Um—o-okay. Yes.”

“You sure?”

“I am.”

His fingers danced up to the thin straps of the bralette, slowly sliding them off each shoulder, and you stopped breathing. He kissed each side of your warm, tender neck as he did so, and your heart throbbed uncontrollably. And then he reached the clasp at your back, knew how to unfasten the hooks in a way that should have disturbed or disgruntled you, but you didn’t care. The bralette fell. He pulled it out from underneath your buttoned shirt and tossed it aside impatiently.

Vernon’s forehead rested against yours, and his eyes still managed to shimmer with threads of spun gold in the dimness. You looked back expectantly, biting onto your lip. And then his hands were engulfing your bare breasts—careful—not aggressive or rash. He pushed them together, kneaded them apart, squeezed each individually, taking pure pleasure in the small divots and fractures that twitched across your stunned face.

“I’m going to faint,” you breathed onto his lips.

He laughed. “No, you won’t.”

“Why does it feel so good?” You mumbled, adrift and floating, letting your eyes flutter shut in the marvelous intimacy while you still remained present enough to keep grasping his shoulders.

“I’ve imagined it hundreds a’ times,” Vernon hummed. His hands stilled, and you felt insanely frustrated, only for his thumbs to come down on your stiff, sensitive nipples, and you cried out long and hard like life was being simultaneously gifted and grabbed from you. Underneath, you sensed his erection strain, poke at your inner thigh. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he cursed with utmost snarl. “You’re gonna make me cum in my fuckin’ pants.”

Leaning your head onto his shoulder, your grappled with the hairs on the back of his head and breathed heavily. He continued to circle around your pert nipples, causing your shoulder blades and back to erratically twitch and frolic. You couldn’t control it.

“Please, Vernon…” but for what, you didn’t know. Maybe to explode. To turn into a flurry of bursting stars.

“You really like that, huh?” He teased.

“Yes.”

“What about this? Hm?” One of his hands disappeared. You hadn’t seen what he did, but his touch quickly returned and it was wet, cold, with his slick spit, now being pinched and smeared into your nipple.

You leaned forward, pressing into him, moaning so unbelievably loud over his shoulder. Again, his erection pulsed under your thigh.

“I haven’t even touched your cunt or fucked you open, and you’re this fuckin’ loud?” He managed to laugh, though it was full of strain. “You’re gonna end me, princess. Just from touchin’ these soft, lovely tits of yours. Feel so warm in my hands.” To emphasize, he gripped each one and kneaded them, more pressure, more greed, rings crushing into your skin. “How’d I live this long without you? Fuckin’ miracle, huh, baby?”

“Y-Yes…” you wheezed, sniffling and shaking. “I need you.”

“I know,” he cooed, an attempt to soothe, “but I won’t fuck you here. I know you don’t want that. I know you’re still not ready.”

Every word was a deep laceration. How were you not ready to take him? You were gushing through your underwear. Every fibre and molecule of your body was strumming with arousal so potent that it was thick, hovering everywhere, in the dark room. And you could feel him straining against your thigh. Gosh—you didn’t know anything about dicks—but his was… big. It would have you disintegrating around him until you were piles of overheated ash, blown away in one mere puff. Still, he was right. If you weren’t ready for him to see your breasts, you couldn’t let him inside you.

Especially not here, on Kitty’s bed.

Nonetheless, you didn’t want it to end. It felt like madness.

What had he done to you?

—END OF PART FIVE.

[chocosvt]

ghost ride | part four.

✧✎ synopsis: post-graduate, your life sucks especially hard. two jobs, a lazy roommate, and an imperceptible social life have dulled you to grey. nothing seems like it's going to change. until your roommate decides to let her plug crash at your place, and you're bribed into a strange adventure that challenges everything you thought you were.

pairing: fem!reader x vernon chapter word count: 25k full length word count: 186k genres/tropes: drug dealer!vernon, reader is a post-grad w/ a flop degree lol, inclusion of OCs, gay!soonyoung for the lol, appearances from other svt characters, opposites attract, romance, teasinggg, tensionnn, unrequited love, angst, adventure, smut, relationship drama, sprinkling of comedy, another excruciating slowburn bc what else? + reader is a tad dramatic/sensitive but that's why i love her :]

(!) warnings: drugs (IE: weed, molly, coke, whippets, alcohol), mention of guns, mention of death/overdose, intense language, an instance of non-consensual touching to the reader by a side character, some toxic & possessive behaviour, degrading, aggression, mentions of physical abuse/harm, dips into grief and loss, fractured family dynamics on vernon's part.

✧✎ a/n: a bit of an earlier upload since i have work in the morning :( but when you finish this part it means we are officially more than halfway through the series! that is kraziness.

thank you again for all the kind comments & reblogs <3 i didn't expect many ppl to actually get into this fic bc of its length and subject matter so i'm glad there are readers willing to take the journey with me teehee.

also, i rly do encourage yall to check out ghana's many hopes. they do AMAZING things for young girls rescued from trafficking! they get to learn skillsets and have opportunities to build support systems!

what to note:

there are seven parts in the series

releases are weekly, ~12am EST, sunday!

inspo playlist!

if at any point you want on or off the taglist, comment/inbox/msg me!

additionally, the chapters/parts are lengthy. the first six parts are between 24-27k while the finale/ending is 30k+!

✎ 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07

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You stopped by the apartment to grab a few things. After leaving the pastry behind in the fridge for Ruby, you shoved pyjamas into your knapsack—checkered bottoms and the pony t-shirt, as you had been coming to the end of your clothes—and some skincare from the washroom.

It didn’t take as long as you remembered to reach Vernon’s place.

The small, frisky dog with cataracts was barking at you two, scratching against the shutters, just like last time. Someone had finally fixed the broken doorway, replacing the wooden board with glass. You repeated the same tiresome trek up the winding staircase until reaching the fourth floor, where you released an audible breath of repose upon entering his cozy bachelor. No plain grey walls, no stiffness, no apprehension.

“Do you mind texting Ruby?” You sighed, handing Vernon your phone. “She’s asking about what happened. Just tell her I’ll explain everything tomorrow, and not to worry too much.” It was torturous to open your messages and see Lee’s unopened notifications pleading at you. “It is okay if I use your bathroom for a second? To change and wash up?”

Vernon looked down at your phone, then back at you. “Sure.”

The washroom wasn’t in great shape, but it was still better than what you imagined—at least for someone who was hardly there to clean it.

Most of the damage didn’t seem like Vernon’s fault, but rather the cheap costliness pertaining to the landlord. A crappy patch job in the shower, chips in the porcelain sink, peeling, faded wallpaper beginning to curl from the corners.

You set your knapsack down on the toilet, unzipped it, and pulled out your face product, which you soaked onto a cotton pad. Staring yourself down in the water-stained mirror, underneath the ghostly sterileness of the washroom’s pale lighting, you began wiping off all the dried tears and grime that stippled your skin. Every swipe of the cotton pad only made you focus with more intensity on yourself, until you felt so unbelievably and wildly unattractive that you couldn’t bear to stare into the mirror any longer.

With an exhausted sniffle, you unbuttoned your jeans. One leg at a time, you kicked them off, before removing the shirt overtop your head, tossing your bra onto the clothes you left bunched on the floor. Before you could catch a glimpse of your bare body in the mirror, every little detail under the light’s harsh dissection, you quickly jumped into your pyjama bottoms and wrestled on the loose t-shirt to unaesthetically match.

A deep breath before going back out to face Vernon.

He was lounging on the futon. You dropped your knapsack onto the coffee table, gave him a queasy, weak smile, and collapsed next to him.

Vernon tilted his head toward you. “Need anything? Water? There isn’t much in the fridge and I’m a shitty fuckin’ cook, but I can make a pretty gnarly grilled cheese. Takeout is fine, too. The world’s your… uh… oyster.”

But you shook your head. “I’m fine.”

He then held out your phone, which you dropped into your bag. You didn't want to read anything. You didn't want to know anything.

“I told Ruby what you said,” Vernon mumbled. “She responded a few times. Didn’t read it.” He proceeded to shrug. “Well, didn’t answer it.”

“I’ll set aside some time to text her tonight.”

He nodded, looking out the apartment window for a moment or two before Vernon turned his attention back to you. There was a reluctance in his expression, a withdrawal, like he desperately wanted to ask but felt tentative in case his queries were too intruding. You appreciated his sensitivity. His eyes flicked you up and down a few times in thought.

And then he pulled the trigger. “So? I get to know anything?”

You were curled up closer to him than usual, your cheek just barely grazing the boy’s shoulder. It was solacing to feel his heat, smell the outdoors on his clothes, the tinges of flavoured smoke. Your body untied itself.

Then, you were drawing in a long, long breath. “I tried breaking up with Lee…” you started, speaking quietly, “and it turned to… shit.”

No antagonizing remarks. No comical digs. He stayed silent.

“I didn’t expect it to be that hard. He was being so nice to me the second I stepped in the door. I just… couldn’t get the words out, y’know? It was torture.” Pulling your knees closer into your chest, you stared down at the open space of Vernon’s lap, his strong thighs. “Once he was done his homework, he came right next to me on the bed…” it was suddenly harder to speak, your throat automatically tightening up. “I was so stupidly nervous that I couldn’t articulate enough. Lee started kissing me… on my neck… he started moving his hand down my shirt…” your eyes began to sting again, blurring your vision into a cloudy vignette. “He tried to touch me, you know, in between my legs,” you breathed out in a trembly voice, “but I got too scared and stopped it. It’s like he was completely missing the signals I was giving. He was like, pulling me back down onto the bed and I freaked out even more. I had to leave. I couldn’t—I felt like I was on fire—like he was trying to trap me. I-I don’t know. It was all so quick.”

You started looking around for a tissue box.

Vernon reached underneath the coffee table to grab you one.

Pulling out two tissues, you fought to capture a structured breath, taking a moment to dry your eyes and blow your nose. “Then…” you huffed, skin irritated and wet, “I couldn’t help but think it was my fault, y’know? That I should have been upfront. I’ve just been so nervous and uncomfortable about intimacy with him. I don’t know why. But… maybe if I was more vocal, he would have understood, and, like…” bringing another tissue to your face, you blotted up the tears, sniffling louder and louder. “I just feel like, so useless. So dumb.” Blinking at the crumpled tissue squeezed into the flesh of your sore hand, you wanted to shrink, to disappear, as the embarrassment flushed through you.

Vernon shook his head. “What happened wasn’t your fault.”

You nodded. “I-I know. It’s just hard not to think that way…”

“No, PJ’s, look at me.” Vernon angled himself on the futon so he could face you more intimately, capturing your fullest attention, until the brilliant rings of his earthen irises were all you could gauge. “What he did was completely not your fault. There’s no excuse for it. Someone who actually has your best interests at heart is not gonna treat you like that,” he reaffirmed you, his tone much more serious, unnegotiable. “He was countin’ on your discomfort to keep you quiet, so he could do whatever the fuck he wanted. He wasn’t bein’ oblivious, or missin’ your signals. Bet he knew what was comin’ and figured gettin’ inside you could change your mind. That’s real slimy fuckin’ behaviour. I should kill him for that. But you stood up for yourself, right? And even if you didn’t, it still wouldn’t be your fault.” Vernon reached his arm around you, rubbing up and down your shoulder as his firm reassurance only sparked another onslaught of waterworks.

“I’m sorry,” you spluttered, piling all your used tissues onto the coffee table before pulling the collar of your t-shirt up against your cheek, letting it absorb all the dampness. “I’m such a mess.”

“Fuck that,” Vernon laughed, pulling you closer into him. “You can be a mess when you’re with me, yeah? You really think I give a fuck?”

A smile broke through your lips. “N-No.”

“Exactly.” He nudged his nose against your hair. “I’ve been around you enough to know how dramatic you are. Usually you’re dramatic about shit that doesn’t matter,” Vernon chuckled. “But I like it.”

Your head slid into the crook underneath his chin. “So, I’m being perfectly dramatic about this. Is that what you’re saying?” You teased.

“Hey, you be the master of your emotions, alright? Don’t let anyone else dictate anything without good reason.”

“How are you so randomly eloquent and insightful?” You let out a half-hearted giggle, snuggling your face in closer to his neck. That’s where his cologne was most concentrated. Rich amber filled your nose and floated to the centre of your head.

The backs of Vernon’s fingers stopped at your elbow. After what felt like an oddly long pause, he rubbed his nose and chuckled, “dunno.”

Silence followed, soft enough to touch.

And you couldn’t have embraced it more.

Closeness with Vernon felt so easy that you wondered why you ever bothered grasping at straws when it came to Lee. The way you slotted against his side was like perfectly matched puzzle pieces. His calloused fingertips drifting along your bare arm was equal parts soothing and arousing. Having the weight of his chin rested on your head made you feel so protected, as though nothing in the world could reach you. With his other arm lax in his lap, you took the opportunity to meet your fingertip with a vein underneath his prettily inked skin, which you proceeded to trace until it disappeared into the elbow's crook. His shifted his hips as you touched him and nothing had ever made you want to jump across his thighs more.

Swallowing, you retracted your hand. “Was it good?”

Vernon casted back his hair, humming. “What?”

You repeated yourself, more audibly this time. “Was it good?”

 “Was what good?”

Biting your lip, you eventually came to murmur, “the head?”

“Oh,” Vernon laughed, snorting. “Uh, fuck, it was fine.”

You stared up at him through your lashes. “Is she a friend?”

There was a prominent stiffness to his rising adam’s apple, sharp against his throat, like an arrowhead. “Not really. I know her name, where I met her, and that she fucks heavy with ketamine. But she’s not that nice around the privates, you feel? I try to tell her what I like but she just fuckin’ operates my dick like she’s drivin’ a damn stick,” Vernon chuckled, shrugging. “You’re easy priority over that.”

Looking back down, you smiled. “I guess that’s nice to know.”

“Shit—even if it was the best fuckin’ brain I ever got—I still would have come got you,” Vernon asserted, slipping his hand underneath your arm, his fingers pressing deep into your ribs. “Lucky you, huh?”

You nodded, adjusting the knees against your chest.

Vernon cleared his throat. “Why don’t I throw on a movie?”

“Okay,” you obliged. “What kind?”

“Let’s look on my Netflix—well—not mine. I’ve been bummin’ off the dude who lives underneath me. But I give him mint weed. So it’s fair.”

He grabbed the remote off the coffee table and turned on his flat-screen television, which took a moment to start up. You assumed he didn’t use it much as you both watched the spinning loading circle.

Vernon smirked. “Is it really comfy to sit like that?”

You frowned. “Like what?”

“With your knees against your chest. You always sit like that. Why don’t you spread out more?” He offered. “Put your legs across my lap.”

A weight hit your throat. “Are you sure?”

“No, I gave you that option so I could take it back three fuckin’ seconds after I said it,” he sighed, chuckling. “Yes, I’m sure.”

Naturally, you obeyed, untucking your legs and resting them across the boy’s thighs. He was right. It felt way more leisurely.

“Why don’t you pick the movie? Show me one of your favourites.”

While you operated the remote, Vernon had his palm lying flat against your knee. The smile that shot to your face was immediate, unbridled twitches dancing in your cheeks, though you attempted to hide it. Whenever he touched you, no matter how faint, it set off unstoppable fireworks from the base of your abdomen, fulgurant and hot and sizzling with desire that was near impossible to quench.

“There,” you sniffed. “Wall-E.”

“Oh, that’s a banger. I haven’t seen it in ages.”

You grinned into his neck. “Then you’ll love it even more.”

It was difficult not to fall asleep as the movie played.

The apartment grew dimmer and dimmer over the hour, with the sun setting outside, pulling all the baby blue out from the winter sky until it was an unsaturated cloth. Your head was in such a comfortable position, cradled against Vernon’s shoulder, and you had only curled up more such that you were a ball half-supported in his lap. His body heat was pulling down your eyelids and the strokes of his hand along your thigh’s underside was so lulling. You didn’t even realize the movie had ended. It was Vernon’s fingers tenderly brushing the hair from your face that rekindled your senses, and you began to stretch, watching the film’s credits through the apartment’s hazy darkness.

“It’s over?” You yawned.

Vernon laughed. “It’s been over.”

“Oh…” you blinked, still wearing off your brain fog. “Why didn’t you wake me up for my favourite part?! When Eve gets Wall-E to remember everything! And they hold hands! It always makes me cry in happiness!”

“And how the fuck am I supposed to know that?”

You ignored him, falling back against his shoulder. Staring out the wide windows, gazing across the last embers of sunlight buried far against the horizon, you sighed, “that’s my absolute favourite part…”

Vernon picked up the remote. “I can go back.”

“No, it won’t be the same.”

“Don’t fall asleep then.”

“Uh? Wake me up then?” You retorted. “Dumbass.”

“Aren’t you gettin’ all relaxed with the language?” He snickered, rubbing his thumb to your thigh in such a way that you nearly purred. “I’ve never heard you drop so many swears. Should I call your mom?”

“Hey—I’ve had an awful day—I can drop all the swears I want.”

“M’kay, fair.”

Your eyes stilled on the empty fish tank that caught your curiosity when you first visited. It seemed like it had been sitting on the shelf for months. The glass was cloudy, uncleaned, with some tubes left curled up against the bottom. If it never belonged to Vernon, you couldn’t help but wonder who. Maybe the presumed sister shown in the photo frame on his nightstand. The tank was large, likely fitting a decent number of fish. It must have required a notable deal of commitment and responsibility. Vernon hadn’t spared much information when you originally asked him, though you were tempted to ask again, even if it got you nowhere.

“If the tank isn’t yours, then whose is it?”

He chuckled. “Why?”

“I don’t know. Is it a secret?”

“Not… exactly…” Vernon answered, sounding hesitant. “It just belonged to someone who was really important to me, y’know?”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Nah, it’s fine.” He breathed out for a moment, and you could feel the shallowing of his broad chest underneath your hand. There was a subtle increase in his heartbeat, each thud gentle but quickened. “I’ll show you something, actually,” Vernon said. “But you gotta move.”

You smiled, shuffling away from his heat. “Sure.”

Vernon got up from the futon. He turned on a light belonging to a ceiling fan above his bed, then approached one of the drawers on his dresser and started rifling around through its unorganized contents.

Oh my gosh, it’s happening! It’s happening! You were shrieking inside your head, jumping up and down like you’d just won an insane lottery.

He’s actually going to show me something personal!

He trusts me! He’s opening up!

As he sunk back into the futon, you noticed that Vernon had a few photographs in his hand. They looked like polaroid images based on the fuzziness and white-cast. You straightened up, practically vibrating with anticipation, while he arranged them a certain way.

“So, for context’s sake: this dude was my best friend for years. I met him when I was sixteen. He was nineteen, at the time. You could call it a double-edged knife—” (sword, you thought), “—but he showed me everything I know. When it felt like no one else gave a fuck about me, if I lived or died, he was, like, the hand on my shoulder, y’know?” At last, he gave you one of the glossy polaroid images. It was taken on a concrete staircase belonging to an aged-looking brick house. Vernon was on the right, dressed in his thick bomber jacket and throwing up a peace sign. The young man beside him wore a dark green windbreaker. His complexion was much tanner than Vernon’s, his rusty hair slicked back and a cigarette loosely hanging from the corner of his mouth. You stared at the stranger intently, bringing the photograph closer to your face. Vernon sighed. “That’s him.”

“What’s his name?” You wondered.

“Everyone called him Dots.”

“A nickname?”

“Yeah,” Vernon said, nodding. “It’s hard to tell in that picture, but his cheeks, across his nose, was all covered in freckles. Y’know, dots.” He began to laugh as his eyes roamed the other image in his hand. “Girls fuckin’ loved that. It was the first thing they’d compliment—your freckles are so pretty—and he was always so polite. But his real name was Paulo—the other guy that Minghao asked you about.”

Vernon passed you another fuzzy polaroid, though he didn’t feature in the shot this time. His friend occupied the image, likely taken at a house party judging from the bedazzled strangers frozen in time behind him. He was wearing glittery New Year’s Eve glasses shaped just like the number, a red solo cup in one hand, a smoking cigar packed with herb in the other. There was something so irritatingly familiar about Vernon’s friend. It was akin to an itch you just couldn’t scratch, no matter how hard you stretched.

“Yeah…” Vernon hummed, “he was a sweet guy. Pretty mellow, actually. Not that into parties, clubs. He had a lot of interests, too. That fish tank was one of ‘em. He kept all kinds of shit in there. Snails, little shrimps, all these fishies whose names I can’t fuckin’ remember. He liked to read books a lot. He even showed me how to press flowers one time when we got bored in the summer—no clue where the fuck he learned how to do that—he just kinda knew stuff.”

You laughed. “Probably from all his books.”

Vernon nodded. “Good point.”

“So… he does what you do?”

“Kinda. When I first met him, he was just a dealer. But he knew all the right people. And he was super charismatic. So it was easy for him the climb the ranks and get the right promotions. Instead of pullin’ the shots, he was callin’ them, y’know?” Vernon let the last photograph slip into your hand, which you brought close to your inspection. “He was more of a distributor. He got people to move product. I did that for him. At one point I wanted to be more, but he told me it wasn’t worth it. Low profile is better in the long run. Especially if you want to get out. Makes it way easier.”

It wasn’t a polaroid image.

The detail was much crisper, with a full spectrum of vivid colour. You recognized the Camry. The two boys were sitting atop its hood, rough sneakers on the silver bumper (then, without a spot of rust), elbows weighted against their knees. Vernon was in his cherished bomber while his friend wore a jacket, green-checkered fleece. Without the polaroid glare, you could see all the details of his freckled face, from the big, dark brown eyes to the piercing in his dimple.

You knew him.

You had seen him before.

“That shitty car I drive,” he snorted, “that used to be his. But he sold it to me for a cheap buck. I always wondered why. That car went everywhere he went. Sentimental type shit. I was honoured, though.”

“Vernon.”

“Yeah?”

Looking at him, your eyes widened. “I met your friend, Dots.”

His forehead was quick to wrinkle. “Really? No bullshit?”

You cast through the photos again, your certainty only becoming stronger, the memories crawling out from the deepest recesses of your mind like the dead unearthing from tombs. “He came to Mr. York’s, I think over a year ago,” you started explaining. “I was newer, having a super hard night… I thought he was gonna be another customer to shove me around but he was sweet. He even… drove me home.” The memory was uncompletely unthawed. Everything rushed back to you: missing the bus, chasing after him down the dewy street, getting into the car, feeling nervous but relieved. There was a softness about him that you had never experienced from anyone else, a certain trustworthiness that sat so right in your gut. “I remembered asking for his name, too. He didn’t tell me.”

“Shit—he drove you home?” Vernon was astonished, immediately pressing for more information. “When was this again?”

“Over a year ago. Not this recent fall, but the one before it.”

“At… where?”

“Mr. York’s,” you laughed. “Where I work, as a server.”

“Oh, fuck. Right.”

“I never saw him again,” you admitted, suddenly becoming overwhelmed with forlorn. How funny that one encounter with a complete stranger could evoke such powerful yearning, as though he had been a dear friend, someone like Diana. You supposed it was the unexplored possibility of everything ahead, a road never taken, a bridge never crossed. Lives skimming by but never blending.

“That’s crazy as fuck,” Vernon rasped, dragging a hand through his loose, shiny hair, grinning formidably bright. “You and Dotsy, huh?”

“Wow—you have a nickname for his nickname?”

“Of course.” His hands fell back into his lap. Vernon started prodding at the cuticle of his thumb. “It makes sense, though.”

You looked between the photographs again. “What makes sense?”

“Why he drove you home.” Vernon sunk lower into the futon, spreading out his legs and folding his arms, running the tip of his tongue along his teeth. “He liked shy, awkward, weird girls like you."

“Gee,” you coughed. “Thanks, I guess.”

He grabbed your knee and shook it. “It’s a good thing. I think people like that feel the sincerest, right? It’s not an act. That’s just how they are. They can’t help it.”

You pursed your lip, appreciating the nuance of the idea, and the comfort it harboured. “Maybe… I never thought about it like that.” At last, you set the three photographs onto the coffee table, leaving the particular polaroid of the two boys relaxed against the concrete stoop on top, and joined Vernon in leaning back into the futon. Rubbing your lips, you thought for a moment. “Are you guys still friends?”

Vernon tilted his head at you, laughed heartily. “He’s dead.”

“O-Oh…” you stuttered, frowning. “I’m so sorry.”

But he casually dismissed your sympathy. “No need to apologize.”

“That’s really upsetting,” you sighed, grabbing onto your ankles. “I would have loved to know him better. I mean, he seemed so kind.”

“He was. He did his job well, but he never should have been there. I’m sure you two would have got on well. I mean, already seemed like it.”

Your smile beamed at him, like a gleaming rainbow.

Fiddling with the collar of your sock, you wavered on whether or not to ask about the gloomy specifics. The smile began to drift from your countenance, replaced by teeth nervously chewing your lip. “Am I allowed to ask how he passed? You don't have to tell me.”

“Overdose,” Vernon answered. “Gruesome stuff.”

He didn’t mention if it was accidental or not.

Either way, you sensed the distant hurt underneath his firm tone.

Picking up the photographs, Vernon took them to the privacy of his dresser, setting them down into the cabinet space with gentleness, as though he were handling a delicate flower bouquet. “Talk later, Dotsy,” he lilted before shutting the drawer. “Miss you every day.”

You were woken up much earlier than preferred by the daylight glaring in through the windows. At first, you assumed you were in your own bedroom, where you almost always kept the curtains shut because your view was a parking lot. Hence your confusion to pull the covers off your face and realize there was a ceiling fan directly above you, in addition to a series of posters against the wall that definitely weren’t yours. Shuffling to sit upright, you saw Vernon sprawled across the futon with a grey blanket half-pooled onto the floor, exactly where you had left him the night before.

He was holding a phone above his face, thumbs tapping away, rogue bits of hair sticking straight up. It was unbelievably strange to awaken in a bed that wasn’t yours. At least it was a Sunday.

You had nowhere to be.

Rubbing the bleariness from your eyes, you yawned. “Morning.”

Vernon poked his head up. “Oh—you’re awake. Sleep alright?”

While adjusting the blankets in your lap, you nodded, glancing around the apartment and noticing how subtly the morning light impacted its appearance. Everything felt cooler, softer. “Yeah… I think I conked right out, to be honest.” You grabbed your phone, making a quick pitstop of your messages. The notification to Lee’s had disappeared. Ruby had texted you a few times around midnight. “Have you been up long?”

He shrugged, guesstimating. “Uh, maybe an hour?”

“I can’t believe you’re an early-riser. It doesn’t fit you at all.”

“Why?” The boy snickered, continuing to dawdle on his phone, throwing his leg over the back of the futon. “You think I’m lazy? That us drug dealers just mooch around all day, stoned and fuckin’ brainless?”

“Well, you don’t have the best portrayals through media.”

Finally, he slapped his phone down. “I’m glad I can be a little science experiment to you. Contact with the specimen is critical, huh?”

Your eyes rolled, and you reached for the water glass that Vernon left you atop his nightstand, taking a brief gulp. Most of his glasses were dusty, but the water tasted pure. “I wonder if the specimen will prove his productive nature by making breakfast? Science has to know.”

Vernon pushed himself to sit up, tossing the blanket off his legs.

He ruffled a hand through his fuzzy bedhead, attempting to calm the hectic tangles but somehow only making them worse. “Is that your fancy-smancy way of askin’ me to make you a meal? You’re a demandin’ scientist.”

“Science is always demanding. It’s serious stuff.”

Grinning, you watched Vernon lethargically drag himself over to the kitchenette, pulling out a frying pan from one of the cabinets that he clanged onto the stove. He made you a grilled cheese, paired with orange juice and a vanilla yogurt that you double-checked the expiry date on, the ensemble served to you in bed, with a dramatic bow from Vernon and the flap of the kitchen towel landing over his shoulder. “There you go, Miss. Is it to your utmost liking?” He asked in a quaint, smooth British accent, attempting to mimic a natural poshness.

“It is,” you answered. “Your productivity has been noted.”

Vernon didn’t at all rush you through breakfast, though you suspected he had somewhere to be judging from the change of clothes and quick self-pampering in the washroom. He plopped himself back down on the futon after fixing his whirlwind hair and brushing his teeth. “Mintiness is next to godliness or whatever the fuck,” he had said, sticking a Listerine strip on his tongue.

He drove you home about an hour later.

It was the worst car ride of your life—not that it was actually terrible in any sense—but chiefly because it meant your night with him was over, long gone, flicked away to the ephemeral past. He had been so supportive, so reassuring, so polite, more than you could have expected. You never would have thought those qualities of Vernon when you first met him back in the fall, though time and trust had eased you two closer, and in the process, your understanding became enriched. He was stubbornly himself in ways that others could never grasp or accept, not that it mattered to him.

The good, the bad—it wasn’t separate—but an interwoven whole.

As the car stalled outside the curb to your apartment, you gave the boy an earnest, appreciative smile. “Thank you, Vernon. Seriously.”

“All good.” He shrugged. “Talk later, PJ’s.”

Your heart was heavy, watching him pull away, disappear into whatever venture awaited him next. It felt like your connection was a thread that tied you two together, and whenever he left, the thread was unraveling, being pulled, aching at the strain of your accumulating distance.

Entering the apartment, you jammed to a holt upon noticing Ruby sat on the sofa, arms folded crossly. She was clad in a hot pink bathrobe and her sleek-furred designer slippers, wet hair pulled into a bun, bright white cream smeared underneath her eyes.

She bobbed her ankle up and down.

You smiled at her, sheepish. “Heyyy…”

“Don’t ‘heyyy’ me,” the girl snapped, regurgitating your awkward tone of voice. “My phone has exploded with text messages from Lee, saying how badly he needs to apologize to you—apologize for what—I have no fucking clue! Because you left me out to dry! I’ve been worried sick! And then I realized you’re not even home, you’re sleeping over at Vernon’s?!” She gestured at you, babbling on. “Dressed in your pyjamas?! I mean, walk of shame, much? Please, please, please tell me you didn’t—”

“No,” you laughed, pulling off your lazily-adorned coat and throwing it on the rack, “we did not have sex. All I did was sleep over.”

Ruby furrowed her faint brow, eyes boring into you with the strength of flying knives. Giggling, you dragged your knapsack over to the sofa, plopping down beside her and settling your hand over top hers, which was splayed on her knee. It actually felt nice to get scolded by Ruby, to defrost her mellowness and sense the depth of her care.

She proceeded to dramatically whip her hand away. “I want to be even meaner, but considering I don’t know what happened… I’m dialing back much of the meanness…” sighing, Ruby softened her gaze. “What the hell happened? Lee’s texts have been worrying me to death.”

You hated having to rehash the ugly details. Once already felt like enough, but the second time was just unabashedly painful. Guilt was scribbled all over Ruby’s face, and while it was impossible to blame her, you knew she was deeply upset about being the one to introduce you and Lee. He was her friend, too. Someone she trusted and regarded highly enough to suggest a relationship with her roommate. But you were adamant that she shouldn’t criticize herself so undeservingly, and after the exchanges of comfort between you, the girl was furious, stomping around the living room.

“I should call his mother!”

“I should throw a bucket of molasses over his windshield!”

“I should superglue his law textbook shut!”

You decided it was best to let her vent.

Until Ruby finally came to a pause, dropped open her mouth, and looked at you quizzically. “Wait—you told this to Vernon, too, right? What was his reaction? What did he say?”

“He was a sweetheart. Really nice about everything.”

Ruby jutted out her hip, readjusting the straps to her flashy bathrobe before slicking her hands against her damp hair. “You don’t say?”

“Yeah, I wasn’t expecting it either.”

“Where did he go, after he dropped you off?”

You shrugged, settling back against the sofa. “I’m not sure. I assume he has, y’know, drug dealy stuff to do. He didn’t linger, just took off.”

“Oh,” Ruby said with a breathy, faltering smile. “Okay, well, I’m going to, uh, get dressed. We can do whatever you want afterward!’ She scrambled to grab her charm-decorated phone off the coffee table, slippers scuffing fast across the floor as she burst into her bedroom.

Weird. 

Holding your breath, you listened intently to the silence.

But then you heard your roommate’s voice echoing at low from her room, and you knew she was on the phone. Using your tiptoes, you pranced over to Ruby’s door, ever so subtly pressing your ear against the crack. Yes, you were being a gigantic sleuthing snoop, but something about it felt warranted.

“Vernon, just listen to me, this isn’t going to help—okay, yes! It’s going to help you feel better, but what about her? You never think things through… I understand what happened, she just told me… he is a piece of shit! I agree with you, but—I care about her, too! You don’t think I want to dent Lee’s face in for how he made her feel? … Please, please, please, for the love of God, you already get into enough trouble! Don’t add another freaking battery charge to your already insane resume of illegal activity! You seriously won’t get out of prison, you idiot! … Yes… Yes, I get it… I know how much you care for her… thank the fucking holy fucking ghost. You made the right choice, okay? I know it.”

Hearing Ruby hang up the call, you sped away from her door and settled back onto the couch, fingers twiddling anxiously in your lap.

Was Vernon going to do something to Lee?

You couldn’t be sure about the situation without admitting you had eavesdropped on Ruby. When she came out from her bedroom, you reminded her she still had cream under her eyes. She started rubbing it in, sighing aloud, like she had just adverted an assassination attempt. You weren’t sure what to think, what to feel, just that you couldn’t shake Vernon from your mind for the rest of the day, no matter what you did.

“Honey Buns, wow, I haven’t had these in a lifetime.”

“Doesn’t that technically mean you’ve never had it?”

Soonyoung’s voice sounded from over your shoulder, followed by the rustling of plastic. “Dunno—they’re good, though.”

You were helping him stock some of the snacks. It was opening and the morning crowd would start trickling in soon. While Soonyoung worked on more of the individually packaged foods, you were refilling the candy bars. The Twix and KitKats were almost completely empty.

“Anyway,” Soonyoung mumbled, “back to my story…”

Since he was stocking the aisle behind yours, you could freely roll your eyes without worrying about being rude, unlike Soonyoung, who would roll his eyes straight to your face. But you always listened to the babblings of his weekend antics because he always listened to your incessant qualms about the universe and your issues—it was only fair. Half the time you tuned him out, anyway. It was typically the same stuff: getting drunk or high, stirring up trouble, running into a handsome guy, and then they’d end up having sex some place unorthodox, like a porta-potty, or a toolshed.

You tore open another box of chocolate bars.

“… and I was, like, starting to get nervous, ‘cause I promised everyone I would get them tablets, but my plug wasn’t answering. So, I had to, like, keep assuring them and shit, right? I’ve had this specific acid tablet before so I knew it was good, but the thing is, I can only get them from this mysterious Chinese dude who kinda looks like a punk rock vampire. That’s beside the point, though. Anyway, at the last second, he comes through—”

“Wait,” you interrupted, turning around and brushing the boy’s shoulder to get his attention. “Are the tablets from Minghao?”

Soonyoung stopped stocking his Honey Buns. He looked at you, sun-bleached eyebrows strung high up his forehead. “You know Minghao?”

“Uh, not really… but I’ve been trying to, uh… it’s complicated…”

You couldn’t believe it! So, maybe it wasn’t Darian that told Minghao about you and Vernon, maybe it was Soonyoung all along. He did have a pretty big mouth… you wouldn’t be surprised if he let something stupid fly off the cuff. It somehow made too much sense.

Even though you wanted to holler, you tried to stay relaxed.

He adjusted his backwards cap. “Shit, you’re trying to buy?”

“No,” you assured, shaking your head. “Not at all. But, uh, did you know he was the one who was spray painting the building? Those octopuses? Octopi? Whatever.”

He scratched behind his neck, adverting eye contact. “Maybe…”

You gasped, “and you didn’t tell me you figured it out?!”

“Okay, okay, okay, before you have a cow, I didn’t say anything because I handled the situation and I just wanted it to be behind us. Once I realized it was him, I just slipped the dude some extra cash so he’d stop with the doodles. And—would you look at that—he stopped!” Soonyoung defended.

This time, you rolled your eyes to his face. “I can’t believe this.”

“I solved the problem, alright?”

“Those doodles had my arms limp and lifeless. I had to work cash hardly being able to lift a damn thing! Do you know how dehumanizing it was to ask men to tilt their beer to the side so I could scan it? I’ve never been called sweetheart, cupcake, and honey more in my entire life!”

“Well, I apologize,” Soonyoung tutted. “But it’s in the past.”

You huffed, turning back around to continue cramming chocolate bars onto the shelf, chewing your inner cheek. But you didn’t get very far in the task. “So, you’re familiar with him? Where does he stay?”

“Fuck if I know,” Soonyoung scoffed, bending down to grab another box and bumping you. “I just meet the dude in random ass places.”

“Does he ever mention anything specific?”

“Like what?” He groaned.

“I don’t know, like, clues to where he might live?”

“Why do you wanna know?” Soonyoung retaliated, laughing as he tore open the box in his hands. “Gonna get him back? Pull a prank on him? Finger-paint all over his windows?”

“No,” you grumbled, pausing to think of a reason. “It’s for… Ruby. She’s interested.” Oops, sorry Ruby, you winced. “They hit it off at the club. Minghao gave her an address on a slip of paper, but she can’t read his handwriting. She has no trail. It’s a real crisis.”

Soonyoung paused. “Really? Why aren’t you mad at her?”

“She genuinely didn’t know, nor did she pretend she never met him!”

He sighed, utterly drained. “Jeez.”

“Yeah. She’s super upset about it.”

“I thought Minghao had a girlfriend.”

“My guess is that they’re broken up,” you attempted to answer quickly, before he could think too hard, unaware of what Soonyoung actually knew about Minghao. “She flew back to China, apparently…”

“Damn… well…” he shoved more packaged sweets onto the shelf, taking a moment before speaking again. You dared not speak. Once Soonyoung lost a thought, it might never return. “One time, he mentioned a trailer.”

“A trailer?”

“Yeah… after we finished our deal last weekend, he told me he needed to get back to his trailer. That’s about it. That’s all I’ve got.”

“Like, a trailer park?”

“Maybe.”

Okay, it wasn’t the best lead, but it wasn’t the worst. You could work with that, even if it was ambiguous. It was definitely more than what you and Vernon had been able to scrounge up the week before. Upon organizing the last few chocolate bars onto the shelf, you heard the tinkling bell above the front door ring out.

“I better get to cash,” you said, ultimately satisfied with your play.

One socked foot was pulled onto the edge of the bench.

You left your elbow propped onto your knee, helping to secure the phone before your face as you scrolled through a citywide map. It was closing time at Mr. York’s, and since you were responsibly finished with all your cleaning duties, you were supposed to be getting ready to leave for the night.

Lara slipped into the locker area, standing behind you. As she fiddled with the combination, she mumbled, “what are you searching?”

You sighed in frustration. “Nothing, at this point.”

She took out her purse and a pair of tall, luxury winter boots from her locker. Realizing the bench was strewn messily in your coat and tote bag, you moved the items aside so she could sit next to you.

“Tonight genuinely sucked,” Lara complained, tugging off her work shoes one by one, letting them bounce rubbery against the tiles. “That fancy business lady—she makes me want to put a shotgun in my mouth.” She then began massaging her feet, blowing a tuft of long hair from her face. “The way she orders me around, makes all these cunty, unnecessary comments…”

“Oh, I know,” you chided, setting your phone aside. “And then the entire group stands out front, smoking, blocking everyone’s way.”

Shoving her foot into one of the black boots, Lara nodded. “I hate the fact she’s becoming a regular...” Lara tugged up the zipper and grabbed the other boot, rubbing some dirt off the white-fur detailing. “You think if I gave Costello a handie, he’d slip, like, a laxative in her food in return? Or something that makes her fade away?”

You giggled, returning to putting on your own boots that you had left scattered on the ground. “He’s really into you. I think it might work.”

Lara shrugged, reaching behind her to snatch a pretty coat out from her locker. “A little too into me. That business lady sucks but at least she gave me a decent tip for once. Costello is useless apart from having good timing on the meat section.” After buttoning up her chic coat, Lara flipped the shimmery strands of her dark brown hair from underneath the collar, sighing. “I’m getting damn sick of men. And women. I am a terrible person.”

“Can’t you stick it out until we can confirm the laxative thing?”

She pitted a very unsatisfactory glance in your direction.

“Only kidding,” you teased.

Lara stood up, grabbing her purse. “Do you need a ride home? Tars is warming up the car. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind an extra person.”

“Sure,” you smiled. “Thanks for asking.”

As you gathered together the rest of your things and shut your locker, Lara picked up your forgotten phone, her eyes narrowing in inspection at the map you had pulled up. “Seriously? What’s this for?”

You grabbed the phone back, stuffing it in your pocket, still disappointed at the sparse results. Lara had to pull you in the direction of the back door when you automatically veered for the front entrance. The parking lot was behind the restaurant.

You were used to the bus.

“I’ve been trying to find trailer parks that are close by.”

She chuckled while shouldering open the door. “Jeez—is the pay here really that damn bad? Don’t you work two jobs?”

“No!” You laughed, following Lara across the empty lot. “It’s for another reason that’s hard to explain. But I’m not having much luck.”

Lara opened the passenger door of Tara’s car, bending down to greet her friend before gesturing to you, standing awkwardly behind her, arms folded to help protect yourself against the biting wind.

You could hardly hear what the two girls were saying—Tara was blasting electronic pop music while taking off her lipstick with a makeup wipe—and you could only hope that maybe she would turn the volume down a tad. Vernon played his music quite loudly, too. Sometimes he would compromise, sometimes not. It depended on how much he liked the artist.

“Hop in,” Lara then said. “She’s fine with it.”

You smiled, pulling open the back door and sliding in behind Lara. It smelled so strongly of her perfume that you nearly coughed.

“Hey, gorgeous!” Tara shouted over the music. “Apologies—the backseat it a little messy—you can just push all those magazines over!”

“Oh, no problem!” You shouted. “Thanks for the ride!”

“What was that?!”

You set your tote bag beside you, swallowing tightly as the music vibrated through the car’s speaker system. “I said thank you for—"

Suddenly, everything went dead silent.

“Gosh, Tars,” Lara grumbled, wriggling out from her coat. “You don’t need it that fucking loud. The concert was five months ago. And there’s a guest in your car. I think she appreciates having intact ear drums.”

You giggled breathily, nervous. “It was a little loud.”

“Don’t sugar coat it,” Lara groaned.  “She needs an intervention.”

“Okay, whatever!” Tara yelled, loosening her scarf and pulling out her phone. “I get the point. Where do you live? For the GPS?”

“2269 Roxbury.”

“Perfect—we’ll drop you off first.”

“Oh, by the way,” Lara began, glancing at you through the rear-view mirror, “I’ve seen a few trailers, but it wasn’t necessarily a park.”

You brightened up. “Really?”

She nodded. “Right before it got super cold, my friends and I meshed with this other random group at a bar. We ended up going to a scrap yard, I think it’s called. There were old cars and motorcycles everywhere. A few trailers, too. Anyway, stuff was definitely getting passed around. I tried this LSD gummy and then got on a rusty bike. Got a super nasty cut on my leg. Had to go to the doctor and everything.”

“Oh,” Tara hummed, focused on the road. “I remember that. I had to come pick you up! That cut was awful! You’re lucky you had your shots!”

“Where was it, do you remember?” You pressed for information.

“I remember,” Tara sighed. “It’s along Kichesippi Woods. It’s a big scrap yard that doesn’t really get used any more. If you’re wondering about the trailers, I think there were three. People definitely lived in them. I guess they're used to people sneaking around.”

You were already making notes in your phone, excited to share the news with Vernon later on. “That’s amazing! Thank you both!”

Tara poised a polite expression. “Why are you so curious?”

“It’s a secret,” Lara answered in your place.

You shrugged, smirking ever so slightly. “Something like that.”

Vernon was staying the night at your apartment. He made himself comfortable on the couch, already prepared with an extra pillow and a pink blanket (he usually preferred Ruby’s black blanket that came with a special heating remote, but you thought the fairy pink was much better), in addition to slapping on his casual clothes—grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt—which truly wasn’t that different from his everyday attire. You were anticipating having him over, considering the fact you had been sitting on some very pertinent information all week. While waiting for your tea to finish steeping, you and Vernon were chatting up random topics.

Ruby wouldn’t be home until later.

Vernon had rolled himself a blunt. You never liked the astringent smokiness of the smell, how it stuck to everything, but after enough rendezvous with Vernon, you were unfortunately used to it. Ruby was into weed as well. She always puffed out her bedroom window.

“I’m actually so excited to tell you what I figured out!” You exclaimed, unable to stop fidgeting in your seat on the couch.

He eyed you up and down. “I can see that.”

“No, like, I’m really proud of myself.”

“Congratulations.”

It felt like being a child the night before the big birthday party, knowing your parents got you a specific gift, being ecstatic to rip it open, having an ear-to-ear grin plastered on your face akin to a mask.

Vernon exhaled a cloud of billowing, smooth smoke. He made everything look so effortless. You were a coughing, spluttering mess the last time you tried a basic joint, rolled courteously by your high school best friend. To be honest, you just never had much interest in it. Although you were probably smoking cheap, dull strains.

“When can I know the news?” He asked, keeping the blunt secured between his fingers as his hand fell upon his lap. “Why the big wait?”

“My tea,” you answered. “It has to finish steeping.”

The boy groaned, rolling his head against the sofa, frustrated at the delayed gratification. You looked along the column of his throat, noted the skin's bareness, without dark purplish-brown bruises pressed like flowers. There hadn’t been any marks for a few weeks. At least none you had noticed or seen—not that you were keeping track.

“Who cares?” Vernon grunted.

“I care!” You smacked his thigh with an embroidered pillow, a gift from Ruby’s seamstress mother. “Don’t be so impatient.”

“Is your special tea the equivalent of this?” Vernon inquired, holding the blunt up to his lips. The next time he spoke, the thin smoke crawled out from his mouth, as though he was a fire-breathing dragon. “Then I could understand. You gotta ride the wave.”

“Sure, it’s exactly like that. It’s probably done, actually.” Getting up from the couch, you checked the tea that you left steaming on the counter, stirring the bag around a few more times for good measure before plopping it in the trash. Once you rejoined Vernon in the living room, you snuggled against your end of the sofa, legs stretched out and daring to poke into his space. “Okay, are you ready?”

He shrugged. “Floor’s all yours.”

“Can I please have some more excitement?”

Vernon sighed. He tucked the blunt behind his ear and cleared his throat. Then, the boy was leaning over you, grabbing your shoulders and rattling them. “Oh, please, please, please won’t you tell me your awesome secret!” He fake-pleaded, squinching his eyes shut. “I’ll genuinely kill myself if I don’t get to know!”

Giggling, you pulled up your foot and lightly shoved it against the edge of his ribs, prodding him to sit back down. “That’s much better, although it didn't seem very sincere. Anyway, okay I'll tell you. Whew, this is really good. Okay, okay... I know where Minghao is!”

“Do you?” Vernon engaged, entertaining himself with another intake of smoke. “And where would that be? Burlington Coat Factory?”

“There’s a scrap yard along Kichesippi Woods,” you explained, tightly gripping your tea. “He lives in one of the trailers there. I’m positive.”

“Kichesippi Woods? Didn’t a guy get murdered there last year?”

You leaned forward, willfully ignoring him. “And guess how I figured it out? Through my savvy investigation skills! It was Soonyoung! He gets tablets from Minghao. I figured he was the one who blabbed about us, knowing his big mouth and all, so that’s how Minghao knew I was familiar with you. Apparently, Minghao mentioned getting back to a trailer, so, naturally, I think—” you paused, blowing on your tea and taking a shallow sip to test its flavours before continuing, “—I think he lives in a trailer park, but there’s hardly any around the city.

So, I’m working a closing shift at Mr. York’s a few days later, and I get a major scoop from Tara and Lara. Lara went to a scrap yard with this big group of people to do drugs or get drunk or steal a rusty bicycle or something—I don’t really know—and she tells me she noticed trailers there. Tara backed her up. One has to be Minghao’s! The yard’s along Kichesippi Woods!”

Vernon was squinting at you, his eyes slim and red. You assumed it was a boatload of information to absorb at once, and you hadn’t exactly held his hand and waltzed through everything at a gentle pace. But you had collected all the evidence—even a location!

The boy nodded. “That’s good news, for sure.”

Letting the tea sit between your legs, you clapped at him. “Who’s pulling the weight now, huh? I did all that handiwork myself!”

“Handiwork?” Vernon scoffed, itching his studded eyebrow. “You have destiny on your side. Everyone you fuckin’ breathe around is tangled up in this bullshit, somehow. Not that I’m complainin’.”

You fell back against the arm of the couch, pouting. “Why can’t you let me win? Did I still not do a good job? Did I not help us out?”

“No, 'course you did a good job,” he assured you. “And you helped us a lot. You’re right. I should celebrate your wins more.”

Feeling the hot tea begin to burn your inner thighs, you picked it back up and nodded at him in satisfaction. “That’s what I like to hear.”

“I’m sure.”

“So, when should we check it out? Tomorrow?”

Vernon shook his head, fixing his tattooed arm around the back of the couch. “Can’t,” he muttered, “I’ve got business.”

“Ugh, you’re so boo.” You frowned, slipping down the sofa. Holding the tea against your stomach, feeling a circle of heat sink through your shirt, you began nibbling your lip, different ideas forming bubbles in your mind as you examined the ceiling. “Maybe I can—”

“Forget it,” he chuckled. “You’re not goin’ by yourself,”

“I wasn’t thinking that,” you corrected him. “The only thing I wanna do is check it out. I can’t help being curious. Maybe Tara would—”

“You don’t go if I don’t go,” Vernon stated, shrugging a shoulder.

Lifting your head to rest against the sofa, you scowled at him. “I don’t think that choice falls into your authority. I can do what I want.”

“Oh, can you?” He goaded, raising an eyebrow. “What a big girl.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” Vernon said. “I don’t want you there without me. Minghao’s snakey. I know how to deal with him.”

You sighed in capitulation, wriggling your toes. “Fine.”

He gave you a stern but entreating glance. “Promise?”

Sitting up, you set the tea onto the coffee table. “I promise.”

Vernon held out his pinky finger.

You wrapped yours around his and shook on it.

Curling your legs underneath you, playing with a thread of the pink blanket now pulled onto your lap, you began to smile. “I can't help but find it weird when things actually go my way."

He chuckled. “It only feels weird ‘cause you think the world’s against you. But it’s not.” Vernon exhaled another wispy cloud. “It’s just the world. Plus, you’re high-strained enough to start up a car battery.”

“I am not!”

The boy tossed his eyes in a circle. “Your delusion charms me.”

“Actually, I think I’ve calmed down a lot…” you hummed, winding the thread around your finger. “Compared to when we first met.”

Vernon nodded. “Maybe.”

“You don't believe me? That I've mellowed out?”

“Somehow, I think it's the opposite. You talk a fuckin' lot.”

“I do? All my report cards said I was too quiet.”

“Maybe I just bring it outta you, huh?” He chuckled, letting the blunt nestle between his lips. The papery tip singed its orange glow as he puffed, more smoke drifting throughout the living room. You noticed the burnt odor lingering for longer than usual, though you weren’t particularly concerned. Maybe you were half-high. “Spike?” He was suddenly holding out the blunt, thick in his fingers and packed with an earthly, musty smell, and your heart restricted, frozen at the offer.

“Uh…” you swallowed, a deep fire rising from the base of your throat that made the words difficult to pronounce. “I’m not sure if…”

He moved it away before you could decide, drew in more smoke that soon streamed out his nose and rolled from between his lips like a waterfall of weightless clouds. “I knew your ass wouldn’t do shit.”

“Because you pressured me!”

He almost choked on his own splitting cackle. “Fuckin—how?! All I did was hold the damn thing out in front of you! You fuckin’ weirdo!”

“You set up a pretense for me to be pressured!”

“No—that was you,” Vernon chuckled. “Nice fuckin’ try.”

Grumbling, you stayed hunched over the blanket, continuing to play with the baby pink thread by feeding it between your fingers.

“Unless,” Vernon sang, “you actually did want a spike?”

You glanced up at him, eyebrows knitted together.

He nodded his head. “I don’t care if you do, PJ’s.”

Sighing, you reached out, though you paused midway, your fingers twitching in the air. No—you couldn’t. There was too much unspoken tension with him watching you. What if you started hacking up a lung like back in your high school days? You were never good at holding the breath in—the part that was crucial to feeling the high—without your eyes sprouting tears from the heated dryness.

Then, shaking your head, you refused. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

“It’s been too long…” you worried, forgetting the thread and lying back against the arm of the sofa. “I’m gonna look dumb, or something.”

He shrugged. “Who cares? It’s just me.”

“And you’ll make fun of me.”

“Well, I won’t mean it.” He smirked, giving you another moment to twiddle your thumbs and think. Suddenly, Vernon grabbed your knee and squeezed it. “I won’t say a damn thing, okay? I promise.”

“No.”

“Yes, c’mere,” he encouraged. His textured fingertips squeezed into the flesh of your arm, pulling you to sit back up despite all your grouchy, reluctant noises. “Swear I’ll be good.”

Staring him square in his pretty face, you shook your head.

“How ‘bout I make it easier, then?” Vernon suggested an unknown compromise, the dark hues of his golden eyes softening. “You trust me?”

At that moment, your skin thrummed with heat. You felt its pulse, travelling like a crashing ocean wave, and you couldn’t stop your gaze from narrowing as you traced the crests and contours of Vernon’s scheming expression. You coughed slightly. “What does that mean?”

He pursed his lip. “I’m askin’ if you trust me.”

You sniffled, nodded your head. “I do… but—”

“Close your eyes.”

“What? Why? What are you gonna do?” The nervousness of not knowing his intentions caused your mind to flitter like paper birds. You did trust him, but that didn’t exactly quell your timorousness with one easy sweep. “I-I just… you’re making me… nervous.”

“I know,” Vernon said, smiling. “I’m not gonna do anything you won’t like, yeah?” He brushed his fingers along your knee, and you took in a long, quivering breath. “Just keep relaxed. That’s it. And at any point, if you don’t want to, then stop me. Sound good?”

“Okay.” You nodded, your voice a squeak.

He put the blunt between his lips. Grabbing his lighter off the coffee table, you leaned back as he crisped the end with a few sparks, feeling the flame’s warmth ever so gently against your cheeks. Once Vernon was satisfied, he tossed the lighter and gave the blunt a quick, obligatory puff, making sure to politely blow the smoke away from your face. “Alright,” he sighed, “you ready, PJ’s?”

Gulping, the only thing you could do was nod, too afraid to use your voice again in case it embarrassingly cracked. Vernon reminded you to close your eyes. As soon as the room went dark, your heartbeat leapt tenfold.

You felt his hand touch your knee, attempting to soothe you with massaging circles. “Relax, okay?” He whispered. “You’ll like it.”

There was the faintest sound of a crackle as you heard the boy inhale, taking his time to let the smoke settle right. Then, you sensed his fingertips drift against your tingling cheek, curling behind your ear, and your nails scraped the fabric of your pyjama bottoms. He was holding the edge of your face, so close that your atmospheres seemed overlapping despite the sheer, unmoving blackness.

Softly, his nose bumped yours and you gasped. That’s when you felt the fantom breeze—his pierced lips delicately mouthing over your own—his fingers dancing to fasten your chin, the smoke crawling inside you, spilling against the back of your throat like a breath of prickly fog. The sensation was overwhelming. You didn’t know where it came from, but you mewled, wanting to chase Vernon’s touch like a swaying, golden reed. His hand skimmed down your waist, pulled along your thigh, and then the smoke had vanished.

Holy hell—you were going to pass out.

Everything around you felt fuzzy, dream-like.

There was so much heat inside you that it was no wonder your tissues and bones weren’t melting into each other, bubbling, fusing.

But then you realized what had happened. Your eyes flung open, and you scrambled backward until you were pressed against the arm of the sofa, gawking at the clever, smirking boy. “Why the hell would you do that?” You admonished.

Vernon relaxed back into his spot, arms crossed, blunt tucked behind his ear. “I wanted to,” he said. “Made you feel good, yeah?”

Yes, yes!  You had never felt anything so electric! Sparks had coursed the lengths of your sensitive skin like flying livewires. They were ticklish and molten and crackling with pleasure.

“No! It did not!”

He bit his lip, shrugged. “Fine, it didn’t.” But then he tilted his head at you. “Thanks for moanin’ into my mouth, by the way. That was hot.”

“Shut up!” You recoiled off the sofa. “No I freaking didn’t!”

“My word against yours, beautiful,” Vernon countered, winking.

“I can’t believe this!” You fretted, beginning to pace back and forth in front of the coffee table, fingernails running against your teeth. “Why on earth would you do that? I don’t understand! Are you trying to trick me?”

He spoke through a haze of smoke. “Trick you how?”

“By damn near kissing me!” You cried. “Why would you do that!”

Vernon didn’t seem as concerned. “You like me,” he stated.

“So?!” At that point, it didn’t even matter. He obviously knew. You were terrible at hiding it—big surprise—but you had gradually stopped caring about how obvious you were being because there had been the boundary of his feelings diverging from yours. You were safe in a world of fantasy. There was nothing else to worry about. He would never reciprocate. “That isn’t something you can do, Vernon! It doesn’t mean anything to you like it does to me!”

“Who said it didn’t mean anything to me?”

Your feet tripped on the shag carpet at the shock of his questioning and you slammed to an awkward, confused stop. He was still reclined against the sofa, hands tucked behind his head, one holding onto his blunt that produced a finite tail of smoke into the air.

“What?” You gasped. “And what the hell does that mean?”

He bit his lip ring, stared at you. “What do you think?”

“No,” you choked, shaking your head. “No, no, no, no!”

“No, what?” Vernon laughed, leaning forward and splaying out his hands. “Why is this suddenly such a bad thing? I can’t like you?”

You sat on the coffee table, squeezing your scalp in agony.

He moved closer to you, reaching his touch underneath your knee.

“It’s not the same…” you sniffled, wiping off your runny, wet nose.

Vernon shrugged, sweetly rubbing your leg. “How come?” He murmured, attentive to your overflowing sensitivity. “Explain it to me.”

You sighed, gulping in a breath. “It just isn’t. When you didn’t like me back, I could like you even more, as much as I wanted! Because I thought you would never like me! But if you’re being serious… then it changes things! It puts… realism… on the table… and there’s just no realism with us!” Tears beaded down your cheeks, but you wiped them away before Vernon could get his hand back to your face, before you could melt all over again. “I’ll want more, I’ll want a relationship. But you won’t because you’ll get bored in a relationship—that’s why you only have unattached sex! And you’re a freaking drug dealer! How am I supposed to introduce a drug dealer to my parents, o-or survive without worrying about you, or stay out of your business no matter how many times you tell me to. I won’t!”

“Jeez,” Vernon chuckled, his voice becoming hoarse from the potency of the Indica. “That was quite the speech.”

“But did you listen?!”

“Yes, yes, I listened.” Vernon put the blunt behind his ear, then eased your anxious buzzing by grabbing onto your shaky hands and surrounding them tightly with his warm, rough, calloused ones. “I listened, PJ’s. Alright? I think you have valid worries. But why do we have to focus on the uncertainty right now? Why can’t we just… I dunno… go where the wind takes us? Huh?”

Your shoulders sunk. “Do you really like me?”

The boy smiled, flashing a glimpse of his sharp teeth as a response.

“Well… I think you’re lying. We’re friends.”

No matter what he told you tonight, your mind was solidified. It was not going to accept that this boy was being truthful. It was not going to accept that your fantasy was threatening the bounds of real life.

Vernon shook his head, moved aside some sooty hairs tickling his eyes. “Y’know what? Sure. We’re friends. Let’s keep it simple, yeah? I’ll just think about you every wakin’ fuckin’ second of my goddamn day, and you’ll think about me, and we’ll just call it even. Right?”

 Nipping anxiously on your bottom lip, you nodded. “Right.”

Vernon took the blunt down from his ear. “Fuckin’ perfect.”

Once Ruby came home, she could clearly tell something was off between you, though she refrained from being vocal about it. You were certain she noted how distant you were from Vernon, not just metaphorically, but also physically, cramming yourself against the opposite end of the sofa like you were attached by hot-glue.

Most of your responses were minimal and squeaky. She sent you a text before bed, when you came out from the washroom and screamed at Vernon innocently waiting his turn.

WTF is going on???

You sent her a text back.

I’ll explain tmo… you won’t BELIEVE it…

7 MONTHS AGO.

The next morning, you decided to take Ruby out for breakfast to explain the situation. Vernon was gone by the time you awoke. Strangely, the pink blanket was folded nice and neat on the couch as opposed to the usual lump he would leave behind in his haste. You placed the blanket on the corner of your bed prior to heading out, giving it a long, confused stare.

Ruby loved Get Cracking. It was her favourite breakfast restaurant in the city. No matter your age, they left you pencil crayons and a colouring book to work on while awaiting your food. It made for a very interesting exposé as you shaded in the bejewelled crown atop your princess’s curly hair.

“No… I don’t even know how to start…” you sighed.

Your roommate was colouring a frog perched on a lilypad. “Just come straight out with it,” Ruby encouraged. “That’s the best way.”

“Well, I’ll set up some background first…” you murmured, replacing your bright yellow pencil with a deep purple one to colour in the crown’s amulets. “So, basically… Vernon almost freakin’ kissed me.”

Suddenly, there was a loud, harsh snap. Ruby had broken the lead to her blue pencil. “Uh—” she swallowed, hard, bulging her golden-green eyes at you like saucers “—so much for background information!”

“It gets worse!”

“Jesus. How?”

Collapsing your shoulders, taking a timid glance around the restaurant, you proceeded to lower your voice and whisper, “because, then he told me… he essentially told me that he liked me! I almost fainted!”

Ruby’s jaw dropped. She leaned forward, brow furrowed. “Are you freaking serious? Like, on your life? You’re being serious? He said that?”

You nodded gravely. “No, I’m being so serious. The seriousest.”

“Is that a word?”

“I don’t know! That’s how serious this is!”

She couldn’t produce even a sound. Instead, Ruby dropped her broken pencil and sunk back into the booth like she was just delivered the most devastating news, her tongue circling around her inner cheek. To be honest, you were still reeling from the moment. It consumed your mind without mercy for the entire night. You saw Vernon in your dreams. You touched him. You caressed him. You felt him in ways you couldn’t confess.

After a palatable silence, Ruby shifted from her stony, stiff position that made her seem almost corpse-like. She casted fingers through a silky red streak of her dark hair, puffing out from deep within her chest. “Damn…”

“That’s all you have to say?” You whined. “I need guidance!”

“Well—jeez—I need to process it!” Ruby defended.

“I thought that silence was you processing it!”

“No,” she laughed, shaking her head. “That was me talking myself down from buying ten Screwdrivers!”

Squeezing the pencil in between your fingers, you tried desperately not to let yourself spiral. After all, you were the master of spiralling. It wasn’t a hard thing to do, but it was terribly exhausting to come back down and grasp the extent of mental wreckage. Ruby was far better at composure, though she seemed most keen for a drink before you went any further.

You grabbed a pink pencil for the princess’s dress. “I don’t know… all I’m saying is that it’s confusing… if he’s being honest about it, then I don’t understand why he likes me. We’re so different in every aspect.”

Ruby sighed, grabbing her blue pencil and attempting to colour with it again, only to remember it was broken. She took another shade from the assorted cup, blowing some shavings off it. “I’m not gonna pretend to fully understand how the guy’s mind works…” she admitted, shrugging a shoulder. “Ever since I’ve known him, he’s never liked anybody romantically. He’s always been a free spirit, you know? Doesn't like to be tethered. I think the fact you are so different from him, so beyond what he’s used to… maybe it’s refreshing?”

Frowning, you pushed harder on the pencil, outlining the princess’s dress in a darker hue of hot pink. “Yeah, and then he’ll get totally bored of me. I’ll lose my refreshingness! I feel like I’m just a phase, you know?”

“I wish I could give you a clear answer.”

You wished for that, too.

But if someone were to plop a miraculous crystal ball into your hands and harness the undeniable truth, that would be too easy, and your life was certainly not founded on easiness. Sucking in your cheeks, you continued colouring, noting more streakiness through the thin paper as pressure flooded your hand and cramped your fingers.

“How did he try to kiss you?” Ruby asked.

You let the pencil roll away. “It was a tricky trick.”

“What kind of tricky trick?”

The memory remained sharp in your mind. Every little sensation, breath, gliding of fingers, nervous words—you could recreate it with clay and make a damn movie! Having to explain the situation to Ruby turned you hotter than the fresh plate of browned, buttery pancakes the waitress had just delivered to the table.

Ruby pulled the waitress’s attention. “Can I ask for one Screwdriver, if that’s okay? With a raspberry flavour shot?”

As you spilled the warmed, smooth syrup around in circles, you sighed aloud. “He had a blunt, and asked if I wanted a hit. I said I couldn’t because it had been too long since I last smoked—I didn’t wanna look like a gigantic fool—what if I started choking to death or something?” Setting the pitcher back down, grabbing hold of your utensils, you continued. “So, whatever, I let him take control of the situation. He asked me to close my eyes, right? Then… he gets close to me… he has his hand on my face and his lips are like, feathering over mine, and he’s blowing the smoke into my mouth!”

Ruby brought a hand to her face, gasping.

“The worst part…” you whispered, embarrassment fizzling up your chest as you leaned further toward your roommate, “I moaned!”

“You what?!” She shouted, beginning to cough. “You moan—”

Picking up a napkin, you shoved it against her loud mouth before the entire diner could hear your intimate, inappropriate details while in the midst of eating breakfast. She used the napkin to wipe some crumbs off her lips. “S-Sorry—” Ruby spluttered, “—I just—holy fuck. He kinda got you.”

“He was so damn cocky about it!” You flustered.

“Well,” Ruby sighed in a helpless breath, cutting across her pancakes. “That’s Vernon for you. If he gets a reaction, he runs with it.”

Prodding at your food with a fork, you again thought back to the dreams running rampant through your imagination last night. How vivid each sensation felt, to the point that the little hairs on your arms began bristling in response. His rough hands all over you, pulling, kneading, smacking. The ghosted recollection of what it might feel like to be filled by him, a warmth and fullness you couldn't make sense of. There had been sweat shining off your body with the glow of a newborn star. There were moans, loud and then soft, weak.

You hadn’t realized you were staring into space.

Ruby’s lips tightened. “Uh… what exactly are you thinking about?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s not what your pupils are telling me.” When you didn’t entertain the topic any further, Ruby smiled, her expression comforting. “It’s okay to want him. It’s okay to think about him in ways that feel… not okay.”

You stabbed a sliced piece of banana onto your fork. “How is it okay, though? You always freak out about us potentially having sex.”

Ruby nodded. “Yeah, but that was before I knew all this, how he feels about you. I would hate for your first time to be with someone who isn’t on your wavelength romantically.” She paused as the waitress stopped by with her orange Screwdriver. “Things could have changed once he got to know you. I mean, clearly, they did. It’s just… you might not be ready for the same things.”

“We definitely aren’t. I can’t… be with a drug dealer,” you whispered.

She chuckled. “Most people would probably say the same.”

Letting your chin rest in your palm, you glanced at your roommate from across the table. “Do you think he’s serious? He really likes me?”

Ruby grabbed her beverage, taking a sip. “I know he’s serious,” she confessed after settling the glass back down. “Dude, he was gonna beat the shit out of Lee. I had to talk him out of it. He laughs and smiles so much when he's with you. I think he genuinely cares about you. And I bet you’re all he thinks about.”

You started to smile, your eyes fluttering. “That’s sweet…”

“I really can’t tell you what to do,” Ruby admitted with a defeated shrug, spearing some fruit onto her fork, “since you know yourself best. But I bet the answer will come to you when you’re least expecting it.”

After bringing the sliced banana to your mouth, you began cutting into your pancakes frustratedly, nodding. “My god. I hope so.”

Before you and Vernon could jump into investigating the scrap yard, he told you that he had a deal planned right around lunchtime. Of course, this was mentioned after you had already sat down in his car, and since you weren’t in the mood to bail out into a pile of pebbled, greying snow and concrete, the best thing you could do was begrudgingly cross your arms and sigh.

Now, you didn’t know where you were.

It was a gigantic, empty hanger graffitied to hell with large garage doorways. Probably some sort of warehouse left to complete abandonment years and years ago, turned to an ideal location for Vernon to sell his friends drugs. How forward thinking.

The air was still and frosty, the surrounding land barren, lumped, and dead, with nothing but a coarse field to stare at from across the quiet road. While Vernon sat on the hood of his car, feeling the warmth grumble from the running engine underneath, you were stiffly leaned against the threshold of the garage doorway. Ever since the second incident (taking name after the now labelled first incident AKA the failed confession), you couldn’t help but make it weird.

Vernon acted the same as he always did.

Unfortunately, you weren’t hardwired that way.

Kicking at a stone, you sighed, “when is he coming?”

“Soon.”

“Can I have a time?”

Vernon stared at you. “12:12.”

“No, I mean, like, the time that he’s supposed to show up.”

“Well, if I had the time for that, I would have said it.”

Displeased at the unproductive exchange, you turned around, keeping your arms folded, and took a few steps inside the industrial-sized hanger. There were some gashes in the metallic roofing, letting through thick beams of white light that staggered against the ruined cement floor. You then looked right, saw a huge slew of black, graffitied letters dried dripping above a hole broken through the infrastructure.

WORLD’S LARGEST GLORYHOLE!

Promptly, you turned back around. “What a lovely place this is.”

Vernon scoffed, stretching out his hands behind him. “I know you wanna leave. It won’t be much longer, alright? Moo’s good at that.”

“Not me to me, he’s not. Did you guys not discuss a time? Or do you just throw out arbitrary numbers and show up when you feel like it?”

“Ease the attitude. Damn.”

Your eyes rolled. It was impossible not to give attitude.

Giving attitude was the only way for you to place distance that was more than just physical in between yourself and Vernon. It was your only means of putting up a barbed front. You were not an attitude person by nature. But being around him just pulled it straight out of you like a child yanking their loose, wriggling tooth.

He patted the spot beside him. “Come sit here.”

You made a sour, repulsive face. “Mmm… no.”

Vernon shook his head, chuckling. “I knew you would do this.”

Rolling a rock underneath your heel, you muttered, “do what?”

“Make it fuckin’ awkward.”

“No—” you argued back, instantly tense and hot, “—you made me make it awkward! And since you knew I would be awkward about it, my awkwardness right now is completely and unequivocally your fault!”

Vernon shrugged, pressing against a sore spot on the side of his neck, beginning to yawn. “I can’t be bothered t'give a fuck.”

“Then why’d you bring it up?”

He shuffled backward, reclining against the car’s windshield, tucking his arms comfortably behind his head. “The not givin’ a fuck part didn’t kick in until just now. Can you hit the radio? I want some tunage.”

“Do it yourself.”

“Prick,” he muttered, closing his eyes.

“Idiot,” you mumbled back, punting the rock.

Vernon’s friend appeared about ten minutes later, ripping into the lot with a concerning level of speed. He pulled his all-black car right next to the rumbling Camry. It looked like something salvaged from the early 1990’s with its small, square lights, short hood, and compact structure. Vernon greeted his friend, Moo. He was sporting a thin black zip-up, some track pants, and weathered white sneakers. His hair was a fluffed-out, wispy afro and you were quick to notice that some splotches of skin on his hands and neck were pale in comparison to his dark complexion. Vitiligo. You remembered the name since one of Diana’s cousins had the condition.

Unsure of what to do as Vernon and Moo cordially conserved, you returned your attention back toward the hanger, scuffing your shoes and hearing the consequential echo. Until Vernon called you.

“PJ’s—this is Moo. Old buddy a' mine.”

Shuffling over, you leaned against Vernon’s car. “Hello.”

Moo smiled, sticking out his hand. Vernon always dapped up all his friends, and you assumed it would be no different with Moo, hence his quirky laughter when the attempted handshake was met with you scraping at his palm and clutching his fingers.

“Oh, shit,” Moo chuckled, rubbing his nose as you reclined into yourself, embarrassed. “Didn’t know you were cool like that.”

“I’m sorry. Vernon always does it and—”

“Hey, I’m throwing something this weekend,” Moo suddenly interrupted your bumbling, returning his attention to Vernon. “Kitty’s finally back from Europe and she brought some crazy freak shit they’ve been smashing in those underground clubs. Said it’s cut with stardust. What a fucking liar, huh?” He smacked Vernon’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “Anyway, if you’re free, you should swing by.” Moo looked at you. “And you, too. If you're into that”

Vernon nodded, returning the gesture and giving his friend’s shoulder a stern squeeze. “Alright, man. Thanks for the invite.”

Moo waggled his tiny baggies full of white powder, seeming satisfied that he delivered forth the message. “No worries, street rat. I'll make sure this gets to Mish, the lazy bastard.” He plopped back into his car, saluted you both. “Later guys.”

Upon his friend tearing out from the parking lot, Vernon slapped the money against his hand. “Okay, the treacherous, scary deed is done.”

Squirming into the warm car, you asked, “are you going?”

Vernon tucked the money into a black knapsack that he proceeded to toss into the rear of the car. “Yes, yes, holy shit—can you give me a fuckin’ second to at least breathe the air? Jesus Christ…”

“No!” You shouted. “I meant are you going to the party?”

“Oh,” he sighed cumbersomely, puffing out his cheeks. “Uh, probably. And it’s not a party.” He stretched on his seatbelt.

You undid the buttons on your woolly coat. “Then what is it?”

“Nothin’ that you’d give a fancy fuck about,” he chuckled while proceeding to steer the car out from the lot. “That’s for damn sure.”

“Well, what if I want to go?”

Suddenly, Vernon smashed the breaks.

In the midst of putting on your seatbelt, you were shot forward like a rock in a slingshot, ramming into the dashboard. Shaking your head, you glared at him, feeling the crookedness in your arm. “What the hell!”

The boy’s brow was heavily contorted in bewilderment. “Please, tell me you did not just say that, Pyjamas,” he implored. “There’s no way.”

With a grumble, you adjusted yourself back into the chair, ensuring your seatbelt was safely secured before you dared say anything else. Vernon's stare was crisply burning, like sunlight through a magnifying glass, and it became increasingly harder to put a sentence together.

Rolling out your shoulders, you nipped, “stop staring at me.”

“I wanna understand why you wanna go. I mean, it makes absolutely zero fuckin’ sense. There’s nothin’ there that appeals to you.”

“Can you just drive?”

Vernon obliged, peeling out onto the long road bordered by stiff country fields and pearl blue sky. “I think you’re tryin’ to pull my chain.”

“Of course you do.”

He laughed again. “Seriously, though. What’s this about?”

With the industrial hanger being pulled away from your peripheral, you had nothing to stare at but the encompassing fields, prickled and ice-crusted with frost. Honestly, it was quite pleasant to take in such openness after habituating to the crowded city life. Your childhood home had been right across from a farm.

Vernon’s elbow bumped your arm. “Eh? What’s the deal?”

You took in a breath, keeping your tone calm. “I don’t know… I just don’t get the fuss about me wanting to go. I mean, I get that it doesn’t really suit what you think of me… but there’s no harm in trying new things.”

“Okay,” Vernon huffed, “but people say that about, like, tryin’ a new hobby or some shit. You’re wantin’ to put yourself in a position where you straight up know you won’t have a good time. Like, seriously.”

“Because you can only have a good time when you’re high?”

“No—because you’re gonna be around other high people—and as a sober person, that’s gonna suck. It’s gonna suck real fuckin’ bad.”

Your head rolled along the seat such that you were staring at him while he drove, an eyebrow tweaking in question. “And I can only assume you’re going to be in the high population. Not the sober.”

“What the fuck do you think?” He chuckled.

“I still want to go.”

Vernon shook his head. “It just doesn’t make sense.”

“I feel like there has to be specific a reason you’re so against me going…” you hummed in contemplation, crossing one leg over your knee and beginning to bob your foot. “I think I know what it is.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I just told you—you’re gonna hate it.”

“It’s because you want to screw around with a girl.”

The boy cackled, leaning forward in his seat, rubbing a hand through his soft, black locks. “Jesus Christ, you’re killin’ me, you know that?”

“I see…” you muttered, folding your arms. “No denial…”

“Shut the fuck up, honestly,” Vernon laughed.

“Well, if that’s what you want to do, then just be honest.”

“Okay, fine,” he declared with a shrug. “I’ll play your game, PJ’s.”

“There’s no game,” you chastised him, rolling your eyes.

But he ignored your insistence. “Say there was a girl. And I did fuck her while you were there. Loud enough that you could hear every time the bed frame hit the wall. Hear every single one of her moans. Every single time I smacked her ass.” He glanced over you slowly from top to bottom while you sat rigid in your seat, likely taking pleasure from how you squirmed. “How would that make you feel?”

Your entire mouth and throat were papery dry.

Truth be told, you would hate it.

In fact, you would probably start crying. The silence was louder than any crash or clap. You didn’t want to answer the question. You didn’t want him to know how utterly heartbroken that would make you feel. Just the fact that he had even asked such a question, knowing how it would stab you, made you get teary-eyed.

Swallowing gruffly, you squeaked out, “well… if that’s what you want.”

Vernon snorted. “That’s not at all what I want!” He paused for a moment, a sparkle darting through his eyes. “Unless the girl is you.”

You couldn’t help but make a twisted, flustered facial expression.

His hand then found the top of your back and he started rubbing in circles, easing the emotions colliding inside you that had packed into a knot between your shoulders. “If you went and fucked someone else in the house, I’d care, too! I’d fuckin’ want to murder the guy!”

You sniffled. “Really?”

Squeezing your shoulder, he smiled at you, full of confidence and conviction. “A hundred percent, PJ’s. I said I liked you, 'member?”

Shuddering out a breath, you felt Vernon’s touch leave your body, and the loss of physical consolation seemed so cruel. No one had ever communicated something like that to you before. At least not in a romantically-inclined way—Ruby did say from time to time that she would gladly throttle anyone who upset you—and you appreciated the sentiment from both sides of the coin. Maybe Vernon really did feel something for you. Maybe.

“I don’t feel like talking anymore,” you sighed, heavy in thought as the sparse fields started thickening with conifers, casting out the light and pushing in shadows that webbed the dark ground. “Can we sit in silence until we get there?”

“Whatever you need,” Vernon answered, shrugging a shoulder.

The entrance to the scrap yard was very unassuming. It was a mere dirt road that veered off from the pavement, leading downward, between a continuous brigade of tall, still pine trees. You couldn’t help but think back to Lara’s story about being brought here by a group of strangers—you would think you were getting murdered—though you were also a complete worrywart. Lara was definitely more adventurous by comparison.

Vernon seemed pretty assured that Minghao wouldn’t be there since it was a Saturday, and Minghao was apparently a very busy bee on Saturdays, dealing drugs no doubt, or painting buildings—you weren't sure. But soon the dirt road and trees opened up until you came to a clearing. There was a large, tall fence, caged around the scrap yard. Vernon pulled the car off to the side, taking out his keys.

“Is it locked?” You asked.

He pushed open his door. “Probably.”

“So, what does that—”

Vernon had already shut the door.

Grumbling to yourself, you threw off your seatbelt and hurried after him. He was inspecting a large, hardy padlock secured around two posts of the fence with chain links.

“I’m guessing it’s locked,” you sighed.

“No, it’s wide open.”

You scowled at his unhelpful sarcasm. “I was just asking!”

“I can pick the shitty locks, but this isn’t a shitty lock.”

“Shame.”

Vernon looked up. He placed two hands on the fence and shook it, hearing the metal rattle. “Seems stiff enough. And not electric. Bonus.”

Instantly, your stomach surged with trepidation. His thinking was obvious. And you were not mentally nor physically prepared to hop aboard. Taking a step back, you scoffed, “no—no way.”

Vernon laughed, gesturing innocently. “What? I told you it’s not electric! There’s not even any barbed wire up top. It’s askin’ to be climbed!”

You gagged; mouth slacked. “So, what? You talk to fences now? I am not climbing that! It’s dangerous! And tall as heck! I’m not doing it.” For emphasis, you crossly folded your arms and stood firmly in place. “If you want me over that, you’ll have to drag me.”

Rolling his eyes, Vernon mirrored your hardened stance. “Okay, honestly, what did you expect, PJ’s? That we’d just be able to skippy-doodle-doo our way in here? You should have learned by now it’s never that easy.” He waved his hand toward the fence. “Now, stop bein’ a spoiled princess and get your ass over here so we can get this show on the road.”

But you didn’t move. “No.”

“Holy shit. You’ll be fine,” Vernon drawled, his tone beginning to bleed from patience and amusement to annoyance. “Nothin’ is gonna happen. All’s you need is a tetanus shot and opposable thumbs. Thumbs may even be optional.”

“Ah, but I have a brain. You’re better off.”

He seemed done with the stalling. Vernon stalked toward you, eyes steely, his hand grooving around your elbow, beginning to tug you.

“Hey!” You hollered, attempting to thrash free. “Don’t—even—”

But Vernon was strong. He was dragging you a little too easily. “Don’t make me fuckin’ throw you over my shoulder,” he grunted in warning, forcing you to move closer and closer toward the fence.

At last, you capitulated. “Fine, fine! I’ll climb it!” He let go of your elbow, to which you rubbed down your arm sorely. “I hate you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Vernon dismissed. He then grabbed your hand and slapped it right onto the cold fence, curling your fingers around the metal wiring. “You’re more prepared than I am. You’re the rock climber.”

“Don’t make me remember that,” you gritted. “Also, the fact you’re making me go first is so… you should be ashamed, abhorred—”

“Shut the fuck up and do it.”

Upon spearing him a glare, you decided to bite the bullet. At least when you had been rock climbing there was a safety harness, and helmet, and ropes to catch you in the event you slipped. Trying not to harp on the dangers, your teeth clenched tight into your inner cheek as you began to climb, ignoring how horribly icy the metal felt as your fingers wrapped around the wires.

The higher you scaled, the more your heart raced, until you reached the thick bar on top and you had a perfect vantage point across the entirety of the scrap yard. Right in the middle was three RVs. You knew to get over the fence you had to straddle the bar, though the task seemed impossible. Swallowing densely, you took a moment to breathe in the brisk, sharp air, smell the earth and the pine. Grunting and trembling, you managed to get one leg over the bar.

Choosing to peer down at Vernon, recall the safety of solid ground, you gulped. “This sucks ass!”

“You’re doin’ great!” He called, sticking out a thumbs-up to demonstrate his pride. “And you gave me a great view from down below.”

“Shut up!” You nagged him, though you were smiling widely.

Soon enough, your feet were back on the dirt.

Vernon smirked at you from across the fence. “Easy, right?”

“Even easier if you knew how to pick that lock.”

“Boohoo,” Vernon said. “Let me pull out my YouTube tutorial.”

Suddenly, he had hopped onto the fence, and in a few fast, swift movements, the boy was already scaling the top. Once he climbed down about halfway, he leapt off, landing neatly in the spot beside you, clapping off his calloused hands like he’d just shoved a pie into a warm oven.

“Show off,” you muttered.

“Always,” Vernon said with a click of the teeth.

He proceeded down the shallow hill toward the inner bowl of the scrap yard, and you supposed there was no other choice but to follow him, hurrying to match step with his stride. The junk piles were organized for the most part. Broken bicycles, car doors, and odd metal contraptions tossed into one mound, while others were slightly more miscellaneous but seeming tended to. You walked past a sewing machine that didn’t look too rough.

“Oh! Ruby would love this!”

Vernon stopped to glance at the machine. “Yeah? It looks like shit.”

“It’s just dirty,” you answered, nudging it with your foot.

“Let’s go shoppin’ later,” he insisted, picking up your hand and continuing to pull you in the direction of the RVs. “No distractions.”

“You’re one to talk.”

Together, you perched behind a rusted, red-striped fishing boat lifted off the ground by a steel trailer. Vernon let your hand drop, brushing something off his nose. The series of RVs were about twenty feet away, with reasonable distance in between them, their colours mostly ugly beiges and bleached creams with no discernible detail. You expected Minghao’s RV to have some freaky aquatic design painted across it—anything that might suggest which belonged to him—but there was no graffiti in sight.

With your fingers anxiously digging into your knees, you looked in between the RVs and back to Vernon. “How should we do this?”

“Cautiously,” he stated, and you giggled in response.

“That’s not a word I’d expect you to know.”

“Blame yourself,” Vernon rasped. “If you weren’t here, I could go about this any way I wanted. But we’re a unit now.”

“How sweet,” you muttered.

“Okay, this is what we’ll do,” Vernon announced. “I’ll take the trailer in the middle; you take the one closest to us. Start by lookin’ around the area, see if there’s a thing or two that gives Minghao vibes. Try to look in the windows if you can, but be careful, obviously. Listen for TVs, runnin’ water, couches squeakin’, doors openin’—anything that could indicate someone's inside—and we should have a signal if there’s a spat.”

“Like what?”

“How about a whistle? Can you whistle?”

“Barely,” you commented, forming the appropriate shape with your lips and blowing air through your teeth, hardly any noise.

“What the fuck was that?” He sneered.

“I was whistling!”

“You sound like a fuckin’ busted teakettle, man. That got ran over, and dragged for a kilometer. Okay, change of tactic. Ah—can you do this?” He layered his hands together, made a small opening between his thumbs, and proceeded to blow inside, mimicking the elegant sound of a loon.

You scowled at him. “If I sound like a busted teakettle, what makes you think I can make a freakin’ bird noise? Are your neurons okay?”

“Whatever—fuck the signal, actually. Let’s just get in and out.”

Vernon went around one side of the fishing boat while you crept along the other. He was quick, darting off to the central RV while keeping low, and you got the suspecting, blaring sense this was far from his first time hopping a fence or spying through another’s window. Moving slower in comparison, you approached the first RV. Your stomach was an unsettled hive of buzzing, frantic bees.

What if someone really was inside?

The vehicle wasn’t in the best condition. Worn wheels were sagging and the headlights were busted. Treading airy steps, you paced the perimeter of the vehicle. There were lawn chairs spread out in the back, propped between a plastic, cheap table sitting an ash tray and a few crushed beer cans. A makeshift firepit displayed the remnants of ashy, grey logs and charred newspaper, tiny pieces fluttering loose in the chilly breeze like snowfall.

Was this Minghao? Did this seem like him? Beer cans and ash trays?

Vernon knew him better. You should have requested insight.

You approached the RV, gliding your hand along its cold, smooth surface, until you stopped underneath a window. It was too tall to glance in, so you decided to grab one of the lawn chairs for assistance. The fabric didn’t seem very reliable. Letting your foot press deep onto the surface, the entire chair squeaked, seeming to bend inward on itself. But you took a breath, subtly applying more weight until you were fully standing on it.

“Jesus Christ…” you sighed quietly to yourself, fingers clasping the windowsill. “If this breaks, I’m never standing on anything again in my entire life.”

The curtains were closed apart from a tiny sliver down the middle.

It took all your concentration to not make a single noise as you attempted to peer through the opening. From your inspection, no one was inside. There was a sink with some fancy glass cups splayed around it. Basic wooden cupboards, tinted by age. A cuckoo clock near the door. An armchair embroidered by a dated pattern of roses. Whatever’s Minghao aura was, this didn’t seem to match. You thought back to his luxurious, long-swept coat, his chic, cherry-red hair, the chunky rings agleam on his fingers.

Stepping off the lawn chair, you knew this couldn’t be his RV.

You wondered if Vernon was having any luck. As you walked over to the RV centered in the yard, head cocked in an attempt to find where he had disappeared to, the boy suddenly exploded into you, grasping your hand and tearing you flush against the trailer’s wall.

“What the hell—”

His palm pressed over your mouth, muffling your voice.

“Shh!” He whispered. “There’s someone in this one!”

You grabbed his wrist, peeling away the contact. Hiding behind the RV didn’t seem very practical. “And you got their attention?”

“I was lookin’ in the front window, and this cat hopped up on the sill, started battin’ at me through the glass. Then this woman appeared from nowhere to grab him. I ducked. Dunno if she saw me or not.”

“And what are we supposed to—”

His hand was on your mouth again. “Shut up! You hear that?”

You were still as stone, listening. Apart from the blood rushing in your ears, adrenaline beginning to twitch throughout your body, you heard a noise echo from the front of the vehicle, a squeak, as though a door had opened. Vernon slowly removed his hand from your lips. You two exchanged a wrought look. Your chest was heaving in deep breaths.

“Did you see something, Mr. Big? Hm?”

A few seconds later, you heard a sharp, loud meow, almost demanding in its cadence. Vernon was chewing on his lip ring, hands placed flat to his waist. Instinctively, you pushed yourself closer against him, searching for a trace of his warm, smooth scent to keep your heart grounded.

“Okay. Show Mommy where.”

“Fuck,” Vernon cursed. “Little kitty’s gonna bust us.”

You grabbed onto his hand. “What do we do?”

An orange, plump cat with faint burnt stripes had padded its way around the corner of the RV, its long tail sticking up and flicking. Paw after paw, the cat started to approach you in a slow stride, and your nails dug straight into the inked skin of Vernon’s hand.

You knew you should run.

“Go away Mr. Big,” Vernon gritted his teeth and hissed at the approaching cat. But then the cat butted its square, flat head into Vernon’s leg, purring aloud, rubbing its cheek against his pants. You wanted to giggle despite the seriousness of the situation.

“Hey!” A lady stood at the corner, fists on her hips.

You and Vernon froze against each other.

She was older, her hair a greyish-brown, curly mess flipped over to one side, dressed in flipflops with fluffy green fur and a drooping night gown. While the cat continued persuading Vernon for attention, the lady opted to squint heavily at the two of you, the skin by her eyes wrinkling intensely.

“Qian?” The lady barked, her tone strict and cutting. “Is that you?”

You exchanged a worrisome, confused glance with Vernon. He looked down at the orange cat, gulping heavily, contemplating something.

“Qian!” She snapped again, taking a step closer. “Is that—”

“Uh, yes?” Vernon answered, wincing. “It’s me.”

“Who the hell is Qian?” You whispered, squirming with nerves.

Vernon spoke very lowly, “Minghao’s friend.”

“I told you; you can’t give sardines to Mr. Big anymore!”

“My apologies, m’mam…” he stuttered in response.

She paused, tilted her head. “Qian, you sound different.”

Vernon’s complexion turned pale. “Uh, that’s—”

“Your English has certainly come a long, long way. You barely spoke a word of it when I first met you.” She started to walk closer, her flipflops scuffing across the dusty ground. “Is that Mr. Big down there, by your feet? He thinks you’re about to give him another sardine. I left my glasses in the washroom, you know. I thought there was—” she immediately cut herself off, a gasp flushing out from her mouth. “Is that Biyu?!”

Her reference was clearly aimed at you.

Before you could even decide to speak, Vernon beat you to it.

“It is.”

“And what are you doing behind my trailer?”

Vernon sucked in a breath. “We’re—”

“Well, I’m sure Minghao will be impressed! Knowing his closest friend is out lollygagging around with his ex-girlfriend!” She babbled on and on, as though she hadn’t spoken to anyone in months apart from her cat, the words flowing out in a critical, fast-paced tone. “Have you no shame, the both of you? And you thought behind my trailer was a good place to start?”

Vernon scratched his head. “It won’t happen again.”

“I better hope not! Or else I’ll tell him straight away!”

At last, Vernon bent down, picking up the chunky orange cat that had been sitting at his feet, licking a paw. He gave the cat a few scratches behind its tufted ear before handing him off to his owner.

“There you are, Mr. Big,” she cooed. “Come back to Mommy.”

Your lips pressed together tightly.

While she kept the cat wrapped up against her chest using a single arm, bouncing him like a baby, she had suddenly gripped onto Vernon’s wrist. Moving away from the trailer, your heart plunged.

“Lord—when did you get all this ink?!” She exclaimed. Vernon wasn’t given the opportunity to answer. It seemed to be dawning on her that perhaps the young man with golden-brown eyes, facial piercings, an undeniable gruffness in his voice, and plentiful tattoos wasn’t Qian.

She opened her mouth, thin lips stretched, the breath in her throat hitching. “You… you aren’t Qian…” the lady’s words warped with confusion and shock. “And that isn’t…” keeping the tubby cat cradled against her chest, she pushed around Vernon to approach you. “That can’t be Biyu.”

You felt magnetized to the wall of the trailer. Her eyes were slimmed to a permanent squint as she seemed to be taking in your every detail, the floral, piney scent of her perfume overwhelming your senses, the deep wrinkles of her skin twisting. “No! You can’t be Biyu! She’s much prettier!” The lady whipped around, her cat meowing sharply, as she glared at Vernon. “You two are lying trespassers!”

“No, I’m Qian,” Vernon persisted, smiling.

Shooting him straight-faced daggers, you couldn’t believe he was deciding to push his luck. Everything was totally, undeniably screwed.

“You are not!” She stuck a finger in his face. “Who are you?!”

“Woah, woah, woah. I think you need your glasses before you start with the accusations.” He proceeded to shoulder around her, sliding his arm along your waist, as you stood stiffly, still offended that this lady in her lime-green flip flops and dusty nightgown had called you unattractive in a roundabout insult. “They have chains for em’, no? So you can’t lose ‘em?”

She flung out her arm. “Leave! Right now!”

Vernon clasped his fingers around yours, beginning to pull you away. “I’ll get you a pair for Christmas!” He shouted. “You’ll love it!”

You two began running back up the sloping path that had led downward into the scrap yard, refusing to look back. Digging your nails into the warm skin of Vernon’s hand, you grumbled, “why did you push it?!”

“I didn’t push it!” He laughed.

“She figured out we were lying! And then you got smart!”

At the fence, you two paused to catch your breath.

Vernon smirked at you. “Still want that shitty sewin’ machine?”

Your eyes rolled. There was no point in going back and forth, and so you refused to wait for him, clutching onto the fence and beginning to haul yourself up impatiently, feeling humiliated.

“So, that’s a no?!” He yelled as you reached the top.

If you had the sewing machine, you would have dropped it on him.

“I don’t get what you’re so ticked about. We know the last trailer has to be Minghao’s. And, so what we got busted? That lady can’t see two feet in front of her. For all she knows, I’m Willy fuckin’ Wonka.”

“Oh, yeah,” you retorted dryly. “Because who else could it be? A tattooed, face-pierced liar and a random, apparently very unattractive girl sleuthing around Minghao’s home. Oh, wow,” your voice pitched in a sarcastic tone, hands slapped to your face in mock dramatics. “He’ll be so puzzled! Who could it be?”

Vernon kissed his teeth, keeping his sight on the flat, long road that the car shot down. “Minghao’s probably hardly ever there. Can’t see him bein’ real eager to dish about life with his youthful neighbours.”

“We could have so easily screwed everything up.”

“And we didn’t.”

“You don’t know that!” The frustration belted out in a cry.

The boy shook his head, reaching for the stereo. “Let’s just agree to disagree,” he said, reaching for the knob on his radio. A crackle vibrated through the tired speakers; his phone plugged into the radio using a stringy cable that looked like it might electrocute whoever touched it. “I need my brain to be completely empty.”

“Great…” you muttered, head tilted woefully in the direction of your window, the corners still tinged with frost. “I hate hearing, anyway.”

Vernon snorted. “That’s ‘cause you have to listen to yourself.”

If it weren’t for the finest string of self-control that you unspooled from your insides, then you would have kept up the bickering until he capitulated, and that was rarer than a flying pig. At that point of your relationship, it was almost second nature to chastise each other. You still couldn’t tell if it was making you more or less sensitive.

By the time you arrived back to your apartment, you were surprised the universe wasn’t ringing. Vernon loved to blast his music like the angels were eager to hear every word from heaven, though he had played it notably quieter than usual. You tossed him a lacklustre thank you for his chaperoning duties, beginning to shove outside the car, but the boy’s hand was on your shoulder and he was pushing you back into the seat.

“I have work tomorrow,” you whined. “What is it?”

“And you go to bed at three o'clock? Wow, you really are a loser.”

You smacked his arm. “And you made me climb a fence!”

“Okay, you’re not usually like this,” Vernon took it upon himself to point out, leaning against his door while squinting at you intrusively. “I mean, you can be annoyin’ about things, but this is different.” He started rubbing his chin, pinching at his adam’s apple. “What’s the matter?”

The simple question sparked your laugh. “Yes, let’s discuss it.”

He gestured at you, nodding. “Let’s.”

“That was sarcasm, dummy,” you clarified. “Nothing’s the matter, except for the fact I wanna take a hot bath.” Again, you attempted to open your door, but Vernon was quick to lean over, pulling it shut. When you tried again, he wouldn’t let it open even an inch.

“Hey!” You yelped.

“C’mon, talk to me,” he encouraged, his voice warm.

“Vernon, I’m serious. There’s nothing to—”

“Is this ‘cause of the party? The fact I said you shouldn’t go?” He resumed touching his chin, his head tilted in question. “Is that the problem?”

You couldn’t help scoffing.

His eyebrows leapt upward, and he hummed. “Ahh, so that’s it.”

“Well, you know what, actually…” purposefully keeping your delivery soft and vulnerable, you started to entertain him. “Maybe it was the fact your friend was twenty minutes late, you absolutely hated the idea of me going to a party with you, you made me climb a fence, twice,” your tone started to strip itself of the daintiness, “only to potentially ruin our entire game plan! And then I basically got called ugly by some reclusive lady who smells like a funeral home and whose best friend is her cat! And now I know the entirety of No Hands from start to finish and it’s going to keep me up at night because all I can hear is R-O-S-C-O-E, Mr. Shawty-Put-It-On-Me, I be going HAM, shawty upgrade from bologna! And it’s all your fault!” The breath was beating against your lungs, causing your chest to noticeably shrink and expand.

Vernon’s lips twitched into a smile. “I knew you liked that song.”

“It’s not a matter of liking it!” You shouted while rolling down your window using the crank, feeling the chilled breeze. “It’s just catchy!”

“Well,” the boy cleared the rasp from his throat, proceeding to sit up straighter, focusing his attention. “Do you understand why I was insistent you shouldn’t go? Because I know for a fact you’ll hate it.”

“Okay!” You cried out, shrugging. “So I’ll hate it! So I’ll be miserable! Don’t you think I can assume some of that myself? What if I wanted to hear ‘I’d love it if you were there, but you should know…’ blah, blah, blah. But you just shot me down! You made it seem like—like—you would hate it if I were there. That you wouldn’t want to see me at all…”

Vernon leaned forward, shaking his head, while your fingers twisted together anxiously in your lap, your lip quivering, eyes delicately burning.

“No, PJ’s,” he murmured. “Of course not.”

“But that’s what I heard,” you urged him. “Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” Vernon answered. He set his hand atop your wrist, gave you a reassuring, comfortable squeeze. “Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t think about it like that,” the boy admitted, his voice gritty but gentle. “It doesn’t matter where we are—whenever I see you—I get this soarin’ feelin’ deep in my chest. And then it flows everywhere in my body. Makes me feel like I can grow wings. It’s like… I dunno… you give me a weird high that no other drug could ever do. And I want it more and more, every day.” He paused, his fingers finding their way in between yours, laced together, gripping your sweaty hand so firm and strong. He bit his lip. “I want you more and more.”

Immediately, your face cracked into a smile. All that irritability thinned out, gone like a dense morning fog when the sun catches its blaze. Adverting your timid stare away from his sincere, straightforward eyes that dilated more with every second, you giggled out, “stop…”

He let go of your hand to brush something off your cheek with a few soft strokes from his thumb. “Stop what?” Vernon teased. “Hm?” He then slid his hand around the back of your neck, and you could feel the massaging, warm pressure from the boy’s rough fingertips. The muscles in your thighs automatically clenched. “If you tell me I can’t want you, I’ll only want you more,” he laughed. “You know, I hate goin’ back to my place even more than I did before. Can’t stand the sight of my bed without you in it.”

Your gut was insistent that you give in. But your cautionary heart and mind were ringing the alarm bells. Playfully, you shoved him away, though the sensitive skin of your neck was still sizzling hot from his touch, and you crossed one leg overtop the other, sealing up yourself tightly.

“I’m sure that line was recycled from five other girls,” you mumbled, eyes rolling. “So you can kindly recycle it back into your mouth.”

“But I never meant it with them.”

Your chuckle was short and dry. “Sure.”

“Well… if you want to go to Moo’s shitshow, then be my guest.”

“Really?” You responded in disbelief. “What’s the catch?”

Vernon sighed. “Please bring Ruby.”

“I was gonna do that anyway.”

He leaned over to push open the car door. “You’re fuckin’ free, Pyjamas. Go take your hot bath. Send me a picture, yeah?”

Upon stepping outside onto the curb, you bent down for a goodbye, smiling. “Yes, I will send you a fully clothed picture of myself fresh from the bath with all my acne patches on. I will make it my utmost priority.”

“Can’t wait,” he answered, flashing you a teething, dirty smirk, though his honeyed eyes were far too shining and pure for it to be anything other than his honest excitement. “I’ll text you the info when I know it.”

As expected, Ruby didn’t show as much hesitance to the idea compared to Vernon. She had been attempting to get you clubbing ever since she had known you, and although that triumph was still far away, the opportunity currently presenting itself was much more idealistic. Nonetheless, she was still cautious to indulge you. Ruby didn’t know all of Vernon’s acquaintances—merely a small droplet in a gigantic bucket—but from what she did know, it was enough to prompt her careful lecturing. When you told her that you knew what Vernon was like high, she cackled flippantly directly into your face before highlighting that Vernon dazed off a blunt was much different than him off three lines of coke. You knew she had a point.

The closer it came to Saturday night, the more nervous you became, and the more doubt infested your insistence that had seemed so unshakeable. You thought about how much you still didn’t know when it came to Vernon, the fact you only observed pieces of his life through flashes, like seeing your transient reflection against a speeding car. But now you were taking a much deeper step. What if everything changed? What if you couldn’t handle it? What if this was all just a disguised test to understand if you could really visualize yourself patched into Vernon’s life, despite all the evidence against it? However, you ignored those thoughts very willfully.

And then it was Saturday night.

Ruby was getting ready in the washroom while you went through the clothes in your closest. Your styles and personalities were quite distinguished from each other in almost every sense. When Ruby got ready, she would bring her wireless speaker with her, letting it sit on the sink countertop amongst the widespread mess of her expensive makeup and brushes, singing along to the lyrics of her favourite R&B artists. When you got ready, you pretty much sat in silence at your desk, keeping any touch-ups to your face minimal because you never really learned how to do makeup and it seemed too difficult to figure out now.

You could hear Ruby’s tone-deaf singing. “Can you distract me from all the disaster? Can you touch on me and not call me after? Can you hate on me and mask it with laughter?” Her grating voice was actually pleasantly distracting.

Unsurprisingly, your roommate took her sweet time getting ready, urging you not to worry since, “who the fuck shows up to a party on time?” But once she was done, presenting you the final look, you applauded her prancing around the living room accordingly. Unlike you, Ruby had been experimenting with her hair and makeup consistently, since she was a tween, her flawless skin and thick, loosely curled hair looking like velvet. She then forced you to watch an episode of her soapy drama before booking the ride to Moo’s place, somewhere far, where there was more swamp and grass and mosquitoes than houses and people.

It wasn’t until you were strapped into the backseat that you felt sick.

“Moo?” Ruby squawked, looking down at her phone. “Who’s he?”

You swallowed; your mouth dehydrated. “He’s the host, Ruby.”

“Oh, well, he just requested to follow me on IG. I wonder if Vernon gave my handle to him… he’s a bit cute… but these pictures—feeling myself like I lost my keys—interesting caption. But that Hellcat is definitely not his!” She continued to babble, mostly to herself, during the car ride to Moo’s house. You listened on occasion, caught between engaging her talkative splurges and contemplating how hard the driver might judge you for rolling down the window and upchucking your lunch onto the road.

Finally, you arrived.

“Thanks! Have a great night!” Ruby chirped aloud to the driver who seemed to pull off questionably fast. She started walking up the driveway, but you grabbed her wrist, drawing the girl into a wobble.

“Wait,” you said worriedly. “How do I… look?”

Ruby licked her thumb and smoothed it along one of your eyebrows, and then adjusted the spaghetti straps to the top hidden underneath the long coat you borrowed from the girl’s wardrobe. “Stunning.”

 “Are you sure?”

“Of course!” She exclaimed. Her hands were suddenly gripping your shoulders, her hazel eyes accented by the smoky flare of an umber powder sharpened into knife-like points. “Look, I know it’s easier said than done, but even if you have to fake it, confidence is key! This crowd is definitely not what you’re used to, and even for me this is a stretch, but the great thing about high people, they only care about getting higher. So, in a way, no one cares about you.”

 You were able to laugh at her comment. “Makes sense. Thanks.”

Ruby removed her hands from your shoulders. “Besides, as long as you’re there, I’ll be there. If you need me at any point, I won’t be far.”

Appreciating your roommate’s comfort, you proceeded to breathe out your anxious thoughts, even giving your body a jitter to physically shake off the nerves. Together, you walked up the driveway. The house seemed small from the outside. An open window allowed you to hear distant music and excited, jumbled layers of conversation, smell the burnt, stingy aroma of marijuana. Ruby knocked a pattern against the door, loud and certain.

It didn’t take long before you recognized Moo.

“Hey!” He shouted, a beer bottle clasped in one hand, his cheeks rounded in a welcoming smile. “Fuck—uh—you’re Ruby, right?”

Your roommate nodded. “Indeed.”

“Anddd,” Moo sang while turning to you, squinting one eye shut, his forehead creased and his brow raised in thought. “PJ? Did I get it?”

While you did consider correcting him on the nickname, you decided it was best to just stick with what he already knew. “That works.”

“Fuck yeah. Well, enter the pad, ladies.” He stood aside, keeping the door held open as you and Ruby shuffled into the front foyer—a narrow hallway—the walls blanketed in jackets, the floor swathed with shoes toppled over each other.

Ruby shrugged off her coat, chuckling, “are there any hooks?”

“Oh, certainly!” Moo exclaimed just before he set the beer bottle to his lips. “I think there’s one near the back, right on the left!” As Ruby primly set her coat onto the hook, you couldn’t help but note how Moo’s eyes started to drag down her body, practically bulging at her bum. “Damn!”

She turned around, tucking a curl behind her ear. “Sorry?”

“Uh,” Moo coughed into his elbow. “Sorry—just—stepped on something! Can’t lie, haven’t vacuumed this rug in a dog’s age.”

You held your lips in a flat, downturned line.

“Oh,” Ruby hummed. “Good to know, I guess.” She then looked at you, gesturing for the coat folded in your arms. “I’ll find a place for it.”

Moo encouraged you to join him in the kitchen once you were ready, to which he disappeared through the threshold in the slim, dark hallway. Once he was gone, you instantly told Ruby, “he gagged at your ass!”

She tossed the hair over her shoulder, snorting, “I know.”

“Men are pigs!” You quipped.

“And we’re in the pigpen,” Ruby answered, giggling.

The kitchen was just on the other side of the front foyer. It was a fairly small, intimate space, with the dining table opposite from it, and a bigger opening into the living room, where most people seemed to congregate. From your flying, uneasy glances between faces, you had yet to see Vernon, and that seemed to make your stomach drop like a brick. The kitchen countertops were crowded with empty cans, cutting boards, rolling papers, ash trays, and opened bags of salted snacks. Moo swung open the fridge, reaching around inside before he offered the both of you a drink.

“I’ll take anything spicy,” Ruby said, making sure to raise her voice so she could be heard over the living room’s vivacious, bubbly chatter.

You swayed on the balls of your feet. “A water is fine.”

“What about juice?” Ruby offered, brushing down your arm.

“Sorry,” Moo apologized, pulling out a beer can. “We just used the last of the juice for drinks. Cups are to your right. Tap water’s all I got.”

Teeth gnawed at your inner cheek as you opened Moo’s concerningly loose cupboard, pulling down a dusty, plastic cup. You squirmed around him to reach the sink. Water didn’t start spraying from the tap until you had turned the knob several times, to which a rumbling, guttural noise sounded from the pipes. Attempting not to make it obvious, you sniffed the water before drinking it, noting a strong mineral scent.

“So, Ruby?” Moo leaned against the counter. “Is that ‘cause of the red streaks in your hair? Which are very pretty, by the way.”

Your roommate shrugged. “Well, thank you, but I’m pretty sure I was named Ruby before I ever had red streaks in my hair.” She cracked open her beer. “It’s the stone associated with my birth month—July.”

He gritted his teeth, chuckling off the embarrassment. “Ah, you make a good point. I love that. What’s my birthstone? I’m born in May.”

The girl laughed, “I don’t know the others, just my own!”

“See, I’m gonna have to Google that later.”

“Please, don’t hesitate,” she answered, fluttering a sweet smile.

At that moment, someone else squeezed into the kitchen, a man whom smelled like firewood and rich cologne. He was tall, cutting in between you and Moo with the height of his body.

Moo hardly noticed, keeping the sparks of conversation lit with Ruby, while you were ungracefully separated by the stranger digging through the fridge, his large back all you could see. Upon pulling out a silver can, he shimmied his way out. You sighed, plucking some lint off your top, before reinserting yourself into the conversation that you hadn’t been a part of, anyway.

“No, no, that’s my dad’s…” Moo was saying, rubbing his neck.

Ruby cackled. “I knew it!”

“Does this place look like it should have a fuckin’ Hellcat in the driveway? Nah, I got my Nissan fuckin’ Micra. Pussy magnet.”

She sipped from the beer; eyes kept trained to Moo as he only inched his way closer toward her. “Humble king,” Ruby commented.

“If you ever wanna take a spin in it,” Moo enticed, lifting up a shoulder and tugging at his bottom lip, “you can be my humble queen.”

Oh, god.

You were suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to find Vernon, wherever he was tucked away. Dumping the remaining water into the sink and leaving the plastic cup with it, you nodded briefly at Ruby while escaping the kitchen, assuming she knew what you had in mind. Nobody slumped at the dinner table seemed coherent, so you tapped on the arm of a girl sat at the couch, scrolling through her phone. She glanced up at you, her eyes a watery, stinging red. Smoke rolled out ghostily from between her lips.

“Sorry to bother,” you squeaked. “But, uh, you know Vernon?”

The girl nodded. She then dug into the couch cushions, pulling out what resembled a small, black container with an attached mouthpiece.

Swallowing nervously, you asked, “where would he be?”

While she fixed her mouth around the attachment and started to slowly, deeply breathe in, the girl flicked a finger toward the hallway behind her, with a door planted at the very end. You smiled, thanking her, although you weren’t entirely sure what do next. Was it a bedroom? Were you allowed to just waltz in? Could Vernon be in there… with someone else?

You stood at the door, noticing a mild trembling in your hands.

But you didn’t sink into the doubt. Instead, you hailed Ruby’s words of encouragement, straightened out your shoulders, fixed your chin high, and pushed the door open. Simultaneously, you were braced to see the absolute worst. However, it wasn’t what you expected. The room was dark apart from a television’s fuzzy, twitching glow that washed across the carpet and bed in faint, blue hues. Someone was sitting in an armchair poised close to the TV, seeming completely dissonant, a smoking blunt of some sort caught in their fingers. There were two people relaxed on the bed, a cutting board in between them, a woman you had never seen, and… Vernon.

She dipped her head down after arranging a small, neat white line using a pocket knife. Vernon flipped her long hair to one side as she reached the board, sucking the powder up her nostril with a casual, easy quickness. “Fuck,” the woman cursed, her voice gritty, wiping off her nose with a finger and smearing whatever powder stuck across her tongue. “That’s fuckin’ sharp. I'm gonna be on the moon.”

Vernon smirked. “They cut with fuckin' crystals.”

She laughed, flipping back her hair. “That’s pure ice, babe.”

You definitely felt as though you were interrupting something private, but it would have been more awkward to simply stand there, watching, until someone noticed you. Letting the door fall shut, you forced on a crooked smile and stepped closer into the bedroom, clearing your throat to make your presence known.

Both Vernon and the woman looked your way. For a slow, trudging moment, Vernon didn’t recognize you, and he looked annoyed.

She huffed. “Sorry, sweets. I’d give you a lick but this shit cost me a motherfuckin’ arm and a leg to get. You’re better off, anyway.”

The twinkling aura of the light reflected off her arms and her pronounced chest, the skin needled with tattoos that wrapped around her like snakes made of black ink. She had similar facial piercings to Vernon, though her nose was pierced, too. Just from her temperament, you could tell she was a bit older in age, perhaps in her late twenties, and assumed she must be the one Moo referenced in their conversation at the hanger, the one who took that vacation to Europe and was able to scoop something good.

“Oh, what the fuck?” Vernon shook his head. “PJ’s?”

You started to smile, hands wringing together. “I’m here.”

“No shit,” he answered, pushing himself off the bed. Cemented to your place on the shoddy carpet, you let Vernon approach you, one arm weaving around the back of your neck while the other wrapped your waist, pulling you into his firm body. “Didn’t know you were here.”

Timidly, you held onto him, fingers feeling along the fabric of his white t-shirt, your smile refusing to fade. “I haven’t been here long.”

“No?” He mumbled in question, letting his hands fall onto your hips as he began to rescind the closeness. It was right then that you noticed the difference in his eyes—those pupils were extremely dilated—dark like the ocean without any moonlight, almost… shimmering, twitching, coursing with energy that made you stiffen ever so slightly. Vernon sunk his thumbs into the waistband of your jeans, hooking you, dragging you further into his chest. “You look so fuckin’ pretty,” he murmured, the husk in his voice thicker than usual. “I’ve missed you all week. What kinda bullshit is that, huh?”

You giggled, lips pressing together, taking in the close-up beauty of his gentle features, how such softness seemed to betray him. “Me too,” you answered, sniffling. “I’ve never seen your eyes like this.”

He chuckled. “You’ve never seen me off coke.” Vernon then turned around, gesturing to the woman who was now sprawled on her side across the bed. “Especially the fuckin’ wild shit this lunatic gets. This is Kitty.”

“Uh, hi.” You waved at her, feeling small under her piercing gaze.

Kitty nodded, tilting her head. “Your next girlfriend, Vernon?”

You gulped while Vernon shot back at her, “you’re fuckin’ nasty.”

“Quel surprise.” She winked a hooded eye, tongue prodding along a glimmering tooth in her mouth. “But I guess you would know better than most.” Kitty slid off the bed, proceeding to straighten out her short, skin-gripping skirt that didn’t leave much to be revealed. “I’m gonna use the washroom, you know, to freshen up.” She sauntered past you, out the door, leaving behind a whiff of her strong, powerful aroma, like a dark cherry.

Vernon groaned. “She’s a fuckin’ psychopath.” He returned to the bed, flopping beside the cutting board. There was a baggie left on it.

Continuing to hold your place, you exhaled nervously, looking around the bedroom and its unusual blankness. “Who’s that?” You asked, pointing at the guy in the chair with the burning blunt. He hadn’t moved an inch since you walked in the room.

“Oh, don’t worry about him,” Vernon answered, coughing against his elbow. “That’s Snozz, Moo’s roommate. Dude’s got narcolepsy.”

Your lips pursed. “Are you serious?”

Vernon folded his arms. “Yeah. Cool, huh?”

“Well… I don’t know… I feel like it’s a bit… inconvenient.”

“So are the pills he pops every fuckin’ week. Dude’s got every battle there is. But we keep an eye on him.” He wriggled up against the wooden headboard, propping an arm across his bent knee. “Now, come sit with me,” Vernon invited, nodding toward the available space. “Hard to see how gorgeous you look when you’re so far.”

While approaching the bed, you couldn’t help but take another glance at Moo’s roommate, Snozz, sunken into the armchair. His head was collapsed awkwardly onto his shoulder, fronds of long, brown hair masking his eyes, a slight fissure between his lips. You wondered how long he had been asleep; his blunt was still glowing but the television was jouncing static.

You sat beside Vernon, the cutting board in between you.

He picked it up. “Don’t need this shit anymore.” And placed it on the adjacent night table. “Unless you wanna finish Kitty’s pixie dust?”

Squishing up your tight shoulders, you shook your head. “Nope.”

Despite the heavy shadows, you could see the soft grin develop on his face, however, you also noticed him pick up the small baggie off the cutting board. There was hardly any powder left inside it, but that didn’t deter Vernon from dragging a finger along the inside of his cheek and using the moisture to collect the rest. You watched him rub the powder across his gums, wondering how much was already in his system, waiting to activate, already activated.

“Shouldn’t you have left the rest for Kitty?”

Vernon cackled, scratching his eye. “Hell no! She owes me. I busted my ass last year to get her the purest shit on the market for New Year’s.”

“Hm.” You nodded, curling your legs underneath you.

He slid down the bed sluggishly until he his head was cushioned on a pillow, proceeding to tuck his arms underneath it. The boy stared up at the ceiling as though it were a night sky scattered with iridescent galaxies, beginning to grin, bite onto his lip, giggle. “She thinks she’s such a peach, gettin’ this fancy European shit for us, but she’s a moocher to her core, always lookin’ for scraps. Damn—fuckin’ Snozz took one line and now he’s incapacitated!” He flung an arm out toward the chair. “He went off his meds for this shit! She should be in here babysittin’ his narcoleptic ass.”

Unsure of what to say, you merely clasped onto your hands harder, smiled like your mouth was being pulled back by someone else’s invasive fingers. This side of Vernon was foreign to you, not to mention extremely unnerving.

“Was Moo alright?” Vernon asked.

For a moment, the unstable catch in his words was gone, and you managed to breathe a little easier. “He was kind,” you answered, smoothing a hand along your jeans. “Definitely more interested in chatting up Ruby.”

“Shit!” He yelled, suddenly slamming upward. “I fuckin’ forgot Ruby’s here!” Rapidly patting down his pockets, Vernon then pulled out his phone, incorrectly thumbing the passcode in several times. You observed him open his text messages, select your roommate’s contact, and type out a string of mismatched letters that he struggled to send her. “Fuck—I can’t believe I forgot she was here! Aw, I miss her, y’know?” He buckled into a concerning haze of coughing and laughing, leaning over his elbow while his back shuddered like shifting plates. “She parties hard. I fuckin’ miss that, dude. I think a bit of you’s leaked into her. Fuck, she used to get so dirty. She’s vanilla now.”

Wincing, you tried not to let your disconcertedness bleed through, although your heart was noticeably heavier in your chest, pumping hard, making the air feel denser to breathe. “Uh…” you prodded in a weak, uncertain tone, nails digging into the bed. “Meaning what?”

Vernon slid off the bed. He started swaying, massaging the knobs of his scuffed, scabbed knuckles. “She has limits now—I’ve gotta be home by eleven, I can only take three shots, I’m just smokin’ for an hour—she didn’t give no fucks about that before.” He marched over to Snozz, removing the dulled, orange blunt from his fingers. “When she worked at Puttin’-Edge, she was a fuckin’ deviant. She’d take almost anything, man. You couldn’t tear her away from the function until she was on the verge of blackin’ out.”

Inadvertently, your eyebrows furrowed together. “That sounds healthier to me. I’m proud she’s winding down a bit. She’s still herself.”

“I know, I know,” Vernon muttered, sounding almost agitated as he puffed Snozz’s blunt. “Not fuckin’ sayin’ she’s a goddamn prude, just that I miss her crazy.” He ruffled a hand through his hair, tousling the black tresses. Then he was pulling a lighter out from his pocket, keeping the blunt held between his lips while he crisped it using the strong flame. “Fuck, I’m stargazin’ now, PJ’s,” he laughed hoarsely around a cloud of smoke.

You didn’t know what to do.

Vernon’s energy was disseminating throughout the room. It was like a sparkler, drawing hectic, amorphous shapes into the dark that remained in place for only a second before fading.

And you couldn’t keep up.

Suddenly, the door burst open. In paraded Kitty, twirling herself around the room, holding onto a small, black box with a mouthpiece, very similar to the girl’s from before. You heard her singing, words slurring into each other, careless in every sense. While you were utterly lost, Vernon seemed to recognize her messily constructed melody, singing along with her as they grooved in circles.

“C'mon, Snozz!” Kitty shouted, dropping to her knees in front of him as he remained fast asleep. “Let’s hear you sing!” She continued her musical number, grabbing Snozz by his shoulders, then holding up his head by tufts of fluffy hair, pressing the lyrics into his ear.

You were dead stiff.

“Don’t be a fuckin’ weirdo!” Vernon cackled.

Kitty tossed her hair back, laughing deliriously. “He needs fun!” She stumbled over to the bed where you were huddled akin to a sopping wet kitten caught in a flash freeze, watching her collapse onto the covers, praying you were invisible. Kitty breathed in, her device crackling, and exhaled a thick, rolling smoke that had a distinct, sweet smell. “Especially you,” she purred, capturing you in her enlarged, misty eyes. “You need fun.”

“Well, actually, I—”

“Vernon and Kitty are in the bedroom!” Someone shouted, interrupting your non-existent rebuttal after popping their head into the room.

And then the floodgates broke. About six or seven people streamed into the dark space, squawking over each other, muddling the air with a concoction of bitter smells and escalating the temperature to an uncomfortable warmth in a matter of mere seconds. Somebody found the remote control for the television. In a few blips, there was a music channel playing, the volume cranked until a consistent, rhythmic club beat was all you could hear. It was terrible. Wanting to spend some time with Vernon away from the chaos had morphed into a gathering for the completely inebriated.

Now, the chaos was taunting you at every angle.

Kitty crawled closer, holding the box between her teeth.

She proceeded to sit clumsily on her knees, legs opened wide, enough to see her underwear if you were curious to look. But she had such blissful unawareness, taking in another huff from her vape, letting the burn settle in her throat before blowing everything out. Your wrinkled, displeased face caught the brunt of a manufactured flavour you didn’t particularly appreciate.

“Seriously, babe,” Kitty drawled, scooting herself closer toward you, her knees nudging yours. “I have tablets. And they’re low dose. Easy.”

“Uh, that’s fine.” Gosh—your tone was so blatantly fragile—it sounded like your voice was thin glass. “I really don’t want any.”

“Yeah,” Kitty laughed, gasping for air, but instead lifting the vape to her round, full lips. “You don’t want them! I can see that!” She took another restless hit. You made sure to hold your breath. “But you definitely fuckin’ need ‘em, baby girl! It’ll take the edge off! I’ll even half the price!”

Abruptly, another body flopped onto the bed, toward the foot. Kitty turned around, and together, you watched a girl climb her way onto a man’s lap, arching her back smoothly as she bent over him, the tips of her fingers tickling down his face before their lips brushed in a kiss.

“Ew!” Kitty screamed around the mouthpiece to her vape. “Get a fuckin’ room, you sick freaks!” She pushed against the girl’s tiny arm, though it was a frivolous, teasing touch without scalding intention.

As you anxiously rubbed the back of your hand against your thrumming forehead, you felt a slickness, quickly realizing that the crown of your hair was dampened with sweat. Vernon blended into the crowd well. It seemed there were more people in the room, and no matter how intensely your eyes sorted between the dazed faces, none were recognizable. You attempted to shuffle off the bed, but Kitty had caught you, luring you sit back down. And you did, despite your gut hollering in vehement protest.

“I wanna know—,” she sang, pulling at a long loop of dyed hair close to her ear, “—and don’t take offense to it, sweetheart. But why come here if you weren’t planning on getting fucked up?” Almost to emphasize her point, she returned the vape to her lips. “Like, are you a masochist?”

Huddling away from a man standing a little too close to the bed, you rubbed along your arm in a pitiful attempt to self-soothe. “I-I, I don’t really…” you couldn’t think, and watching Kitty’s wide, unmoving eyes delightfully swallow your fear had you frozen. “I don’t know.”

“Because of Vernon?”

You couldn’t answer.

She suddenly cackled, head tossed back. The device hissed while she secured her lips around the mouthpiece, sucking in. When Kitty elaborated through a drifting screen of smoke, you couldn’t be bothered to hold your breath at the smell—you needed to breathe—your body wasn’t giving you a choice. “That’s cute,” the girl giggled. “Although, are you sure you’re completely sober? I know Vernon’s type…” her gaze subtly flickered over you in a heartbeat, “and I’m not sure how well you tick the boxes.” She flipped the hair off her shoulder, laughing. “You must be nasty in bed, then.”

When you swallowed, smudging your lips together, they felt drier than old, strained leather. It was near impossible to speak. Every word quivered, leaving your twitching tongue with such timidness and dread. “I-I don’t know…” you laughed brokenly. “I just—I think I’m gonna—"

“Know what I miss most about Vernon?” Kitty interrupted, her head tilting to the side, cheek rubbing her shoulder as though she were reminiscing a memory so magnificent and tender. But then her stare shot toward you, hardened, challenging, devilish. “How he would fuck me until my brain melted.” You swallowed, trembling. “He told me I was the best at taking him, that no one would ever compare.” Kitty started smirking, dragging a hand up her thigh, slow and flirtatious, as though she were retracing a sensual touch. “No pressure or anything!” Her taunting façade vanished, the smirk replaced by a smile, the challenging tone replaced by a nonchalant, almost encouraging warmth. But you knew it wasn’t genuine. Not at all.

“Thanks for sharing,” you sighed, completely deflated.

A part of you bristled with the urge to be more assertive as opposed to reclusive, but it was a very small part, enough to feel yet not enough to follow through with a vengeance.

Understanding the conversation was done now that Kitty had put you in your place with a calculated slash of humiliation, you slid off the bed, pushing around the bodies packed into the room. Regret had never raised so fast from the depth of your stomach. You could taste the acridness tangy in your mouth, feel the moment’s inertia, how the atmosphere seemed to be pulling you down with every step. How on Earth could you think this was a good idea? That you could somehow fit into Vernon’s life like a perfect building block? Were you really that delusional? That naïve?

Entering into the living room, you weren’t able to make it far without someone stepping into your way. So—he had left the bedroom.

“Where’re you off to?” Vernon asked.

You were too miserable to feign any softness. “I’m leaving.”

As you attempted to weave past him, Vernon opposed you. He tucked the blunt behind his ear, the edges of his lips furling into a disbelieving smile. “Fuck, you just got here PJ’s. Can’t be leavin’ so soon.”

“Well, I am,” you answered matter-of-factly. “Goodnight, Vernon.”

Again, he cut you off, stepping into your way. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay… so you’re headin’ out early 'cause…?”

“Because I want to. Now, can you please move?”

Predictably, the boy ignored your plea. He still wasn’t himself, and he wouldn’t be for a while. You didn’t want to speak with him regardless of his intoxication. The stinging, draping heaviness of your misjudgment was like a smothering blanket and Vernon was merely keeping the hot fabric trapped around you. His gaze seemed lost, refusing to connect the pieces.

You watched him shake his head. “No… somethin’ happened. And now it’s got you all upset, and you won’t fuckin’ tell me.”

Groaning, you shouldered past him forcefully. “Thanks, detective!”

He grabbed your wrist.

You whipped around, wresting for it back. “Vernon!”

“Let’s talk outside.” He nodded at the sliding glass doors across the carpeted living room. “No one’s out there. C’mon.” When you resisted his pulling with a deep scowl, he immediately opted for a different technique of zero patience, one that involved sweeping you off your damn feet and carrying you in his toned arms like a newlywed bride.

“Vernon!” You hollered; your cheeks aroused with heat. “Put me—p-put me down—you freaking idiot!” People were looking, but they didn’t seem to assume much, even stepping aside to let Vernon through the open sliding doors onto the cement platform. He dropped you down, and you stumbled, wobbling into a plastic lawn chair. “What the hell is your issue!”

“Okay,” he huffed, closing the curtains before pulling the sliding glass door shut. “Now that we’ve got some real privacy—” he turned toward you, “—let’s talk.”

“Talk about what!” You yelled. “I said I wanted to leave!”

“And you can,” Vernon encouraged, “as soon as you tell me—”

“It doesn’t matter what happened!” Standing behind the white lawn chair to place distance in between you, your head swung adamantly. “I’m glad it happened, actually. Because now I understand how stupid and delusional I've been!” You refused to look at Vernon, flickering your glassy eyes toward a buzzing lantern along the brick, trapped with dead leaves.

“Okay,” he hummed. “About what?”

“Stop,” you demanded.

He laughed, throwing out his arms. “Stop what?”

The answer didn’t come to you.

Nothing was. Inside your head was loud, overpowering static that deflected every possible thought, from the articulate to nonsensical, just like the television inside the bedroom. Not even the brisk, feathering cold of the pure night could penetrate you.

Vernon grabbed onto the lawn chair, moving it aside. You let him press into your melancholic aurora because you would and always have let him do just about anything. He pulled the most delicate strings inside you that you had never sensed before. He sparked feelings your body and mind had never experienced. It was like riding an unbelievable wind that refused to let your feet touch the ground, keeping you petrified but addicted to the freedom. And when you were back on Earth, it wasn’t long before you hated it, before you desperately wanted the rise, the gust, the weightlessness.

He told you that you were like a drug to him.

It was only now that you truly understood what he meant.

But you had never used drugs, and you weren’t about to start.

Vernon stood close enough to breathe you in; his arms folded; his warmth palpable. “Your eyes are all teary,” he murmured with concern.

“How do you not get it?” You whispered while staring down at the cracked slabs of cement. “We’re never, ever going to work. Not as friends, or as anything else—” your voice split, and you needed a moment to pause, reabsorb the pain. “It just won’t ever happen.”

He exhaled deeply, fingernails puncturing into his arms.

You quickly wiped off your own tears.

That was the moment Vernon finally caught your eyes. Everything about his stance shifted. It was like someone administered him a dose of clarity. “PJ’s…” he murmured, grabbing onto your arms, sliding his rough palms down your skin until your hands were gathered in his. “You’re fuckin’ jumpin’ to conclusions, you know that, right?” There was a squeeze against your fingers. “You’re seein’ the worst of everything, diggin’ a hole.”

“How else am I supposed to see it?!” You snapped, tearing your hands out from his solacing, sweet grip, beginning to pace around the cold patches of textured cement. “This is such a big part of your life! You love the freedom, the adventure, the high. You don’t want the lesser, boring, mundane stuff that everyone else has going on. And that’s exactly what I am, what I always will be!” After rubbing away the thin trails of tears scurrying down your cheeks, you bit back a futile, immature whine. “I can’t fit into your life and you can’t fit into mine! It’s that simple! There’s no meeting in the middle, no compromising. Nothing that could ever make us gel!”

Vernon stopped your pacing by shoving you at the shoulder. “Are you fuckin’ crazy, PJ’s?” He deadpanned. “We make us gel! We like each other! You just fuckin’ tiptoe around it, avoidin’ us at every turn. Doesn’t that just enforce our differences even more?”

“Likeness isn’t enough!” You told him, pushing off his hand. “How am I ever supposed to be okay with you snorting coke beside a girl you have sexual history with! How am I ever supposed to be okay that you’re affiliated with all these shady, dangerous weirdos! How will I ever get over the inevitable fact you’ll just get bored of me! We make absolutely no sense!”

Vernon chuckled irritably, tonguing against his cheek. “To you.”

“I-I can’t make it any clearer,” you admitted, exasperated.

“So, what now?” He snorted.

“Now,” you sniffled, wiping underneath your eye, “I’m leaving.”

Vernon removed the blunt from his ear. It was hardly smoking at that point, though he still attempted a puff, shaking his head. “I can’t fuckin’ believe you,” he laughed, exhaling swiftly. “You’re so fuckin’ stupid.”

“Goodnight,” you pronounced to the boy sharply.

Throwing the glass door back open, you stalked into the kitchen, finding your roommate in the exact place you had left her, with Moo exactly where you had left him. Their conversation seemed animated and jovial, and you would have felt awful about interrupting them if you weren’t so high-strung from arguing with Vernon.

Every inch of you was vibrating.

You sighed aloud cumbersomely. “I’m sorry if you guys are having fun, but I need to go home.”

They both paused, taking in your appearance.

Ruby raised her eyebrow. “Uh… sure.”

Moo wrinkled his nose. “Damn, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you muttered, fanning your sweltering face.

He checked the time on his phone, his expression bulging. “You guys have hardly made a dent here! C’mon! You can’t leave this early—”

“I want to go home!” You shouted, glaring him into a stupefied silence.

Ruby swallowed, unable to hide her shock that such a booming, aggressive statement could come from such a docile person. But it was the flash of desperation she needed to see, immediately understanding that something had gone wrong and you were in the process of crumbling.

“No, we gotta leave,” Ruby said tersely. “Thanks for the drink.”

Moo followed after you into the corridor, his head tilted against the frame. Ruby helped you into her cushiony coat before reaching for her own. “Can I at least order your Uber?” He offered, hopeful.

Ruby brushed some hair off her lip. “No, it’s alright. I’ve got a friend who’s just coming off work. She’ll be way faster. And no payment needed.”

“Ah, okay,” Moo nodded, his tone dragging with disappointment, although you assumed it was due to losing Ruby and not yourself.

Outside, the cold suddenly felt way colder than it had when you were filled to the brim with heat, arguing. Now, you sensed every nip and bite from the wind. Ruby hurried after you to the base of the driveway, scurrying along the rough gravel as she texted her friend. Once you reached the dented mailbox sticking out from the ground at an odd angle, Ruby had finally caught up to you, the concern in her expression evident.

“What happened?” She asked, frowning.

You didn’t know how to respond, standing silently while the wind whipped the bottoms of your lengthy coat. The only thing you could squeeze out was a self-deprecating croak of regret. “I’m so stupid, Ruby,” you cried, the water flooding your eyes instantly, turning the night a blur. “I always make the dumbest choices!” 

“No you don’t!” Ruby was quick to correct you.

“Is this not proof enough?” You rebutted, throwing your arm in the direction of the house. “I mean, what the hell am I doing here? It’s because a made a stupid choice, about a stupid guy, and I followed it, stupidly!”

Your roommate sighed, pulling some fluttering crimson tresses away from her tinged, blushed cheeks. She then stood next to you, wrapping an arm around your waist, pressing you against her warm side. Honestly, you weren’t looking for a lecture, another back and forth, a pep-talk about how you were treating yourself too unfairly. She seemed to understand that, opting to comfort you with her closeness instead, and you leaned into her jasmine scent gratefully.

Although, the relief was only temporary.

You could only surmise how much it was going to hurt later.

—END OF PART FOUR.

[chocosvt]

ghost ride | part four.

✧✎ synopsis: post-graduate, your life sucks especially hard. two jobs, a lazy roommate, and an imperceptible social life have dulled you to grey. nothing seems like it's going to change. until your roommate decides to let her plug crash at your place, and you're bribed into a strange adventure that challenges everything you thought you were.

pairing: fem!reader x vernon chapter word count: 25k full length word count: 186k genres/tropes: drug dealer!vernon, reader is a post-grad w/ a flop degree lol, inclusion of OCs, gay!soonyoung for the lol, appearances from other svt characters, opposites attract, romance, teasinggg, tensionnn, unrequited love, angst, adventure, smut, relationship drama, sprinkling of comedy, another excruciating slowburn bc what else? + reader is a tad dramatic/sensitive but that's why i love her :]

(!) warnings: drugs (IE: weed, molly, coke, whippets, alcohol), mention of guns, mention of death/overdose, intense language, an instance of non-consensual touching to the reader by a side character, some toxic & possessive behaviour, degrading, aggression, mentions of physical abuse/harm, dips into grief and loss, fractured family dynamics on vernon's part.

✧✎ a/n: a bit of an earlier upload since i have work in the morning :( but when you finish this part it means we are officially more than halfway through the series! that is kraziness.

thank you again for all the kind comments & reblogs <3 i didn't expect many ppl to actually get into this fic bc of its length and subject matter so i'm glad there are readers willing to take the journey with me teehee.

also, i rly do encourage yall to check out ghana's many hopes. they do AMAZING things for young girls rescued from trafficking! they get to learn skillsets and have opportunities to build support systems!

what to note:

there are seven parts in the series

releases are weekly, ~12am EST, sunday!

inspo playlist!

if at any point you want on or off the taglist, comment/inbox/msg me!

additionally, the chapters/parts are lengthy. the first six parts are between 24-27k while the finale/ending is 30k+!

✎ 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 | 06 | 07

PS: please note that i block contentless blogs who like my posts!

THIS WEEK: Let's Help Ghana's Many Hopes!

leave a comment or make a reblog stating something you enjoyed abt the chapter! at the end of the week, i will tally all legitimate comments/reblogs and make a donation to said organization.

IE: this chapter gets 15 comments, 25 reblogs - i donate 40$! pls note that i am a uni student living away from home so i will vary my donations accordingly to my financial situation at the time <3

You stopped by the apartment to grab a few things. After leaving the pastry behind in the fridge for Ruby, you shoved pyjamas into your knapsack—checkered bottoms and the pony t-shirt, as you had been coming to the end of your clothes—and some skincare from the washroom.

It didn’t take as long as you remembered to reach Vernon’s place.

The small, frisky dog with cataracts was barking at you two, scratching against the shutters, just like last time. Someone had finally fixed the broken doorway, replacing the wooden board with glass. You repeated the same tiresome trek up the winding staircase until reaching the fourth floor, where you released an audible breath of repose upon entering his cozy bachelor. No plain grey walls, no stiffness, no apprehension.

“Do you mind texting Ruby?” You sighed, handing Vernon your phone. “She’s asking about what happened. Just tell her I’ll explain everything tomorrow, and not to worry too much.” It was torturous to open your messages and see Lee’s unopened notifications pleading at you. “It is okay if I use your bathroom for a second? To change and wash up?”

Vernon looked down at your phone, then back at you. “Sure.”

The washroom wasn’t in great shape, but it was still better than what you imagined—at least for someone who was hardly there to clean it.

Most of the damage didn’t seem like Vernon’s fault, but rather the cheap costliness pertaining to the landlord. A crappy patch job in the shower, chips in the porcelain sink, peeling, faded wallpaper beginning to curl from the corners.

You set your knapsack down on the toilet, unzipped it, and pulled out your face product, which you soaked onto a cotton pad. Staring yourself down in the water-stained mirror, underneath the ghostly sterileness of the washroom’s pale lighting, you began wiping off all the dried tears and grime that stippled your skin. Every swipe of the cotton pad only made you focus with more intensity on yourself, until you felt so unbelievably and wildly unattractive that you couldn’t bear to stare into the mirror any longer.

With an exhausted sniffle, you unbuttoned your jeans. One leg at a time, you kicked them off, before removing the shirt overtop your head, tossing your bra onto the clothes you left bunched on the floor. Before you could catch a glimpse of your bare body in the mirror, every little detail under the light’s harsh dissection, you quickly jumped into your pyjama bottoms and wrestled on the loose t-shirt to unaesthetically match.

A deep breath before going back out to face Vernon.

He was lounging on the futon. You dropped your knapsack onto the coffee table, gave him a queasy, weak smile, and collapsed next to him.

Vernon tilted his head toward you. “Need anything? Water? There isn’t much in the fridge and I’m a shitty fuckin’ cook, but I can make a pretty gnarly grilled cheese. Takeout is fine, too. The world’s your… uh… oyster.”

But you shook your head. “I’m fine.”

He then held out your phone, which you dropped into your bag. You didn't want to read anything. You didn't want to know anything.

“I told Ruby what you said,” Vernon mumbled. “She responded a few times. Didn’t read it.” He proceeded to shrug. “Well, didn’t answer it.”

“I’ll set aside some time to text her tonight.”

He nodded, looking out the apartment window for a moment or two before Vernon turned his attention back to you. There was a reluctance in his expression, a withdrawal, like he desperately wanted to ask but felt tentative in case his queries were too intruding. You appreciated his sensitivity. His eyes flicked you up and down a few times in thought.

And then he pulled the trigger. “So? I get to know anything?”

You were curled up closer to him than usual, your cheek just barely grazing the boy’s shoulder. It was solacing to feel his heat, smell the outdoors on his clothes, the tinges of flavoured smoke. Your body untied itself.

Then, you were drawing in a long, long breath. “I tried breaking up with Lee…” you started, speaking quietly, “and it turned to… shit.”

No antagonizing remarks. No comical digs. He stayed silent.

“I didn’t expect it to be that hard. He was being so nice to me the second I stepped in the door. I just… couldn’t get the words out, y’know? It was torture.” Pulling your knees closer into your chest, you stared down at the open space of Vernon’s lap, his strong thighs. “Once he was done his homework, he came right next to me on the bed…” it was suddenly harder to speak, your throat automatically tightening up. “I was so stupidly nervous that I couldn’t articulate enough. Lee started kissing me… on my neck… he started moving his hand down my shirt…” your eyes began to sting again, blurring your vision into a cloudy vignette. “He tried to touch me, you know, in between my legs,” you breathed out in a trembly voice, “but I got too scared and stopped it. It’s like he was completely missing the signals I was giving. He was like, pulling me back down onto the bed and I freaked out even more. I had to leave. I couldn’t—I felt like I was on fire—like he was trying to trap me. I-I don’t know. It was all so quick.”

You started looking around for a tissue box.

Vernon reached underneath the coffee table to grab you one.

Pulling out two tissues, you fought to capture a structured breath, taking a moment to dry your eyes and blow your nose. “Then…” you huffed, skin irritated and wet, “I couldn’t help but think it was my fault, y’know? That I should have been upfront. I’ve just been so nervous and uncomfortable about intimacy with him. I don’t know why. But… maybe if I was more vocal, he would have understood, and, like…” bringing another tissue to your face, you blotted up the tears, sniffling louder and louder. “I just feel like, so useless. So dumb.” Blinking at the crumpled tissue squeezed into the flesh of your sore hand, you wanted to shrink, to disappear, as the embarrassment flushed through you.

Vernon shook his head. “What happened wasn’t your fault.”

You nodded. “I-I know. It’s just hard not to think that way…”

“No, PJ’s, look at me.” Vernon angled himself on the futon so he could face you more intimately, capturing your fullest attention, until the brilliant rings of his earthen irises were all you could gauge. “What he did was completely not your fault. There’s no excuse for it. Someone who actually has your best interests at heart is not gonna treat you like that,” he reaffirmed you, his tone much more serious, unnegotiable. “He was countin’ on your discomfort to keep you quiet, so he could do whatever the fuck he wanted. He wasn’t bein’ oblivious, or missin’ your signals. Bet he knew what was comin’ and figured gettin’ inside you could change your mind. That’s real slimy fuckin’ behaviour. I should kill him for that. But you stood up for yourself, right? And even if you didn’t, it still wouldn’t be your fault.” Vernon reached his arm around you, rubbing up and down your shoulder as his firm reassurance only sparked another onslaught of waterworks.

“I’m sorry,” you spluttered, piling all your used tissues onto the coffee table before pulling the collar of your t-shirt up against your cheek, letting it absorb all the dampness. “I’m such a mess.”

“Fuck that,” Vernon laughed, pulling you closer into him. “You can be a mess when you’re with me, yeah? You really think I give a fuck?”

A smile broke through your lips. “N-No.”

“Exactly.” He nudged his nose against your hair. “I’ve been around you enough to know how dramatic you are. Usually you’re dramatic about shit that doesn’t matter,” Vernon chuckled. “But I like it.”

Your head slid into the crook underneath his chin. “So, I’m being perfectly dramatic about this. Is that what you’re saying?” You teased.

“Hey, you be the master of your emotions, alright? Don’t let anyone else dictate anything without good reason.”

“How are you so randomly eloquent and insightful?” You let out a half-hearted giggle, snuggling your face in closer to his neck. That’s where his cologne was most concentrated. Rich amber filled your nose and floated to the centre of your head.

The backs of Vernon’s fingers stopped at your elbow. After what felt like an oddly long pause, he rubbed his nose and chuckled, “dunno.”

Silence followed, soft enough to touch.

And you couldn’t have embraced it more.

Closeness with Vernon felt so easy that you wondered why you ever bothered grasping at straws when it came to Lee. The way you slotted against his side was like perfectly matched puzzle pieces. His calloused fingertips drifting along your bare arm was equal parts soothing and arousing. Having the weight of his chin rested on your head made you feel so protected, as though nothing in the world could reach you. With his other arm lax in his lap, you took the opportunity to meet your fingertip with a vein underneath his prettily inked skin, which you proceeded to trace until it disappeared into the elbow's crook. His shifted his hips as you touched him and nothing had ever made you want to jump across his thighs more.

Swallowing, you retracted your hand. “Was it good?”

Vernon casted back his hair, humming. “What?”

You repeated yourself, more audibly this time. “Was it good?”

 “Was what good?”

Biting your lip, you eventually came to murmur, “the head?”

“Oh,” Vernon laughed, snorting. “Uh, fuck, it was fine.”

You stared up at him through your lashes. “Is she a friend?”

There was a prominent stiffness to his rising adam’s apple, sharp against his throat, like an arrowhead. “Not really. I know her name, where I met her, and that she fucks heavy with ketamine. But she’s not that nice around the privates, you feel? I try to tell her what I like but she just fuckin’ operates my dick like she’s drivin’ a damn stick,” Vernon chuckled, shrugging. “You’re easy priority over that.”

Looking back down, you smiled. “I guess that’s nice to know.”

“Shit—even if it was the best fuckin’ brain I ever got—I still would have come got you,” Vernon asserted, slipping his hand underneath your arm, his fingers pressing deep into your ribs. “Lucky you, huh?”

You nodded, adjusting the knees against your chest.

Vernon cleared his throat. “Why don’t I throw on a movie?”

“Okay,” you obliged. “What kind?”

“Let’s look on my Netflix—well—not mine. I’ve been bummin’ off the dude who lives underneath me. But I give him mint weed. So it’s fair.”

He grabbed the remote off the coffee table and turned on his flat-screen television, which took a moment to start up. You assumed he didn’t use it much as you both watched the spinning loading circle.

Vernon smirked. “Is it really comfy to sit like that?”

You frowned. “Like what?”

“With your knees against your chest. You always sit like that. Why don’t you spread out more?” He offered. “Put your legs across my lap.”

A weight hit your throat. “Are you sure?”

“No, I gave you that option so I could take it back three fuckin’ seconds after I said it,” he sighed, chuckling. “Yes, I’m sure.”

Naturally, you obeyed, untucking your legs and resting them across the boy’s thighs. He was right. It felt way more leisurely.

“Why don’t you pick the movie? Show me one of your favourites.”

While you operated the remote, Vernon had his palm lying flat against your knee. The smile that shot to your face was immediate, unbridled twitches dancing in your cheeks, though you attempted to hide it. Whenever he touched you, no matter how faint, it set off unstoppable fireworks from the base of your abdomen, fulgurant and hot and sizzling with desire that was near impossible to quench.

“There,” you sniffed. “Wall-E.”

“Oh, that’s a banger. I haven’t seen it in ages.”

You grinned into his neck. “Then you’ll love it even more.”

It was difficult not to fall asleep as the movie played.

The apartment grew dimmer and dimmer over the hour, with the sun setting outside, pulling all the baby blue out from the winter sky until it was an unsaturated cloth. Your head was in such a comfortable position, cradled against Vernon’s shoulder, and you had only curled up more such that you were a ball half-supported in his lap. His body heat was pulling down your eyelids and the strokes of his hand along your thigh’s underside was so lulling. You didn’t even realize the movie had ended. It was Vernon’s fingers tenderly brushing the hair from your face that rekindled your senses, and you began to stretch, watching the film’s credits through the apartment’s hazy darkness.

“It’s over?” You yawned.

Vernon laughed. “It’s been over.”

“Oh…” you blinked, still wearing off your brain fog. “Why didn’t you wake me up for my favourite part?! When Eve gets Wall-E to remember everything! And they hold hands! It always makes me cry in happiness!”

“And how the fuck am I supposed to know that?”

You ignored him, falling back against his shoulder. Staring out the wide windows, gazing across the last embers of sunlight buried far against the horizon, you sighed, “that’s my absolute favourite part…”

Vernon picked up the remote. “I can go back.”

“No, it won’t be the same.”

“Don’t fall asleep then.”

“Uh? Wake me up then?” You retorted. “Dumbass.”

“Aren’t you gettin’ all relaxed with the language?” He snickered, rubbing his thumb to your thigh in such a way that you nearly purred. “I’ve never heard you drop so many swears. Should I call your mom?”

“Hey—I’ve had an awful day—I can drop all the swears I want.”

“M’kay, fair.”

Your eyes stilled on the empty fish tank that caught your curiosity when you first visited. It seemed like it had been sitting on the shelf for months. The glass was cloudy, uncleaned, with some tubes left curled up against the bottom. If it never belonged to Vernon, you couldn’t help but wonder who. Maybe the presumed sister shown in the photo frame on his nightstand. The tank was large, likely fitting a decent number of fish. It must have required a notable deal of commitment and responsibility. Vernon hadn’t spared much information when you originally asked him, though you were tempted to ask again, even if it got you nowhere.

“If the tank isn’t yours, then whose is it?”

He chuckled. “Why?”

“I don’t know. Is it a secret?”

“Not… exactly…” Vernon answered, sounding hesitant. “It just belonged to someone who was really important to me, y’know?”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Nah, it’s fine.” He breathed out for a moment, and you could feel the shallowing of his broad chest underneath your hand. There was a subtle increase in his heartbeat, each thud gentle but quickened. “I’ll show you something, actually,” Vernon said. “But you gotta move.”

You smiled, shuffling away from his heat. “Sure.”

Vernon got up from the futon. He turned on a light belonging to a ceiling fan above his bed, then approached one of the drawers on his dresser and started rifling around through its unorganized contents.

Oh my gosh, it’s happening! It’s happening! You were shrieking inside your head, jumping up and down like you’d just won an insane lottery.

He’s actually going to show me something personal!

He trusts me! He’s opening up!

As he sunk back into the futon, you noticed that Vernon had a few photographs in his hand. They looked like polaroid images based on the fuzziness and white-cast. You straightened up, practically vibrating with anticipation, while he arranged them a certain way.

“So, for context’s sake: this dude was my best friend for years. I met him when I was sixteen. He was nineteen, at the time. You could call it a double-edged knife—” (sword, you thought), “—but he showed me everything I know. When it felt like no one else gave a fuck about me, if I lived or died, he was, like, the hand on my shoulder, y’know?” At last, he gave you one of the glossy polaroid images. It was taken on a concrete staircase belonging to an aged-looking brick house. Vernon was on the right, dressed in his thick bomber jacket and throwing up a peace sign. The young man beside him wore a dark green windbreaker. His complexion was much tanner than Vernon’s, his rusty hair slicked back and a cigarette loosely hanging from the corner of his mouth. You stared at the stranger intently, bringing the photograph closer to your face. Vernon sighed. “That’s him.”

“What’s his name?” You wondered.

“Everyone called him Dots.”

“A nickname?”

“Yeah,” Vernon said, nodding. “It’s hard to tell in that picture, but his cheeks, across his nose, was all covered in freckles. Y’know, dots.” He began to laugh as his eyes roamed the other image in his hand. “Girls fuckin’ loved that. It was the first thing they’d compliment—your freckles are so pretty—and he was always so polite. But his real name was Paulo—the other guy that Minghao asked you about.”

Vernon passed you another fuzzy polaroid, though he didn’t feature in the shot this time. His friend occupied the image, likely taken at a house party judging from the bedazzled strangers frozen in time behind him. He was wearing glittery New Year’s Eve glasses shaped just like the number, a red solo cup in one hand, a smoking cigar packed with herb in the other. There was something so irritatingly familiar about Vernon’s friend. It was akin to an itch you just couldn’t scratch, no matter how hard you stretched.

“Yeah…” Vernon hummed, “he was a sweet guy. Pretty mellow, actually. Not that into parties, clubs. He had a lot of interests, too. That fish tank was one of ‘em. He kept all kinds of shit in there. Snails, little shrimps, all these fishies whose names I can’t fuckin’ remember. He liked to read books a lot. He even showed me how to press flowers one time when we got bored in the summer—no clue where the fuck he learned how to do that—he just kinda knew stuff.”

You laughed. “Probably from all his books.”

Vernon nodded. “Good point.”

“So… he does what you do?”

“Kinda. When I first met him, he was just a dealer. But he knew all the right people. And he was super charismatic. So it was easy for him the climb the ranks and get the right promotions. Instead of pullin’ the shots, he was callin’ them, y’know?” Vernon let the last photograph slip into your hand, which you brought close to your inspection. “He was more of a distributor. He got people to move product. I did that for him. At one point I wanted to be more, but he told me it wasn’t worth it. Low profile is better in the long run. Especially if you want to get out. Makes it way easier.”

It wasn’t a polaroid image.

The detail was much crisper, with a full spectrum of vivid colour. You recognized the Camry. The two boys were sitting atop its hood, rough sneakers on the silver bumper (then, without a spot of rust), elbows weighted against their knees. Vernon was in his cherished bomber while his friend wore a jacket, green-checkered fleece. Without the polaroid glare, you could see all the details of his freckled face, from the big, dark brown eyes to the piercing in his dimple.

You knew him.

You had seen him before.

“That shitty car I drive,” he snorted, “that used to be his. But he sold it to me for a cheap buck. I always wondered why. That car went everywhere he went. Sentimental type shit. I was honoured, though.”

“Vernon.”

“Yeah?”

Looking at him, your eyes widened. “I met your friend, Dots.”

His forehead was quick to wrinkle. “Really? No bullshit?”

You cast through the photos again, your certainty only becoming stronger, the memories crawling out from the deepest recesses of your mind like the dead unearthing from tombs. “He came to Mr. York’s, I think over a year ago,” you started explaining. “I was newer, having a super hard night… I thought he was gonna be another customer to shove me around but he was sweet. He even… drove me home.” The memory was uncompletely unthawed. Everything rushed back to you: missing the bus, chasing after him down the dewy street, getting into the car, feeling nervous but relieved. There was a softness about him that you had never experienced from anyone else, a certain trustworthiness that sat so right in your gut. “I remembered asking for his name, too. He didn’t tell me.”

“Shit—he drove you home?” Vernon was astonished, immediately pressing for more information. “When was this again?”

“Over a year ago. Not this recent fall, but the one before it.”

“At… where?”

“Mr. York’s,” you laughed. “Where I work, as a server.”

“Oh, fuck. Right.”

“I never saw him again,” you admitted, suddenly becoming overwhelmed with forlorn. How funny that one encounter with a complete stranger could evoke such powerful yearning, as though he had been a dear friend, someone like Diana. You supposed it was the unexplored possibility of everything ahead, a road never taken, a bridge never crossed. Lives skimming by but never blending.

“That’s crazy as fuck,” Vernon rasped, dragging a hand through his loose, shiny hair, grinning formidably bright. “You and Dotsy, huh?”

“Wow—you have a nickname for his nickname?”

“Of course.” His hands fell back into his lap. Vernon started prodding at the cuticle of his thumb. “It makes sense, though.”

You looked between the photographs again. “What makes sense?”

“Why he drove you home.” Vernon sunk lower into the futon, spreading out his legs and folding his arms, running the tip of his tongue along his teeth. “He liked shy, awkward, weird girls like you."

“Gee,” you coughed. “Thanks, I guess.”

He grabbed your knee and shook it. “It’s a good thing. I think people like that feel the sincerest, right? It’s not an act. That’s just how they are. They can’t help it.”

You pursed your lip, appreciating the nuance of the idea, and the comfort it harboured. “Maybe… I never thought about it like that.” At last, you set the three photographs onto the coffee table, leaving the particular polaroid of the two boys relaxed against the concrete stoop on top, and joined Vernon in leaning back into the futon. Rubbing your lips, you thought for a moment. “Are you guys still friends?”

Vernon tilted his head at you, laughed heartily. “He’s dead.”

“O-Oh…” you stuttered, frowning. “I’m so sorry.”

But he casually dismissed your sympathy. “No need to apologize.”

“That’s really upsetting,” you sighed, grabbing onto your ankles. “I would have loved to know him better. I mean, he seemed so kind.”

“He was. He did his job well, but he never should have been there. I’m sure you two would have got on well. I mean, already seemed like it.”

Your smile beamed at him, like a gleaming rainbow.

Fiddling with the collar of your sock, you wavered on whether or not to ask about the gloomy specifics. The smile began to drift from your countenance, replaced by teeth nervously chewing your lip. “Am I allowed to ask how he passed? You don't have to tell me.”

“Overdose,” Vernon answered. “Gruesome stuff.”

He didn’t mention if it was accidental or not.

Either way, you sensed the distant hurt underneath his firm tone.

Picking up the photographs, Vernon took them to the privacy of his dresser, setting them down into the cabinet space with gentleness, as though he were handling a delicate flower bouquet. “Talk later, Dotsy,” he lilted before shutting the drawer. “Miss you every day.”

You were woken up much earlier than preferred by the daylight glaring in through the windows. At first, you assumed you were in your own bedroom, where you almost always kept the curtains shut because your view was a parking lot. Hence your confusion to pull the covers off your face and realize there was a ceiling fan directly above you, in addition to a series of posters against the wall that definitely weren’t yours. Shuffling to sit upright, you saw Vernon sprawled across the futon with a grey blanket half-pooled onto the floor, exactly where you had left him the night before.

He was holding a phone above his face, thumbs tapping away, rogue bits of hair sticking straight up. It was unbelievably strange to awaken in a bed that wasn’t yours. At least it was a Sunday.

You had nowhere to be.

Rubbing the bleariness from your eyes, you yawned. “Morning.”

Vernon poked his head up. “Oh—you’re awake. Sleep alright?”

While adjusting the blankets in your lap, you nodded, glancing around the apartment and noticing how subtly the morning light impacted its appearance. Everything felt cooler, softer. “Yeah… I think I conked right out, to be honest.” You grabbed your phone, making a quick pitstop of your messages. The notification to Lee’s had disappeared. Ruby had texted you a few times around midnight. “Have you been up long?”

He shrugged, guesstimating. “Uh, maybe an hour?”

“I can’t believe you’re an early-riser. It doesn’t fit you at all.”

“Why?” The boy snickered, continuing to dawdle on his phone, throwing his leg over the back of the futon. “You think I’m lazy? That us drug dealers just mooch around all day, stoned and fuckin’ brainless?”

“Well, you don’t have the best portrayals through media.”

Finally, he slapped his phone down. “I’m glad I can be a little science experiment to you. Contact with the specimen is critical, huh?”

Your eyes rolled, and you reached for the water glass that Vernon left you atop his nightstand, taking a brief gulp. Most of his glasses were dusty, but the water tasted pure. “I wonder if the specimen will prove his productive nature by making breakfast? Science has to know.”

Vernon pushed himself to sit up, tossing the blanket off his legs.

He ruffled a hand through his fuzzy bedhead, attempting to calm the hectic tangles but somehow only making them worse. “Is that your fancy-smancy way of askin’ me to make you a meal? You’re a demandin’ scientist.”

“Science is always demanding. It’s serious stuff.”

Grinning, you watched Vernon lethargically drag himself over to the kitchenette, pulling out a frying pan from one of the cabinets that he clanged onto the stove. He made you a grilled cheese, paired with orange juice and a vanilla yogurt that you double-checked the expiry date on, the ensemble served to you in bed, with a dramatic bow from Vernon and the flap of the kitchen towel landing over his shoulder. “There you go, Miss. Is it to your utmost liking?” He asked in a quaint, smooth British accent, attempting to mimic a natural poshness.

“It is,” you answered. “Your productivity has been noted.”

Vernon didn’t at all rush you through breakfast, though you suspected he had somewhere to be judging from the change of clothes and quick self-pampering in the washroom. He plopped himself back down on the futon after fixing his whirlwind hair and brushing his teeth. “Mintiness is next to godliness or whatever the fuck,” he had said, sticking a Listerine strip on his tongue.

He drove you home about an hour later.

It was the worst car ride of your life—not that it was actually terrible in any sense—but chiefly because it meant your night with him was over, long gone, flicked away to the ephemeral past. He had been so supportive, so reassuring, so polite, more than you could have expected. You never would have thought those qualities of Vernon when you first met him back in the fall, though time and trust had eased you two closer, and in the process, your understanding became enriched. He was stubbornly himself in ways that others could never grasp or accept, not that it mattered to him.

The good, the bad—it wasn’t separate—but an interwoven whole.

As the car stalled outside the curb to your apartment, you gave the boy an earnest, appreciative smile. “Thank you, Vernon. Seriously.”

“All good.” He shrugged. “Talk later, PJ’s.”

Your heart was heavy, watching him pull away, disappear into whatever venture awaited him next. It felt like your connection was a thread that tied you two together, and whenever he left, the thread was unraveling, being pulled, aching at the strain of your accumulating distance.

Entering the apartment, you jammed to a holt upon noticing Ruby sat on the sofa, arms folded crossly. She was clad in a hot pink bathrobe and her sleek-furred designer slippers, wet hair pulled into a bun, bright white cream smeared underneath her eyes.

She bobbed her ankle up and down.

You smiled at her, sheepish. “Heyyy…”

“Don’t ‘heyyy’ me,” the girl snapped, regurgitating your awkward tone of voice. “My phone has exploded with text messages from Lee, saying how badly he needs to apologize to you—apologize for what—I have no fucking clue! Because you left me out to dry! I’ve been worried sick! And then I realized you’re not even home, you’re sleeping over at Vernon’s?!” She gestured at you, babbling on. “Dressed in your pyjamas?! I mean, walk of shame, much? Please, please, please tell me you didn’t—”

“No,” you laughed, pulling off your lazily-adorned coat and throwing it on the rack, “we did not have sex. All I did was sleep over.”

Ruby furrowed her faint brow, eyes boring into you with the strength of flying knives. Giggling, you dragged your knapsack over to the sofa, plopping down beside her and settling your hand over top hers, which was splayed on her knee. It actually felt nice to get scolded by Ruby, to defrost her mellowness and sense the depth of her care.

She proceeded to dramatically whip her hand away. “I want to be even meaner, but considering I don’t know what happened… I’m dialing back much of the meanness…” sighing, Ruby softened her gaze. “What the hell happened? Lee’s texts have been worrying me to death.”

You hated having to rehash the ugly details. Once already felt like enough, but the second time was just unabashedly painful. Guilt was scribbled all over Ruby’s face, and while it was impossible to blame her, you knew she was deeply upset about being the one to introduce you and Lee. He was her friend, too. Someone she trusted and regarded highly enough to suggest a relationship with her roommate. But you were adamant that she shouldn’t criticize herself so undeservingly, and after the exchanges of comfort between you, the girl was furious, stomping around the living room.

“I should call his mother!”

“I should throw a bucket of molasses over his windshield!”

“I should superglue his law textbook shut!”

You decided it was best to let her vent.

Until Ruby finally came to a pause, dropped open her mouth, and looked at you quizzically. “Wait—you told this to Vernon, too, right? What was his reaction? What did he say?”

“He was a sweetheart. Really nice about everything.”

Ruby jutted out her hip, readjusting the straps to her flashy bathrobe before slicking her hands against her damp hair. “You don’t say?”

“Yeah, I wasn’t expecting it either.”

“Where did he go, after he dropped you off?”

You shrugged, settling back against the sofa. “I’m not sure. I assume he has, y’know, drug dealy stuff to do. He didn’t linger, just took off.”

“Oh,” Ruby said with a breathy, faltering smile. “Okay, well, I’m going to, uh, get dressed. We can do whatever you want afterward!’ She scrambled to grab her charm-decorated phone off the coffee table, slippers scuffing fast across the floor as she burst into her bedroom.

Weird. 

Holding your breath, you listened intently to the silence.

But then you heard your roommate’s voice echoing at low from her room, and you knew she was on the phone. Using your tiptoes, you pranced over to Ruby’s door, ever so subtly pressing your ear against the crack. Yes, you were being a gigantic sleuthing snoop, but something about it felt warranted.

“Vernon, just listen to me, this isn’t going to help—okay, yes! It’s going to help you feel better, but what about her? You never think things through… I understand what happened, she just told me… he is a piece of shit! I agree with you, but—I care about her, too! You don’t think I want to dent Lee’s face in for how he made her feel? … Please, please, please, for the love of God, you already get into enough trouble! Don’t add another freaking battery charge to your already insane resume of illegal activity! You seriously won’t get out of prison, you idiot! … Yes… Yes, I get it… I know how much you care for her… thank the fucking holy fucking ghost. You made the right choice, okay? I know it.”

Hearing Ruby hang up the call, you sped away from her door and settled back onto the couch, fingers twiddling anxiously in your lap.

Was Vernon going to do something to Lee?

You couldn’t be sure about the situation without admitting you had eavesdropped on Ruby. When she came out from her bedroom, you reminded her she still had cream under her eyes. She started rubbing it in, sighing aloud, like she had just adverted an assassination attempt. You weren’t sure what to think, what to feel, just that you couldn’t shake Vernon from your mind for the rest of the day, no matter what you did.

“Honey Buns, wow, I haven’t had these in a lifetime.”

“Doesn’t that technically mean you’ve never had it?”

Soonyoung’s voice sounded from over your shoulder, followed by the rustling of plastic. “Dunno—they’re good, though.”

You were helping him stock some of the snacks. It was opening and the morning crowd would start trickling in soon. While Soonyoung worked on more of the individually packaged foods, you were refilling the candy bars. The Twix and KitKats were almost completely empty.

“Anyway,” Soonyoung mumbled, “back to my story…”

Since he was stocking the aisle behind yours, you could freely roll your eyes without worrying about being rude, unlike Soonyoung, who would roll his eyes straight to your face. But you always listened to the babblings of his weekend antics because he always listened to your incessant qualms about the universe and your issues—it was only fair. Half the time you tuned him out, anyway. It was typically the same stuff: getting drunk or high, stirring up trouble, running into a handsome guy, and then they’d end up having sex some place unorthodox, like a porta-potty, or a toolshed.

You tore open another box of chocolate bars.

“… and I was, like, starting to get nervous, ‘cause I promised everyone I would get them tablets, but my plug wasn’t answering. So, I had to, like, keep assuring them and shit, right? I’ve had this specific acid tablet before so I knew it was good, but the thing is, I can only get them from this mysterious Chinese dude who kinda looks like a punk rock vampire. That’s beside the point, though. Anyway, at the last second, he comes through—”

“Wait,” you interrupted, turning around and brushing the boy’s shoulder to get his attention. “Are the tablets from Minghao?”

Soonyoung stopped stocking his Honey Buns. He looked at you, sun-bleached eyebrows strung high up his forehead. “You know Minghao?”

“Uh, not really… but I’ve been trying to, uh… it’s complicated…”

You couldn’t believe it! So, maybe it wasn’t Darian that told Minghao about you and Vernon, maybe it was Soonyoung all along. He did have a pretty big mouth… you wouldn’t be surprised if he let something stupid fly off the cuff. It somehow made too much sense.

Even though you wanted to holler, you tried to stay relaxed.

He adjusted his backwards cap. “Shit, you’re trying to buy?”

“No,” you assured, shaking your head. “Not at all. But, uh, did you know he was the one who was spray painting the building? Those octopuses? Octopi? Whatever.”

He scratched behind his neck, adverting eye contact. “Maybe…”

You gasped, “and you didn’t tell me you figured it out?!”

“Okay, okay, okay, before you have a cow, I didn’t say anything because I handled the situation and I just wanted it to be behind us. Once I realized it was him, I just slipped the dude some extra cash so he’d stop with the doodles. And—would you look at that—he stopped!” Soonyoung defended.

This time, you rolled your eyes to his face. “I can’t believe this.”

“I solved the problem, alright?”

“Those doodles had my arms limp and lifeless. I had to work cash hardly being able to lift a damn thing! Do you know how dehumanizing it was to ask men to tilt their beer to the side so I could scan it? I’ve never been called sweetheart, cupcake, and honey more in my entire life!”

“Well, I apologize,” Soonyoung tutted. “But it’s in the past.”

You huffed, turning back around to continue cramming chocolate bars onto the shelf, chewing your inner cheek. But you didn’t get very far in the task. “So, you’re familiar with him? Where does he stay?”

“Fuck if I know,” Soonyoung scoffed, bending down to grab another box and bumping you. “I just meet the dude in random ass places.”

“Does he ever mention anything specific?”

“Like what?” He groaned.

“I don’t know, like, clues to where he might live?”

“Why do you wanna know?” Soonyoung retaliated, laughing as he tore open the box in his hands. “Gonna get him back? Pull a prank on him? Finger-paint all over his windows?”

“No,” you grumbled, pausing to think of a reason. “It’s for… Ruby. She’s interested.” Oops, sorry Ruby, you winced. “They hit it off at the club. Minghao gave her an address on a slip of paper, but she can’t read his handwriting. She has no trail. It’s a real crisis.”

Soonyoung paused. “Really? Why aren’t you mad at her?”

“She genuinely didn’t know, nor did she pretend she never met him!”

He sighed, utterly drained. “Jeez.”

“Yeah. She’s super upset about it.”

“I thought Minghao had a girlfriend.”

“My guess is that they’re broken up,” you attempted to answer quickly, before he could think too hard, unaware of what Soonyoung actually knew about Minghao. “She flew back to China, apparently…”

“Damn… well…” he shoved more packaged sweets onto the shelf, taking a moment before speaking again. You dared not speak. Once Soonyoung lost a thought, it might never return. “One time, he mentioned a trailer.”

“A trailer?”

“Yeah… after we finished our deal last weekend, he told me he needed to get back to his trailer. That’s about it. That’s all I’ve got.”

“Like, a trailer park?”

“Maybe.”

Okay, it wasn’t the best lead, but it wasn’t the worst. You could work with that, even if it was ambiguous. It was definitely more than what you and Vernon had been able to scrounge up the week before. Upon organizing the last few chocolate bars onto the shelf, you heard the tinkling bell above the front door ring out.

“I better get to cash,” you said, ultimately satisfied with your play.

One socked foot was pulled onto the edge of the bench.

You left your elbow propped onto your knee, helping to secure the phone before your face as you scrolled through a citywide map. It was closing time at Mr. York’s, and since you were responsibly finished with all your cleaning duties, you were supposed to be getting ready to leave for the night.

Lara slipped into the locker area, standing behind you. As she fiddled with the combination, she mumbled, “what are you searching?”

You sighed in frustration. “Nothing, at this point.”

She took out her purse and a pair of tall, luxury winter boots from her locker. Realizing the bench was strewn messily in your coat and tote bag, you moved the items aside so she could sit next to you.

“Tonight genuinely sucked,” Lara complained, tugging off her work shoes one by one, letting them bounce rubbery against the tiles. “That fancy business lady—she makes me want to put a shotgun in my mouth.” She then began massaging her feet, blowing a tuft of long hair from her face. “The way she orders me around, makes all these cunty, unnecessary comments…”

“Oh, I know,” you chided, setting your phone aside. “And then the entire group stands out front, smoking, blocking everyone’s way.”

Shoving her foot into one of the black boots, Lara nodded. “I hate the fact she’s becoming a regular...” Lara tugged up the zipper and grabbed the other boot, rubbing some dirt off the white-fur detailing. “You think if I gave Costello a handie, he’d slip, like, a laxative in her food in return? Or something that makes her fade away?”

You giggled, returning to putting on your own boots that you had left scattered on the ground. “He’s really into you. I think it might work.”

Lara shrugged, reaching behind her to snatch a pretty coat out from her locker. “A little too into me. That business lady sucks but at least she gave me a decent tip for once. Costello is useless apart from having good timing on the meat section.” After buttoning up her chic coat, Lara flipped the shimmery strands of her dark brown hair from underneath the collar, sighing. “I’m getting damn sick of men. And women. I am a terrible person.”

“Can’t you stick it out until we can confirm the laxative thing?”

She pitted a very unsatisfactory glance in your direction.

“Only kidding,” you teased.

Lara stood up, grabbing her purse. “Do you need a ride home? Tars is warming up the car. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind an extra person.”

“Sure,” you smiled. “Thanks for asking.”

As you gathered together the rest of your things and shut your locker, Lara picked up your forgotten phone, her eyes narrowing in inspection at the map you had pulled up. “Seriously? What’s this for?”

You grabbed the phone back, stuffing it in your pocket, still disappointed at the sparse results. Lara had to pull you in the direction of the back door when you automatically veered for the front entrance. The parking lot was behind the restaurant.

You were used to the bus.

“I’ve been trying to find trailer parks that are close by.”

She chuckled while shouldering open the door. “Jeez—is the pay here really that damn bad? Don’t you work two jobs?”

“No!” You laughed, following Lara across the empty lot. “It’s for another reason that’s hard to explain. But I’m not having much luck.”

Lara opened the passenger door of Tara’s car, bending down to greet her friend before gesturing to you, standing awkwardly behind her, arms folded to help protect yourself against the biting wind.

You could hardly hear what the two girls were saying—Tara was blasting electronic pop music while taking off her lipstick with a makeup wipe—and you could only hope that maybe she would turn the volume down a tad. Vernon played his music quite loudly, too. Sometimes he would compromise, sometimes not. It depended on how much he liked the artist.

“Hop in,” Lara then said. “She’s fine with it.”

You smiled, pulling open the back door and sliding in behind Lara. It smelled so strongly of her perfume that you nearly coughed.

“Hey, gorgeous!” Tara shouted over the music. “Apologies—the backseat it a little messy—you can just push all those magazines over!”

“Oh, no problem!” You shouted. “Thanks for the ride!”

“What was that?!”

You set your tote bag beside you, swallowing tightly as the music vibrated through the car’s speaker system. “I said thank you for—"

Suddenly, everything went dead silent.

“Gosh, Tars,” Lara grumbled, wriggling out from her coat. “You don’t need it that fucking loud. The concert was five months ago. And there’s a guest in your car. I think she appreciates having intact ear drums.”

You giggled breathily, nervous. “It was a little loud.”

“Don’t sugar coat it,” Lara groaned.  “She needs an intervention.”

“Okay, whatever!” Tara yelled, loosening her scarf and pulling out her phone. “I get the point. Where do you live? For the GPS?”

“2269 Roxbury.”

“Perfect—we’ll drop you off first.”

“Oh, by the way,” Lara began, glancing at you through the rear-view mirror, “I’ve seen a few trailers, but it wasn’t necessarily a park.”

You brightened up. “Really?”

She nodded. “Right before it got super cold, my friends and I meshed with this other random group at a bar. We ended up going to a scrap yard, I think it’s called. There were old cars and motorcycles everywhere. A few trailers, too. Anyway, stuff was definitely getting passed around. I tried this LSD gummy and then got on a rusty bike. Got a super nasty cut on my leg. Had to go to the doctor and everything.”

“Oh,” Tara hummed, focused on the road. “I remember that. I had to come pick you up! That cut was awful! You’re lucky you had your shots!”

“Where was it, do you remember?” You pressed for information.

“I remember,” Tara sighed. “It’s along Kichesippi Woods. It’s a big scrap yard that doesn’t really get used any more. If you’re wondering about the trailers, I think there were three. People definitely lived in them. I guess they're used to people sneaking around.”

You were already making notes in your phone, excited to share the news with Vernon later on. “That’s amazing! Thank you both!”

Tara poised a polite expression. “Why are you so curious?”

“It’s a secret,” Lara answered in your place.

You shrugged, smirking ever so slightly. “Something like that.”

Vernon was staying the night at your apartment. He made himself comfortable on the couch, already prepared with an extra pillow and a pink blanket (he usually preferred Ruby’s black blanket that came with a special heating remote, but you thought the fairy pink was much better), in addition to slapping on his casual clothes—grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt—which truly wasn’t that different from his everyday attire. You were anticipating having him over, considering the fact you had been sitting on some very pertinent information all week. While waiting for your tea to finish steeping, you and Vernon were chatting up random topics.

Ruby wouldn’t be home until later.

Vernon had rolled himself a blunt. You never liked the astringent smokiness of the smell, how it stuck to everything, but after enough rendezvous with Vernon, you were unfortunately used to it. Ruby was into weed as well. She always puffed out her bedroom window.

“I’m actually so excited to tell you what I figured out!” You exclaimed, unable to stop fidgeting in your seat on the couch.

He eyed you up and down. “I can see that.”

“No, like, I’m really proud of myself.”

“Congratulations.”

It felt like being a child the night before the big birthday party, knowing your parents got you a specific gift, being ecstatic to rip it open, having an ear-to-ear grin plastered on your face akin to a mask.

Vernon exhaled a cloud of billowing, smooth smoke. He made everything look so effortless. You were a coughing, spluttering mess the last time you tried a basic joint, rolled courteously by your high school best friend. To be honest, you just never had much interest in it. Although you were probably smoking cheap, dull strains.

“When can I know the news?” He asked, keeping the blunt secured between his fingers as his hand fell upon his lap. “Why the big wait?”

“My tea,” you answered. “It has to finish steeping.”

The boy groaned, rolling his head against the sofa, frustrated at the delayed gratification. You looked along the column of his throat, noted the skin's bareness, without dark purplish-brown bruises pressed like flowers. There hadn’t been any marks for a few weeks. At least none you had noticed or seen—not that you were keeping track.

“Who cares?” Vernon grunted.

“I care!” You smacked his thigh with an embroidered pillow, a gift from Ruby’s seamstress mother. “Don’t be so impatient.”

“Is your special tea the equivalent of this?” Vernon inquired, holding the blunt up to his lips. The next time he spoke, the thin smoke crawled out from his mouth, as though he was a fire-breathing dragon. “Then I could understand. You gotta ride the wave.”

“Sure, it’s exactly like that. It’s probably done, actually.” Getting up from the couch, you checked the tea that you left steaming on the counter, stirring the bag around a few more times for good measure before plopping it in the trash. Once you rejoined Vernon in the living room, you snuggled against your end of the sofa, legs stretched out and daring to poke into his space. “Okay, are you ready?”

He shrugged. “Floor’s all yours.”

“Can I please have some more excitement?”

Vernon sighed. He tucked the blunt behind his ear and cleared his throat. Then, the boy was leaning over you, grabbing your shoulders and rattling them. “Oh, please, please, please won’t you tell me your awesome secret!” He fake-pleaded, squinching his eyes shut. “I’ll genuinely kill myself if I don’t get to know!”

Giggling, you pulled up your foot and lightly shoved it against the edge of his ribs, prodding him to sit back down. “That’s much better, although it didn't seem very sincere. Anyway, okay I'll tell you. Whew, this is really good. Okay, okay... I know where Minghao is!”

“Do you?” Vernon engaged, entertaining himself with another intake of smoke. “And where would that be? Burlington Coat Factory?”

“There’s a scrap yard along Kichesippi Woods,” you explained, tightly gripping your tea. “He lives in one of the trailers there. I’m positive.”

“Kichesippi Woods? Didn’t a guy get murdered there last year?”

You leaned forward, willfully ignoring him. “And guess how I figured it out? Through my savvy investigation skills! It was Soonyoung! He gets tablets from Minghao. I figured he was the one who blabbed about us, knowing his big mouth and all, so that’s how Minghao knew I was familiar with you. Apparently, Minghao mentioned getting back to a trailer, so, naturally, I think—” you paused, blowing on your tea and taking a shallow sip to test its flavours before continuing, “—I think he lives in a trailer park, but there’s hardly any around the city.

So, I’m working a closing shift at Mr. York’s a few days later, and I get a major scoop from Tara and Lara. Lara went to a scrap yard with this big group of people to do drugs or get drunk or steal a rusty bicycle or something—I don’t really know—and she tells me she noticed trailers there. Tara backed her up. One has to be Minghao’s! The yard’s along Kichesippi Woods!”

Vernon was squinting at you, his eyes slim and red. You assumed it was a boatload of information to absorb at once, and you hadn’t exactly held his hand and waltzed through everything at a gentle pace. But you had collected all the evidence—even a location!

The boy nodded. “That’s good news, for sure.”

Letting the tea sit between your legs, you clapped at him. “Who’s pulling the weight now, huh? I did all that handiwork myself!”

“Handiwork?” Vernon scoffed, itching his studded eyebrow. “You have destiny on your side. Everyone you fuckin’ breathe around is tangled up in this bullshit, somehow. Not that I’m complainin’.”

You fell back against the arm of the couch, pouting. “Why can’t you let me win? Did I still not do a good job? Did I not help us out?”

“No, 'course you did a good job,” he assured you. “And you helped us a lot. You’re right. I should celebrate your wins more.”

Feeling the hot tea begin to burn your inner thighs, you picked it back up and nodded at him in satisfaction. “That’s what I like to hear.”

“I’m sure.”

“So, when should we check it out? Tomorrow?”

Vernon shook his head, fixing his tattooed arm around the back of the couch. “Can’t,” he muttered, “I’ve got business.”

“Ugh, you’re so boo.” You frowned, slipping down the sofa. Holding the tea against your stomach, feeling a circle of heat sink through your shirt, you began nibbling your lip, different ideas forming bubbles in your mind as you examined the ceiling. “Maybe I can—”

“Forget it,” he chuckled. “You’re not goin’ by yourself,”

“I wasn’t thinking that,” you corrected him. “The only thing I wanna do is check it out. I can’t help being curious. Maybe Tara would—”

“You don’t go if I don’t go,” Vernon stated, shrugging a shoulder.

Lifting your head to rest against the sofa, you scowled at him. “I don’t think that choice falls into your authority. I can do what I want.”

“Oh, can you?” He goaded, raising an eyebrow. “What a big girl.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious,” Vernon said. “I don’t want you there without me. Minghao’s snakey. I know how to deal with him.”

You sighed in capitulation, wriggling your toes. “Fine.”

He gave you a stern but entreating glance. “Promise?”

Sitting up, you set the tea onto the coffee table. “I promise.”

Vernon held out his pinky finger.

You wrapped yours around his and shook on it.

Curling your legs underneath you, playing with a thread of the pink blanket now pulled onto your lap, you began to smile. “I can't help but find it weird when things actually go my way."

He chuckled. “It only feels weird ‘cause you think the world’s against you. But it’s not.” Vernon exhaled another wispy cloud. “It’s just the world. Plus, you’re high-strained enough to start up a car battery.”

“I am not!”

The boy tossed his eyes in a circle. “Your delusion charms me.”

“Actually, I think I’ve calmed down a lot…” you hummed, winding the thread around your finger. “Compared to when we first met.”

Vernon nodded. “Maybe.”

“You don't believe me? That I've mellowed out?”

“Somehow, I think it's the opposite. You talk a fuckin' lot.”

“I do? All my report cards said I was too quiet.”

“Maybe I just bring it outta you, huh?” He chuckled, letting the blunt nestle between his lips. The papery tip singed its orange glow as he puffed, more smoke drifting throughout the living room. You noticed the burnt odor lingering for longer than usual, though you weren’t particularly concerned. Maybe you were half-high. “Spike?” He was suddenly holding out the blunt, thick in his fingers and packed with an earthly, musty smell, and your heart restricted, frozen at the offer.

“Uh…” you swallowed, a deep fire rising from the base of your throat that made the words difficult to pronounce. “I’m not sure if…”

He moved it away before you could decide, drew in more smoke that soon streamed out his nose and rolled from between his lips like a waterfall of weightless clouds. “I knew your ass wouldn’t do shit.”

“Because you pressured me!”

He almost choked on his own splitting cackle. “Fuckin—how?! All I did was hold the damn thing out in front of you! You fuckin’ weirdo!”

“You set up a pretense for me to be pressured!”

“No—that was you,” Vernon chuckled. “Nice fuckin’ try.”

Grumbling, you stayed hunched over the blanket, continuing to play with the baby pink thread by feeding it between your fingers.

“Unless,” Vernon sang, “you actually did want a spike?”

You glanced up at him, eyebrows knitted together.

He nodded his head. “I don’t care if you do, PJ’s.”

Sighing, you reached out, though you paused midway, your fingers twitching in the air. No—you couldn’t. There was too much unspoken tension with him watching you. What if you started hacking up a lung like back in your high school days? You were never good at holding the breath in—the part that was crucial to feeling the high—without your eyes sprouting tears from the heated dryness.

Then, shaking your head, you refused. “I can’t.”

“Why?”

“It’s been too long…” you worried, forgetting the thread and lying back against the arm of the sofa. “I’m gonna look dumb, or something.”

He shrugged. “Who cares? It’s just me.”

“And you’ll make fun of me.”

“Well, I won’t mean it.” He smirked, giving you another moment to twiddle your thumbs and think. Suddenly, Vernon grabbed your knee and squeezed it. “I won’t say a damn thing, okay? I promise.”

“No.”

“Yes, c’mere,” he encouraged. His textured fingertips squeezed into the flesh of your arm, pulling you to sit back up despite all your grouchy, reluctant noises. “Swear I’ll be good.”

Staring him square in his pretty face, you shook your head.

“How ‘bout I make it easier, then?” Vernon suggested an unknown compromise, the dark hues of his golden eyes softening. “You trust me?”

At that moment, your skin thrummed with heat. You felt its pulse, travelling like a crashing ocean wave, and you couldn’t stop your gaze from narrowing as you traced the crests and contours of Vernon’s scheming expression. You coughed slightly. “What does that mean?”

He pursed his lip. “I’m askin’ if you trust me.”

You sniffled, nodded your head. “I do… but—”

“Close your eyes.”

“What? Why? What are you gonna do?” The nervousness of not knowing his intentions caused your mind to flitter like paper birds. You did trust him, but that didn’t exactly quell your timorousness with one easy sweep. “I-I just… you’re making me… nervous.”

“I know,” Vernon said, smiling. “I’m not gonna do anything you won’t like, yeah?” He brushed his fingers along your knee, and you took in a long, quivering breath. “Just keep relaxed. That’s it. And at any point, if you don’t want to, then stop me. Sound good?”

“Okay.” You nodded, your voice a squeak.

He put the blunt between his lips. Grabbing his lighter off the coffee table, you leaned back as he crisped the end with a few sparks, feeling the flame’s warmth ever so gently against your cheeks. Once Vernon was satisfied, he tossed the lighter and gave the blunt a quick, obligatory puff, making sure to politely blow the smoke away from your face. “Alright,” he sighed, “you ready, PJ’s?”

Gulping, the only thing you could do was nod, too afraid to use your voice again in case it embarrassingly cracked. Vernon reminded you to close your eyes. As soon as the room went dark, your heartbeat leapt tenfold.

You felt his hand touch your knee, attempting to soothe you with massaging circles. “Relax, okay?” He whispered. “You’ll like it.”

There was the faintest sound of a crackle as you heard the boy inhale, taking his time to let the smoke settle right. Then, you sensed his fingertips drift against your tingling cheek, curling behind your ear, and your nails scraped the fabric of your pyjama bottoms. He was holding the edge of your face, so close that your atmospheres seemed overlapping despite the sheer, unmoving blackness.

Softly, his nose bumped yours and you gasped. That’s when you felt the fantom breeze—his pierced lips delicately mouthing over your own—his fingers dancing to fasten your chin, the smoke crawling inside you, spilling against the back of your throat like a breath of prickly fog. The sensation was overwhelming. You didn’t know where it came from, but you mewled, wanting to chase Vernon’s touch like a swaying, golden reed. His hand skimmed down your waist, pulled along your thigh, and then the smoke had vanished.

Holy hell—you were going to pass out.

Everything around you felt fuzzy, dream-like.

There was so much heat inside you that it was no wonder your tissues and bones weren’t melting into each other, bubbling, fusing.

But then you realized what had happened. Your eyes flung open, and you scrambled backward until you were pressed against the arm of the sofa, gawking at the clever, smirking boy. “Why the hell would you do that?” You admonished.

Vernon relaxed back into his spot, arms crossed, blunt tucked behind his ear. “I wanted to,” he said. “Made you feel good, yeah?”

Yes, yes!  You had never felt anything so electric! Sparks had coursed the lengths of your sensitive skin like flying livewires. They were ticklish and molten and crackling with pleasure.

“No! It did not!”

He bit his lip, shrugged. “Fine, it didn’t.” But then he tilted his head at you. “Thanks for moanin’ into my mouth, by the way. That was hot.”

“Shut up!” You recoiled off the sofa. “No I freaking didn’t!”

“My word against yours, beautiful,” Vernon countered, winking.

“I can’t believe this!” You fretted, beginning to pace back and forth in front of the coffee table, fingernails running against your teeth. “Why on earth would you do that? I don’t understand! Are you trying to trick me?”

He spoke through a haze of smoke. “Trick you how?”

“By damn near kissing me!” You cried. “Why would you do that!”

Vernon didn’t seem as concerned. “You like me,” he stated.

“So?!” At that point, it didn’t even matter. He obviously knew. You were terrible at hiding it—big surprise—but you had gradually stopped caring about how obvious you were being because there had been the boundary of his feelings diverging from yours. You were safe in a world of fantasy. There was nothing else to worry about. He would never reciprocate. “That isn’t something you can do, Vernon! It doesn’t mean anything to you like it does to me!”

“Who said it didn’t mean anything to me?”

Your feet tripped on the shag carpet at the shock of his questioning and you slammed to an awkward, confused stop. He was still reclined against the sofa, hands tucked behind his head, one holding onto his blunt that produced a finite tail of smoke into the air.

“What?” You gasped. “And what the hell does that mean?”

He bit his lip ring, stared at you. “What do you think?”

“No,” you choked, shaking your head. “No, no, no, no!”

“No, what?” Vernon laughed, leaning forward and splaying out his hands. “Why is this suddenly such a bad thing? I can’t like you?”

You sat on the coffee table, squeezing your scalp in agony.

He moved closer to you, reaching his touch underneath your knee.

“It’s not the same…” you sniffled, wiping off your runny, wet nose.

Vernon shrugged, sweetly rubbing your leg. “How come?” He murmured, attentive to your overflowing sensitivity. “Explain it to me.”

You sighed, gulping in a breath. “It just isn’t. When you didn’t like me back, I could like you even more, as much as I wanted! Because I thought you would never like me! But if you’re being serious… then it changes things! It puts… realism… on the table… and there’s just no realism with us!” Tears beaded down your cheeks, but you wiped them away before Vernon could get his hand back to your face, before you could melt all over again. “I’ll want more, I’ll want a relationship. But you won’t because you’ll get bored in a relationship—that’s why you only have unattached sex! And you’re a freaking drug dealer! How am I supposed to introduce a drug dealer to my parents, o-or survive without worrying about you, or stay out of your business no matter how many times you tell me to. I won’t!”

“Jeez,” Vernon chuckled, his voice becoming hoarse from the potency of the Indica. “That was quite the speech.”

“But did you listen?!”

“Yes, yes, I listened.” Vernon put the blunt behind his ear, then eased your anxious buzzing by grabbing onto your shaky hands and surrounding them tightly with his warm, rough, calloused ones. “I listened, PJ’s. Alright? I think you have valid worries. But why do we have to focus on the uncertainty right now? Why can’t we just… I dunno… go where the wind takes us? Huh?”

Your shoulders sunk. “Do you really like me?”

The boy smiled, flashing a glimpse of his sharp teeth as a response.

“Well… I think you’re lying. We’re friends.”

No matter what he told you tonight, your mind was solidified. It was not going to accept that this boy was being truthful. It was not going to accept that your fantasy was threatening the bounds of real life.

Vernon shook his head, moved aside some sooty hairs tickling his eyes. “Y’know what? Sure. We’re friends. Let’s keep it simple, yeah? I’ll just think about you every wakin’ fuckin’ second of my goddamn day, and you’ll think about me, and we’ll just call it even. Right?”

 Nipping anxiously on your bottom lip, you nodded. “Right.”

Vernon took the blunt down from his ear. “Fuckin’ perfect.”

Once Ruby came home, she could clearly tell something was off between you, though she refrained from being vocal about it. You were certain she noted how distant you were from Vernon, not just metaphorically, but also physically, cramming yourself against the opposite end of the sofa like you were attached by hot-glue.

Most of your responses were minimal and squeaky. She sent you a text before bed, when you came out from the washroom and screamed at Vernon innocently waiting his turn.

WTF is going on???

You sent her a text back.

I’ll explain tmo… you won’t BELIEVE it…

7 MONTHS AGO.

The next morning, you decided to take Ruby out for breakfast to explain the situation. Vernon was gone by the time you awoke. Strangely, the pink blanket was folded nice and neat on the couch as opposed to the usual lump he would leave behind in his haste. You placed the blanket on the corner of your bed prior to heading out, giving it a long, confused stare.

Ruby loved Get Cracking. It was her favourite breakfast restaurant in the city. No matter your age, they left you pencil crayons and a colouring book to work on while awaiting your food. It made for a very interesting exposé as you shaded in the bejewelled crown atop your princess’s curly hair.

“No… I don’t even know how to start…” you sighed.

Your roommate was colouring a frog perched on a lilypad. “Just come straight out with it,” Ruby encouraged. “That’s the best way.”

“Well, I’ll set up some background first…” you murmured, replacing your bright yellow pencil with a deep purple one to colour in the crown’s amulets. “So, basically… Vernon almost freakin’ kissed me.”

Suddenly, there was a loud, harsh snap. Ruby had broken the lead to her blue pencil. “Uh—” she swallowed, hard, bulging her golden-green eyes at you like saucers “—so much for background information!”

“It gets worse!”

“Jesus. How?”

Collapsing your shoulders, taking a timid glance around the restaurant, you proceeded to lower your voice and whisper, “because, then he told me… he essentially told me that he liked me! I almost fainted!”

Ruby’s jaw dropped. She leaned forward, brow furrowed. “Are you freaking serious? Like, on your life? You’re being serious? He said that?”

You nodded gravely. “No, I’m being so serious. The seriousest.”

“Is that a word?”

“I don’t know! That’s how serious this is!”

She couldn’t produce even a sound. Instead, Ruby dropped her broken pencil and sunk back into the booth like she was just delivered the most devastating news, her tongue circling around her inner cheek. To be honest, you were still reeling from the moment. It consumed your mind without mercy for the entire night. You saw Vernon in your dreams. You touched him. You caressed him. You felt him in ways you couldn’t confess.

After a palatable silence, Ruby shifted from her stony, stiff position that made her seem almost corpse-like. She casted fingers through a silky red streak of her dark hair, puffing out from deep within her chest. “Damn…”

“That’s all you have to say?” You whined. “I need guidance!”

“Well—jeez—I need to process it!” Ruby defended.

“I thought that silence was you processing it!”

“No,” she laughed, shaking her head. “That was me talking myself down from buying ten Screwdrivers!”

Squeezing the pencil in between your fingers, you tried desperately not to let yourself spiral. After all, you were the master of spiralling. It wasn’t a hard thing to do, but it was terribly exhausting to come back down and grasp the extent of mental wreckage. Ruby was far better at composure, though she seemed most keen for a drink before you went any further.

You grabbed a pink pencil for the princess’s dress. “I don’t know… all I’m saying is that it’s confusing… if he’s being honest about it, then I don’t understand why he likes me. We’re so different in every aspect.”

Ruby sighed, grabbing her blue pencil and attempting to colour with it again, only to remember it was broken. She took another shade from the assorted cup, blowing some shavings off it. “I’m not gonna pretend to fully understand how the guy’s mind works…” she admitted, shrugging a shoulder. “Ever since I’ve known him, he’s never liked anybody romantically. He’s always been a free spirit, you know? Doesn't like to be tethered. I think the fact you are so different from him, so beyond what he’s used to… maybe it’s refreshing?”

Frowning, you pushed harder on the pencil, outlining the princess’s dress in a darker hue of hot pink. “Yeah, and then he’ll get totally bored of me. I’ll lose my refreshingness! I feel like I’m just a phase, you know?”

“I wish I could give you a clear answer.”

You wished for that, too.

But if someone were to plop a miraculous crystal ball into your hands and harness the undeniable truth, that would be too easy, and your life was certainly not founded on easiness. Sucking in your cheeks, you continued colouring, noting more streakiness through the thin paper as pressure flooded your hand and cramped your fingers.

“How did he try to kiss you?” Ruby asked.

You let the pencil roll away. “It was a tricky trick.”

“What kind of tricky trick?”

The memory remained sharp in your mind. Every little sensation, breath, gliding of fingers, nervous words—you could recreate it with clay and make a damn movie! Having to explain the situation to Ruby turned you hotter than the fresh plate of browned, buttery pancakes the waitress had just delivered to the table.

Ruby pulled the waitress’s attention. “Can I ask for one Screwdriver, if that’s okay? With a raspberry flavour shot?”

As you spilled the warmed, smooth syrup around in circles, you sighed aloud. “He had a blunt, and asked if I wanted a hit. I said I couldn’t because it had been too long since I last smoked—I didn’t wanna look like a gigantic fool—what if I started choking to death or something?” Setting the pitcher back down, grabbing hold of your utensils, you continued. “So, whatever, I let him take control of the situation. He asked me to close my eyes, right? Then… he gets close to me… he has his hand on my face and his lips are like, feathering over mine, and he’s blowing the smoke into my mouth!”

Ruby brought a hand to her face, gasping.

“The worst part…” you whispered, embarrassment fizzling up your chest as you leaned further toward your roommate, “I moaned!”

“You what?!” She shouted, beginning to cough. “You moan—”

Picking up a napkin, you shoved it against her loud mouth before the entire diner could hear your intimate, inappropriate details while in the midst of eating breakfast. She used the napkin to wipe some crumbs off her lips. “S-Sorry—” Ruby spluttered, “—I just—holy fuck. He kinda got you.”

“He was so damn cocky about it!” You flustered.

“Well,” Ruby sighed in a helpless breath, cutting across her pancakes. “That’s Vernon for you. If he gets a reaction, he runs with it.”

Prodding at your food with a fork, you again thought back to the dreams running rampant through your imagination last night. How vivid each sensation felt, to the point that the little hairs on your arms began bristling in response. His rough hands all over you, pulling, kneading, smacking. The ghosted recollection of what it might feel like to be filled by him, a warmth and fullness you couldn't make sense of. There had been sweat shining off your body with the glow of a newborn star. There were moans, loud and then soft, weak.

You hadn’t realized you were staring into space.

Ruby’s lips tightened. “Uh… what exactly are you thinking about?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s not what your pupils are telling me.” When you didn’t entertain the topic any further, Ruby smiled, her expression comforting. “It’s okay to want him. It’s okay to think about him in ways that feel… not okay.”

You stabbed a sliced piece of banana onto your fork. “How is it okay, though? You always freak out about us potentially having sex.”

Ruby nodded. “Yeah, but that was before I knew all this, how he feels about you. I would hate for your first time to be with someone who isn’t on your wavelength romantically.” She paused as the waitress stopped by with her orange Screwdriver. “Things could have changed once he got to know you. I mean, clearly, they did. It’s just… you might not be ready for the same things.”

“We definitely aren’t. I can’t… be with a drug dealer,” you whispered.

She chuckled. “Most people would probably say the same.”

Letting your chin rest in your palm, you glanced at your roommate from across the table. “Do you think he’s serious? He really likes me?”

Ruby grabbed her beverage, taking a sip. “I know he’s serious,” she confessed after settling the glass back down. “Dude, he was gonna beat the shit out of Lee. I had to talk him out of it. He laughs and smiles so much when he's with you. I think he genuinely cares about you. And I bet you’re all he thinks about.”

You started to smile, your eyes fluttering. “That’s sweet…”

“I really can’t tell you what to do,” Ruby admitted with a defeated shrug, spearing some fruit onto her fork, “since you know yourself best. But I bet the answer will come to you when you’re least expecting it.”

After bringing the sliced banana to your mouth, you began cutting into your pancakes frustratedly, nodding. “My god. I hope so.”

Before you and Vernon could jump into investigating the scrap yard, he told you that he had a deal planned right around lunchtime. Of course, this was mentioned after you had already sat down in his car, and since you weren’t in the mood to bail out into a pile of pebbled, greying snow and concrete, the best thing you could do was begrudgingly cross your arms and sigh.

Now, you didn’t know where you were.

It was a gigantic, empty hanger graffitied to hell with large garage doorways. Probably some sort of warehouse left to complete abandonment years and years ago, turned to an ideal location for Vernon to sell his friends drugs. How forward thinking.

The air was still and frosty, the surrounding land barren, lumped, and dead, with nothing but a coarse field to stare at from across the quiet road. While Vernon sat on the hood of his car, feeling the warmth grumble from the running engine underneath, you were stiffly leaned against the threshold of the garage doorway. Ever since the second incident (taking name after the now labelled first incident AKA the failed confession), you couldn’t help but make it weird.

Vernon acted the same as he always did.

Unfortunately, you weren’t hardwired that way.

Kicking at a stone, you sighed, “when is he coming?”

“Soon.”

“Can I have a time?”

Vernon stared at you. “12:12.”

“No, I mean, like, the time that he’s supposed to show up.”

“Well, if I had the time for that, I would have said it.”

Displeased at the unproductive exchange, you turned around, keeping your arms folded, and took a few steps inside the industrial-sized hanger. There were some gashes in the metallic roofing, letting through thick beams of white light that staggered against the ruined cement floor. You then looked right, saw a huge slew of black, graffitied letters dried dripping above a hole broken through the infrastructure.

WORLD’S LARGEST GLORYHOLE!

Promptly, you turned back around. “What a lovely place this is.”

Vernon scoffed, stretching out his hands behind him. “I know you wanna leave. It won’t be much longer, alright? Moo’s good at that.”

“Not me to me, he’s not. Did you guys not discuss a time? Or do you just throw out arbitrary numbers and show up when you feel like it?”

“Ease the attitude. Damn.”

Your eyes rolled. It was impossible not to give attitude.

Giving attitude was the only way for you to place distance that was more than just physical in between yourself and Vernon. It was your only means of putting up a barbed front. You were not an attitude person by nature. But being around him just pulled it straight out of you like a child yanking their loose, wriggling tooth.

He patted the spot beside him. “Come sit here.”

You made a sour, repulsive face. “Mmm… no.”

Vernon shook his head, chuckling. “I knew you would do this.”

Rolling a rock underneath your heel, you muttered, “do what?”

“Make it fuckin’ awkward.”

“No—” you argued back, instantly tense and hot, “—you made me make it awkward! And since you knew I would be awkward about it, my awkwardness right now is completely and unequivocally your fault!”

Vernon shrugged, pressing against a sore spot on the side of his neck, beginning to yawn. “I can’t be bothered t'give a fuck.”

“Then why’d you bring it up?”

He shuffled backward, reclining against the car’s windshield, tucking his arms comfortably behind his head. “The not givin’ a fuck part didn’t kick in until just now. Can you hit the radio? I want some tunage.”

“Do it yourself.”

“Prick,” he muttered, closing his eyes.

“Idiot,” you mumbled back, punting the rock.

Vernon’s friend appeared about ten minutes later, ripping into the lot with a concerning level of speed. He pulled his all-black car right next to the rumbling Camry. It looked like something salvaged from the early 1990’s with its small, square lights, short hood, and compact structure. Vernon greeted his friend, Moo. He was sporting a thin black zip-up, some track pants, and weathered white sneakers. His hair was a fluffed-out, wispy afro and you were quick to notice that some splotches of skin on his hands and neck were pale in comparison to his dark complexion. Vitiligo. You remembered the name since one of Diana’s cousins had the condition.

Unsure of what to do as Vernon and Moo cordially conserved, you returned your attention back toward the hanger, scuffing your shoes and hearing the consequential echo. Until Vernon called you.

“PJ’s—this is Moo. Old buddy a' mine.”

Shuffling over, you leaned against Vernon’s car. “Hello.”

Moo smiled, sticking out his hand. Vernon always dapped up all his friends, and you assumed it would be no different with Moo, hence his quirky laughter when the attempted handshake was met with you scraping at his palm and clutching his fingers.

“Oh, shit,” Moo chuckled, rubbing his nose as you reclined into yourself, embarrassed. “Didn’t know you were cool like that.”

“I’m sorry. Vernon always does it and—”

“Hey, I’m throwing something this weekend,” Moo suddenly interrupted your bumbling, returning his attention to Vernon. “Kitty’s finally back from Europe and she brought some crazy freak shit they’ve been smashing in those underground clubs. Said it’s cut with stardust. What a fucking liar, huh?” He smacked Vernon’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “Anyway, if you’re free, you should swing by.” Moo looked at you. “And you, too. If you're into that”

Vernon nodded, returning the gesture and giving his friend’s shoulder a stern squeeze. “Alright, man. Thanks for the invite.”

Moo waggled his tiny baggies full of white powder, seeming satisfied that he delivered forth the message. “No worries, street rat. I'll make sure this gets to Mish, the lazy bastard.” He plopped back into his car, saluted you both. “Later guys.”

Upon his friend tearing out from the parking lot, Vernon slapped the money against his hand. “Okay, the treacherous, scary deed is done.”

Squirming into the warm car, you asked, “are you going?”

Vernon tucked the money into a black knapsack that he proceeded to toss into the rear of the car. “Yes, yes, holy shit—can you give me a fuckin’ second to at least breathe the air? Jesus Christ…”

“No!” You shouted. “I meant are you going to the party?”

“Oh,” he sighed cumbersomely, puffing out his cheeks. “Uh, probably. And it’s not a party.” He stretched on his seatbelt.

You undid the buttons on your woolly coat. “Then what is it?”

“Nothin’ that you’d give a fancy fuck about,” he chuckled while proceeding to steer the car out from the lot. “That’s for damn sure.”

“Well, what if I want to go?”

Suddenly, Vernon smashed the breaks.

In the midst of putting on your seatbelt, you were shot forward like a rock in a slingshot, ramming into the dashboard. Shaking your head, you glared at him, feeling the crookedness in your arm. “What the hell!”

The boy’s brow was heavily contorted in bewilderment. “Please, tell me you did not just say that, Pyjamas,” he implored. “There’s no way.”

With a grumble, you adjusted yourself back into the chair, ensuring your seatbelt was safely secured before you dared say anything else. Vernon's stare was crisply burning, like sunlight through a magnifying glass, and it became increasingly harder to put a sentence together.

Rolling out your shoulders, you nipped, “stop staring at me.”

“I wanna understand why you wanna go. I mean, it makes absolutely zero fuckin’ sense. There’s nothin’ there that appeals to you.”

“Can you just drive?”

Vernon obliged, peeling out onto the long road bordered by stiff country fields and pearl blue sky. “I think you’re tryin’ to pull my chain.”

“Of course you do.”

He laughed again. “Seriously, though. What’s this about?”

With the industrial hanger being pulled away from your peripheral, you had nothing to stare at but the encompassing fields, prickled and ice-crusted with frost. Honestly, it was quite pleasant to take in such openness after habituating to the crowded city life. Your childhood home had been right across from a farm.

Vernon’s elbow bumped your arm. “Eh? What’s the deal?”

You took in a breath, keeping your tone calm. “I don’t know… I just don’t get the fuss about me wanting to go. I mean, I get that it doesn’t really suit what you think of me… but there’s no harm in trying new things.”

“Okay,” Vernon huffed, “but people say that about, like, tryin’ a new hobby or some shit. You’re wantin’ to put yourself in a position where you straight up know you won’t have a good time. Like, seriously.”

“Because you can only have a good time when you’re high?”

“No—because you’re gonna be around other high people—and as a sober person, that’s gonna suck. It’s gonna suck real fuckin’ bad.”

Your head rolled along the seat such that you were staring at him while he drove, an eyebrow tweaking in question. “And I can only assume you’re going to be in the high population. Not the sober.”

“What the fuck do you think?” He chuckled.

“I still want to go.”

Vernon shook his head. “It just doesn’t make sense.”

“I feel like there has to be specific a reason you’re so against me going…” you hummed in contemplation, crossing one leg over your knee and beginning to bob your foot. “I think I know what it is.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I just told you—you’re gonna hate it.”

“It’s because you want to screw around with a girl.”

The boy cackled, leaning forward in his seat, rubbing a hand through his soft, black locks. “Jesus Christ, you’re killin’ me, you know that?”

“I see…” you muttered, folding your arms. “No denial…”

“Shut the fuck up, honestly,” Vernon laughed.

“Well, if that’s what you want to do, then just be honest.”

“Okay, fine,” he declared with a shrug. “I’ll play your game, PJ’s.”

“There’s no game,” you chastised him, rolling your eyes.

But he ignored your insistence. “Say there was a girl. And I did fuck her while you were there. Loud enough that you could hear every time the bed frame hit the wall. Hear every single one of her moans. Every single time I smacked her ass.” He glanced over you slowly from top to bottom while you sat rigid in your seat, likely taking pleasure from how you squirmed. “How would that make you feel?”

Your entire mouth and throat were papery dry.

Truth be told, you would hate it.

In fact, you would probably start crying. The silence was louder than any crash or clap. You didn’t want to answer the question. You didn’t want him to know how utterly heartbroken that would make you feel. Just the fact that he had even asked such a question, knowing how it would stab you, made you get teary-eyed.

Swallowing gruffly, you squeaked out, “well… if that’s what you want.”

Vernon snorted. “That’s not at all what I want!” He paused for a moment, a sparkle darting through his eyes. “Unless the girl is you.”

You couldn’t help but make a twisted, flustered facial expression.

His hand then found the top of your back and he started rubbing in circles, easing the emotions colliding inside you that had packed into a knot between your shoulders. “If you went and fucked someone else in the house, I’d care, too! I’d fuckin’ want to murder the guy!”

You sniffled. “Really?”

Squeezing your shoulder, he smiled at you, full of confidence and conviction. “A hundred percent, PJ’s. I said I liked you, 'member?”

Shuddering out a breath, you felt Vernon’s touch leave your body, and the loss of physical consolation seemed so cruel. No one had ever communicated something like that to you before. At least not in a romantically-inclined way—Ruby did say from time to time that she would gladly throttle anyone who upset you—and you appreciated the sentiment from both sides of the coin. Maybe Vernon really did feel something for you. Maybe.

“I don’t feel like talking anymore,” you sighed, heavy in thought as the sparse fields started thickening with conifers, casting out the light and pushing in shadows that webbed the dark ground. “Can we sit in silence until we get there?”

“Whatever you need,” Vernon answered, shrugging a shoulder.

The entrance to the scrap yard was very unassuming. It was a mere dirt road that veered off from the pavement, leading downward, between a continuous brigade of tall, still pine trees. You couldn’t help but think back to Lara’s story about being brought here by a group of strangers—you would think you were getting murdered—though you were also a complete worrywart. Lara was definitely more adventurous by comparison.

Vernon seemed pretty assured that Minghao wouldn’t be there since it was a Saturday, and Minghao was apparently a very busy bee on Saturdays, dealing drugs no doubt, or painting buildings—you weren't sure. But soon the dirt road and trees opened up until you came to a clearing. There was a large, tall fence, caged around the scrap yard. Vernon pulled the car off to the side, taking out his keys.

“Is it locked?” You asked.

He pushed open his door. “Probably.”

“So, what does that—”

Vernon had already shut the door.

Grumbling to yourself, you threw off your seatbelt and hurried after him. He was inspecting a large, hardy padlock secured around two posts of the fence with chain links.

“I’m guessing it’s locked,” you sighed.

“No, it’s wide open.”

You scowled at his unhelpful sarcasm. “I was just asking!”

“I can pick the shitty locks, but this isn’t a shitty lock.”

“Shame.”

Vernon looked up. He placed two hands on the fence and shook it, hearing the metal rattle. “Seems stiff enough. And not electric. Bonus.”

Instantly, your stomach surged with trepidation. His thinking was obvious. And you were not mentally nor physically prepared to hop aboard. Taking a step back, you scoffed, “no—no way.”

Vernon laughed, gesturing innocently. “What? I told you it’s not electric! There’s not even any barbed wire up top. It’s askin’ to be climbed!”

You gagged; mouth slacked. “So, what? You talk to fences now? I am not climbing that! It’s dangerous! And tall as heck! I’m not doing it.” For emphasis, you crossly folded your arms and stood firmly in place. “If you want me over that, you’ll have to drag me.”

Rolling his eyes, Vernon mirrored your hardened stance. “Okay, honestly, what did you expect, PJ’s? That we’d just be able to skippy-doodle-doo our way in here? You should have learned by now it’s never that easy.” He waved his hand toward the fence. “Now, stop bein’ a spoiled princess and get your ass over here so we can get this show on the road.”

But you didn’t move. “No.”

“Holy shit. You’ll be fine,” Vernon drawled, his tone beginning to bleed from patience and amusement to annoyance. “Nothin’ is gonna happen. All’s you need is a tetanus shot and opposable thumbs. Thumbs may even be optional.”

“Ah, but I have a brain. You’re better off.”

He seemed done with the stalling. Vernon stalked toward you, eyes steely, his hand grooving around your elbow, beginning to tug you.

“Hey!” You hollered, attempting to thrash free. “Don’t—even—”

But Vernon was strong. He was dragging you a little too easily. “Don’t make me fuckin’ throw you over my shoulder,” he grunted in warning, forcing you to move closer and closer toward the fence.

At last, you capitulated. “Fine, fine! I’ll climb it!” He let go of your elbow, to which you rubbed down your arm sorely. “I hate you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Vernon dismissed. He then grabbed your hand and slapped it right onto the cold fence, curling your fingers around the metal wiring. “You’re more prepared than I am. You’re the rock climber.”

“Don’t make me remember that,” you gritted. “Also, the fact you’re making me go first is so… you should be ashamed, abhorred—”

“Shut the fuck up and do it.”

Upon spearing him a glare, you decided to bite the bullet. At least when you had been rock climbing there was a safety harness, and helmet, and ropes to catch you in the event you slipped. Trying not to harp on the dangers, your teeth clenched tight into your inner cheek as you began to climb, ignoring how horribly icy the metal felt as your fingers wrapped around the wires.

The higher you scaled, the more your heart raced, until you reached the thick bar on top and you had a perfect vantage point across the entirety of the scrap yard. Right in the middle was three RVs. You knew to get over the fence you had to straddle the bar, though the task seemed impossible. Swallowing densely, you took a moment to breathe in the brisk, sharp air, smell the earth and the pine. Grunting and trembling, you managed to get one leg over the bar.

Choosing to peer down at Vernon, recall the safety of solid ground, you gulped. “This sucks ass!”

“You’re doin’ great!” He called, sticking out a thumbs-up to demonstrate his pride. “And you gave me a great view from down below.”

“Shut up!” You nagged him, though you were smiling widely.

Soon enough, your feet were back on the dirt.

Vernon smirked at you from across the fence. “Easy, right?”

“Even easier if you knew how to pick that lock.”

“Boohoo,” Vernon said. “Let me pull out my YouTube tutorial.”

Suddenly, he had hopped onto the fence, and in a few fast, swift movements, the boy was already scaling the top. Once he climbed down about halfway, he leapt off, landing neatly in the spot beside you, clapping off his calloused hands like he’d just shoved a pie into a warm oven.

“Show off,” you muttered.

“Always,” Vernon said with a click of the teeth.

He proceeded down the shallow hill toward the inner bowl of the scrap yard, and you supposed there was no other choice but to follow him, hurrying to match step with his stride. The junk piles were organized for the most part. Broken bicycles, car doors, and odd metal contraptions tossed into one mound, while others were slightly more miscellaneous but seeming tended to. You walked past a sewing machine that didn’t look too rough.

“Oh! Ruby would love this!”

Vernon stopped to glance at the machine. “Yeah? It looks like shit.”

“It’s just dirty,” you answered, nudging it with your foot.

“Let’s go shoppin’ later,” he insisted, picking up your hand and continuing to pull you in the direction of the RVs. “No distractions.”

“You’re one to talk.”

Together, you perched behind a rusted, red-striped fishing boat lifted off the ground by a steel trailer. Vernon let your hand drop, brushing something off his nose. The series of RVs were about twenty feet away, with reasonable distance in between them, their colours mostly ugly beiges and bleached creams with no discernible detail. You expected Minghao’s RV to have some freaky aquatic design painted across it—anything that might suggest which belonged to him—but there was no graffiti in sight.

With your fingers anxiously digging into your knees, you looked in between the RVs and back to Vernon. “How should we do this?”

“Cautiously,” he stated, and you giggled in response.

“That’s not a word I’d expect you to know.”

“Blame yourself,” Vernon rasped. “If you weren’t here, I could go about this any way I wanted. But we’re a unit now.”

“How sweet,” you muttered.

“Okay, this is what we’ll do,” Vernon announced. “I’ll take the trailer in the middle; you take the one closest to us. Start by lookin’ around the area, see if there’s a thing or two that gives Minghao vibes. Try to look in the windows if you can, but be careful, obviously. Listen for TVs, runnin’ water, couches squeakin’, doors openin’—anything that could indicate someone's inside—and we should have a signal if there’s a spat.”

“Like what?”

“How about a whistle? Can you whistle?”

“Barely,” you commented, forming the appropriate shape with your lips and blowing air through your teeth, hardly any noise.

“What the fuck was that?” He sneered.

“I was whistling!”

“You sound like a fuckin’ busted teakettle, man. That got ran over, and dragged for a kilometer. Okay, change of tactic. Ah—can you do this?” He layered his hands together, made a small opening between his thumbs, and proceeded to blow inside, mimicking the elegant sound of a loon.

You scowled at him. “If I sound like a busted teakettle, what makes you think I can make a freakin’ bird noise? Are your neurons okay?”

“Whatever—fuck the signal, actually. Let’s just get in and out.”

Vernon went around one side of the fishing boat while you crept along the other. He was quick, darting off to the central RV while keeping low, and you got the suspecting, blaring sense this was far from his first time hopping a fence or spying through another’s window. Moving slower in comparison, you approached the first RV. Your stomach was an unsettled hive of buzzing, frantic bees.

What if someone really was inside?

The vehicle wasn’t in the best condition. Worn wheels were sagging and the headlights were busted. Treading airy steps, you paced the perimeter of the vehicle. There were lawn chairs spread out in the back, propped between a plastic, cheap table sitting an ash tray and a few crushed beer cans. A makeshift firepit displayed the remnants of ashy, grey logs and charred newspaper, tiny pieces fluttering loose in the chilly breeze like snowfall.

Was this Minghao? Did this seem like him? Beer cans and ash trays?

Vernon knew him better. You should have requested insight.

You approached the RV, gliding your hand along its cold, smooth surface, until you stopped underneath a window. It was too tall to glance in, so you decided to grab one of the lawn chairs for assistance. The fabric didn’t seem very reliable. Letting your foot press deep onto the surface, the entire chair squeaked, seeming to bend inward on itself. But you took a breath, subtly applying more weight until you were fully standing on it.

“Jesus Christ…” you sighed quietly to yourself, fingers clasping the windowsill. “If this breaks, I’m never standing on anything again in my entire life.”

The curtains were closed apart from a tiny sliver down the middle.

It took all your concentration to not make a single noise as you attempted to peer through the opening. From your inspection, no one was inside. There was a sink with some fancy glass cups splayed around it. Basic wooden cupboards, tinted by age. A cuckoo clock near the door. An armchair embroidered by a dated pattern of roses. Whatever’s Minghao aura was, this didn’t seem to match. You thought back to his luxurious, long-swept coat, his chic, cherry-red hair, the chunky rings agleam on his fingers.

Stepping off the lawn chair, you knew this couldn’t be his RV.

You wondered if Vernon was having any luck. As you walked over to the RV centered in the yard, head cocked in an attempt to find where he had disappeared to, the boy suddenly exploded into you, grasping your hand and tearing you flush against the trailer’s wall.

“What the hell—”

His palm pressed over your mouth, muffling your voice.

“Shh!” He whispered. “There’s someone in this one!”

You grabbed his wrist, peeling away the contact. Hiding behind the RV didn’t seem very practical. “And you got their attention?”

“I was lookin’ in the front window, and this cat hopped up on the sill, started battin’ at me through the glass. Then this woman appeared from nowhere to grab him. I ducked. Dunno if she saw me or not.”

“And what are we supposed to—”

His hand was on your mouth again. “Shut up! You hear that?”

You were still as stone, listening. Apart from the blood rushing in your ears, adrenaline beginning to twitch throughout your body, you heard a noise echo from the front of the vehicle, a squeak, as though a door had opened. Vernon slowly removed his hand from your lips. You two exchanged a wrought look. Your chest was heaving in deep breaths.

“Did you see something, Mr. Big? Hm?”

A few seconds later, you heard a sharp, loud meow, almost demanding in its cadence. Vernon was chewing on his lip ring, hands placed flat to his waist. Instinctively, you pushed yourself closer against him, searching for a trace of his warm, smooth scent to keep your heart grounded.

“Okay. Show Mommy where.”

“Fuck,” Vernon cursed. “Little kitty’s gonna bust us.”

You grabbed onto his hand. “What do we do?”

An orange, plump cat with faint burnt stripes had padded its way around the corner of the RV, its long tail sticking up and flicking. Paw after paw, the cat started to approach you in a slow stride, and your nails dug straight into the inked skin of Vernon’s hand.

You knew you should run.

“Go away Mr. Big,” Vernon gritted his teeth and hissed at the approaching cat. But then the cat butted its square, flat head into Vernon’s leg, purring aloud, rubbing its cheek against his pants. You wanted to giggle despite the seriousness of the situation.

“Hey!” A lady stood at the corner, fists on her hips.

You and Vernon froze against each other.

She was older, her hair a greyish-brown, curly mess flipped over to one side, dressed in flipflops with fluffy green fur and a drooping night gown. While the cat continued persuading Vernon for attention, the lady opted to squint heavily at the two of you, the skin by her eyes wrinkling intensely.

“Qian?” The lady barked, her tone strict and cutting. “Is that you?”

You exchanged a worrisome, confused glance with Vernon. He looked down at the orange cat, gulping heavily, contemplating something.

“Qian!” She snapped again, taking a step closer. “Is that—”

“Uh, yes?” Vernon answered, wincing. “It’s me.”

“Who the hell is Qian?” You whispered, squirming with nerves.

Vernon spoke very lowly, “Minghao’s friend.”

“I told you; you can’t give sardines to Mr. Big anymore!”

“My apologies, m’mam…” he stuttered in response.

She paused, tilted her head. “Qian, you sound different.”

Vernon’s complexion turned pale. “Uh, that’s—”

“Your English has certainly come a long, long way. You barely spoke a word of it when I first met you.” She started to walk closer, her flipflops scuffing across the dusty ground. “Is that Mr. Big down there, by your feet? He thinks you’re about to give him another sardine. I left my glasses in the washroom, you know. I thought there was—” she immediately cut herself off, a gasp flushing out from her mouth. “Is that Biyu?!”

Her reference was clearly aimed at you.

Before you could even decide to speak, Vernon beat you to it.

“It is.”

“And what are you doing behind my trailer?”

Vernon sucked in a breath. “We’re—”

“Well, I’m sure Minghao will be impressed! Knowing his closest friend is out lollygagging around with his ex-girlfriend!” She babbled on and on, as though she hadn’t spoken to anyone in months apart from her cat, the words flowing out in a critical, fast-paced tone. “Have you no shame, the both of you? And you thought behind my trailer was a good place to start?”

Vernon scratched his head. “It won’t happen again.”

“I better hope not! Or else I’ll tell him straight away!”

At last, Vernon bent down, picking up the chunky orange cat that had been sitting at his feet, licking a paw. He gave the cat a few scratches behind its tufted ear before handing him off to his owner.

“There you are, Mr. Big,” she cooed. “Come back to Mommy.”

Your lips pressed together tightly.

While she kept the cat wrapped up against her chest using a single arm, bouncing him like a baby, she had suddenly gripped onto Vernon’s wrist. Moving away from the trailer, your heart plunged.

“Lord—when did you get all this ink?!” She exclaimed. Vernon wasn’t given the opportunity to answer. It seemed to be dawning on her that perhaps the young man with golden-brown eyes, facial piercings, an undeniable gruffness in his voice, and plentiful tattoos wasn’t Qian.

She opened her mouth, thin lips stretched, the breath in her throat hitching. “You… you aren’t Qian…” the lady’s words warped with confusion and shock. “And that isn’t…” keeping the tubby cat cradled against her chest, she pushed around Vernon to approach you. “That can’t be Biyu.”

You felt magnetized to the wall of the trailer. Her eyes were slimmed to a permanent squint as she seemed to be taking in your every detail, the floral, piney scent of her perfume overwhelming your senses, the deep wrinkles of her skin twisting. “No! You can’t be Biyu! She’s much prettier!” The lady whipped around, her cat meowing sharply, as she glared at Vernon. “You two are lying trespassers!”

“No, I’m Qian,” Vernon persisted, smiling.

Shooting him straight-faced daggers, you couldn’t believe he was deciding to push his luck. Everything was totally, undeniably screwed.

“You are not!” She stuck a finger in his face. “Who are you?!”

“Woah, woah, woah. I think you need your glasses before you start with the accusations.” He proceeded to shoulder around her, sliding his arm along your waist, as you stood stiffly, still offended that this lady in her lime-green flip flops and dusty nightgown had called you unattractive in a roundabout insult. “They have chains for em’, no? So you can’t lose ‘em?”

She flung out her arm. “Leave! Right now!”

Vernon clasped his fingers around yours, beginning to pull you away. “I’ll get you a pair for Christmas!” He shouted. “You’ll love it!”

You two began running back up the sloping path that had led downward into the scrap yard, refusing to look back. Digging your nails into the warm skin of Vernon’s hand, you grumbled, “why did you push it?!”

“I didn’t push it!” He laughed.

“She figured out we were lying! And then you got smart!”

At the fence, you two paused to catch your breath.

Vernon smirked at you. “Still want that shitty sewin’ machine?”

Your eyes rolled. There was no point in going back and forth, and so you refused to wait for him, clutching onto the fence and beginning to haul yourself up impatiently, feeling humiliated.

“So, that’s a no?!” He yelled as you reached the top.

If you had the sewing machine, you would have dropped it on him.

“I don’t get what you’re so ticked about. We know the last trailer has to be Minghao’s. And, so what we got busted? That lady can’t see two feet in front of her. For all she knows, I’m Willy fuckin’ Wonka.”

“Oh, yeah,” you retorted dryly. “Because who else could it be? A tattooed, face-pierced liar and a random, apparently very unattractive girl sleuthing around Minghao’s home. Oh, wow,” your voice pitched in a sarcastic tone, hands slapped to your face in mock dramatics. “He’ll be so puzzled! Who could it be?”

Vernon kissed his teeth, keeping his sight on the flat, long road that the car shot down. “Minghao’s probably hardly ever there. Can’t see him bein’ real eager to dish about life with his youthful neighbours.”

“We could have so easily screwed everything up.”

“And we didn’t.”

“You don’t know that!” The frustration belted out in a cry.

The boy shook his head, reaching for the stereo. “Let’s just agree to disagree,” he said, reaching for the knob on his radio. A crackle vibrated through the tired speakers; his phone plugged into the radio using a stringy cable that looked like it might electrocute whoever touched it. “I need my brain to be completely empty.”

“Great…” you muttered, head tilted woefully in the direction of your window, the corners still tinged with frost. “I hate hearing, anyway.”

Vernon snorted. “That’s ‘cause you have to listen to yourself.”

If it weren’t for the finest string of self-control that you unspooled from your insides, then you would have kept up the bickering until he capitulated, and that was rarer than a flying pig. At that point of your relationship, it was almost second nature to chastise each other. You still couldn’t tell if it was making you more or less sensitive.

By the time you arrived back to your apartment, you were surprised the universe wasn’t ringing. Vernon loved to blast his music like the angels were eager to hear every word from heaven, though he had played it notably quieter than usual. You tossed him a lacklustre thank you for his chaperoning duties, beginning to shove outside the car, but the boy’s hand was on your shoulder and he was pushing you back into the seat.

“I have work tomorrow,” you whined. “What is it?”

“And you go to bed at three o'clock? Wow, you really are a loser.”

You smacked his arm. “And you made me climb a fence!”

“Okay, you’re not usually like this,” Vernon took it upon himself to point out, leaning against his door while squinting at you intrusively. “I mean, you can be annoyin’ about things, but this is different.” He started rubbing his chin, pinching at his adam’s apple. “What’s the matter?”

The simple question sparked your laugh. “Yes, let’s discuss it.”

He gestured at you, nodding. “Let’s.”

“That was sarcasm, dummy,” you clarified. “Nothing’s the matter, except for the fact I wanna take a hot bath.” Again, you attempted to open your door, but Vernon was quick to lean over, pulling it shut. When you tried again, he wouldn’t let it open even an inch.

“Hey!” You yelped.

“C’mon, talk to me,” he encouraged, his voice warm.

“Vernon, I’m serious. There’s nothing to—”

“Is this ‘cause of the party? The fact I said you shouldn’t go?” He resumed touching his chin, his head tilted in question. “Is that the problem?”

You couldn’t help scoffing.

His eyebrows leapt upward, and he hummed. “Ahh, so that’s it.”

“Well, you know what, actually…” purposefully keeping your delivery soft and vulnerable, you started to entertain him. “Maybe it was the fact your friend was twenty minutes late, you absolutely hated the idea of me going to a party with you, you made me climb a fence, twice,” your tone started to strip itself of the daintiness, “only to potentially ruin our entire game plan! And then I basically got called ugly by some reclusive lady who smells like a funeral home and whose best friend is her cat! And now I know the entirety of No Hands from start to finish and it’s going to keep me up at night because all I can hear is R-O-S-C-O-E, Mr. Shawty-Put-It-On-Me, I be going HAM, shawty upgrade from bologna! And it’s all your fault!” The breath was beating against your lungs, causing your chest to noticeably shrink and expand.

Vernon’s lips twitched into a smile. “I knew you liked that song.”

“It’s not a matter of liking it!” You shouted while rolling down your window using the crank, feeling the chilled breeze. “It’s just catchy!”

“Well,” the boy cleared the rasp from his throat, proceeding to sit up straighter, focusing his attention. “Do you understand why I was insistent you shouldn’t go? Because I know for a fact you’ll hate it.”

“Okay!” You cried out, shrugging. “So I’ll hate it! So I’ll be miserable! Don’t you think I can assume some of that myself? What if I wanted to hear ‘I’d love it if you were there, but you should know…’ blah, blah, blah. But you just shot me down! You made it seem like—like—you would hate it if I were there. That you wouldn’t want to see me at all…”

Vernon leaned forward, shaking his head, while your fingers twisted together anxiously in your lap, your lip quivering, eyes delicately burning.

“No, PJ’s,” he murmured. “Of course not.”

“But that’s what I heard,” you urged him. “Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” Vernon answered. He set his hand atop your wrist, gave you a reassuring, comfortable squeeze. “Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t think about it like that,” the boy admitted, his voice gritty but gentle. “It doesn’t matter where we are—whenever I see you—I get this soarin’ feelin’ deep in my chest. And then it flows everywhere in my body. Makes me feel like I can grow wings. It’s like… I dunno… you give me a weird high that no other drug could ever do. And I want it more and more, every day.” He paused, his fingers finding their way in between yours, laced together, gripping your sweaty hand so firm and strong. He bit his lip. “I want you more and more.”

Immediately, your face cracked into a smile. All that irritability thinned out, gone like a dense morning fog when the sun catches its blaze. Adverting your timid stare away from his sincere, straightforward eyes that dilated more with every second, you giggled out, “stop…”

He let go of your hand to brush something off your cheek with a few soft strokes from his thumb. “Stop what?” Vernon teased. “Hm?” He then slid his hand around the back of your neck, and you could feel the massaging, warm pressure from the boy’s rough fingertips. The muscles in your thighs automatically clenched. “If you tell me I can’t want you, I’ll only want you more,” he laughed. “You know, I hate goin’ back to my place even more than I did before. Can’t stand the sight of my bed without you in it.”

Your gut was insistent that you give in. But your cautionary heart and mind were ringing the alarm bells. Playfully, you shoved him away, though the sensitive skin of your neck was still sizzling hot from his touch, and you crossed one leg overtop the other, sealing up yourself tightly.

“I’m sure that line was recycled from five other girls,” you mumbled, eyes rolling. “So you can kindly recycle it back into your mouth.”

“But I never meant it with them.”

Your chuckle was short and dry. “Sure.”

“Well… if you want to go to Moo’s shitshow, then be my guest.”

“Really?” You responded in disbelief. “What’s the catch?”

Vernon sighed. “Please bring Ruby.”

“I was gonna do that anyway.”

He leaned over to push open the car door. “You’re fuckin’ free, Pyjamas. Go take your hot bath. Send me a picture, yeah?”

Upon stepping outside onto the curb, you bent down for a goodbye, smiling. “Yes, I will send you a fully clothed picture of myself fresh from the bath with all my acne patches on. I will make it my utmost priority.”

“Can’t wait,” he answered, flashing you a teething, dirty smirk, though his honeyed eyes were far too shining and pure for it to be anything other than his honest excitement. “I’ll text you the info when I know it.”

As expected, Ruby didn’t show as much hesitance to the idea compared to Vernon. She had been attempting to get you clubbing ever since she had known you, and although that triumph was still far away, the opportunity currently presenting itself was much more idealistic. Nonetheless, she was still cautious to indulge you. Ruby didn’t know all of Vernon’s acquaintances—merely a small droplet in a gigantic bucket—but from what she did know, it was enough to prompt her careful lecturing. When you told her that you knew what Vernon was like high, she cackled flippantly directly into your face before highlighting that Vernon dazed off a blunt was much different than him off three lines of coke. You knew she had a point.

The closer it came to Saturday night, the more nervous you became, and the more doubt infested your insistence that had seemed so unshakeable. You thought about how much you still didn’t know when it came to Vernon, the fact you only observed pieces of his life through flashes, like seeing your transient reflection against a speeding car. But now you were taking a much deeper step. What if everything changed? What if you couldn’t handle it? What if this was all just a disguised test to understand if you could really visualize yourself patched into Vernon’s life, despite all the evidence against it? However, you ignored those thoughts very willfully.

And then it was Saturday night.

Ruby was getting ready in the washroom while you went through the clothes in your closest. Your styles and personalities were quite distinguished from each other in almost every sense. When Ruby got ready, she would bring her wireless speaker with her, letting it sit on the sink countertop amongst the widespread mess of her expensive makeup and brushes, singing along to the lyrics of her favourite R&B artists. When you got ready, you pretty much sat in silence at your desk, keeping any touch-ups to your face minimal because you never really learned how to do makeup and it seemed too difficult to figure out now.

You could hear Ruby’s tone-deaf singing. “Can you distract me from all the disaster? Can you touch on me and not call me after? Can you hate on me and mask it with laughter?” Her grating voice was actually pleasantly distracting.

Unsurprisingly, your roommate took her sweet time getting ready, urging you not to worry since, “who the fuck shows up to a party on time?” But once she was done, presenting you the final look, you applauded her prancing around the living room accordingly. Unlike you, Ruby had been experimenting with her hair and makeup consistently, since she was a tween, her flawless skin and thick, loosely curled hair looking like velvet. She then forced you to watch an episode of her soapy drama before booking the ride to Moo’s place, somewhere far, where there was more swamp and grass and mosquitoes than houses and people.

It wasn’t until you were strapped into the backseat that you felt sick.

“Moo?” Ruby squawked, looking down at her phone. “Who’s he?”

You swallowed; your mouth dehydrated. “He’s the host, Ruby.”

“Oh, well, he just requested to follow me on IG. I wonder if Vernon gave my handle to him… he’s a bit cute… but these pictures—feeling myself like I lost my keys—interesting caption. But that Hellcat is definitely not his!” She continued to babble, mostly to herself, during the car ride to Moo’s house. You listened on occasion, caught between engaging her talkative splurges and contemplating how hard the driver might judge you for rolling down the window and upchucking your lunch onto the road.

Finally, you arrived.

“Thanks! Have a great night!” Ruby chirped aloud to the driver who seemed to pull off questionably fast. She started walking up the driveway, but you grabbed her wrist, drawing the girl into a wobble.

“Wait,” you said worriedly. “How do I… look?”

Ruby licked her thumb and smoothed it along one of your eyebrows, and then adjusted the spaghetti straps to the top hidden underneath the long coat you borrowed from the girl’s wardrobe. “Stunning.”

 “Are you sure?”

“Of course!” She exclaimed. Her hands were suddenly gripping your shoulders, her hazel eyes accented by the smoky flare of an umber powder sharpened into knife-like points. “Look, I know it’s easier said than done, but even if you have to fake it, confidence is key! This crowd is definitely not what you’re used to, and even for me this is a stretch, but the great thing about high people, they only care about getting higher. So, in a way, no one cares about you.”

 You were able to laugh at her comment. “Makes sense. Thanks.”

Ruby removed her hands from your shoulders. “Besides, as long as you’re there, I’ll be there. If you need me at any point, I won’t be far.”

Appreciating your roommate’s comfort, you proceeded to breathe out your anxious thoughts, even giving your body a jitter to physically shake off the nerves. Together, you walked up the driveway. The house seemed small from the outside. An open window allowed you to hear distant music and excited, jumbled layers of conversation, smell the burnt, stingy aroma of marijuana. Ruby knocked a pattern against the door, loud and certain.

It didn’t take long before you recognized Moo.

“Hey!” He shouted, a beer bottle clasped in one hand, his cheeks rounded in a welcoming smile. “Fuck—uh—you’re Ruby, right?”

Your roommate nodded. “Indeed.”

“Anddd,” Moo sang while turning to you, squinting one eye shut, his forehead creased and his brow raised in thought. “PJ? Did I get it?”

While you did consider correcting him on the nickname, you decided it was best to just stick with what he already knew. “That works.”

“Fuck yeah. Well, enter the pad, ladies.” He stood aside, keeping the door held open as you and Ruby shuffled into the front foyer—a narrow hallway—the walls blanketed in jackets, the floor swathed with shoes toppled over each other.

Ruby shrugged off her coat, chuckling, “are there any hooks?”

“Oh, certainly!” Moo exclaimed just before he set the beer bottle to his lips. “I think there’s one near the back, right on the left!” As Ruby primly set her coat onto the hook, you couldn’t help but note how Moo’s eyes started to drag down her body, practically bulging at her bum. “Damn!”

She turned around, tucking a curl behind her ear. “Sorry?”

“Uh,” Moo coughed into his elbow. “Sorry—just—stepped on something! Can’t lie, haven’t vacuumed this rug in a dog’s age.”

You held your lips in a flat, downturned line.

“Oh,” Ruby hummed. “Good to know, I guess.” She then looked at you, gesturing for the coat folded in your arms. “I’ll find a place for it.”

Moo encouraged you to join him in the kitchen once you were ready, to which he disappeared through the threshold in the slim, dark hallway. Once he was gone, you instantly told Ruby, “he gagged at your ass!”

She tossed the hair over her shoulder, snorting, “I know.”

“Men are pigs!” You quipped.

“And we’re in the pigpen,” Ruby answered, giggling.

The kitchen was just on the other side of the front foyer. It was a fairly small, intimate space, with the dining table opposite from it, and a bigger opening into the living room, where most people seemed to congregate. From your flying, uneasy glances between faces, you had yet to see Vernon, and that seemed to make your stomach drop like a brick. The kitchen countertops were crowded with empty cans, cutting boards, rolling papers, ash trays, and opened bags of salted snacks. Moo swung open the fridge, reaching around inside before he offered the both of you a drink.

“I’ll take anything spicy,” Ruby said, making sure to raise her voice so she could be heard over the living room’s vivacious, bubbly chatter.

You swayed on the balls of your feet. “A water is fine.”

“What about juice?” Ruby offered, brushing down your arm.

“Sorry,” Moo apologized, pulling out a beer can. “We just used the last of the juice for drinks. Cups are to your right. Tap water’s all I got.”

Teeth gnawed at your inner cheek as you opened Moo’s concerningly loose cupboard, pulling down a dusty, plastic cup. You squirmed around him to reach the sink. Water didn’t start spraying from the tap until you had turned the knob several times, to which a rumbling, guttural noise sounded from the pipes. Attempting not to make it obvious, you sniffed the water before drinking it, noting a strong mineral scent.

“So, Ruby?” Moo leaned against the counter. “Is that ‘cause of the red streaks in your hair? Which are very pretty, by the way.”

Your roommate shrugged. “Well, thank you, but I’m pretty sure I was named Ruby before I ever had red streaks in my hair.” She cracked open her beer. “It’s the stone associated with my birth month—July.”

He gritted his teeth, chuckling off the embarrassment. “Ah, you make a good point. I love that. What’s my birthstone? I’m born in May.”

The girl laughed, “I don’t know the others, just my own!”

“See, I’m gonna have to Google that later.”

“Please, don’t hesitate,” she answered, fluttering a sweet smile.

At that moment, someone else squeezed into the kitchen, a man whom smelled like firewood and rich cologne. He was tall, cutting in between you and Moo with the height of his body.

Moo hardly noticed, keeping the sparks of conversation lit with Ruby, while you were ungracefully separated by the stranger digging through the fridge, his large back all you could see. Upon pulling out a silver can, he shimmied his way out. You sighed, plucking some lint off your top, before reinserting yourself into the conversation that you hadn’t been a part of, anyway.

“No, no, that’s my dad’s…” Moo was saying, rubbing his neck.

Ruby cackled. “I knew it!”

“Does this place look like it should have a fuckin’ Hellcat in the driveway? Nah, I got my Nissan fuckin’ Micra. Pussy magnet.”

She sipped from the beer; eyes kept trained to Moo as he only inched his way closer toward her. “Humble king,” Ruby commented.

“If you ever wanna take a spin in it,” Moo enticed, lifting up a shoulder and tugging at his bottom lip, “you can be my humble queen.”

Oh, god.

You were suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to find Vernon, wherever he was tucked away. Dumping the remaining water into the sink and leaving the plastic cup with it, you nodded briefly at Ruby while escaping the kitchen, assuming she knew what you had in mind. Nobody slumped at the dinner table seemed coherent, so you tapped on the arm of a girl sat at the couch, scrolling through her phone. She glanced up at you, her eyes a watery, stinging red. Smoke rolled out ghostily from between her lips.

“Sorry to bother,” you squeaked. “But, uh, you know Vernon?”

The girl nodded. She then dug into the couch cushions, pulling out what resembled a small, black container with an attached mouthpiece.

Swallowing nervously, you asked, “where would he be?”

While she fixed her mouth around the attachment and started to slowly, deeply breathe in, the girl flicked a finger toward the hallway behind her, with a door planted at the very end. You smiled, thanking her, although you weren’t entirely sure what do next. Was it a bedroom? Were you allowed to just waltz in? Could Vernon be in there… with someone else?

You stood at the door, noticing a mild trembling in your hands.

But you didn’t sink into the doubt. Instead, you hailed Ruby’s words of encouragement, straightened out your shoulders, fixed your chin high, and pushed the door open. Simultaneously, you were braced to see the absolute worst. However, it wasn’t what you expected. The room was dark apart from a television’s fuzzy, twitching glow that washed across the carpet and bed in faint, blue hues. Someone was sitting in an armchair poised close to the TV, seeming completely dissonant, a smoking blunt of some sort caught in their fingers. There were two people relaxed on the bed, a cutting board in between them, a woman you had never seen, and… Vernon.

She dipped her head down after arranging a small, neat white line using a pocket knife. Vernon flipped her long hair to one side as she reached the board, sucking the powder up her nostril with a casual, easy quickness. “Fuck,” the woman cursed, her voice gritty, wiping off her nose with a finger and smearing whatever powder stuck across her tongue. “That’s fuckin’ sharp. I'm gonna be on the moon.”

Vernon smirked. “They cut with fuckin' crystals.”

She laughed, flipping back her hair. “That’s pure ice, babe.”

You definitely felt as though you were interrupting something private, but it would have been more awkward to simply stand there, watching, until someone noticed you. Letting the door fall shut, you forced on a crooked smile and stepped closer into the bedroom, clearing your throat to make your presence known.

Both Vernon and the woman looked your way. For a slow, trudging moment, Vernon didn’t recognize you, and he looked annoyed.

She huffed. “Sorry, sweets. I’d give you a lick but this shit cost me a motherfuckin’ arm and a leg to get. You’re better off, anyway.”

The twinkling aura of the light reflected off her arms and her pronounced chest, the skin needled with tattoos that wrapped around her like snakes made of black ink. She had similar facial piercings to Vernon, though her nose was pierced, too. Just from her temperament, you could tell she was a bit older in age, perhaps in her late twenties, and assumed she must be the one Moo referenced in their conversation at the hanger, the one who took that vacation to Europe and was able to scoop something good.

“Oh, what the fuck?” Vernon shook his head. “PJ’s?”

You started to smile, hands wringing together. “I’m here.”

“No shit,” he answered, pushing himself off the bed. Cemented to your place on the shoddy carpet, you let Vernon approach you, one arm weaving around the back of your neck while the other wrapped your waist, pulling you into his firm body. “Didn’t know you were here.”

Timidly, you held onto him, fingers feeling along the fabric of his white t-shirt, your smile refusing to fade. “I haven’t been here long.”

“No?” He mumbled in question, letting his hands fall onto your hips as he began to rescind the closeness. It was right then that you noticed the difference in his eyes—those pupils were extremely dilated—dark like the ocean without any moonlight, almost… shimmering, twitching, coursing with energy that made you stiffen ever so slightly. Vernon sunk his thumbs into the waistband of your jeans, hooking you, dragging you further into his chest. “You look so fuckin’ pretty,” he murmured, the husk in his voice thicker than usual. “I’ve missed you all week. What kinda bullshit is that, huh?”

You giggled, lips pressing together, taking in the close-up beauty of his gentle features, how such softness seemed to betray him. “Me too,” you answered, sniffling. “I’ve never seen your eyes like this.”

He chuckled. “You’ve never seen me off coke.” Vernon then turned around, gesturing to the woman who was now sprawled on her side across the bed. “Especially the fuckin’ wild shit this lunatic gets. This is Kitty.”

“Uh, hi.” You waved at her, feeling small under her piercing gaze.

Kitty nodded, tilting her head. “Your next girlfriend, Vernon?”

You gulped while Vernon shot back at her, “you’re fuckin’ nasty.”

“Quel surprise.” She winked a hooded eye, tongue prodding along a glimmering tooth in her mouth. “But I guess you would know better than most.” Kitty slid off the bed, proceeding to straighten out her short, skin-gripping skirt that didn’t leave much to be revealed. “I’m gonna use the washroom, you know, to freshen up.” She sauntered past you, out the door, leaving behind a whiff of her strong, powerful aroma, like a dark cherry.

Vernon groaned. “She’s a fuckin’ psychopath.” He returned to the bed, flopping beside the cutting board. There was a baggie left on it.

Continuing to hold your place, you exhaled nervously, looking around the bedroom and its unusual blankness. “Who’s that?” You asked, pointing at the guy in the chair with the burning blunt. He hadn’t moved an inch since you walked in the room.

“Oh, don’t worry about him,” Vernon answered, coughing against his elbow. “That’s Snozz, Moo’s roommate. Dude’s got narcolepsy.”

Your lips pursed. “Are you serious?”

Vernon folded his arms. “Yeah. Cool, huh?”

“Well… I don’t know… I feel like it’s a bit… inconvenient.”

“So are the pills he pops every fuckin’ week. Dude’s got every battle there is. But we keep an eye on him.” He wriggled up against the wooden headboard, propping an arm across his bent knee. “Now, come sit with me,” Vernon invited, nodding toward the available space. “Hard to see how gorgeous you look when you’re so far.”

While approaching the bed, you couldn’t help but take another glance at Moo’s roommate, Snozz, sunken into the armchair. His head was collapsed awkwardly onto his shoulder, fronds of long, brown hair masking his eyes, a slight fissure between his lips. You wondered how long he had been asleep; his blunt was still glowing but the television was jouncing static.

You sat beside Vernon, the cutting board in between you.

He picked it up. “Don’t need this shit anymore.” And placed it on the adjacent night table. “Unless you wanna finish Kitty’s pixie dust?”

Squishing up your tight shoulders, you shook your head. “Nope.”

Despite the heavy shadows, you could see the soft grin develop on his face, however, you also noticed him pick up the small baggie off the cutting board. There was hardly any powder left inside it, but that didn’t deter Vernon from dragging a finger along the inside of his cheek and using the moisture to collect the rest. You watched him rub the powder across his gums, wondering how much was already in his system, waiting to activate, already activated.

“Shouldn’t you have left the rest for Kitty?”

Vernon cackled, scratching his eye. “Hell no! She owes me. I busted my ass last year to get her the purest shit on the market for New Year’s.”

“Hm.” You nodded, curling your legs underneath you.

He slid down the bed sluggishly until he his head was cushioned on a pillow, proceeding to tuck his arms underneath it. The boy stared up at the ceiling as though it were a night sky scattered with iridescent galaxies, beginning to grin, bite onto his lip, giggle. “She thinks she’s such a peach, gettin’ this fancy European shit for us, but she’s a moocher to her core, always lookin’ for scraps. Damn—fuckin’ Snozz took one line and now he’s incapacitated!” He flung an arm out toward the chair. “He went off his meds for this shit! She should be in here babysittin’ his narcoleptic ass.”

Unsure of what to say, you merely clasped onto your hands harder, smiled like your mouth was being pulled back by someone else’s invasive fingers. This side of Vernon was foreign to you, not to mention extremely unnerving.

“Was Moo alright?” Vernon asked.

For a moment, the unstable catch in his words was gone, and you managed to breathe a little easier. “He was kind,” you answered, smoothing a hand along your jeans. “Definitely more interested in chatting up Ruby.”

“Shit!” He yelled, suddenly slamming upward. “I fuckin’ forgot Ruby’s here!” Rapidly patting down his pockets, Vernon then pulled out his phone, incorrectly thumbing the passcode in several times. You observed him open his text messages, select your roommate’s contact, and type out a string of mismatched letters that he struggled to send her. “Fuck—I can’t believe I forgot she was here! Aw, I miss her, y’know?” He buckled into a concerning haze of coughing and laughing, leaning over his elbow while his back shuddered like shifting plates. “She parties hard. I fuckin’ miss that, dude. I think a bit of you’s leaked into her. Fuck, she used to get so dirty. She’s vanilla now.”

Wincing, you tried not to let your disconcertedness bleed through, although your heart was noticeably heavier in your chest, pumping hard, making the air feel denser to breathe. “Uh…” you prodded in a weak, uncertain tone, nails digging into the bed. “Meaning what?”

Vernon slid off the bed. He started swaying, massaging the knobs of his scuffed, scabbed knuckles. “She has limits now—I’ve gotta be home by eleven, I can only take three shots, I’m just smokin’ for an hour—she didn’t give no fucks about that before.” He marched over to Snozz, removing the dulled, orange blunt from his fingers. “When she worked at Puttin’-Edge, she was a fuckin’ deviant. She’d take almost anything, man. You couldn’t tear her away from the function until she was on the verge of blackin’ out.”

Inadvertently, your eyebrows furrowed together. “That sounds healthier to me. I’m proud she’s winding down a bit. She’s still herself.”

“I know, I know,” Vernon muttered, sounding almost agitated as he puffed Snozz’s blunt. “Not fuckin’ sayin’ she’s a goddamn prude, just that I miss her crazy.” He ruffled a hand through his hair, tousling the black tresses. Then he was pulling a lighter out from his pocket, keeping the blunt held between his lips while he crisped it using the strong flame. “Fuck, I’m stargazin’ now, PJ’s,” he laughed hoarsely around a cloud of smoke.

You didn’t know what to do.

Vernon’s energy was disseminating throughout the room. It was like a sparkler, drawing hectic, amorphous shapes into the dark that remained in place for only a second before fading.

And you couldn’t keep up.

Suddenly, the door burst open. In paraded Kitty, twirling herself around the room, holding onto a small, black box with a mouthpiece, very similar to the girl’s from before. You heard her singing, words slurring into each other, careless in every sense. While you were utterly lost, Vernon seemed to recognize her messily constructed melody, singing along with her as they grooved in circles.

“C'mon, Snozz!” Kitty shouted, dropping to her knees in front of him as he remained fast asleep. “Let’s hear you sing!” She continued her musical number, grabbing Snozz by his shoulders, then holding up his head by tufts of fluffy hair, pressing the lyrics into his ear.

You were dead stiff.

“Don’t be a fuckin’ weirdo!” Vernon cackled.

Kitty tossed her hair back, laughing deliriously. “He needs fun!” She stumbled over to the bed where you were huddled akin to a sopping wet kitten caught in a flash freeze, watching her collapse onto the covers, praying you were invisible. Kitty breathed in, her device crackling, and exhaled a thick, rolling smoke that had a distinct, sweet smell. “Especially you,” she purred, capturing you in her enlarged, misty eyes. “You need fun.”

“Well, actually, I—”

“Vernon and Kitty are in the bedroom!” Someone shouted, interrupting your non-existent rebuttal after popping their head into the room.

And then the floodgates broke. About six or seven people streamed into the dark space, squawking over each other, muddling the air with a concoction of bitter smells and escalating the temperature to an uncomfortable warmth in a matter of mere seconds. Somebody found the remote control for the television. In a few blips, there was a music channel playing, the volume cranked until a consistent, rhythmic club beat was all you could hear. It was terrible. Wanting to spend some time with Vernon away from the chaos had morphed into a gathering for the completely inebriated.

Now, the chaos was taunting you at every angle.

Kitty crawled closer, holding the box between her teeth.

She proceeded to sit clumsily on her knees, legs opened wide, enough to see her underwear if you were curious to look. But she had such blissful unawareness, taking in another huff from her vape, letting the burn settle in her throat before blowing everything out. Your wrinkled, displeased face caught the brunt of a manufactured flavour you didn’t particularly appreciate.

“Seriously, babe,” Kitty drawled, scooting herself closer toward you, her knees nudging yours. “I have tablets. And they’re low dose. Easy.”

“Uh, that’s fine.” Gosh—your tone was so blatantly fragile—it sounded like your voice was thin glass. “I really don’t want any.”

“Yeah,” Kitty laughed, gasping for air, but instead lifting the vape to her round, full lips. “You don’t want them! I can see that!” She took another restless hit. You made sure to hold your breath. “But you definitely fuckin’ need ‘em, baby girl! It’ll take the edge off! I’ll even half the price!”

Abruptly, another body flopped onto the bed, toward the foot. Kitty turned around, and together, you watched a girl climb her way onto a man’s lap, arching her back smoothly as she bent over him, the tips of her fingers tickling down his face before their lips brushed in a kiss.

“Ew!” Kitty screamed around the mouthpiece to her vape. “Get a fuckin’ room, you sick freaks!” She pushed against the girl’s tiny arm, though it was a frivolous, teasing touch without scalding intention.

As you anxiously rubbed the back of your hand against your thrumming forehead, you felt a slickness, quickly realizing that the crown of your hair was dampened with sweat. Vernon blended into the crowd well. It seemed there were more people in the room, and no matter how intensely your eyes sorted between the dazed faces, none were recognizable. You attempted to shuffle off the bed, but Kitty had caught you, luring you sit back down. And you did, despite your gut hollering in vehement protest.

“I wanna know—,” she sang, pulling at a long loop of dyed hair close to her ear, “—and don’t take offense to it, sweetheart. But why come here if you weren’t planning on getting fucked up?” Almost to emphasize her point, she returned the vape to her lips. “Like, are you a masochist?”

Huddling away from a man standing a little too close to the bed, you rubbed along your arm in a pitiful attempt to self-soothe. “I-I, I don’t really…” you couldn’t think, and watching Kitty’s wide, unmoving eyes delightfully swallow your fear had you frozen. “I don’t know.”

“Because of Vernon?”

You couldn’t answer.

She suddenly cackled, head tossed back. The device hissed while she secured her lips around the mouthpiece, sucking in. When Kitty elaborated through a drifting screen of smoke, you couldn’t be bothered to hold your breath at the smell—you needed to breathe—your body wasn’t giving you a choice. “That’s cute,” the girl giggled. “Although, are you sure you’re completely sober? I know Vernon’s type…” her gaze subtly flickered over you in a heartbeat, “and I’m not sure how well you tick the boxes.” She flipped the hair off her shoulder, laughing. “You must be nasty in bed, then.”

When you swallowed, smudging your lips together, they felt drier than old, strained leather. It was near impossible to speak. Every word quivered, leaving your twitching tongue with such timidness and dread. “I-I don’t know…” you laughed brokenly. “I just—I think I’m gonna—"

“Know what I miss most about Vernon?” Kitty interrupted, her head tilting to the side, cheek rubbing her shoulder as though she were reminiscing a memory so magnificent and tender. But then her stare shot toward you, hardened, challenging, devilish. “How he would fuck me until my brain melted.” You swallowed, trembling. “He told me I was the best at taking him, that no one would ever compare.” Kitty started smirking, dragging a hand up her thigh, slow and flirtatious, as though she were retracing a sensual touch. “No pressure or anything!” Her taunting façade vanished, the smirk replaced by a smile, the challenging tone replaced by a nonchalant, almost encouraging warmth. But you knew it wasn’t genuine. Not at all.

“Thanks for sharing,” you sighed, completely deflated.

A part of you bristled with the urge to be more assertive as opposed to reclusive, but it was a very small part, enough to feel yet not enough to follow through with a vengeance.

Understanding the conversation was done now that Kitty had put you in your place with a calculated slash of humiliation, you slid off the bed, pushing around the bodies packed into the room. Regret had never raised so fast from the depth of your stomach. You could taste the acridness tangy in your mouth, feel the moment’s inertia, how the atmosphere seemed to be pulling you down with every step. How on Earth could you think this was a good idea? That you could somehow fit into Vernon’s life like a perfect building block? Were you really that delusional? That naïve?

Entering into the living room, you weren’t able to make it far without someone stepping into your way. So—he had left the bedroom.

“Where’re you off to?” Vernon asked.

You were too miserable to feign any softness. “I’m leaving.”

As you attempted to weave past him, Vernon opposed you. He tucked the blunt behind his ear, the edges of his lips furling into a disbelieving smile. “Fuck, you just got here PJ’s. Can’t be leavin’ so soon.”

“Well, I am,” you answered matter-of-factly. “Goodnight, Vernon.”

Again, he cut you off, stepping into your way. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay… so you’re headin’ out early 'cause…?”

“Because I want to. Now, can you please move?”

Predictably, the boy ignored your plea. He still wasn’t himself, and he wouldn’t be for a while. You didn’t want to speak with him regardless of his intoxication. The stinging, draping heaviness of your misjudgment was like a smothering blanket and Vernon was merely keeping the hot fabric trapped around you. His gaze seemed lost, refusing to connect the pieces.

You watched him shake his head. “No… somethin’ happened. And now it’s got you all upset, and you won’t fuckin’ tell me.”

Groaning, you shouldered past him forcefully. “Thanks, detective!”

He grabbed your wrist.

You whipped around, wresting for it back. “Vernon!”

“Let’s talk outside.” He nodded at the sliding glass doors across the carpeted living room. “No one’s out there. C’mon.” When you resisted his pulling with a deep scowl, he immediately opted for a different technique of zero patience, one that involved sweeping you off your damn feet and carrying you in his toned arms like a newlywed bride.

“Vernon!” You hollered; your cheeks aroused with heat. “Put me—p-put me down—you freaking idiot!” People were looking, but they didn’t seem to assume much, even stepping aside to let Vernon through the open sliding doors onto the cement platform. He dropped you down, and you stumbled, wobbling into a plastic lawn chair. “What the hell is your issue!”

“Okay,” he huffed, closing the curtains before pulling the sliding glass door shut. “Now that we’ve got some real privacy—” he turned toward you, “—let’s talk.”

“Talk about what!” You yelled. “I said I wanted to leave!”

“And you can,” Vernon encouraged, “as soon as you tell me—”

“It doesn’t matter what happened!” Standing behind the white lawn chair to place distance in between you, your head swung adamantly. “I’m glad it happened, actually. Because now I understand how stupid and delusional I've been!” You refused to look at Vernon, flickering your glassy eyes toward a buzzing lantern along the brick, trapped with dead leaves.

“Okay,” he hummed. “About what?”

“Stop,” you demanded.

He laughed, throwing out his arms. “Stop what?”

The answer didn’t come to you.

Nothing was. Inside your head was loud, overpowering static that deflected every possible thought, from the articulate to nonsensical, just like the television inside the bedroom. Not even the brisk, feathering cold of the pure night could penetrate you.

Vernon grabbed onto the lawn chair, moving it aside. You let him press into your melancholic aurora because you would and always have let him do just about anything. He pulled the most delicate strings inside you that you had never sensed before. He sparked feelings your body and mind had never experienced. It was like riding an unbelievable wind that refused to let your feet touch the ground, keeping you petrified but addicted to the freedom. And when you were back on Earth, it wasn’t long before you hated it, before you desperately wanted the rise, the gust, the weightlessness.

He told you that you were like a drug to him.

It was only now that you truly understood what he meant.

But you had never used drugs, and you weren’t about to start.

Vernon stood close enough to breathe you in; his arms folded; his warmth palpable. “Your eyes are all teary,” he murmured with concern.

“How do you not get it?” You whispered while staring down at the cracked slabs of cement. “We’re never, ever going to work. Not as friends, or as anything else—” your voice split, and you needed a moment to pause, reabsorb the pain. “It just won’t ever happen.”

He exhaled deeply, fingernails puncturing into his arms.

You quickly wiped off your own tears.

That was the moment Vernon finally caught your eyes. Everything about his stance shifted. It was like someone administered him a dose of clarity. “PJ’s…” he murmured, grabbing onto your arms, sliding his rough palms down your skin until your hands were gathered in his. “You’re fuckin’ jumpin’ to conclusions, you know that, right?” There was a squeeze against your fingers. “You’re seein’ the worst of everything, diggin’ a hole.”

“How else am I supposed to see it?!” You snapped, tearing your hands out from his solacing, sweet grip, beginning to pace around the cold patches of textured cement. “This is such a big part of your life! You love the freedom, the adventure, the high. You don’t want the lesser, boring, mundane stuff that everyone else has going on. And that’s exactly what I am, what I always will be!” After rubbing away the thin trails of tears scurrying down your cheeks, you bit back a futile, immature whine. “I can’t fit into your life and you can’t fit into mine! It’s that simple! There’s no meeting in the middle, no compromising. Nothing that could ever make us gel!”

Vernon stopped your pacing by shoving you at the shoulder. “Are you fuckin’ crazy, PJ’s?” He deadpanned. “We make us gel! We like each other! You just fuckin’ tiptoe around it, avoidin’ us at every turn. Doesn’t that just enforce our differences even more?”

“Likeness isn’t enough!” You told him, pushing off his hand. “How am I ever supposed to be okay with you snorting coke beside a girl you have sexual history with! How am I ever supposed to be okay that you’re affiliated with all these shady, dangerous weirdos! How will I ever get over the inevitable fact you’ll just get bored of me! We make absolutely no sense!”

Vernon chuckled irritably, tonguing against his cheek. “To you.”

“I-I can’t make it any clearer,” you admitted, exasperated.

“So, what now?” He snorted.

“Now,” you sniffled, wiping underneath your eye, “I’m leaving.”

Vernon removed the blunt from his ear. It was hardly smoking at that point, though he still attempted a puff, shaking his head. “I can’t fuckin’ believe you,” he laughed, exhaling swiftly. “You’re so fuckin’ stupid.”

“Goodnight,” you pronounced to the boy sharply.

Throwing the glass door back open, you stalked into the kitchen, finding your roommate in the exact place you had left her, with Moo exactly where you had left him. Their conversation seemed animated and jovial, and you would have felt awful about interrupting them if you weren’t so high-strung from arguing with Vernon.

Every inch of you was vibrating.

You sighed aloud cumbersomely. “I’m sorry if you guys are having fun, but I need to go home.”

They both paused, taking in your appearance.

Ruby raised her eyebrow. “Uh… sure.”

Moo wrinkled his nose. “Damn, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you muttered, fanning your sweltering face.

He checked the time on his phone, his expression bulging. “You guys have hardly made a dent here! C’mon! You can’t leave this early—”

“I want to go home!” You shouted, glaring him into a stupefied silence.

Ruby swallowed, unable to hide her shock that such a booming, aggressive statement could come from such a docile person. But it was the flash of desperation she needed to see, immediately understanding that something had gone wrong and you were in the process of crumbling.

“No, we gotta leave,” Ruby said tersely. “Thanks for the drink.”

Moo followed after you into the corridor, his head tilted against the frame. Ruby helped you into her cushiony coat before reaching for her own. “Can I at least order your Uber?” He offered, hopeful.

Ruby brushed some hair off her lip. “No, it’s alright. I’ve got a friend who’s just coming off work. She’ll be way faster. And no payment needed.”

“Ah, okay,” Moo nodded, his tone dragging with disappointment, although you assumed it was due to losing Ruby and not yourself.

Outside, the cold suddenly felt way colder than it had when you were filled to the brim with heat, arguing. Now, you sensed every nip and bite from the wind. Ruby hurried after you to the base of the driveway, scurrying along the rough gravel as she texted her friend. Once you reached the dented mailbox sticking out from the ground at an odd angle, Ruby had finally caught up to you, the concern in her expression evident.

“What happened?” She asked, frowning.

You didn’t know how to respond, standing silently while the wind whipped the bottoms of your lengthy coat. The only thing you could squeeze out was a self-deprecating croak of regret. “I’m so stupid, Ruby,” you cried, the water flooding your eyes instantly, turning the night a blur. “I always make the dumbest choices!” 

“No you don’t!” Ruby was quick to correct you.

“Is this not proof enough?” You rebutted, throwing your arm in the direction of the house. “I mean, what the hell am I doing here? It’s because a made a stupid choice, about a stupid guy, and I followed it, stupidly!”

Your roommate sighed, pulling some fluttering crimson tresses away from her tinged, blushed cheeks. She then stood next to you, wrapping an arm around your waist, pressing you against her warm side. Honestly, you weren’t looking for a lecture, another back and forth, a pep-talk about how you were treating yourself too unfairly. She seemed to understand that, opting to comfort you with her closeness instead, and you leaned into her jasmine scent gratefully.

Although, the relief was only temporary.

You could only surmise how much it was going to hurt later.

—END OF PART FOUR.

[yoongihan]

Services Rendered - BC - 3/3

pairing: escort chan x femOC

genre: smut, with little plot, a lot of talking, fluffy, but there be angst in this part

word count: 10.7k

warnings: sex work, smut: pentrative sex (no contraceptive mentioned - birth control discussion happened off-page), oral (fem receiving) ; a lot of kissing, older woman, chan goes by chris, reader shorter than chris, more 'babys' and 'yeonins' because it's chris, more book talk because it's me, CHRIS IN A SUIT, the most ethical escort service ever, cursing, some therapizing (do not take for gospel as i have no degree in counseling). if i've missed something, let me know.

rating: 18+/M

summary: seeking a solution to your lack of experience, you assume the process will be business-like. you're entirely wrong.

a/n AGAIN I"M SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG! Moving was part of it, but in general my life is just...something right now. also, this section originally should have been just the reunion and smut...and then it became a lot more. you'll see what i mean. big thank you to anyone who cares enough to read the end of this. you have my heart. as always, gracias to @dpr-moni for reading and encouraging because who knows where'd we be if i lived in a vacuum.

part one part two

Part Three

Is there anything you’d like to add to inform The Company of your experience?

He was perfect.

–

Six Months Later

You send off another email after reading it over three times. This is your life. A constant stream of the typed word, either your own or someone else’s, and you spend your hours reading and fixing, reading and tweaking, reading and polishing. You must make sure someone else appears perfect (without error). 

No wonder you need reading glasses. 

You push away from your desk, raising your arms over your head to stretch out that constantly curved spine of yours. You glance at the time, recognizing that the early afternoon hours are always the worst because post-lunch always feels like a good time to nap. You tell yourself that you will go walk a lap or something after you edit and review the next press release in your inbox. 

You hear one of your coworkers say something under her breath and you almost ask her to share because trauma-bonding is the best way to get through the day, right? But you need to focus and your space may not be a tiny cubicle, but with the partitions dividing desks and computers, it’s a lot to get up and get the attention of someone behind that four feet of unknown office supply material. 

You wish you had a window to look out. It’s early autumn. The weather is beginning to turn to brisk and clean. You can’t wait to pull out all your sweaters from the plastic bins under your bed at home. As it is, you have a cardigan draped on the back of your chair for when the aircon gets too much. 

Your workplace is by no means particularly formal, but you dress nicely so you feel like you will work. If you wore something comfortable, you’d be full-on napping now. 

You open the press release and let out a heavy sigh when there’s the use of ‘cite’ for ‘sight’ in the very first sentence. 

This is gonna be a long one, you can tell. 

At some point in fixing another comma splice, you feel a presence at your side. 

“I’ll be right with you. Give me one second.” You can see black trousers and equally nice-looking black shoes. One of the interns? You don’t get much face time with anyone here, other than those in your department of three. Only an eager intern would be dressed that well and seek you out. No one comes to this company to do what you do. But a hopeful, idealistic college co-ed looking for a recommendation letter or a foot in the door would have no clue to avoid you. You are not the person to offer a leg up in the corporate world.

You hear a grunt or hum of understanding and you continue to peruse through the press release. 

Then you hear whispers, nothing you can actually comprehend, but the ‘sssss’ sound of those around you engaging in conversation, but super hushed. It seems dramatic whatever it is. New gossip? Probably. 

The intern waiting for your attention is patient, doesn’t move away, or tap his foot or anything to betray his feelings. 

But then something falls on your desk. It distracts you enough that you look away from your monitor. You pick it up, something relatively scathing on your tongue to say to this intern. 

It’s your business card. Your never-used, never-reordered business cards that sit in your bag or purse, never to see the light of day. 

The corners are rounded, as though it’s been handled multiple times. It’s even bent in the middle slightly, possibly from being stuck in a pocket for a period of time. 

Who on earth would have–?

“Chris.”

He rests a hand on the top of your partition, smiling at you. “Hi.” His hair has grown in the months since you’ve seen him, but his smile is the same. It takes you several seconds to see the rest of him, the black sleeves encasing his arms,  shirt cuffs revealing a sliver of white before his beautiful hands. 

He’s wearing a suit. Crisp white shirt, narrow black tie, perfectly tailored.

You jump up, banging one knee on your desk. He winces when you do, but you’re too embarrassed to appreciate his sympathy.

Standing, you can see your coworkers all paying close attention to you and your visitor. 

“You’re here?”

He nods, straightening up, hand falling to his side. He reaches for the business card. You give it, brain too overwhelmed with HE’S HERE to take in anything else.

“I showed that to Mr. Park Siwoo downstairs, and that was enough to be allowed up here.” His smile has lessened into something tentative. “He seemed to think you didn’t give these out very much.”

“I don’t.”

Slightly bigger smile.

“Um.” You again see that all your coworkers are watching with avid interest, like someone might start eating popcorn while they observe. “Come on,” you say, grabbing him by the wrist and leading him toward one of the empty conference rooms. You can actually hear the whispers reengage from your colleagues, but you ignore them. 

Chris’ hand laces with yours during the short trip from your desk to the conference room with its frosted glass that kind of provides privacy for the many meetings bosses feel are necessary. You falter at the hand hold, but keep going, pushing through the doors until you reach the large oval table. 

You turn and release him, half-sitting on the edge of the table. “You’re here.”

“Yeah.” He scratches the back of his head, right at the nape. 

It strikes you as almost fidgety, which seems unlike him. Is he nervous?

“That’s okay, right?” he asks. “That’s why you gave me this?” He holds up the business card. 

“Yes,” you hurriedly reassure him, reaching out as though you can just touch him in comfort. You freeze halfway. It’s not that weekend, the rules of ‘carte blanche’ are no longer in effect. You draw back immediately, looking at the floor. “Yes, I…I didn’t want to hope you might actually find me.” You look back at him, as though aware he might scold you for those words. “I just…didn’t want it to be a locked door. To have no chance of seeing you again.” 

“You saved me the trouble of convincing Felix to hack our database and find your information.” He moves away from the door, several steps closer to you. “Which is pretty illegal.” He stops with about a meter between you. “So thank you.”

You stare at him, taking in how his hair is pushed back, except for one strand, curling against his forehead. 

“You look so good,” you blurt out, your filter well eradicated at the surprise of him. 

There it is, that spread of pink along his cheeks and ears. “Oh…thank you…you do, too.” 

You doubt that, in your work clothes, rumpled from sitting for too many hours, hair reacting to when you mess with it in frustration. 

But it’s Chris. 

“Thanks.” 

It’s quiet, awkward for a few moments. What do you say? You had sex with this man, multiple times; for you an experience unrepeated. You’ve thought of him easily every day since you last saw him. He popped into your mind at incredibly inconvenient times, but you were always happy to get lost again in the memories of that weekend. 

“Do you have dinner plans?” 

“Tonight?” your voice is high and squeaky. “I mean, I usually just go home.” 

He half-smiles. “Can I take you to dinner?”

Your mind is sputtering like a car that won’t start. “Tonight?”

He chuckles and you haven’t heard his laugh in six months. Some of the tension in your shoulders releases at that sound. 

“I feel like I can be a little more appealing than dinner at home.”

“Of course you can.” You clasp your hands, not sure what to do with them all of a sudden. “Yes. I mean…” You look down at yourself. “I don’t have a change of clothes…and you’re…you’re in a suit.”

He tilts his head to the side a little. “You’re perfect. What time should I meet you downstairs?”

Buffering at ‘you’re perfect’, it takes you a minute to remember what time you get off work (in a job you’ve had a decade and has rarely deviated in schedule). 

“Is six okay?”

He places his hand over your clasped ones. “You tell me. I came to see you. I don’t have anything else to do today.”

“To see me?”

He ducks his head, so you’re at eye level with him. “To see you.” It’s hard to keep his gaze, so you look down, at his hand on yours. His warm hands that you’ve remembered but also forgotten as time has continued, every day it’s a little less vivid. How he felt, how he sounded, how he laughed. 

You take a deep breath before looking back up at him. It’s hard to believe he’s real and in front of you. Again. 

“I’d love to have dinner with you, Chris. Six would be good.” 

His smile stretches, pleased. “Okay.” He draws his hand away and you miss it, him, already. 

The loss flashes red in your mind. If you missed him so much after one weekend with him, will seeing him now just make it worse? Saying goodbye again might be irrecoverable. 

“After all, I want to know if you liked that book.” His words cause you to pause in walking back toward the doors. You turn to him. “You did read it, right?”

“Of course I did.”

His dimples. You didn't forget his dimples, but you also didn’t realize how much more enticing they were in person than in your memories. 

“Great.” He moves to follow you back into the office, but you stay put. 

“You read yours?”

The smile hints at arrogance; just a touch. “Of course I did,” he parrots you. “Both books.” There’s an implied ‘so there.’ It reminds you of the teasing, the fondness of the weekend. How it wasn’t all heat or softness. There was humor, joking, and amity. 

“So…you’re better than me.” You look over your shoulder up at him as he’s close behind you. 

He laughs, squeezing your shoulder. “I wouldn’t say that, but if you wanted to…”

It’s on the tip of your tongue, but you hold back. You have no idea if such an admittance would weigh on him. He’s likely in town for something unrelated to you or that weekend. It could mean much less than you want it to. 

You missed him. So much. 

“I’m really glad to see you, Chris.” This seems safe to admit. His smile straightens, as though he hears the weight of sincerity under such simple words. 

“Me too,” he replies. “A lot.”

You’ve been away from your desk for far too long at this point, so you don’t give into your desires: to linger, to kiss, to gaze. Instead you return to the main part of the office, more amused than annoyed now at the most unsubtle stares and whispers. 

“So,” he whispers as you turn around to face him. “I’ll see you at six?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

He smiles as though he knows by showing up here, he’s made your work life hell. He heads toward the elevators, but stops and spins around as you get to your desk.

He holds out his phone. “Just in case.”

It’s such a common thing to exchange phone numbers. But after not being sure to even drop that business card into his bag months ago, wondering if you’d screwed up by not just asking him for his last name, his social media platform username, his phone number…to do so now feels incredibly notable. 

You input the list of numbers, saving them under your first and last name and hand the phone back to him. As you do, you have a moment of fear that he’ll take it, but not return the favor in anyway and you’ll still be unable to reach out, and he won’t show up this evening for dinner and all the hope and anticipation of this moment would be destroyed as if by a bulldozer. 

Then you hear the buzzing sound from atop your desk. Your phone is vibrating. 

“Now you have mine.” He slips it in his pocket. “See you in a few.”

“See you.”

The parting is so significantly less heart-wrenching than the one previous that you almost feel light-headed. Because you’re going to see him again. In…you check your monitor for the time…less than three hours.

You know the afternoon now will seem even more interminable than it did before he showed up. 

–

You somehow survive those near three hours. You even get some work done. At least four different coworkers ask you about ‘the man in the suit’ and it gives you pause on how you could even answer.

A friend.

You’d like to think that perhaps you and Chris could be friends had you met in a mundane way. He’s certainly more than acquaintance, but anything more familiar than friend feels incorrect. 

No one seems to believe you that he’s only ‘a friend.’ One coworker tells you point blank that you were making ‘heart eyes’ at him. 

You wouldn’t be surprised though you thought your expression would have been more shock than affection. 

“He’s gorgeous,” the same coworker gushed. You couldn’t argue with that.

But the rest of the minutes are full of emails and more words. You almost forget that you have plans later when six o’clock finally shows up. You do a quick check in the bathroom, though there isn’t much you can do with work clothes and only concealer in your purse. 

You suppose he’s seen you far worse as ‘morning you’ was surely a sight.

You don’t look away from the mirror, remembering. Remembering that you got to see him roll out of bed, messy hair, sleep lines on his face, slow-to-stretch smile. 

Maybe other clients got to see him like that, but you’ll hold on to it forever. 

With a sigh that clearly says ‘the best it’s gonna get’, you leave the bathroom and head down to the lobby via elevator. Your nerves start to vibrate as you watch the floor numbers descend. You have a million questions, but you know that you probably won’t ask a single one that means anything deep. 

Can you just be pleased to see him? Do you have to put so much pressure and meaning on every little thing?

You cross through the lobby at 6:05 and as you push through the revolving door, you don’t even have a moment to worry that he won’t be there because he is there. He’s standing on the sidewalk, hands in his trouser pockets, shoulders up like he might be a little cold. 

This wind brings the sharp clarity of autumn. 

He turns to see you when you’re only a couple feet away and his eyes light up. You add it to the treasure chest in your soul: bright eyes, turned up lips, dimples. 

“Hiya,” he greets.

“You weren’t waiting too long?”

He shakes his head. “Not really. Also, I people-watched. And there’s some really interesting ones coming out of your building.”

You wouldn’t be surprised. 

He steps up to you, eyes never wavering. “Figured I shouldn’t do this at your place of work, but is outside okay?” He opens his arms. 

“Yes.” It probably was just rhetorical but your answer is so emphatic that he’s laughing when you fall into his arms, wrapping yourself around him as tight as you can without seeming too boa constrictor-ly. “I don’t think I spoke enough about how good your hugs are on that survey.”

When you draw back to look up at him, his cheeks are so pink. 

“So you did fill out a survey…”

“Of course. Wait, do you not see those? At all?” It’s such a strange conversation to have, to reference the strange way you two met. 

“I get it quarterly…so it’s more general…you know.” He shrugs, his hands still on your arms, almost like he doesn’t even realize it. You don’t mind. The dreams you’ve had, remembering his touch…glad you didn’t put that in the survey. 

“Oh. That’s…huh.” 

He smiles at your inability to articulate before squeezing your arms. “Should we head to dinner? We can walk or I can get us a taxi.”

There’s another gust of wind the moment he says that and he makes a sound that only a cold person can make. You pull the more-decorative-than-functional scarf off your neck and wrap it around his, tying it loosely. 

“Oh, you don’t–”

“Brings out your eyes,” you say, more teasing than serious. The scarf is green and does look nice on him, with the color of his skin and hue of his eyes. “We should get a taxi. There’s usually some around here at this time.” You see one in your periphery and raise a hand to flag it down. Once you’re both in the backseat, Chris tells the driver where to go. “That’s…I’ve never been there.”

“One of my mates, Changbin, says it’s the best.” Chris settles back into the seat, eyes on you. 

“How are your friends?” You think of the little he shared about them over that weekend; how colourful and vivid he made them seem. 

“Good. Insane, but good. What about you? Your job seems…focused.”

You laugh at his diplomatic phrasing. “It’s boring I suppose to anyone who walks in. It’s…” You look out the window. “It’s okay. I’m good at it. And well, it’s a paycheck, right?”

He half-grins. “Right.” He goes quiet, and you go quiet. You don’t know what he’s thinking about, but your mind is bouncing a billion thoughts around, ricocheting like pinball. 

You want to tell him how much you missed him. Again and again. 

“How are your friends?” He finally breaks the quiet. It’s often easier to talk about those you love than yourself, so you regale him of a new baby born, a muddled breakup, and a night of noraebang that ended with you all nearly getting kicked out. Your tales finish up just as the taxi pulls up to the restaurant. 

He tuts at you when you pull at your purse to pay the driver. 

“We’re doing this again?” he asks once you both are on the curb and the taxi is disappearing down the street. “It’s not tax-deductible this time, so I am paying.” You’re half-surprised he doesn’t set his hands on his hips like a beleaguered mother. 

“You’re so stubborn about this.”

He holds his hand out. “I am.” When you take his hand, he pulls you to his side before walking toward the front doors. “Especially about this.” He speaks to the host, apparently having already made reservations, which surprises you. As you’re walked to your table, you ask him:

“What if I’d wanted McDonald’s?”

“I’d have cancelled…or persuaded.” He flashes you that confident, almost smug grin. You want to stay there. In his smile, in his hand, pressed to his side. 

“I can be stubborn too,” you argue because you can, not that you think you’d be all that good at withstanding his persuasive skills if he ever really used them on you. He pulls out your seat (it’s not exactly that kind of restaurant, but you appreciate it nonetheless, even if it throws you on how to sit when someone does that) and sits across from you.

You open the menu too, glancing over it at him several times. He catches you at it, his eyes squint with the smile you can’t see. 

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?”

“Looking at me…like…” he trails off, his eyes losing the mirth and filling with wonder. 

“Like?” You know full well how you look at him. Your coworker called you out on it not two hours ago. 

He shakes his head, looking back at the menu. You let it go. It’s not like you want to be open with how much ‘heart-eyeing’ you’re doing. 

It takes several minutes of focused perusal of the menu and engaging with the server before you get to look at Chris, without menu to block any of him. 

“So…the books…” you begin and he chuckles, taking a sip of his water before gesturing to you. 

“No, you first. You actually knew the books that you recommended to me. I went out on a complete limb for you.”

“I’m on the third book in the series.”

“It’s a series?”

You laugh at his shocked countenance. “There’s four, I think, journals of her time there. I’d honestly be done with them, but they’re kind of heavy.” You hurry to explain at his worrying lip-biting. “No, it’s good. It’s so good. It’s just a lot about her thoughts on writing, story, and life. Even God.”

“Damn. I had no idea.”

“Me neither, but it’s lovely. I’ve underlined like a million sections, put random comments in the margins. I just can’t read it super fast because I have to really ponder certain parts of it.”

“You…underline?”

You’d be embarrassed by your silly scholarly habits if it wasn’t for how expressive his face is right now. He’s so confused by you. 

“Yes, I write in my books. Unless they’re like…antiques or special editions or something. If I think something or resonate with something…out comes my pen or pencil.” 

He tilts his head to the side like he’s trying to comprehend you. “I had no idea you were that…”

“Crazy?”

“Nerdy.”

You laugh harder before covering your mouth and looking around at the other tables, which aren’t super full as it’s a Tuesday night but still. No one needs to hear your cackle on volume 11. 

“Really? I thought that was pretty obvious.”

You see the light change in his eyes, the heat and memory come in. “I thought other things.”

You don’t have any alcohol to blame for the flush in your face, but you take a sip of water anyway.

“What about you? Did you like Frankenstein? Or Ripley? I spent way too much time thinking about whether or not you would enjoy them.”

The light is still there. “That’s all you thought about me?”

“Christopher.”

His blinding grin in response to your no-nonsense tone makes you both chuckle. 

“It was one of many thoughts,” you admit softly.

“Oh…” he clears his throat, cheeks taking on that beautiful rosy tint. “I read them both.”

“And…?”

He shrugs. “They’re so different. I loved Frankenstein…once I got into it. The whole thing with the letters at the beginning really threw me.”

“Yeah…no one really talks about that. I don’t think it shows up in most movie iterations.”

“But I…I felt for the monster…Adam.”

“As you should. Frankenstein himself is a stupid kid who has no sense of responsibility.”

He laughs. “No compassion for all he loses?”

“Nope. Those poor people though. I feel for them. Not for Victor.”

The food is delivered then and it takes a few moments of bites and chewing, and trying the other’s meal before you return to the book conversation. 

“And Tom Ripley?”

“Jeez, that was…that was something.”

“Too dark?”

“No…I mean, it was dark.” He chews a bite before cutting part of his steak and placing it on your plate without explanation. He then steals one of your perfectly-cooked asparagus. “So dark, but really interesting. I see what you mean about it being related to acting and such.”

“You ever played a villain?”

He shrugs. “Kinda? More like a sidekick to an antagonist.”

“A henchman?”

“Yeah, that. It’d be fun to be the main villain, for sure.”

“I think you’d do it well.”

He pauses in cutting the asparagus for a bite. “Be a villain?”

“Yes.”

He puts his utensils down and leans against the edge of the table. “I don’t know how to take that.”

Your eyes widen. “No…it’s because you aren’t like that, that I think you’d be good at it. I mean…you’re good at what you do.” You drop your eyes from his, flustered. “I think you’re very good at reading people, it’s part of your job. It would lend itself to do well in seeing the ‘bad guy’s’ point of view. Which would make your portrayal…you know…good.”

There’s a long pause and you finally look up at him after what feels like twenty years. 

“You think I’m good at reading people?”

“Yes…” You’re happy you’ve moved from the ‘you’d make a bad guy’ direction. “That’s why…that’s why you’re so good at…your work.”

He’s definitely blushing. “I…I never thought of it like that.” He picks up his fork to take a bite, but the piece falls back onto the plate and he sets it back down. 

It strikes you again. He’s nervous. 

You don’t understand why. How this man who is so stupid confident (for good reason) and so kind can be nervous about anything. 

You move before you can really think about it. You sit in the chair next to him, noticing that his hands grip the cloth napkin across his lap. He looks at you with wide eyes.

“Is this okay?” you ask, voice quiet. 

He nods. 

“I meant it as a compliment. I hope you know that.”

“I do…I just…” He looks at his food. “It’s a weird thing to talk about right now.”

“Why?” 

He looks back at you. “I don’t work for The Company anymore.”

To say you’re shocked doesn’t cover it. “What?”

He half-smiles at your surprise. “I don’t work for them anymore.”

Your mind starts racing. “Did something happen? Were you mistreated?” You will absolutely write them a strongly worded letter or something worse if he was ever in danger or–

“No, no, no.” He lets go of the napkin to place his hand over yours, squeezing in reassurance. “Nothing like that.” He lets his hand linger for a second before pulling back. “I’m sorry. I was going to tell you. I just got nervous.”

So you are pretty decent at reading him. “Why?”

He gazes at you, eyes dropping to your mouth for a split second. You can feel your heart skip at his attention. 

“I’ve never done this.”

“Done what?”

“Gone out…with a client, but no longer a client.”

Oh…

“I mean, it’s just me.” You are now the reassuring one. “I’m hardly intimidating enough to induce nerves. Just talk to me like you did before. Only there’s no expectations.” You cover his hand, squeezing it back.

He turns his hand over and slots his fingers with yours, his eyes drawn to them. “I know my role when there’s a contract in place. I’m a little out of my depth here.”

“Why aren’t you working for them anymore?”

He looks up. “Because I did a pilot…for a show. And it got picked up.”

“Oh my god Chris! That’s amazing!” You know you’re being way too loud for this restaurant but you don’t give a damn because you throw your arms around him in a huge hug. “I’m so happy for you.” You murmur into his hair. His arms hold you tight for a second before loosening. You draw back, only a little embarrassed for the display. “That’s just…that’s fantastic.”

“It really is. Still kinda can’t believe it.”

“Where is it filming? Do you get to travel?”

“Um…mostly here.”

“Here. In the city?” There are several studios, but you don’t really think about the shows that are filmed here. It’s usually New York or Los Angeles or some exotic locale. 

“Yeah. Great, huh? I live here, now work here.”

“You live here?”

He smiles softly before tracing down your arms to your hands to hold. “Yeah. You wouldn’t believe my surprise when I saw the address on your business card.”

“Holy shit.”

“So I quit. I mean, the show could do horribly, but I…it was time.”

You nod like you understand, even though your brain is vibrating. “I thought you enjoyed it.”

“I did. But…” He lets go of your hands. “It’s kinda a strain on any of my relationships, with friends, family, or anyone else.” He laughs self-consciously before taking his fork in hand. He offers you a bite. “Not that an acting gig is much better, but I think it will be.”

You feel discombobulated, shaking your head at his food offering. “I…no, I’m excited for you. It sounds like the kind of change you’ve been wanting.” You carefully make your way back to your seat. “Not that I could any time soon, but I guess I can’t hire you again,” you joke, but you can tell it falls flat. 

“You would’ve?”

“I mean, I have to save up again…” you force a smile, feeling like perhaps this entire night is just a long goodbye. Maybe you can get closure in real life, even if it’s not the closure your heart craves. “I missed you.”

There. You said it.

The wide eyes, partially open mouth, disbelief on his beautiful face.

“Chris,” you chide gently. “You were wonderful that weekend. You know that, right?”

“I…” His face is more red than pink now. “I thought it was good. But it’s been months since. I just wanted you to feel better about yourself and…your life..” He leans again against the table. “You went out, right?”

“On dates?”

“Yes. On dates.”

“Three.”

He groans. “Three?”

“I did dating apps, Chris. I tried,” you explain. “I hate apps, by the way. And I went out with the lowest expectations I possibly could, and they still disappointed. They weren’t you.”

Shit. You didn’t even have liquor to loosen your tongue like this. 

“That’s hardly fair. I got an interview and thoroughly written questionnaire before I met you. Of course these guys wouldn’t…wouldn’t know.”

“Are you defending them?” You’re laughing now. “Defending the one that asked me what positions I prefer? Once we were halfway through the meal?”

He groans again. “He didn’t.”

“He did. Another decided that I used too big of words and told me I was patronizing him, except he didn’t use that word because apparently that’s too big.” 

“It’s fun to learn new things.”

“And the last one never asked me a single question, except at the end ‘his place or mine?’”

He curses low. “I’m sorry for my gender.”

“So you see…” You fiddle with your knife. “Of course I missed you. How could I not?”

“You’re…You’re a lot bolder now than then.”

You’d like to think so. Whether it was because of Chris or not, you’ve spent these months trying to do better for yourself. Not just the dates, pitiful as they were, but even how you talked to yourself. Maybe your college counselor was right. Saying nice things about yourself did help. 

You shrug. “Well, I figure. There’s some things I regret that I didn’t say to you back then. And I’d rather say them and be embarrassed than not say them.” 

He reaches for your hand as you continue to toy with the knife. You still at his touch. 

"I…” he pauses. “There are things I want to say too.” He takes a breath like he might begin right then, but then shakes his head. “Not here.” He looks around. “It’s…not here.” He sits back. “But…I missed you too.”

The very idea that you would enter his thoughts in the months that have passed, with the work he does (or did) sends your brain and heart into a dangerous realm of hope. Of anticipation. Of daydreaming when you know that daydreaming tends to sadden you in the end. 

“Good,” you reply, going back to your meal. He chuckles at that, returning to his steak as well. Conversation veers from possible too-deep topics to his pilot and his experience in filming it. He tells you stories about the cocky male lead (replaced early in filming), the sweet kids that film with him who call him Uncle Chris, and the director of photography lets him (Chris) shadow and gives him short breakdowns of how something is shot. It’s so fun to listen to him, watch his animated hand gestures and ever-changing face. 

"Come on," he says when you're both finished with the food. You're surprised that he doesn't want to look at the dessert menu, but you forget that thought the moment he takes your hand in his as you both leave the restaurant. "Wanna walk a bit?"

"Sure." Like you'd do anything to cut short your time with him. You glance over at his profile multiple times as he leads you down the sidewalks and across busy streets. The quiet is getting to you, but he looks thoughtful, like something is going on in his head.

So you wait.

It takes you several moments to realize that you're in a park and there's a bench.

And it's familiar.

"You said you lived in the city…" you begin as he sits down, tugging you next to him. "I thought maybe you'd done research beforehand."

"I live on the other side of the city. So, yes, some research." He doesn't let go of your hand, but turns so he faces you. "But filming will be mostly on this side."

"Oh?" You look from his and your hands to his face. His brow is furrowed.

"Yeah, actually. I have to look for something temporary so I'm not making that trek home every night." He presses his lips together, thinking. "I…I won't be working all day or every day. I'm sort of a secondary role." He meets your eyes. "Would it be okay to meet up with you on days that I'm here? Like if I have a half-day or something, I can take you to dinner again…or something?"

You hear his words, but they don't make sense. Like you speak the same language he does, but right now it feels like nothing is computing.

"You want to see me again?"

He squeezes your hand, leaning toward you more. "Yes."

"Like…a date?"

His smile grows at your question. "Yeah."

The same smile fades when you don't say anything.

"Look, I get that what I used to do, what you know me from is a bit weird, and though legal, kind of on the outside of normal, and maybe that's too much for you and I would get it. I thought about you so much since we said goodbye. Not even like, what we did, but just how you were. Something would happen, good or bad, or hilarious and I wanted to talk to you about it. I wanted to know if you thought of me…" he trails off, face bright red. "It's okay if it's too weird for you."

"I thought of you every day."

"You did?"

"Yes." Now it's your turn to feel flushed and warm from embarrassment. "And not just…sex, though that too."

He chuckles and you can't blame him.

"I would love to see you. As often as you can, really." You gesture blindly to the quiet trees. "I told you I missed you."

"I missed you, too." He moves even closer, with little space separating your noses. "I like you. I feel like I never really said that. I couldn't truthfully. But I did. Do. The moment we started talking. I liked you so much."

It hard to believe. Hard to accept, to hear and absorb. But he's not on the clock right now. He's here. Looking at you with those stunning brown eyes that entreat you to believe.

"I like you too."

His smile could rival the sun. "I hoped so."

"I mean, when you can, with your filming, I'd love to see you."

"Okay." He looks at you for long enough that you think maybe, maybe, you might be kissed. You might—

"But…" he starts and you straighten up immediately, tugging your hands from his. "I have to tell you about some stuff." He looks up at the sky, still dusk with a few stars making their appearance. "This is…not the moment by any means, but I need to explain why…" He meets your very worried gaze. "Why I can't go home with you tonight."

You know you're flustered and stuttering: "I didn't, like assume…"

He says your name, takes your hands in his again so carefully. "I want to. I would…but…" he turns away from you a bit, one hand still linked with yours. "There's an exit process with The Company."

"How long ago did you quit?"

He laughs, almost without humor. "Last week." He leans back against the bench and heaves a sigh. "My last job with them was a month ago…anyway, There's a process. like…therapy…counseling."

"Really?"

He glances over at you. "It doesn't weird you out?"

"I am never bothered by therapy. I think we all should have it."

He laughs again, this time more genuinely. "There's a lot to work through. I mean…sex for a job is…different." He's staring out into the space in front of him but you don't think he's really looking at anything. "I haven't been in a relationship pretty much since I started. I haven't had sex that wasn't paid for in…" He takes a deep breath. "Years."

"Wow."

"So, they…my exit counselor recommends not being intimate until well, we work through all that."

"So…"

He tightens his hold on your hand. "So I'm kinda defying her, my counselor right now? Like, I'm not supposed to even attempt a relationship right now, but…" He cups your cheek in his other hand. "I didn't want to wait. To talk to you. To see you. I just…we can't do a lot for awhile."

"Okay."

He blinks. "Just like that?"

"I told you it wasn't just sex with you that made me like you. I don't fantasize about…well, not only that."

He rests his forehead against yours, trying not to giggle and failing miserably.

"I remember ice cream, and playing with dogs, and going to the bookstore and the diner…and it was all wonderful, Chris. And that was just you."

"Mostly."

You lift your head to meet his eyes. "Mostly?"

"Tonight has been strange for me. I usually know what to say, how to say it. What to do. I study my client before I meet them. I learn what I can. I go in prepared. And, yeah, I knew you six months ago. But a lot can happen in six months. So, I'm not sure what I'm doing."

You smooth the lines from his forehead, and draw your finger down his nose. "Well then…I'm looking forward to learning more about you, like this."

He smiles shyly. "Really?"

"Really."

His eyes drop to your lips. "I want to kiss you, but I'm already breaking a big rule…" He pulls away. "I"m sorry."

"You absolutely do not have to be sorry. I think this whole thing, the exit process, sounds healthy. You are going to tell them about me…us?"

"Yeah. I'm not really good at lying to her." His eyes are wide. "You…are really okay with all this? I don't know how long it'll be until we can…"

"Chris." You beam at him. "I thought I would never see you again. Any time I get to spend with you, in any way, is more than I thought I'd get. So I'm happy."

He tugs you close for a hug, tight and warm. "Okay, okay, then. We're doing this."

"Absolutely we are."

—

It's not immediate, not only because of his therapist's decrees, but his work schedule as well. That first month, you see him only two times. He's deeply apologetic about the lack of in person contact, but you dismiss his 'sorrys' and say that you love seeing his messages in between pointless work meetings.

"Really?" he says before yawning through the phone. You're already tucked into bed, pillows propped at your back and an open book laying next to you. "I always send them then see the billion mistakes after."

"Chris…you think I care about that?"

"It's your job."

"Which means I'm less likely to care when the man I think about all the time messages me despite being on set for so many hours a day."

"All the time, huh?"

"Concerningly so."

His laugh, even through a phone, is the best sound. "Unless there's last minute changes, I could come out next Wednesday? For a late lunch?"

"I'd love that."

"Me too."

--

It's the second month that Chris admits that his therapist wants to speak with you. You feel oddly like you've been called to the principal's office when you get that phone call.

Turns out, his therapist thinks you're great.

"I was not pleased that he sought you out right after quitting The Company, but I gotta say, I think you're really good for him."

Praise from a therapist? It's like a huge gold star.

After thanking her, incredibly flustered, you ask, "Is there anything specific I can do, or not do to help him?"

"He's so used to fulfilling someone else's projection or idea of him. He twists himself into knots to be exactly that. My goal is to get him just to be himself. In all of his life. Other than healthy relationship expectations, just let him muddle through?"

"Sure. Anything else?"

"He asks every session when he can kiss you. I'd rather you lead that."

So here you are, walking hand in hand with him after seeing one of his friends, Jisung, perform spoken word poetry at an open mic night. There were drinks after (for you and Jisung as Chris made a face when trying your sidecar cocktail), a lot of embarrassing stories about Chris courtesy of his friend and now after Jisung has bid you both goodbye, you're walking along the street toward your apartment.

"He's very talented."

"Annoyingly so," Chris replies, watching as the stars start to come out. "You had a good time, though?"

You slow down and wait for him to stop and turn to you. "Of course I did."

He smiles bashfully.

"You're good at this whole dating thing, Christopher."

You don't need much light to know he's blushing. "Ah, well…I'm trying." He rubs the back of his neck. "You too, you know. For saying you don't do it all that much."

"Well…" you draw out the 'L,' stepping closer to him. "I had a feeling, just a hunch really, that if I ever went out with someone I really liked, dating wouldn't quite be as terrifying." You tilt your head up to look at him with fondness. "Turns out I was right."

"You're just so smart."

"Obviously." You're putting on a good facade right now. Yes, you're happy to be with him, but you're also debating if this is a good time. You don't want to push him in any way that isn't healthy.

You're nervous, in a good way.

He nuzzles immediately when you place a hand on his cheek. All your life, you wondered what you'd want in a partner, hoping that affectionate would be on the list. You still can't believe how down for cuddles Chris is, pretty much all the time.

As he makes eye contact, his eyes widen when he sees how close you are. His lips part, your name a whisper.

It's soft, your first kiss since so many months ago. He doesn't stop you, or turn away, or even say anything in protest. It's barely a kiss, a light graze of lips. You settle back on your heels, watching him carefully. His eyes are closed before the flutter open.

Before he says anything or questions, you hurriedly explain what his therapist said and that if you crossed any boundaries, you're sorry. You thought it was the right time.

He kisses you back.

Grabs you by the hips, pulls you in and kisses the hell out of you. Your brain shuts off as he holds you so firmly, mouth destroying yours. You're two seconds away from turning into goo.

"Chris," you murmur, pushing slightly on his chest. "Where's the fire?"

He breaks away, breath short. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I just…we don't have to rush." You run your hand through his hair, following the curls at the end.

He rests his forehead against mine, his breathing still heavy. "I know, I know…I've just…god, I've missed kissing."

"Really?"

"Really." He seems to think you need convincing so you get another kiss. This one softer and slower. One hand slides to your ass.

"Chris…we have to take this slow."

"This is slow." He's grinning at you as you try to chastise him, but you're smiling too. "I'm moving at a tortoise's pace."

You kiss his nose. "Cute, but we're gonna follow the rules."

He pouts and you kiss him again, which you'd say you regret when he presses you to the side of a building, all tension and muscles flush against you. He feels so good.

He breaks away, but keeps his hand on your neck, warm and protective. "We don't have to…"

"I do not want your therapist to think badly of me. I like that she likes me."

"Such a good girl," he murmurs before kissing you again and then fully drawing away. "Right, so I guess…I take you home and see you in a couple days?"

You hug him, face smashed against his chest. "Until next date."

--

In the third month, you and Chris have your first proper argument. It doesn't help that he's exhausted from a particularly grueling filming week and you had to pull overtime because certain supervisors cannot get things done in a timely manner, leaving you to polish everything very last minute.

"Just because it's steady doesn't mean you should stay," he mutters, his words biting. "You're not happy there."

"Oh, so just leave the job I've been at for ten years because what…some publisher will hire me without any publishing experience?"

"At least it's worth a try!" He walks away, hands shoved through his hair.

"Sorry I'm not a risk-taker. You knew that when you met me."

He looks over, eyes fiery. "Says the woman who hired me."

You plop down on your sofa and cover your face.

It's quiet and he comes over and sits next to you after several minutes.

"I know you're right. I'm just—"

"It's your life, yeonin. I shouldn't have—"

You let your head fall to his shoulder. "No. That's not how this works. I want your thoughts, your say, your influence in my life. It…it was just a bad week."

He kisses the top of your head. "It was." Another few minutes of listening to the other breathe. "Still sorry."

"Me too."

He tilts your face to his, kissing you. "Wanna go get pastries before the bakery closes?"

"Absolutely."

When you see Chris's set up for his temporary apartment, on this side of town, lodging, you are aghast.

"It's spartan."

"I don't need much…just a place to crash."

You're shaking your head even before he finishes his sentence. "Nope. I have an extra room. You can stay at mine."

"What?"

You lift his duffel bag onto the cot-like bed. "We'd have to share a bathroom, but it wouldn't be the first time."

When he doesn't say anything, you look over at him, still in the doorway.

"Do you not want to?"

"Of course I do, but…isn't that…a bit rushed for us?"

Your face heats up immediately at the implication. "I mean…oh god, I just meant that you can stay in the spare room. I wasn't like…implying we should properly move in…"

There was still no sex per his therapist.

"I'd pay you rent."

"Chris."

"I'd pay you rent."

"Fine. Now let's cancel your lease here and go back to mine."

When he kisses you that night outside your bedroom door, it takes everything in you not to pull him into the room.

--

In the fourth month:

"You look tired," you say, pushing his hair out of his eyes. It's Saturday and he'd stumbled in from filming at probably one am or so. The door to the spare bedroom remains shut until lunch time when he comes out, hair a mess and plops down next to you.

"You know just what to say to a guy." He lays down with his head on your lap. You comb your fingers through his hair as you put down the book you were reading. "I have my appointment later…but do you want to do takeaway tonight?"

"Sounds good." You trace his ear idly. "I have an interview on Monday."

He pops up. "For?"

"Just a proofreader for a small publisher, so nothing—" You don't finish because he has hugged you so tightly, there's no air to continue speaking.

"That's awesome. Forget takeaway, we should go out to celebrate."

"It's only an interview…and I like takeaway," you say once he released his death grip on you.

"But—" He pouts and you lean over to kiss his protruding lower lip. "Fine."

He rummages in your kitchen for lunch before disappearing to the bathroom for a shower and then bedroom to change. You get a glimpse of him in a towel and it's enough for you to wish and want and remember.

You do not begrudge The Company's exit process and desperately want Chris to feel safe and healthy, but that doesn't mean that the last four months have been easy. Once kissing was 'allowed', the two of you evolved (or devolved) into teenagers who try and do everything but what's not allowed. Not even that far, really. But you both push the boundary.

When he gets back after his appointment, you are still in stretchy pants and a sweatshirt, cleaning the kitchen. You turn at the sound of the door.

"Starving," you say as greeting. When he doesn't answer, you look over and see him, bags in hand, the door open still. "Chris?"

He shakes his head a bit, like he was in a fog before walking over to you with the takeaway bags.

"Sorry…I…" he stare at you for a few moments. Enough to make you wonder if you have dust or something on your face. "You good?"

"Yeah, I'm alright. You?"

He nods and starts taking out the boxes of knife-cut noodles from your favorite place in the city. He's quiet for dinner, eyes going unfocused, making eye contact with you only to look away. There's the rubbing the back of his neck, head; messing up his hair (recently trimmed, but you're so grateful to the makeup people on his show for wanting him to keep the longer locks). His fingers tap on the arm of your sofa, his leg, your thigh.

You recognize the signs of his nerves by this stage in your relationship, but you also wish he would feel comfortable enough to bring it up. He still seems to worry about you over himself, and you know that's probably a long time of therapy to help him temper his people-pleasing traits.

You're barely paying attention to what's playing on the television, and you can't imagine he is. He's eaten some, but again, his attention is lost somewhere else entirely.

"Was today's session good?"

His eyes snap to yours. "Whhh— why do you ask?"

"Christopher. Something is going on. You don't have to tell me. I'm just checking that you are okay."

"I'm okay."

You are not convinced by any means. His back is ramrod straight, and there's several feet between the two of you on the couch. He's as touchy as you are, possibly more so. There has rarely been a time that you two have been together where one of you isn't touching the other.

Your curiosity is intense, and some worry. But you know the kind of emotional and mental hangover that can occur after a therapy session. So you wait.

It takes another scene or two on the television for him to speak.

"She gave me permission."

"Permission?" You turn toward him, finished with your takeaway, and curled up in a fuzzy blanket.

He swallows, eyes on you. "Permission."

It shouldn't take that long for you to put two and two together.

Permission. To make the relationship fully physical.

Sex.

You can't say you hadn't imagined it a million times since seeing Chris again. How it would go, what would happen.

Him staring at you, not unlike the proverbial deer in headlights, was not a scenario you foresaw.

"Okay," you reply as casually as you can. "That's good, right?"

"It's brilliant," he breathes. "I think not having sex for as long as its been has rewired my brain into thinking about it all the time. Like I'm sixteen again." He inhales and exhales deeply. "And I'm terrified."

You instinctively move closer to him, hand to rest on his knee. "Terrified, why?"

"It's you. It's us. It matters, not that it didn't before, but it mattered because of employment and me wanting to always do a good job for the client. Now…it matters because…" He trails off, eyes finally leaving you to look at his lap. "Because of how much I care about you. "

It's difficult not to tear up at that. How you went from resigning yourself to having sex only because you paid for it, a belief that you can't be like others and have someone who walks beside you, to now be with Chris for four months, ups and downs, but so unbelievably joyful to get to be with him.

"I think that's a really good thing," you say gently.

"It is…I just…I don't know how to go about this. When I worked…I knew the rules, the moves, the words ."

"You said the same about our first date. And here we are, you've been amazing."

Cue the red cheeks and ears.

"Thanks," he mutters before looking back at you. "I haven't been able to think about anything else since she said something about it in our session."

You try not to laugh at his pained expression. He's clearly embarrassed and insecure, but you adore this man. Because you remember his confidence, nary a slip in his armor when you met him. The man you met is still that man, you are just lucky enough to see his other facets; a prism you've now spent enough time with to catch most of the angles.

"Ruminating? Spiraling? Or fantasizing?" you ask, eyes careful and steady.

"All of the above?"

You lean over, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "That's okay."

He turns his head, kissing you back. It takes moments, not even a minute before he's pulled you onto his lap, one hand up the back of your shirt and the other cradling your face. When you rock into him, you both freeze at the groan he lets out (you also made a noise, but infinitely quieter than his).

He whispers your name, "please."

"Please what?" you ask just as softly. "What do you want?"

His eyes flutter open, looking up at you. "Can we?"

"I thought you were all about stating what you want clearly." You want as much as he does, but you can't help but tease. You grind on him to add to the teasing.

He rests his forehead against your collarbone, another groan at the friction. "I am not going to last long, yeonin. I'm so fucking hard right now that if you do that again, I'm gonna come in my pants."

"Is that a problem?"

He raises his head to glare at you. "Yes, it fucking is."

It's fun when he's cursing up a storm like this.

You slide your fingers through his hair, watching as his eyes close again. "It's not, you know." You start to roll again and he moves so fast, so you're flat on your back and laughing at his chagrined face.

He kisses to get you to stop laughing, not that it really works, but having him lay on top of you, mouth working furiously on your mouth, your neck, and your shoulder moves you eventually from giggling into outright whimpering. His hand sneaks into your pants and you jolt from the contact, even with your underwear in the way.

"Chris, you don't have to—"

"Yeah, I do," he mutters against your skin, fingers tucking under the fabric of your underwear. You shudder. "You first, baby."

You grab his wrist, which takes whatever brain power you have left, and tug him away. He lifts his head to stare at you, shocked.

"What are you doing?"

You force yourself to sit up, pushing on his shoulders to do the same. It takes a couple minutes for him to understand, but soon positions are reversed with you on top and him on his back, cushioned on your sofa.

"You first," you state calmly, despite a bout of nerves. He starts to protest (of course he does), but you tug down his pants and boxers. He springs free and you lean down to kiss his mouth, before getting rid of your own bottoms.

"I won't last," he says again, panting as you take him in hand and ease yourself down.

"That's okay," you reply, dazed at how full you feel. It takes a moment to adjust before you lift yourself and slide down again. He groans, his fingers digging into your hips. "Baby…just let go."

You and he barely get a proper rhythm going before he does just that. He stutters apologies as he comes but you kiss them away. The apartment is quiet but for the television and his breathing.

It's…so domestic, it hurts in the best way.

"No 'sorrys', Chris," you whisper as he shakily pushes himself up to his elbows. You kiss him again before climbing off. You start to reassure him when you realize that having sex without a condom changes a major thing. "Oh…well…"

He starts laughing before picking you up, princess-style.

"I can walk—"

"And I can carry you," he interrupts, plopping you into the shower. "Arms up." He pulls off your top before ridding himself of his remaining clothes. You stand awkwardly, dripping cum and when he turns on the shower, you shriek at the cold water, hands out to block some of it.

He's chuckling as he enters, standing in front of you while the icy spray hits him instead. "Fuck that is cold." He shivers once, but the water starts to heat and he maneuvers you back under the water. "Better?" He soaps up the loofah and begins at your shoulders and arms, breasts before cleaning carefully between your legs. Before he can turn you around, you raise up on the balls of your feet to kiss him squarely on the mouth. He hums against your lips, his arms wrapping around you tight. He rubs the loofah down your back, mouth still on yours.

"My turn?" you ask, cleaning him thoroughly because you still enjoy his 'curves', arms, shoulders, ass. You don't say anything, but you do notice that his refractory time is…short.

After tying a towel around his waist, he follows you into your bedroom and lays down beside you, hand inching across the duvet to tug on the edge of the towel tucked and wrapped around you.

"Christopher…"

"Don't even act like you don't want me eat you out," he says, grinning when you cover your face. "You can't be embarrassed. You aren't the one who just orgasmed in like three minutes."

You roll to your side, facing him. "There's no rush, right? Someone told me that once."

He scoots closer, nose touching yours. "Cheeky." He kisses you, rendering you brain-hazy. He rids you of the towel, fingers seeking where you made him abandon minutes ago. You gasp before he lifts your legs over his shoulders and reminds you that it might be months since his last job for The Company, but he's still really good.

You can't make fun (not that you would) at his quick release earlier when you're coming within a few minutes.

"God, we're both easy tonight," you breathe when you can speak again. He's lying next to you, chuckling at your words. You pull at his towel.

"No rush?"

"Fucks sake Chris…"

You wonder if other couples laugh as much as the two of you, especially in bed. He's giggling when you finally get the towel off of him. He smiles softly as you let your hands follow along the lines of him.

"It's not like I forgot," you breathe, kissing his collarbone, "you're still so gorgeous."

He looks away, and it's a mark in his therapist's (and yours, you hope) favor that he doesn't say anything about his body now that his job and his life are different. You prefer this version; healthy and happy.

You kiss his mouth gently before lining him up at your entrance. He pulls you close, hands hot on your waist and arm before he slides into you. His forehead meets yours.

"You know we'll need another shower after this."

"And a change of sheets," you murmur, kissing his face. He can't not smile. "Easy enough, we'll move to your bed."

He draws back and thrusts, and you moan, clenching around him. He continues, fingers on your clit. You're so dizzy with how good he feels that you don't think about it until later, but it is different. He is different. Maybe you both are, but sex is more now. All those months ago, you enjoyed every minute of being with him. You liked him, within minutes of meeting him.

The sex was good, life-changing in its own way back then.

But now, after knowing Chris on a level you couldn't have even fantasized about that weekend, sex is more.

More connected, more intimate, more loving.

He's quieter, murmuring praise, but you think he gets lost in the moment, in how you feel around him.

"Yeonin," he whispers, breath harsh and short. "I can't…"

"Go on," you say back, uncaring that you aren't there yet. You can see the worry, but you clench again, hips moving to help him along and he shudders, collapsing against you. You snuggle into him, inhaling his scent of sweat and body wash.

His breathing slows and he lifts his head to look at you, eyes glossy and adoring.

"You good?" you ask, laughing. He kisses you, fumbling, but you jump when his fingers are back at it, escalating you to soon break and tremble in his arms. He holds you tight as you do, pressing kisses in your hair, your temple.

"Very good," he answers your question. You stare at him, unwilling to move. He bumps noses with you. "What're you thinking?"

"Mostly thinking about high-fiving past me for deciding to hire someone to have sex with."

He rolls his eyes, snorting. His hands rub up and down your back.

"You?"

"Not looking forward to telling my therapist about all this…I've told her so much, but this…" He glances down at your bodies, still entwined, then back to you. "This is private."

You kiss him quick. "You tell her whatever you're comfortable with." You smooth his hair back. "I know I said we should move to your bed, but I'm thinking I wanna stay here."

"Sure."

"In our bed." Is it too soon to say things like that? Maybe. But it feels right.

He blinks a couple times, staring at you. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. If you want."

"I want. I always want," he mutters, pulling you against his chest. "Wanna high-five past you as well."

You laugh, but he covers your mouth with his, pulling you on top of him. You stare down at him, stupidly enamored.

"I love you." Too soon? You don't care.

It's the same expression from when you said 'our bed'. Eyes wide, shocked, and disbelieving. But the soft smile that stretches his lips is adorable.

"I love you, too."

--

© yoongihan 2025. please do not steal, translate, repost, or whatever. stray kids belong to themselves and all idols used in this piece are just the inspiration for characters and do not in any way reflect the actual humans. 

[baby-yongbok]

STRAY HEARTS: RENT-A-BOYFRIEND

⤷ Agent Assigned: Han Jisung x afab!reader

⤷ Client Scenario: A fake date to get your friends off your back turns into the best hookup you’ve ever had and forgetting it was fake to begin with.

⤷ Case Warnings: oral (f.rec), unprotected sex

⤷ WC: 2.9k

♡ Stray Hearts File: 002 of 010

♡ Event Masterlist | ⋆｡‧˚ʚ Masterlist ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Your match is one minute away

You're watching the little dot inch closer on the Rent-a-Boyfriend app like you're tracking a DoorDash order. Honestly? Not that different. Except instead of delivering food, he’s here to rescue you from your meddling, very persistent, very single friends. 

The girls are already halfway into the first bottle of wine and arguing over which romcom to put on. Your roommate, Lacey, is on her third blind date pitch of the night. If you hear the words “he’s got a stable job and loves dogs” one more time, you're going to snap.

Just then, the doorbell rings. You rush to the door without an ounce of grace, and there he is.

Flannel, white tee, grey sweatpants with the possibility of no boxers underneath. He’s got messy hair and a lazy, charming smile like he woke up ten minutes ago and still somehow pulled it together. 

“There’s my sugar plum,” he says, voice low and way too confident for someone using that nickname and actually meaning it.

You blink. “I—what?”

He leans in, arms already wide like he wants to say ‘where’s my hug?’ “C’mon, babe, don’t be shy in front of your little friends. Let me in before I start whining.”

Oh, he’s a dork. A hot one. 

You step back, and to your horror—and reluctant delight—he wraps you in a hug. It’s firm with faux familiarity. “I’m going to regret this,” you mutter.

“You paid for premium, sweetheart.” He flashes a grin, slipping off his sneakers. “Regret’s not an option.”

Then he claps once—loud, sharp—you flinch, and he marches straight to the kitchen like he owns the place. Your friends fall silent as he walks in. It’s kind of impressive. Even Lacey, who once debated a cop over a parking ticket while clearly drunk, looks stunned.

Jisung gives them all a once over that just borders the line of inappropriate. “Hi. I’m Jisung. You must be the friends she complains about.”

You nearly choke. “Han.” 

He winks over his shoulder, already reaching for the wine bottle like it’s his. “She calls me Han when she’s pretending she doesn’t like me.”

“Because I don’t.” you say flatly.

“She lies.” he tells your friends.

He pours himself a glass and raises it like a toast. “It’s a pleasure for you all to meet me. I hope I feel some pleasure too.”

You scowl, rubbing the heel of your palm into your eye like a stressed out cartoon character. This is never going to work. You take a seat across from where he stands, trying to seem even remotely interested in your ‘boyfriend’. 

Lacey leans in, mouth twisted like she’s trying to smell bullshit. “So... how did you two meet?”

Han doesn’t miss a beat. “Not telling, the story is too close to my heart. I’m gatekeeping it. You’ll hear it at the wedding. I’m already planning my vows.”

Your entire soul leaves your body with a single scoff. “We’re not getting married,” you snap.

“Yet,” he replies, sipping his wine. “But I have plans for us.” He gives you a kissy face and your friends exchange a glance. He’s losing them. Or winning. It’s hard to tell.

You all move to the living room. Netflix is cued up and snacks are laid out. Han grabs a handful of M&M’s and mixes it with skittles as he drops down next to you like it’s instinct. You watch on, half horrified and half concerned. “What? They’re all going to the same place.”

His arm drapes over your shoulders with too much ease. His hand finds your knee. You glare at him sideways, but he just smiles—easy, casual chaos. 

Your friends settle in, finally picking a movie, some mid-2000s romcom with a predictably chaotic meet-cute. The wine is flowing and everyone’s stealing glances at you two.

The girls are talking through the movie. Gawking at the male lead and discussing whether or not matching with your boyfriend is cute or cringe. You don’t join in, you never really do anymore. Too afraid that one of them will use the conversation to pitch their brother’s best friend's cousin to you.  

Jisung is actually watching the movie. A third handful of mixed candies are shoveled into his mouth and you lean away, kinda over it all. He pulls you back in, casually tossing your legs over his lap like it’s muscle memory. And then he starts tracing patterns.

First your ankle. Then up, slow and unassuming, his fingertips running along your calf, your thigh, higher. You shoot him a look, but his eyes are glued to the screen. His hand, however, is absolutely not glued to a safe zone

“I’ve been tracking your pulse through your thigh this entire time,” he whispers.

You give him a look, his eyes stay on the screen.

He grins. “It tells me everything I need to know. That plus your slight flush are classic symptoms of falling for your fake boyfriend.”

“Or I’m just annoyed.”

“Or,” he says, pointing at the screen and finally looking your way, “Ryan Reynolds is on screen again and your hormones are betraying you.”

“That’s not even—oh my god, that’s Ryan Gosling.”

He blinks, shrugs and squeezes the plush of your thigh just a little. You lean into it. “Same tax bracket. Same jawline. Same vibe.”

You burst into laughter—sharp, real, too loud.

Your friends all glance over. “Everything okay over there?” One of them asks, eyeing Han as he tears into a twizzler.

“Yeah,” you say, clearing your throat and biting back your smile. “Just watching the movie.” But Jisung’s grinning like he won something. He leans closer, voice just for you now.

“You laugh like someone who’s kissed me before. Not an ex but maybe my future.”

Your eyes roll before you register it, “I am not your future and I have not kissed you.” You look at each other, he raises a brow. “You will.”

You try to glare. Try to resist, but he’s smirking and his fingers are brushing the inside of your thigh like someone told him just how you like it. “I could do it now,” he says, quiet, playful. “Seal the illusion. Really sell it.”

“You just want to kiss me.” It comes out softer than you meant for it to, your eyes drift just slightly down but his are already there, watching your mouth shamelessly.

“Desperately,” he whispers. “You’re too pretty to just pretend to date.” 

Your chest tightens, your lips part to say something a bit too flirty—and that’s when Lacey calls out, “He’s very… hands-on, huh?”

You both freeze.

Jisung lifts his hands like a suspect caught at the scene. “Guilty.”

“Dude,” Lacey mutters, “we’re still in the room.”

He doesn’t even blink. “Is it a crime to wanna fuck my girlfriend?”

The room stops.

Dead. Silence.

Your other two friends cough so hard they choke on their wine. Lacey makes a face halfway between oh no and oh he’s hot. Your jaw drops. 

“Han Jisung, shut up!”

He looks around, frowning. “It’s a valid question.” 

Then he’s standing before anyone else can say a thing, holding out a hand to you like he’s about to lead you onto a dance floor instead of to your bedroom.

“C’mon, sugar plum,” he says with a wink. “ Let’s leave the judgmental singles to their vino.”

You glare, whispering as you stand, “You don’t know where my room is.”

He shrugs, whispering back. “I’ll find it. Like I found your heart.” You let him pull you forward, trying not to smile. Your friends all make a sound like they want to say something… but what?

Just as you’re out of sight Han pauses, just loud enough that they can hear him “Uh… which room is yours again?”

You sigh. “This way, dumbass.”

He grins and follows. “That’s my girl.”

You shove him down the hallway. He still opens two wrong doors, calls your linen closet ‘cozy,’ then finally stumbles into your actual room. Once the door’s shut, you spin to face him, slapping his chest. “You’re the worst.”

“You paid for me,” he says, all teeth and mischief as he takes in your room. “I’m just doing my job.”

“Plus,” He looks back at you, still grinning “You’re wet.”

You blink. “I am not—”

He takes a step closer. “Babe, I am an expert. It is my job to know.” Your mouth opens to argue—and then his tongue slips over yours with your next breath.

He kisses you like a college guy getting laid for the first time in two weeks, and for some reason it works in his favor. As much as your brain screams to pull away… your body is okay with this. 

He kisses like he talks—fast, greedy, no filter. He's nearly sucking on your tongue before your brain can catch up, hands already gripping your ass like the clock’s ticking and he’s got something to prove.

You gasp into it. “Jisung—”

“Sorry. Sorry, you’re really pretty,” he pants, backing into the wall by your door. You follow, you don’t know why, but you do. “God, I’m so glad you picked me.”

You nearly make fun of him, tease him for really acting like a horny guy from a frat party but the soft grip of his hands on your waist makes your brain buffer. His eyes are already heavy lidded, asking for more. You lean in with permission.

This time he kisses you like he’s always wanted to. Like he’s known you for years and the opportunity finally fell in his favor. It’s deep, smooth, his tongue slides over yours like he really is an expert. Total difference.

Your hands fist into his flannel, pushing it down his shoulders and he turns, switching places with you. His flannel falls to the floor just as your back hits the wall beside the door. Your gasp sounds too much like a moan. 

“Do that again,” he whispers, then bites your lip. “Show me what other pretty sounds you can make.” he rolls his hips into yours and grinds—once, perfectly—and your mouth parts with an actual moan.

“There she goes.” His lips are back on yours in an instant. He moves you, walking backward and bumping into your dresser, your chair, a damn plant before finally landing you on the bed.

You’re breathless. Laughing like you can’t help it. “Are you always this clumsy?”

He lands with a soft oof on top of you, bracing himself on his forearms. His grin is wild and unrepentant. “Only when I’m trying to get laid by someone way out of my league.”

You snort. “I am pretty out of your league.”

“Ouch.” He feigns offence, kissing your cheek. Then your jaw. Then lower. “It’s a good thing I still have plenty of time to prove myself.”

You open your mouth, ready to tell him to shut up, but then he hooks his fingers into your shorts and drags them down your thighs without breaking eye contact, and your brain fizzles out.

He whistles low. “Damn. Did I just leave you speechless?” your brain still won’t work.

Your shirt goes next, flung somewhere past the dresser he nearly tripped over. His hands trace your sides, up your ribs, greedy but slow and warm. Unhurried for a guy who looks seconds away from combusting just from this alone.

“You good?” he asks, and it’s the first time he sounds truly serious. Gentle, even. “We can stop if you want—” You pull him down by the collar of his shirt and kiss him hard.

“That’s a yes,” he mutters, dazed.

Then his cocky college boy grin is back as he dips down between your thighs, kissing your inner thigh with a sloppy mix of tongue and teeth. You arch, your hand tangles in his hair as he shifts lower and lower.

“I have this playlist,” he says, licking a barely there stripe up your center, “of my moans. You can sample them if you want. Pick your favorite.”

You laugh, actually cackle, caught so off-guard your body folds in a little.

“That right there,” he murmurs, licking again. “That’s better than my entire playlist.” Then he finally puts his mouth on you. He doesn’t ease into it. No gentle warm up, no drawn out tease. His tongue is pressed flat against your clit in an instant, sucking and slurping so loudly you’re sure the girls can hear it over the movie.

“God—Han—fuck—”

Your hips jolt. Your fingers thread tighter into his hair and he groans against you like you’ve unlocked a new kink for him. You reach for the sheets, your fist twist in them just as his nose bumps over your clit and his tongue fucking turns shallow.

He pops up, chin shiny, eyes wide. “Say that again.” He grins. “Just wanna remember how it sounds. 

You grab him by the collar and yank him up. “Shut up and fuck me.”

“Yes, ma’am.” he kisses over your stomach, moving faster now that you’ve asked. Your shirt comes off, your bra goes next. His tongue traces slow circles over your nipples, then quick, playful flicks that make you arch with a sharp inhale.

Then he fumbles his sweats off—nearly falls over—and finally kneels between your thighs, breath heaving, cock flushed and hard and way more than you expected from a man who unironically called you sugar plum.

He pulls his shirt off and you pause. Stare. There are tattoos, two of them.

One sprawls across his chest on the right, black ink, script you can’t quite read in the low light, paired with a compass. The other stretches up his left side, dark bold lettering. 

Your eyebrows lift before you can stop them. “You have tattoos?”

Han freezes, shirt halfway to the floor. “Shit—do I need to put it back on? Is this a no tattoo household?”

“No, I just—” You blink. “You don’t seem like the type.”

He grins, cocky as ever, like you just said exactly what he hoped that anyone who saw the ink would. “That’s what makes them hot.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he’s already lining himself up. He thrusts in all at once, and whatever you were going to say dies in your throat, replaced by a moan so wrecked it barely sounds like you. 

“Swear to God, if you moan like that again I’m getting your name inked above my dick.” You choke on a laugh, but it melts into a gasp when he rolls his hips a little deeper.

“Deadass,” he mutters. “Right over the waistband, cursive font. Maybe a little heart if you keep clenching like that.” You dig your nails into his shoulder, a laugh shuddering through you and ending in another moan.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “You’re so tight. I need a minute. I’m malfunctioning.”

You whine, shifting beneath him, seeking friction. “Just move.”

“Ohhh, you’re a brat. Got it. I’ll remember that.”

He starts thrusting, holding your hips in place and watching himself disappear inside you before he just starts watching you. The way your eyes flutter shut, your mouth falls open with little whimpers and whispers. Missionary turns into a slow grind with your legs locked around him, deep in a way that no one else has ever been. You mean it when you mumble that you can feel him in your stomach. 

Then it gets sloppy. He’s flipping you on your side, holding your leg up as he slams in from the angle that makes both of you moan in approval. He’s the whining type, fingers digging into plush flesh and practically crying above you like a cat in heat.

“Baby,” he groans. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“You’re talking too much,” you manage.

He kisses your calf, more tongue than anything. “If you keep being bratty I’ll lick behind your knee just to see what noise you make.” 

You wheeze a laugh that’s interrupted by a whimper as he pulls out, turning you onto your stomach and pulling you up onto your knees. He drags his cock through your folds before sliding in again, harder this time, his hands gripping your hips like he's grounding you.

The moans coming out of him aren’t even human. High-pitched. Desperate. Pornographic.

“Fuck—jagi—don’t clench like that,” His rhythm falters for just a second “I’m tryna make it last.”

You’re no better, moaning into the sheets, legs shaking. “Han, my god.”

“Yeah?” he groans, rutting into you with a frantic rhythm. “Tell me. Tell me how good I feel.”

You start to speak, your lips part but only his name makes it off of your tongue before you’re coming. Hard. Legs shaking and knees slipping enough for him to have to hold you up while he fucks you through your high. Slow and shallow, dragging it out just right.

“That’s what I thought, baby.” He pulls out just as your high is dying down, panting as he strokes himself once, twice, and then—

His load is hot on your ass, his chest heaving and yours is no better. The air is too hot, your moans still echo into nothing.

“Shit,” he whispers. “Ten outta ten.”

You barely move, you’re dazed. Boneless. Then you feel fabric—his shirt—as he starts wiping you down with the gentleness of a man who’s definitely done this before.

You turn, blinking at him like he’s lost his mind. “Really? Your shirt?”

He throws it to the side and leans forward, kissing your cheek. “Boyfriend duties, no big deal. Now roll over, I’m offering complimentary cuddles.”

You sigh, rolling onto your side like your limbs forgot how to function—cause they did. He follows instantly, sliding in behind you and tugging you in like you belong there, like this wasn’t a paid performance. His arm drapes around your waist. He exhales like this is the best part. Like he means it.

He wiggles his brows. “Better leave me a good review or I’ll cry.” 

You huff a laugh, settling into him. “Three stars at best.” He gasps in fake offense, leaning in a bit closer and tickling you just barely. 

“That was at least a four star performance!” You start laughing again, full and unfiltered. Swatting his hand away and leaning further into his chest.

He smiles into your hair. “That one. Still my favorite sound.”

A/N: Is this my first solo Han smut??? I think it is...

I took FOREVER to do this. forgive me my, my chronic illnesses are being...chronic. but the event must go on!

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If your name is red then your account didn't pop up when tagged!

[mssishipi]

SHI WRITES ฅ ฅ ── mssishipi wip.

💌 wanna be in the taglist? just make sure you’ve read the rules before asking to be added! and if you can, pls have your age or age range somewhere on your blog—it helps me keep things safe for everyone. thanks for understanding!! ദ്ദി/ᐠ｡‸｡ᐟ\

ONE OF THE GIRLS — ksn

Kim Sunoo has always been one of the girls: soft-spoken, pretty, utterly devoted to the allure of men, men and more men. Women were never his thing, not really—especially not you. You, with your cigarette-drenched, red fucking lips, that wicked mouth always spitting nonsense. He loathed your strut, your cruel tongue, those perfect, infuriating tits that made his cock twitch no matter how hard he tried to look away. And he hated the thought that maybe — he’s starting to think that he swings both ways after all.

content tags/warnings: pansexual!sunoo x bisexual! reader, one sided enemies to fubu to lovers, a lot of misandry comments, slut-shaming, angst, reader is a heavy smoker, reader is like a women magnet, jealousy, mentions of cheating (past rs). explicit content (smut): blowjob, mentions of rimming and anal sex, tits fucking, pussy eating, unprotected sex: public sex, multiple sex positions and places lmao, sunoo have a big dick. (more will be added)

note! this is a work of fiction and is not intended to offend anyone in the lgbt community or to fetishize any identities. the themes and characters are purely imaginative and should not be taken as a reflection of real people or experiences. and if you don't like it? don't read it. :)

✒ CURRENT WORD COUNT: 3K | EST. 15K

STATUS: ON PROGRESS

DOG DAYS ARE OVER! — sjy

In a near-future world where science has redefined the boundaries of biology, you’re assigned to study Jake—a human-canine hybrid who seems more animal than a man at first glance. But the longer you observe him, the more unsettling behavior begin to surface. His behavior is unpredictable yet intelligent, and his attachment to you is deeper than expected.

content tags and warnings: sci-fi, slow burn, angst, action, hybrid! jake, medtech! reader, ft: dr & genetic engr! kim taehyung and dr! park jongseong. biology alteration, forced evolution & biological manipulation, animalistic behavior in a human-hybrid, power dynamics & control. loss of bodily autonomy, mention of death, animal cruelty, isolation & captivity, explicit content (smut): cunilingus, unprotected sex, knotting, more will be added

✒ CURRENT WORD COUNT: 21.3K | EST. 30-40K

STATUS: UNDER REVISION.

BLEED ME PRETTY — lhs

The only mistake Lee Heeseung ever made was not killing you the first night he had the chance. The second was letting you walk away the following Purge, bloodied, laughing, eyes wild with the promise of return. And the third —the worst, most irreversible-was fucking you. Because now, you're in his head like a fever he can't sweat out, a poison with glitter and a machete smile. He sees you in the corner of every dark room, hears your voice behind every siren, and when the Purge comes again, he doesn't know if he's planning to kill you or kiss you first. Either way, you'll both bleed. That's just how this love story works. Until one night, you decide to disappear and stop playing with him anymore.

content tags/warning: the purge au! enemies that fucks each other, contains gore descriptions of death and murder, violence, obsessive behavior, stalking, reader is a psychopath (more will be added) explicit content (smut): multiple sex scenes, cunillingus, rough throat fucking, spit swallowing, heeseung put his gun on reader's pussy, unprotected vaginal and anal sex (more will be added).

✒ CURRENT WORD COUNT: 8K | EST. 20K

STATUS: ON PROGRESS

[beomiracles]

𝐔𝐋𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 태현 coming late august 25'

Your father talks about people like Taehyun. With venom that laces his tongue, he tells you about the filth of a world you can only imagine — and Taehyun is the worst kind. He is the kind of darkness that clings to your soul as it pulls you down with him; forcing you to join him when the day of doom finally comes.

thief!taehyun x cultist!reader (f)

⚠︎ cult-centric (reader is quite literally a member of a cult), manipulation, brainwashing, unreliable narrator, old social norms, misogyny, verbal abuse, blasphemy, forced marriage, internalised gaslighting, theft, burglary, smoking, character death, coercion, loss of virginity.

... hello guys, I originally teased this fic in November last year, whoops. anyway, this time around we're fr. me and cam have been locking in so hard this past week and I've got such an immense amount of this done already, however I won't be able to finish before the end of this week, and after that im going away for two weeks to see Josi, hence the late release date, I trust you guys will be patient enough to wait for me though, much love serene 🪶

current wc: 22k — estimated final wc: 40-50k

╰ taglist for this fic is open! join through my inbox or by commenting under this post (regular taglist is automatically added, excluding those who don't read dark content)

TEASER (reader discretion is advised) teaser wc — 1.1k

“Daughter.” 

His voice is a low drawl, one that makes a shiver crawl up your spine as he addresses you. Swallowing down the lump in your throat, you give him a subtle nod, nails digging into the back of your hand as you reply: “Father.” 

He doesn’t speak right away, his eyes lingering for a moment too long to be comfortable. You knew that father could see right through you, that there was never any point in trying to deceive him for he could tell without you even opening your mouth to speak. The sound of his chair creaking rings through your ears when he leans back, gaze trailing over the crowded bookshelves for a moment before coming to a stop. 

Reaching a hand out, his lean fingers grasp a book you recognized with dread. It was not one you were allowed to keep in your room, but he had still made you read it — over and over, for as long as you had been able to. You vividly remember being perched on his lap as a child, following along his pointed finger as he read aloud. As you grew older you were prompted to do the same, this time following your own finger as you read to him. 

Its cover was dark, as were the contents written down. The bindings are fragile, carefully tied by your father’s own hand, as he had all the books your community read. They were sacred that way, crafted under his touch and created with his knowledge. 

This book in particular was important. Not because it told you how to live, but because it told you how to not. He never named this book, but he would speak of it with uttermost distaste. It was the book of non-believers of course. The one that explained their foul and impure ways. Sin, filth, sex, theft, lying and lack of devotion, or even worse, devotion to someone who wasn’t him. 

The book has always made you uncomfortable. Its words were harsh as it described the non-believers as nothing but mere animals. If your father had his way, he would have them all put down — in the most cruel of ways possible. 

Why had he brought this book forward now? Your mind instantly goes to Taehyun, fear slipping onto your otherwise emotionless face. There was no way he could know, was there? But there was nothing your father didn’t know, nothing that went past his keen senses. It was only a matter of time until he found out about the darkness that lingered around you. 

Last night you let Taehyun get close, too close. You had felt his breath on yours, his thigh brushing against you — leaving no escape for the darkness that tainted him. And you had let him, you hadn’t pushed him away; in fact you had opened the window for him. Once again you had let him inside your home, the most sacred place in the world. You had tarnished it. It was your fault. 

Your father knew. You were certain. The way his piercing gaze fixated on your sweaty face, the anxiety rolling off of you in waves the way it always would when you knew you had misstepped, when you had done something wrong. 

His finger trails the spine of the book, turning it slowly in his hands. “Do you recognize this?” It’s a trick question, for there was no way you could mistake that book for anything else. 

You nod, “Yes, father.” 

He hums, the sound low and deep in his chest. “Then you know why it is important”, he drawls, eyeing you with intent that has you refraining from squirming in your seat. Of course you knew its importance. It taught you everything you needed to know about the non-believers. It taught you what their sins were, what was going to happen to them when doomsday rose upon you. 

That very book was the reason you had begun fearing the non-believers in the first place. But it was also the source of your curiosity. There was so much the pale pages left out, so many unanswered questions. Father says that only the information valuable was written in the books. Your questions were stupid and therefore disregarded. Non-believers didn’t feel the way you did, they had no remorse, no conscience. 

Your father opens the book, flipping through it for a moment, already familiar with its layout. He pauses, eyes stuck to a particular page. Your heart drums in your chest, blood rushing through your body as you await his next move. — Then he places the open book in front of you, finger pointing to the top paragraph of the page. 

“Read this for me.” 

Your gaze zeroes in on the words, your stomach sinking at the familiar lines. The ones he had made you read so many times before. Yet today, on this particular occasion; everything was different. You clear your throat, eyes flitting up to meet his for a brief moment before returning to the page. 

“He who sins is not a man, but an animal. Made out of flesh and bone but bleeds not the same blood as us. His sins are punishable, not by law but by truth. Such an animal earns no salvation when doomsday shall rise; and he will suffer a fate worse than death.” 

Your voice cracks as your eyes drop to the next paragraph, throat closing up at the familiar words written out before you. But your hesitation only adds to your father’s impatience, and you feel his gaze on you — demanding you continue. So you do. 

“A man who associates himself with a sinner, will tarnish his own purity. The man who confides in an animal like that will, too, suffer the same fate a non-believer would. He becomes the animal he despises by letting their darkness taint him, and is punished the same.” 

Your hands are trembling when you finish. Sweat pearls on your forehead, surely glistening under the warm light of his desk lamp. You look up to see your father watching you, lips pressed into a thin line as he listens to you speak. When you’re finished, he gives a curt nod, but does not attempt to take the book from you. 

“And do these words mean anything to you?” 

The question makes you freeze, the fervent beating of your heart coming to an abrupt halt as your jaw slacks. He was questioning you — you could feel that now. He could sense the darkness within you, he knew that you were losing yourself to something beyond his grace, something you could never come back from. 

You blink once, then twice — forcing down the tears that prickled at your eyes. “They do", you whisper, the admission almost silent in his small office. The shadows seemed to draw in closer, licking along your arms and hovering above you, waiting to swallow you whole. They know you would let them; just as you had let Taehyun.

[biteyoubiteme]

IVE BEEN WAIIITTTIIINNGGG