짱새벽

♡ ateez and jeong yunho are the love of my life // i'm twenty five baby ♡

[bro-atz]

making partner

in which: the partner of your firm walked out on you, and you have five days to find a new partner before your firm falls apart on you.

pairs: lawyer!yunho/afab!reader, lawyer!hongjoong/afab!reader, lawyer!wooyoung/afab!reader, lawyer!seonghwa/afab!reader, lawyer!san/afab!reader, lawyer!jongho/afab!reader, lawyer!mingi/afab!reader, lawyer!yeosang/afab!reader

features: xikers members as employees at the firm

word count: 26.6k

content: sex, oral sex, protected and unprotected sex, completely consensual

rating: R — nsfw | mdni

When your partner told you they were leaving the firm, you were in complete and utter shock. They didn’t give you a notice or anything. They just said that they’re leaving and never coming back. You grilled them as to why they suddenly decided to leave the firm, and they kept offering you these bullshit excuses, but as soon as your partner was gone like the wind, you found out that your partner left not just the firm but the entire country when the IRS came knocking on your door. According to them, your partner had been committing tax fraud for years. You stared at the officers with your jaw dropped to the ground. Unfortunately, you had absolutely no idea where your partner went, and the officers went on their way. You didn’t know how or even want to tell anyone else at your firm about the entire incident regarding your partner, but you had to break the news to your firm that you needed a new partner because, well, you did. There was no way on Earth you were going to be able to do that alone.

And so, you called a meeting with the most trusted lawyers on your team. The nine of you sat in the conference room, and you mustered up all the courage you had to let the team know exactly what happened. You were scared to tell them because you knew for a fact that the second you tell them the news, they would be on you like vultures on a dead carcass. If only you had your former partner with you— oh, wait. They’re gone. They left you to get fucked.

“Alright, I’ve called this meeting because, as you can see, our former managing partner’s name is no longer on the wall or attached to this firm,” you started the meeting.

“Wait, really?” Wooyoung, one of your junior associates, stood up to take a look at the wall.

“Did you not notice that this morning when you walked in?” Jongho, your most trusted senior partner, scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“I was distracted.”

“With what?”

“I plead the Fifth,” Wooyoung stated after hesitating.

“Shut the fuck up,” Hongjoong, another senior partner slapped Wooyoung’s arm. “You’re a lawyer for crying out loud. You can’t keep using that excuse.”

“Then why did the founding fathers include it in the goddamn constitution, huh?” Wooyoung shot back.

“Jesus Christ, Woo. This is why you’re still a junior associate,” Yunho, one of the senior associates, spoke up.

“Also, just be honest. You were flirting it up with the receptionist, weren’t you?” San, the other senior associate, prodded Wooyoung’s arm with a sly smile.

You sat with a wary smile and watched your team continue to bicker. Your patience was wearing thin, but honestly, anything to keep them off topic. You still weren’t mentally prepared to tell them the real reason behind the meeting.

“Woo, you seriously gotta stop with the flirting,” Seonghwa, who was junior partner, lectured. “It just doesn’t look good.”

“Same for you two,” Yeosang, another junior partner, pointed at San and Mingi, another junior associate.

“What did I do?!” Mingi asked in shock.

“You flirt with lawyers from other firms all the time,” Yunho answered. “And San, before you even begin to say anything, you flirt with our clients.”

“Come on, no I don’t! It’s just information I ask for the case, that’s all.”

“Sure, because we needed to know the shoe size of the female CEO of Bibble,” Jongho said with heavy sarcasm.

“At least I’m not seducing the jury in court.”

“When do I do that?!”

The entire conference room erupted into heated debates— fitting for lawyers in your firm. However, you needed them to argue in court, not with each other; and as much as you wanted to stall telling them the news, you did need them to go back to work. Massaging your temples to prevent a headache that could very well turn into a migraine, you stood up and said loudly, “Alright, can we get back to the meeting?”

All eight lawyers immediately shut their traps and looked at you in anticipation. It seemed as though they knew what you were going to say. Taking a deep breath, you took your seat again and announced, “I am going to choose one of you to be the new managing partner. Your name will go up on the wall with mine if I decide to promote you.”

“Hey, wait. That’s not fair! Shouldn’t the candidates only be Me or Jongho? We’re the senior partners here!” Hongjoong protested.

“Yeah, it makes even less sense that a junior associate has just as much a chance as a firm partner,” Seonghwa added.

“Look, this is my firm right now. I don’t see why I can’t make a junior associate partner. It is my choice after all,” you smoothly responded. “Besides, all of you have been here for the same amount of time. Your position in the company doesn’t really matter to me. What I want is dedication and loyalty. I don’t need my next partner running out on me.”

On that note, you stood up, the other eight standing up subsequently. “I have yet to decide which one of you I want to make partner. I’ll be going over your records this week and have a decision made by Friday night.”

“Today’s Monday! You’re going to take five whole days to go through the records?” Mingi asked in complete astonishment.

“There’s eight of you. Eight records to go through, and only one of me. I can only do so much, boys. Okay, now go back to work. We’ll reconvene on Friday to hear my selection.”

The men left the conference room while you stayed back. A deep exhale escaped your body as soon as you were the only one left in the room. You sat back down in your chair and put your head on the table.

“Hey, Seeun?” You said loudly into the table.

Seeun, your secretary, popped his head into the room. “Yes, ma’am?”

“I have a headache.”

“On it.”

Your secretary immediately disappeared. He returned moments later with water and a painkiller. You felt your headache immediately start to disappear after you took the pill, but you were still completely and utterly exhausted.

“Is everything okay, ma’am?” Seeun asked with a soft voice.

“Why the hell did that dumbass commit tax fraud?” You asked him. You looked up to see a very shocked and scared expression on his face, so you quickly did damage control by saying, “Never mind. Pretend you didn’t hear that. Anyway, Sumin was that person’s secretary, right?”

“Yes.”

“Tell Sumin to clean out that office, and then tell him to meet me in my office.”

“Are you going to fire Sumin?” Seeun asked in a low, concerned voice— all the secretaries in the firm had gotten close, so they were always looking out for each other.

“No, we just need to figure out what he’ll be doing now that he doesn’t have anyone to report to,” you answered quickly, trying not to stress your poor secretary out.

“Okay, good… I’ll go tell him right now.”

“Thanks, Seeun.”

Seeun left you in the conference room, and moments later, you left the room to go to your office. You had a decision to make, and those records weren’t going to read themselves.

You sat in your very private office, surrounded by nothing but wood walls and bookshelves that absorbed most of the noise in your office. You wanted privacy for whichever client came your way. Sure, everyone at your firm was to be trusted, but clients are more comfortable when they know their information will be classified. That’s what you found out, anyway.

As you sat at your desk, you started clicking around on your computer. While you had physical copies of all the records, you also digitized them to make finding the pieces you need easier and faster. You opened up Seonghwa’s records first only because his name popped up first— he had a recent case, which meant his file was the latest to be updated.

You didn’t realize how tedious it would be to go through all the records. Honestly, you kind of just wanted to not do it, throw their names into a hat, and draw one of their names. Of course, you couldn’t actually do that. You cared too much for your firm to half-ass anything.

The buzzer on your desk phone went off— Seeun wanted to talk to you. “Come in,” you answered, allowing your secretary to comfortably enter your office. “What is it?”

“Sumin wants to know where to put the stuff from the office.”

“Any papers or documents, keep. I’ll need the two of you to work with one of the paralegals to sort them out. All of the dumb knickknacks in the office can be tossed. And I want the degree. In fact, tell him to bring the degree to me right now.”

“Okay,” Seeun nodded, but he still lingered in the office.

“Yes?” You asked, wondering if he was going to leave your office any time soon.

“Are we just going to forego the former partner’s name altogether?” He asked hesitantly.

“Yes,” you answered immediately, almost as if it was instinct. “That person doesn’t deserve a name. From now on, you are refer to the person as “dumbass”, okay?”

“Got it…”

Seeun bowed then quickly made his way out of your office, leaving you to scour through the records. You didn’t know how long you were reading for until there was another buzz.

“Yes?” You responded to the buzzer.

“Sumin has the degree for you,” Seeun said over the intercom.

“Perfect. Let him in.”

With the framed degree in hand, Sumin entered your office. You stood up and greeted him with a smile, your arm outstretched so that you could take frame from him. “Thank you, Sumin,” you smiled. “Oh, take a seat. Let’s figure out what you’re going to do here now that you don’t have anyone to report to.”

You tossed the degree somewhere behind you. You didn’t care how you treated it because the first thing you were going to do with it after Sumin left was smash the frame to pieces and rip the degree apart. Your partner was always so fucking proud of their alma mater, so ripping up the degree was revenge and soothing for your enraged soul.

“What did that dumbass have you do for the past couple of weeks?”

Sumin, taken aback by your language regarding the previous person he reported to, replied, “I was running errands like getting coffee or food or—”

“I’ve heard enough. What do you want to do?”

“Honestly? I don’t know ma’am…”

Before you could say anything in response to the cute, flustered boy sitting in one of the chairs in your office and having an existential crisis, your office door opened, and in walked Yunho. “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a meeting? How did Seeun even let you in?”

“This is important. It’s about the hospital case,” Yunho answered seriously.

You sighed and turned to Sumin. “I’ll check in with you later. Just finish cleaning out the office for now and then see if any of the paralegals need help.”

Sumin nodded and bowed before quickly exiting the office. Yunho took a seat on the couch in your office, his legs immediately crossing and his hands resting on his knee.

“What’s going on with the hospital case?” You asked with major concern— based off the way Yunho was talking, you feared the worst.

“They agreed to settle,” a huge smile blossomed on the associate’s face.

You stared at Yunho, completely dumbfounded. Flowers and sparkles seemed to surround him as he continued to bask in his success. You stood up slowly, your hands planted firmly on your desk.

“Did you interrupt my meeting to tell me that you won a case?”

“Yes!”

You walked around your desk and towards him while asking with complete annoyance, “Are you telling me you interrupted my meeting to tell me that you won a very winnable case?”

“Yes…” Yunho leaned back; you were starting to scare him.

“You could’ve waited until after I was done, couldn’t you?!” You smacked Yunho’s arms and shoulders as you berated him. “We all knew you were going to get that settlement done, so why would you think that it’s so important to tell me now?!”

“Because you’re deciding who should be partner,” Yunho replied matter-of-factly.

Your headache returned. You collapsed on the sofa next to him and held your hand out in his face, telling him silently to keep his mouth shut. “I fucking knew this was going to happen. That dumbass really screwed me over.”

“Knew what was going to happen?”

“That you guys would start harassing me one way or another to make you partner!”

“Has anyone else done that yet?” Yunho asked mildly surprised.

“No, but it’s only a matter of time before the rest of you vultures swoop down… God, this really sucks.”

You stood up and felt a tear slip out of your eye. Before you could even wipe it away, Yunho grabbed your arm and pulled you down so that you were sitting on the sofa once again. He wiped the tear away himself with his thumb and said quietly, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to stress you out…”

“No, it’s not your fault. I’d do the same thing if I were in your position. It’s that dumbass’s fault. I hope that dumbass rots in hell,” your mood shifted from distressed to extremely annoyed just thinking about how your former partner deceived you. You probably would have hated them a lot less had they chose a replacement partner before vanishing.

Yunho could tell you were getting more and more upset by the second, so he pulled you in for a hug. You felt your headache fade away the longer he hugged you. “Well, I promise you that this vulture doesn’t want to upset you in any way.”

“Thanks, Yunho.”

He placed a light kiss on your cheek before releasing you from his (surprisingly) extremely comforting hug. You even found yourself longing for him to hug you again, which you immediately dismissed because you still had to maintain some sort of professionalism with your associates. Yunho held your hands and rubbed circles on the backs of your hands with his thumbs.

“I hope my actions didn’t negatively impact my chance of becoming partner. I just wanted to add to my record as soon as possible since I just got the news,” he continued.

“Of course not. Again, I get it. This is a huge opportunity. I just wish I wasn’t the one who had to choose,” you looked down, your eyes beginning to water up again. You seriously hated your former partner so much in that moment.

Yunho tilted your chin up and wiped the tears from your eyes again. He pulled you in for another hug, although this time, you felt something stir within you. You couldn’t tell if it was because of how secure the hug felt or because you got a good whiff of his extremely sexy cologne— you didn’t even realize cologne could smell sexy until that moment— or because you felt his fingers brushing against very erogenous zones on your upper body. All you know was that you were very hot and bothered by this man and that you needed to do something to alleviate your rapidly intensifying libido.

What surprised you even more was that Yunho knew what he was doing. He had this planned out from the second he entered your office. You knew because instead of letting you go from the hug, he pinned you down on the sofa. Honestly, you kind of had to commend him for his plan of action. He played you like a fiddle— a characteristic of a great lawyer.

“Sneaky,” you whispered as he sat up and looked at you with a glint in his eye.

“I gotta prove myself to you that I have what it takes… In more than one way.”

“Do tell.”

“I think I’d rather show you,” Yunho answered before pressing his lips into the nook of your neck.

Fuck professionalism— that flew out the second Yunho came onto you. You happened to be wearing a dusty rose blouse with a ribbon tied to it, which Yunho smoothly undid. He also quickly unbuttoned your blouse, the silk fabric slipping off your torso, revealing your very provocative, very lacy white bra that left little to the imagination. Intrigued by your choice of lingerie, Yunho undid and slipped your white pants off— you already kicked off your shoes the second he kissed your neck— to reveal a matching white pair of lace underwear.

“I love this dedication to detail you have going on,” Yunho remarked as he observed the lace patterns. “Too bad I can only appreciate it for a split second.”

Swiftly, Yunho unhooked your bra, but rather than take it off, he merely pushed it up. You didn’t think such a simple action would feel so sensual, but when the underwire of the bra rubbed against your nipples, you felt your toes tingle with excitement. Then, when Yunho’s lips met your nipples, all of your sanity was a lost cause. You couldn’t help but let a moan slip out when you felt his teeth tug lightly on your nipple.

“Wow, Y/N… That moan was something else,” Yunho released your nipple and sat up.

You pushed yourself up slightly to see Yunho’s ears turn red. Not only that, but you also couldn’t help but note his bulging package making his pants look tighter than usual. Yunho started to unbutton his shirt while you sat up and removed your bra entirely. Just as he slipped off his shirt, you put your hand on the back of his neck and brought him close to you.

“Let’s see what you’re working with, shall we?” You whispered seductively in his ear.

Yunho leaned back and took a condom out of his back pocket, allowing you to undo his pants and slip them down, the bulge seemingly getting even bigger after you exposed his underwear. When you peeled back his underwear, you unveiled what you could only describe as immense and smooth. You’d never seen anything like that before, making you think back and compare him to all the other guys you had sex with in the past. Your mouth started salivating, and that wasn’t the only part of you pooling up liquid. You definitely had to take your panties off quickly before you got them wet to the point where you wouldn’t be able to last the rest of the work day in them.

As soon as he rolled the condom on his cock, you moved so that you were on top of him, your clit rubbing against his shaft. You heard his breathing hitch as you pushed your ass backwards slightly. Turning his chin so that his face was right across from yours, you glanced at him— specifically, his lips. Yunho got your wordless message. He brought you closer to him and licked your bottom lip before enveloping it in between his lips. He sucked hard on your lower lip, then he pushed his tongue through into your mouth, giving you the chance to suck his tongue. You felt his waist move up and down as he impatiently waited for the next move.

“Don’t get so worked up, Yunho. You should keep your cool, especially if you want to be partner,” you taunted.

“Here’s the thing, though,” Yunho lifted you slightly and place his dick at your entrance. “I learned that you have to make things happen for yourself to get by in this world. Therefore, I’ll make my power moves and have my opponent at my mercy.”

Yunho pushed your waist down and his up, your ass hitting his hips with a loud slap. You felt like his cock was going to shoot through you when you made contact so suddenly. You let out a breathy whine and clung to Yunho’s shoulders tightly, depending on his strong upper body to support you. Every time his hips pushed upwards, you felt him go deeper and deeper inside you, which was insane to you because you were on top of him. You couldn’t even imagine would it would be like for him to fuck you from behind or with you laying on your back.

You didn’t have to imagine it; you got to experience it. After several strong thrusts, Yunho pulled out and stood up. He moved your legs down so that you were kneeling on the ground, your arms and upper body pressing against the cool, black leather of the couch. He came at you without any warning. With one hand clenching your buttock tightly and the other wrapping around you to toy with your nipple, you felt like every single part of your body was on fire. The cherry on top for you was when you felt his tongue trace the edge of your ear and his teeth nibble on your earlobe. His thrusts were getting exponentially faster, earning little sighs and moans with every slap of his waist against your ass. Yunho was a driving force— he only got harder and harder from there without letting up in the slightest, what you would call ruthless. You truly did feel at his mercy when you heard his grunts and groans slowly get louder.

“Shit, Y/N, you feel so good… I’m gonna cum…!”

With one final thrust, you felt his dick twitch and throb inside you, a blissful moan from him echoing in the room. You couldn’t help but mentally assess him. He was intense, and he was truly a force not to be reckoned with, but he came before you did.

He did let you finish; rather, he helped you finish. He pushed his long fingers into you roughly and kept a fast speed going. You bit your lower lip to refrain from moaning uncontrollably as his fingers repeatedly rubbed against your G-spot with great friction, and finally, you experienced sweet relief, your legs trembling as you felt yourself cum all over his hand.

“So, Y/N. How did I do?” Yunho asked as he leaned onto you, his large dick brushing past your thighs, nearly turning you on again.

“You, uh,” you gasped out. “You did a good job, and you make a very compelling case…”

“I’ll take it.”

You watched Yunho stand up and cheerily walk towards the door to your office, still completely naked. You were about to yell at him, only to see that near the door were towels. Yunho seriously did come prepared.

“There is one thing I can say for certain,” you told him as he handed you a towel.

“What is that?”

“That I definitely made a good choice hiring you.”

You got through a good chunk of the records by the end of the day, a good chunk meaning only Seonghwa’s and Hongjoong’s records. There was so much information swimming your head that you seriously regretted saying you were going to go through all the records. Truth be told, out of the eight men you had to choose from, you already kind of had a choice solidified in the back of your mind, but you wanted to give everyone a fair chance.

You were one of the last people to leave the building for the night. You sighed for what felt like the millionth time that day and walked towards the curb. You knew how to drive and had a car, but based off the information those IRS officers gave you last week, you knew that you wouldn’t have the energy to drive home. You held your arm how to hail down a cab, but instead of a cab pulling up to the curb, it was a sleek, black, definitely-not-a-cab car. The window rolled down to reveal Hongjoong in the driver’s seat.

“How much do I even pay you for you to have a beautiful car like this?” You asked upon seeing his face.

“Enough for me to live well, but not enough for me to live my best life,” Hongjoong responded. “Not yet, that is.”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at how cocky the firm partner was acting. He shot you a cheeky smile before asking, “Can I offer you a ride home?”

Already wary of what moves Hongjoong might pull on you based off Yunho’s actions earlier that day, you hesitated. You looked around to see that you had a better chance of getting home with Hongjoong since there were absolutely no cabs in sight— plus, Hongjoong had driven you home in the past, so he already knew where to go. You nodded. He unlocked the doors, allowing you to get into the passenger’s seat. As soon as you put the seatbelt on, Hongjoong pulled away from the curb and drove into the night.

The two of you were silent as Hongjoong drove down the fairly empty roads. It wasn’t that late at night, but considering that it was a Monday, everyone definitely wanted to go home as soon as possible. You played with the strap on your bag as the hum of the engine and wind around the car filled the atmosphere.

“So I heard that we’re calling the former partner dumbass?” Hongjoong said after the two were silent for a solid minute or so.

“Yes. The fucking dumbass,” you bit out, your annoyance completely resurfacing.

“I mean, you have every right to be angry. This situation is just so sudden.”

“Luckily, our cases are all in good places, but I won’t be able to relax until I appoint the next managing partner.”

“Right, and you need to make sure he’s going to be more reliable than the dumbass.”

“Exactly.”

Hongjoong nodded and kept his eyes on the road. He eased off the accelerator and asked you, “Can we make a quick pit stop?”

“Oh, uh, sure…”

After gaining your (somewhat hesitant) approval, Hongjoong took the turn into the nearby state park. Your heart skipped a beat when he kept his hand on the gear shift. You honestly thought his hand was going for your thigh. Your heart would not calm down, though, because you looked to your left to see his face barely illuminated by the faint moonlight pouring in from the window. His side profile was astonishing, and when he glanced at you from the corner of his eye, you immediately looked away, your heart beating even faster. You hoped that he didn’t notice you staring, but face it: lawyers noticed everything.

Hongjoong pulled into an isolated lot in the park. In front of you was a grassy field with a beautiful view of the sky, and to the sides were just trees and more trees. Hongjoong slid the cover from the sunroof off, revealing even more stars to your weary eyes.

“Beautiful, right?” Hongjoong asked you, his voice nearing a whisper.

“Yeah,” you breathed out, the view of the stars rejuvenating you.

“I like to come here whenever I find myself getting overwhelmed. It’s nice to reconnect to nature every now and then… To remember how trivial the things that stress us out can be.”

That statement from him made you completely lower your guard. Your shoulders relaxed and you took a deep breath in and out. He was right— looking up at the night sky really did make you realize how small all your problems were compared to the vast universe. That being said, at the end of the day, you still had to make a decision about the managing partner in four days.

Hongjoong noticed your shoulders stiffen once more. He placed a light hand on your shoulder and pressed gently in attempt to get you to relax once again.

“Y/N, don’t overwhelm yourself so quickly. You still have four more days,” Hongjoong tried to reassure you, but the number four just re-emphasized how little time you had to go through all of their goddamn records.

“I know. I’m trying to relax, but I haven’t been able to ever since…” you trailed off; you couldn’t finish your sentence because you didn’t want him or any of the other men knowing why your partner vanished so quickly.

“Let’s see… What else could we do to help you relax?” Hongjoong thought out loud. “You could get a manicure or pedicure, or a massage, or a facial, or…”

You looked at him when he stopped talking. You saw the tips of his ears turn slightly red. “Or what?” You prompted.

“Exercise is a great way of reducing stress.”

“Ugh, I don’t want to go to the gym right now…”

“There are other ways to exercise.”

“I’m definitely not going on a run right now. Not in these heels.”

This time, Hongjoong’s hand did rest on your thigh. He looked you straight in the eye as he dropped his voice, “You definitely don’t have to go on a run right now, nor do you have to go to the gym.”

You glanced down at his hand. His hand was slowly moving upwards, his fingers tracing along the inside of your thigh.

“I’m going to need you to make your case,” you told him with the most authoritative voice you could muster despite your insides doing all sorts of somersaults.

“Really?”

“Yes. Make a compelling argument, present your evidence, and I’ll make a ruling to see if you’re correct or not.”

You were seriously egging him on because by that point, he had turned you on to the point of no return. The combination of the moonlight heightening his sharp features and his knowing hand on your thigh made every last bit of you throb and long for some sort of relief.

“May I request some time to prepare my opening statement?” Hongjoong asked respectfully.

“Yes.” You unlocked the door and set your bag down on the passenger’s seat before moving to the backseat. You crossed your arms over your chest and your legs together to keep yourself together as you said, “You may present your opening statement now.”

Hongjoong cleared his throat before saying, “Your honor, today I will prove beyond a reasonable doubt that fornication is, in fact—”

“Objection,” you interrupted. “Rephrase.”

“That’s not a real objection.”

“For me, it is. I don’t like the word fornication.”

“Fine. Your honor, today I will prove beyond a reasonable doubt that sexual intercourse is, in fact, an excellent form of stress relief,” Hongjoong, as per your request, rephrased the term. He opened his car door and continued, “I will call four witnesses.”

“Oh? Four?” You raised an eyebrow.

Hongjoong got into the backseat next to you, the car door slamming shut. “Yes, four.”

He sat closer to you and once again put his seductive hand on your thigh. You got a good whiff of his cologne and felt the butterflies rampage inside you.

“First, I’ll call my lips to testify,” he whispered in your ear before leaving a soft kiss on your cheek.

“Then, my tongue will testify,” Hongjoong’s tongue ran along your neck, causing shivers to run down your spine.

“Third, my fingers will come up to the stand,” his nose brushed against yours as he trailed his fingertips down the side of your face, across your jawline, and under your chin, tilting your head downwards so that your lips almost met his again.

“Finally,” Hongjoong took your hand and placed it right on his crotch, making you feel exactly how hard he was. “We will call upon my dick as the final witness to prove to you that sexual intercourse is a valid form of stress relief and exercise.”

The two of you were breathing somewhat heavily and very erotically by that point, Hongjoong’s opening statement already convincing you that his case was valid, but he had yet to call upon these witnesses. Your lips were dangerously close to his as you breathed out, “Those are not proper witnesses.”

“Not if you witness all four of them.”

Without a second to lose, Hongjoong pressed his lips against yours with full force. His arms wrapped around you and pulled you closer to him, one of his hands resting on the small of your back. His other hand held your hand before lacing his fingers with yours. You felt like he was about to dance with you, and he really did. His tongue pushed into your mouth and waltzed with yours, earning a muffled tiny moan from the depths of your soul.

The ribbon on your collar had been long untied, and Hongjoong moved his hands to begin unbuttoning your blouse. As soon as your blouse was off, you immediately unhooked and removed your lace bra. Hongjoong pressed his nose into your skin and inhaled deeply, goosebumps popping up on your arms. With a cheeky smile, Hongjoong leaned back so that you were on top of him. His hands were firmly clenching your buttocks, and you felt something other than his hands on your ass when he pushed you so that you were sitting right above his steadily hardening but still sheathed cock.

“Are you going to call your witnesses up in the order you told me?” You teased him as you realized he was getting a little ahead of himself.

“It depends on which witness is ready first, and right now, my final witness can’t wait much longer.”

Hongjoong unbuttoned your pants and slid them, along with your underwear, down. You were barely able to take everything off past your heels, but you managed, which only made you even more restless. Luckily, in that time, Hongjoong had unbuckled his pants. You watched him take a condom packet out, but he had yet to put the condom on.

“Come here,” he whispered as he held your waist.

You let him position you and realized that he sat you down so that your pussy was right below his cock. Hongjoong, too, was packing. He wasn’t as long as Yunho, but you had no problem believing that his would be just as satisfying.

“Lean back,” he instructed.

You listened and did so, the friction between his dick and your clit almost making your legs give. Hongjoong sat up. He placed one hand against the door of the car, the other on your waist. You saw a tiny smirk appear on his face before he started rubbing against your clit. You gasped at the feeling. He was bringing you to ecstasy faster than your vibrator ever could, and he had yet to penetrate you. Your moans and Hongjoong’s stimulating exhales filled up the car. As good as him rubbing against you felt, you needed more. 

“Hongjoong… More…” you murmured.

“Would you say you’ve warmed up enough?” Hongjoong asked with a grunt.

“Definitely.”

“Then,” Hongjoong finally opened up the condom and rolled it on. He leaned back again and pulled you with him, your breasts pressing against the cloth on his chest. “Ride.”

Hongjoong didn’t do a damn thing. He laid on the seat of his car as you began to bounce up and down on his dick. You let out a little pant with every bounce, and soon enough, you needed to push your hands against his chest for support. He, however, didn’t want you to have the assistance. He took one of your hands and brought it to his lips, his tongue running across your knuckles. The sensation of Hongjoong’s dick filling you up along with the suction of your fingers in his mouth were driving you insane. You were so close to relief, but in the same breath, you needed more. You needed much more.

He tugged your hand, and your breasts were pressed against his chest once again. He cupped your ass and guided you briefly before his hips rammed upwards, sending you forward with a jolt. His thrusts were rhythmic and consistent. You could feel him throb inside you, and you looked to see him bite his lower lip. It seemed like he was trying to hold out as long as possible. You ran your fingers through his hair and pushed his head back lightly so you could witness his lips once again. His hold on you only got tighter as your tongue intertwined with his.

“Fuck,” you heard him hiss as he pulled his lips away from yours.

Hongjoong had managed to suddenly flip you so that your breasts were pressing against the seat and he was above you. The car moved with his every thrust, and your moans consequentially became more frequent. You lost it even more when you felt Hongjoong’s hot breath on your ear, his grunts also becoming more frequent. The cherry on top of the whole experience was when you felt his fingers on your clit rubbing away like there was no tomorrow. The feeling was so unbearably good that your orgasm came at the speed of light, your cries overpowering the sounds of Hongjoong’s thrusts. Seconds later, you felt his thrusts slow down, and you heard him groan loudly as he came, then exhale as he finished completely.

“That was so— Huh?” You started breathlessly then cut yourself short when Hongjoong turned you so that you were on your back and facing him.

Holding his fingers in the shape of a V, Hongjoong rubbed your clit in between his fingers, his pace immediately quick. You inhaled sharply then moaned as he continued to rub, only for your moans to reduce when he kissed you roughly. You moaned in his mouth as you felt yourself nearing your climax once again— so quickly after you just came. You were astonished, then even more astonished when he kneaded one of your breasts strongly. Soon, you came again, moans and profanities leaving your chest as Hongjoong released you to hear you cry his name.

You felt as though you melted into a puddle when he completely moved away from you. You remained in said puddle as he tied up the condom and dressed himself as if nothing had even happened to him. A pink blush crossed your cheekbones and nose as you stared at him without a single thought in your head. A knowing smirk appeared on his face as he ended with, “I rest my case.”

There were only two things you could think of when you took a shower that night: one was sex with Yunho, and the other was sex with Hongjoong. You wanted to think about the qualifications of those two men for the position, but you definitely couldn’t. You were getting so turned on in the shower that you were desperately trying to think about literally anything else or any other candidate, but whenever you tried, you would think about what each man’s penis would look like. You sighed deeply to yourself. How and when did you turn into such a horndog? On the bright side, at least you weren’t thinking about that dumbass former partner of yours.

You ended up washing your hair that night, so water dripped from your hair and rolled down your bare skin when you stepped out of the shower. The steam from the bathroom escaped when you opened the door, and you heard your bell ring. Quickly, you wrapped a robe around yourself and shuffled out of the bathroom towards your front door. The bell rang again right as you arrived. You unlocked the door and opened it carefully to see one of the junior associates on your team.

“Wooyoung! What’re you doing here?”

“Y/N, can I come in?” Wooyoung, ignoring your question, asked one of his own— but he ended up pushing his way through regardless of your answer.

“I guess you can come in,” you admitted defeat and opened the door fully for him to properly enter. “But what are you doing here?”

“Nice place,” Wooyoung commented as he looked around. He still had yet to answer your question.

He walked into your living room and made himself comfortable sitting on your sofa. You stood before him and looked at him, your arms crossed over your chest.

“Wooyoung.”

“Y/N.”

“Why are you—”

“Wow, this sofa is really comfortable,” Wooyoung interrupted with an irrelevant statement, his hand pushing down on the sofa cushion.

Frustrated, you decided to go back to the bathroom so you could finish getting ready for bed, but Wooyoung apparently didn’t want you to go anywhere. He grabbed your robe belt and pulled, nearly revealing your completely naked body. You held your robe together and turned around to berate the junior associate.

“Wooyoung?!”

“Sit here,” he told you, patting the same cushion he was pushing seconds before.

Grumbling, you tied your robe back together and sat relatively close to him, your legs closed tightly and your hands pulling the end of your robe down. “Can you please just answer my question?”

A light blush appeared on Wooyoung’s face, and his arrogant smile turned into a somewhat coy one. He nodded, and you repeated your question. “What are you doing visiting me at home? And don’t you fucking dare plead the Fifth or I will kick you out.”

“Yunho was acting all smug today after visiting you in your office, so I wanted to get a leg up as well and sell myself on you,” he answered truthfully.

“You couldn’t have waited until tomorrow at work? You just had to visit tonight?” You asked with a sigh while secretly praying that Wooyoung didn’t know about you and Yunho hooking up.

“Believe me, once I’m done here, you’ll be glad you didn’t have to wait. Besides, isn’t it nice to know you have an associate who is willing to put in extremely late hours?”

You realized by that point, Wooyoung was leaning towards you. The look in his eye changed, and you felt a rush of blood go to your erogenous zones. He definitely knew that you and Yunho hooked up. You narrowed your eyes and you tried your best to not lean away from him as you asked in a quiet voice, “What did Yunho say?”

“He didn’t say anything.”

Wooyoung got closer.

“You said he was acting smug?”

“That bastard is always smug.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

You felt Wooyoung’s fingers reach for your robe belt once again. He tugged lightly as he said, “He didn’t have to say anything because the evidence was all there. Roughed up hair, wrinkled clothes, and most importantly, a mesmerized look on his face as he touched his lips.”

Wooyoung cupped your face with his hand and ran his thumb lightly over your lower lip. It was in that moment that you realized that Wooyoung had successfully untied your robe, but the robe stayed in place.

“You’d have to be a horrible attorney to not realize what had happened for him to be acting like that.”

The rising tension in between your legs only got stronger. You swallowed the pool of saliva forming in your mouth and exhaled slightly through your nose, realizing that you had to respond to Wooyoung’s speculation. You still refused to move as Wooyoung’s face was mere centimeters away from yours.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” He asked breathily.

“That was totally leading…” you were barely able to rebuttal.

“Overruled.”

“How do you figure?”

“Because I know I’m right, and you do, too.”

His fingers trailed lightly across your collarbone before pushing the sleeve of the robe off your shoulder. Usually, Wooyoung loved to run his mouth whenever and wherever; however, this time, he kept quiet. You really did think he was going to say something mind-numbingly stupid when he saw your breast, but he didn’t even change the pace of his breathing. His lips brushed past your shoulder as his fingers pulled the robe down even further. You took your arm out of the sleeve and gripped Wooyoung’s shoulder tightly. You bit your tongue to keep from making a single noise as he pressed his lips into the nook of your neck, his soft hair tickling your ear.

Wooyoung quickly pulled the other sleeve off your arm, leaving the robe to cover only your waist. A moan of surprise left your lips when he cupped your breast to suck on your nipple. You leaned back and closed your eyes to experience the sensuality of his actions more, allowing him to push you back all the way and pin you on the sofa.

Your robe was useless by that point. It didn’t cover a single part of your body, and you knew that without having to look because you felt Wooyoung’s knee press in between your legs. Suddenly, he stopped. He leaned back and sat pretty far back, earning a whine of frustration from you.

“Sorry, Y/N. I just don’t want to get this outfit dirty,” Wooyoung explained as he began to strip. “This is my favorite fit.”

“As long as you finish what you started, then it’s fine,” you panted out.

“Don’t worry, I always complete my work before I leave for the day.”

Wooyoung stood up and removed the rest of his clothing before pinning you down once more. His bare knee pressing in between your legs was so much more sensual now than before. You knew for a fact that his knee was getting wet being pressed against your pussy, so him taking off his pants was probably for the best.

You had yet to feel Wooyoung’s plush lips press against yours, so you put your hands on the back of his neck and pulled him into you. His lips immediately invited yours, but his tongue had yet to introduce itself. You held onto him tightly as you pulled him even closer to you, hoping that the action alone would be enough to tell him to violate the sanctity of your mouth with his tongue. He received the message, but he had no intention of fulfilling that request just yet.

Instead, Wooyoung leaned back. “I seriously can’t wait anymore,” he mumbled as he held your legs up and together before pushing his dick in between your thighs.

You’d never experienced such friction before in your entire life. Sure, you’ve had your inner thighs be licked and stroked and tickled, but not once did someone put their dick in between your thighs. His length brushed past your clit every time he thrusted inwards or pulled outwards, and every time, you felt your clit tremble and your pussy get even more wet.

Wooyoung’s voice was usually on the higher side, so it completely amazed you when you heard his voice drop when he moaned. You watched him through narrowed eyes as you leaned your head backwards, your body unable to deal with the pleasure he was providing you. You saw that his eyes were closed, that he was gritting his teeth so hard that the veins in his neck were popping out. You looked below that to see that the veins in his hands and arms were also very prominent. You didn’t think you had a thing for veins until you saw Wooyoung’s, but now you definitely did.

While you thought about how sexy Wooyoung looked in that moment, you felt yourself nearing your climax. Apparently, Wooyoung was close too, because the second you let out a sweet moan and came, he thrusted in between your thighs one last time before cumming all over your chest. The two of you breathed heavily before separating. It took you a moment to register, but you looked at the cum on your chest and sighed deeply.

“Great. Now I’m going to have to take another shower,” you muttered to yourself.

“Let me help you.”

Apparently, Wooyoung heard you. You looked him right in the eye and said, “No, I think you should show yourself out now.”

You sat up properly and were about to dress yourself in the robe again when Wooyoung held the robe down and brought his lips to your ear. His breath tickled your ear as he said softly, “We both know that you’re going to touch yourself again when you take your shower, so why don’t I help you out? Save you some energy and water.”

You felt your face turn red hot. As much as you wanted to kick him out, you couldn’t now because he was right— you definitely were going to touch yourself in the bathroom because you were still not satisfied. You desperately wanted something hot and throbbing inside you.

Suddenly, you felt Wooyoung grab your face with one hand and pulled you towards him. Your lips met his, and he finally pushed his tongue into your mouth. You felt like he was eating you alive with the way he was kissing you. You were so enthralled with the kiss that when he moved away from you completely once again, you were filled with irritation.

“Hey—” you started, only for him to interrupt you.

“Let’s go shower, Y/N,” Wooyoung said with a flirty wink.

Despite never having been in your place before, he seemed to know exactly where the bathroom was. You followed him in there and closed the door behind you as Wooyoung turned on the tap to warm up the water. The water from the shower head pelted down and got more water droplets on the glass doors of the shower— the glass was still wet after your first shower. Wooyoung stepped in first and held his hand out for you to take it.

You didn’t realize how cramped it was in your standing shower until the two of you were in there. Your back was facing him, your front facing the shower head. His hands held your waist and brought you ever so slightly towards him, allowing you to feel his definitely erect dick press against your wet skin.

“Do you want to hand me the soap?” Wooyoung asked, his lips rubbing against your ear.

You mentally reprimanded yourself in that moment. Of course you had to use a bar soap. You were worried he was going to intentionally drop the soap so that you would have to bend over and pick it up, but you were worrying for nothing. Wooyoung did very much intend to help you clean up. He rubbed the soap in his hands until it lathered completely before placing it back from where you picked it up from. His hands ran up and down your torso, his cum pretty much completely gone by that point. You sharply inhaled when you realized that one of his hands was straying towards your breast while the other reached downwards towards your crotch.

“Wooyoung,” you breathed out as he massaged your breast. “Fuck, this feels so good.”

“Glad to hear it,” Wooyoung couldn’t help but chuckle.

The sensation of the hot water hitting your breasts along with Wooyoung’s consistent kneading definitely turned you on, and his fingers rubbing against your labia induced sweet moans to tumble out of your mouth. You didn’t even bother holding back your moans when his fingers pushed into you, his nails lightly scratching the inside of your pussy.

“Spread your legs for me, Y/N,” Wooyoung told you as he lifted one of your legs.

You rested the leg Wooyoung moved on the ledge, giving him more space to finger you. You held onto the bar in the shower with all of your might to the point where your knuckles were turning white. You seriously couldn’t feel your legs at that point. You were so close to sweet relief, but there was definitely something missing that prevented you from cumming.

As you tried desperately to cum, you began to rock your hips in rhythm with Wooyoung’s pace. Your hand slipped slightly, and luckily, you were able to hold onto the bar and not slip or anything, but the soap that was on the ledge did fall to the ground. You heard Wooyoung’s evil chuckle in your ear as soon as he realized what you had done.

“Y/N, you should pick up the soap…” he said knowingly.

You pursed your lips and moved as Wooyoung let go of you, allowing you to bend over. And, of course, when you picked it up, the soap slipped out of your hands. Soap was slippery, and soap really wanted you to be pleasured by the man behind you.

“Are you doing this intentionally?” Wooyoung asked as the soap slipped out of your hand yet again.

You wanted to retort, but you could only gasp as you felt his hands spread your ass cheeks wide. He positioned himself before thrusting into your cunt quickly, the soap assisting his entrance. You cried out as you felt his dick ram into you over repeatedly, and you for sure thought that you were going to slip and fall, but Wooyoung’s hold on you was so strong that you definitely were safe. He guided your waist to and fro, the sound of your hips hitting so much louder with the added effect of the water from the shower.

“Oh my God, Wooyoung!” You cried. “I’m cumming!”

Wooyoung didn’t let up. He kept thrusting despite hearing what you told him. You moaned loudly and came while his dick was still inside you, the arousal fluid dripping down your legs as he continued.

“Wooyoung, please,” you said breathlessly. “It feels too good!”

“I’m almost there, Y/N,” Wooyoung grunted out.

You felt yourself nearing another climax, and you were so close to cumming again when Wooyoung pulled out. He stroked himself a couple times and came on your back with a loud groan followed by an exhale, leaving you to finger yourself so you could cum one last time. Wooyoung noticed you struggle, so he brought you up, lifted your leg again, and ruthlessly fingered you until you came yet again, this time crying his name.

This time, Wooyoung bent down to pick up the soap since you were hopelessly failing earlier. He lathered his hands with soap and set it back on the ledge before turning you around so that you were facing him, the hot water hitting your back. He began to rub the soap into you once again, his lips meeting yours at the same time. You held onto his shoulders and kissed him back roughly as he cleaned your body for the third time that night.

The truth was that you just couldn’t get enough of his soft lips. He was an amazing kisser, and you needed to experience those kisses for as long as humanly possible. The two of you dried off and Wooyoung changed back into the clothes he wore to your place while you donned your robe once more. Before he could leave the living room, you grabbed his collar and pulled him in for another hot, rough kiss, Wooyoung chuckling slightly in between the kisses.

“Aren’t you glad you didn’t wait?” He asked brazenly.

You didn’t bother responding. You just wanted to continue kissing him. He held you tightly as you wrapped your arms over his shoulders, your hands running through the roots of the hair on the back of his head. Wooyoung was letting breathy moans slip here and there as he held you close and continued to kiss you until your lips were red and raw.

“Okay, Y/N, I gotta go if I want to make it to work tomorrow,” Wooyoung leaned away, causing you to whimper.

“No. Didn’t you say you would complete your work before you left for the day?” You asked him, using his words from earlier.

“I did say that, yes.”

“Then come with me. We’re not done here,” you told him as you dragged him by the collar to your bedroom.

The next morning at work, you thankfully didn’t have a headache, but your hips were on fire. You couldn’t tell if it was because of one specific person or if it was all three men. All you knew was that for you to feel this sore the next day, whatever happened the day was definitely good if not great.

However, despite three men completely wrecking you, you were still stressed as hell. Truth be told, you really didn’t want to look through all the goddamn records because they were the number one source of your stress. Then, an idea struck. You called Seeun and Sumin into your office.

“Since I have both of you, I would like you both to go through all of the record and pick out the relevant pieces of information from each case that each of these people have had,” you said as you handed a piece of paper with eight names on it to the closest boy. “You have until the end of the day to finish it.”

“But, ma’am,” Seeun stepped forward. “What do we do about phone calls? Should we just ignore them?”

“Oh, shit. That’s a bad idea… You know what. I’ll go grab one or two of the paralegals to help you, but I want you all working on gathering the information. If the phone rings, then you go to answer it, Seeun.”

Seeun nodded and took another step back. You stood up and prepared yourself to head out of your office. “Go to the physical records room and start going through everything both physical and digital. I’ll send someone your way within the hour.”

The three of you left your office. You smoothed out your dress before walking towards the paralegals’ offices. Upon arriving in the area, you saw Seonghwa with a group of the paralegals talking and laughing. You checked your watch— it was lunch time, so it made sense to see them just hanging around. You stood out of their line of sight and watched as Seonghwa waved to the paralegals before leaving the vicinity and heading back to his office. You only emerged after he fully left.

“Everything good here?” You asked the five boys.

“Yeah!” One of the more cheerier paralegals, Hyunwoo, responded to you.

“What did Seonghwa talk to you about?”

“He was telling us about how he got to become senior associate,” another paralegal, Yujun, spoke up.

“Yeah, I was actually starting to lose hope being stuck in law school, but he made me want to keep going,” Junmin, the most senior of all the paralegals, added with starry eyes.

“That’s good to hear. I hired you because you’re good and I want you to stay,” you smiled at Junmin. You then realized that you could get the opinions of others to figure out who you should choose to be your partner. “Just curious since he was just here, but how do you guys feel about Seonghwa?”

“He’s the best!”

“He’s reliable and inspiring.”

“Watching him work is the coolest.”

The boys started to bombard you with more and more things that they liked about Seonghwa— they definitely did like the most senior of associates. You nodded and took in everything for about a minute before you decided that you needed to put an end to the praising.

“Thanks for the input. I appreciate it,” you told them. “The real reason I came down here: I need someone to go help Sumin and Seeun with some work. Who would like to help them?”

Hunter and Yechan, the two newest paralegals, both immediately stepped forward.

“Great,” you clapped your hands and smiled widely. “They’re in the records room. They’ll tell you what to do when you get there.”

Nodding, the two boys set off for the records room. You bid the other three paralegals farewell before walking towards Seonghwa’s office. You knocked on the door and popped your head into the room.

“Y/N? What’s up?” Seonghwa asked you as soon as the two of you locked eyes.

“Can we chat? I have some questions for you.”

“Yeah, sure. Let me just finish up this document.”

“Okay, just come to my office when you’re done.”

Seonghwa smiled and nodded before furiously clacking away on his keyboard. You returned to your office and left the door open, Seonghwa arriving just a few minutes later.

“Close the door behind you, then have a seat,” you instructed him.

The lawyer did so. He took a seat on the couch, and you instantly remembered you and Yunho being intimate on that couch. You did clean up after and instructed the night staff to thoroughly clean the couches, which they definitely did. Yet, you still felt a little weird about Seonghwa sitting on that couch. You felt your face heat up slightly, causing you to look away quickly to regain your composure.

“What did you want to talk to me about?” Seonghwa, eager to get down to business, asked you after you were silent for a solid several seconds.

“Oh, I was talking to the paralegals just now since I needed one of them to help my secretaries out—”

“Secretaries? Since when did you have more than one?” He interrupted.

“When that dumbass left, Sumin was left boss-less. I didn’t want him to lose his job because of the actions of his previous boss, so I told him that he’d work under me for now until we figure out this whole managing partner thing,” you explained.

“Oh… Got it. So you were talking to the paralegals?”

“Yeah. I didn’t know you had such a good relationship with them. They had nothing but nice things to say about you. You’re a good leader,” you rapid fire praised the senior associate.

Seonghwa looked bashful as he started, “Thanks— ”

“However, what I want to know is,” you interrupted him. “Are you a good listener?”

“I’d like to think that I am.”

“Then let’s confirm it right now. Go lock the door.”

Trying hard to prove that he was a good listener, Seonghwa immediately jumped to his feet to do so. You then gestured with your hand for him to step closer to your desk, which he did. “Take off your jacket,” was your next instruction.

He placed his jacket on one of the chairs closest to him and stood in front of you again. “Now your tie.”

He took his tie off and put it on top of his jacket.

“Unbutton your shirt.”

“Why are you having me do all this, Y/N?” Seonghwa asked while listening to you and unbuttoning.

You ignored his question. “Remove your belt.”

A suggestive look appeared on Seonghwa’s face. He removed his belt and rather than put it on the chair, he let it fall to the ground. The sly smile on his face irritated you slightly. You decided that you were going to toy with him in a different way now. “Unzip your pants. Only unzip them.”

As he did so, you quickly slipped your panties off. You stood up carefully and opened your desk drawer to take out a condom— condoms that you had stashed in your desk earlier that morning in case another attorney of yours needed to discuss their qualifications with you. You walked around your desk and sat on top of it, your legs immediately crossing. You held the condom packet in the air, Seonghwa’s eyes locking on it. He immediately walked over to you and reached for it, his hand on your thigh. You held it away from him.

“Ah, don’t get ahead of yourself. You still have to listen to me,” you whispered in his ear.

He looked at you with desperate eyes. His hand on your thigh was trembling. He was definitely doing his best to wait for further instruction. The second he ran his ridiculously rude tongue over his lower lip before biting it, you felt yourself get even more wet. You stuck the condom in the strap of your bra and brushed his hands off of your thighs. You reached for his waist and pulled him closer to you.

“You aren’t allowed to touch me yet. Got it?”

Seonghwa nodded slowly. You put your hand down to uncover the ready to burst bulge in his underwear. You’d seen his penis before— heck, you’ve had sex with Seonghwa multiple times in the past. He’d been your fuck buddy for the longest time, but when the firm became more well known and you both got extremely busy with cases pouring in left and right, you stopped. To be honest, you kind of missed his dick, so holding it in your hand after such a long time was exhilarating, almost as if you’ve never held it before. You licked your hand and spit on his cock before starting to pump.

“Holy shit, Y/N,” Seonghwa hissed.

Seonghwa was gripping the edge of your desk as you continued to pleasure him. His face was flushed red. His face only got redder when you brought him in a little closer so you could leave kisses on his collarbone. Seonghwa rotated between moaning and swearing. You trailed your tongue upwards towards his neck and felt his hot breath on the nook of your neck. He nearly leaned on you for support, but he remembered what you asked of him, and he refrained to the best of his ability.

Your hand went from his neck to his waist, and your lips trailed kisses down to his chest until you got to his nipple. You heard him sharply inhale then moan as you sucked lightly on his nipple. You felt his penis twitch in your grasp, and before he could cum, you let go of him and pushed him away slightly. His face was flushed, and he looked confused and frustrated. He opened his mouth to say something, but you held your finger to your lips, telling him to remain quiet.

“Kneel,” you said sternly while pointing at the ground.

Clearly annoyed by that point, Seonghwa still listened to you, his lips pulled into a pout. He kneeled right in front of you, his face by your knees. “Good boy,” you commended him.

You couldn’t help but bite your lower lip as you reached for his face and squeezed his cheeks with your hand as you made him look up at you. You wanted to see the look on his face when you spread your legs, revealing your soaking wet pussy. His eyes widened and he slightly parted his lips, a sense of eagerness emanating from him.

“Eat me out.”

Seonghwa nodded instantly. He nearly grabbed your thighs, but then he remembered he still wasn’t allowed to touch you. He looked up at you with begging eyes.

“Yes?”

“May I at least grab your thighs?” Seonghwa asked, his voice low and soft.

“Only my thighs,” you allowed.

Nodding, Seonghwa held your thighs and spread your legs even more, his tongue hanging out of his mouth thirstily. His thumbs rubbed against the inside of your thigh, and he brought his lips to your clit. He sucked hard, immediately making your knees tremble. You wanted so badly to close your thighs and keep him from going any further because the one action alone felt so good, but his hold on your thighs was incredibly strong, and he kept pushing your thighs outwards more— as far as you could split.

When Seonghwa’s tongue rolled over your clit, you flung your head back. You grabbed onto the roots of his hair and pulled his hair every time he did something you liked, which was every single goddamn action he took. His tongue then moved downwards slightly and prodded inside you. He flicked his tongue quickly while simultaneously slurping your pussy up. What you didn’t notice, though, is Seonghwa let go of one of your thighs to continue to stroke himself; he still hadn’t cum and he desperately wanted to.

As he continued to flick his tongue at what felt like the speed of light, he started humming and moaning against your pussy, the slight vibration from his lips nearly driving you insane. You pushed his head further into you and cried loudly as you hit your climax. Seonghwa moved away from your clit before you came, all of your liquid ending up on your desk. The hand that was on your thigh squeezed tightly as he, too, came. You were panting heavily when Seonghwa was done with you, and you could barely keep yourself upright.

“Okay,” you barely managed to get out. “That’s all. You can put your clothes back on.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Seonghwa asked, unsure if you really just said what you said.

“You can leave.”

“Sorry, Y/N, but I’m going to have to touch you now.”

Before you could get off your desk, Seonghwa grabbed your arms and pinned your down on your desk. You tried to get out of his grasp, but when you felt his once again erect friend, you felt a rush of blood go through your body and turn you on all over again. “You got me this far, so there’s no way in hell I’m stopping now,” he leaned down and whispered in your ear aggressively.

He pressed his chest against yours and ran his lips along your collarbone. He held the sleeve of your dress in his mouth and pulled the sleeve down, revealing your bra strap and the condom you stuck in the bra strap. He grabbed the condom with his teeth and moved away from you. He tore the packet open with his teeth— every single time he did something with his teeth, it drove you insane— and rolled the condom on.

“Wait, Seonghwa,” you told him as you sat up slightly.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Seonghwa pinned you down again.

“My dress,” you whined. “I don’t want to get it ruined…”

“I think you pretty much already did after cumming like that earlier, but alright. I’ll take it off for you.”

Seonghwa pressed his chest against yours once again, his arms wrapping around your body. He unzipped the dress slowly, tracing a line down your spine as he did so. Your back arched and you let out a sweet moan in his ear.

“Seonghwa! Hurry!” You grabbed onto his shirt and tugged lightly as he took his sweet time taking your dress off.

“And you wanted me to leave,” he scoffed.

“I’m sorry, just hurry now please…”

Still listening to you, Seonghwa took your dress off quickly, your bra following seconds later. He ran his hands down your rib cage and held your waist tightly. You watched him run his tongue over his lower lip before biting it and placing himself at your entrance.

You completely forgot about Seonghwa’s length and girth until he pushed his way into you. You felt like your pussy was going to get ripped in half, especially because he, rather than pushed, shoved himself into you. Rhythmic slaps echoed in your office as he fucked your brains out. You felt even more pleasure run through your nerves when he lifted your legs so that your calves rested on his shoulders, tightening your pussy around his dick.

“Fuck, this made you so much tighter, Y/N. You feel so amazing,” Seonghwa moaned out.

You couldn’t even vocalize how much you enjoyed Seonghwa inside you. You could feel him throb more and more, and you were so close to cumming. Seonghwa could tell that you were close.

“Not yet, babygirl. Wait for me.”

Seonghwa lowered himself down and stuck his tongue down your throat, his hand moving to cup and massage your breast. You whimpered as you did your best to keep it together and wait to cum, but he was stimulating you so much that you couldn’t help but wonder if he was intentionally trying to make you miserable. He released yours lips to say, “Good girl,” with an irritating smirk on your face.

You were moving on your desk so much that you felt like your ass was on fire. You couldn’t wait any longer.

“Hwa, I want to cum,” you cried. “I’m cumming!”

Quickly Seonghwa pulled out. He drove two of his pretty fingers into you and fingered you hard and fast. Your moans wavered as you hit your max and came on Seonghwa’s hand. He didn’t give you a second to breathe, though. As soon as you finished, he re-entered you and returned to the pace he was at before he pulled out. With one final slam, you felt him spasm inside you. He flung his head back and closed his eyes as he groaned in melodious relief.

He stayed inside you for a minute to calm himself down, allowing you to catch your breath. He took off the condom and threw it away before wearing his underwear and pants properly. You pushed yourself off the desk, but you didn’t realize how numb and wobbly your legs were until they hit the ground. You fell right onto Seonghwa, your face pressing against his firm chest.

“That wasn’t enough for you?” Seonghwa asked with a slight laugh.

“Shut up, that was more than enough,” you huffed out. “But… Can you help me walk to the couch?”

Seonghwa nodded and pretty much carried you to the couch. He sat you down on the couch and sat down next to you. You let out a sigh and looked down to realize that you were completely naked, and your dress was completely ruined. Seonghwa noticed your consternation and took off his button up to give to you, which you graciously accepted and put on. You buttoned two of the buttons and smoothed out the shirt to see Seonghwa looking at you with a small smile.

“It really has been a while, huh?” Seonghwa murmured.

“Yeah… You haven’t called me babygirl in such a long time. I nearly came when you said that,” you admitted to him.

“Good girl,” Seonghwa said once again, his hand petting your hair lightly.

With another sigh, you leaned into his chest. Your head was clear, and you felt fulfilled. Seonghwa put his arm around your shoulders and hugged you closer to his chest. He exhaled, the warm air going past your ear, nearly turning you on again. You shifted a little in his embrace and put your arm over his torso, hugging him slightly. You looked up at him and asked quietly, “Are you sure you don’t regret passing up the senior partner position?”

“Hmm,” Seonghwa thought out loud, his hand rubbing your arm. “I regret it sometimes, but I’m happy being junior partner.”

“Do you want to be managing partner, though?”

“Kind of, yeah.”

“Why?”

Seonghwa looked down at your face and kissed your forehead. He pulled your legs over his and held you even closer as he responded, “Because then I’d get to work with you more intimately… Like this.”

Seonghwa ran his tongue over his lower lip, turning you on all over again. You put your hands on the back of his neck and brought him in for a kiss, the two of you silently confirming that you could go another round or two.

Thanks to your dress being completely ruined, you had to get Seeun to go buy a new outfit for you. He didn’t ask why, luckily, but it took him a while to get you clothes to wear because he was busy working on the other task you gave him. Seonghwa stayed in your office with you because you were still wearing his shirt, after all, and he didn’t want to leave you completely naked. While you waited for Seeun, you and Seonghwa fucked another several times, and when Seeun returned, you two immediately got dressed. Seonghwa left your office, and shortly after, you did too, only to see that the sun had completely set (you don’t have any windows in your office, so you can never tell the time except for on your phone).

You sincerely hoped that no one noticed that you and Seonghwa were pretty much MIA the whole day, but you all are lawyers. You would have to be completely blind or oblivious to not notice that two people are missing despite being in the workplace.

You were and Seeun were the last two people to leave the office that day.

“Ma’am,” Seeun started slowly as you both walked towards the elevators. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Well, correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought I heard you crying in your office earlier…”

You were crying earlier, but the way Seeun was speaking to you made it seem like he thought you were upset over something. You were crying for Seonghwa to give it to you, which was definitely not something to be sad about.

“Oh, I saw a huge bug scurrying around my office and every time I tried to kill it, it would scurry away again,” you lied straight through your teeth; you didn’t need precious, young Seeun to know what you were truly up to.

Seeun nodded and accepted your lie. He didn’t press further. “Yeah, bugs are the worst, especially if you see them one second but then they disappear the next.”

“Exactly! You get it.”

It was still early enough in the evening for Seeun to catch the public transportation home, so you waved goodbye to him before heading to the parking garage. You drove yourself to work that day, which meant you had to drive yourself home— not that it was a problem because you liked to drive.

By the time you got home, you were exhausted and ready to crash, but first, you had to shower. No matter how much you and Seonghwa cleaned up, you knew that there were going to be traces of him somewhere on your body. You took a quick shower and did your moisturizing routine when your phone started ringing. You shuffled out of the bathroom and to the living room where your phone sat on the coffee table. The call was from San. It was unnatural for him to call so late, which meant that there was most likely a problem with his cases.

“San? Everything okay?”

“Well… Yes and no. I’ve been struggling all day with this settlement offer, and I couldn’t talk to you about it earlier, so I tried to figure it out on my own, but I’m still stumped,” San explained quickly.

“What case is it for?”

“The medical malpractice one.”

“Oof, yeah that is a tough one… Why don’t you come over and we can figure it out tonight? It’d be better to discuss this in person.”

“Ah… Okay. I’ll be there soon, then. Just send me your address.”

“Will do. Bye.”

You hung up and immediately texted San your address— apparently he lived in the building a block down from yours, so that gave you five minutes to finish your night routine and get dressed. You realized that you had yet to do laundry, which meant out of all the pajamas you had, you only had two tank-top-and-shorts pajama sets left. You thought about digging into your dirty laundry because there was no way in hell you were going to wear your office clothes so late at night, but the thought of wearing dirty laundry made you feel icky— what was the point of taking a shower if you were just going to wear unclean clothes? You had to settle for the pajama set: you ended up choosing the lavender satin shorts with a matching satin tank top number.

Exactly five minutes after San called, the doorbell rang. You opened your front door and let San into your place. You instructed him where to sit while you went to the kitchen and got water for the two of you.

“Alright, what’re we working with?” You asked him as you sat down next to him.

San opened his laptop and pulled up the documents. You leaned over his shoulder to see the screen and read up on the new details of the case. After leaning on him for a solid five minutes and absorbing all of the information, you sat back and crossed your legs, a skeptical look overcoming your face.

“What? What is it?” San asked with concern upon seeing your judgmental face.

“When did you get all the new information?”

“Earlier today.”

“Okay, that makes me feel a little better,” you said with a smile. “You must’ve had a long day at work then.”

“Yeah… Wait, how’d you know?”

“You missed this,” you pointed to something on his computer screen. “The hospital is trying to pin the blame on the doctor when the doctor wasn’t even working the day of the medical malpractice. This should actually be a wrongful termination suit.”

San rubbed his eyes and stared at his screen. His eyes darted back and forth momentarily before he exclaimed, “Oh my God, how did I not see that?!”

“It’s a super small detail, don’t worry about it. I was just concerned that you had this information for weeks. But, hey! You don’t have to worry about the settlement! Take it to court, win the case, and then flip the lawsuit.”

“Oh wow, thank you so much Y/N!” San cheered as he hugged you.

Within seconds, San realized what he was doing and immediately let go of you. He fully turned away from you, his ears completely red. “I’m so sorry, I just… I’m so relieved that this is a winnable case.”

“Don’t worry, I understand. This does call for a celebration, though.”

“It does?”

“Yes, it does,” you nodded and stood up. You disappeared into the kitchen and returned with two glasses and a bottle of whiskey. “You need a pick-me-up after being stressed about this all day.”

You held the glasses to San. He took them carefully from you and held them on his knee while you sat down next to him and opened the whiskey bottle. You poured the alcohol into the glasses one-third of the way before setting the bottle of whiskey aside. San handed you one glass, and the two of you tapped glasses before taking a sip.

“I honestly didn’t have you pegged as a whiskey person, Y/N,” San said.

“I’m not, but my brother is,” you told him. “I have to have a bottle of whiskey on hand for him always, and I just ran out of wine, otherwise I would have offered wine.”

“Whiskey is perfectly fine with me.”

The two of you finished your drinks within ten minutes, and you immediately noticed San’s face reddening. The tips of his ears were blazing. He set the glass on the coffee table and leaned in towards you as you set your glass down too.

“Where did you disappear to earlier today, Y/N?” San asked you point blank.

“In my office,” you told him, which was the truth.

“Really? Because I knocked on your door around two, and you didn’t respond…”

Your eyes went wide. You avoided eye contact with San as you realized that the other attorneys in your firm were probably trying to get in contact with you, but you were so busy with Seonghwa that you didn’t hear a damn thing. “I… Uh…” you stuttered out, unsure on how to respond to San.

“Maybe you were in the bathroom or something,” San offered an excuse for you, which kind of surprised you.

“Maybe… Probably…” You ran with it.

“At least I got this figured out before tomorrow,” San continued softly. “That’s one less thing to worry about.”

“What else have you been worrying about, San?”

San looked you in the eye, the red across his cheekbones and nose started to lighten up a little. “Making partner.”

“Oh?”

“I do want to be partner… It’d be a huge step in the right direction for me, plus I love working for your firm, so I want to climb the ladder here,” San admitted. “And I’ve been trying out to figure out ways to show you I have what it takes, but this medical malpractice case just proved that I have some improving to do.”

“No, San,” you put a reassuring hand on his. “I make the same mistakes sometimes too. Having another person to consult definitely helps sometimes. Don’t sell yourself short. Why else would you have been in that meeting?”

“I don’t know… I feel like I still need to prove myself though. I mean, I am loyal and dedicated, which is what you want, but I’m sure there’s more to that.”

San sighed deeply and bowed his head, and you just couldn’t help but notice how cute he was in that moment. He always carried himself at work with pure confidence, but seeing him a little tipsy and uncertain on your couch wearing sweats and not his usual work attire reminded you again of how he was definitely human. You couldn’t help but reach out and pet his hair, hoping that it would silently reassure him that he’s doing a good job.

When San looked up to look at you, you felt your heart skip a beat. His eyes were soft but still sharp, and the flush on his face was no longer from the alcohol but from something else. He placed his large hand on top of yours and stared into your eyes. You held your breath as he got closer and closer to you, but he stopped his face mere centimeters away from yours.

“San...?”

“If I do this… Then will you not consider me for partner?” San asked quietly.

“Do what?”

San’s hand, which was on yours, held your hand firmly. He pulled you towards him, your face nearly crashing into his soft chest. You felt his hand rest on the small of your back, tingles shooting through your body. He brought his lips close to yours, but he was still centimeters away.

“If I do this, then will you not consider me for partner?” San asked again.

“I, um,” you cleared your throat and did your best to maintain eye contact with him. “If you do this, then it won’t negatively impact your chance of becoming partner…”

“So what Yunho and Wooyoung were saying is true?”

San gained a little more confidence. He pulled you even closer to him, your knee brushing against his thigh. Your heart lurched when you noticed the bulge in his dark sweatpants, your mouth immediately salivating.

“What’re they saying?” You asked him breathlessly.

“I can’t say…”

San ran his tongue over his lower lip lightly. His hand moved slightly down so that it was no longer resting on the small of your back but now your tailbone. He couldn’t say, but he could definitely do from the looks of it. You cupped his face and trailed your finger along his jawline as you whispered, “Well, I’m sure your assumption is probably correct. So go ahead. Impress me.”

Slowly, San’s lips met yours, and he kissed you gently at first, unsure of the pace he should take things at. But, you liked this slower pace of his. It was a lot more sensual. You were painfully aware of where his hands were going. He let go of your hand and ran both his hands down so that they were holding your buttocks. Your hands rested on the back of your neck as you rolled your body into his, your kisses slowly starting to get more intense. You moaned when his hands clenched your butt and pulled upwards, pushing you further into him. Your teeth nibbled on his lower lip when his fingers crept under your shorts.

“You like that?” San pulled away lightly and gazed at your face.

“Mmm, yeah,” you said breathlessly in a higher tone.

San hummed in acknowledgement. He brushed his nose against your jawline as he lowered his head to kiss your neck. His hand let go of your ass to slide the razor thin strap of your tank top off your shoulder. You couldn’t help but lean your head towards him as his soft lips continued to leave feather light kisses along your shoulders. You heard him whine softly when his hands cupped your boobs from underneath and squeezed lightly.

“Ah, San! Oh God,” You cried when his hands started kneading your breasts with intensity.

Your face got hotter when he looked up at you with lust filled sharp eyes. His hands held your waist and pulled you in even closer so that your breasts were pressed against his chest. He stood up, making you stand up as well. What you didn’t realize was how weak in the knees San made you until you struggled slightly to keep yourself upright. San let out a light chuckle before hugging your waist and picking you up, his lips pressing against yours again. He walked you to your room and sat you down on your bed, disappointment hitting you when he stopped kissing you. He pulled his shirt off from grabbing his collar from behind, revealing his wide shoulders and rippling muscles. You stared in wonderment at the proportions of his body before you noticed his crotch getting progressively tighter.

“Do you want to know what the guys have been saying?” San asked as he trapped your waist by planting his hands on either side of you.

You could only nod. Your words were stuck in your throat and only got more stuck the closer the man before you got.

“Yunho said your dedication to detail is impeccable, that the colors of your clothes always matches,” San said, his hand going over your clothes and running from your breast to your thigh. His other hand squeezed your thigh.

Your face got hotter. You were a little embarrassed knowing that they were definitely talking to each other about how you were in the sack.

“He also said that you’re the biggest tease. Wooyoung said the same thing. I wanted to see if their story tracked and if the evidence showed that.”

“And?” You asked, although you pretty much already knew the answer.

“They were right. Y/N, how can you wear something so provocative and expect me to keep calm?” San whispered, his lips near your ear. “I’ve been struggling ever since you opened the door.”

“This was the only thing I had left,” you responded weakly.

“I’m sure it was,” he replied sarcastically.

“Well, I also have this set in green, but that’s it I swear.”

“Don’t perjure yourself, Y/N,” San lectured.

San stood with his legs far apart as he leaned into you— he was still standing while you were laying on your bed, your legs dangling off the edge. His lips met your nipple, which was still covered by your tank top, and sucked lightly. His hands pulled your shorts and panties down, leaving you to kick the clothes off. He rubbed his fingers lightly against your clit, causing you to you curl your toes. You wanted to tell him off— he was being more of a tease than you. Fuck his slower pace. You needed him to fuck you senseless at that point. Your body lurched when you felt his teeth sink lightly into your nipple, his hand pinching your other nipple.

“San,” you said with the sternest voice you could muster as you pushed yourself up slightly to rest on your elbows.

“Yes?” San responded without looking up.

“Condoms are in the top drawer of my dresser.”

San’s lips left your nipples. He smirked at your impatience. You immediately wanted to wipe that arrogant look off his face, but one thing at a time. First, you needed his dick inside you.

“Thanks for offering,” he started as he reached into his pocket for his wallet. “But, I’m going to have to use my own.”

“Why— Oh…”

Your eyes went wide as San pulled the waistbands of his sweats and underwear down, revealing his colossal, for lack of better comparison, eggplant. Hell, you’d seen missiles smaller than the weapon he had. As he rolled his condom on, you couldn’t help but compare: Yunho’s big cock was long and straight. San’s big cock, on the other hand, was his was curved and incredibly thick— so thick that you didn’t even know if he was going to fit inside you. But, he was right; the condoms you had in your drawer were definitely not going to work for him.

San stood closer to you and rubbed the length of his penis against your clit. His hands stroked your thighs before gripping them and placing the tip of his dick at your entrance.

“If you need me to stop, let me know,” San murmured as if he had repeated those words millions of times in the past.

You nodded and laid back, your elbows no longer propping you up. You thought earlier that day that Seonghwa was going to rip your pussy, but it was actually San that did. He moved into you slowly, his girth opening you up. You let out a loud moan and flung your head back as he continued to drive his dick inside you all the way. His hands moved from your thighs to your waist, allowing you to grab his wrists and dig your nails into his skin.

“Should I stop?” San asked with a low grunt.

“No,” you gasped. “Keep going.”

Nodding, San did just that. Tears filled your eyes the more your pussy took of him. He finally fit himself inside you all the way before letting out a sigh of relief. You still held onto his arms firmly, but your nails were no longer leaving crescents on him.

“Are you okay?” San asked you, his large hand caressing your face.

“Uh huh,” you whimpered.

“I’m going to start moving,” he warned you.

You gave him a singular nod. San placed his hands on your hips again and pulled his dick out a little faster than before when he was pushing himself inside you. Then, he thrust suddenly into you. You let out a yelp when you felt his hips slam into yours. You felt like he was completely filling you up with the way his cock was. You pushed the back of your head further into your bed the more San thrust into you. He kept a standard pace, but he was still slamming strongly into you, making your body move upwards and the springs of your bed squeak.

Small, erotic cries escaped you with every thrust. You both were breathing heavily in unison, San’s breaths later turning into grunts as he clenched his jaw to keep ramming his cock into you at a faster pace. He already had an impressive jawline, but clenched was a whole new game. You lifted your hand to reach for his face, which he happily placed in your hand. You guided his face to yours and reconnected your lips, his kisses immediately making the pain from his thrusts turn into pure pleasure. As he bent down to kiss you, though, his cock started hitting you at a slightly different angle, hitting your G-spot over and over again without remorse. You broke off your intense kiss with San to cry, “I’m cumming!”

San didn’t give you the time to say or do anything right after. He kissed you again, his tongue intertwining with yours. Fluid shot out from you and coated San’s cock, but he refused to let up. When he released your lips to stand up straight and fuck you with all of his might, you felt another orgasm coming your way. Seeing San’s eyes closed tightly as he finished with a final thrust did it for you. The two of you came together, and you continued to cum after he pulled out. You covered your face in embarrassment, but San didn’t seem to think anything. In fact, he was beyond happy because he was able to make you feel that damn good.

“Heh, Yunho was right,” San giggled to himself as he removed his condom.

Barely sitting up, you observed San’s expression, then a realization hit you. He took a page out of Yunho’s fucking playbook.

“You knew about the wrongful termination suit, didn’t you?” You asked him as you grabbed his waist and pulled him back towards you.

“Of course I did. Only an idiot or a really shitty lawyer would miss that detail,” San said matter-of-factly. “I’m a senior associate for a reason, Y/N.”

“I swear to fucking God, you all are so goddamn annoying,” you complained while pinching his ear.

“All lawyers are annoying. You should know that by now,” San laughed despite your hold on his ear hurting him like crazy.

You let go of his ear and were about to reprimand him, but he grabbed his clothes, wore them quickly, and waved goodbye while singing, “Good night! Don’t let the vultures bite!”

When you woke up the next morning, you seriously regretted your entire existence. Five. Five out of eight. Five out of eight men you were considering for partner. You fucked five different men in the span of two days. You wanted a hole to swallow you into the Earth. Heck, committing tax fraud sounded a lot better than knowing that you fucked five lawyers from your firm. God Fucking Dammit.

You really did not want to go into work that morning. You seriously did not want to. You considered calling in sick, but you realized that if you did, then you’d lose a day of going over their records. But, you also couldn’t think about walking into the workplace knowing that five men could gossip about how you were in the sack. Frustrated, you held your pillow to your face and screamed into it for a good minute. After you screamed, you tossed the pillow aside and checked the time. Fuck it. You got your ass out of bed and went to work.

Before anyone could stop you or greet you, you rushed to your office and locked yourself in there. Seeun called your desk phone, and you immediately answered with, “Nope. I don’t want to talk today. Not to anyone. Do not let anyone in, and don’t call again.”

“Ma’am, is everything okay…?” You heard the concern in Seeun’s voice and felt your heart tighten; you couldn’t believe that you just talked to your sweet, innocent secretary like that.

“Yes… Sorry, Seeun, I just… Ugh.”

“I understand, ma’am. I’ll just email the records that we sorted out yesterday to you.”

“Oh my God, I totally forgot about that. Thank you so, so much! Remind me tomorrow to buy you, Sumin, Hunter, and Yechan lunch.”

“Yes, ma’am!” Seeun’s voice got considerably more cheerful. “Sending the email now.”

“Thanks. Bye.”

Due to your amazing secretaries and paralegals, you were able to keep your mind off of the five mistakes you made in the past two days; however, that lasted two seconds when you started reading through Choi San’s records. You slowly felt yourself getting wetter the more you read his file, and it infuriated you greatly.

“God dammit!” You yelled as you leapt out of your seat.

Overcome with the urge to break something, you turned to see your former partner’s diploma sitting in the corner. You immediately grabbed it and smashed it into the ground, glass shattering everywhere. You stomped on the frame repeatedly with your heels, getting your aggression out while imagining you were beating your former partner’s ass. If only they didn’t fucking commit tax fraud! Then you wouldn’t have been in this position, and you certainly would not have fucked any of your employees (other than Seonghwa, but let’s leave the past was the past).

Your desk phone rang. You whipped your head around to see the phone and grumbled to yourself as you picked up.

“Seeun, what did I tell you? I don’t want—”

“Y/N, it’s me. Jongho,” the attorney on the other line interrupted you.

“Oh… Jongho. What can I do for you?”

“Meet me in my office. I need help with this client.”

Before you could even respond, Jongho cut the line. You stared at the receiver in shock. Jongho was your employee, yet the way he was speaking to you was as if he was your boss— acting like he already made managing partner. You were slightly annoyed, but in the same breath, hearing him order you to meet him in his office like that was so sexy.

Realizing that your head was once again swimming in your goddamn horny hormones, you stomped on the frame several more times. After managing to cool off, you realized that you were stamping tiny glass shards into the carpeting.

“Fuck,” you hissed before picking up the receiver and calling your secretary. “Hey, Seeun? Can you get someone to clean up the glass in my office…? Just clean up the glass and the frame, but leave the degree. I’m not done with that yet.”

After getting a confirmation from Seeun, you hung up and made your way to Jongho’s office. You knocked on the door to Jongho’s office before entering, and what a sight you got to behold. Jongho was leafing through several documents he had in his hands, his legs up and cross on the edge of his desk. You got a beautiful view of the way his pants hugged his thighs just right to show off how muscular they were, and he didn’t have his suit jacket on for once, so you got to see exactly how wide and sturdy his shoulders were. You wanted to stare and appreciate his beauty for longer, but there were several reasons as to why you couldn’t: one, you both had to get to work; two, you needed to stop fucking your employees; three, you needed to get your shit together and act like a normal human being instead of some sex-crazed-horndog.

“Alright, let’s go,” Jongho announced as he stood up.

“Where are we going?” You had no idea what was going on.

Jongho handed the documents he was looking at moments before to you. You looked at them while he put on his suit jacket.

“Subpoenas?” You were shocked at how many there were.

“Yeah, I got the okay from the judge. I want to hand deliver them to see the looks on the smug bastards’ faces,” Jongho said passionately, him saying the word “bastard” nearly turning you on to the max.

As he walked towards you to take the documents back, he noted your outfit and said, “Oh good, you’re wearing pants. I’m telling you these assholes are disgusting. We don’t need them staring at your legs… Or your cleavage.”

You covered your face with your hand, a shocked expression plastered to your face along with a pink blush. Jongho, taking the documents from you, made his way out of his office. You, still shocked by what he said, had to take a second to calm down before following him out of the building.

What Jongho said was right. The men you were serving the subpoenas to were, indeed, disgusting pigs. You went to three different offices, and all three men objectified you in one way, shape, or form. One of the men even stared at your ass the entire time Jongho was telling him about the subpoena. Jongho didn’t even have to jump to your defense— you berated each man, told them to eat shit, and insulted them ruthlessly, going after their clearly fake hairpieces or their beer belly babies which were well past overdue. After years of managing your own firm, you learned how to completely destroy men like the three you were forced to meet with.

You stomped back into your office building angrily huffing and puffing, and Jongho had to calm you down before you blew the three pigs’ houses down, but he himself was struggling to keep it together because he was laughing way too hard.

“Why the hell did you make me come with you?!” You yelled at Jongho. “That was horrible!”

“But did you see the looks on their faces?” Jongho asked in between laughs. “Ugh, that was priceless. You always know how to tear those kinds of men down. Who else better to stick it to them than the managing partner of the firm that’s suing them? God, it was like watching Monet paint.”

“I’m glad you’re happy,” you said without a shred of happiness in your voice. “I could use a drink… Or ten…”

“If you’re okay with ditching work, we can just head out for happy hour,” Jongho offered.

“I like the way you think, Choi. Alright, lemme check in with Seeun, then we can go.”

“Okay, but I’m driving.”

“You were going to have to, anyway. I didn’t bring my car today,” you told him as you walked away.

You went to your office to see that the glass had been cleaned up just like you requested, and the dumbass’ diploma was sitting neatly on your desk. You glared at the diploma briefly before heading out of your office, dismissing Seeun for the day, and walking with Jongho to the parking garage.

The two of you went to a bar that was conveniently near your place, also known as your regular spot. The two of you sat at the bar top. You introduced your bartender friend to Jongho, then got your drinks.

Despite having the roughest day, you refused to drink a lot. You needed to stay sharp, aware, alert. While you didn’t think Jongho would try to advocate for making managing partner in the same fashion as the five previous men, you wanted to remain careful because even if he didn’t do anything, you knew for a fact that you would try something if you got too drunk.

Yet, your eyes couldn’t help but stray back to his thighs. To be honest, you could not stop thinking about his thighs from the moment you saw them earlier that day. You did your best to avert your eyes and focus on your drink, but your eyes would sneak peeks as his thighs every now and again. And you prayed that Jongho was inebriated enough to not notice your not so sneaky glances. What you didn’t know, though, was that Jongho was a heavy weight. He saw every single thing you were doing.

Luckily, he was engrossed in a conversation with the bartender, giving you time to get your head out of the gutter, but the more you tried, the more you objectified the senior partner. You felt your blood rush through your body to your crotch when he crossed his legs, accentuating his luscious thighs. When the bartender said something funny and Jongho laughed, your heart fluttered— even his laugh was so fucking sexy. You panties were getting wetter at an exponential rate. You sat up a little more on the bar stool and pressed your legs together tightly, hoping that you could stop your lust continuing to manifest in your cunt.

You held your glass to your lips and wondered if your drink was spiked, but there was no possible way that is was for multiple reasons: the bartender was your friend, so why would they spike your drink? Also, your drink was whiskey neat. If it was spiked, you definitely would have notice the color being off. You had to admit defeat. Having sex multiple times in the span of two days did a number on you and made you an insatiable beast. With a heavy sigh, you finished your drink and stood up.

“You ready to leave?” Jongho asked you.

“Yeah, but you can stay if you’d like! My place is a five minute walk from here, so I can get home.”

“No, let me drop you off. It’s late, and I think you’re a little too tipsy to walk home.”

“You don’t serious think I’m a lightweight, do you?” You were slightly offended.

“Not at all, but it would make me feel better knowing that you got home safe,” Jongho explained.

You couldn’t stress to him enough about how it was fine, that you could just get home by yourself and text him when you got home, but Jongho was a stubborn man. Accepting defeat, you told him that if he was going to drive you home then you would pay for the drinks, and he accepted your terms and conditions.

When you sat in his car, you were hyperaware of how horny you were, and you hoped that you would be able to return home without him realizing. You quietly instructed Jongho on how to get to your place, and upon arriving, Jongho parked by the curb, but he didn’t unlock the doors just yet.

“Jongho, we’re here,” you said with an awkward laugh.

“I know,” he responded.

When he turned his head to meet your eyes, it was like déjà vu. Every cell in your body was yelling at you, telling you to fuck this man. You swallowed nervously as Jongho leaned over you. You for sure thought he was going to kiss you, but instead, he unbuckled your seatbelt. Your face was hot when he leaned back. He was teasing you, but he didn’t look playful in the slightest. He was testing the waters— testing you.

“Y/N,” Jongho called your name in a register that you were barely able to detect over the sound of your pounding heart.

“Yes?” You whispered, Jongho leaning closer towards you.

“You okay?”

You didn’t know what Jongho was asking about— was it your current mental state, your feelings about the events prior to that evening, or his hand on your knee? Although you were wearing pants, you felt his hot touch seep through the fabric, but you needed that touch on your bare skin more than anything.

“Uh… Hmm…” You were desperately trying not to moan, so anything that attempted to be a word that came out of your mouth was just breathy nonsense.

Jongho’s fingers brushed against your temple, startling you slightly; but, when he brushed your hair away from your face and tucked it behind your ear, you wanted his fingers to brush elsewhere, like along your jaw, across your collarbone, down your waist, towards your thighs. His fingers did brush along your jaw, but then his finger ran across your lips, his pointer finger resting on your lower lip.

“May I?” Jongho’s lips were near your ear, so you heard his melodious voice ring loud and clear in your ear.

You nodded. Jongho left his finger on your lips and kissed you lightly, which was a little disappointing. You, however, nearly lost all self control when his finger pulled your lower lip down. He sharply inhaled as he kissed you for real this time, his lips engulfing yours with a raw, animal instinct. He unbuckled his seatbelt and leaned even further towards you, allowing the intensity of his kisses to rise aggressively. You placed one knee on the passenger’s seat and pushed yourself towards him.

At some point, the angle at which you were leaning at was getting extremely uncomfortable, and Jongho was so animalistic that you also couldn’t breathe. You pushed him away and panted, Jongho giving you a second to recover.

“Would you like to come in for a nightcap?” You asked him despite knowing his answer.

Before you knew it, you and Jongho were stumbling into your apartment and barely keeping your hands off each other. You held onto Jongho’s shoulders while he held your waist and steered the two of you in the direction of your living room, your lips still completely locked with his.

The two of you sat down on your couch and continued kissing like there was no tomorrow. You leaned into him so that you were on top of him, his head resting on the arm of the couch. You felt him grind his pelvis against yours, suddenly reminding you that you should grab condoms before you went any further.

“Wait, wait, wait,” you said breathlessly before his fingers could roam anywhere else. “Let me grab protection.”

You (shakily) pushed yourself up and went to your bedroom. You didn’t dare look at your reflection in the mirror above your dresser— you knew your face was definitely a deep shade of red, and your lips were definitely raw. You grabbed the condoms and made your way back to the living room with the condoms tucked into your bra strap. You walked back to see that Jongho ended up moving to the arm chair that was right next to the couch, his legs crossed yet again. He had removed his suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his button-up, revealing his toned forearms. Your heart leapt into your throat as you watched him put his elbow on the arm and rest his chin on his hand. He was incredibly sexy, and he knew it because he smirked upon seeing your completely shocked face. You felt yourself salivate as you observed his thighs once more.

“Y/N, you have to stop looking at me like that,” Jongho warned quietly. “Otherwise I won’t be able to control myself.”

“What do you mean…?” You choked out.

“I could barely keep my focus when we were at the bar earlier because I kept thinking about how sexy you would look completely disheveled after I got done with you. Why do you think I keep crossing my legs?”

A fire erupted within you. You were amazed at Jongho’s self control because you were ready to pounce at that point. “I could barely keep my focus all fucking day from the moment I entered your office this morning, Jongho. Your thighs are so hot…” You admitted honestly.

“Then,” he uncrossed his legs and spread them, his thick bulge as bright as day. He patted his thighs as he continued, “Sit. I’ll let you fully experience them.”

As he instructed, you sat on his lap, your knees on either side of him. You gripped his shoulders as he brought your lips to his once more. He untucked your button-up from your pants and quickly unbuttoned your shirt. He moved the sleeves off your shoulder slightly before moving his lips to pepper kisses on your shoulder and collarbone. In that time, he also unbuttoned and unzipped your pants, his hands pushing the waistband down.

Jongho somehow managed to get you out of your pants while still straddling him. When your bare thighs pressed against his firm, clothed ones, you felt shocks travel through your nerves. You breathed heavily near his ear as he ran his tongue along your neck and unhooked your bra, the condoms falling onto his lap. He kept your button-up on you and pushed your bra up to reveal your breasts, which was so much more erotic than you were expecting. He hand one hand on your breast and the other on your ass, pulling up on your panties. His teeth nibbled on your nipple gently. You almost came upon feeling the sensation.

You couldn’t take it anymore. You needed his dick inside you. You wanted to cum. You undid his belt buckle and moved his underwear slightly, his cock springing out, firm and ready to go. Jongho moaned, your breast still in his mouth, as you ran your fingernail lightly on the tip of his penis. His lips let go of your breasts with a pop. He grabbed one of the condoms, ripped open the packet with his teeth, and rolled it on. His hand was no longer massaging your breast as he guided your hips closer to his cock.

“Y/N, sit up for me for a second,” he said quietly.

You did just that. He pulled your panties to the side and positioned himself right at your entrance. He left it up to you to sit down at your own pace. You let his cock slip inside you slowly, not realizing that Jongho was thick. Incredibly thick. You let out a sweet moan as you sat down all the way. He filled you up perfectly, like his cock was made just for you. Your arms trembled as you held onto his shoulders and started bouncing up and down on his lap.

“Good job, baby. Keep going,” Jongho encouraged you as you began to pick up the pace.

You let out little moans of pleasure with every bounce, Jongho’s breathing becoming more ragged with every passing second. His hands traced the curve of your waist before gripping your waist tightly. He pulled you towards him slightly, shifting the position of your hips as you sat down. His cock rubbed against your G-spot repeatedly, and with a loud cry, you came. You pulled yourself off his dick entirely and finished off of him before positioning him and sitting down once again. You quickened your pace, and right as Jongho’s breathing hitched, you felt his dick tremble inside you while he groaned and clenched your waist tighter.

Surprisingly enough, you had enough strength in your legs to stand up, allowing Jongho to remove the filled condom; and although he came seconds prior, his cock was still erect and stiff. He rolled on another condom quickly and grabbed your arm to bring you back to him. He turned you so that your back was facing him. His dick pressed against your back as he stripped you down completely, the rest of your clothes sitting in a pile on the ground. You yelped in surprise as you felt his arms go under your thigh and lift it up, allowing him to have better access to your cunt. He positioned his dick once again then lowered your thigh so that you were once again sitting on his lap with him filling you up.

Jongho left kisses on your back as you began to move. He had one hand on your breast and the other wrapped around your waist, guiding you slightly as you moved. You whimpered when his fingers tugged on your nipple, your teeth digging into your lower lip. Jongho turned your face and kissed you roughly before saying, “Don’t hold back. I want to hear you.”

He slammed his hips upwards, making you cry out, your face looking towards the ceiling as you let him pleasure you completely. The cherry on top for you was when Jongho leaned forward slightly and snaked his arm around your thigh, his fingers rubbing your clit as you continued to move up and down on his lap. You felt your legs nearly give the more he rubbed your clit and pinched your nipple. Your moans got louder and louder as you felt another orgasm come about, and you came right as Jongho bit your shoulder— he was cumming too.

The two of you were breathing hard as you took a second to rest on his very comfortable thighs. Jongho kissed the side of your neck several times before asking, “How did you like my thighs?”

“They were just as I imagined them to be,” you responded with a light smile. “Fucking comfortable.”

You moved off his dick, but you still sat on his lap, your legs hanging off his thighs. He kissed you on the lips several more times, and you felt him smile against your lips briefly before he leaned back and gazed at you while saying, “Just so you know, you can sit on my thighs whenever you want. Just say the word, and I’m there.”

Another kiss. You leaned forward, your ass pressing against his thigh a little more. “What about now?”

“Of course.”

Porn star. You were a porn star at this point. You were sleeping with so many different men in the name of a job. Who did you think you were— Mia Khalifa? You had Seeun compile all their records for you, and you had yet to sit and actually read them. Instead, you were finding their qualifications out another way, and for why? To satisfy your lust? Desire?

You hit your head against your steering wheel lightly as you sat in your car in the parking garage of your firm’s building. You had to go to work, but you were dreading it. At least you got to work early enough so that you could avoid any sort of conversation. That, and you still had so many records to go through. If you didn’t get to work early, then you would definitely have to stay late, and that sounded like a recipe for disaster.

You thought you were going to be the first person to get into the work place that day, but you were wrong. Sitting at his desk in his tiny office typing away was Mingi. He was concentrating on his computer hardcore and didn’t seem to notice you. Before you went into your own office, you fully walked into his office, greeted him, and then stood behind him, Mingi still unaware that you were in the office with him.

“What’re you working on?” You asked Mingi, your voice hushed.

Mingi jumped in his seat and turned around to see you standing over his shoulder. He bowed his head and quickly muttered, “Good morning.”

“Which case is this?”

“Insider trading,” Mingi stated simply, only to realize that what he said was way out of context. “I meant the insider trading case with the former CEO of—”

“Mingi, relax. I know,” you giggled at how flustered he was.

“Right… Yeah.”

“Well, don’t mind me. Keep working.”

Mingi turned back to his computer, the tips of his ears slowly turning red. He bent his head down slightly so he could get engrossed in his computer once more, trying to ignore the fact that you were leaning over his shoulder to get a look at what he was typing up. He was typing, but he was typing slowly, like pressing one letter at a time with one finger slowly. You leaned in closer, confused as to why Mingi was all of a sudden not working as hard as he was just moments prior. His hair brushed past your chest as he ended up leaning towards and inhaling slowly.

“You good, Mingi?” You asked him as you leaned away.

“Yep!” Mingi said quickly.

He leaned towards his computer again and began typing again, but you noticed him shifting slightly and uncomfortably in his seat. You remained standing straight, but you looked down with your eyes to see a very hard, very large outline of a penis in his pants. You pursed your lips to suppress a giggle— the poor thing was just trying to work, so you felt bad for wanting to laugh at his predicament.

“Mingi, do you usually have a hard time paying attention?” You asked him, just trying to confirm that his inability to work properly in that moment was because of you.

“Not really… I just can’t focus right now…”

Mingi, once again, shifted in his seat. He was desperately trying to hide his boner at that point. Putting a hand on his shoulder, you said to him, “Come with me. We can take care of this before everyone gets here.”

You took a couple of steps away from Mingi’s desk and turned to make sure he was following. His cheeks were red as he stood up, and he was trying to act subtly, but you could tell he was definitely struggling. You turned back around knowing that Mingi would follow as long as you didn’t stare at him.

You opened the door for Mingi to shuffle into your office and continued to keep your eyes off him out of respect as you told him, “Sit at my desk. Get your work done from here.”

After you heard Mingi plop down into your office chair, you finally looked at him. He nodded at you, his face significantly less flushed. As he logged in, he held up the paper diploma on your desk and asked, “What is this?”

“Oh, that’s a piece of crap. You can give that to me.”

You walked over to him and plucked the diploma out of his fingers. At first, you wanted to rip it up, but then you decided to roll it up and stick it in your purse. You wanted to burn that motherfucker to ashes.

Mingi let out a deep breath and resumed his intense typing. You pulled out your laptop from your bag and pulled up the email Seeun sent with all the records. You began to read through the records when you noticed something in Mingi’s record.

“Hey, Mingi?”

“Yeah, Y/N?”

“Do you get bothered easily?”

“Uh…”

Mingi’s hesitation made you look up from your computer. He had an awkward blush on his face— not the same kind of blush from earlier, but he was definitely embarrassed.

“When I first started practicing law, the things the other attorneys or judges said to me used to bother me a lot, and sometimes I would react… I wouldn’t like flip out or break shit, but I did talk back to the judge a lot… It kind of landed me in hot water a couple times,” Mingi explained.

“Oh…”

You closed your laptop and set it aside. You couldn’t help but stare at Mingi, who was trying his best to focus on the screen in front of him but was clearly getting flustered with every passing second.

“You know, if you want to be managing partner, then you have to keep your resolve,” you told Mingi. “You can’t let anything bother you, otherwise you’ll definitely break after two weeks.”

“I mean, I’m definitely better than I was before— Woah,” Mingi started to advocate for himself until he saw that you were standing right next to him again.

“What? What’s wrong?” You were intentionally playing dumb at that point.

Mingi cleared his throat, but his voice still kind of squeaked as he said, “Nothing!" Ahem, nothing,” his voice returning to normal after he cleared his throat the second time.

“You sure?”

You leaned on your desk, your butt near Mingi’s hand. You watched his crotch get tight again as he kept his eyes on the computer. You bit your lower lip to contain your amusement because as funny as the situation was to you, you also felt bad for Mingi. With a sigh, you grabbed Mingi’s chin and tilted his head to look at you. His face went bright red as you kept your fingers on his face.

“Do you want to be managing partner?”

Mingi, unable to verbalize anything, nodded enthusiastically.

“Then you need to develop a thicker skin. Here’s what we’ll do.”

You scooted your office chair over so that you were in front of your desktop computer. You quickly typed and pulled up some documents. You pointed at your screen and said, “Jongho and I went to serve subpoenas yesterday to these three men. I want you to do the paralegal work and get information on all three and type up a report. You have to do all of this within one hour without getting bothered by external stimuli.”

“What external stimuli?”

The voice in the back of your head was screaming at you to not do what you were about to do, but the devil on your left shoulder was egging you on. Listening to the devil, you kneeled in front of Mingi and placed your hands on his thighs, spreading his legs open. Mingi started hiccuping, completely unprepared for what was about to come his way.

“Y/N, I— Hic— Uh— Hic— What?!”

“Resist. Focus on the task at hand. From the first word you type, I’ll start timing you. If you can’t get it done, then forget about making managing partner, I’ll send you to work with the paralegals.”

“That’s so— Hic— Drastic!” Mingi complained.

“Then do the work, otherwise face the penalty.”

Mingi pursed his lips. He nodded and hiccuped again. You adjusted yourself so that Mingi could sit comfortably at the desk and type without having to worry about carpal tunnel while you, on the other hand, fit yourself all the way in the area that Mingi’s legs were supposed to go. You checked the time on your watch, and the second you heart him type profusely, you got to work. You unbuckled Mingi’s pants and unzipped them, the bulge immediately popping through. You didn’t realize you’d be working with such a large piece of equipment until you tugged the waistband of his underwear down. Compared to Yunho’s and San’s, Mingi’s cock surpassed them both in size. No wonder Mingi was so uncomfortable sitting with his boner.

You heard Mingi take in a small breath as you observed his penis. Your nails traced along the length before lightly scratching the tip. You had an hour, so you decided to take your sweet time while Mingi was under crunch time. You placed a tiny kiss on the tip of his penis, earning a tiny grunt from Mingi. Despite all the little noises he was making, he was still typing at a quick rate. He was really doing his job.

Taking Mingi into your mouth turned out to be a Herculean task. At first, you could only really fit the tip into your mouth, so you just sucked the tip at first. Mingi’s legs trembled when you swirled your tongue around, and when you moved away from him to breathe, his body jerked slightly.

Mingi yelped in shock when the phone on your desk rang. You looked at the time on your watch— the people of the firm should have been there by now, and Mingi still had another fifty minutes.

“Answer it,” you told Mingi, slightly distracted by his cock. “And put it on speaker.”

Mingi did just that. At first he didn’t know what to say, so he answered the phone with, “Y/N’s office, this is Mingi speaking.”

“Oh, Attorney Song? Why are you in Y/N’s office?” Seeun’s voice came through loud and clear.

“Tell him about the case,” you whispered to Mingi before running your tongue along his length.

“I’m helping Y/N write up a report.”

“Shouldn’t a paralegal be working on that?”

“Yes, but I was the first person in the office today, so Y/N grabbed me and told me to start working on it. It’s pretty important, apparently.”

You smirked, impressed by Mingi’s ability to lie and bullshit his way through this conversation he was having with her secretary. To reward him, you took as much of him into your mouth as you could, Mingi moaning, only to immediately cover that up with a cough and a yawn of sorts.

Seeun didn’t seem to notice anything, the poor, oblivious child. “Where is Y/N, then?”

Mingi looked at you with concern. You decided to speak up.

“Hi, Seeun,” you greeted the receptionist while stroking Mingi’s dick lightly, Mingi shivering and tapping his feet.

“Hi, ma’am,” Seeun greeted back. “Attorney Kang would like to speak with you at some point today.”

“Alright. Tell him I’ll stop by his office at some point today.”

You kissed the tip of Mingi’s penis, the boy’s hiccups returning.

“Okay, I’ll tell him. Bye ma’am, bye Attorney Song.”

“Hic— Bye.”

Mingi hung up and immediately let out a shuddering sigh. You heard him mutter a singular profanity under his breath before the sounds of his typing started up again. Mingi held his breath after that for two reasons: one, to end his hiccups; and two, to keep from moaning when took even more of him into your mouth, the gagging noise from the back of your throat making his knees tremble. As you continued to suck, you also stroked his dick, Mingi’s typing not letting up in the slightest.

Based off of the amount of tiny noises he was making, you were surprised that Mingi was lasting so long. You kind of expected him to cum by that point, but he was holding out. You figured it was because he was so fixated on the work you assigned him. So, you decided to take things up a notch.

“Mmm, Mingi,” you moaned while continuing to suck him off.

Mingi let out a muffled groan, but his fingers were still typing away. You checked the time— he had another forty minutes. Slightly annoyed by the fact that he had yet to come, you put in a little extra effort. You started sucking faster, Mingi’s dick going in and out of your mouth quickly. He sharply inhaled when you continuously gagged on his incredible size, and he finally came when you swirled your tongue around the tip once again and stroked quickly. He came into your mouth, and that was the first time within that hour that he got distracted. He looked down to see you swallow his cum then wipe the corner of your mouth.

“Y/N… That was fucking hot…” Mingi couldn’t help but comment.

“How far along are you in the report?” You asked him.

“I have one person left.”

“Wow, you’re pretty much almost done.”

“That’s right,” Mingi responded with a serious tone, his eyes darkening as he gazed at you.

You felt a shiver run down your spine in that moment. You checked your watch. Thirty-five minutes.

Mingi took five more minutes to finish the whole report, which gave you five minutes to stroke and suck his dick to get him to cum one more time. He succeeded in his task, but you failed, and by the looks of things, it seemed like Mingi wanted to punish you.

“We have thirty minutes left, right?” Mingi asked you as he stood up and helped you up from under the desk.

“Yes…?” You answered carefully.

Mingi, unbuttoning his shirt, hummed and nodded. He walked you around your desk and sat you on your desk (just like you had with Seonghwa), and he moved the monitor so that you could clearly see it while he stood in front of you. He took off his shirt and tossed it aside before firmly grabbing your thighs, his thumbs pressing into your inner thigh.

“Look over the report. You have thirty minutes,” Mingi said with a smirk.

He reached around you and unzipped your dress quickly before pulling it off you and tossing it to where his shirt lay. He made quick work of your bra and panties as you struggled to read the first line of the goddamn report. He rubbed his cock against your clit lightly, allowing you to get through the first paragraph or so of the report. You scrolled down on the mouse to the second page as Mingi pulled a condom out of his wallet and rolled it on— he, like San, needed special fucking condoms for his huge wiener. You barely got to the second page when Mingi pulled you forward and shoved his way through your wet— you had no idea when Mingi turned you on, but he definitely did— pussy. 

You wanted to scream and cry Mingi’s name so bad, but before you could even get a single noise out, Mingi stuck his finger in your mouth and whispered, “Y/N, you have to read the report. You only have twenty-five minutes left, and you have another dozen pages left to go.”

You whimpered as you sucked Mingi’s fingers. With his free hand, he held your waist and pulled you towards him as much as he could while he thrust into you repeatedly. You knew that if you didn’t read this report, then Mingi would give you hell for it, but all you could really think about doing in that moment was flinging your head back and crying his name.

Mingi’s fingers in your mouth was like some sort of fucked up pacifier— you found that with this weird oral fixation, you were able to get through seventy-five percent of the report fairly quickly. Then, the phone rang again. Your eyes widened as you stared at Mingi, who expected you to take the call. He took his fingers out of your mouth, allowing you to speak into the receiver.

“Seeun? Now’s not really a good time—” you cut yourself off and gasped as Mingi slammed his waist into yours.

“He wants to meet today? That’s not going to be possible...”

You had to move the receiver away from your mouth as Mingi kissed you passionately, his wet kisses sure to get through to Seeun on the other line. At least, you thought Seeun would hear it, but the kid was still incredibly (and thankfully) oblivious. You pushed Mingi away right before you had to respond to Seeun.

“Schedule him for a meeting next week… Um, don’t tell him about the managing partner situation since I won’t have a choice until tomorrow… Okay, bye.”

You slammed the receiver down, grabbed Mingi by the collar, and pulled him in close. “What if Seeun fucking heard?!” You hissed.

“That was me earlier when you made me pick up the call. Call it even exchange. You have fifteen minutes left.”

You wrapped your hands behind Mingi’s neck and pulled him closer to you, his chest pressed against yours. You kept him close in your embrace as you finished reading the rest of the report. On the very last paragraph, though, Mingi sped up quickly, and without even being able to warn him, you came, a high-pitched whine leaving your lips. Your face turned bright red when the sound came out, but Mingi didn’t say a damn thing— he was fixated on cumming as well.

As soon as you finished the last paragraph, Mingi came, his hips slamming into yours once more time before his cock shuddered inside you. You didn’t realize how much Mingi had wrecked you until he pulled out. Your hips were on fire. You wondered how you were going to last the rest of the work day with your lower body feeling so sore.

“Look at that, three minutes to spare,” Mingi showed you his watch. “Good job.”

Mingi handed you your dress as he got dressed himself. You struggled to put your clothes back on again. Mingi, on the other hand, was pretty much ready to take on the rest of the day, his face completely rejuvenated. He only started to head towards the office door once you were completely dressed.

“Oh, how was the report?” He asked you.

“Good,” you croaked out. “It’s solid. Thank you.”

“Thank you for this training session,” Mingi shot back with a wink. “I hope that you saw my true abilities today.”

“Yes, and then some… Have a good rest of your day, Mingi.”

Mingi bowed his head then quickly left, the door closing behind him. You sighed and nearly put your head on your desk, only to realize that you had to clean it. You could still see some traces of cum. You rubbed your head and sighed as you pressed the buzzer for Seeun.

“Ma’am?”

“Painkillers now. Please.”

You wanted to get a little more work done before visiting Yeosang in his office. You finally finished reading up on all the records before one in the afternoon, making you feel accomplished— although, you knew if you had just sat down and read everything the second Seeun sent you the records, you would’ve been done two days ago. Regardless, you finished, and you were almost ready to make your decision. Key word: almost. You had to pay Yeosang a visit first.

Knowing the temperament of the junior partner, you didn’t think he was going to be like the other seven— God, you were up to seven different fucks in four days— men, but, just in case, you stashed a condom in your bra. You were also hoping that by bringing the condom, you wouldn’t have to use it; it’s like when you bring an umbrella anywhere: if you have it, it doesn’t rain, and if you don’t have it, it rains like there’s no tomorrow. Hence, the condom.

You knocked on the door to Yeosang’s office lightly, hearing a faint, “Come in!” come from the other side of the door.

“Y/N, good! I was worried you had forgotten,” Yeosang greeted upon seeing you.

“I’d be a bad boss if I did. Anyway, why’d you call me here?”

“I just wanted to chat,” Yeosang answered as he got up from his desk chair. He gestured to the chairs in front of his desk for his clients and said, “Come, have a seat.”

Yeosang turned one of the chairs so that it faced the other, you doing the same before taking a seat. You crossed your legs and leaned back, Yeosang mirroring your actions. You felt like he was trying to size you up. You observed his facial expressions as the two of you were silent for a moment. He was smiling like he usually did, but there seemed to be a hidden agenda behind that facade.

“Have you figured out who you’re going to promote yet?” Yeosang got straight to the point.

“Not yet.”

“Are you going to decide tomorrow?”

“No, I have to decide before I leave the office today so I can prepare the documents for whoever tomorrow,” you explained.

“So why haven’t you decided yet?”

“Yeosang, I just finished reading the records before I came to see you. I haven’t sat alone with myself or my thoughts yet,” you said with a heavy sigh.

“Okay, that makes sense,” Yeosang nodded and uncrossed his legs.

It was only when he leaned forward and rested his arms on his thighs that you realized what Yeosang was up to. You did your best to maintain your resolve as Yeosang’s eyes sharpened. His interrogation was already nerve-wracking, but the look of determination on his face terrified you even more. You didn’t even realize that Yeosang was capable of such an intense look— no wonder he was a great lawyer.

“I have a couple more questions for you,” Yeosang laced his fingers together and leaned towards you just a little more.

“Why are you interrogating me?” You asked, trying to establish your dominance against his.

“I’m not interrogating. I’m cross-examining.”

“Then, where’s the other attorney?”

“You, Y/N. You’re representing yourself. Now, for my questions.”

Yeosang stood up and took one step towards you. You had to look up diagonally at him to make eye contact with him. You swallowed nervously in anticipation of his next question.

“What are the factors you observe upon evaluating each one of us?”

“Previous cases, work ethic, relationships and compatibility with the paralegals, other lawyers, judges—”

“And with you?” Yeosang interrupted.

You felt your heart skip a beat when he said that. Quickly, to kill whatever suspicions he had, you said, “Objection.”

“On what grounds, Y/N?”

“Hearsay.”

“Fine. Sustained. Where were you yesterday?” Yeosang continued.

“I was with Jongho going to the offices of three pigs and delivering subpoenas to them,” you answered truthfully.

“And what time did the two of you return to the building?”

“A couple minutes before Happy Hour.”

“So you were in the building a couple minutes before Happy Hour. Did you go back to your office?”

“For a second, yes.”

“Why a second?”

“To check if the broken glass in my office was cleaned up.”

Yeosang’s eyes widened. He broke out of his lawyer persona for a split second as he said, “Remind me to circle back to that because what?”

“Are you done with your cross-examination, Attorney Kang?”

“No. Why didn’t you stay in your office for longer? The work day was not done.”

“Jongho and I decided to play hooky and go to the bar for Happy Hour. The pigs I had to deal with were so disgusting that I couldn’t focus on anything when we got back.”

You were starting to get nervous. Yeosang was definitely going back to his earlier assumption with his questions, but you couldn’t object and say leading because he wasn’t.

“You went to the bar with Jongho. After?”

“He dropped me off at home.”

“Did he go in?”

“I don’t have to answer that,” you put your foot down.

“Did he go in?” Yeosang repeated as he took another step towards you.

“I plead the fifth,” you responded weakly.

“Did he go in?” Yeosang was right before you, his crotch near your face. You looked away immediately and didn’t maintain any sort of eye contact with him as you finally answered. “Yes.”

“Where did he go?”

“Into my home?”

“Where did he go?”

“Um… Asked and answered.”

“Y/N, look at me,” Yeosang said as he leaned down, his hands resting on the arms of the chairs as he brought his face dangerously close to yours. You held your breath as he asked one more time, “Where did he go?”

You remained silent. Yeosang cupped your face as his thumb ran over your lower lip lightly. “Was he in here?”

“Did he go here?” He ran a hand along the curve of your hips.

“How about here?” He held onto your thigh and uncrossed your legs before tracing a line down your inner thigh.

You couldn’t help but gasp when you felt his fingers brush against your crotch  before resting his hand back on the arm rest. Your silence after that only meant one thing: Yeosang had succeed— he pretty much confirmed that you and Jongho did have sex, and he got you all hot and bothered.

“So, you and senior partner Attorney Choi… And do I have it right that similar events occurred with Attorneys Kim, Park, Jeong, Choi, Song, and Jung?” Yeosang really wanted to cross all the Ts and dot all the Is.

“Yes.”

“Therefore, if a similar event happened between us, then you would have no choice but to let it happen?” 

“Are you blackmailing me?”

“No, I’m just trying to match the qualifications of my competitors,” Yeosang said with a smirk.

Seeing your sweet, kind, and lovely junior partner turn into this flirty, smooth, and overtly sexy prosecutor pretty much made your brain go blank. You were silent for another heartbeat or two before croaking out, “Who are you and what have you done to Kang Yeosang?”

Yeosang, in response, laughed innocently, but he licked his lips subtly before biting his lower lip, making your brain explode at that point. Despite all the touching he had done earlier, Yeosang had yet to put his hands on your body again. “So would you be okay if I showcased my skills on you right now?” He asked quietly.

“I suppose that’s only fair,” you nodded, encouraging him because at that point, you needed to do something about the fire in your loins.

“Alright. Can you stand up for me?” Yeosang asked, and you did so. “Now take three steps backwards.”

You took three careful steps backwards and realized that Yeosang nearly had you pinned against a wall. He was standing in front of you, three steps ahead of you. His arms were crossed over his chest. He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes before saying, “Can you turn around?”

Hesitantly, you turned around so that you were facing the wall. You didn’t know how long you were waiting for after you turned around— Yeosang didn’t make a single move for a solid minute; then, you felt his fingers brush up your arm and rest on your shoulder, sending shivers down your spine. You heard him sigh softly as he pressed his hand on the small of your back, your back arching slightly, pushing your breasts up against the wall. An erotic whine from you rang out in his office when he exhaled lightly on the back of your neck. As Yeosang continued to tease you, you realized that he had yet to even kiss you. You were starting to get a little impatient.

“Yeosang, please— Eep!” You turned your head to try and make eye contact with him, but you were startled when you felt his tongue run up the edge of your ear.

“Sorry, did that startle you?” Yeosang’s lips were still near your ear, his deep voice making your legs wobble.

“I— Uh— Um—“ Not a single coherent thought revolved in your head.

“My bad,” Yeosang said, although you seriously doubted whether or not that statement was genuine. “What were you going to say?”

“Hurry,” you whined as he grunted in your ear as his hips pressed against yours. You heard him stifle a chuckle as you pushed your ass towards him.

“Y/N, we can’t just jump into things so fast. We have to fully prepare before we start anything,” Yeosang explained. “But since you seem so desperate…”

He slowly unzipped your dress and pushed the sleeves down, his lips leaving soft kisses on your bare shoulders. Your back arched even more when he trailed his tongue along your spine up to your neck, your head pressing against his when brushed his nose along your shoulder and exhaled deeply. You didn’t even realize that Yeosang had pushed your dress all the way off you by that point— his lips were just too sensual.

You didn’t realize that Yeosang knew you stashed a condom in your bra until he pushed his hand into your bra and took it out. He opened the packet and rolled the condom on quickly before pressing his body against yours. It was only when you felt his hot skin against yours that you realized he was naked the whole time. You moaned loudly when his arms wrapped around you, his hand diving into your bra again and clutching your breast; and you let out a cry when he ran his hand over your panties and pressed his fingers firmly into the fabric, the rubbing of your panties against your labia making your pussy get wetter by the second.

Yeosang continued to knead and massage you while his tongue violated the sanctity of your ear and neck. His hips pressed against yours so hard that your entire body ended up getting pressed into the wall. You were about to ask Yeosang to speed things up a bit again, but he seemed to have read your mind. From behind, he pulled your panties up and to the side, his dick slipping in between your legs and rubbing against your clit. He held onto the waistband of your pants tightly before gliding his cock inside you. You moaned blissfully as he moved at a relatively slow pace, your body pressing against the wall even more when every thrust. When he unhooked your bra and pulled it off you, your hard nipples grazed the wall lightly, the stimulation from the cold wall on your sensitive nipples bringing you to an orgasm faster than you expected. Your hands pressed as hard as they could into the wall as you came, Yeosang’s dick still inside you refusing to let up.

“Yeosang… More…” you whined after releasing your cum; you still weren’t satisfied.

“Yes, Y/N,” Yeosang responded.

He pulled out of you, flipped you around, and pressed you up against the wall once again. He slipped you out of your panties, brought your leg up, re-entered you, and finally, pressed his lips against yours. Just like his usual demeanor, Yeosang’s kisses were sweet and lovely. He slipped his tongue into your mouth, but the way he did it wasn’t the same way anyone else had— it felt like his tongue was meant to be twirling with yours, allowing you to breathe and enjoy his kiss. The sweet and lovely part to Yeosang disappeared quickly when he thrusted into you hard. His hand gripped your thigh and pushed it a little higher, his other hand supporting your neck as he continued to kiss you passionately. He managed to find a position that rubbed against your G-spot perfectly several times in succession that you came quickly. You broke off the kiss with him to let out a sweet, loud moan your pussy quivering as you came for what felt like an eternity.

When Yeosang pulled out, you shuddered again, a little more cum escaping your body. You were about ready to sink to the ground when Yeosang wrapped his arms around you and held you upright, his tongue running up your neck before he whispered in that ridiculously low voice of his, “Did you like that?”

You could only nod in response. “Then there’s more of that where it came from,” he said with an even lower drawl, making your limbs tingle with excitement.

When Yeosang lifted you, you yelped in shock. You knew that he worked out and that he was strong, but you didn’t anticipate for him to actually use his muscles like that. He sat you down on his desk, pushed off a bunch of shit from his table to  the ground dramatically like people did in the movies, then pulled your hand towards the table.

“All fours,” he growled in your ear.

You felt yourself get turned on all over again by the way he ordered you. You obeyed him and held yourself up with shaky arms as he rubbed the tip of his cock against your pussy a couple more times before slowly entering you, a groan emitting from his soul.

You remained as quiet as you possibly could be— you desperately wanted to hear him moan and groan. Yeosang slammed his pelvis into you repeatedly, making your body lurch forward every so slightly with each thrust. Unintentionally, you ended up clenching when Yeosang grabbed your ass with one hand and your waist with the other.

“Fuck,” hearing a profanity leave Yeosang’s mouth was so much hotter than you ever anticipated. “Did you just get tighter?”

“Mmm,” you moaned as you nodded. You getting tighter not only pleasured him, but it also made you feel incredibly good and sexy.

“Y/N, lay on your back for me,” Yeosang hissed through gritted teeth.

Yeosang pulled out, allowing you to lay on your back. He barely gave you time to situate yourself before slamming his hips into yours, fucking you rough and hard. He had one hand on your breast and massaged it firmly before licking and sucking on your nipple. Your back arched more and more every time he bit your nipple lightly and tugged upwards. Panting, you reached for Yeosang’s shoulders and held on tightly— you wanted to cum again so badly, and you were almost there.

“Kiss me, Yeosang,” you cried, your voice breaking every other syllable.

With a throaty chuckle, Yeosang nodded and pressed his lips against yours again. You sucked on his lower lip hard as his pace slowed down. You both broke off the intense kiss to groan and moan loudly as you both came together. You felt the inside of your pussy get even hotter when Yeosang released his pent up load, the condom completely filling up. Your pants synchronized, and after a moment or two, Yeosang pulled out entirely and took a step away from you. He removed the condom and threw it out while you sat up on his desk to situate yourself.

“Yeosang?”

“Yeah?” Yeosang responded as he got dressed.

“You’re incredibly sexy.”

You watched Yeosang’s face get bright red. He turned his head away from you as he muttered, “Thank you…”

He grabbed your clothes and brought them to you, his hand resting on his desk as he stood by you. Before wearing your clothes, you cupped his face and brought his lips to yours— you were definitely addicted to his lips by that point, which reminded you of the fact that he took so long to kiss you.

“Why did you tease me for so long, though?” You complained.

“I was holding back for as long as I could… I wanted to last a while.”

“Why?”

“We only had the one condom.”

You paused and blinked at him in shock. Look at the junior partner being resourceful. You couldn’t help but giggle at his response before kissing him again. He hand his hands on your waist, and you were slowly getting turned on again with every passing kiss. Suddenly, Yeosang pushed you away and took a step back.

“We can’t do this again.”

“What?” You were kind of hurt when he said that.

“We don’t have any more condoms, and you still have to make a decision on the next managing partner,” Yeosang brought up very valid points.

Eyes wide, you nodded in agreement. You hopped off his desk (and nearly fell to the ground) before quickly redressing yourself. You fixed your hair and smoothed out your dress. Right before you could exit Yeosang’s office, he said loudly, “Wait!”

He grabbed your arm and pulled you towards him. He kissed you intensely, making you hold onto his shoulders for dear life. When the kiss ended your face flushed, and it only got hotter when you saw Yeosang run his tongue over his lower lip then smirk.

“Alright, you can go now,” he said to you as he waved good bye.

Still shocked, you left Yeosang’s office in a daze, the last kiss he left you with being the only thing on your mind.

Friday. The dreaded day finally arrived.

You did make a decision the night before, but it was difficult. You desperately wanted to consult with someone, and you did, but Seeun could only do so much to help since he was merely a secretary. Asking a paralegal was out of the question because it was going to break one of two ways— they would either tell you to pick Seonghwa, or confuse you even more.

Thinking about the paralegals, you did think about just making Seonghwa partner. But you thought about the other seven men and how much they did for you. Yeosang was impressive in flipping the switch and changing his demeanor. Mingi was fast and thorough. Jongho was charismatic and authoritative. San was cunning and convincing. Wooyoung was bold and brash. Hongjoong was calm and reliable. Yunho was prepared and sly. You just had too many good lawyers in your firm.

A thought crossed your mind: fuck it, just make all eight of them managing parters. But the thought of having nine names on the wall and business cards made your skin crawl. No, two names were enough— yours, and someone else’s.

When you got home that night, you did two things. You made yourself a drink, and you went to your balcony with your former partner’s college degree. You lit the edge of the paper and watched it go up in flames. The ashes got swept up in the wind, and you made your decision. You went back into your place, finished up the rest of the paperwork, and sent it to Seeun. You did not, however, get a good night’s rest. You were so on edge about announcing your decision that you couldn’t sleep. You used a lot of concealer that morning to cover up the bags under your eyes and walk into your firm with your head held high.

“Gentlemen,” you started once the eight men sat at the table and looked at you expectantly. “I’ve made my decision. Seeun, if you will.”

Seeun, who had accompanied you to this meeting to give you a tiny boost of morale, stood up with the papers you sent him the previous night. He walked to the man and placed the papers in front of him.

“Congratulations. You just made partner.”

[taexual]

. . . d e l i r i u m | 6

we don’t hesitate to draw the line, you still send shivers down my spine /// arrows in action, corner of your mind

pairing: yeonjun x fem!reader

summary: sometimes love and hate exist on opposite ends of the map. other times, on separate floors of the same building.

genre: ex!yeonjun / enemies to lovers au / neighbour au

warnings: slow burn, mutual pining & yearning (it got worse), strong language, some suggestive themes, tons of ill-advised flirting, fluff (wtf), little shit!jjun, anddd we’re back to characters being in denial (jk we never left)

words: 14.4k

[ ! ] this is a sequel to equilibrium

masterlist / read from the beginning

✦ • ─── SEPTEMBER 4, 2026. 7:45 PM

Yeonjun held the door of his Mercedes open for you, ignoring the five times you’d told him to stop fussing and just get in the car—ignoring, as well, the five other times you’d pointed out that you could just catch a cab.

“I’m the cab,” he declared, gesturing inside again, more insistently. “And we’re going the same way anyway. Come on.”

With a sigh, you ducked inside.

He was glad you did. He feared he was not above begging.

The interior of his car smelled exactly as it had last year: cedarwood from the air freshener clipped to the dashboard, laced with something faintly spicy underneath. The leather seats felt as lush as you remembered, too.

You expected it to feel strange to sit here again. Instead, it felt a bit like tuning in to a film that you’d dropped halfway through some time ago: familiar and surprisingly enjoyable. Enough to drop what you were doing and stand in front of the screen with your hands on your hips.

The door of the car shut with a muted thud.

Outside, the last traces of daylight were still visible on the horizon, glowing red above the distant treetops. The rest of the city had already surrendered to the night. Cars filled the small parking lot bumper-to-bumper, wedged into every impossible gap. Yeonjun had to squeeze past a red Mazda as he rounded the car.

He slid into the driver’s seat with a soft exhale. The engine purred awake, as smooth as always.

It brought an involuntary smile to your lips.

He caught it immediately. “What?”

You shook your head. “Nothing.”

“See,” he said, one corner of his lips lifting, “I don’t believe that’s true.”

“Drive.”

“Seatbelt.”

You pulled the seatbelt across your chest. It clicked pleasantly beside the seat.

Satisfied, Yeonjun adjusted the rear-view mirror and eased away from the kerb. Streetlights spilt through the windows, sliding across the gold satin of your dress in ribbons of amber and white as the car rolled down the street.

It was captivating.

Not staring at you for the entire drive, he realised, was going to be a significant challenge.

Your dress reminded him of a film poster he’d seen years ago, in the lobby of Taehyun’s old theatre, for a Dorothy Arzner film. It showed a woman draped in gold, standing before a stage curtain with outstretched hands. He’d only noticed the poster because it had been enormous; he’d never actually seen the film.

He wanted to watch it now.

“Are you sure taking your car to Nara’s dinner is a good idea?” you asked, your voice cutting neatly through the mud in his thoughts.

Yeonjun dragged his attention back to the road and merged into traffic. There was a strong scent of petrol in the evening air.

“Yeah,” he said, glancing reflexively at his dashboard. “M’not drinking tonight.”

You angled your head towards him, surprised. “How come?”

He released a deep sigh. The small silver star hanging from the rear-view mirror spun lazily on its chain.

“Had enough last weekend, I figured,” he said.

“Hmm.” You watched the star twirl. “Probably wise.”

He turned past the corner shop just off your block and joined the main street. Streams of headlights flowed towards the city centre.

“Won’t be easy, though,” he said, glancing at his phone in the metal-rimmed tray on the centre console. “Gyu spent the entire day boasting about all the drinks he’d ordered for Nara’s dinner.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm. The entire day.” His expression flattened. “Said he only wanted my feedback, and sent this massive list.”

“Well,” you clicked your tongue, gaze flicking briefly to the bottle of Chambord you’d placed by your feet, “you are the self-appointed alcohol expert among us.”

“How am I self-appointed?”

You gave him a flat look. Yeonjun felt the warmth underneath it and gripped the wheel tighter.

“Fine,” he said. “I can see how I might’ve cultivated the reputation.”

“Good that you can.”

His lips curled. “It was good stuff anyway, to be fair. Mead was on his list. Never tried that.”

You shifted slightly in your seat, turning away from the window and a little more towards him.

Yeonjun saw the movement in his peripheral vision and instinctively started turning as well. He caught himself after a second and forced his eyes back to the windscreen before he managed to drive the pair of you into the nearest lamp post.

“Really?” you said. “My gran used to make mead at home. Taught me, too.”

He took a moment to remind himself to breathe. “Oh—yeah? S’impressive.”

“It isn’t very hard.” You crossed your ankles, nudging your handbag aside with the toe of your shoe. “Basically just fermented honey, water, and yeast. Oh, and my gran adds grape juice sometimes, too. S’called pyment then.”

He tilted his head. “Didn’t know that.”

The traffic lights outside briefly turned his face green.

“Soobin didn’t teach you while he was still bartending?” you asked.

“He might’ve.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

Your laughter was warm in the car, familiar.

He’d missed it over the past week. He suspected he might turn into a proper clown by the end of tonight.

“So,” he said. “Mead, then.”

“Mhmm.”

“Can you make it at home?”

You considered that, watching the city slide past in fragments of streetlights and windows glowing gold behind half-drawn curtains. There was a massive white bedsheet stirring in the wind on someone’s balcony.

Your thoughts drifted to your grandparents’ farm: the old barn with shelves of empty jars and the beehives just outside. Your grandmother had brewed most of her mead there. You still remembered how warm the jars had been when you carried them inside, heated from the summer sun.

“Technically,” you said, “I guess you can.”

“Oh, fantastic.” Yeonjun tapped the steering wheel with two fingers. The silver bracelet on his wrist jingled softly. “Next weekend’s sorted, then.”

“Would be funny if it was done in a weekend.”

“It’s not?”

You shook your head. “The fermentation alone can take months.”

Ahead, the traffic began to slow. Yeonjun pressed lazily on the brakes, and the Mercedes rolled to a stop in front of a red light. The line of brake lights ahead stretched through the city.

“Alright.” He glanced at you, counted to three, and forced himself to look away again—in small doses, he reasoned, he’d be fine. “What d’you reckon are the odds that people will want to celebrate my birthday for the next few months?”

“Not very high, m’afraid.”

“But I’m loads of fun.”

“I’d say you’ll be lucky if everyone stays for an hour.”

Yeonjun snorted. The red glow outside flicked to green, and the car glided forward so smoothly that your stomach performed a quick flip, caught off guard by the motion.

“Haven’t decided what else I could do,” he admitted after a moment. “For my birthday, I mean.”

You studied his profile, his cheeks warm beneath passing streetlights, then lost to the shadows again.

“Got any ideas?” you asked.

“Well, mead sounded nice, but—”

“Got any realistic ideas?”

A smile spread across his face.

“Not really.” He overtook a Subaru idling half on the pavement and shot the driver a look. “Current plan’s the good old Sit and Drink.”

“Oh, classic,” you said.

“Yeah, timeless.”

“Dull, though.”

He turned to look at you, reflexively preparing to argue. Then he remembered Soobin yelling at him last year, his voice rough from alcohol and panic, one hand gripping the back of Yeonjun’s neck hard enough to leave marks.

He remembered Soobin yelling at him last week, too, after the engagement party. But he’d been too thrown by Reina’s visit to properly process what Soobin was saying on the phone.

“Alright, yeah. Fair.” He shifted in his seat, his hand sliding over the leather cover of the wheel. “Bin threatened to have my stomach pumped last year. Wouldn’t rush to repeat that.”

You stared at him. “That—that’s awful.”

“Yeah. Although the drinking itself was fun.”

“People die from alcohol poisoning.”

He gave you a lighthearted smile. “Bit dramatic, love.”

You didn’t smile back, which startled him enough to look over properly. The glow from the streetlights drifted over your furrowed brows.

It was the nickname, he assumed, already opening his mouth to take it back. Then he realised it wasn’t.

You looked concerned.

Suddenly, he felt a strange sense of lightness, as though he’d just plummeted from the top of a rollercoaster. All breath was gone from his lungs.

“No, really,” he said, more serious now. “It was just unpleasant in my case. Bin mostly wanted to scare me straight.”

“Hmm.” Your gaze dropped to your handbag on the car floor. It rested against the bottle now. “We’re making non-alcoholic mead for your birthday, then.”

His expression brightened, despite another red light ahead.

He remembered the two of you talking about his birthday a year ago, while you still had your bet. You’d made an off-handed comment then, about getting him something stupid as a gift.

Nothing had come of it.

Now he settled for simply hearing that you were a we again.

“Isn’t that technically just water and honey, then?” he asked, clearing his throat to keep his voice steady.

“We can make it with warm water, too.”

He nodded gravely. “Tea with honey, then.”

“Why not?” You swept your hair behind your shoulder, smiling. “Sounds lovely. Good for your liver.”

“And my throat.”

“Of course.”

He laughed, completely lost now to the fresh, fruity scent of your shampoo.

The traffic light changed, but it took him a second to notice. A horn sounded somewhere behind him.

“Alright,” he said, glancing at the rear-view mirror as he pushed the car forward. “Tea for my birthday it is.”

You nodded. “Glad I could help.”

He grinned.

The city lights outside blurred past the windows, each one the colour of your dress.

✦ • ─── SEPTEMBER 4, 2026. 8:15 PM

You and Yeonjun arrived a few minutes late, but judging by the steady stream of people still trickling through the entrance across the street, no one else had been on time, either.

The restaurant sat at the end of a narrow cobbled lane, tucked between ageing buildings, but still impossible to miss. Deep red brick glowed under the uplighting, visible from half a block away. Three steep gables rose into the night sky, their pointed windows warm with light.

There was a fountain burbling by the entrance. White lights illuminated the spray from below, turning every droplet silver. The breeze carried a fine mist across the pavement; it felt damp and cool against your cheeks.

Nara stood by the door, greeting her guests (and, on reflex, occasionally a random restaurant visitor she’d never met before).

“Right,” Yeonjun said, tipping his head back to inspect the arched windows. “She’s gone for a castle, then.”

Your eyes drifted to Nara’s dark green gown, jewel-toned beneath the lights. She looked stunning and perfectly at home here.

“Yeah,” you said. “Starting to feel a bit underdressed, not going to lie.”

Yeonjun glanced at you.

Your arms were folded loosely across your chest, fingers wrapped around the bottle you’d brought for Nara. The light from the fountain rippled across the satin of your dress.

Ever since he’d picked you up after dropping off Violet and getting dressed earlier, he’d been expecting to find the words more easily. Thought he’d simply take whatever compliment he would’ve given Soobin, adjust slightly, and go with that.

Unfortunately, Soobin had never, to Yeonjun’s knowledge, worn a gold satin dress.

“I think,” he began, drawing a measured breath, “this colour is very—”

The bottle vanished from your hands.

You blinked, turning to see Beomgyu standing right behind you, dressed in a black suit with a mahogany turtleneck underneath, examining the label. He offered no explanation for his actions.

“It’s for Nara,” you said.

“Mhmm.” He turned the bottle over. “I’m in charge of the drinks. Go on ahead.”

You looked at Yeonjun.

Yeonjun looked at Beomgyu.

Beomgyu looked at the bottle.

The bottle, of course, had no eyes and therefore did not look at anything.

“I thought the restaurant was in charge of the drinks,” you said. “Isn’t it?”

Beomgyu sniffled, indignant. “Are you questioning my authority?”

“I’d like to give the bottle to her myself.”

His gaze flicked from you to Yeonjun, and a look of immense satisfaction replaced the previous pride on his face.

“Alright,” he said. “Counter-offer. I—”

“No,” you said.

He snorted. “Haven’t even said anything yet.”

“I know you well enough.” You extended your hand. “Hand it over.”

“I’ll hand it over,” Beomgyu said, pulling the bottle out of your reach, “and then I’ll ask you—just out of curiosity, so I’ll do it loudly enough for everyone to hear—whether you and Yeonjun arrived here together. How’s that sound?”

You pressed your lips tight. Beomgyu’s eyes glinted at that.

Beside you, Yeonjun cleared his throat.

“Personally,” he said, “I don’t think there’s anything odd about that.”

“Yeah?” Beomgyu nodded. “I like that.” He pivoted towards the entrance. “Nar—”

You caught his sleeve and yanked him backwards before he could start making a scene.

“Keep the bottle,” you hissed. “And be quiet.”

A victorious grin spread across his face. He made an exaggerated kissing sound, then jogged away before you could change your mind and take the bottle back by force.

Yeonjun watched him brush a hand over Nara’s shoulders and disappear into the restaurant. She hadn’t even glimpsed the bottle.

“Is it bad,” Yeonjun asked, “that we arrived together?”

You sighed, bringing your hand into your handbag to pull out the rest of the gift you’d got for Nara.

“Did you know they were talking about us in the old group chat?” you asked.

Yeonjun did know.

He’d read every message three times, some of them four, and screenshotted his favourites (Taehyun saying, no but i think they’re actually really cute together tbh, and Beomgyu saying, always suspected they’d end up back together). His least favourite ones, he’d long-pressed and deleted from the chat altogether (Taehyun saying, he’s so desperate it’s endearing, and Beomgyu saying, should’ve called an ambulance to help him stand tf up).

“Uh—yeah,” Yeonjun said. “Saw some of it.”

You glanced towards the entrance, pulling the zipper of your bag closed.

“Yeah,” you said. “If we’re actually going to be friends, then I’d like it if it wasn’t a joke.”

Yeonjun felt his heart skip quickly over a beat.

As you approached the entrance together, he noticed you unconsciously drift half a step away from him—a familiar gesture. Protective this time, though. So that this wouldn’t turn into a joke. Because it was serious.

He suspected he really wouldn’t need any alcohol tonight.

Nara didn’t appear to register that you’d arrived together at all. Granted, you immediately distracted her by handing her a narrow box. An assortment of small gemstones sat quietly inside.

Her face lit up as soon as she opened it.

You’d spent most of last week hunting the stones down, searching for something within your price range and visiting enough dodgy online shops to warrant an apology email to your antivirus software. It had been worth it.

“Oh my God,” Nara exclaimed, taking the box from you and clutching your wrist with her free hand. “Oh my God.”

The gemstones caught the light from the chandelier inside, scattering flashes of colour across her face: white and purple and green.

You chuckled. “Do you like them?”

“Oh my God,” she replied. Then she hooked her arm through yours and peeled you away from Yeonjun without bothering to acknowledge he was there at all.

You barely had time to glance over your shoulder.

Yeonjun remained standing on the doorstep, vaguely bewildered. After a momentary glance at the fountain behind him—it offered neither guidance nor sympathy—he followed you inside.

“There’s this elephant charm I’ve been trying to make,” Nara said, steering you through the vast entrance hall. “But the wire keeps slipping out of place.”

The warmth of the restaurant wrapped around you, carrying the scent of wood and candle wax. Somewhere deeper inside, you could hear glasses clinking.

“I figured,” Nara continued, “I could make the body of the elephant by wrapping the wire around a pearl.”

You glanced down at the box in her hands. Three pearls sat in the bottom left corner.

“That sounds lovely,” you said, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “A gift for someone?”

“Not sure yet.” Her fingers drifted absently to the small bear pendant at her neck. “Just thought it’d be cool.”

You smiled—then suddenly stopped as the two of you entered the dining room.

The sheer scale of it hit you at once. Massive stone columns soared towards vaulted ceilings high overhead; you could hardly look down once you’d looked up. Deep emerald banquettes curved around dark, circular tables. Chandeliers hung between the arches, casting pools of warm light across the faces of other diners, all engaged in hushed conversations.

The place had the feel of an ancient cathedral. Or perhaps Hogwarts.

You found yourself wondering, once again, what exactly Nara did for a living.

“Spacious,” you observed, nodding ahead.

Nara followed your gaze.

“Right?” She pointed towards the far end of the room. “I actually had to ask the manager where the toilets were.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Already forgot, though, so don’t ask.”

You laughed softly, suddenly too aware of the crowds around you, and followed her inside. Behind you, Yeonjun’s footsteps kept pace with yours.

“So, where’d the elephant come from?” you asked, glancing at the gemstones.

“Oh.” Nara grinned, pleased to return to her original point. “Beomgyu and I drove past a zoo the other day. He started prattling on about elephants, said they used to have a big enclosure when he was little. Been thinking about that the entire day at work today.”

“Hmm.” You glanced sideways at her. “So, then… uh, what is work?”

She glanced at you, one eyebrow raised. “You know what it is.”

“I don’t, actually.”

Nara turned back to the box in her hands. She didn’t say anything else.

“No, seriously,” you pushed. “I’ve heard rumours you’re running contraband.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “S’nonsense.”

“So, what do you actually do?”

She waved even harder, an involuntary smile spreading across her face. You couldn’t tell what it was supposed to mean.

You clicked your tongue. “Fine, then. Keep your secrets.”

Snickering, she brought a finger over the edge of an amethyst in the box.

“They bring luck, did you know?” she said, tucking a stray strand of her curled hair behind her ear. “The elephants.”

“I’ve heard that, yeah.”

“Big fan of luck, personally.”

“Hmm.”

A waiter appeared by her side, giving you both a perfect, welcoming smile. He gestured ahead and guided you the rest of the way towards a long table near the back.

The further you walked, the larger the room seemed to become. People filled nearly every table, dressed in tailored suits and elegant dresses, exuding effortless luxury that made you look down at your feet. Nara warned you not to mind them; she hadn’t bothered renting out the whole restaurant and, in fact, seemed to enjoy having an audience for her birthday.

No one seemed to notice you. You still felt out of place.

At the table, Nara thanked the waiter with another nod before taking charge.

“Sit here,” she instructed, directing you towards an empty chair between Reina and Kai.

As you stepped forward, Reina stood up, throwing her arms around you as though you hadn’t seen each other in eight months instead of eight hours. She was clearly already tipsy.

Once you pulled back, Kai lifted both hands expectantly from his seat. His hug came slightly compressed, as it hadn’t occurred to him to stand from his chair. He was clearly tipsy as well.

“And you—” Nara pointed at Yeonjun, “—across from her, yeah?”

Yeonjun glanced at the table. He didn’t get the chance to respond before Nara suddenly straightened up.

“Wait.” Her eyes bounced between you and him. “No, hang on. If I move Taehyun, you can sit together. Let me—”

“This is fine,” Yeonjun said. He didn’t want this to be a joke either, and crossed the table before he could change his mind. “Thanks.”

You tried not to watch him go.

Nara watched you trying not to watch him.

“Okay,” she said slowly. The vivid red of her lipstick made the smirk on her lips more noticeable. “Settle in, then.”

You exchanged friendly nods with the rest of Nara’s friends, most of whom you’d only ever seen on Nara’s birthdays, and lowered yourself into your chair.

“Happy birthday again,” you said, turning back.

Nara squeezed your shoulder before heading for her own seat at the head of the table.

You set your bag down on the floor beside your chair and let your gaze drift across the restaurant. Two large ceramic vases sat in the centre of the table in front of you, filled with brown branches that twisted upwards towards the chandeliers overhead. Candles flickered between plates, their flames doubling and tripling in the polished cutlery. The entire table seemed to glow.

Yeonjun pulled out the chair opposite yours and sat down. Golden light caught in his dark hair, swept back lightly with gel. Earlier, in the car, he’d worried about not having time to do anything proper with it. You thought his hair looked good exactly as it was, but wisely chose to keep that to yourself.

Beside you, Reina elbowed you lightly in the ribs, then gestured at Yeonjun. There was a question glimmering in her eyes.

You gave the smallest nod.

She grinned. Without a word, she reached for her wine and nudged Soobin’s arm. Understanding immediately, Soobin stood and filled your glass. Beomgyu, apparently, had left him in charge of the drinks on this side of the table.

Shortly after everyone settled into their seats, Nara rose to give a speech. You inhaled automatically, bracing yourself.

Across the table, seated to Yeonjun’s right, Taehyun caught your eye.

“Bet it’ll go over half an hour,” he whispered to you.

You smiled despite yourself.

Nara, bless her, had a tendency to get very emotional on her birthday. A few years back, she’d ended her speech with an improvised Pink Floyd song that no one at the table had heard before. It had gone on for over ten minutes. You’d had the song stuck in your head for days afterwards.

Mercifully, Nara’s speech tonight was only three minutes long: she thanked everyone for coming, thanked everyone for the gifts, thanked everyone for being born at the same point in history as her, then sat back down again.

The applause lasted longer than the speech.

At some point afterwards, perhaps inspired by the dark red arches framing the windows, or the wallpaper borders that looked like they belonged in a circus tent, the conversation turned to clowns.

“D’you know that story about the clown statue?” Beomgyu asked, already on his second glass.

Taehyun and Yeonjun groaned softly beside him in impressive unison.

Beomgyu went on anyway.

“There’s this babysitter watching her neighbours’ kids,” he began, “and she gets creeped out by this clown statue in the living room. So, she calls the parents and asks if she can cover it up with a blanket or something. And the parents—”

“The parents say they haven’t got a statue,” Yeonjun cut in, leaning forward across the table to give him a pointed look. “And the clown turns out to be real and murders the babysitter. Yeah?”

Beomgyu clicked his tongue at him. “Actually, the parents said they have got a clown statue. The babysitter covered it up, and all was well.”

Yeonjun snorted and leaned back to take a sip of the apple juice in his glass. He frowned as he swallowed, smacking his lips. It tasted like expired cider.

“Isn’t the clown statue story just a variation of those ‘the call is coming from inside the house’ stories?” Taehyun asked. “They always end the same way.”

“Mine didn’t,” Beomgyu retorted.

“Then it’s a story about nothing,” Yeonjun said, still gazing absently at the table.

He looked up, suddenly, and your eyes met. You’d been smiling, but looked away the moment you realised he’d noticed.

Yeonjun suddenly felt as if he’d just pulled off five successful somersaults. He lost all track of the conversation around him.

“It’s a story about how we overcome adversity in life,” Beomgyu argued. The only indication he’d been drinking was the rising volume of his voice. “You see a creepy statue, you cover it up.”

“You hear a phone call when you’re home alone,” Taehyun added, “you don’t answer.”

The table laughed.

Kai jumped on your other side, nearly splashing his drink over your dress. You shifted a little to the left.

“Didn’t Soobin live through that?” he asked. “The phone call from inside the house?”

You turned to Reina. The smile on your lips made her snort into her wine.

Soobin, beside her, lowered his glass to the table. Immediately, he looked as though he hadn’t slept in a week.

“I did not live through that,” he said. “If anything, I lived through the opposite of that.”

Reina placed a hand on his knee under the table, encouraging. He shook his head.

This was, clearly, a sensitive subject.

Naturally, the whole table was intrigued.

“Come on,” Nara said, waving her glass in his direction. “S’my birthday. You have to tell us about this.”

“I already got you a very nice gift,” Soobin replied. “Think I’ve done my part.”

It was Reina, technically, who’d helped him collect the set of plates Nara had wanted, but he didn’t think the distinction mattered at this given moment.

“And I appreciate it very much,” Nara said. “Now I want entertainment.”

“It’s not entertaining at all,” Soobin said.

“I feel like it is.”

“It isn’t.”

“I want to hear it, too,” Taehyun interjected. He was leaning over the table, right in front of Soobin, as if he could physically wring the story out of him.

“Me too,” Beomgyu said, then nodded at Kai. “How come you know and we don’t?”

Smiling smugly, Kai leaned back in his chair.

Reina nudged Soobin’s side softly with her elbow. He realised he wouldn’t have her on his side for this—she loved this story too much. She was the one who’d told Kai, wheezing every third word.

Soobin lowered his eyes and sighed.

“Fine.” He drained what was left in his glass. “I’ll tell you. But it isn’t funny or scary.”

A few people across the table clapped energetically. Across from Soobin, Yeonjun was already grinning. He was one of the few people here who was part of the story.

“This was back when you and I lived together,” Soobin began, nodding at him. Yeonjun responded with a deeply encouraging nod. “So, uh—one night, I was sitting in my room, scrolling on my phone. And then I heard this massive bang from across the wall, in Yeonjun’s room. I assumed he’d fallen out of bed, so I went back to my phone.”

Taehyun nearly inhaled his wine, his eyes already bright with amusement.

“Mm. Good to know you’d have my back,” Yeonjun deadpanned, “if I was having a medical emergency.”

“Oh, yeah.” Soobin waved a dismissive hand. Yeonjun snorted. “Of course.”

Something nudged your foot. You glanced down automatically, but it was impossible to find the culprit. There was a forest of legs underneath the tablecloth.

“So, a while later,” Soobin went on. “I heard another bang. I was slightly concerned by that point, so I went to knock on Yeonjun’s door.” He demonstrated by rapping his knuckles against the tabletop. “No response. But there’s usually no response, because he’s got headphones on, or he’s daydreaming, or someth—”

“Hmm.” Taehyun rested his chin on his palm. His lips were dark red from the wine. “About whom, I wonder.”

His gaze drifted, elegantly, towards you.

You met it with a flat look that only made him laugh again.

Yeonjun took another swig from his glass. The juice didn’t taste quite so bad this time.

“Anyway,” Soobin continued, reflexively following Taehyun’s gaze to you. “I, uh—I started walking back to my room, but then I heard another bang.”

“Just pounding away at the walls, were you?” Nara asked Yeonjun.

He laughed, setting his glass down. “Just listen.”

Beomgyu took the quick interlude as an opportunity to refill Soobin’s glass. Years of experience had taught him that words flowed more easily for Soobin after a drink or two. Or five.

“So, um, I text him,” Soobin went on, giving Beomgyu an appreciative nod. “I go, what the fuck is that noise? And he texts back, what? So I go, open your door. And that’s, uh—that’s when Yeonjun says, I’m not home right now.”

Nara’s eyes widened across the table. “What does that mean? What’s making the noise, then?”

“Exactly!” Soobin pointed his glass at her with an immediate sense of vindication. “Spot on reaction.”

“Tell them what you did next,” Yeonjun prompted.

Soobin took a sip of his wine and caught Reina’s eye. She was already smiling, eager. After a moment’s resistance, he gave her a nod.

Reina set both her elbows on the table.

“He called me,” she took over. “Said he was convinced they’d got a poltergeist.”

The entire table exploded. Laughter bounced off the ceiling, forcing several nearby diners to glance over, then quickly turn away again, as though prolonged eye contact with any one of you might prove fatal.

Oddly, that made your shoulders relax against your chair. With everyone so boisterous around the table, you started to feel much more comfortable.

“Oh, you think s’funny, do you?” Soobin fixed everyone with a determined glare. “Try being alone in a massive house at night while something keeps banging on the walls.”

Nara was shaking with giggles so violent that her liquor sloshed over the rim of her glass, staining the white tablecloth.

“Kee—keep going, Rei,” she managed. “Please.”

“Right.” Reina glanced at Soobin and, smiling warmly, hooked her arm through his. “I asked why he thought it was a poltergeist. He gave me the whole recap. And I said maybe he should just go into the room and check. Unfortunately, uh—he said he didn’t want to die, so going inside wasn’t an option.”

By this point, Beomgyu was clutching Taehyun’s arm, trusting it to support him through his wheezing.

Soobin shot them both a withering look.

“That was terrible advice on my part, to be fair,” Reina admitted.

“Thank you,” Soobin said immediately.

“It could’ve been a robbery—”

“Yes, thank you.”

“—and I was just sending you to check.”

Soobin gave another nod. “Thank you.”

She patted his knee, her engagement ring flashing under the candlelight. Soobin caught sight of it and felt himself relax at once.

It had that effect on him, the ring. He could stare at her wearing it for hours.

“You’re welcome,” Reina said. He watched her fingers trace the lines of his trousers. “But, uh, there was someone—” she turned towards you, “—who disagreed with me about it being robbers.”

You scoffed, setting your wine glass down.

Yeonjun felt his smile widen before you even said anything.

“I just thought it was statistically unlikely to be a robber,” you said. “Especially on the second floor. They’ve got cameras everywhere. How could they’ve missed him?”

Reina nodded. “Mhmm.”

“You know what would be easier to miss, though?” you continued. “A poltergeist.”

Nara toppled into Beomgyu in her laughter; he reached out to catch her so quickly that he nearly smacked the back of Taehyun’s head. His glass slipped and the wine poured across the tablecloth, violently red.

Soobin, alive again, raised a hand above Reina’s head for a grateful high-five. You had to lift yourself slightly off the chair to reach it.

“Anyway,” Reina continued, snickering at the chaos, “I FaceTimed him. He’s holding a broom and a bottle of—”

The laughter around the table swallowed the rest of her sentence.

Taehyun, currently in the middle of throwing napkins onto the wine stain, wheezed out, “di-did he have a wand, too?”

“The broom was a weapon,” Soobin said. His ears had gone pink. “Wasn’t going in there unarmed.”

“I think the broom was fair,” Reina replied, patting his knee again. “It’s the bottle of hairspray that I didn’t get.”

“Thought I could use it instead of pepper spray.”

“Oh.” She leaned back to look at him. “That actually makes sense.”

“Thank you.”

You smiled, caught in the whirlpool of laughter. Then someone kicked you under the table again.

Before you could glance down, you noticed Yeonjun shifting in his seat opposite you, suddenly very interested in his glass.

Your eyes narrowed.

“So, right, then,” Soobin said, dragging his chair closer. It made a dreadful noise against the stone floor. “I eased the door of the room open with the broom. It creaked and everything.”

His voice dropped. Everyone at the table instinctively leaned closer; even the candle flames seemed to swell.

Kai was practically draped across his plate by this point, positively giddy. You could feel his leg bouncing against yours under the table.

“There was nothing inside, just darkness,” Soobin said, gesturing with both hands. “I could make out the outline of the bed, the window. Nothing else. Then—bang.”

He smacked his palm on the tabletop.

Nara and Beomgyu both jumped.

“Another fucking sound,” he said. “I nearly—nearly sprayed hairspray into my eyes.”

The roar of laughter that followed was loud enough to make a waiter pause halfway to your table with the first course. The tray wobbled slightly in his otherwise practised hands.

“What was it, then?” Nara asked, leaning back from the table to make room for a plate of carpaccio that the waiter set before her. Her eyes were brimming with tears.

The sight of the beef made you frown.

“It—it was his fucking storage room,” Soobin said, shooting Yeonjun a glare across the table. “He’d built shelves there over the weekend, and they were collapsing one by one. Thank God that door was already open, or I’d have never gone that far into his room to check.”

Nara raised a hand to dab carefully at the corners of her eyes. Her makeup remained immaculate.

“How’d you attach the shelves?” she asked Yeonjun, her voice still light with laughter. “With glue?”

Yeonjun gave a mournful shake of his head. Several of his canvases had perished in that incident; it was a tragedy.

“With screws,” he said. “I just put too much weight on them, I guess.”

Kai speared a slice of beef on his plate and gestured with his fork.

“I would’ve loved it,” he said, “if it’d actually been a poltergeist, though.”

“I’m still half-convinced we really had one,” Soobin replied.

Yeonjun groaned. “My God—”

“No, seriously.” Soobin leaned forward. “Especially upstairs. The toilet doors would swing open on their own, and there’d be these weird shadows and creaking noises at night. I don’t know.”

Across the table, Taehyun had just finished cleaning the spilled wine. Noticing the bottle beside him was nearly empty, he picked it up and took a swig straight from it.

“How come,” he said after swallowing, “you’re the only person who’s ever experienced any of these things in your house?”

Soobin looked affronted by the implication. “It—well, maybe I’m more observant.”

Yeonjun was already shaking his head.

“The house might’ve been weird,” he said, “but s’not poltergeists. They’re apocryphal anyway.”

“They’re—” Soobin frowned. “What?”

“Apocryphal,” Yeonjun said, gesturing around vaguely with his glass. “You know, dubious. Not proven to be real.”

Soobin blinked. “Then—then just say that, what’s with the apogrifuck stuff.”

The table was laughing again before Yeonjun could find a retort. He glanced down at his plate.

You finally tried the arugula on your plate and remembered, with quiet horror, that it was carpaccio that Yeonjun’s parents had served the only time you’d been to their house.

It suddenly tasted like cardboard.

You set your fork down and took a heavy gulp of your wine.

Yeonjun, in front of you, picked at the beef on his plate. He remembered the carpaccio as well, and couldn’t bring himself to take a bite.

He found himself thinking that he might have to try this same dish again soon. Face the real poltergeists.

Eventually, as the waiters brought out the main course—lamb with roasted vegetables and a sauce so tangy and splendid that you’d have fancied a whole bowl of it—the conversations around the table splintered into smaller groups.

At one end, Beomgyu and Taehyun had moved on to horror films. They spent several minutes discussing favourites before dedicating a solid half an hour to The Blair Witch Project. Soobin joined in the moment he overheard and dragged Reina along as well. She was the film expert at the table, having watched a concerning number released before 2000.

Meanwhile, Kai was busy devouring the tomatoes on his plate and telling you about a mug. He said he’d picked it up from the post office earlier today – it had come wrapped in old newspaper and heavily taped. There was no sender’s address, and he was certain he hadn’t ordered anything.

Before you could respond, something shoved your foot under the table again. You looked up.

Across from you, Yeonjun was nodding along to Kai’s story.

“Maybe you’ve got a stalker,” he suggested, swirling the dregs of his apple juice around his glass.

You braced yourself for another kick, but none came. Still, the longer you stared at Yeonjun, the more insistently he didn’t look at you.

“A stalker who sends me mugs?” Kai replied, skeptical.

Yeonjun shrugged. “Maybe it starts with mugs, but will keep getting progressively worse.”

Your lips twitched.

“Pots,” you suggested, “and pans.”

Kai speared another cherry tomato from his plate. “I like that. Cutlery later, yeah?”

“And a blender,” Yeonjun added.

“An air fryer, eventually,” you said.

“By New Year’s,” Yeonjun said, “they’ll have renovated your whole flat.”

Laughing, Kai lifted his wine glass and washed down the tomatoes. You glanced across the table. This time, Yeonjun was waiting to meet your smile.

“It was white,” Kai went on. “The mug. With some black markings inside, at the bottom. Looked painted on, but I didn’t want to touch them.”

You took another sip from your glass. The wine went incredibly well with the lamb. You assumed Beomgyu had made the choice; you had to give him his due.

“Are you sure it wasn’t just some—” Another nudge at your foot cut you off.

Your gaze snapped upwards.

Yeonjun blinked and realised he hadn’t looked away in time.

“Sorry,” he said with a small smile. He’d stopped being sorry the first time he got your attention. “Not much room.”

“Mm.” You held his gaze for a second before turning back to Kai. “Anyway. You sure it wasn’t something you signed up for by accident? One of those subscriptions?”

Kai considered it. “Definitely nothing for mugs.”

“Do you subscribe to anything at all, then?”

“Just the cheese.”

You raised your eyebrows. “What’s that?”

“There’s this collective,” he explained. “They send me a different brand of cheese to try every month. September’s mimolette. I can’t wait.”

You pursed your lips and took another bite from your plate. The lamb nearly melted in your mouth, leaving a leftover taste of chives.

A cheese collective, honestly, sounded very intriguing. You decided to ask for details later.

“Well, could they have sent you a mug?” you asked.

“Don’t think so,” Kai said, leaning back in his seat. He’d left the mug on the windowsill in his kitchen and hoped it’d be gone by the time he returned home.

Across the room, Beomgyu was watching him while grinning into his glass.

Kai caught his look and frowned. “Was it you?”

Hardly managing to swallow before he burst into laughter, Beomgyu turned away to resume whatever conversation he’d been having with Nara and her friends. He hadn’t heard a single word.

Confused, you looked back at Kai.

“He’s been sending me cryptic photos for months,” Kai explained, sitting up straight. He began to gesticulate, so you quietly moved his wine glass out of the potential danger zone. “Wrappers. A leaf, a parking ticket, a random—random fucking shoe. Never explained anything.”

You pressed your tongue against your teeth. “Mhmm.”

“I text him normal things,” he continued, agitated, “like hey, are you free today? And he sends back a photo of a bowl of crisps. I go, what time are we meeting? Photo of a pigeon. Have to actually ring him to properly talk.”

You nodded slowly, determined to keep your lips in a straight line.

“Assuming there’s even a reason,” you said slowly, “why?”

Kai finished the wine in his glass before replying.

“Been doing it since we moved out,” he said with a shrug. “S’pose he likes reminding me he exists.”

“That’s quite sweet, actually,” you said. “Wants you to remember him.”

Kai shook his head. “S’harassment. It’s not sweet.”

“It is, a bit.”

“No.”

“A bit.”

“No.” He pointed at you, then, suddenly, at Yeonjun. “Would you like it if Yeonjun did that to you?”

Across the table, Yeonjun visibly brightened at the sound of his name, like Violet hearing her food bowl rattle.

You didn’t think Yeonjun occupied quite the same category in your life as Beomgyu did in Kai’s, but that was a discussion for another day. You cleared your throat and glanced down at your plate.

“See, um,” you said, “Yeonjun wouldn’t need to do that, because he’s already got a cat who keeps coming to my flat every morning.”

Kai’s eyebrows shot up. He forgot all about his mug.

He’d only met Violet once, before Yeonjun had moved out of his old house. She seemed to like him considerably more than Beomgyu (Kai based this solely on the fact that his shoes hadn’t been peed in, a luxury Beomgyu was not afforded). Kai loved her.

“Does she, then?” he asked, shooting Yeonjun a look.

Yeonjun disliked whatever had appeared behind Kai’s eyes. He crossed his arms and leaned back, balancing on the rear legs of his chair.

“You think I’m sending my cat over there on purpose?” he asked.

“You’re not?” Kai replied.

“Of course m’not,” Yeonjun said. His foot pushed yours under the table again. “The cat’s—”

“Right, then,” you cut in sharply. “Been kicking me the whole night.”

Yeonjun’s arms loosened. “I—have I?”

Kai’s head swivelled between the two of you.

“Do that one more time,” you said. “See what happens.”

Yeonjun’s grin returned instantly.

His foot found yours under the table and nudged it again, softly.

Keeping your gaze locked on his, you kicked his foot away firmly enough to make his chair lurch sideways, three legs in the air. Yeonjun grabbed the edge of the table to steady his balance, sending a tremor through his empty glass.

Half the table looked over.

Mildly embarrassed on his behalf, Kai politely found something else to look at. The white tablecloth by his knees served him quite well.

“You alright?” Taehyun asked, twisting around in his seat.

Yeonjun straightened. He settled the chair back onto all four legs and took a breath.

“Yes,” he said. “Got a bit dizzy.”

Taehyun frowned. “Have you had too much to drink again?”

Yeonjun caught your gaze across the table. There was an infuriatingly pleased glint in his eyes.

“No,” he said. “M’actually sober.”

Taehyun stared at him for another second. Then he glanced at Reina beside you. She’d seen the commotion too and was visibly suppressing a smile.

Clicking his tongue, Taehyun turned back around. He knew what the problem was; Yeonjun was still unwell.

Restless all of a sudden, Yeonjun turned back to you. He drummed his fingers lightly against the stem of his empty glass.

You could see the thought forming behind his eyes and shook your head in a silent warning.

Yeonjun grinned and nudged your foot again.

✦ • ─── SEPTEMBER 4, 2026. 10 PM

As the evening wore on and the main course was cleared away, everyone began to mingle.

By now, you and Yeonjun had kicked each other under the table enough times to obtain matching bruises. You were glad to have a chance to walk around.

A few of your friends wandered off to peer at the desserts that a senior couple were sharing nearby. Someone else stole a chair from beside the kitchen doors and dragged it halfway across the restaurant to your table, producing a noise that made everyone within earshot suffer.

You ended up going to the bar. It occupied a quieter corner of the restaurant and smelled of lemon as you approached. Behind the counter, rows of bottles glimmered under the warm lights.

A bartender stood drying glasses at the far end, looking bored. You slipped onto an empty stool and gave an awkward half-raise of your hand to get his attention. He nodded and made his way over.

While you waited for your drink, you turned slightly in your seat and glanced back towards the dining room. Your friends were easy enough to find – Beomgyu had his hands in the air as he explained something to Kai across the table.

You realised, while watching a waiter duck to avoid being clipped by Beomgyu’s elbow, that your shoulders felt heavier than they had an hour ago. The weight of this week was finally catching up to you.

Suddenly, the stool beside yours shifted. “Fancy running into you here.”

You turned your head. Yeonjun was already grinning.

You looked away, lips pressed together to fight off a smile. “Came to kick me here, too?”

He laughed, resting his forearms against the bar.

“Came for a refill, actually,” he said. “Nothing’s on that table suitable for me.”

You glanced back at the far end of the restaurant again. “Didn’t like the apple juice?”

He clicked his lips. “It wasn’t a good juice. Puts shame on the name of all apples.”

“Mm.” You felt your lips stretch despite your effort and turned your head, nodding towards your friends. “Beomgyu seems to think you’re having some sort of spiritual awakening tonight since you’re not drinking.”

Yeonjun glanced over his shoulder and groaned softly. The moment he’d left his seat at the table, Beomgyu asked him if he was alright five times in a row.

“Yeah, he thinks I’m about to join a priest seminary,” he said.

“Oh.” You turned back to him. “Are you?”

“No. Think I’d be bored.” He gave you a meaningful look, a smirk spreading on his lips. “No one to kick.”

He saw you trying not to laugh and counted the twitches in your lips until you finally gave in. He laughed, too.

Finally, the bartender—Joe, according to the golden nametag on his chest—brought you your Elderflower French 75. You’d never tried the cocktail before, but you didn’t recognise any of the others listed behind the bar. You figured you’d risk it with this one; you knew what a French 75 was, and elderflower sounded nice, too.

Yeonjun ordered a Sprite.

Joe looked up, surprised. He had Yeonjun repeat his order, then smiled in evident appreciation. Joe said he’d made forty-seven cocktails tonight (he shared this information with immense pride and just as much exhaustion) and was happy not to have to make a forty-eighth. You felt a little guilty for contributing to the number.

You watched him talk to Yeonjun and sipped your drink. The lemon hit you first, tart and sharp, but the sweetness settled as soon as you swallowed. The glass smelled faintly like perfume. You weren’t sure if you could taste the elderflower.

Beside you, the pendant lights above the bar caught along the edges of Yeonjun’s face, scattering golden fragments across his cheeks. Pale flowers cascaded from the ceiling, their reflections drifting across the surface of his glass.

It all made him look faintly cinematic.

You decided it was in your best interests to look elsewhere.

Once Joe walked away to make the forty-eighth cocktail for someone else, Yeonjun picked up a napkin and reached into the inner pocket of his jacket. You glanced back just in time to see him pull out a marker and begin scribbling.

A moment later, he slid the napkin across the bar to you.

what’s up? the handwriting said.

You looked up.

Yeonjun nodded towards the napkin and held out the marker. The same brand, you noticed as you took it, that he used to keep in his car.

Feeling incredulous, you wrote back: drinking, you?

He picked up the napkin, read it, then lowered it again.

just hanging out, he wrote back. it’s quite nice here.

Tilting your head, you straightened the napkin and started a new line.

you do realise, you wrote, we could just talk?

He grinned, taking the marker back from you.

sure, he turned the napkin sideways to squeeze in another line, but this is more fun :)

The smile on your face distracted him enough that he dropped the marker while passing it back to you. It bounced off the bar and clattered onto the floor. He slid off his stool to retrieve it.

Your dress, he noted as he handed the marker back to you, looked even better from this angle.

Taking another sip from your glass, you scribbled back: you always carry markers to birthday dinners?

Yeonjun climbed back on his stool and took the napkin back. His cheeks felt very warm.

no, he wrote. Then paused briefly before adding, your dress is very nice btw, i like the colour.

You had to squint; his handwriting had grown steadily smaller as he tried to fit everything into the remaining space. The dress in question felt much warmer against your skin.

thank you, you wrote back on the other side. Then looked up to give him a quick once-over.

He caught it immediately.

“You don’t need to return the compliment,” he said. “I already know I look nice.”

Snorting, you let your gaze wander down his outfit, lingering briefly on his ridiculously red socks. Then you finished writing your response and slid the napkin back to him.

you’ve got sauce on your shirt.

Yeonjun did a double-take at his clothes as he read. There was a small, pale yellow stain on the bottom corner of his white shirt.

He hadn’t even seen it.

He was amazed you had.

you always notice everything about me <3, he wrote on the napkin.

You scoffed, then pointed at the holder and waved your hand. Yeonjun, very enthusiastic, handed you a new napkin.

You tilted your head at the blank space. A new idea occurred.

You traced the edges with the marker, drawing a rough rectangle, and wrote at the top: draw something on here.

Yeonjun raised his eyebrows at the request, then grinned. Taking a sip of his Sprite, he picked up the marker and bent over the napkin, deliberately shielding it from view with his arm.

The restaurant continued to murmur around you as you watched him work, with music playing faintly overhead. You couldn’t recognise the song, but you didn’t particularly care for it anyway.

Yeonjun’s brows were furrowed, his lips slightly parted in concentration. All you could see was the top of his marker moving across the napkin and the occasional twitch of his wrist. Every now and then, he leaned back to inspect his progress, then immediately bent forward again.

The seriousness of it made you chuckle.

Finally, he slid the napkin across the bar.

It was a slightly blurry doodle of a cat with questionable proportions (one ear nearly twice the size of the other) and a dark blot of ink over one eye.

You smiled immediately.

Violet, you wrote in the corner.

Yeonjun nodded once and reached for another napkin in the holder. The marker squeaked softly as he started drawing again. A minute later, he added a note beneath it and pushed it towards you.

This time, it was a drawing of a very cheerful cow, its back decorated with patches shaped like puzzle pieces.

this is what i imagine your violet looks like, he’d written underneath.

Something inside you lit up, sudden and warm. Smiling, you brought your fingers over the edge of the napkin before turning it over.

now draw them together please, you wrote.

Yeonjun let out a long, focused breath through his mouth, rolling both of his shoulders back. He snatched another napkin.

Unfortunately, the marker had begun dying. He gave it a few vigorous shakes, then scribbled hard on the corner of the napkin until he finally coaxed enough ink to continue.

Once he’d finished, he handed you the drawing with a big grin.

It showed a cat sitting primly on a cow’s back, both looking delighted about this arrangement. There were two stick figures standing in the background.

You laughed.

Yeonjun immediately thought he should draw you something else. Maybe two cats on the cow.

“I’m keeping these, by the way,” you said, gathering all three napkins together. “Might as well sign them, too.”

“Oh.” He snorted. “In case you decide to sell them when I’m famous, yeah?”

“And dead,” you said. “Posthumous art is usually worth more.”

“How soon am I going, then?”

You shrugged. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Laughing, he uncapped the marker again and took the napkins back. His signature wandered off course between the different versions, and he added a tiny heart beside each one.

“There.” He slid them back to you. “Autographed. For free.”

You examined the work.

“The heart’s part of your signature?” you asked.

“No.” His grin widened. “That’s only for my biggest fans.”

“Oh, you think of me so highly.”

“Of course. No need to thank me.”

Snorting, you set your handbag on the bartop and carefully tucked the napkins inside. Yeonjun hurriedly swallowed his Sprite before he made a comment about the careful way you smoothed out the creased corners.

A sudden cheer erupted from the far side of the restaurant.

Both of you turned.

“There he is!” Nara shouted, pointing across the room. “Finally!”

Her younger brother stood near the entrance, looking mildly alarmed and profoundly exhausted. A suitcase stood beside him, a jacket slung over one of his arms.

Nara had mentioned he’d be arriving late. Apparently, he’d been somewhere in South America (she’d lost interest after he left Argentina) and his layover in Frankfurt had stretched longer than he’d planned. Judging by the three times he yawned as he crossed the restaurant, he was still operating from a different timezone.

With his arrival, the celebration restarted at full volume.

You turned back towards the bar. A Kehlani song was playing on the speakers now, soft enough to disappear into the conversations around you.

Yeonjun propped his head on his hand, resting against the bartop, and watched you for a moment.

Behind you, a passionate chant of cake! cake! cake! broke out. You recognised your friends just by their terrible rhythm alone.

“Should we head back there?” Yeonjun asked, noticing your slower movements. “Or do you want to go home?”

You glanced over your shoulder. Reina spotted you immediately; she’d been waiting for you to look her way and considered this proof of your paranormal connection. She waved you over.

You smiled and lifted a hand back.

“Kind of,” you told Yeonjun. “But I also want cake.”

He slipped the marker back into his jacket pocket. Knowing you might argue—might start reciting numbers for taxi services in the city, too—he made sure to phrase his next words as if there was no other option.

“Cake,” he said, “and then I’ll take you home.”

You didn’t argue.

Together, you crossed the restaurant towards your table, where Nara was already instructing the waiter in the cake-cutting process.

✦ • ─── SEPTEMBER 5, 2026. 12:30 AM

You should’ve known better than to expect to leave Nara’s birthday early. She flitted from conversation to conversation, effortlessly drawing the whole table into every debate she started, energetic as if she was getting younger by the hour.

Naturally, by the time you stumbled out of the restaurant, everyone was well-muddled and giggling uncontrollably at anything and everything.

You lingered by the fountain, chatting to Reina and Nara while they waited for their respective taxis. A minute later, the two cars rolled up at the end of the street, their headlights flashing in the dark.

“Don’t do anything else that would warrant an intervention,” Reina warned you with a grin, pulling you into a quick hug goodbye.

Near the door, Yeonjun pretended not to understand and then pretended not to smile.

“Why?” Nara asked, having overheard. “What’d she do before?”

“Nothing at all,” you said before Reina could even consider answering. “I’ll see you later, yeah? Send me a picture of how that elephant’s going.”

“Oh, yeah!” Nara burst into a new fit of laughter. “Of course!”

After the girls had gone—Soobin barely managed to shut the door behind himself and Reina before the taxi pulled away—you turned back to Yeonjun. Despite the crowd outside the restaurant thinning, the two of you still had an audience on the way to his car.

“Off on your honeymoon, are you?” Taehyun shouted from the entrance. “Bring souvenirs!”

“And use protection!” Beomgyu added beside him. “I’m not ready to be a grandad!”

Kai, the final member of their party, was wheezing, one hand clamped over his mouth.

Yeonjun glanced at you, weighing whether he ought to shout something back to shut them up. You were already shaking your head.

You were too tired, he figured, to muster proper embarrassment.

Yeonjun decided he liked that.

By the time you climbed into his Mercedes, you weren’t convinced you’d make it home conscious. The last few drinks had left you feeling deeply sleepy.

You rested your temple against the cool glass of the window. It vibrated faintly with the engine as the car rolled down the street.

Beside you, Yeonjun drove with one hand loose on the steering wheel and the other resting on the centre console. He felt every centimetre separating your hands as you kept yours curled against the edge of your seat.

He didn’t want to go home.

“Do you want ice cream?” he asked.

You dragged your attention away from the window. “Hm?”

“Ice cream.” He nodded ahead. “From the corner shop.”

You followed his gaze. The small shop near your block glowed against the otherwise dark street. You hadn’t noticed how quiet the night had become; the windows of the surrounding buildings were pitch black.

You quite liked it. Quite liked being here, too.

“Alright,” you said.

Keeping his smile conservative, Yeonjun turned into the nearly empty parking lot. Only two other cars stood beneath the streetlights.

The automatic doors pulled open, and you stepped into the warmth of the shop. It smelled strongly of coffee. Yeonjun claimed to know exactly where the freezers were.

Ten minutes later, the two of you were still wandering the aisles.

“Swear they used to be by the milk,” he mumbled, head turned to scan the aisles on the left.

“Have you even been here before?” you asked, raising a hand to cover a yawn. You were now completing your second lap of the shop.

“Of course,” he said. “Once or twice.”

You sighed, trailing your fingers lightly across a row of perfectly aligned boxes of cereal.

“Should we just ask someone?” You pointed towards an employee stacking deliveries near the counter.

Yeonjun looked offended.

“Absolutely not,” he said. “That’s admitting defeat.”

“Well, we’re hardly winning right now, so—”

“Give me a second, there’s a bunch of new—oh!” His eyes lit up. “There. By the eggs.”

You turned to look. Pushed against the shelves of eggs stood two freezers with colourful wrappers behind the doors.

“See?” Yeonjun said, absurdly pleased with himself. “Told you I’d find it.”

“Very impressive,” you mumbled. “The shop’s a whole ten metres wide.”

Ignoring that, he guided you towards the freezers.

The ice cream selection proved underwhelming. Still, the two of you stood in front of the four different brands for another ten minutes, shoulder-to-shoulder by the glass doors. There was an alarming amount of pistachio flavour; one brand alone offered five different versions.

“Right, then.” Yeonjun folded his arms. “We’ve looked at every single one now.”

“Twice, I think,” you said.

“Twice,” he agreed. “Seen anything you like?”

You scanned the shelves another time. The greens and yellows of the wrappers were starting to blur together.

Honestly, if you’d been here alone, you’d have picked the first one you saw and left.

“I don’t really care,” you said. “S’long as it’s on a stick.”

“Not feeling up for a waffle cone?”

“Not today.”

Nodding thoughtfully, Yeonjun bent at the waist to inspect the lower shelves. His reflection washed over the freezer glass.

“I want something sour,” he decided.

You pointed towards a blue wrapper. “Lemon?”

He looked up, nose scrunched. “Maybe a bit sweeter.”

You shifted to the ice cream next to it. “Pear?”

“Pear,” he repeated, contemplating. “Okay, yeah. Pear sounds nice.”

You opened the freezer door, cold air immediately spilling over your hands. The wrappers crackled softly as you reached inside and pulled out two.

On your way to the tills, you passed the drinks aisle. Yeonjun had taken the ice cream from you and was inspecting the wrappers when you caught his sleeve and tugged lightly. He looked up.

You nodded towards one of the shelves. A dark amber bottle sat between rows of cider, its red label catching the lights overhead.

Yeonjun squinted.

“Oh.” He pointed, raising his eyebrows. “That’s mead.”

“Yeah,” you said. “Want to grab it for your birthday?”

Yeonjun watched the bottle for another second.

He realised he’d completely forgotten about the mead and Beomgyu’s list of spirits tonight.

It struck him as odd.

Then it struck him that if you’d pointed at the shrubbery outside and asked him to grab some of that, too, he’d already have bags full of leaves and branches.

“Yeah, of course,” he said, reaching for the bottle. The glass felt cool against his palm. “Can’t just leave it here, s’clearly been waiting for me.”

“Mhmm,” you said, “and there you were, circling the shop five times.”

“That was only twice.”

“Could’ve asked for help and it would’ve been zero.”

Yeonjun stopped walking suddenly. You took another step before you noticed and turned around.

He stood in the middle of the aisle, gripping the ice cream by the edges of the wrappers and watching you with a faintly worried expression.

“Are you not having a good time with me?” he asked.

Your eyebrows lifted. “What—walking circles around the shop?”

“Walking circles around the shop with me.”

You studied the straight line of his lips for a moment, and the small, hopeful glint in his eyes. Then you smiled despite yourself.

Truly nothing at all has changed since you’d last been out with him.

“No, I am,” you said. “Having the time of my life.”

He dropped his shoulders dramatically.

“Good,” he said, turning back towards the tills. “S’what I like to hear. Come on, love.”

You followed him.

After a scuffle over who would pay—you nearly swiped your card when Yeonjun knocked the scanner sideways and paid in cash while you were yelling at him to be careful—the two of you found yourselves sitting on the pavement behind the shop.

The parking lot stretched out before you, completely vacant now except for his Mercedes. Beyond it, the surrounding trees swayed gently in the rising wind.

The night had cooled, but the breeze felt refreshing against your skin as you raced to eat your ice cream before it melted. The flavour was sharper than you’d anticipated—sweet pear followed by a clean tart finish that lingered on your tongue.

Beside you, Yeonjun watched the bottle of mead sitting by your handbag and tapped his fingers against his knees. The ice cream in his hand was beginning to trickle down the stick.

He’d been waiting for this: some time with you outside your building, somewhere planned and a little inconvenient. So you wouldn’t just be neighbours running into each other in the lobby anymore.

Now, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever want to go home.

“Tell you what,” he said, swallowing a mouthful of ice cream, “s’only about a mile home. What if we actually try the mead now and walk the rest of the way back?”

You glanced towards the street leading to your block, then turned back to him.

“What about your car?” you asked.

He shrugged. “I’ll come back for it tomorrow morning.”

You looked down at the bottle.

It wasn’t anything special. You’d had mead before. And, realistically, another drink might just put you straight to sleep.

If you didn’t agree to the drink, however, you’d have to call it a night soon.

“Sure,” you said.

Yeonjun immediately shoved the ice cream into his mouth, far too much at once. His eyes widened.

You raised your eyebrows. He held up a single finger, then squeezed his eyes shut. The inside of his skull seemed to freeze solid.

Several painful seconds later, with his temples throbbing, he finally swallowed.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, picking up the bottle.

“Bit eager, yeah?”

Snorting, he gripped the bottle harder, twisting until the cap gave way with a metallic crack.

“There we—oh.” He looked up. “We’ve got no glasses.”

A gust of wind caught a few strands of your hair and blew them across your face. You lifted a hand to brush them away.

“We’re drinking mead in a parking lot,” you said. “We’ll survive without glasses.”

He handed you the bottle.

You balanced your ice cream in one hand and took the bottle in the other. The label looked surprisingly extravagant up close, decorated with ornate golden lettering.

You took a slow sip. It tasted incredibly sweet at first, heavy and almost syrupy.

You tried another sip, slower this time. The flavour softened as it lingered, unfolding into something warm. Faintly floral.

It wasn’t as good as your grandmother’s, but for mead from a corner shop, it was perfectly respectable.

You handed the bottle back to Yeonjun and clicked your lips thoughtfully.

“And?” he asked.

“Alright,” you said, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “You’ll like it.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm. Very sweet.”

Yeonjun lifted the bottle to his lips. He could taste your ice cream on the rim, and his eyes squeezed shut. He tipped his head back farther.

Under the streetlights, the mead looked slightly darker than it had in the shop. You watched him take a swig, hold it in his mouth for a second, then swallow. His throat moved.

His eyebrows rose just as you looked away.

“Oh, s’nice,” he said, glancing at the bottle as though he’d forgotten what it was.

“Yeah?”

He nodded and took another bite of his ice cream to balance the flavour. A pale drop had already splashed on the asphalt beside his shoe.

“Reminds me of something,” he said, “but I can’t think of what.”

“Honey?” you offered, licking your own ice cream.

“Mhmm—yes, dear?”

You snorted. “Fuck off.”

He laughed, catching a drip before it reached his hand, and slurping the melted base. The pear lingered against his throat.

“You’ve got a bit…” you said, nodding towards his face.

“Oh.” He swept his tongue across his upper lip, hand lifting instinctively. “Did I get it?”

You leaned closer, squinting, and caught a faint whiff of his cologne. It felt stronger in the night air, with the mead still warm inside you.

“No,” you said. “Still some.”

He tried wiping his lips with the back of his hand.

You pointed higher.

He frowned. “Where the f—”

Tsking, you reached forward and brushed your thumb over the corner of his mouth.

Yeonjun felt something spark beneath his ribs. It spread through him with embarrassing speed.

This was fine.

You’d touched his face before.

This was alright.

This was—

“Watch it before it melts.”

He blinked down. The ice cream was now oozing over his fingers.

“Oh—shit.” He hurriedly brought it back to his mouth. “F-fank—thanks.”

You leaned back again. As your hand settled on the pavement, your fingers brushed his. Warmth lingered against his skin.

Yeonjun didn’t dare move.

God, he did not know how to be friends.

Who the fuck had invented friendships, anyway? Was there a rulebook, or perhaps some sort of guidelines that he’d missed? He felt like he was doing everything wrong.

He finished the ice cream and accidentally bit into the wooden stick, wincing as his teeth protested. He tossed the stick next to yours, beside the bottle, and wiped his hands on his trousers. They remained stubbornly sticky.

“M’thinking,” he said eventually, looking up at the sky. Only a handful of stars were visible; the blanket of clouds was growing thicker.

You turned towards him. “Yeah?”

“Why d’you think we weren’t friends back then?” he asked, turning slightly to meet your gaze. “At uni.”

You turned back ahead, lips parting. You hadn’t expected this to be what he was thinking about.

“Well,” you said after a moment, resting a hand on your knee, “you were stealing all my answers in class, for one.”

He smiled faintly. “Mhmm.”

“And you were always sneering.”

“Well, that could’ve been friendly.”

You gave him a look. “How is sneering friendly?”

His grin widened. “How’s it not? Bit of a friendly banter.”

Clicking your tongue, you stretched your legs out in front of you. The hem of your dress flowed softly in the wind.

“You were also patronising and derisive,” you said. “And horribly smug.”

His smile softened a touch. “Right.”

The breeze lifted the bottom of your dress over your ankles. You leaned forward to smooth it back down. The wind felt colder against your skin now, perhaps from the ice cream.

“Don’t mean to say that I was perfect, of course,” you added.

Yeonjun was still watching your ankles. “No?”

“Of course not,” you said. “You said it, too. Called me controlling. And a sycophant, I think.”

“Hmm. Good word, that.”

Your mouth twitched slightly as he licked his lips, momentarily self-conscious. He didn’t soften the adjectives, though. Didn’t try to reframe them.

You appreciated that.

You’d said a lot to each other back in the day, and being friends didn’t mean you had to rewrite it all.

“Yeah,” you said. “Think we were trying to one-up each other too much back then.”

“Think we’ve stopped now?”

You glanced up. “Suppose we’ll see, won’t we?”

“Hmm.” He nodded, dropping his gaze. “S’pose we will.”

The trees swooshed softly around you. For a while, the two of you listened to the wind rustling the leaves. The pines up ahead smelled heavenly.

Across the street, a dark silhouette was walking a tiny dog. You caught a glimpse of it under the glow of the streetlight and found yourself smiling.

It was a brown dachshund—Alfred, perhaps, you thought wistfully—with a bright green vest. You didn’t know they made vests in this size. The dog’s legs moved so quickly against the pavement that they looked mechanical, like a little wind-up toy.

Yeonjun was watching it, too.

“Looks a bit like a nutria,” he observed.

You turned to him slowly. “Hm?”

“A nutria.” He nodded towards the dog. “S’a rodent. Bit like a beaver.”

You stared at him. “Where’d you get that from?”

The dog had discovered a patch of grass and was now running in excited circles around its owner. Yeonjun smiled softly.

“I think I’ve seen one once,” he said, tapping his fingers against the pavement. “There was this river not far from my parents’ house when I was growing up. Loads of silt, cattails everywhere. Completely overgrown. My parents loathed the place; told me to steer clear. Initially, I thought they were worried I’d fall in. But really, they were just worried I’d come home and get mud everywhere.”

You dropped your gaze to the asphalt underneath you. It still had an effect on you, any mention of his parents, even if the conversation on your balcony felt more distant now.

“I went there anyway,” he continued. “Saw all these little caves dug into the riverbank. And one day, I saw this—uh, creature eating the cattails. A nutria, I assumed.”

“That sounds cute.”

“Yeah.” He let the breeze stir the trees for a moment. Then he picked up the bottle of mead and turned it slowly by the neck. “‘Course, I was a kid, so I didn’t know better. Might’ve been an oversized muskrat.”

A smile made its way to your lips. Across the street, the dog and its owner took a turn past the trees and disappeared from your view.

“Might’ve been,” you said. You had never seen a muskrat.

Yeonjun nudged the bottle towards you. You picked it up and took another slow sip. The flavour surprised you once again, sweeter every time you tried it.

A drop caught on your lower lip.

Yeonjun watched you swipe your tongue across it and, as a result, lost control of his mouth.

“Muskrats are usually much smaller than nutrias,” he said. “But both have vibrissae, which was my main method of identifying rodents at that point.”

Snorting, you lowered the bottle.

“You’re killing me,” you said. “What’s vibrissae?”

“Whiskers.”

“Right.” You handed the bottle to him, grinning now. “So, you never found out which it was?”

Yeonjun took a generous swig. Without the pear ice cream to dilute the taste, the mead was outrageously sweet.

“Mm—no.” He lowered the bottle. “Could’ve been either. They can cohabitate. Though, of course, nutrias are more aggressive.”

You gave a solemn nod. “Of course.”

Yeonjun watched the smile spread on your face for a second before lowering his head, suddenly sheepish.

Perhaps in the week he’d spent sober, he’d forgotten how to drink. Now he was sitting in some parking lot, alone with you for the first time in a long time, and all he was doing was talking to you about fucking nutrias.

Perhaps this was what friends did.

“Sorry,” he murmured anyway. “Didn’t mean to go off there.”

“No, it’s nice,” you said. “I like hearing about them. Did you go to that river often, then?”

He rolled the neck of the bottle gently between his palms. The glass was warm now.

“Sometimes,” he said. “Had nothing better to do. Didn’t dare to get too close, of course, but I did name the one I saw.”

“What was it?”

“Isolde.”

Your cheeks were starting to ache. “From Tristan and Isolde?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’d just seen the film with Sophia Myles and—”

“How old were you?”

“Maybe ten.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself. Yeonjun laughed, too.

“I was really not supervised very much,” he explained.

“No,” you agreed. “Clearly.”

“Yeah, so anyway.” He took another swig from the bottle. “I’d just watched the film and thought it was brilliant. So the nutria was Isolde. My neighbour’s poodle was Melot, by the way. So it all made sense.”

Your eyes softened in the dim of the streetlights.

You accepted the bottle from him and held it, thoughtfully, on your lap for a moment. Neither of you spoke.

“My grandparents live near woodland,” you said then. “We’ve got martens there. They come down to steal blueberries and murder squirrels.”

He turned his head. “Aren’t martens small?”

“Sort of, I guess,” you said, “but they’re proper quick. Adorable, too, though. They used to remind me of little bears when I was younger, maybe because of their paws. Very bear-like.”

Yeonjun laughed, and you took a sip of the mead before the warmth in your chest could spread any further.

“They’re not rodents,” you added, “but it’s the closest thing I’ve got with vibrissae. Well, I assume they’ve got it anyway.”

You glanced at him with a small frown.

He nodded, grinning. “Yeah, I reckon they do.”

“We’ve had otters near the farm, too,” you said. “Oh, and ermines! Those are tiny.” You pinched your fingers together. “Like this.”

Yeonjun watched the light dancing in your eyes and remembered his kitchen—the first time you’d told him about your animals. He’d been mesmerised, then. He still was now.

“Your grandparents’ farm sounds lovely,” he said.

“Yeah.”

You looked across the empty parking lot. The glow from the streetlights reflected faintly off the asphalt; it seemed to glitter under the lights.

You traced his shadow with your gaze.

You thought you could easily imagine Yeonjun at your farm, leaning against the fence and watching the sheep, probably after you’d told him not to lean against it. Laughing when one of the goats—probably Gertrude, she was always up to no good—stuck her nose into his jacket pocket.

It startled you how quickly the picture arrived, how calm it felt.

The wind picked up, distracting you from your thoughts. It slipped beneath the thin straps of your dress. You rubbed your arm instinctively.

“Getting cold,” you murmured, turning your head away to hide a yawn.

Yeonjun looked up as though he could physically see the wind and ask it to fuck off.

“We can go,” he said, though he didn’t sound sure.

You realised you didn’t want to go.

It was lovely here. Not much to look at, really—even ugly when you thought about it. But lovely, nonetheless.

You wouldn’t have minded taking a quick nap on the pavement, too.

“Yeah,” you said at last, exhaling quietly. “Maybe we should.”

Yeonjun stood first. He brushed dust from the back of his trousers and held out a hand.

Your vision was swimming lightly around the edges. You took his hand; his fingers were still slightly sticky as they closed around yours. He pulled you to your feet.

The parking lot rotated momentarily. You gripped his hand tighter.

“Thanks,” you said.

“Any time.”

Your hand briefly stuck to his as you tried to let go.

After tossing out the rubbish in the nearby bin, the two of you made your way home. The streetlights cast dim pools of golden light across the pavement, broken only by your shadows stretching and shrinking as you walked under them.

This part of the city seemed asleep. Even the traffic lights had given up and blinked a restless yellow.

“You sure you won’t mind coming back for your car tomorrow?” you asked.

“No, it’s not too far,” Yeonjun said, glancing back towards the shop. The bottle in his hands reflected the lights around you. “And I could use the walk.”

You nodded.

The alcohol and the late hour had left a pleasant warmth beneath your skin, but the wind still found its way in. It settled across your shoulders like icy fingers, and you shuddered reflexively, as though trying to shake it off.

“Cold?” Yeonjun asked.

“I’ll be alright.”

Humming, he shrugged off his jacket, sleeves catching briefly on the bottle of mead, and held it out. You looked down at it, then at the thin white shirt he was wearing.

“You’ll be cold, then,” you said.

“I’m very warm,” he replied.

You glanced down at his jacket again.

This wasn’t the first time he was offering it to you. It reminded you, helplessly, of the scarf you’d kept in your box. You probably should’ve given it back to him.

Quietly, you accepted the jacket and draped it around your shoulders, gathering the collar beneath your chin.

It felt warmer than it had last weekend.

“I’ve, uh…” Yeonjun rubbed the back of his neck. The wind pushed his hair across his forehead. “I’ve actually got some other plans tomorrow, too.”

You glanced at him. “Yeah?”

“Mm.” His gaze dropped to the pavement. “Been thinking about those nutrias.”

“Isolde?”

“Yeah.” His lips barely twitched. “Going to find her.”

Your gaze dropped to your shoes. “Oh.”

The pine scent from the trees around you seemed to settle inside him. It reminded him of something nice; he felt his chest expand, but couldn’t quite feel the warmth.

“Yeah,” he said, turning the bottle slowly in his hand. The label was already peeling at one corner. “Don’t know how that’ll go. Thinking I’ll just ring my mum tomorrow and see where that takes me. I haven’t spoken to her in—in a long time.”

There was a sudden tightness in his shoulders. You recognised it straight away.

He wasn’t going home for the nutrias.

“What brought this on?” you asked.

Yeonjun didn’t know how to answer. He turned the bottle around another time.

“Well, uh—you,” he said. You looked up. “Our conversation on your balcony. And—I don’t know. Been thinking about that river just now. Haven’t thought about it in years.”

You glanced back ahead, tightening your grip on the collar of his jacket. It smelled like his cologne.

At some point, you seemed to have accidentally trained yourself into smelling bergamot on something and immediately assuming it belonged to him.

“You sure?” you asked after a moment. “Said you’d cut your parents off.”

A car passed you on the street, its headlights so bright that you had to squint. For a second, your shadows vanished altogether. Then the car was gone, and they returned.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “But I need to see where we stand. You, uh—you were right about that. And there are things I want to say to them anyway. Been building up. You know.”

“Yeah.” Your bag bumped against your hip with every step. “Well, um—I hope they listen.”

Yeonjun glanced at you. “Yeah.”

“Good luck.”

The smile on your lips was small and uncertain. You weren’t convinced luck would help, but you couldn’t offer him much of anything else.

“Thanks,” he said, lifting the bottle slightly. “Might need a fair bit more of this to recover.”

Your laughter was soft, but felt louder in the stillness of the night.

“I’ll have it ready for you,” you said.

The warmth inside him finally blocked out the biting wind.

This, he knew, would help him better than luck.

“Thank you,” he said.

Your building stood just ahead, the entrance lit by the glow of the same streetlight Yeonjun had leaned against last week. The same one under which he’d given you his jacket the first time.

The memory sat heavily in your mind, but felt a lot lighter on your chest.

“You’re welcome,” you said. “S’what friends are for, yeah?”

Yeonjun lowered his gaze. Under the streetlights, your shadows slid together across the pavement until they became one dark shape.

“Mhmm.” He stretched his arms above his head. His joints clicked softly. “What else are friends for?”

You gave him a look. “What do you want them to be for?”

He smiled and didn’t answer.

You wondered what he was thinking about. Then wondered if you really wanted to know.

Just outside the building, Yeonjun pushed the heavy doors open and gestured for you to go in first. His eyes were weary at the corners.

The air in the lobby was stale and smelled faintly of onions; someone in the building had evidently been cooking. Your eyes watered as soon as the door shut.

Behind you, Yeonjun exhaled heavily. “This fucking smell.”

“Yeah. Horrid.”

The letterboxes seemed more crooked than usual today, with several new black-and-white stickers decorating one edge. Yeonjun drifted towards them automatically and placed the bottle of mead on the floor.

You turned around. “We’re staying here, then?”

He smiled reflexively.

We again.

“For a second,” he said, resting his back against the wall. He was more tired than he’d initially realised.

“Oh, you like the smell?”

He grinned. “I like your dress.”

You stopped in the middle of the lobby. Yeonjun leaned his head back. You found you couldn’t really look at him for longer than a second at a time.

“You mentioned that,” you said.

“Did I?”

“Mhmm.”

His fingers ran idly over the edge of the letterboxes.

“Well,” he said, “I think s’really nice.”

Your lips stretched. “I can lend it to you sometime.”

He snorted. “Doubt I’d look any good in it.”

You glanced down at the satin peeking out from under the jacket. The gold appeared darker in the dim light of the lobby.

“Why?” you said, looking back up. “Think gold suits your skin tone.”

Yeonjun didn’t know what to make of that. Didn’t know what to make of the sudden vibrations under his skin, either.

“Does it?” he asked, nodding towards himself. “Come closer, then. Let me see.”

Scoffing, you took a step forward. “Sounded a bit like the Big Bad Wolf there, but alri—”

Laughing, Yeonjun pushed off the wall and wrapped himself around you, his arms circling your waist, face buried in the crook of your neck. It was quick and easy, almost like a habit. It made your heart startle.

“Oh,” you murmured, your breath leaving your lungs in a quiet laugh. “Getting the dress measurements, yeah?”

“Mhmm.” The sound travelled down your spine. You tried very hard not to think about it. “Seeing if it’ll fit me.”

His jacket slipped from your shoulders and landed softly on the floor behind you.

Neither of you moved to pick it up.

“And?” you asked quietly. “Will it?”

His arms tightened around you.

“Just a bit more,” he said. His chest rose and fell steadily against yours. “Still calculating.”

Your fingers tightened in the fabric of his shirt, only slightly.

You did not know what you were doing.

You decided you were too tired to worry about it.

“Taking a while,” you whispered, making no move to pull away.

His head shifted against your shoulder in a tiny nod. “Never been good at maths.”

“Mhmm.”

The two of you stood there for another minute while the wind murmured beyond the lobby doors, almost comforting now. You could barely remember the chill of the night. Could barely smell the dreadful onions.

Finally, Yeonjun lifted his head. You felt his absence immediately, cold against your neck.

You looked up as he took a step back. His eyes were dark in the dimness, but open in a way that made your breath catch.

You looked down.

“Let’s go, then,” you said, gesturing towards the stairs.

Nodding, he bent to retrieve the bottle. It felt heavier than it had at the shop, despite being half-empty.

Your shoe nudged his jacket. You picked it up.

“Shit.” The entire back was dusted white. “It’s got dust on it, I’m—”

Yeonjun let out another slow breath. He took the jacket from your hands before you could brush the dust off, warm fingers grazing yours.

“S’fine, love,” he said, tossing it over his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it.”

You looked at him. He was watching you with something absurdly warm and peaceful in his eyes.

You moved for the stairs.

The scent of onions blissfully faded the higher you climbed, replaced instead by a familiar, suffocating warmth. You wondered if it would be this hot here in the winter. Wondered about the dark windows of the stairwell, too. Wondered about everything you could, so you wouldn’t wonder about Yeonjun, climbing the stairs right behind you.

You stopped again outside his door on the fifth floor. The corridor lights buzzed overhead.

“Tell Violet I said hi,” you said.

The corners of his lips lifted. Violet was probably asleep inside. He could picture her curled up on his bed, the edge of her tail twitching every now and then.

“I will.” He pulled his keys from his back pocket. “She’ll be back at yours tomorrow morning, I’m sure.”

“Yeah, probably.”

He smiled.

You smiled back.

The night lingered between you for a moment more.

Then you turned and climbed the rest of the stairs home.

Later, when you slipped out of your dress, your skin smelled faintly of bergamot.

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thank you for reading!!♡♡

[taexual]

. . . d e l i r i u m | 5

what might be good for your heart might not be good for my head /// sleep token, gethsemane

pairing: yeonjun x fem!reader

summary: sometimes love and hate exist on opposite ends of the map. other times, on separate floors of the same building.

genre: ex!yeonjun / enemies to lovers au / neighbour au

warnings: slow burn, outrageous mutual pining, strong language, mentions of heavy drinking, illegal levels of yearning (arrest this man), angst of course, but also fluff?

words: 14k

[ ! ] this is a sequel to equilibrium

masterlist / read from the beginning

✦ • ─── AUGUST 30, 2026. 8 AM

Your phone buzzed against the cardboard boxes beside your bed, rattling your empty glass of water and shocking you awake. At first, you didn’t understand where the noise had come from and stared at your ceiling, disoriented.

You had fallen into such a heavy sleep last night that you hadn’t even heard Violet coming in through the cracked window. Hadn’t texted Yeonjun that she was here.

Shit, you didn’t even know if she was here.

Bleary-eyed, you sat up and squinted through the narrow gap in your bedroom door. The flat was so quiet that it made your stomach knot.

Then something white moved past the leaves of your monstera.

Your tension eased. You grabbed your phone.

REINA [8 AM] you up? coming over in 30 if yes

Without thinking, you typed back:

YOU [8:03 AM] yes ok

Then, before your mind properly caught up, you switched to another chat to inform Yeonjun about Violet and quickly locked your phone again.

There was a faint smell of rain in the flat. You shut the window and went into the kitchen.

Violet meowed the moment she saw you stumbling in, and kept meowing until you realised to open the curtains for her. It was another overcast day, but the faint light still hurt your eyes.

It was only as you splashed cold water over your face that it struck you how bizarre it was for Reina to come over before ten on a Sunday.

By the time the intercom buzzed, you’d already convinced yourself that something awful had happened. You analysed her muffled it’s me, let me in, looking for signs of distress: a trembling voice, perhaps a stifled sob.

Nothing.

You were still confused when you opened the door.

Reina looked the same as always, albeit slightly tired, her long hair damp from the drizzle. Immediately, she began to complain about the trip upstairs.

“Jesus,” she wheezed, shoving a white bakery box into your hands and pulling you into a hug. “How does this building pass inspection? This lift is pre-war. And the stairs have the incline of a fucking ladder.”

You laughed into her shoulder. “You’re just very small.”

“So, that’s discrimination, then. There should be someone we can call about—oh.” You felt her stiffen just before she pulled away. “There’s a cat here.”

You turned.

Violet sat politely on the armrest of the sofa, staring at Reina with wide, cautious eyes.

“Yeah,” you said, setting the bakery box on the kitchen island. “That’s Violet.”

You reached for the cupboard above the sink and pulled down two mugs.

Behind you, Reina stayed silent, eyes locked on the cat. “Yeonjun’s Violet?”

The back of your neck prickled.

“Yes,” you said, keeping your tone even. “She kept showing up here every morning, so we decided to just let her stay.”

Reina frowned as she shrugged off her damp raincoat and draped it over the back of the sofa. Violet leaned in to give it a sniff.

“You decided,” she repeated. You pretended to be deeply engrossed in picking out coffee capsules. “Together?”

“Well, yes,” you said. “It’s his cat.”

“Right. It’s his cat. Spending the day in your flat.” She parted her lips, suddenly amused. “Hey—that rhymed. But also, what the fuck?”

“It—okay, listen.” You shoved a capsule into the machine. “Did something happen? I mean, I love having you here, obviously, but it’s barely nine in the morning.”

“Oh.” She climbed onto a stool at the kitchen island, tucking one leg underneath herself. “Well, how about you tell me what happened? Bin and I left last night and missed all the entertainment, apparently.”

Something bitter twisted in your stomach. “You didn’t miss anything.”

“No?” She grinned. “So, what did you do after we left?”

“I went home.”

“Mhmm. And who did you go with?”

You leaned back against the cupboards, palms pressing into the cold marble on either side of you.

“We live in the same building,” you said.

Reina tapped her fingers rhythmically against the countertop. “Right. And you’re co-parenting a cat.”

“We’re not—okay, we’re not co-parenting. It’s just a cat, Rei.”

“I’ve got nothing against the cat,” she said, though she shot Violet another wary look. Under normal circumstances, Reina adored cats. Under these circumstances, however, she did not trust them. “It’s just that, um—I was joking before, about feeling like we were back in grad school. But are we actually back? Because between the party and this, it’s very—”

“We’re not back,” you said.

Thankfully, the coffee machine clicked off before Reina could say anything else. You handed her the blue mug with a red heart at the bottom, the foam trembling slightly on the surface, then turned back to make your own.

“He lives downstairs,” you said. “And his cat keeps coming up through the fire escape. It made more sense to leave her here instead of texting him every five minutes.”

“Oh,” Reina said lightly. “So, you’re texting, too.”

You winced. “Well, the cat keeps showing up. I can’t exactly throw her out.”

“Mhmm. Just like you can’t throw Yeonjun out, yeah? Funny how that works.”

You pressed your tongue against the inside of your cheek.

“Well,” you said, “he’s not here now, is he?”

“Not yet, I guess,” she said, taking a sip of her coffee. It burned down her throat exactly the way she liked it. “Has he been over, then?”

“Only to pick up the cat.”

It felt unpleasant, knowing that it was technically true, but still skipped over the peach cobbler and the lobby and the argument in the stairwell and the smoking area outside the restaurant.

Shit, you might as well have been back in grad school.

“And,” Reina continued, watching you pick up your red mug, “have you been over to his place?”

You lingered with your back to her for a second longer, fingers curled around the mug even as the ceramic burned your palms.

“I, uh.” You cleared your throat. “Once.”

“Oh, once.” Reina set the mug down on the countertop a touch too hard. “That’s interesting.”

“To help with a fern,” you added, turning around. “That’s it.”

“To—” She frowned. “To help with a what?”

You sat down opposite her and opened the box she’d brought. There were four cupcakes inside, with swirls of chocolate and vanilla frosting on top. The flat filled with the scent of warm sugar.

“He got a plant,” you explained.

“And he needed your help with it?”

“To find where to put it.”

“Where to—oh.” She picked up a vanilla cupcake from the box. “Is he four years old?”

Your lips twitched. “S’just a fern.”

“Right.”

Outside, the rain thickened, pattering against the windows. The whole flat dimmed, as though you’d been plunged underwater.

Violet, bothered by the noise, hopped off the sofa and trotted towards the bathroom. Bless her. She was probably going to inspect your washing machine; it appeared to have started leaking again. Either that, or you’d spilt water there last night after getting home.

You tried not to remember.

“So,” Reina said finally, taking a thoughtful bite, “it’s just a fern. And just a cat. And just a party.”

You spent an unnecessary minute peeling the paper from the base of the chocolate cupcake. “Right.”

“Mhmm.” She swallowed. “Won’t draw parallels to a year ago. But you see, of course, how easy that’d be, yeah? I mean, you said nothing was happening last time, too—”

“I see it.”

“Right.” She ran her tongue over her lower lip, fighting back a smile. “So, what actually happened yesterday? Because he spent the entire night following you around and then famously left with you.”

Your nose scrunched. “Is that really famous?”

“Did you check your phone?”

You took a large bite of your cupcake and tried to remember where you’d left your phone. The chocolate chips were half-melted, soft enough to stick briefly to your teeth.

“Wha’ should I have checked it for?” you asked through the mouthful.

“Doesn’t matter.” She waved dismissively with her mug. “Don’t unmute the group chat.”

“Oh. Brilliant.”

You could only imagine what was happening in the group chat that had otherwise been dead since graduation. Last you’d checked, Beomgyu and Nara had been arguing about which colour shoes went with the gown. She’d rather die, she insisted, than be caught in beige heels (she ended up wearing white).

“Is that why you came over, then?” you asked, lowering your cupcake to the island.

“Yes,” Reina said. “Had to hear everything straight from the source.”

“Not much to hear.”

“Mm. Give me a moment to process what I’ve already heard.”

You sighed and took another bite.

For a while, the two of you focused on eating and drinking.

Reina was mentally calculating how many flights of stairs separated her fists from Yeonjun’s face—just in case.

You, meanwhile, considered the medical likelihood of liquefying and seeping into the kitchen floorboards so you wouldn’t have to answer any of her inevitable questions.

Unfortunately, you remained solid.

“So,” Reina said at last, folding her cupcake wrapper into a perfect square, “should I be asking about the two of you going home together last night?”

You took a sip of coffee. It tasted bitter today. Should’ve added more sugar.

“You shouldn’t,” you said. “We just went home.”

Reina seemed willing to accept that and nodded once. “Okay. What happened leading up to going home, then?”

Your gaze fell to the cracked corner of the marble island. You couldn’t remember if the crack had come with the flat or if you’d somehow caused it yourself.

“I, uh—well, there was a point when I went out for a smoke,” you said slowly. “And he… came out, too.”

“And then what?”

Your eyes flicked briefly back to hers, then away again. “I’d rather not say.”

Reina paused with her mug halfway to her mouth.

“Oh.” She straightened so quickly that the stool creaked beneath her. “That—okay. Is he fucking with your head again?”

“No.”

“Okay. I’ll assume he is anyway.” She took a large sip to soothe the tickling in her throat. “Walk me through the thought process there, then. Come on.”

You clicked your tongue against your teeth. “I don’t think thoughts were involved in that process, to be honest.”

Reina tightened both hands around her coffee in a visible effort to behave maturely.

She did not succeed.

It started with one snort, then another. Then she caught the twitch in your mouth and bent forward against the island, laughing properly.

Despite the reluctant smile pulling at your lips, you gave her a deeply miserable look.

“Sorry,” she wheezed. “Sorry. God.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “Okay. Ready to be an adult about this. What, um—what are we thinking now, then, babe? Surely, the thoughts are back now, yeah?”

You looked down into your mug. The foam lingered on the sides in pale rings.

Last night, you’d deliberately avoided thinking. Just returned home, washed your face, brushed your teeth, and gone to bed. But now, sitting here with Reina, your mind seemed to crack open, and every memory flooded in backwards: from the scarf Violet had dragged out of your box, to the dark basement corridor with the grey sofas on your first day of classes.

“I—” Your voice caught. You cleared your throat. “Remember that game we had? About which of us would be the last to find a campus crush?”

Reina didn’t understand where this was going, but her expression soured instantly at the memory.

“Yeah,” she said. “Still annoyed I lost my own game.”

You smiled faintly and took another sip from your mug.

“Well, at one point,” you said, “I texted you saying I’d lost. And then, about a minute later, I changed my mind. Don’t know if you remember tha—”

“Oh. I remember,” she said, pointing her cupcake wrapper at you. “First day of classes. Don’t think you ever told me who your crush was.”

It startled you that she recalled the exact date. Then again, over the entire course of the game, you’d only told her you’d lost once.

“Yeah,” you said with a long exhale. “Well. That was Yeonjun.”

“That wa—” Her expression turned blank.

You nodded, already bracing yourself.

Reina stared at you for three whole seconds before blinking.

“The puzzle pieces,” she said, “continue to fall into place.”

You snorted, lifting your mug before the instinct to minimise everything could kick in.

You remembered, still against your will, telling Yeonjun about this: on the sofa in his living room, while he’d had his cheeks stuffed full of grapes. He’d been euphoric. You tried not to linger on the memory.

“Right,” you said, swallowing the coffee. “So what I’m thinking now is… he probably shouldn’t have caught me off-guard back in grad school. I obviously must’ve liked him a little. I don’t know.”

Reina nodded carefully. She was trying to mirror your vocabulary, so she wouldn’t force conclusions onto you that you hadn’t yet reached yourself.

“Okay,” she said. This was her buffer word. “That—you’ve admitted that. That’s very good.”

A small smile appeared on your lips. “Oh, gentle parenting. Cheers.”

She let out a quiet snicker and nudged the cupcake box towards you.

You picked the one topped with chocolate sprinkles. The brown frosting had smudged slightly against the lid.

“The thing is, though,” you said, peeling back the wrapper, “he told me I’d won right after I accepted that—oh, hey, this doesn’t feel like a bet anymore. And I don’t want it to be. That—that’s when he said s’over. Fuck you and your feelings, basically.”

Reina reached for the last cupcake in the box. There was a stripe of chocolate smeared across the white icing.

“And,” you continued, “because everything between us was so brief, it feels like I haven’t even earned the right to feel this fucked up about it. Hurt, angry. Whatever. S’like it’s embarrassing. There’s this voice in my head constantly going, get a grip, it was only two weeks.”

The kitchen fell quiet once you finished speaking; the rain had softened back to a drizzle outside. At some point, Violet had returned to inspect the windows of the living room again.

Reina stared silently at the crack in the countertop.

Never—not once—in the year and a half since things ended with Yeonjun, had you openly admitted the bet had hurt you.

She’d seen that it had, of course. Seen the exhaustion, the irritability. She’d walked in on you sitting motionless at your desk, both hands over your face. You’d found an excuse every time your eyes met: stress, your thesis, New York. You were just tired. Just hadn’t slept enough.

Reina had even joked about him a few times, always gauging your reaction. You were consistent then, too: oh, I don’t care, he can get fucked.

This, right now, was very new.

“That was fucked up, ending the bet,” Reina said finally, setting her cupcake back down on the island. “Do you think I should’ve knocked him out when—”

Her focus drifted when Violet padded across the floor and came to a stop beside her stool.

“Oh, hi, baby,” she murmured, bending slightly towards the cat. “Came to help us figure out what your dad’s problem is? Think he’s just deeply unwell? Non compos mentis?”

You snorted. The majority of Reina’s co-workers at her NGO were former lawyers. She’d never trusted lawyers and had taken up studying Latin to make sure they knew what they were doing (they did not).

Violet, who did not speak Latin, sprang onto the island.

“Oh—hey!” Reina snatched her cupcake away just as Violet leaned in for a sniff and perhaps a little lick. “I haven’t agreed to share.”

The cat sat down in the middle of the countertop and turned her head towards you with a keen meow.

Snickering, you climbed off your stool.

Yeonjun had brought over a small plastic bag of treats the last time he dropped off her food. It sat beside the coffee machine now, clipped shut with one of your hairpins.

You shook out a cube of tuna into your palm.

“Here,” you said, lowering your hand towards her. “How’s this for you, little one?”

Violet accepted the treat immediately and leapt off the counter, carrying it back to her spot by the window. The rain had stopped altogether now, though the clouds still hung low outside.

Reina watched her with a faint smile.

“You’ve got snacks for her and all,” she said gently.

You lowered yourself back onto the stool and didn’t reply.

“Alright, then,” she said, taking a bite of her cupcake and turning back to you. “Where were we—ah, yes.” She swallowed. “Me beating up Yeonjun. Or do you want to do it yourself?”

You finished your cupcake in a few quick bites.

“I wanted to,” you said, wiping crumbs off your hands. Reina brightened. “But he kind of ran away from me the last time I tried to talk to him. Literally got into his car and drove off. And even later, when I found him again to ask about the—the whole scheme, he just walked off again.”

“Right.” She took a long sip of coffee. It was completely lukewarm now. “Break his legs, s’what I think. Never going to walk off again.”

You laughed.

Reina appreciated the momentary lightness. She set her mug back down on the island.

It made sense, she thought, why you’d denied being affected by this for so long. Getting hurt was one thing, but handing that hurt to someone and asking them to explain it, only for them to walk away, was another.

“What’s happening now, then?” she asked eventually. “Has he—I mean, he’s been downstairs for weeks now, yeah? And his cat’s practically moved in.” She glanced at Violet, who seemed to have fallen asleep against the monstera pot. “I’m assuming you’ve talked at least a little.”

You sighed. “Not really. We mostly talk about Violet.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Mostly.”

You took your time folding the cupcake wrapper.

“He did offer to explain,” you admitted, wiping icing from your lips with your index finger. “Said we needed to talk.”

Reina didn’t need to ask. She already knew you’d refused, and that was likely why Yeonjun had been trailing you all night yesterday.

“I think,” she said, uncomfortably serious now, “that would probably be good. Listening to him.”

You stared at your hands.

“For closure, first of all,” she continued. “To, um—to understand what actually happened.”

“And second of all?”

She shrugged one shoulder. “You’d figure out what comes next once you’ve heard why he ended everything so suddenly.”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly sudden,” you said. “We did say the bet was—”

“Oh, come on,” she cut you off with a flick of her hand. “You can’t seriously believe it was really just a bet. Something had to have happened.”

“Did it, though?” You finally looked up. “He literally had a scheme to use me to embarrass his parents.”

Reina exhaled, forcing the lid of the cupcake box to tremble.

The scheme made no sense to her.

She’d made Soobin explain it to her three separate times and punished him by sleeping at home instead of at his house after each explanation. It remained excruciatingly stupid every time she heard it.

So, Yeonjun had wanted to date someone below his social status to spite his parents.

Reina had never held much hope for him, but surely he had to have been fucking joking. She’d seen the way he’d looked at you.

“Please don’t think I’m trying to defend him,” she said. “Fuck him, actually. But I thought that scheme wasn’t the reason he started the bet?”

You gave a weary shrug. “Maybe not. But the bet was still an ego boost.”

“Sure. But then, uh—he told you he had feelings for you,” she said, her gaze fixed on you in case she said too much. “That’s pretty far from that whole I’m the best in the world, and everyone loves me act.”

“Could’ve just been saying shit.”

“I guess,” she allowed, leaning back. “But do you honestly believe that?”

Your gaze dropped to the floor.

You remembered how Yeonjun had looked in the stairwell when he said he wanted to explain everything. The way he’d looked last night, too, clinging to that lamppost.

“No,” you admitted, but the word bruised on its way out. It felt like stepping on the same rake and taking the handle to the forehead all over again.

Reina nodded slowly.

“Right,” she said. “So, that’s what doesn’t add up. If he had feelings for you, why end the bet at all? You weren’t rejecting him. He had to know you liked him back. He’s a fucking idiot, obviously, but he’s not that stupid.”

That earned her a small twitch of your lips. Reina considered it a triumph.

“Soobin and I think his parents had something to do with it,” she said. “Otherwise, none of this makes sense.”

You folded your hands in your lap and pressed your thumbs together.

You’d had these thoughts looping over and over, hopeful and relentless, during those first months afterwards. Yeonjun had been convincing; he’d looked at you like he meant every word he said to you—which was why ending the bet hadn’t made sense. Something must’ve happened to change his mind.

But love wasn’t supposed to be something you changed your mind about.

“That’s even worse, then,” you said, “if it wasn’t just a bet for him, either. Because he still ended it without explaining anything. So it couldn’t have meant that much to him in the end.”

Reina lowered her gaze back to her empty mug.

“And then hearing him out now,” you went on, your voice tightening, “means I’ve got to dig up all of that. Admit that—admit that this is important. Maybe even forgive him. And then risk him just leaving again.”

A few stray raindrops tapped against the balcony, quiet against the glass, as though bashful to interrupt.

“That’s thinking three steps ahead, though,” Reina pointed out carefully, “isn’t it?”

You looked up at her. “Is it?”

“He spent the whole night following you around yesterday,” she said. “Seems genuinely desperate to be part of your life.”

“Seemed desperate for it last time, too.” Your eyes dropped back to your hands, a wry smile on your lips. “Still left.”

That was that, then.

Reina wanted to protect you from your own mind, but she couldn’t argue with you about this.

You leaned back against the stool, the metal edge digging into your lower spine. Your limbs felt strangely heavy, even though you hadn’t drunk all that much last night.

“I don’t know if I can do that,” you said. “Admitting that I wanted him outside the bet, that—that’s what ended up fucking me over. And I already said shit to him last night that I shouldn’t have. That’s it.”

Reina swallowed and tried to neutralise her expression. You were admitting things she’d expected to have to pry out of you inch by inch; she couldn’t get used to it.

“Okay,” she said again, still buffering. “I hear you. And I want to ask to elaborate, but I’m holding myself back. Please appreciate my efforts.”

One side of your lips stretched. “I appreciate your efforts.”

“Thank you.” She tapped her fingers against the marble. “So—uh, just to be technical about it for a second, yeah? You admitting that to yourself didn’t end things. That was good. It’s Yeonjun who ended things. And we still don’t know why. He knows, though. And wants to tell you, apparently.”

“Right.” You clenched your jaw. “But I don’t know if I want to know. Or if it even matters anymore.”

Reina lowered her head. She wanted to march downstairs and demand answers from him herself, maybe knock him out for good measure.

But this wasn’t her wound. Wasn’t her heartache.

“Babe,” she said after a moment.

You lifted your eyes.

“Do you really think it doesn’t matter?” she asked. “Or do you just wish it didn’t?”

You held her gaze for another second before turning towards the window instead. Violet was curled up like a little pretzel beside the flowerpots.

“I don’t know,” you said finally.

Reina shifted on the stool, tugging her left leg out from underneath her. It was completely numb.

“Shit,” she mumbled, shaking the feeling back into her foot. “Let me, uh—let me ask you something else, yeah?”

You turned back to her. “Mm. Love it when you come over just to interrogate me.”

She ignored that completely.

“Do you actually want him to just fuck off and leave you alone?”

You hooked your ankles against the bottom rung of the stool. You’d already anticipated the question and imagined your answer.

But, sitting here now, you could still feel his hands on you from last night, as though the traces of his touch were embedded under your skin.

“Probably not,” you said with a resigned exhale. “I mean, I kissed him.”

Reina coughed politely once, then less politely twice more.

“Right,” she breathed, pressing a fist to her chest. “O-okay, yes. I suspected that was what happened, so I don’t know why I—why I’m surprised. Um—”

“I’ll give you a minute,” you said, lips pressed tight. “More coffee?”

She tipped her head back and took a deep breath before looking at you again.

“I’m good,” she said, patting her chest. “We’re back.” She cleared her throat another time just in case. “Well, more or less.”

You snorted.

“This is smashing news to receive at nine in the morning, just so you know,” she said. “M’so glad I came over.”

“I can tell.”

“Mm.” She took another breath. “So, uh—okay. In light of this deeply important development, talking to him would make sense, no?”

You shook your head faintly. You’d followed your feelings before, ignored common sense, and this was where they’d led you.

“It would be better not to,” you said.

“For whom?”

You blinked. “For—well, for me.”

Reina ran her hand over the cold edge of the island and looked away from you for a second.

“Would it, though?” she asked.

You sighed again; a long, heavy sound. “I don’t know.”

That was the best you could manage, Reina was starting to notice. She recognised that she’d pushed far enough.

“Well, you don’t need to do anything right now,” she said. “You can think about it. Avoid it for a bit longer if you need to. Just, uh—you’re going to be seeing him anyway.”

You turned to Violet. “I know.”

“And it’s probably not going to get easier with time,” she added. “These things usually don’t.”

You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth, trying to organise your thoughts into something coherent.

“See, um…” You turned the empty mug between your hands. Your rings clicked against the ceramic. “I’m probably prideful enough to think this could get easier with time. Eventually, there might be no reason for us to talk anymore. Maybe Violet will stop coming here, I don’t know.”

Across the room, Violet lay so still that she resembled a plush toy. Reina watched her and did not share your optimism.

“Sure,” she said. “If that point ever comes.”

You looked back at her. “Why wouldn’t it?”

“Nara’s birthday is on Friday.”

You clicked your tongue. “Okay. Fuck. But maybe he won’t—”

“And Yeonjun’s is right after that.”

Your shoulders lowered again. “Well, I can skip that one.”

Reina tilted her head towards the sleeping cat. “Can Violet?”

You glanced back towards the window.

“Look.” Reina flattened both palms against the countertop, drawing your attention back to her. “This can very easily turn into a lifelong process of finding excuses to avoid him. And you might find enough of them—in fact, I don’t doubt you will.”

You opened your mouth to reply.

“But,” she continued before you could interrupt, “that means your brain stays switched on all the time. All the time, yeah? Constant fucking rerouting, planning ahead, avoiding places. It’s exhausting, babe. You can’t live like that.”

You tapped your finger absently against the edge of the island. The kitchen still smelled of coffee and chocolate.

“I get that,” you said. “It’s just a lot.”

“Well, of course it’s a lot,” she said. “You’ve been carrying all of it for over a year.”

You hummed.

“S’the band-aid thing, the way I see it,” she said. “You either rip it off in one go, and it hurts like hell for two seconds, and then it’s done. Or you peel it off slowly, tiny rip by tiny rip. And it stings the entire time, and your skin’s all raw by the end of it.”

A weak smile appeared on your lips. “Vivid imagery, Rei.”

“I know, yeah.” She smiled, then forced her lips back into a straight line. “S’what you’re doing, though. You peel the band-aid back a little, panic because it hurts, then try sticking it back on. But it’s never going to stick properly, is it? Corners all curled up. Hair’s getting caught underneath.” She shuddered. “S’a nightmare.”

The humour slowly faded from your face.

You dragged your fingers down your calf until your hand wrapped around your ankle, for no reason other than to give your nervous energy somewhere to settle.

“Well,” you said, looking back towards the balcony doors, “I could always just buy a new band-aid and slap that over the old one.”

“Over the—” Reina narrowed her eyes. “Oh, look at you, Miss Think-Outside-The-Box.”

You ducked your head with a soft chuckle.

“No, I mean, that’s true,” Reina said. “You could get a new band-aid. S’going to be fun, I imagine—and sustainable—having to find a new band-aid every time Yeonjun comes to collect the cat you’re co-parenting.”

You winced before you could stop yourself.

Reina noticed it immediately and leaned back from the island, already preparing to apologise.

“We’re not co-parenting,” you said before she could. “Violet just visits.”

She sighed. “Right.”

“I get it, though,” you added. “You’re right.”

Reina leaned slightly forward as if she’d misheard you.

“I—I’ll try to talk to him, I guess,” you continued, staring at your ankle. “Hear what happened. Rip off the band-aid. Whatever.”

Reina gave a slow nod. She climbed off the stool and, limping slightly on her numb leg, crossed the kitchen to you.

“Good,” she said, draping an arm over your shoulders. “And then we’ll get a new band-aid if we still need one, yeah? Not leaving you bleeding out.”

The thumping in your chest quieted.

“Yeah,” you said, resting your hand over hers. Her shirt was soft against your arm. “Thank you.”

“I’m with you, babe. Always. Will rip out his eyes, just tell me when.”

Laughing softly, you turned properly to wrap both arms around her. Reina leaned into you, exhaling.

“I don’t like seeing you suffer,” she whispered, her fingers brushing over the ends of your hair.

“I know.” Your throat tightened. “I love you, Rei.”

She squeezed you back. “I love you.”

✦ • ─── AUGUST 30, 2026. 10:30 AM

Eventually, you and Reina relocated to the sofa, where the conversation drifted back to her engagement party—focusing, this time, on the next plans.

“Sage,” she announced, “is still the leading colour for the bridesmaid dresses in my mind.”

“Wasn’t it emerald last week?” you asked.

“Oh, yeah.” She snorted. “But, see, I had a dream about this frog the other night—kind of like the one in Shrek, Fiona’s dad? No idea why my subconscious produced that, but anyway. Everyone wore this garish shade of green in the dream. In his honour, I assume, so—”

“The frog’s?”

“Yes.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.” She grinned. “So, since then, emerald reminds me of frogs. So sage it is.”

You chuckled, leaning in closer to look at the Pinterest board on her phone screen.

It still startled you, sometimes, to hear her talk about marriage. She’d just turned nineteen when you met her, a year younger than you.

Now, listening to her describe, one more time, the way Soobin’s hands had shaken as he held the ring box, it felt as though you’d lived an entire lifetime alongside them. As though you’d watched them grow up and had grown up with them.

You couldn’t wait for all that would happen next.

When Reina left your flat a few hours later, she felt much lighter.

That was why, after the two of you hugged goodbye and confirmed your Friday lunch plans, she stopped one floor below. She stood on the landing for several seconds, one hand gripping the railing, and watched the weak midday light filter through the narrow stairwell windows.

This, she knew, was probably overstepping.

Maybe even catastrophically so.

Then she thought about the years the three of you—Soobin, you, and herself—had spent together. Thought about Yeonjun, too, lingering on the periphery of those memories, whether you and Reina wanted him there or not.

She turned and knocked on his door.

Then knocked again.

And again.

By the fourth knock, she was beginning to suspect he’d died, and she was bruising her knuckles for nothing.

Finally, the lock clicked. The door opened halfway.

Yeonjun had very clearly not expected to see her here.

“Oh,” he said first.

Then, “um.”

And finally: “Hi.”

“Hi,” Reina replied. “She doesn’t know I’m here.”

That seemed to answer the question he was about to have. But he still looked mildly startled, and a bit like he’d crawled from his bed and immediately regretted surviving the night. His hair stuck out in several directions, skin looked nearly translucent. Reina could practically see his headache.

“Okay,” he managed after a second. “Why, um—w-why are you here?”

“Um.” She glanced towards the stairwell as if you might suddenly appear and catch her here. “A question before I answer your question, okay?”

Yeonjun frowned faintly. “Sure.”

“Do you love her?”

The headache seemed to drop straight from his skull into his chest.

His grip tightened around the door handle.

“Yes,” he said.

Reina was glad he hadn’t hesitated.

“Okay,” she said. “Great. So, that’s why I’m here.” She inhaled sharply, and the rest of her words tumbled out in one furious burst: “I don’t know what the fuck your damage is, but you need to sort your shit out and explain the fucktrain of bullshit you pulled in grad school.”

Yeonjun closed his eyes briefly. This, he recognised, had to be where Soobin’s colourful vocabulary had come from.

He remembered, abruptly, taking the lift home last night. Remembered finding his jacket draped over the stairwell railing outside his door. No trace of you, other than a faint whiff of your perfume on the lapels.

“Sh-she won’t listen to me,” he said quietly. His eyes were so bloodshot that Reina wondered whether he’d slept at all or just lay there decomposing. “I’ve already tried.”

She took a moment to regain her breath.

“I talked to her,” she said then.

The corridor fell quiet. It smelled, she noted, oddly of burnt toast.

“You talked to her?” he repeated. “About talking to me?”

“Yes,” she said, gripping the edge of her raincoat sleeve. “But not for you. I did it for her. She deserves to know what the fuck happened to you back then. Honestly, I deserve to know, too, seeing as you two have dragged me into this mess against my will—but anyway. You need to explain, and you need to do it properly. In a way that makes sense.”

“It—yeah.” He dragged a hand through his already dishevelled hair. “I know. Yeah.”

He still looked dreadful and grey. But now he seemed to have a purpose again.

“And I swear to God,” Reina added, tipping her head back, “if you come up with another fucking bet, or lie to her about—”

“I won’t,” he interrupted. “I’m done with bets. And I never lied to her.”

She stared at him for a long moment.

“Not going to fact-check that,” she decided, “but that better not be a lie, either.”

“It’s not.”

“Good.”

She glanced toward the stairs again, debating, for a second, whether he’d earned the next part.

Finally, she sighed.

“Look… don’t expect anything once you’ve explained yourself,” she said. “For your own sake.”

Yeonjun tried to nod, but quickly decided he’d be better off not moving his head at all today.

“Trust me, I don’t expect anything,” he said. “Just want her to know what I was—what really happened. What she does with that isn’t up to me. She doesn’t owe me anything.”

For the first time since she came here, Reina allowed her shoulders to drop.

“That’s right,” she said. “She doesn’t. So don’t push her into anything she’s not ready for, yeah? Or I’ll be back here knocking on something other than your door.”

Yeonjun lowered his eyes, though the warning still stung enough for him to mutter, “I’d never push her.”

“No, that—” Reina clicked her tongue. “See, you say that, but you seem to push her just by standing too close. Remember that when you talk to her. Because you might think she wouldn’t give a fuck if you got struck by lightning tomorrow, but she’d start a fight with the fucking rain clouds for you. Alright? Remember that. Or I’ll really knock your fucking teeth in.”

A wave of dizziness rolled through him so suddenly that he had to lean harder against the doorframe to stay upright. His heart thudded heavily in his chest.

You’d told him you cared last night.

He squeezed his eyes shut. His ears were still ringing.

“Still with me?” Reina asked, leaning forward to check for signs of life.

Yeonjun opened his eyes again.

“Yes,” he said hoarsely. “Yeah, I—I’ll remember.”

“And if there’s still shit you haven’t figured out yet,” she added, “figure it out first. Don’t take another year to do it, because—why did you need a year?”

“I—”

“No.” She held up both hands. “Never mind. Not my place. Just—just be ready. She’s already got questions. Don’t leave her with more.”

His pulse seemed to thrum through every inch of his skin.

A part of him wanted to run upstairs immediately. Talk to you right now, while adrenaline was still drowning out everything else.

He suspected all he’d manage was please.

“I won’t,” he said, forcing himself to take a breath. “I mean, I’ll try not to.”

Reina nodded. She trusted that more than she would’ve trusted his confidence.

“That’s fair,” she said. “So, we’re clear?”

He gave a small nod. “We’re clear.”

“Okay.”

She stayed on his doorstep another moment, studying him. His shirt was wrinkled. There was a faint crease along his cheek, probably from sleeping on that side of his face. He looked like, if he let go of the doorframe, he’d drop right onto the floor.

For one second, she almost felt sorry for him.

Then she remembered everything you’d said upstairs and crossed her arms.

“And in case you somehow still haven’t got it,” she said, “I’ll emphasise that again: I don’t care how much you drink or how fucked up you feel, yeah? I will literally fold you in fucking half, light your ass on fire, and launch you directly into the next galaxy if you hurt her. Are we clear on that, too?”

A shadow crossed his face.

He doubted Reina could make him feel worse than he already did, but the threat was fair.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s, uh—that part was already very clear.”

“Good.” Finally, she took a step back from the doorway. “Your cat’s at her place, by the way. What the fuck’s that about?”

“Oh—” He laughed, startling himself. “Yeah. That’s Violet. She sort of does whatever she wants. And apparently, what she wants is to be around her.”

Reina smirked despite herself.

“Interesting,” she said. “Seems she inherited that from you.”

Yeonjun felt a flush at the back of his neck despite the chill in the corridor.

“Yeah,” he said, finally pushing himself away from the doorframe. “Seems so.”

“Yeah,” she echoed, amused by the way he avoided her gaze. “Well. Don’t forget what I said.”

“I won’t,” he said. “And, f-for what it’s worth, I wouldn’t have given up. I’d have kept trying to talk to her, however long it took.” His fingers curled around the handle again. “It’s not—I’m not doing this because you told me to.”

Reina watched him quietly for another second.

“I know,” she said finally.

Yeonjun realised, with some surprise, that this was probably the closest thing to approval he’d ever received from her.

“And, um…” Reina’s mouth twisted. “I’m also thinking she probably doesn’t need to know I was here.”

“Scared?”

“A bit, yeah.”

He smiled softly. “I won’t tell her.”

“Good.”

Reina stayed on the landing, feeling awkward now that she wasn’t threatening him.

“Just so you know,” she said. “I’m not rooting for you. You’ve got a lot of shit to fix before we can talk about that. But I also don’t want to repeat grad school. So I had to talk to you.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I don’t want that either. S’why I’ve been trying to talk to her.”

“Right. So try that again.” She paused, frowning. “Actually, maybe don’t. Let her come to you. She said she’d try to.”

His eyes lit up so quickly that it embarrassed them both. Reina looked away.

“She did?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

He glanced down to process that. The linoleum outside his flat was terribly scratched. Part of the damage, he knew, had come from his own boxes when he’d moved in.

“That—well, knowing her,” he said, exhaling shakily, “that doesn’t necessarily mean she’ll talk to me soon.”

“True,” Reina admitted. “Nothing you can do about that now, though. You got yourself into this mess. Let her find you when she’s ready.”

Yeonjun didn’t argue. This was already more than he’d allowed himself to hope for after last night.

“Yeah,” he said. “Okay. I already know what I need to say to her anyway.”

Something in Reina’s expression softened very slightly.

“That’s good,” she said.

He ran a hand through his hair again. “Also, uh—m’sorry about drinking half the open bar last night.”

Reina’s lips twitched.

“Yeah. S’fine.” She nodded towards his face. “But take some aspirin. Your temples are turning blue.”

“Ah.” His hand lifted automatically to the side of his face. He could only feel the heat now, and none of the pain. “I will. Thanks.”

With a final nod, Reina turned and climbed down the stairs.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 30, 2026. 4 PM

When Yeonjun came to pick up Violet that afternoon, he wore a black jumper with the hood pulled up and did not look at you. The two of you communicated entirely through mime.

You opened the door.

He gave a nod.

You nodded back and stepped aside.

He bent, one hand braced against his knee, and whistled softly for Violet.

Violet walked over, tentative, her tail held high.

Yeonjun scooped her against his chest and stood. He gave you another nod.

You closed the door before either of you could accidentally say an actual word.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 31, 2026. 4 PM

When you returned from university the following Monday, Yeonjun wasn’t in the lobby.

You’d suspected he might stop waiting there eventually, and you were glad you didn’t need to search for what to say, yet his absence still felt odd in the empty space. The air was dry and still. Someone had left muddy footprints near the entrance; they’d already begun to dry.

You checked your letterbox and pulled out another advertisement for window frames—it had to be a joke, considering that ninety per cent of the windows in this building didn’t open. You crumpled it into your palm.

Your gaze drifted to the peeling adverts across the opposite wall. Alfred, the dachshund, had probably been found; the flyer was gone.

It was quiet here.

You could hear a faint ticking sound, as though that of a clock.

You turned up the stairs.

Inside your flat, you kicked off your shoes, grabbed a banana from the kitchen counter, and changed into your jumper and sweatpants. Violet was still here.

Before you could text him, Yeonjun rang the doorbell. This time, his jumper was blue.

The two of you performed the routine again: one nod, step aside, cat, another nod, door shut.

It felt worse today.

✦ • ─── SEPTEMBER 1, 2026. 4 PM

On Tuesday, Yeonjun wasn’t in the lobby.

And then he forgot the second nod before he left with Violet.

✦ • ─── SEPTEMBER 2, 2026. 4 PM

On Wednesday, Yeonjun wasn’t in the lobby.

At your flat later, he nodded an additional two times.

✦ • ─── SEPTEMBER 3, 2026. 4 PM

On Thursday, Yeonjun wasn’t in the lobby.

But he looked at you, this time, as he picked Violet up. Then nodded and left.

✦ • ─── SEPTEMBER 4, 2026. 4 PM

By Friday, you’d stopped expecting him in the lobby.

Exhaling heavily, you hitched the grocery bags higher against your wrists and started upstairs. The paper handles bit into your skin with every step. The carton of eggs kept thumping against your knee as if the eggs were suicidal.

You were exhausted.

University had wrung you dry this week; you’d forgotten how stressful that first month of the term could be. Professor Lee already needed your help reading through sixty essays from his undergrads. Even your lunch with Reina—during which she kept shooting you expectant looks—didn’t relax you as much as it used to.

Still, you hoped to recover in the next four hours before Nara’s birthday dinner. Hoped to squeeze in a nap as well.

Violet was stretched out in the middle of the living room when you unlocked the flat. She stood the moment she heard the grocery bags rustle and hurried toward you. You bent down to scratch under her chin. She enjoyed that tremendously, though not as much as she enjoyed the paper bags afterwards.

Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang.

Violet was still sitting inside one of the bags, her tail waving through the opening.

Expecting another silent exchange, you opened the door. Yeonjun stood there, holding a plate of biscuits. He smelled of sugar and vanilla.

“Hi,” he said. Hearing his voice after nearly a week hit you straight through the ribs. He lifted the plate. “For you.”

For a second, your mind was empty.

“Oh,” you tried. “Th—thank you.”

You accepted the plate without registering your hands moving. The ceramic felt cool against your palms.

He’d been baking again, then.

You set the biscuits down on the kitchen island. Behind you, Yeonjun’s eyes followed you automatically.

The sunflowers, he noticed, were gone.

Violet untangled herself from the paper bag and scampered towards him, circling his ankles with an affectionate meow.

“Oh.” He crouched to scratch her ears. “Now you act as if you’ve missed me. Can you tell I’ve been baking, love? Hmm?”

You glanced down at the cat. “You smell like it.”

He looked up. “Hm?”

You leaned one hip against the island. “Like sugar.”

“Oh.”

Something in his eyes softened helplessly. He scooped Violet into his arms and straightened, his gaze dropping to the floor.

It struck you, suddenly, that if he nodded politely and left again, you might actually lose your mind.

“You, uh—” Your eyes flicked back to the plate. He’d used the same one he’d brought the peach cobbler on before. “You baked biscuits, then.”

Yeonjun couldn’t help a smile.

“Yes,” he said. “Thank you for noticing.”

“Mhmm.”

“They’re cherry.”

You turned back to him.

You remembered, of course, the neon pink, cherry-flavoured biscuits. The rain drumming against the roof of his car. The precision of his pen against your wrist.

You cleared your throat and looked away again.

“Have you got a minute?” you asked.

Yeonjun inhaled sharply.

“Yeah,” he said. Then, quieter: “Always.”

“Okay, um…” Your gaze drifted towards the balcony doors. “Can we talk? Or do you think we’ll end up late for Nara’s?”

He’d been waiting for this, but now that you were actually asking, he felt a reflexive urge to bolt.

What if he said something wrong and it became the last thing you ever said to each other, and he’d have no one to blame but himself, and—

He took another long breath.

“Yeah,” he said. “We—no, we can talk.”

You nodded.

“Do you want to go out on the balcony?” You gestured towards the living room. “Warm day today.”

“Sure.”

You carried the biscuits onto the balcony and set them down on the round metal table between two white chairs. They’d come with the flat, their legs slightly rusted and paint peeling in thin curls along the sides. You’d loved them immediately.

The balcony barely fit the furniture, let alone both of you, but it was cosy in the golden late-afternoon light. The metal table scorched your fingertips briefly when you touched it, still radiating the heat of the day.

Yeonjun lowered Violet by the balcony doors. She stepped outside cautiously, her whiskers twitching. The moment she felt the breeze, she scrambled towards the ledge to sniff at the wind.

Yeonjun took the chair on the left.

You sat on the right.

And then, neither of you spoke for a very long time.

Cars rolled steadily below. A pigeon landed on a nearby rooftop with a heavy thump of wings; Violet tracked it with wide, curious eyes. You realised you didn’t feel all that tired anymore.

“Well,” Yeonjun said eventually, leaning back in his chair, “reckon that’s a solid prequel.”

You snorted despite yourself. His shoulders relaxed at the sound.

He nodded toward the biscuits. You leaned forward to take one, and he did, too.

“Can’t remember us ever being quiet around each other for this long,” he added, taking a quick bite.

The biscuit was still warm in the middle when you tried it, buttery and soft enough to crumble against your fingers. It wasn’t as dangerously sweet as the ones from grad school.

“Yeah,” you said. “Would’ve spared us from your wardrobe room.”

His chair creaked as he shifted back. You wiped your palms against each other.

“Think I would’ve found another way to get to you, though,” he said. “Even without the Seven Minutes.”

He used to say things like that constantly back then, you remembered; careless little comments meant to fluster you into silence. Your instinct was still to drop your gaze and clench your hands.

“Right,” you said. “To get back at your parents, yeah?”

The warmth drained from his face.

“No,” he said. “Not for my parents. For me. Because I wanted to be with you.”

Your shoulders stayed taut against the back of the chair.

Across the street, a window slammed shut. Violet’s ears flicked toward the noise. Yeonjun looked that way, too, briefly distracted by the movement on the street below.

It occurred to him, as he watched the traffic, how easily you could just stand up and leave. Close the balcony door, end the conversation. End everything.

Immediately, he started to think of all the ways to stop that from happening, before he caught himself.

If you wanted to leave, you should be able to.

“C-can I start from the beginning?” he asked. “I don’t want to—I want you to know everything.”

You took a slow breath. “Yeah. Start wherever you like.”

Yeonjun had rehearsed this conversation hundreds of times in the past week: lying awake at four in the morning, standing outside your door with Violet, driving to work, in the queue at the shops, choosing between two brands of chocolate bars.

None of those rehearsals had included the look on your face, he realised now. He didn’t know what to expect.

“So,” he said, “the beginning is that I’m in love with you.”

Your gaze dropped immediately to the plate on the table.

His heartbeat was so violent that he wondered if you could hear it over the traffic below. You wondered if he could hear yours.

“You, um…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “You probably already know that. I told you before. Once.”

“Yeah.” You let out a long breath. “And I almost believed you. Once.”

His jaw tensed.

Violet, sensing the shift in the air, took a turn around your chair and settled in the shade underneath it.

“I meant it,” he said. “And I mean it now. I’m in love with you. Probably have been since the day I sat next to you outside class in our first year, and you were mean to me.”

You turned to look at him. “You earned that. Acted like a knobhead.”

“I know.” His jaw relaxed enough to let him smile. “But I was done for immediately. And then you kept making it worse for me—unintentionally, I’m assuming. You always get this look in your eyes when you realise you’re talking to a complete idiot, and I—”

You frowned. “I don’t get a look.”

“There!” He jumped, pointing at you with ridiculous delight. “That’s the look.”

You turned away the moment your lips twitched. He laughed, settling back in the chair. The metal at the back poked his spine.

“S’lovely,” he said. “Makes me want to keep annoying you just to see it again.”

“You have problems,” you informed him, not cruelly.

“Yeah,” he replied easily. “Quite severe ones, too. We both know that.”

“Hmm.”

You took another biscuit from the plate.

Across from you, Yeonjun watched your legs swing beneath the metal chair: back and forth, back and forth. You still looked nervous, but you were staying.

“I, uh…” He rubbed his thumb along the edge of the table. “I’ve already told you about the first time I wanted to kiss you.”

You let the biscuit melt on your tongue.

You remembered exactly the way he’d told you: standing by the window in your old bedroom, saying he’d spotted you on the balcony of his dorm room once, years ago, with a cigarette. He’d hidden behind the wardrobe door so you wouldn’t catch him watching.

It had been cute, if it was true.

“I remember,” you said, brushing crumbs off your sweatpants. They dropped to the floor.

Violet twitched under your chair, offended at the disturbance, and cracked one eye open. The crumbs smelled excellent, admittedly, but she had standards. She wasn’t eating crumbs. And off the floor, no less.

“I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately,” Yeonjun said, “and I identified another moment that was particularly bad for me.”

You looked up. “Yeah? How bad?”

“Very.” The corners of his lips curled. “Thought I was properly fucked if you never liked me back.”

You turned back ahead, lips pursed.

“Oh—” He clapped his hands. “There’s that look again.”

You shook your head, fighting back a sudden laugh. “What’s the moment, then?”

He smoothed his palms over his black trousers. He’d got flour on them earlier, but you wouldn’t be able to tell now.

“D’you remember our final year of undergrad?” he asked. “November, maybe late October. When we usually started racing.”

You didn’t know what you were supposed to remember.

“Sure,” you said anyway, reaching for another biscuit. You pushed the plate with the last one towards him.

“Right.” He leaned forward to take it, turning it between his fingers. “Soobin and Reina had just started dating, and he refused—I say that with love—to shut the fuck up about her. Thought I was going to go insane.”

You smiled.

Even before they started dating, Reina and Soobin already talked about each other as if they were being paid per mention. Once they actually got together, it increased exponentially. You remembered complaining about the broken radiators in your flat once, and Reina sighing dreamily, Soobin and I were just talking about that yesterday.

It had been endearing. And a little nauseating.

“So then,” Yeonjun continued, pausing to chew, “one day, Soobin tells me he’s going to be late for the first race because he’s got plans with Reina. And I was—now, we know I’ve got problems.”

You snorted into your biscuit.

“At that point, I was making real progress, though,” he said. “Massive character development, yeah?” He gestured with the biscuit. “Huge. So instead of accusing him of abandoning me forever because he’d got a girlfriend, I kept quiet. But I still wanted him there. He’s my good luck charm.”

You swallowed, the cherry jam warm against your throat.

Yeonjun had told you how he’d spiralled when Alain got a girlfriend and started spending less time with him.

It happened to him again, then, with Soobin. And there’d been no one who was proud of him for handling it better.

You realised, absurdly, that you were.

“So,” he said, the white of his shirt reflecting the sunlight, “the day before the race, I told him, hey, Soobin. Why don’t you bring Reina? That way we can all hang out.”

Your gaze drifted sideways as you searched through old memories.

“So, uh—naturally,” he went on, swallowing the last of the biscuit, “after Soobin invited her, Reina got nervous. Thought hanging around his mates would be awkward. He said it wouldn’t be. She disagreed, apparently, and brought you along just in case.”

He could imagine how much convincing that must’ve taken, despite not knowing that part of the story. All Soobin had told him at the time was that Reina would bring her best friend. And Yeonjun, knowing exactly who said best friend was, proceeded to put his jeans on backwards.

“Hmm.” You leaned back in your chair, hands dropping loosely to your sides. Violet’s tail brushed against your fingers. “What’s special about this race, then?”

“I’m getting to it,” he said. “I remember the exact moment you arrived.”

You glanced at him.

“You wore dark jeans and this white top with glitter writing across the chest,” he said. “Don’t know what it said. Stared at you for ten minutes, and my brain stopped cooperating.”

You ran your tongue over your lips, an ironic smile spreading across your face. “You once accused me of seeing you in the shapes of the clouds. Bit ironic now, yeah?”

He snorted. “Yeah, I’m great at deflection. You didn’t know?”

“Hmm. Go on, then.”

“Right. I remember you had sunglasses on, too,” he went on, “even though it was dark. Bit performative if you ask me, but—”

“Okay—” you paused to let him finish laughing, the memory vague in your mind, “—it was light when we left the flat.”

“Fair,” he accepted, tipping his head back. “It was a good night anyway. The wind kept blowing your hair into your mouth. You kept spitting it out. And you were carrying your leather jacket in your hands. I thought you looked like an actress from a 00s film.”

“Please.”

“No, really.” His grin widened. “It pissed me off how hot you looked.”

That finally made you laugh again.

The sound satisfied him unreasonably.

“I remember you saw me,” he said, “and just stopped dead. Reina turned to look at you. You said something to her—probably that you were leaving because I was there.”

“Probably.”

He snickered. “Yeah. And then you were actually about to leave, but Beomgyu found you. He did that a lot back then. Always seemed to seek you out.”

Now you remembered.

Beomgyu had asked you, earlier that day, if you were coming to the race. You’d said no. So when he spotted you there anyway, he’d marched straight across the old camping grounds, grabbed your wrist and refused to let you escape.

“He wanted to know if I’d brought drinks,” you recalled.

Yeonjun didn’t like the fond smile on your face. “Why?”

“A few days before, he overheard Reina and me in class, talking about her grandmother’s homemade spirits,” you said. “And I mentioned that my gran used to make them too, when she was young. Cranberry liqueurs, Kahlúa knockoffs. You know. Stuff where, if you threw it on a wall, paint would probably come off.”

Yeonjun laughed under his breath.

“Beomgyu got obsessed,” you said. “Spent days begging us to bring him some.”

“Did you bring him any?”

“No,” you said. “Our grans were generous with alcohol, and Beomgyu already drank enough as it was. We weren’t helping him become a full-time alcoholic. Think he’s held a bit of a grudge since then.”

Yeonjun laughed again, louder this time.

It was the drinks, then, that Beomgyu had wanted from you.

Good.

“Yeah, that sounds like him,” he said, his foot bouncing lightly under the table. “I remember him moaning at you the entire night.”

“Yeah, well.” You shrugged. “He’s very good at making people feel guilty.”

“Yeah.” He shifted his ankles, trying to ease the pressure against his spine. “Anyway—so, later that night, I was getting into my car for the first heat, and I looked over, and Beomgyu was wasted. Just gone. Walking circles around the pergola, one shoe on, another in the grass under the drinks table.”

You snickered, raising your hand to cover your mouth. Yeonjun wished you wouldn’t; he wanted to see your smile.

“A-and then,” he said, “I saw him trying to shove you into his Audi, saying he’d be your navigator. Just drive. He couldn’t miss the race.”

You looked up at the roof of the building across the street, an amused smile on your lips.

Beomgyu’s Audi, you remembered, had been in a tragic state when you’d climbed in: wrappers and empty energy drink cans rolled under your feet, the seats smelled of strawberry yoghurt. Your fingers clung to the steering wheel with something sickeningly sticky.

“I remember,” you said. “He was too drunk to drive. Kept saying I had to do it in his honour because I’d betrayed him over the drinks.”

“Hmm.” Yeonjun watched you across the table, one elbow propped against the metal edge. “He actually made you start the race.”

You nodded. Before the sirens had signalled the start, Beomgyu had already been halfway out the passenger window. He’d promised to give you directions. Instead, the moment the engine coughed to life, all you got was, oh God, I’m going to throw up, please pull over—wait, no, don’t pull over, I’ll lose my place, oh God. Then he’d passed out.

“Yeah,” you said. “I didn’t get far.”

“Mhmm.” Yeonjun bent one leg under his chair. “But you did finish the first lap.”

“Okay,” you said, “and then I spent the rest of the night holding Beomgyu upright while he threw up in the grass.”

He snickered softly. He remembered crossing the straight and catching sight of Beomgyu folded over the guardrail, while you stood behind him rubbing circles over his back.

“Alright, yeah,” he said. “But, uh—did you check your lap time?”

You frowned. “Did they even record it? I wasn’t supposed to race.”

“They logged it under Beomgyu’s name.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm.” He sat up straighter, a small smile on his lips. “You beat me.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “No.”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

He laughed. “Yeah. First time driving Beomgyu’s wreck of an Audi, with his drunk ass passed out beside you, and you still beat me on your first go.”

The delight on your face was beautiful. He’d known it would be.

“I thought it didn’t count,” you said, nearly out of breath.

“Of course it didn’t. I spent the next ten minutes shouting that it shouldn’t. It was very important to me.”

You laughed again, your head tilting back. Violet looked up from beneath your chair to inspect the noise. Once she was sure that no one was dying, she curled back into herself.

Yeonjun watched the crinkles forming around your eyes and thought he’d have gladly watched you beat him a hundred times over just to get to this point.

“Wow,” you breathed at last.

“Yeah,” he said, still grinning. “Humiliated the absolute shit out of me. Never fucking wanted you more.”

You shook your head.

“You really are insane,” you said, but there was a softness in your voice now. An old instinct.

He forgot to swallow for a moment and inhaled too sharply, coughing into his fist.

“Sorry,” he muttered, clearing his throat. “Yeah, uh—well, it only got worse from there, as you know very well.”

“It makes no sense, though,” you said, brushing the crumbs on the table into a tiny pile with your fingertip. “Because I remember all the times we argued. All your provocations. All of it.”

“Yeah.” He nodded along to every word. “I was in denial for a long time. But, fuck, let’s be honest, the more I pissed you off, the more I reinforced my problem. You were so mean to me. I was thriving.”

“That’s such—” A helpless laugh cut you off. Yeonjun lit up instantly. “I think we should be finding you help instead of sitting on my balcony.”

He snorted, shaking his head hard enough for his hair to fall into his eyes.

“S’fine,” he said. “I’ve accepted this is an incurable condition.”

“Ah, so just gave up, then. Typical.”

He gasped, clutching dramatically at his chest.

“Nooo,” he whined. “Don’t say that. You’re making this worse for me.”

You laughed so easily that he had to grip the back of the chair to physically stop himself from leaning across the table. Heliotropic, like a fucking sunflower.

Violet finally emerged from under your chair and stretched across the warm tiles, flexing her claws. Then she looked up at you. You looked back, still smiling.

Taking that as permission, she hopped into your lap, startling you slightly with her weight, and lifted her head in expectation, her pupils widening.

Obediently, you smoothed a hand down her spine.

“So, it was clearly bad for me,” Yeonjun said. He couldn’t look away from Violet sprawled contentedly across your thighs. “And that was why I talked our professors into letting me host that workshop with you later.”

“Hmm.”

“And…” His voice faltered. “After that, I suggested the bet.”

The warmth of the afternoon slowly drained away. You felt the cold at the nape of your neck every time the breeze lifted your hair.

“Right,” you said.

Yeonjun lowered his gaze to his hands. His thumbs moved restlessly against each other in his lap. He could feel the biscuits sitting in his stomach.

“All through this,” he said slowly, “from the moment we first talked, I kept looking for ways to get closer to you. That was all I did.” He swallowed. “I—I know I’ve got issues, yeah? Plenty. But wanting you is genuine. It’s got nothing to do with—with fucking schemes. None of that. It’s just you.”

Your eyes dropped to the dark tiles under your slippers and stayed there. Violet, offended you’d stopped stroking her, hopped off your lap and wandered back into your living room.

This time, Yeonjun was grateful you weren’t looking at him.

“On the last night of the bet,” he said, “after I sprained my wrist, my mum called me.”

The wind slid down your spine. You looked up, and the tension in his face made your stomach clench before he said anything.

“She gave me two options,” he said. The breeze caught the hem of his shirt and lifted it slightly. “Option one was that I break up with you.”

Your pulse stumbled hard enough to make you momentarily dizzy.

“Option two…” His jaw locked. “Option two was that I don’t break up with you. But the Board doesn’t let you graduate. Your thesis fails review for contract cheating.”

For a second, you forgot how to breathe.

It was surreal, at first, that accusing you of paying someone to write your thesis was a realistic option to begin with. Then you remembered the stark white walls of his parents’ house, and the heavy silence within. Remembered Yeonjun telling you his mother had once delayed his flight because he’d tried to run off on a holiday with friends.

Falsifying academic misconduct probably wouldn’t have troubled her much.

“That’s why I ended the bet,” Yeonjun said. “I didn’t want to lose you. But I couldn't let them do that to you.”

You looked up again. The sun was beginning to cast long shadows through the railings, painting stripes across the tiled balcony. Golden light brushed the edge of the plate and turned the white of Yeonjun’s shirt the colour of honey.

You felt almost nauseous.

He’d ended the bet, then, because he thought that wanting him would ruin your life.

“Why—why are you only telling me about this now?” you asked finally. “S’been over a year since we graduated.”

A flash of pain crossed his face. “I was afraid of what else my mum might do.”

“What else could she have done? My thesis had already passed review.”

He dropped his gaze and didn’t answer. The noise of the city filled the silence instead: the hum of the cars on the street, the distant wail of a siren several blocks away.

Your thoughts raced as you watched him.

You remembered the fellowship offer at New York University, the absurd timing of it—right after Yeonjun ended the bet. Right after his mother threatened your future if he didn’t leave you.

“Your mum—” Your stomach lurched. “Sh-she was behind my fellowship. Wasn’t she?”

Yeonjun squeezed his eyes shut. “I think so.”

“Fuck.”

“I don’t know what she did, exactly.” He opened his eyes again and fixed his gaze somewhere past your shoulder. “Could’ve just put in a good word. Made sure your name stayed in front of them. I don’t know.”

Your hands clenched into fists.

“The email I got,” you said, swallowing thickly, “said it was a nomination.”

He lowered his head. “Yeah. It was—it was still you, though. If you hadn’t done the work, she couldn’t have nominated you.”

“Mhmm. And if she hadn’t nominated me,” you returned, dryly, “I wouldn’t have got it.”

He didn’t try to argue. Instead, he let you sit with this for a minute.

“I-I think she wanted to make sure,” he said then, quieter. “Breaking up with you wasn’t enough. She needed you far away from me.”

You shook your head—in disbelief, Yeonjun thought, not realising that it was in disagreement.

It wouldn’t have worked.

If you’d known, it wouldn’t have worked.

He had thought there was no other way. Thought that staying together meant giving up everything else.

You didn’t think so.

You thought that staying together meant staying together. Thought it meant searching for some impossible solution, because that would still be easier than letting go.

“You…” You swallowed against the lump in your throat. There were twenty different things your mind was screaming at you. You tried to focus on the loudest one. “You didn’t explain anything. Just left. Did you really think I’d just fly to New York, be angry for a bit, and then move on?”

His whole posture folded inward.

He didn’t answer.

“You made me think that I wasn’t—made me think I had to be someone else,” you said. Your hands shook in your lap. “Someone worth staying for.”

He took a tentative breath.

“Fuck, I—I realise that now,” he said. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t know how else to protect you from the fucking mess that is my famil—”

“You could’ve told me right away.” Your voice sharpened before you could stop it. “I didn’t know your mum called you. Didn’t know New York was them.”

“It—I didn’t know for sure it was them,” he said. He felt too large, suddenly, for your small balcony, too heavy for the flimsy chair. “You were a brilliant student; the fellowship made sense. But, um… after a while, I thought—thought the timing felt too convenient.”

“Why didn’t you tell me then?”

“I was afraid you wouldn’t go,” he said. “If you knew my parents had anything to do with it. Thought you’d refuse on principle. And New York was an incredible opportunity for you. It would’ve been—”

“And you don’t think I would’ve got other opportunities?” you cut in. “Think I couldn’t have done anything without your parents handing it to me?”

He winced. “No. Fuck no. That’s not what I mean. I know you could’ve. But this was already happening. This was your future. I thought if I—”

“Why do you think that was my only future?”

He finally looked up.

Your eyes locked across the small table, and something electric crackled through the warm air.

“I wanted you in my future,” you said. Yeonjun felt every sharp thing inside his chest twist at once. “I could’ve still gone to New York. You could’ve come with me. We could’ve—fuck, I would’ve defended my thesis, and they would’ve seen in the viva that I hadn’t cheated. It—”

You stopped to steady your breathing.

“There were things we could’ve done,” you said, without looking at him. “But your mum gave you two options, and you never even considered refusing both.”

His breath hitched in his throat.

Just a few days ago, Reina had warned him to remember: she’d fight with the fucking rain clouds for you. He thought he could see it in your rigid shoulders, in the furious hurt brightening your eyes.

He’d known it, he remembered now, even as he walked away from you: if he’d told you about his mother’s call, you would’ve fought for him.

That was why he hadn’t.

He knew that fighting with his parents was like standing in front of an oncoming train and asking it politely to stop. That’s what it had always felt like. You could exhaust yourself, give it your whole soul, and still change nothing.

He didn’t think he deserved the effort. The sacrifice.

“So, then,” you said, hands clenched so tightly your knuckles hurt. “Since we’re talking now, you’re not worried about what else your mum might do?”

Yeonjun sat very still.

Below the balcony, a motorcycle revved hard enough for the sound to echo between the buildings. The two of you listened to it fade, block by block, into the city.

“I’m not in touch with my family anymore,” he said at last.

You frowned, turning back to him. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” he said, bringing a hand over his face, “I stopped going to dinners. Stopped answering their calls. Got a job. Got Violet. Moved out of the house they bought me, got my own place.” He glanced back toward the balcony doors. Violet’s tail was still visible beneath the shifting curtains. “I haven’t talked to my parents in months.”

Your brows stayed furrowed.

“Okay,” you said. “That—I get that.”

“Yeah.” He leaned back in the chair. “This had never happened before, them just letting me exist in silence. Even after Alain, we carried on as normal. But this is different. We’re not—we’re not talking anymore.”

Your gaze drifted past the balcony, towards the birch trees lining the street below. Their leaves shimmered with silver-green in the dying sun.

Alain, then.

People like you and me, he’d told you the only time you met him, aren’t irreplaceable in his life.

“It’s not entirely different, though,” you said. You could feel your pulse in every word. “Your parents forced Alain out of your life, and there was nothing you could do. Then years later, they forced me out, too.” Your gaze returned to him. “And again, there was nothing you could do.”

Yeonjun felt a wave of heat wash over him, so strong it hurt.

“It is different, though,” he said.

“How?”

He blinked incredibly slowly.

“It—I let them take Alain,” he said. “I played along when they acted like everything was fine. But I didn’t do that aft-after you.”

Something tightened in your expression. You lowered your head before he could recognise what it was.

“Okay,” you said slowly. “So what do you think would happen if your parents found out we both lived here? That we’re talking again?”

His gaze dropped.

“You think they couldn’t do anything else?” you pressed. “I’m back at university. I see your mum’s building every day. You really think your scheme wouldn’t accidentally come true anyway?”

He visibly flinched at the word.

“But I’m not speaking to them anymore,” he insisted. This was all he had. “They took it too far—t-they had to get the message.”

“Do you think they did?”

His eyes settled on the empty plate between you, red and blue around the edges. It was one of the first things he bought after moving out.

He realised now, staring at the crumbs, that his parents might not think this was permanent at all. They might think he was throwing a tantrum. Sulking. They might be waiting for him to come home again.

You were right, he thought. He hadn’t stood up for himself, or for Alain, or for you.

He’d just looked away.

“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly.

You nodded.

“Nothing’s changed, Jun,” you said softly. “We’re sitting here talking, and everything’s still the same as before.”

Yeonjun looked down.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, staring at the grout between the tiles, “that I let my parents decide this, too.”

You let out a slow breath. “You shouldn’t apologise for that. You didn’t choose your family.”

“M’not apologising for my family.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers locked together. “I’m apologising for not holding onto you. For not keeping my word when I said I’d never let them harm you. I—I shouldn’t have agreed with any of my mum’s options.”

You looked out beyond the railing.

The light was changing now. The birch trees had already fallen into shadow.

After you didn’t speak, he added quietly: “I should’ve told you.”

You moved at last, folding your hands together in your lap. Something turned low in your stomach while you tried to understand where to put all of this inside yourself. And where to go from here.

“Why, um—why did you want to explain everything now?” you asked. “After so long. I wasn’t exactly making it easy for you.”

He glanced down.

“I’ve wanted to for a while after you came back,” he said. “But I didn’t know how. And it—well, I suspected you wouldn’t want to hear from me anyway. But now—living here finally gave me an opportunity to do it.”

“But why do it at all?”

He took a shuddering breath.

“Because you should know,” he said. “I made you think that none of it was real. That I didn’t love you. And that’s not true.”

Your pulse thudded against your clasped hands.

“Why,” you said, losing your courage faster than you could catch it, “is that something I need to know?”

His chest tightened.

He realised what you were really asking him.

“Because it’s the truth,” he said. “And I’m not saying I love you because I expect you to say it back.”

You closed your eyes.

For a second, you could almost visualise the band-aid Reina had mentioned. You’d peeled it back just enough to see the wound underneath. It was still alive. It stung.

“Do you think it’s easy for me to hear that now?” you asked, your voice cracking on the last word. You cleared your throat immediately. “To believe it after everything.”

He swallowed. “I know. But it—it’s still true.”

You looked up at the table between you.

“I get it, though,” he added. “You think I’m explaining this because I want us to pick up where we left off.”

You didn’t answer.

Yeonjun looked back towards the street. In the evening light, the building opposite had turned blue. A few of the windows were already glowing.

“I appreciate you explaining,” you said after a moment. “I just—I thought I’d had my thoughts sorted. They weren’t bothering me. And then—then you started fucking hammering downstairs, and I went to check. And now I don’t know what anything means.”

He looked up from the balcony railings. “What would you want it to mean?”

You took a deep breath, glancing up at the sky overhead.

“It’s not that I don’t want things to be normal again,” you said. Then looked back down. “Actually, I don’t even know what normal is.”

“Yeah,” he said, turning away. “I-I get it. The least I could do was tell you everything, but that doesn’t change the fact that I didn’t do it before. Or that I left.”

You hated that it all came down to one decision not to tell you the truth. And now you were on your balcony, months later, and everything he was saying, the good and the bad, scared you in equal parts.

“Well,” you said quietly, “I understand why you didn’t do it before.”

His head dipped. “Thank you.”

Somewhere inside the flat, something dropped to the floor. You heard it roll across the tiles. Neither of you moved to check what it was.

The streets below you were growing louder now; it was Friday night. Nara’s birthday dinner would soon be starting across the city. Beomgyu was probably already on a last-minute booze run.

Yeonjun swallowed.

He wanted to promise that he would never leave again. Wanted to swear that he’d fight this time, that he’d stay, do better.

But he’d made promises before. And the memory of him breaking them still lived inside you both.

He inhaled carefully and offered the only honest thing he had:

“We don’t have to—we don’t need to do anything.”

You lifted your gaze to him. For once, neither of you looked away immediately.

The last glint of sunlight caught the loose strands of his hair falling over his forehead. His eyes were slightly squinted. You remembered tracing his features at night, lying in bed next to him, half-asleep. He’d been so beautiful then.

Even worse now.

“What will we do, then?” you asked.

Yeonjun found hope in the question. You didn’t trust this yet, but you still wanted there to be a this.

He glanced down briefly, thumb rubbing over the side of his left wrist.

“I’d like us to be friends,” he said.

When he looked back up, your lips were already curving. He smiled back instinctively.

He didn’t know what it meant to be your friend. But it sounded infinitely better than not being yours at all.

“Hmm,” you murmured. “Never tried that before.”

A soft laugh escaped him. “Yeah. Reckon it’d go well. We’re clearly very normal around each other.”

You laughed, too, and something lightened in your chest—just a little. Just enough to take a solid breath.

You didn’t know if friendship between you was possible at all, maybe it was a terrible idea. But it wasn’t nothing. And it wasn’t everything.

“Okay,” you said before you could change your mind. “We can try being friends.”

“Yeah?”

You shrugged. “Yeah. I don’t know. Why not?”

The smile that spread across his face was so warm that you had to look away for a second.

“Okay,” he said, pushing himself slowly out of the chair. His hands spread slightly at his sides. “Can I—?”

You stood before he finished speaking.

The movement startled a grin out of him. “Oh—yeah?”

“Fuck off.”

He laughed as you stepped into him and folded into his open arms. He pulled you against his chest at once, warm and shaking slightly.

Your hands settled around his waist, still familiar with his shape. Your cheek pressed against his shoulder. You could feel his heartbeat, a little uneven. But slower than last weekend. Calmer.

“Would you have invited me in,” he murmured against your hair, “if I hadn’t brought the biscuits?”

Your smile pressed against the side of his neck. “Of course not.”

His laughter was a gentle ripple between you. You relaxed into him.

“Did you bake the biscuits, then,” you returned, “just so I’d invite you in?”

His arms tightened around you. “Of course.”

You laughed softly, your breath warm against his skin. He exhaled fully for what felt like the first time in a year and five months.

The sky continued to darken overhead.

For now, this was enough.

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thank you for reading!!♡♡

[taexual]

. . . d e l i r i u m | 4

well, i thought i could resist you, but something in me just can’t help but insist to blur the lines just one last time /// sleep token, dangerous

pairing: yeonjun x fem!reader

summary: sometimes love and hate exist on opposite ends of the map. other times, on separate floors of the same building.

genre: ex!yeonjun / enemies to lovers au / neighbour au

warnings: slow burn, baaaaad mutual pining & intense yearning, jealous!jjun, somewhat evil!tyun (he has good intentions though), strong language, suggestive themes, detailed descriptions of smoking, excessive drinking, helpless flirting, some angst to spice things up

words: 15k (rip)

[ ! ] this is a sequel to equilibrium

masterlist / read from the beginning

✦ • ─── AUGUST 29, 2026. 4 AM

Yeonjun couldn’t sleep. His head felt like a cutlery drawer, rattling every time he rolled onto his other side, steel scraping steel.

Did it hurt the knives, he wondered at around four in the morning, to brush against other knives?

By six, he must’ve drifted off for a good twenty minutes, until a faint rustling near the windows woke him again. He blinked blearily just in time to catch Violet’s silhouette slipping under the heavy black curtains.

She hopped onto the windowsill and sat down in front of the only window in the flat that actually opened. It didn’t even look it; the frame had been caked in thick layers of white paint. Only the latch gave it away – a tiny brass catch, half-hidden beneath the lower frame in the far left corner, noticeable only by the peeling paint around it.

He hadn’t realised what the latch was for until you pointed it out to him that day on the stairs. Apparently, Violet had watched him work it once and memorised it.

She settled on the sill, her backside shoving the curtains aside. A narrow slit opened—he suspected he might’ve hung the drapes upside down—and through it, Yeonjun could make out the sharp outline of her whiskers against the pale light outside.

He lay still and watched.

With the precision of a surgeon, Violet slipped a paw into the far corner. Her whiskers twitched.

Tap.

Tap tap tap.

Nothing happened for a while.

Yeonjun frowned into the darkness.

Surely, he thought, she didn’t have the strength to move the latch. The thing was stiff even for him some mornings. It might’ve meant that the window had been opening on its own every day, then, or—

The brass catch jerked sideways with a tiny click.

The window frame loosened immediately.

Yeonjun stared.

Violet rose onto her hind legs and pressed her front paws against the bottom of the window, leaning her full weight forward. She was small—plump and very round, yes, but so small. Even if she’d mastered the latch, she shouldn’t have been capable of pushing the window open.

The frame creaked an inch upwards.

“Violet,” Yeonjun warned.

The cat turned, shooting him a look of profound irritation, like a single mother of five on her third consecutive night shift: don’t start with me right now, boy. Then she turned back and kept pushing.

The window scraped open just enough for her to squeeze onto the fire escape. Her back paws scrabbled briefly against the sill before disappearing outside.

Yeonjun stared, unblinking, for another minute.

Honestly, he should’ve used Violet to fight crime. Or rob banks.

Instead, he listened to the faint rhythm of her paws on the metal stairs as she climbed the fire escape towards your flat.

Upstairs, you dreamt that you were driving Reina’s old Honda.

The steering wheel thrummed in your hands as you drove along a narrow, two-lane road. The car rattled at higher speeds, and something in the dashboard buzzed as though you’d trapped a bee behind there somewhere, but it remained reliable as always.

The asphalt glistened; it must’ve rained recently. Now that you thought of it, you could almost smell the moisture in the air.

A bright blue car sped past, overtaking you.

You barely registered it.

Then, a few minutes later, the same blue car appeared again, passing you from the opposite direction.

Sunlight flashed against the windscreen, obscuring the driver’s face. The car was unfamiliar, yet you felt strangely worried that this was the last time you’d see it. You hoped it wouldn’t be.

You lowered the sun visor. Ahead, the road curved sharply left, and the car groaned as you turned the wheel.

For a while, you drove alone.

Soon, you spotted the blue car again. It was parked on the side of the road near a lake to your right, the hazard lights blinking lazily in the sunlight.

You pulled onto the gravel beside it, relieved.

As you stepped out of the Honda, you realised you were suddenly standing in the woods; the roadside was surrounded by trees.

Chestnuts, you thought at first. Then you narrowed your eyes.

Oaks.

You approached the blue car. The driver’s door hung open, but there was no one inside.

As you walked closer to the shore, past the trees, you saw a man sitting on the rocks in the shallows, sleeves rolled to his elbows, staring across the lake. This was the driver, you knew. You had to check on him.

You crept towards him. Your feet—why weren’t you wearing shoes?—slipped on the wet stones. The trees around you vanished.

The man turned—and the sound of something creaking jolted you awake.

Your eyes snapped open to the darkness of your room. For a disorienting moment, the dream clung to you: you could still hear the commotion of Reina’s old car, still smell the rain.

Then you heard Violet squeezing through the narrow opening in the window, right on schedule. She landed silently on the floor and padded toward the living room, careful, as though trying not to wake you.

The bedroom door creaked when her hind leg brushed against it.

Violet froze.

You closed your eyes, not wanting to spook her.

Silence. Then, the quiet patter of her paws fading into the living room.

Sighing, you rolled over, the sheets tangling around your legs. You reached blindly for your phone on the cardboard boxes by the bed. The screen flared to maximum brightness. Groaning, you squeezed one eye shut and tried to enter your PIN; Face ID refused to recognise you in the dim light.

Then you opened both eyes again.

Yeonjun, you realised, had been the driver of the blue car in your dream.

How strange.

You needed to text him, but yesterday’s conversation still lingered somewhere at the back of your mind. Just thinking about talking to him again made you feel like you’d swallowed something dense.

You pushed yourself onto your elbows, inhaled once, and opened his contact.

YOU [6:59 AM] violet’s here she’s welcome to stay but ive got to leave at 4

You’d barely lowered the phone before it buzzed against your palm.

YEONJUN [7 AM] thanks i’ll pick her up before you leave

The cursor blinked at the bottom of the chat on your screen.

You stared at it for a second, then set your phone down beside the pillow and climbed out of bed. A draft blew through the open window. You pushed it shut and headed into the kitchen to refill Violet’s water bowl.

The moment you appeared through the doorway, Violet abandoned her position by the curtains and wound herself around your legs instead, searching for entertainment. Her tail got caught beneath the hem of your pyjama bottoms, hitching the fabric upwards.

You knelt to scratch under her chin. Her purr vibrated against your palm.

“Let’s see if we can get some light in here for you, yeah?” you said, standing again.

Still half-asleep, you filled the bowl and went to the window. The curtains dragged heavily along the rail when you pulled them open.

It was a dreary, overcast morning outside. The building across the street looked even more muted than usual under the grey clouds.

Violet approached the window. She poked it with her nose, puzzled by the lack of sunlight, then glanced back at you.

“S’the best I can do, little one,” you said. “Cloudy day today.”

She replied with a small, resigned meow and turned back towards the window. A moment later, the faint reflections dancing across the glass seem to win her over.

You left her nestled between your flowerpots and started your morning.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 29, 2026. 3:45 PM

Fifteen minutes before you needed to leave, you stood in front of the mirror by the bathroom door, holding your breath as you misted setting spray across your face. It smelled oddly of hairspray.

The dress you’d bought for tonight was sleeveless and blue. Beaded detail ran along the slit—it had already left glitter scattered across your thigh.

When you first saw the dress in the shop last week with Reina, it reminded you of the photograph your grandparents kept on the mantelpiece in their living room. In it, your mother was posing with her date before their school dance. She wore a dark blue dress—sleeveless—and had her hair braided half up. She was smiling.

It was your favourite picture of her.

You’d spent the morning thinking about it while you pinned the braided sections of your hair back. The curled ends now rested across your collarbones.

You leaned closer to inspect your mascara and caught the edge of a price tag peeking from the side seam of the dress.

“Shit—”

The doorbell rang.

Startled slightly by the sound, you tightened your fingers around the plastic of the tag and ripped it clean off the seam. The edge nipped your palm. Hissing, you shook your hand once and dropped the tag into the bin by the kitchen island.

Behind you, Violet sat primly on the back of the sofa, licking her paw, as though she, too, was getting ready for Reina and Soobin’s engagement party.

“Got a feeling that’s for you, baby,” you said, nodding towards the door. “Come on.”

Violet chirped and jumped down.

She discovered the hem of your dress just as you opened the door. Her claws snagged in the fabric, catching and releasing the blue material with increasing enthusiasm.

Yeonjun stood on the doorstep.

He opened his mouth—and closed it right after.

All he registered, initially, was the deep blue of your dress. Then the ruched fabric at the waist and the small cutouts on both sides of your midriff.

Then the rest of his thoughts abandoned him to seek employment elsewhere.

You bent down before Violet could shred the hem. She resisted your hands, twisting in place. When you gathered the ends of the dress, she leapt back and wiggled her behind ominously, her pupils blown wide.

“You like the dress, baby?” you murmured, scooping her up before she could launch herself at you. She looked mildly startled at being lifted, but not especially offended. “Come on, then.”

Yeonjun thought he liked the dress.

Although, admittedly, he could’ve slept better if he hadn’t caught a glimpse of your thigh through the slit when you bent down. He suddenly felt as though he ought to sit down and have a bottle of water. Perhaps two bottles.

“Hi,” you said. “You alright?”

Your voice shifted slightly, and he realised that you weren’t speaking to the cat this time.

With all the grace and composure he could muster, he said, “I—uh—it would—I mean, yes. Yeah. I’ll be off, then.”

He pivoted sharply towards the stairwell.

You blinked after him, fingers still running down Violet’s spine.

“And Violet?” you called.

Yeonjun stopped dead.

“Yes!” he said, whirling around before he could fully register the heat climbing up the back of his neck. “Of course. I’ll be off with Violet. I—we will be off together.”

He gathered the cat, careful not to brush your hands in the process. At this point, he was convinced that any skin contact would finish him on the spot.

You stepped back.

He dared a glance at you.

You were looking down now, smoothing the fabric of your dress over your hips.

The sunflowers, he noted, were still on your kitchen island beside you, bright yellow and offensively alive. He stared at them, trying to work out who else could’ve got them for you.

It was still just this one bouquet in any case, as much as it irked him.

He’d got you fourteen.

You were surprised to find him still standing on your doorstep when you looked up.

“Later, then,” you said, a little awkward.

Yeonjun blinked, snapping back to awareness.

“Right,” he said. “Later.”

He escaped down the stairs.

Once the door of your flat clicked shut behind him, he let out a breath that seemed to rattle all the way through him.

Violet meowed in his arms. He could tell she knew he’d embarrassed himself.

“Don’t laugh at me,” he warned as soon as he unlocked his door. He tapped gently between her ears before scratching under her chin. “M’going to have a very, very long night tonight. I need your support.”

Violet, when properly motivated, offered excellent support.

Today, however, she felt strongly motivated to do three things exactly: use her litter box, demolish half a pouch of tuna in her bowl, and fall asleep directly on Yeonjun’s favourite pillow on his bed.

Yeonjun spent a solid hour trying to get her interest back; no luck.

Now he stood alone in his bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror under the bulb overhead. His hands shook as he attempted to tie his tie. The knot collapsed again.

It had been a long time since he’d needed to do this.

The last time, you’d stood in front of him. You’d been wearing blue too, though the colour had been lighter then. Your fingers had been warm against his throat as you fixed the tie for him, tightening the knot with one precise tug. He remembered the concentration on your face, the brush of your knuckles under his jaw.

He stared at his reflection for another moment.

Had that been the beginning of the end, then? Dinner with his parents, his crashed car. Had he given you even one happy memory in those last few days?

He yanked his tie off and threw it onto the counter beside the sink.

Fuck it, then.

He’d go without one.

What did it matter anyway?

He’d show up at the restaurant, congratulate Soobin and Reina, smile when appropriate. Then he’d drink until he couldn’t recognise himself in any mirror anymore.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 29, 2026. 7:30 PM

By the time Yeonjun arrived at the restaurant, everyone else was already there.

If he’d stopped to think about it, he might’ve found the sight endearing: the entire group of friends, formed years ago in university auditoriums and dormitories, still turning up for one another like this. Some of the other guests, he recognised, Soobin had known since kindergarten.

It was loud and very crowded here.

His mind was elsewhere.

He bumped into Soobin’s parents right by the door; his mother had earrings the size of small planets. They wanted to know how his family was doing.

“Fine, I expect,” he said, and walked off before they could ask what he meant. He hoped they’d assume he was drunk.

The restaurant had been decorated in excess, not unlike a royal wedding: white and gold everywhere, with balloons on the ceiling, on the walls, and stuck to the back of Kai’s head as Taehyun attempted to explain that hairspray was supposed to reduce static. There were enough flowers here that Yeonjun had heard Beomgyu sneezing from the street outside.

He saw you right away.

You stood near the main table in the centre of the room in your blue dress, one arm wrapped loosely around Reina’s shoulders. Nara stood opposite you, gesticulating wildly as she spoke, her bracelets flashing under the lights.

Then Soobin arrived and leaned over to murmur something into Reina’s ear. She laughed and pulled back from you with a quick wave.

Smiling softly, you turned to watch them go.

Yeonjun stared at that smile right up until he tripped over a loose ribbon trailing from the enormous banner stretched across the wall: REINA and SOOBIN 2027.

“Sorry,” he muttered to the approaching waiter, who bent to fix the ribbon.

On instinct, Yeonjun grabbed two champagne flutes from the tray in the waiter’s hands. Without hesitation, he downed the first one, dropped it back on the tray, and set off towards you and Nara with the second still in hand.

He figured he’d come up with something intelligent to say on the walk over.

Unfortunately, the walk was very short.

“Hi,” was the best he could do. “Where’re the betrothed?”

Nara, deducing the question wasn’t meant for her, took a sip of her champagne.

You turned towards him.

His hair was slicked back, but several dark strands had already escaped the gel and fallen over his forehead. He wore a black suit with a white shirt underneath. The buttons were golden.

Your gaze dropped, uninvited, to the exposed line of his neck. He wasn’t wearing a tie.

“Appetiser emergency,” you said, turning back ahead. “Something’s wrong with the salmon.”

“Ah,” Yeonjun said.

You were almost exactly his height in your heels. He became acutely aware of having a throat.

He wondered if he knew any fun facts about salmon. It wasn’t naturally pink; would that help the conversation? Also, was salmon the fish that could leap two meters out of water or was that—oh God, he was dying.

“W-wanted to apologise for being late,” he added, “but guess that’ll have to wait, then.”

“Hmm.” Nara smiled into her glass. “Bold of you to assume they even noticed you weren’t here.”

You snorted before you could stop yourself.

Yeonjun glanced at you and smiled despite the jab.

Good choice, then, not going with the salmon facts.

“Still,” he said, draining the rest of his champagne in one gulp. “S’rude of me. D’you need me to get you another drink?”

You didn’t immediately process the offer. Nara tilted her head meaningfully towards the empty flute in your hand, a knowing grin on her lips.

“Oh.” You rotated the stem of the glass between your fingers. “No. I’ve got it.”

You smiled at Nara and stepped away towards the bar.

It took Yeonjun a few seconds to realise you meant you’d go and get another drink right this instant, and not in a moment. He watched you walk away and tried to decide what a decent waiting time was before he could casually turn up next to you again.

Nara asked him something.

He didn’t hear a word and answered with a noncommittal grunt.

Guests crowded around him, and Nara, bored now, walked away to join them, momentarily blocking his view. He lost sight of you.

Just as something uneasy began to tighten in his stomach, he spotted your blue dress again near the bar by the far wall.

“You’re here!”

Yeonjun flinched at the clap on his shoulder and turned around.

Soobin and Reina stood behind him, both already flushed from champagne, their eyes sparkling. Reflections from the hanging lights flickered in Reina’s golden earrings every time she moved her head. Soobin, noticeably, couldn’t look away from her pink dress for more than two seconds at a time.

Just looking at them made Yeonjun remember how to smile.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said, giving them each a nod. “Congratulations, guys. The place looks beautiful.”

Over the last year, Reina had stopped looking at him like she might one day strangle him with her bare hands. For a while, she hadn’t looked at him at all.

Tonight, she smiled and lifted her glass slightly in acknowledgement.

“Thanks, man,” Soobin replied, smacking his shoulder again.

Yeonjun nodded awkwardly. He wanted to offer a more heartfelt sentiment for the occasion, but couldn’t stop thinking about salmon.

“You find the drinks alright?” Soobin asked.

Automatically, Yeonjun glanced towards the bar.

You were still there.

“Not yet,” he said, slipping the empty flute behind his back. “Thought I’d get one now, actually.”

“Of course,” Soobin said easily. The room was delightfully fuzzy around him. He loved champagne. “Enjoy yourself.”

Nodding again, Yeonjun disappeared back into the moving crowd.

Reina watched him leave, the corner of her mouth twitching.

She’d seen you by the bar.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 29, 2026. 8 PM

As the first round of appetisers began circulating through the restaurant—small, buttery things topped with salmon and herbs that you and Reina had taste-tested earlier that afternoon—people drifted back to their tables.

Conversations mellowed into an expectant hum; the instrumental music on the speakers quieted.

It was time for the toasts.

Naturally, this took ages.

Everyone here had known each other too long to tell a short story. Every memory required context, three unrelated anecdotes, and at least one interruption from another table.

Reina and Soobin’s parents being here tempered some of the wilder tales, although not by much. Reina’s father, already out of his jacket, cheeks rosy from champagne, laughed louder than anyone in the room whenever someone started implying things they probably shouldn’t have.

Your personal favourite remained Beomgyu’s passionate retelling of how Reina had, over time, replaced Soobin for him.

It had started innocently enough: he’d go over to Soobin and Yeonjun’s to use their PlayStation for a few hours. Soobin usually joined him. Then, one time, Reina appeared in the doorway of Soobin’s bedroom, wincing. She had better things to do than watch them play, but Soobin was getting demolished, and she thought it reflected poorly on her. She took over the controller and proceeded to beat Beomgyu three times in a row before she got bored and left again.

“That,” Beomgyu said, hand pressed to his chest, “deeply impressed me.”

His champagne flute became part of the story. He mimicked Soobin’s aim and sloshed the drink across the tablecloth. Gestured at Reina again and nearly sent the whole glass flying.

The more people laughed, the louder he spoke.

“I’ve decided,” he concluded finally, “that I prefer playing against Rei. Least she can make a jump without respawning ten times.”

Another wave of laughter drowned out Soobin’s indignant yelps of protest. Reina leaned against his shoulder, hiding her laughter in the crook of his neck.

Beomgyu raised his glass higher.

“Anyway,” he announced, “can’t wait for your wedding. Cheers!”

Glasses rose around the restaurant, followed by applause. Soobin reached instinctively for Reina’s hand. The smile on her face beside him was bright enough to light up the whole building.

The warmth from their table radiated through the restaurant, settling into conversations as the evening wore on and people splintered into smaller groups.

Reina’s mother eventually settled down beside Taehyun at his table—she seemed to have adopted him the moment he’d brought her a fresh glass of champagne; her third one tonight. Her husband had suggested a two-glass limit. She suggested it was time for her husband to go home.

Across the room, Yeonjun leaned back, one arm draped over the back of his chair, and observed your conversation with Beomgyu a few tables away—for about a minute. Then he counted to three, finished the rest of his champagne, and rose to his feet.

Beomgyu, meanwhile, had taken it upon himself to revisit Taehyun’s earlier statement about static and hairspray. He rubbed a white balloon vigorously against the back of his head while he explained the theory.

His hair was beginning to lift.

“I believe you,” you said, already smiling despite yourself. “But, uh—you’re not worried this will ruin your hairstyle?”

“No, no, look.” He rubbed harder, oblivious to the strands floating upward around his ears. “I’m saying hairspray creates resist—”

“All that electricity can’t be good for you.”

You felt Yeonjun sit down beside you before you turned your head. He held another champagne flute in his hand.

Something inside you relaxed at the sight of him. Then this instinctive reaction set your teeth on edge.

“Lightning’s going to get you,” Yeonjun added, nodding towards Beomgyu’s hair. “How’re you going to make it to Nara’s birthday party next week, then?”

Beomgyu lowered the balloon slowly.

“This has got nothing to do with lightning,” he said. Then, less confidently: “Has it?”

Distracted by his growing concern, he missed the look you gave Yeonjun.

“No,” you said, unable to stop yourself from playing along. “It’s not raining right now anyway.”

“It’s not—but when it rains?” Beomgyu smoothed one side of his hair back down. Perhaps, he thought, he hadn’t used enough hairspray.

“Then we’ll be able to use you,” Yeonjun said, “to tell if there’s going to be thunder.”

Beomgyu frowned and turned back to you again.

“’Cause your hair will stand up,” you explained, gesturing at his head, “like a lightning rod of sorts.”

Yeonjun snickered quietly into his drink.

Realisation dawned on Beomgyu’s face.

He fixed you both with his most practised glare, scoffed, and pushed himself up from his chair.

“You guys think I’m five years old,” he said, pointing at you, then at Yeonjun, “don’t you?”

You failed to resist a smile.

“You look it,” Yeonjun replied, lifting his glass. “S’a compliment, really.”

Beomgyu hummed. Then, suspiciously solemn, he stepped around the table and leaned in before Yeonjun could react. Static crackled through the air as he rubbed the balloon against the back of Yeonjun’s head with ferocious enthusiasm.

“Oi! What—”

He ducked under Yeonjun’s outstretched hands, cackling, and darted into the crowd.

Grimacing, Yeonjun peeled the balloon away from his hair. A few strands remained standing upright.

“What a little shit,” he muttered.

When he looked up, you were already gone from your seat.

He pressed his lips together.

He sat there for a moment, balloon in hand, listening to the noises in the restaurant: the scrape of chairs, the laughter dissolving into the low rhythm of music. The balloons drifted by his feet whenever the kitchen doors swung open.

He didn’t know what to do with himself.

He couldn’t just sit here with this fucking balloon.

Near the main table, Soobin’s mother swayed to the music with both of Reina’s parents. The two women giggled loudly, clearly already tipsy. Soobin’s father joined them, balancing a tray of drinks in one hand.

Yeonjun watched them for a moment without really seeing them.

Then he spotted a passing waiter and stood. He traded his empty flute for a full one—then reconsidered his current circumstances and took the whole tray instead.

The champagne was dry and unremarkable, but it did the job. He guzzled half the glass and fell back into the crowd.

A few minutes later, he found you again.

This time, you were talking to Kai in the warm light near the kitchen doors.

A little tipsy and very conversational, Kai spoke with his entire body. Champagne kept sloshing dangerously close to the rim of his glass every time his hands flew up, the restaurant lights catching the bubbles.

Currently, he was filling you in on everything you’d missed at university while you were in New York.

“I thought he left because he got a better offer somewhere,” you said, raising one eyebrow.

“No.” Kai shook his head hard enough to splash champagne onto the cuff of his shirt. He didn’t notice. “No, no. He was sleeping with two undergrads at the same time, and they found out about each other.”

Your second eyebrow rose to join the first. “And then?”

“And then,” he continued, thrilled, “the undergrads teamed up and went straight to the Board together. Told them everything, brought screenshots. And now he’s fired.”

You chuckled, rotating the champagne flute in your hands.

“Nice,” you said. “Love it when women collaborate.”

“We should’ve seen it coming, honestly,” he said, sipping from his half-empty glass. “Something was always off with his classes. Serves him right for being such a rigid—”

“Serves whom right?”

By now, you’d half-expected Yeonjun. You didn’t bother turning around.

He stopped beside you anyway, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him against your arm. He tipped his head back and emptied the champagne in his glass in one swallow. He’d left the tray on the table behind him and glanced over his shoulder to make sure it was still there.

“Professor Johnson,” Kai told him. “He got fired.”

Yeonjun had absolutely no memory of a Professor Johnson.

Honestly, five glasses in, he was starting to have no memory of what he was even here for.

“No way,” he said. “What’d he do?”

Kai, buzzing at the opportunity to retell the story, started from the very beginning.

You listened for approximately two seconds, up until you had to duck away from Kai’s gestures. Then, lips pursed to fight back your laughter, you finished your champagne and left Yeonjun to endure the story alone.

And endure it he did, nodding at appropriate moments—more or less—while simultaneously scanning the restaurant for you. Kai’s hands grew increasingly more animated beside him.

There.

You’d joined a group of girls near the windows. Yeonjun didn’t recognise any of them, but you clearly did; laughter softened your features as you leaned towards one of them. The blue of your dress shimmered in the light every time you moved. The entire restaurant seemed to swim around it.

Kai noticed Yeonjun’s wandering attention mid-sentence.

He followed Yeonjun’s gaze across the restaurant, hand already reaching to drag him back into the conversation—until he spotted you near the windows and stopped.

Abandoning his efforts to resume the story, Kai walked off in search of more champagne before Yeonjun drained the place dry.

Yeonjun barely noticed him leave.

You were still laughing, which was good. He wanted you to keep doing that. Wanted the music on the speakers to quiet down, too, so he could hear you better. He also wanted—

Taehyun appeared beside you. He slipped smoothly into the conversation, apologised to the girls surrounding you, then leaned in to whisper something in your ear.

Yeonjun decided, immediately, that he needed something stronger than champagne.

By the time he crossed the restaurant towards you, a glass of whiskey in hand, Taehyun was already grinning.

Earlier in the evening, he’d been too busy charming Reina’s mother to pay much attention to anything else. Now, however, Reina’s parents were gathering their coats near the door, and Taehyun had redirected his energy into the next most exciting thing: tracking Yeonjun’s every move.

“It’s you again,” Taehyun said, raising his soju shot in greeting.

You glanced at Yeonjun. He met your gaze head-on and held it for an entire half-second.

“It’s me again,” he said.

“Have you had anything to eat?” Taehyun asked, eyeing the glass in Yeonjun’s hands. “Or just the drinks, then?”

“Just the drinks, then.”

“I see.”

Yeonjun swayed faintly where he stood. You turned your face so he wouldn’t see the smile threatening your lips.

“We were just talking about you, you know,” Taehyun added.

Yeonjun turned his whole body towards you. The golden light from the lamps carved dramatic shadows along his cheeks.

“Were you?” he asked.

“We were,” you said. “Noticed you’re very sociable tonight.”

The implication reached him about a second late. You watched him narrow his eyes, then take another sip.

“Guess I am, then,” he said.

“Any reason for that?”

He shrugged. Then shrugged again.

“My best friend’s engaged,” he said finally. “M’happy.”

You glanced at Taehyun just in time to catch the grin he was trying to hide by swallowing his soju. He placed the empty shot glass on the table next to him and turned back to Yeonjun.

He’d already noticed that every time you drifted into another conversation somewhere in the restaurant, Yeonjun reappeared minutes later with a fresh drink in his hand.

Naturally, Taehyun figured, this called for a small social experiment.

“Hm.” He stepped back to look you over with exaggerated consideration. “Have I told you you look stunning in that dress?”

Your eyebrows lifted.

Beside you, Yeonjun finished the rest of his whiskey in one alarming gulp. Ice knocked against the glass when he lowered it again.

“You haven’t,” you replied. “Thank you.”

Something in your dry tone amused Taehyun very much.

He decided to expand the scope of his experiment.

“Have you seen the photographer?” he asked, glancing around the restaurant. A few groups of people had started loose, tipsy dancing circles between the tables.

“I haven’t.”

You didn’t follow his gaze, which made Taehyun’s smile widen immediately.

Clueless, Yeonjun turned around. He had seen the photographer earlier—hard not to; the man had an aggressively white suit. Looked like a bishop in a game of human chess. Or the pope. Did popes wear white?

Salmon! Salmon was naturally white.

Before Yeonjun could point out the photographer with the salmon suit, Taehyun reached for your hand.

“We should take a picture together,” Taehyun announced, pulling you gently towards him.

You resisted instinctively, your heels dragging against the floor tiles. “Haven’t we already?”

“Not just the two of us.”

Your expression flattened immediately.

Taehyun, emboldened further, slid his free hand into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew his phone.

“Yeonjun,” he said pleasantly, holding it out. “Would you mind?”

A strange moment passed.

Yeonjun looked at the phone.

Then at Taehyun.

Then, finally, at Taehyun’s hand still wrapped loosely around your wrist.

The bustling restaurant seemed to fade around him. Someone dropped something near the kitchen; it sounded like a knife or a fork.

Slowly, Yeonjun accepted the phone.

Taehyun was surprised; he’d been convinced this would be enough. Back in grad school, Yeonjun would’ve combusted by now.

Alright, then.

Interesting.

Taehyun dropped his hand to your waist.

Yeonjun stared at the screen of Taehyun’s phone as though he’d never encountered such technology before. After a second, he set his empty glass down on the windowsill behind him.

Taehyun stepped beside you. Warmth pressed along your side as he nudged you even nearer.

“What are you doing?” you muttered under your breath.

“Trying to see something,” he whispered back. Up close, his breath smelled distinctly of soju, although it was hard to tell whether he was already drunk or still on the way.

Meanwhile, Yeonjun finally unlocked the phone. The screen tilted in his hand, the restaurant lights smearing across the glass until the apps blurred together.

He opened the email and stared, perplexed, at the writing on the screen. What the fuck was DHL and why—

This wasn’t right.

Finally, he found the camera.

He stepped back until the windowsill pressed against his hip and raised the phone, deliberately not looking at either of you.

Taehyun smiled at once. Pinned to his side by the weight of his arm around your waist, you managed something polite enough to pass for a smile, too.

Yeonjun took one picture.

Then another.

Then several more in quick succession, his thumb tapping faster each time.

You hadn’t realised how rigid you were until the muscles in your upper back started to burn. Taehyun, on the other hand, looked perfectly at ease beside you.

The moment he started snickering, unable to hold it in any longer, you stepped away and fixed him with a disapproving look.

You had long suspected that prolonged exposure to Beomgyu had caused permanent damage to his brain. The two of them rubbed off on each other in all the worst ways sometimes.

Taehyun’s smile didn’t so much as twitch as he took the phone back from Yeonjun. “Thanks!”

He swiped through the photos until he reached the first one with you in it and exhaled dramatically. He no longer worked at the theatre, but he’d clearly retained the flair for performance.

“Ah.” He sighed. “We look good together.”

Lips pursed, you glanced down at his phone.

The overhead lights glinted off the screen. You lifted a hand to block the glare, your shoulder brushing against his.

“Although,” Taehyun added just as you leaned in, “you do look a bit like a police sketch. I mean that respectfully.”

You snorted, pinching the screen to zoom in on your faces. Your eyes were completely lifeless in the picture.

“No, yeah,” you said, “I look like I’m wanted in twenty-five countr—”

“You look beautiful,” Yeonjun said.

Taehyun’s head shot up, victorious.

Slowly, you looked up, too.

Yeonjun still stood by the windows, one hand absently twisting the golden ribbon tied around the white curtain. The restaurant tables reflected on the glass behind him.

He was looking at you.

For a moment, you couldn’t seem to do anything but look back.

Taehyun grinned.

“Do you two want a picture together?” he asked, very pleased with himself.

You dropped your gaze first. “That won’t be—”

“Yes,” Yeonjun said.

Taehyun’s smile spread.

“Alright,” he said, stepping back and gesturing between the two of you with his phone. “Go on, then.”

You glanced at him, contemplated briefly what life in prison would be like, then turned to Yeonjun. He shifted to one side, making room for you next to him.

You didn’t move.

“Come on,” Taehyun urged. “Haven’t got all day.”

“No?” You cut him a look. “You can go, then.”

He plastered on a kind smile.

“I’d rather stay,” he said. “Go on now, come on. It’s just a picture. Or is something the matter?”

You pressed your lips together and turned away.

The dull sound of your platform heels against the tiles seemed unnaturally loud as you crossed the space towards Yeonjun. By the time you stopped next to him, your heart had climbed so high into your throat that you couldn’t swallow.

Taehyun raised his phone. On his screen, you and Yeonjun looked like you were two presidential candidates forced to stand next to each other before an important debate.

“Wow.” He tsked. “This is extremely awkward.”

You scoffed, your thoughts tripping over fifteen different retorts.

Yeonjun cleared his throat next to you.

“I, personally,” he said, one eye blinking slower than the other, “think s’nice.”

Taehyun openly beamed. He was having the time of his life here tonight. Soobin and Reina should get engaged every day.

“I like the sound of that,” he said, taking a step closer. “Just—here. Let me help.”

He caught Yeonjun by the elbow and nudged him closer to you with enough force to make him stumble half a step. Then, laughing under his breath, he pried your wrist from your resistance and placed your hand against Yeonjun’s chest.

You couldn’t breathe.

“There,” Taehyun said, stepping back to admire his work. “Much better. Now closer.”

You moved perhaps half an inch.

Taehyun shook his head.

“Closer,” he repeated. And then, closer, closer, closer—three more times, until you could feel Yeonjun’s heartbeat against your own.

His cologne curled around you, the same one, reminiscent of citrus and wood. Of cold air. Of late-night drives in the rain. Low-lit kitchens and quiet music on the speakers.

“Smile now,” Taehyun instructed.

You tried.

The shutter clicked—once, twice. Then twice more.

You were painfully aware of every point of contact between you and Yeonjun: the warmth beneath your hand, the sound of his breath, the thumping inside your chest and right against it.

Finally, Taehyun lowered his phone.

You took a step back, hands automatically reaching for the zipper of your dress just to have something solid to hold. Cold air prickled across your arms.

Taehyun had already started flicking through the photos, his head cocked to one side as he studied each one. You moved back to his side.

No one spoke for a minute.

The pictures were awful.

They looked like they’d been taken years ago, sometime in university, even, before the distance and the silence and all that came after. They looked like nothing had happened at all. You could not look away.

Beside you, Taehyun glanced up from the screen.

Up until now, this had all been a laugh: push Yeonjun’s buttons here, see how red his ears get there. But now Yeonjun was standing by the window, looking at you and not the pictures, and Taehyun realised there was something here that he hadn’t accounted for.

He glanced back down at the pictures. At the way Yeonjun had angled himself toward you in every frame. The way your fingers rested easily over the white line of his shirt.

For months, Taehyun remembered, every time he’d tried to bring Yeonjun up around you, you shut it down straight away.

I don’t know what you’re on about.

We were just joking.

Nothing really happened.

Right, then.

People who meant nothing to each other did not fall back together that easily.

“Great,” you said finally. The slit of your dress pulled slightly against your thigh as you took a step back. You glanced quickly towards the bar. “Um—great pictures.”

Taehyun looked up at you.

His experiment, he thought, could give you one more push.

“Yeah?” he said lightly. “‘Cause we can have a re-do.”

You turned back to him. “No. This is good.”

“Hm.” He swiped through the pictures again, smiling. “Are these your first photos together?”

Yeonjun quietly shook his head.

Taehyun didn’t notice and glanced back up at you, expectant.

You cleared your throat. “No.”

He nodded, scrolling further back to the earlier photos of you and him.

“Well,” he said. “I reckon ours turned out better anyway.”

Your expression relaxed just a little.

“We look natural,” he continued, zooming in. Your eyes, he noted, hadn’t looked this empty with Yeonjun. He continued anyway, “and comfortable. Like we actually enjoy spending time together.”

By the window, Yeonjun visibly stiffened.

You clicked your tongue. “M’not enjoying spending time with you right now.”

“No?” Taehyun’s tone remained innocent. “Would you prefer I left you two alone, then?”

“Actually—”

“Yeonjun?” Taehyun finished, turning his head towards him.

“Yes,” Yeonjun said. “I would.”

Aha, Taehyun thought.

Just a bit more now, he was sure.

“Oh,” he said, sliding his phone back into his pocket. “Don’t mind me, then.” He flashed you a grin, all teeth and vice and everything nice. “I was just having such a nice time catching up with you. We should do it more often.”

“We saw each other on Thursday,” you said.

“And yet I already suffer tremendously.” He reached for your hand again. “Maybe we should—”

“Excuse me.” Yeonjun stepped forward abruptly, forcing you and Taehyun apart. “I need to use the restroom.”

He lingered between you for a heartbeat, his thoughts spinning and tripping over one another. Then he kept walking.

Your perfume still swam around him. Your hand had been on his chest less than five minutes ago. The space between you and Taehyun—

He needed a minute before his nervous system gave up on him for good.

You watched him disappear through the restroom doors. Beside you, Taehyun made a strangled sound suspiciously close to a laugh.

You turned slowly towards him. “You little snake.”

Taehyun exploded with all the amusement he’d been holding back, one hand comically braced against his stomach. His shoulders shook hard enough that nearby people started glancing over.

“You should see your face,” he wheezed. “I nearly—”

“What’re you trying to do here?”

Still spluttering, he managed to straighten up.

“Nothing at all,” he said. “Just celebrating.”

Before you could question him further, he sighed happily and leaned in to press a quick kiss to your cheek—purely to annoy you one last time.

It worked.

“Taehyun.”

Laughing again, he sauntered towards the rest of your friends.

At some point during the evening, the floral centrepiece on the main table had been replaced by an unstable tower of jelly shots—Soobin, Reina, Nara, and Beomgyu were currently involved in a fiercely competitive game of jelly shot Jenga (JJ, as Beomgyu called it three rounds ago and now refused to call it anything else).

Judging by the alarming redness of Soobin’s cheeks, Reina was currently winning.

Taehyun arrived just in time to watch her slide another shot from the middle row. The structure held.

She threw both arms into the air so abruptly that she nearly sent Soobin tumbling into the table.

“Yes!” she shouted.

“I’m a little scared of you,” Nara said.

Laughing, Reina caught Soobin by the front of his jacket and pulled him into a kiss that he accepted with immediate enthusiasm.

He looked a little dazed when she pulled away, thrilled by her victory and their engagement and all their friends being here. He leaned back into the table dreamily.

“Bin—” Nara’s voice died in a high-pitched squeal as Soobin’s sleeve brushed the side of the middle row.

The tower collapsed at once, shot glasses staining the formerly white tablecloth in beautiful shades of the rainbow. Screeches rang around the table: Soobin—it wasn’t my fault—SOOBIN—I DIDN’T MEAN TO—

Beomgyu was doubled over with laughter as he tried to salvage the bottom row. Taehyun assisted him by dutifully swallowing every shot he was handed.

Before anyone could recruit you into helping rebuild the disaster, you turned away, walking towards the coat rack. You rummaged through your handbag until your fingers found your cigarettes; the cardboard pack was slightly crushed at one corner. You grabbed it, found your lighter, and slipped towards the back exit.

Outside, the evening air was cool against your bare arms.

The alley beside the restaurant smelled of damp brick and smoke. Headlights swept past the opening of the street. Somewhere further down the block, a group of teenage boys shouted loudly at one another.

You inhaled deeply and held the cold in your lungs for a moment. Then you opened the pack of Camels.

It was New York that had reminded you of the old habit.

Everyone there seemed to smoke socially: outside bars, museums, small European restaurants (the performative ones, with dreadful lighting and cocktails that nearly put you in debt, and the genuine ones, with great food and small windows).

You’d grown fond of standing outside with strangers, white smoke curling through the conversations, sharing lighters, borrowing cigarettes. It gave your hands something to do and, more importantly, it provided a great excuse to leave any room.

Yeonjun did not know about this habit.

When he finally left the restroom—after splashing cold water on his face and staring at himself in the mirror for a minute—his eyes automatically began searching the restaurant for blue.

Nothing.

He scanned the room again.

Still nothing.

Concern prickled through him as he grabbed another whiskey from the bar and started circling the restaurant in search of a familiar face. Someone had to have seen you.

Glittering dresses, glasses of champagne, and those endless fucking balloons all blurred past him.

Finally, he spotted Kai by the windows.

Unfortunately for Yeonjun, Kai had already been briefed on Taehyun’s ongoing social experiment and had decided, out of scientific curiosity, to become complicit.

“She left,” Kai said. “With Taehyun, I think.”

In reality, Kai knew, Taehyun was getting a new tray of jelly shots with Beomgyu, hoping to rebuild their tower.

Yeonjun, of course, did not know this.

“Yes,” Kai said in response to his gobsmacked expression. “Like two minutes ago, maybe.”

Yeonjun scanned the restaurant a third time, faster now.

You definitely weren’t here.

And neither was Taehyun.

Something heavy dropped straight through his stomach.

“Right,” he muttered. “I’ve got to go.”

Kai watched, fascinated, as Yeonjun abruptly turned and crossed the restaurant. Still clutching his whiskey glass, he barged past groups of people and disappeared through the back exit.

That was very interesting.

Taehyun, Kai thought, sipping his champagne, was going to enjoy hearing that the breaking point for Yeonjun had apparently been the mere possibility of you leaving the party with someone else.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 29, 2026. 10 PM

Yeonjun found you the moment he shoved through the steel door.

The metal slammed against the wall hard enough to make you jump. Your cigarette nearly slipped from your fingers, scattering ash across your hand and the wet concrete at your feet.

You looked up.

Yeonjun stood beneath the flickering exit sign. It tinted his face a sickly green. His chest rose and fell beneath the open collar of his shirt, a little too fast. His hair had started coming loose; several dark strands now hung over his forehead.

For a second, he simply stared at you. The frigid air had slapped some clarity back into him, though not enough to undo the whiskey.

This, he concluded, was the smoking area, then.

“Y-you’re not here with—” He stopped himself with a long exhale. “Okay.”

You stared back at him, completely thrown.

Slowly, Yeonjun reached back and pulled the door shut behind him. The noise from the restaurant dulled immediately, leaving only the hiss of tyres somewhere beyond the alley and the quiet electric buzz of the exit sign.

He moved away from the door and leaned his back against the wall opposite you. The whiskey glass in his hand trembled slightly, the ice tapping against the edge.

His gaze dropped to the cigarette between your fingers; your second one.

“Didn’t know you still smoked,” he said, patting distractedly at his chest until his fingers found the inside pocket of his jacket.

You chose not to question why he’d followed you out here.

“I don’t,” you replied, bringing the cigarette to your lips.

He smiled. “Yeah?”

You exhaled toward the alley. “Yeah.”

“Cool,” he said, pulling out the crumpled red package of Marlboro from his pocket. “I do.”

He planted a cigarette between his lips and nodded towards the lighter you were still clutching in your hand. He had his own, but he couldn’t care less for it right now.

You flicked the lighter open.

Yeonjun leaned forward and misjudged the distance completely. He stumbled half a step closer, ending up nearly shoulder-to-shoulder with you against the wall. Whiskey sloshed dangerously in his glass. You took a cautious step aside.

“Sorry,” he murmured around the cigarette. “You mind?”

You held the flame up to him.

This time, he leaned in carefully. The cigarette tip glowed orange in the dark, briefly illuminating the soft curve of his mouth. His cheeks hollowed as he took a drag.

You lowered the lighter and looked away.

“Smart idea,” you said, nodding towards the glass in his hand, “bringing your drink here.”

He followed your gaze downwards as if he’d forgotten he still had the whiskey with him.

“Yeah. Oh—” He glanced back at you. “You want some?”

You hesitated for only a second. “Dry throat.”

He held the glass out immediately.

You took a large swig. The whiskey burned harshly going down, but settled warm in your stomach.

“Thanks,” you said, handing the glass back.

His hand curled around it without looking, fingers grazing yours as he steadied the cigarette against the rim and took another drag. His lips brushed the edge of the glass.

Smoke drifted from his mouth in a thin silver stream, dissolving into the dark.

You only realised you’d been staring when your heart forgot its rhythm.

Turning away, you crossed one arm over your waist and lifted the cigarette again. Smoke filtered down into your lungs, calm and almost soothing.

“You should drink more,” Yeonjun said, staring absently into his glass.

“Yeah?” you said. “As much as you did tonight?”

A tired smirk pulled at the corner of his lips.

He wasn’t going to defend himself. He felt one prolonged blink away from falling asleep against the wall.

For a while, the two of you stood in silence while the smoke drifted upward between you before dissipating into the cold night air. The brick wall was rough and chilly against your shoulders, but you didn’t move.

You weren’t standing nearly as close to Yeonjun as you had in front of Taehyun’s camera, but this was somehow worse. As if without the proof of his heartbeat against yours, you couldn’t be sure he was actually here.

“Taehyun was being an idiot back there, you know,” you found yourself saying. “He didn’t mean anything.”

Yeonjun exhaled smoke slowly through his mouth.

“I know,” he said.

You glanced at him again, taking in the exhaustion on his face. The night seemed to hang off his shoulders.

“What’s going on with you, then?” you asked.

He huffed out a small laugh.

“Several things,” he said, turning his head towards you. “I’m a machine. Got loads of ongoing processes and—”

“Yeonjun.” Your voice softened. “Be real right now.”

The smile faded from his face. “I am real.”

“So, what’s the matter with you? What’s with inserting yourself into every conversation I’m having?”

He scoffed, his shoulders tightening against the wall.

“What?” he said. “I can’t talk to people now?”

“You can,” you said evenly. “Why’s it always the same people I’m talking to, though?”

He took another drag from his cigarette and tipped his head back against the wall. His gaze wandered towards the narrow strip of night sky visible above the alley as he exhaled the smoke. No stars tonight; too many streetlights drowned them out.

“Just happened that way,” he said. “The restaurant’s smaller than it looks.”

“Right.”

You turned away from him and brought the cigarette back to your lips. The paper crackled as it burned.

“Did your grandad get you those sunflowers?” Yeonjun asked.

You blew out the smoke. “What?”

“The sunflowers you’ve got at home.” His eyes stayed fixed on the sky. “Are they from your grandad?”

Your brows pulled together. “Where is this coming from?”

“Just—just answer the question.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Are they from your grandad?”

You exhaled through your nose, smoke trailing with your breath. You didn’t know when he’d noticed the sunflowers.

“They are,” you said.

He dropped his gaze back to the pavement. “Okay.”

You stared at his hands for a second. His fingers relaxed around the glass.

“So nothing’s going on with you, then,” you said, tapping ash onto the pavement. “Just acting crazy for no reason.”

He scoffed around the cigarette, teeth sinking briefly into the filter.

“Well, why should I tell you if something was going on?” he said. “You don’t want to talk to me.”

“That—” You watched his hand tighten around the glass again. “Is that the problem?”

“I don’t know,” he said. Ash fell from the end of his cigarette in grey flakes, dropping over the toes of his loafers. “I’ve got too many problems to keep track of them all.”

“What—”

“I’ve decided,” he cut in, pushing himself off the wall, “I’m going to go back to the party now.”

You watched him stub out the cigarette against the bricks behind him. It hissed faintly as it died.

This was starting to feel surreal.

“Okay,” you said slowly. “And do what?”

He tossed the filter into the bin by the door.

The smile on his face was crooked and a little mean when he looked back at you. You knew it well.

“Well,” he said, stopping in front of you, “that’s none of your business now, is it?”

“It wouldn’t be,” you said through a stream of smoke, “if you weren’t interrupting every conversation I tried to have tonight.”

“M’not interrupting,” he said. “Just joining. S’called mingling.”

You scoffed. “You’re not mingling.”

“Yeah, I am,” he said, and the whiskey finally showed its face in the sluggish click of his tongue against his teeth. “And you don’t get to have a problem with it, because you don’t want me.”

Your fingers froze around the cigarette.

Yeonjun leaned heavily back against the wall beside you, as if the effort of the words had drained whatever energy he had left. He lifted the whiskey and took a long sip. It was mostly melted ice now.

You turned to face him fully. “What—what does that even mean?”

“It means m’going to go,” he said, but didn’t budge. His eyes flicked briefly towards the door beside him before snapping back to you. “Oh—or would you rather I wait, so you can go back first? Just in case, yeah? Have to be safe.”

You pressed your lips together tightly enough that your teeth clicked.

“We’re doing this shit now?” you said.

He shrugged. “Guess we are.”

Slowly, you dropped your cigarette onto the pavement and crushed it beneath your heel before tossing the remains into the bin. You brushed your palms together.

“Okay.” You met his eyes. “You can go back first. Just don’t make tonight worse for yourself than it already is.”

“Oh, worse, yeah.” He shifted, shoulder resting against the wall, angled towards you. “How d’you reckon I could make it worse?”

You clicked your tongue and crossed your arms over your chest.

“If you have to ask that,” you said, “then you clearly already know.”

A flicker of satisfaction crossed his face. He knew you wouldn’t answer him properly.

He took another sip from his glass.

“No, actually,” he said. Everything inside him was burning. “S’the whole point of asking a question. It implies not knowing the answer.”

“Okay, wise-ass. How much have you had to drink tonight?”

He turned his head, grinning. “If you have to ask that, then you clearly already know.”

You rolled your eyes and turned away from him. “I see we’re still twelve.”

“Thirteen and a half now,” he replied. “Been over a year since we were last out together.”

The tightness in your chest spread lower, frigid along your spine.

“Has it?” you said.

He glanced at you without lifting his head from the wall. “I’m offended you wouldn’t remember.”

“Why would I remember a bet we had for two weeks?”

His gaze dropped to the whiskey glass hanging loosely from his hand. The green light from the exit sign shimmered weakly across the surface, catching on the half-melted ice cubes.

For a moment, he just watched them swirl.

Then, quieter:

“Was that all there was, then?”

The silence that followed landed like a weight on your shoulders. It took you a moment to realise there wasn’t anyone else around to answer him for you.

“You said so,” you replied, tightening your grip around yourself.

Yeonjun sniffled.

“I didn’t mean that,” he said—out loud, for the first time.

You scoffed so quickly, it nearly startled him.

“Yeah?” you said. “Did that only take you a year and a half to figure out, then?”

“No.” His voice dropped. “I knew I didn’t mean it the moment I said it.”

“Then why’d you say it?”

You asked the question, but your body was already preparing to leave. Your weight shifted, one knee bent slightly. Your eyes darted towards the door once, then once more.

Yeonjun wished he’d drunk more so he wouldn’t have noticed.

“Are you going to let me explain properly,” he asked, “or do you just want a quick answer so you can keep hating me?”

You watched him for a long moment after that: the darkness in his eyes, the tight set of his jaw, the mess of his hair. Your hands dropped to your sides.

He didn’t know, then, that there was very little he could say that would actually make you hate him.

You looked away towards the mouth of the alley and waited for a car to drive by so you could breathe again.

“I don’t hate you,” you said.

Yeonjun let out a slow breath. He wasn’t hearing you.

“Sure feels like you do,” he mumbled.

Above you, the exit sign seemed to buzz louder.

“I wish I did,” you said.

Yeonjun looked up.

The alcohol must’ve dissolved whatever sense he still possessed, because your words seemed to hit him hard enough to knock his heartbeat into a painfully familiar rhythm.

Now he heard you.

“W-what does that mean, then?” he asked.

You shook your head once. “Means you should go back in. Mingle.”

“No.”

He pushed himself off the wall too quickly and had to steady his balance before he lowered the whiskey glass carefully onto the pavement. Then he took a step closer.

“Explain,” he said. “You don’t hate me?”

You straightened instinctively against the wall, startled by the proximity.

“No,” you said.

“Why not?”

He suspected that might have been a stupid question. And still, his eyes moved slowly between yours, searching your face for the answer. There was nothing secretive left in him tonight; he’d drowned his restraint in the whiskey.

He wanted to know what he was to you now.

Wanted to be close to you.

Wanted you.

“Hating you,” you said, forcing yourself to hold his gaze, “would mean I care about you.”

Yeonjun felt his stomach twist.

He’d heard you say this before: in the dark of his wardrobe room, surrounded by hangers of his clothes and hardly able to take a breath.

“Right,” he murmured, and the darkness in his eyes seemed to grow. “You don’t care.”

The alley around you suddenly felt much too small.

“Right,” you echoed.

“Mm.” He nodded once, eyes still fixed on yours. “Still want to jump out of a window every time I open my mouth, yeah?”

Your breath caught at the question. You could almost feel the plywood backing of his wardrobe against your spine again. Could almost smell the old wood.

“Sometimes,” you said.

His lips twitched.

“Sometimes,” he repeated. A slow smile touched his lips. “That’s better. I like that you’re honest.”

“Mhmm. I’ve never lied to you.”

Surprise flashed in his eyes. You were handing his words back to him.

He remembered you calling him performative for saying that to you back then. Remembered the quiet night and the way you refused to look at him, no matter how much he’d wanted you to. Remembered how desperately he’d hoped you’d believe him then. How desperately he hoped for it now.

The whiskey churned in his stomach.

He moved half a step closer before he realised he was doing it.

“You’re lying to me right now,” he said quietly.

You could hear your pulse in your ears. “I’m not.”

“You are.” He was close enough for your vision to blur around him. “You do care.”

Shivers raced down your spine, so sudden that they almost hurt.

Yeonjun waited. He needed you to admit that you cared. Needed proof that what you said wasn’t true.

You needed it to be true.

When you didn’t speak, he raised one hand. His fingers brushed the ends of your hair, cautious in case you’d shove him away. The touch was light enough that you barely felt it, yet every nerve ending inside you seemed to focus there anyway.

Gently, he swept your hair over your shoulder, exposing the side of your neck to the cool night air.

He really liked your hair tonight.

Really liked that the rest of the alleyway swirled around him, but you stayed completely still.

“S’why you’re out here now,” he murmured. “Asking me what’s the matter with me.” He pulled back just enough to look at your face again. “Because you care.”

“I care,” you replied, breathless, “about the way you’re making us look in front of everyone.”

He tilted his head slightly. “And how am I making us look?”

“Bad.”

“Mm.” He leaned closer again. The toes of his shoes nudged the platform of your heels. “Why?”

His fingertips brushed your face before you could answer, a little cold and feather-light against your skin. Your shoulders pressed harder against the wall behind you.

You didn’t speak.

“Why am I making us look bad, love?” he repeated softly.

Your lungs tightened around the next breath.

Then his palm settled fully against the side of your face, devastatingly familiar.

Your eyes closed before you meant them to.

His thumb brushed over your cheek.

You blinked your eyes open again.

“You’re making it look,” you whispered, “like there’s something here.”

“Hmm.” He was close enough now that the warmth of every word reached your skin before the meaning did. “And there’s nothing here, yeah?”

There was nothing here: every inhale brought his chest against yours. Every exhale brought his mouth closer.

You squeezed your eyes shut again and took a breath.

The alleyway wrapped around you. Cars drifted by on the street. The exit sign pulsed loudly overhead. His cologne clung to the smoke in the air.

It was cold here.

The bricks were rough against your spine.

Before your mind could catch up to you, you pushed yourself off the wall and kissed him.

Yeonjun exhaled against your mouth, nearly choking as he caught your lips between his. His hand tightened at your jaw, still soft, but firm enough to hold you there. To tell you, wordlessly and desperately, not to pull away too soon.

His lips were soft and faintly bitter with smoke.

It was new, this taste of him. You didn’t like not knowing it.

Your hands caught instinctively in the lapels of his jacket, fingers tightening in the fabric as his shoulders loosened under your touch. He sighed against your mouth, emptying his lungs completely so he could breathe you in instead.

Your gloss was still sweet, still tasting faintly of cherry.

He hoped it would haunt him forever.

He tilted your head back to deepen the kiss—so slowly that you felt every moment of it: the parting of his lips, the slight tremor when you pulled closer.

Your fingers found the back of his neck and slid upwards into the strands of his hair. He made a small sound when you tugged lightly.

It went straight through you.

His other hand slid down to your waist, pulling you away from the wall and into him until your balance disappeared into the kiss. Your grip on his jacket tightened; your breath sped up.

“D’you care about me?” he murmured against your lips.

Your response came as a muffled breath, fingers tightening in his hair.

“Tell me,” he whispered, the words barely coherent. “Tell me you care.”

“I care.”

The kiss changed at once; his mouth moved against yours faster, rough with want. It stole the breath straight from your lungs.

His grip tightened around you. He could feel the texture of your dress against his palm, could feel the heat of your skin when his fingers brushed the cutouts on the sides of your waist.

He broke the kiss with a sharp, helpless gasp.

He was so fucking drunk.

“Fuck,” he whispered. His forehead dropped against yours. His lungs felt hollow, but his chest—his chest was so full. “Fuck, fuck, fu—”

“I’m sorry—”

“No.” Both of his hands framed your face instantly. “Fuck, baby, no—” He pressed his lips to yours again. “No.” And again. “Not sorry.” And again. “Not sorry at all.”

Each kiss seemed to carry something different: regret and relief, questions he wanted to ask you, promises you wouldn’t let him make.

You were drowning in the warmth of his mouth, in the solid press of his chest against yours. In the unbearable ease with which your body remembered him.

The tension softened, but your mouths still lingered together in small, quiet touches.

One more kiss.

Another.

A pause that should’ve been the end of it.

Then one more kiss anyway.

And another—

When you finally pulled apart, neither of you could breathe properly.

Yeonjun stayed close enough for the taste of his whiskey to linger on your tongue. Close enough that, if you leaned forward even slightly, you could kiss him again.

“That—” You reached up to wipe your smudged gloss from the corner of his lips with your thumb. He wished you’d left it there. “T-that shouldn’t have happened.”

Something painful flickered in his eyes.

He smiled, but that only made him look sadder.

Slowly, he stepped back. His hands slid down your arms, fingers lingering on your skin for a moment longer before falling away.

“Of course,” he said.

“I mean it.”

“I know you do, love.”

He took another step back and turned away, dragging a hand across his face as he tried to pull himself back together. You watched the line of his shoulders for a minute, your lungs unconsciously syncing to the rhythm of his breathing.

Then you dropped your gaze to the pavement instead. There were cigarette burn stains across the concrete, dark little circles.

“I-I’m going to go,” you said. “And we—we shouldn’t talk again tonight.”

He didn’t move.

A car drove past the alley.

You swallowed hard. “I need verbal agreement from you.”

Yeonjun shut his eyes.

You’d always recovered faster than him. Always been better at drawing lines and standing behind them.

“We won’t talk again tonight,” he said at last, still facing away from you.

The alley felt unstable around him now. If he looked back, if he saw your face again, he knew he’d drag you against him and start this all over again.

“Okay.” You pushed yourself off the wall. “That’s good.”

You moved silently enough that he barely heard you cross to the door. The hinges creaked when you pulled it open.

“I missed this, though,” he said before he could stop himself.

The door stopped moving.

Yeonjun didn’t turn, but he felt you freeze behind him all the same.

He pictured you standing in the doorway, one hand still on the handle, eyes lowered, fighting the same expression you’d worn yesterday in the stairwell.

That would haunt him forever, too.

“Don’t,” you whispered. It was a plea. “I—I’m going.”

The door shut behind you.

Yeonjun took a long, shuddering breath. He dug his lighter from his back pocket. It was nearly empty.

He needed another two cigarettes before he could force himself to go back inside.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 29, 2026. 11:30 PM

Soon, people began to leave the party in small groups, lingering in the doorway of the restaurant with jackets slung over their arms, hugging each other goodbye three times before actually parting. Laughter kept spilling out onto the pavement. Every few minutes, someone suggested, ‘one more for the road, yeah?’

You and Yeonjun were both still here.

Since coming back inside, neither of you had looked directly at the other.

Yeonjun, who had technically honoured his promise not to speak to you again tonight, kept checking the time on his phone to see exactly when tonight would finally be over.

Most of the pleasant whiskey buzz had already started wearing off. Now he was left with a dull headache pressing at the back of his skull.

While Reina and Soobin stood near the entrance, thanking people for coming, you quietly began tidying the remnants of the evening so they’d have less to deal with later.

Before long, Taehyun and Nara showed up to help.

The three of you moved easily around each other through the half-empty restaurant, stacking scattered plates, gathering abandoned champagne flutes, rescuing forgotten handbags and suspicious flash drives from underneath tables.

Every now and then, one of you would laugh at something, and the other two would soon join in.

The sound irritated Yeonjun instantly.

He wanted to be part of it.

He stood near the back of the room with a half-empty whiskey glass and spent nearly a full minute debating whether helping you clean would count as breaking the agreement between you.

Eventually, he decided it wouldn’t, as long as he didn’t speak.

Twenty more minutes until midnight.

“We used to stay out until four in the morning at least,” Nara remarked as Yeonjun silently took a stack of empty plates from her hands. “Is this us getting old?”

“It’s not,” Soobin called from the doorway. He clapped one of his old school friends on the shoulder before turning back inside. “The restaurant has working hours, s’all.”

“And you didn’t think about the after-party?” Nara asked.

“I think they did,” Taehyun cut in before Soobin could answer. “We’re just not invited.”

Behind you, Reina succumbed to giggles, leaning against Soobin’s shoulder while he fought to suppress his grin. She swayed lightly in her heels.

Seventeen more minutes, Yeonjun thought. And he can make a comment, too.

Beomgyu and Kai returned from the restroom and were dispatched, at once, to stack chairs while the rest of you finished clearing the dishes.

Finally, after apologising to the exhausted staff for staying late, all eight of you stepped outside. A few of the guests were still here. Apparently, there weren’t enough taxis in the city for everyone.

Phones glowed across the pavement. Somewhere farther down the street, a man argued with an Uber driver in a language you didn’t recognise, but seemed to understand perfectly. His hands flailed wildly in the direction of the intersection up ahead.

Reina and Soobin had planned in advance and ordered a taxi half an hour ago.

It arrived first.

The two of them climbed into it to raucous applause and dramatic cheers from the pavement, as if they were off for their honeymoon rather than just heading home. Fully committing to the performance, Reina rolled down the window and gave everyone a graceful royal wave.

You laughed.

They looked radiant tonight. You couldn’t stop watching them.

A few steps away, Yeonjun couldn’t stop watching you.

Another five minutes later, an Uber rolled across the street, the headlights washing everyone’s jackets silver-white for a moment.

You checked the license plate against your phone and reached for the back door.

“Bye!” Taehyun called after you.

“Text me when you get home,” Nara added automatically. Despite all her complaints about the night ending, she sounded ready to curl up and fall asleep right there on the curb.

You gave them both a wave and ducked into the backseat.

The sight of your hand disappearing behind the edge of the door made something inside Yeonjun drop hard enough to leave him briefly weightless.

All he remembered was taking a breath.

“Hello,” you said to the driver, reaching back to pull the door shut—only for it to jerk backwards.

Yeonjun climbed into the backseat, nudging you to a side, and slammed the door shut.

You stared at him. “W-what the f—”

“105 Dove Road,” he told the driver. “Thank you.”

Then, as though none of this was remotely unhinged behaviour, he turned towards the window and gave someone outside the restaurant a lazy little wave. Nara was visibly staring.

The Uber driver watched Yeonjun through the rear-view mirror for a very long second.

“Miss,” he said cautiously, his eyes shifting towards you, “is that the right address?”

Your surprise doubled at his question. Not many men bothered to check in with a woman when another man answered for her.

You glanced sideways at Yeonjun’s expectant, utterly unashamed eyes.

Sighing, you scooched across the backseat towards the opposite window and gave the driver an apologetic nod. It wasn’t his fault Yeonjun was insane.

“Yes,” you said. “He’s my neighbour.”

“Okay.” The driver shrugged easily. “Just making sure.”

“Thank you. I really appreciate it.”

He nodded and carefully backed away from the curb, manoeuvring around another Uber that Nara was currently attempting to climb into while still laughing at something Bemgyu was saying through the open door. He was pointing directly at your car.

Behind them, Kai had his phone out and seemed to be taking pictures of you.

This was great.

For a moment, you considered blocking everyone in your contacts.

As the Uber slid into dwindling Saturday night traffic, Yeonjun closed his eyes and sank deeper into the seat, letting his head fall back against the headrest. You kept your eyes fixed on the window instead of him, watching the streets smear past in streaks of neon.

He hummed beside you. “Warm here.”

You gritted your teeth.

“What did I tell you we wouldn’t do again?” you asked, trying not to let your voice carry to the front of the car.

Yeonjun gathered his hands on his lap. “We wouldn’t talk tonight.”

“Right,” you said. “And what are we doing?”

He cracked one eye open.

Ignoring the slow spin of his surroundings, he dug his phone out of his pocket and heaved it as though it weighed several kilograms. The screen lit his face with a ghostly glow.

“It’s technically tomorrow,” he mumbled, holding the phone vaguely in your direction.

His lockscreen showed 12:12 AM.

His arm dropped again, head thunking softly against the seat. You stared at him for a second.

“I’m starting to think you really are unwell,” you informed him.

A faint smile appeared on the corner of his lips. “We live in the same building.”

“That is not why you got into my car.”

Yeonjun opened his eyes and slowly rolled his head towards you.

“No?” he said softly. “Tell me why, then.”

Clenching your jaw, you looked back out the window. Further away from the city centre, most of the shops had gone dark. A pair of drunk men stumbled past a deli with their arms slung around each other’s shoulders.

“You wanted everyone to see it.” Irritation sharpened your voice. You wished you’d drunk more tonight. “Wanted to send everyone some message. Like you’re marking your fucking territ—”

“No,” he said, eyes sliding shut again. “S’actually because you said we shouldn’t talk again tonight. And then we didn’t, even though you were right there, and now I feel a little bit like m’dying. S’all.”

A violent shiver snaked down your spine.

“That’s your future hangover,” you said.

“No.” His lips twitched slightly. “S’just you.”

He heard you draw a sharp breath and opened his eyes to find that you’d closed yours.

When you eventually looked back at him and found him already watching you, you still didn’t speak.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted. “I can’t—I shouldn’t be saying shit like this. S’not your fault we ended up here anyway. I’m the one who fucked up and—”

“Yeonjun.”

It didn’t sound like a demand for him to stop speaking.

He didn’t know what it sounded like.

“I—” He swallowed and dragged a hand roughly down his face. The tips of his fingers felt like ice against his cheeks. “Right now, I’m really drunk.”

He paused, then frowned.

That wasn’t right. He’d developed a solid alcohol tolerance over the last year, but he’d transcended even that tonight. He seemed to have acquired some sort of higher spiritual condition now, available only to those courageous enough to drink their weight in liquor.

His head felt detachable.

Oh—a bit like Eeyore’s tail, he remembered. He’d had a plushie as a kid. The Velcro on the tail had worn out, and he constantly worried he’d drop it in some shop and lose it forever.

A fresh wave of horror washed over him – what, then, if that happened to his head?

“You’ve been drunk the whole night,” you said when he didn’t add anything else.

He shook his head weakly against the headrest—it hadn’t detached yet, thank God—but didn’t say anything else.

Outside, the city darkened further. The pavements emptied street by street. The Uber passed cafés with shuttered windows, dark office buildings, and lonely bus stops bathed in the cold glow of streetlights.

Yeonjun watched your reflection in the glass of the window.

Even in this state, he could tell that the conversation was ending again, and there was no promise of it starting again tomorrow. Or the day after.

Actually, maybe the real conversation between you had ended a long time ago. Maybe it ended that day in grad school.

Everything since then had just been coincidence, like you said.

Just circumstances.

And Violet.

God, he missed Violet.

She was probably sprawled across the middle of his bed by now. She’d probably try to suffocate him in his sleep later for abandoning her all evening, and to be fair, he thought he deserved it.

“I…” He hesitated, swallowing the bitter taste in his mouth. “C-could you stay for a minute after we get back? I want to talk to you.”

The shadows across your face shifted in the passing streetlights.

“Think we’ve talked enough for one night,” you said.

“Please.”

You continued to watch the city rush past the window.

Quietly, you found yourself thinking of your dream again. Thinking of the way the blue car—was that Yeonjun’s dead Nissan?—had kept passing you on the road. How relieved you’d felt to see it again.

You thought you knew better than to believe in dreams.

Carefully, you turned your gaze to the floor of the car. You could see Yeonjun in your peripheral vision, leaning back against the seat. He was still watching you.

“Fine,” you said at last.

You didn’t know if you knew better.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 30, 2026. 12:45 AM

When the driver finally stopped outside your building, you made sure to leave a significantly larger tip than you’d planned—partly because he’d treated you like an actual human being, but mostly because he’d been forced to listen to two people spiral for about half an hour, and no one deserved that on a Saturday night.

Yeonjun climbed out first.

You followed more slowly, smoothing your dress once your heels hit the pavement. The night air was damp against your skin, cool enough to sting where your pulse still raced. You were very tired.

For a moment after the door shut, the two of you stood beneath the streetlights and watched the Uber disappear down the street.

The silence that followed felt old.

It reminded you of grad school again. Of the long nights outside your building with Yeonjun standing near the entrance, his hands buried in his pockets, while neither of you looked for a reason to say goodbye.

You remembered not wanting to disturb Reina by bringing him upstairs. Remembered how, even then, wanting him that much had felt unsafe.

You wondered whether one day you’d stop remembering.

“Look,” Yeonjun started with a ragged sigh. “Maybe I did get into that car with you to send a message.”

Your gaze flicked to him.

“But not to them,” he added. “To you.”

Wind moved through the empty street, stirring the birch trees lining the pavement. Their leaves whispered overhead.

You knew you shouldn’t ask the next question.

You’d spent over a year closing those doors inside you, stacking anger against them. Pride against them. Grief. Anything to keep them from opening again.

But some exhausted part of you seemed to have quietly resigned itself to the fact that this was going to hurt regardless of whether they opened or not.

“What message?” you asked.

Yeonjun stared at the cracks in the pavement under his loafers. There was still some ash on the left one.

“I don’t want to not talk to you anymore,” he said, digging his nails into his palm to force the street to steady around him. “Or only run into you in the lobby sometimes. Or just—just be a neighbour to you. I c—I can’t do that with you.”

You felt heat flare under your skin: at the back of your neck and on the side of your face and across your lips. Everywhere he’d touched you tonight, as though he’d left invisible marks that he could trigger just with his voice.

They burned at the thought that you wouldn’t talk anymore.

That you would only run into each other sometimes.

That you would only be neighbours.

“I can’t do that with you, either,” you said, turning your gaze towards the dark building across the street. Only a few windows still glowed.

Yeonjun watched you, holding his breath.

Hope was a very dangerous thing to hand him; he didn’t know how to hold it.

“So what does that mean?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, fingers clutching the fabric of your dress. “Maybe it means we shouldn’t talk at all anymore.”

He shook his head, stubborn even drunk. The street tilted around him and bent backwards. He stumbled slightly and caught himself against the nearest lamppost, his shoes clattering against the metal.

“No,” he said. “That—that can’t be what it means.”

He looked pale under the feeble yellow of the streetlight. Looked like he’d stay here until he became part of the lamppost.

“Why not?” you said.

He steadied himself against the pole, fingers tightening around the freezing metal. “Because it’s you and me.”

“So?”

“So we’ve always been talking.”

Your gaze drifted down to the base of the lamppost. “Much good it’s done us.”

Horribly, he realised that was true.

He had nothing concrete to offer you to prove that talking to him was worth the effort.

He’d failed to prove to you he was a good boyfriend back in grad school. Failed to tell you what mattered when it mattered. Failed at everything he’d tried.

And he’d never taken himself for much of an optimist, yet, despite all of that, he still stood here, in the cold, with tired eyes and whiskey for blood, his shoulders slumped beneath his suit jacket, looking at you like he still intended to get everything right this time.

It was you.

It had always been you.

He knew he’d carry that around with him for the rest of his life, whether you wanted him to or not.

“That can—everything can change,” he said.

He couldn’t tell whether the nausea twisting his guts came from the alcohol or the look in your eyes. Maybe both.

“It shouldn’t,” you said.

“Why not?”

“Because it—” You stopped yourself with a sharp exhale and looked down at the stubborn grass forcing its way through the cracks in the pavement. When you spoke again, your voice had gone quieter. “We can’t do this again, I told you. I’m sorry about what happened toni—”

“No.” The force of his interruption snapped your gaze back to him. “Don’t apologise for anything that happened tonight.”

You held his gaze for a second before looking away again. “I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

“I wanted you to.”

The more he spoke, the less you seemed to move.

He let go of the lamppost, but didn’t dare step closer.

“That doesn’t make it better,” you said.

“Why not?”

You shook your head. The pins in your hair had started digging into your scalp, and every tiny movement hurt. You didn’t have many more why nots left in you.

“We can’t do that again,” you said.

“But we—we’re not doing that again,” he argued. “It’s different now.”

“It’s not, though. It’s still us. Nothing’s different.”

“But you won’t even let me talk to you.” Agitation sharpened his words now; he’d stopped trying to soften them. “So how can you know that?”

Your fingers pressed into fists. “We’ve talked enou—”

“No, we haven’t! We never talked about what we were—what we were doin—”

“Well, whose fault is that, then?” Your voice cracked through the empty street. You looked at him with eyes bright enough to burn. “I wanted to talk to you! I fucking—I tried to talk to you. Back in grad school, I tried. Twice. Both times, you walked away without explaining shit. ‘Things were happening.’” You scoffed. “Fuck that. Now you want to talk? Now, over a year later, you want to fucking talk?”

“I want to explain why it took so long,” he said quickly. “I—”

“No,” you cut through him. “No, we’re not doing that. You think it—think I’m fine, yeah? Said I’d forget about you. Why wouldn’t I? I’ve never been bothered by people leaving, right? Like water off my back, every single time.” Your chest shuddered as you tried to take a breath. “We—no. No, that’s it. I—I’m not doing that again with you. I can’t.”

You turned away from him.

Yeonjun stared at the back of your dress in silence. The vivid blue looked lighter beneath the streetlights. He watched the fabric shift with each wild breath you tried to tame.

He hadn’t been thinking about your mother when he’d walked away in grad school. He’d been thinking about his own.

And it hit him, finally, that you had cared about him far more deeply than he’d ever allowed himself to believe. And he had hurt you far worse than he’d understood.

He should’ve known.

He should’ve fucking known.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

A muscle jumped faintly beneath your shoulder blades. “Go home, Jun.”

The nickname knocked against him with frightening force.

“It’s cold,” you added. “You need to sleep this off.”

Yeonjun closed his eyes. He’d already got used to the dizziness and the nausea. The real problem now was the sharp pressure around his heart.

Maybe he’d drunk enough to damage something important. Or maybe it was the broken pieces, finding new ways to break again.

“I’m—I really am sorry,” he whispered.

“I know.”

You still didn’t turn around.

He didn’t move.

“Go inside, Yeonjun,” you said again. “S’cold.”

There was a slight shudder in your voice that seemed to trail down your whole body.

Swallowing, Yeonjun shrugged out of his jacket. The cold hit him instantly through the thin white shirt beneath, but he barely reacted.

He walked towards you, keeping his gaze ahead to ignore the dizzying sway of the pavement beneath him. Taking a deep breath, he lowered the jacket over your shoulders, the fabric still warm from the heat of his body.

Your breath caught in your throat all over again.

His hands rested on your shoulders for a second. Then he stepped back.

Immediately, you were swathed in him again: smoke, whiskey, the bergamot of his cologne, even traces of your own perfume. You gathered the collar of the jacket tightly in your hand and finally turned towards the building.

The doors groaned as you pulled them open. You glanced back at him, waiting.

Yeonjun lowered his gaze and gave a small nod before following you into the lobby.

Then he took the lift.

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thank you for reading!!♡♡

[taexual]

. . . d e l i r i u m | 3

it’s been two hours since i left you in new york city now, but i guess good love dies young ///yungblud, time

pairing: yeonjun x fem!reader

summary: sometimes love and hate exist on opposite ends of the map. other times, on separate floors of the same building.

genre: ex!yeonjun / enemies to lovers au / neighbour au

warnings: slow burn, mutual pining, fluff & firting, strong language, ANGST (but it’s necessary for them)

words: 13k

[ ! ] this is a sequel to equilibrium

masterlist / read from the beginning

✦ • ─── AUGUST 24, 2026. 6:55 AM

Violet was back on your fire escape the following Monday morning, undeterred by such feeble inconveniences as a firmly shut window latch.

You saw her as soon as you opened your eyes.

Before you’d moved in, you’d worried about the short curtains, afraid that the morning light would wake you up at the crack of dawn. Now, however, fingers braced on the window frame as you worked the latch, you appreciated every inch of glass they failed to cover.

Violet slipped inside the moment you pushed the window open, already accustomed to this. She brushed your ankles in a brief greeting and strode through your bedroom like she was running late for a meeting in your living room.

You exhaled and reached for your phone. Your vision was still clouded with sleep as you opened Yeonjun’s contact, but last night’s conversation on your screen snapped you awake.

You typed quickly, forcing your eyes to stay on the keyboard.

YOU [6:58 AM] violet is ehre

It took him a minute to reply:

YEONJUN [6:59 AM] coming up

You briefly wondered if you’d woken him, but decided it wasn’t your problem. Violet, however fond you were of her, was his cat. And if he wasn’t taking enough precautions to keep her inside, he could deal with the consequences.

You headed into the kitchen and picked up your mug from the cupboard.

Violet had already stationed herself by the window, nose lowered to the floor where her water bowl had been the day before. There were faint smears on the tiles where droplets had dried. You made a mental note to give the floor a proper scrub tonight.

The doorbell rang, cutting through the quiet of your flat.

You opened the door to find Yeonjun in a loose grey jumper, hood up, his hair poking out in uneven strands from underneath. His eyes were half open.

“Hi,” he said, voice still rough with sleep.

“Hi,” you replied. “She’s by the window.”

He glanced over your shoulder. “Sorry again. I know it’s starting to come across like maybe I don’t mind her leaving—”

“A bit, yeah.”

He held back a smile. “I do mind. I don’t even hear her do it.”

You stepped aside. Yeonjun’s gaze dropped to your pyjama top. It had strawberries on it. He was almost certain he’d seen it on you before, and the recognition sent a pleasant shiver through him.

Your phone buzzed in your hand before he could speak.

Professor Lee.

You glanced towards the living room, where Violet was sitting with her tail curled politely at her feet, then back at Yeonjun.

“Come in,” you said. “I’ve got to take this.”

A little thrown by the invitation, Yeonjun hesitated on the threshold for another second, then stepped inside with a deep inhale.

You turned away to answer the call.

Professor Lee skipped the small talk as he usually did, but it felt particularly abrupt this early in the morning. Apparently, he needed you in. Said he had a faculty meeting, and you would have to cover his office hours.

Yes, immediately.

No, there wasn’t any time to discuss details.

You stumbled over your words, trying to negotiate a reasonable travel window; you couldn’t exactly come in immediately, you were in your pyjamas. But Professor Lee seemed to be operating under the assumption that you either possessed the ability to teleport, or would develop it under pressure.

While you blinked at the floor, Yeonjun made soft, clicking sounds with his tongue to get Violet’s attention behind you. She resisted for a good half a minute, watching you as though she expected you to tell him to stop; he was embarrassing them both.

When you didn’t meet her gaze, she relented and allowed Yeonjun to gather her up.

“Sorry,” he murmured as he passed you with Violet in his arms. His eyes lingered, briefly, on your vase of sunflowers. He didn’t ask where they’d come from, but hoped it was your grandfather.

You nodded, half-turned away.

“Alright,” you said into the phone, shutting the door. “I’m on my way.”

✦ • ─── AUGUST 24, 2026. 9 AM

As it turned out, Professor Lee’s emergency was not much of an emergency at all.

You sat in his office for an hour, and not a single student came; not one tentative knock, no confused first-year wandering in by accident.

You spent the first twenty minutes checking your emails, another twenty staring at the clock above the door, and the last spinning aimlessly in the chair, half-hoping someone would appear just to give you something to do.

This was the calm before the storm.

Shortly after Professor Lee returned, he declared, with his usual flair, that the undergrads had flipped his schedule upside down. Naturally, that meant yours was upside down as well.

You spent the rest of the day reshuffling appointments, reworking study plans, and running around campus in search of Professor Lee’s missing staff badge. You returned to his office with bad news, only to be told that he’d realised he’d forgotten the badge in the back pocket of his trousers at home. He had a great laugh about that. You considered stepping out for a cigarette.

By the time you returned to your building, you could barely stand. Your dark brown trainers, which seemed so comfortable when you put them on this morning, had rubbed blisters all over your feet. The noises of the day still rang in your ears.

Yeonjun was in the lobby.

He stood by the letterboxes with a bowl of something aggressively green (with tomatoes) and a fork.

“Hi again,” he said, mid-bite.

“Hi.” You paused by the door, eyeing the contents of his bowl. It seemed to be a salad. “Tastes better in the lobby?”

Grinning, he speared another leaf onto his fork and held it out to you. “Want to try?”

“No, thanks.” You moved past him towards the letterboxes. He shuffled out of your way, his trainers scraping on the floor. “Did you actually come out here to have lunch?”

There was a flimsy advert in your letterbox: window frames at twenty-five per cent off. You glanced at it, then scrunched it up in your hand.

“Technically,” Yeonjun said, pausing to swallow, “s’my breakfast.”

You shut the letterbox and looked at him. “It’s four in the afternoon.”

He shrugged, already shovelling another forkful to his mouth. You caught your gaze locking onto his fork and turned away, crossing the lobby towards the stairs. He followed.

“Everything okay, then?” he asked.

You glanced back at him. “Hm?”

“You rushed out this morning.”

“Oh.” You slipped the crumpled advert into your pocket to toss it out at home. “Professor Lee had—he needed me to come in early. Hope Violet wasn’t upset.”

“She was,” Yeonjun said. “Very offended you kicked her out. But what can you do.”

“Did you tell her I’ve got no hard feelings?”

“No.” He nudged something—coriander, by the look of it—to the side of the bowl. “I told her you changed your mind about being kind to her. S’showbiz.”

You fixed him with a look.

His grin settled more comfortably on his face. “What?”

You huffed, then turned back to the stairs.

“Violet’s fine,” he said, scraping the bottom of the bowl. The sound was eerie in the stairwell. “She’s spoiled, I told you. But she, uh—hopefully she’ll stop coming. M’thinking I’ll stick some tape on the latch, so she stops getting ideas.”

“Hmm.” You dragged your hands down the sides of your jacket. “She won’t like that.”

“Probably not,” he agreed. “But she’ll realise it’s for the best.”

He took the next step, then stumbled to a halt, suddenly recognising his mother’s words in his mouth.

His fork clipped the rim of the bowl and slipped, clattering down onto the stairs.

You turned.

“My fork,” he said, mournfully, and bent to retrieve it.

You pressed your lips together. “Serves you right. Eating in the stairwell.”

Yeonjun hummed as he straightened, tilting his head.

“Meant to do that,” he said.

“M’sure you did.”

He stopped outside his door, shifting the bowl to one hand so he could find his keys in his jumper pocket. You continued up the stairs.

“See you tomorrow, then,” he called out.

“Or not,” you replied. “If Violet hates me now.”

“Sure. But I might pop by the lobby, still.”

You glanced back down at him. “Oh, might?”

He lifted a shoulder in a lazy shrug, his lips stretching. “We’ll see what tomorrow brings.”

Shaking your head, you continued up the remaining steps.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 25, 2026. 6:55 AM

On Tuesday, Violet waited on your fire escape while you fumbled with the window frame. There was a strip of tape stuck to her whiskers. Evidently, Yeonjun’s grand plan to protect the latch hadn’t worked.

You braced a hand against the sill, blocking her path for a moment, and gently plucked the tape away. She chirped sharply, offended to be disrupted in this way, and tried to nip past your grasp.

You pulled back. The fire escape creaked as Violet slipped in through the gap and landed gracefully on your floor.

You shut the window and picked up your phone.

YOU [6:57 AM] guess who’s back

YEONJUN [6:57 AM] back again shady’s back

Frowning, you started to type before he could send another text.

YOU [6:58 AM] you coming or

The three dots disappeared for a minute.

YEONJUN [6:59 AM] omw

By the time the doorbell rang, Violet had already made herself comfortable on the armrest of the sofa. She flicked an ear at the sound, blinked once, and turned back to the window.

You opened the door.

Yeonjun looked as though he’d come here directly from his bed. His hair was flattened at the back, sticking up at odd angles by his temples; his shirt sat crooked on his shoulders, collar askew.

He took a determined breath and dropped into a squat.

“Right, then,” he said. You pulled back from the door, giving him a clear line of sight. “Come on, love.”

Violet did not come on.

Yeonjun had come prepared; he crinkled her bag of treats.

Unfortunately, that only drew Violet a little bit closer. She sat down at a safe distance and eyed him for a minute. A few petals from the sunflowers lay scattered on the floor beside her.

“Alright,” he murmured, giving the bag another shake. “Few more steps for me, yeah? Just—”

The moment he reached for her, Violet twisted out of his grasp with startling speed.

“Violet, shit—” He jerked his hand back, blinking at the thin red line rising across his skin. “What did I tell you last night? You can’t scratch when I’m trying to teach you to behave.”

You folded your arms and diplomatically averted your gaze to grant them some privacy.

Yeonjun’s firm tone must have registered with Violet, though, because she made a low, begrudging sound and turned around. After another moment’s consideration, she lifted her chin and stepped past him into the stairwell, as if this had been her intention all along.

Exhaling, Yeonjun stood.

“Your hand alright?” you asked.

He gave it a reflexive shake. “Yeah, it’ll be fine. Growing pains. Sorry about her.”

“She’s alright,” you said. Violet turned her head in your direction, her pupils wide. She was hoping you’d invite her back inside. “She’s clearly very determined to keep coming.”

Yeonjun glanced down at her and cautiously extended his hand again. Violet leaned in for a sniff, her whiskers stiff against his skin. She allowed him exactly one stroke down her back before slipping deftly out from under his fingers.

“Feisty today,” you observed.

“I’ve been holding back the treats,” Yeonjun explained, straightening. He rattled the package in his hands again. “Hoped it’d stop her clawing at the window.”

“Ah.” You inclined your head. “So she’s come to claw at you instead.”

“I guess.” He twisted his wrist experimentally—then winced, breath catching as the motion pulled at his old sprain. He dropped his hand back to his side. “Anyway, uh—I’ll try again with the curtains. I pulled them up, but maybe she wants them fully gone.”

You followed his gaze to Violet, now perched on the top stair, thoughtfully licking her paw.

“Maybe,” you said.

“Yeah.” He rocked lightly on his heels, then remembered himself and stilled. “Um—you’ll be off to uni, then?”

You pushed off the doorframe. The edge of your pyjama pants snagged on a loose splinter in the wood. You glanced down, suddenly very aware of the stain at the knee from an unlucky accident with oil.

“Yeah,” you said, angling your leg to hide the blemish. “Professor Lee and I are hosting the introductory lecture for undergrads today.”

“Oh,” Yeonjun said. He opened his mouth to make another comment, but discovered he had none left. Half his brain was still asleep. “Good luck.”

You nodded.

He stayed on your doorstep.

The corridor fell into a quiet stillness around you. Only the soft, repetitive sounds of Violet grooming herself by the stairs broke the silence.

Yeonjun scratched the back of his neck and glanced at you, then dropped his gaze back to the floor.

“I, uh,” he said, “I could drive you.”

Your stomach seemed to drop out from under you.

You glanced down, instinctively, as if to catch it.

“Oh,” you said, gaze locked on your slippers. “N—I mean, no need. It’s not far.”

“Okay,” he said quickly. “Well, if you change your mind, let me know. The offer always stands.”

Violet had paused, mid-lick, to give him a pointed look. Yeonjun caught it and blinked away.

Nice going, idiot, she seemed to be saying. What else you got?

“Right,” he said, bending to scoop her up before he started to peel his skin off. “See you later, then.”

You dragged a hand over the side of the doorframe. “Later.”

✦ • ─── AUGUST 25, 2026. 9 AM

Professor Lee was running late, which wasn’t unusual. You suspected the man would one day be late for his own funeral.

You could manage his absence.

What you could not manage was the auditorium door.

You pressed your staff badge to the scanner again. The little light above the lock flashed red.

You stared at it, perplexed.

The corridor began to fill with students, their voices wrapping around you—laughter, complaints about the cold, yawns, jokes about the football match last night. You stood still, badge in hand, trying to look like you weren’t locked out of your own lecture.

Your skin felt terribly warm. Uselessly, your mind flashed back to the early morning. Yeonjun hadn’t driven you here, yet your stomach still felt tight as if he had.

“Sure you’ve got the right room?”

You turned. A boy stood beside you, looking a good ten years younger than you. He should’ve been in kindergarten.

“Yeah,” you said. “Seems like technology’s not working today.”

“Oh, well,” he said easily. “Guess class is cancelled, then. You can hang out with us instead.”

His friend, taller than him but still looking like he was learning to clap his syllables in primary school, jabbed him in the ribs. “Shut up.”

You forced a tight smile and tried the badge again.

Red.

The boy beside you snickered. His friend failed, audibly, to stifle his own amusement.

A few more comments followed behind you, just loud enough to reach you: most assuming this was your first day on the job (it was), or that you were actually a first-year, too (you almost wished).

You kept your eyes on the lock.

When Professor Lee appeared five minutes later, slightly out of breath but unfazed as always, the corridor immediately quieted.

It irked you a little, his innate authority.

You wondered what he had that you didn’t. He didn’t look much like a professor with his multicoloured shirt, jeans, and a black backpack slung over one shoulder.

Maybe it was just that he was a man.

“Ah,” he said as a way of introducing himself. “Good, good.”

He tapped his badge once.

The light blinked green. The lock clicked open.

Smiling like you were due for a check-up at the local psychiatric ward, you stepped into the auditorium after him.

The lecture, at least, went better.

Once you switched on your PowerPoint, the words came easily. You’d practised your presentation until it was muscle memory, even if said muscles kept shaking the entire hour and a half.

The students listened. And, in what passed for high praise these days, only a few of them pulled out their phones.

After you finished, a small group stayed behind.

“Sorry about earlier,” one of the students said—Sungjae, you’d learned, the one who’d tried to recruit you in the corridor. “You’re very young for a lecturer.”

“Yeah,” you said, cutting him a look as you turned off the projector. “I’m equally shocked they let me do this.”

He snorted, relieved you were playing along, and brought a finger over the edge of your desk.

“You did well, though,” he said. “I’m looking forward to seeing you the rest of the term.”

You gave him a tight smile.

He’d been overly active the whole class, raising his hand to clarify the points that didn’t need clarifying (‘Why’s that image wonky? Oh, sorry, I thought it was, like, a test of our perception—carry on.’). He reminded you of the students back in your thesis workshop.

He didn’t move from your desk.

Behind him, Professor Lee was deep in conversation with another cluster of students, nodding enthusiastically at something you suspected he hadn’t even heard. You considered calling him over.

Clearing your throat, you glanced back at Sungjae.

“First paper’s due end of September,” you said. “I’m very excited for that.”

“Oh—right.” His eyes widened, then dropped to the floor. “Yeah—I’ll do my best, then. Have a good one.”

“You, too.”

He rejoined his friends in the corridor, where he was immediately met with a round of laughter and a few punches to the shoulder.

Off to a good start, then.

At least this one hadn’t tried to ask for your phone number. You might’ve had to call his parents otherwise.

Turning away, you caught Professor Lee’s eye. He beamed at you and flashed you an energetic thumbs up, startling the boys he’d been speaking to.

You smiled back, relaxing your shoulders.

The professor hadn’t changed much since he’d been hosting your psychological warfare seminars back in grad school. And, despite everything, it felt good to be back in the trenches.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 25, 2026. 4 PM

When you returned, Yeonjun was leaning against the wall in the lobby, scrolling through his phone.

This, you realised absurdly, might’ve been the most stable part of your life right now.

No matter what happened at university, you could trust Yeonjun to be in the lobby when you got home.

You sighed as the doors clicked shut behind you.

Yeonjun looked up, already smiling before your eyes properly met. He had big, black-framed glasses on today. They were sliding down his nose.

“Oh, hi,” he said. “Back already?”

“My usual time, it seems.”

“Yeah? Wouldn’t know.”

You hummed, eyes narrowing slightly.

The last time you’d seen him wear glasses, he’d followed you into the library where you were working on a presentation with Luke. Those had been lensless, then; he’d been putting up a performance. Brought a book and everything.

“Like my glasses?” he asked, noting your stare as he slipped his phone into the back pocket of his jeans.

“Real or not?”

“Real, of course.”

“Yeah?” You turned away, tightening the strap of your backpack. “Used to wear ones for decoration.”

He knew exactly what you were thinking about.

“Used to wear real ones, too,” he said, eyes glittering behind the frames. “Before we met.”

You remembered him mentioning that.

“Mhmm,” you said. “So, a quick switch to being fake, then, yeah? Checks out.”

He blew out a puff of air. You seemed in a violent mood today—perhaps Violet had infected you—yet the small smile on your lips as you crossed the lobby had him transfixed.

He stood still for half a second before he realised to follow you.

“I like that you remember my fake glasses,” he said, deciding he enjoyed walking on thin ice. His hand followed yours on the railing.

“Hard not to,” you replied. “You stalked me into the library.”

“I asked if I could come with you.”

“I said no.”

“You didn’t.”

“I implied—”

“Well, how am I supposed to understand implications?” he cut in, tapping his palm against the bannister. “I can’t read minds.”

You gave him a flat look over your shoulder. “Clearly.”

He grinned. “You should tell me everything directly.”

“Alright.” You paused on the second-floor landing and turned to face him properly. “Don’t come to the lobby anymore.”

“That’s better,” he said, stopping a few steps below. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“That doesn’t sound reassuring.”

He shrugged. “I’m only human.”

Clicking your tongue, you turned back towards the stairs.

“Tell me something else, then,” you said. “What are you doing, job-wise, to have enough free time to loiter here every day?”

Yeonjun was feeling very buoyant and needed a moment to gather himself. Then his thoughts.

“I do simulations,” he said finally. “Strategy work.”

You slowed just enough for him to fall into step with you.

“For cars?” you asked. “Racing?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged. Then, catching your raised eyebrows, he added, “not anywhere near Formula, in case s’what you’re thinking.”

“But you’re an engineer?”

He lifted a hand in a vague, sideways motion.

“A consultant, technically,” he said. “Mostly performance diagnostics. Data analysis.”

You lowered your head, thoughts drifting.

Beside you, Yeonjun could tell you remembered playing 21 Questions on his sofa with him. Eating grapes and chocolates. You’d asked him what he wanted to do in the future. He’d said he liked cars.

He remembered it, too: the low crackle of the fireplace, the way you used to look at him back then.

When he got the call with the job offer, that was what came back to him first.

“What sort of racing, then?” you asked, not looking at him.

“Stock cars.”

“Oh.” That surprised you again. “Like NASCAR?”

“Sort of,” he said. “We’ve got a local league. Closest thing you’ll get to NASCAR here, I guess.”

The stairwell narrowed as you climbed past the third floor, forcing you closer. Sunlight pushed through the thin windows in stubborn streaks, catching dust in the air and highlighting the yellow paint on the walls.

“Haven’t moved to dirt, then,” you said, almost absentmindedly.

His nose scrunched faintly, a reflex you recognised before you could stop yourself noticing.

“No,” he said, pushing his glasses higher up his nose. “Loyal to tarmac.”

“Hmm.”

By the fourth floor, your pace had slowed without either of you deciding on it.

You were aware that there was only one floor left until his flat. And if you lingered to talk there, that would mean you weren’t just exchanging quick neighbourly small talk on the stairs anymore. Then you’d be having a Conversation.

“That’s cool, though,” you said. “You went legal.”

“Yeah.” His gaze dropped to the stairs. “S’not bad. Mostly screens and numbers. Pays well, though, and, uh—” he looked up, “—leaves me with loads of free time.”

You met his eyes.

“Mhmm.” Your lips pressed together. “That explains it.”

“I do leave my flat, though,” he added quickly. “On test days, and—”

“I’m not accusing you of anything.”

“You gave me a look.”

You snickered under your breath.

“Didn’t mean anything by it,” you said. “Just surprised you’d voluntarily choose to work from home.”

That was fair enough, Yeonjun had to admit.

He let out a quiet breath, his gaze settling somewhere ahead.

“I’ve, uh—I’ve changed a lot,” he said. He’d had this conversation in his head hundreds of times before. He wondered if his words sounded rehearsed. “Found my peace.”

This wasn’t the first time he said something like this to you.

You didn’t know what it was supposed to mean.

“That’s good,” you said.

“Yeah.”

You rounded the next corner, gaze catching on the uneven linoleum, the peeling paint on the walls, the bannister smoothed by hundreds of hands. It all looked softer in the sunlight, more welcoming.

The two of you reached the fifth floor.

Yeonjun stopped at his door, hand hovering near the handle. He waited until you turned to glance back at him.

“Let’s see what Violet does tomorrow, I guess,” he said. “Yeah?”

You nodded and turned for the last flight up. “Yeah.”

Yeonjun watched you go.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 26, 2026. 6:55 AM

Violet did not care about the curtains.

She was back on the fire escape at her usual time, seated with rigid patience, waiting for you to notice her. In truth, she felt quite disrespected. It’d been nearly a week – surely, you should’ve expected her by now?

The faint, persistent scrape against the glass of your window finally dragged you from sleep.

You sighed into the pillow, then heaved yourself upright and went to the window. Violet squeezed through the gap the moment you lifted the latch, nudging the frame further with her plump backside.

“Violet,” you said as she toddled into the living room. “Be honest with me. Do you hate Yeonjun? I won’t tell him.”

Violet kept her secrets and settled between your flower pots.

Half an hour later, Yeonjun stood in the middle of your flat, scratching the back of his head. You left him to sort out the cat while you dried your hair in front of the mirror by the bathroom door.

“I don’t know what else to do,” he admitted, turning to look at you. He felt faintly dizzy at the scent of your shampoo.

He’d just spent five minutes hunched over in your kitchen, rattling the treat bag with steadily dwindling confidence. Violet wasn’t falling for it. Stretched out in her patch of sunlight, she had not so much as turned her head.

“Is she opening the latch herself?” you asked, shutting off the hairdryer and bringing a hand through your hair. It felt staticky. You tried to smooth it down.

“I mean, unless my flat’s haunted, yeah,” he said. “I shut it properly, I’m sure. She must keep at it until it gives. Chewed through the tape I’d put on and everything.” He glanced at the cat. “Then she just lets herself out.”

You hummed, gathering the cable as you turned your attention back to Violet.

You watched her roll onto her back, exposing her stomach to the sun. Her mottled fur seemed to glisten in the light. Her paws pressed against the glass.

She looked entirely at home.

“Um.” You walked into the kitchen and set the hairdryer on the island. “We could try leaving her here for the day.”

Even as you said them, the words sounded strange.

“I’ll be back around four,” you added, filling the pause before it could turn awkward. “I can let her out then. Bring her back to you. Obviously, I’d leave water out, and—” you gestured towards him, “—you could bring over some food. She could just—I don’t know. Stay here. For a bit. Like back on Sunday.”

Yeonjun watched Violet’s tail flick rhythmically against the floorboards and didn’t answer straight away. He flexed his fingers once, as if to remind himself that he, too, had a corporeal form.

“You’d—” He cleared his throat. “You’d be alright with that?”

You lifted one shoulder. “I don’t mind. But she’s your cat.”

Yeonjun was very aware of that. Aware, too, that Violet, his cat, clearly preferred your place to his.

He wondered, although he tried not to, how many other things he had in common with her.

“Yeah,” he said at last. “She—yeah. I’m cool. Fair warning, though, I can’t thank you with peach cobbler this time. Haven’t had a chance to bake anything.”

“Oh.” You raised your eyebrows and tsked. “Well, obviously, this can’t work, then. Take the cat and go.”

He snorted.

“We can try leaving her here,” he said.

“Yeah?”

He nodded.

“Okay.” You turned back to Violet. “Yeah.”

“I’ll, uh—I’ll bring over some of her food.”

“Alright.”

You stood still for a moment after he left, watching Violet and trying to decide if the rapid, uneven thumping in your chest meant anything. You decided it didn’t.

Yeonjun returned a few minutes later with Violet’s food in a charming, pale green ceramic bowl.

You took it and set it down on the floor beside the water, your expression deliberately neutral. This was all, of course, perfectly ordinary. Just doing your neighbour a favour and letting his cat stay at your flat. Again.

Violet lifted her head at the soft click of the ceramic against the floor. You crouched beside her, giving her a gentle poke on the back, then gesturing towards Yeonjun.

“Look, little one,” you said. “You sure you won’t miss him during the day? He’ll be gone awfully long.”

She flicked her tail once in acknowledgement, then turned her head back towards the window.

“Right, then,” you said, standing. “Never mind.”

“Right,” Yeonjun echoed. He was twiddling his thumbs.

“Nervous to leave her?” you asked.

“A bit.” He dropped his hands, then pushed them up to the back of his neck. “Always hard for a parent to separate from his kid.”

You felt your lips twitch again and turned away. “She’ll be alright.”

“Yeah. I guess.”

You left him to say his goodbyes—he did genuinely seem close to tears—and stepped into your bedroom to open the window just an inch, in case Violet decided to go home early. Then you returned to the living room.

Violet hadn’t moved. Her eyes were still squeezed shut in front of the sun.

You grabbed your backpack and stepped out into the corridor. Yeonjun followed, quieter now.

He lingered behind while you locked the door, wondering if he should say something else. He didn’t.

“Alright,” you said, slipping your keys into your backpack. “See you later, then. I’m sure Violet will be okay.”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “See you.”

He walked downstairs with you to his floor and stood by his door a minute longer. By the time he went inside, he was smiling again.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 26, 2026. 4 PM

When you returned home that afternoon, the light in the lobby was dimmer. The sun slanted through the narrow windows, reflecting off the silver chain around Yeonjun’s neck.

He turned from the letterboxes the moment he heard the door shut. He had his glasses on again.

You smiled before you could stop yourself.

“Hi,” you said. “She hasn’t come back?”

“Hi.” He pushed himself off the wall. “No. M’starting to think she won’t want to.”

Your heart lifted at that. You forced it to calm down.

“She’s probably just looking for a change in environment,” you reasoned, turning towards the stairs. “Or—have you got other pets? Or some unusual odour in your flat?”

He snorted, following you. “No. She’s my only pet and the only unusual odour in my flat.”

You laughed.

Yeonjun felt it like a sudden drop in gravity and reached for the bannister just in case. He was remarkably dreadful on his feet around you. There was probably a name for it.

“Think she just likes your place, to be honest,” he said around the second floor. “You’ve got good light. And plants.”

You glanced at him. “You haven’t got plants?”

“No.”

You slowed until your steps aligned with his in the cramped stairwell.

“Why not?” you asked.

He looked down at the scuffed edges of the steps and tried to concentrate on placing one foot in front of the other, or else he’d start thinking about how close to him you were walking.

“Never thought to get any,” he said.

Your thoughts raced ahead of you.

You remembered the house he used to share with Soobin—how large it had felt, with light spilling through the big windows, and a kitchen with too many cupboards and teabags no one could find. And plants, on the sills and on the tables.

“You, uh—” The words caught in your throat on their way out. “You used to have plants.”

Yeonjun looked at you and forced his expression into something more neutral.

“Yeah, those were Bin’s,” he said. “Didn’t even let me water them unsupervised.”

Your lips quivered. “Makes sense.”

“D’you think I should get plants?”

You looked at him again. He looked earnest and a little worried, as if the rest of his life depended on this decision. You made a concerted effort not to start smiling.

“Yes,” you said.

“Okay.” He nodded. “What sort?”

“Whatever you want. Ferns are fairly easy, for example. Once you get them settled in a good spot.”

You and Reina had had three ferns in your old flat. She’d taken them when she moved in with Soobin while you were away in New York. One of them hadn’t survived the move, may it rest in peace. You and Reina had held a small funeral after you returned, then divided custody of the remaining two.

Yeonjun, in the meantime, sifted through his own memories.

He hadn’t really got acquainted with the plants he’d had with Soobin. There had been ‘the big one, with the enormous leaves’ in the living room, and ‘the small ones’ on the windowsills in the kitchen. There might’ve been a few in the guest rooms, too, come to think of it.

Had any of them been ferns?

“Ferns,” he said slowly. “Those are the ones with the feathery leaves, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said. “They’re also non-toxic for cats.”

“Oh.” He blinked, embarrassed that he hadn’t considered that. “Okay, that—that’s great. Can they survive anywhere?”

“More or less,” you said. You were nearing the fifth floor now, and you began to rush through your words. “They usually prefer shade, but they do need some light. They’re quite communicative, though—you’ll see it from the leaves if they’re getting too much sun. Or if you’re overwatering.”

Yeonjun clicked his tongue, unconvinced.

There’d been those Christmas plants that Soobin had brought home once—poinsettias, were they? He couldn’t remember. They’d looked expensive. Soobin had left them for a couple of days while he was visiting his family and had said, Yeonjun remembered clearly, water them a bit.

So, Yeonjun had watered them a bit.

By the time Soobin got back, all the red leaves had dropped off.

“Yeah, they’re all communicative,” he mumbled. “Hasn’t stopped me from killing them before.”

Your smile won against you. “Well, you’ve got to go into it with a pure heart. Plants can sense bad energy.”

He was about to argue. Then he thought of Violet, and the way she escaped his flat each morning and ran to yours instead.

Maybe he did have bad energy in his flat.

Maybe he should’ve bought one of those bundles of sage.

Maybe he should’ve asked you to move in with—

“Alright,” he said, inhaling sharply. “S’fair enough. I’ll look into ferns, then.”

You reached the fifth floor and stopped, briefly, on the landing.

“You, uh—are you coming up, then?” you asked. “For Violet.”

“Oh.” He glanced upwards as though he’d forgotten there was another floor. “Yeah. Of course.”

He followed you up the stairs. There was a peculiar lightness in his hands, he realised, as though some screws in his wrists had loosened. His fingers wobbled on their own.

It took you a minute to unlock the door. You jostled the key and nudged the wood with your shoulder until the lock finally gave.

Yeonjun paused on the threshold.

Your flat, he thought, smelled of something familiar. Fresh laundry, perhaps. Vanilla-scented candles. It felt warm and inviting. He was this close to climbing out onto the fire escape tomorrow morning and knocking on your window himself.

Violet hadn’t moved far.

She lay stretched across the centre of your rug, exactly where the sunlight had settled. She turned her head at the sound of the door, rolled onto her side, then pushed herself up and trotted over to Yeonjun. There seemed to be a small skip in her step.

Yeonjun was surprised.

“Hi, love,” he said, squatting to greet her. “Missed me, did you?”

She took a mandatory turn around his ankles, her head brushing against his knees, before allowing him to pick her up.

“Wow,” he breathed as she snuggled against his chest. She was content now. Ready to go home, treats or no treats. “Alright, then.”

“Guess she needed a break from you,” you said. “Can’t blame her.”

He snorted, then broke into proper laughter despite himself.

You felt yourself smile in response.

The sunflowers, Yeonjun noted, glancing back inside, were still on your kitchen island.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, one hand resting against Violet’s back. “Guess so.”

You slipped your backpack from your shoulder and let it fall by the door. Yeonjun shifted to the side to make more room.

This gesture felt alarmingly familiar, and for a moment, you forgot what to do with yourself.

“Should we—” Yeonjun paused when you looked up. He swallowed, recalibrating. “Should we do this again tomorrow? If she’s back at your window.”

You watched Violet’s whiskers twitch and settle. Yeonjun felt an uncomfortable heat rise to his ears with every second that you didn’t reply.

“I guess,” you said. You doubted you had a choice. “She seems to like it here.”

“Yeah. Alright.” He nodded quickly. “Don’t feel pressured by her big blue eyes, though. If you’re busy, I can come up and get her.”

Her big blue eyes were closed now. She was already half-asleep in his arms.

The bowl of food Yeonjun had brought her stood empty by the window.

“She’s good,” you said. “I don’t mind.”

Violet seemed to sense the shift in his chest at your words and lifted her head. He smoothed a hand down her back, warning her to be cool.

“Alright,” he said. “Just let me know she’s here, yeah?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

He nodded, and lingered on your doorstep for another moment.

He realised that, while he wasn’t very good at goodbyes, he was very good at hovering in your periphery and looking for small reasons to stay a little while longer.

You let him look for them.

“Until tomorrow, then,” he said at last.

“Until tomorrow,” you said, and then you smiled briefly—at him first, only then at Violet.

Until that moment, Yeonjun hadn’t realised he might be in competition with his cat.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 27, 2026. 6:55 AM

This time, you left the window open overnight—only a fraction, so you wouldn’t freeze in your sleep. The frame complained about it every now and then, and the fire escape rattled in the wind. But still, you slept.

At 6:55 precisely, the window frame gave an insistent groan.

You heard a faint scrape of claws. A soft, investigative sniff. Then—success. A quiet patter of paws on your floor.

You caught yourself smiling as you sat up in bed and reached for your phone.

YOU [6:57 AM] she’s here

Not waiting for a reply, you swung your legs out of bed and made your way to the kitchen. The tap glugged, disgruntled, as you filled Violet’s bowl.

Behind you, she had already taken her place by the window. She didn’t look at you. She figured she’d already trained you into your role.

“Right,” you said, crossing back to pull the curtains open.

The morning light flooded Violet’s little face. She blinked slowly and pushed onto her paws, leaning closer to the glass. The dark patch around her left eye softened in the early morning brightness.

She looked very pleased.

You left her there, got ready, and headed to university, anticipating an easier day. Your seminar had been cancelled, so you only had two meetings: one with your doctoral advisor and one with Professor Lee.

You should’ve known better than to celebrate.

On your way from that second meeting, you ran into Professor Myers in the corridor. You hadn’t seen her since graduation, and she whisked you into the staff room for a cup of coffee to catch up.

That part was lovely.

Then she asked you to speak to her grad students about your fellowship in New York.

“Oh,” you said. “When?”

She glanced down at her watch. “In about forty-five minutes.”

That was decidedly less lovely.

You finished your coffee, trying desperately to gather your thoughts, and followed her to the auditorium. Your eyes were twice their normal size; you dreaded being unprepared.

Your only consolation was that Taehyun and Kai were in her class—they’d just started their final year of grad school. They took it upon themselves to react to everything you said with excessive enthusiasm. Every time you stumbled over your words or lost your train of thought, they filled the silence by ooh-ing and ahh-ing at something you’d said earlier.

It was ridiculous.

It helped immensely.

You took them both to the canteen for dessert afterwards.

Despite being past lunchtime, the place was still loud. Benches scraped. Someone dropped a tray by the window just as you walked in. The air smelled distinctly of grease.

You’d missed it.

The dessert bar was already half-empty; only the chocolate cake looked remotely appealing. That was what the three of you settled on.

“I like your necklace,” you said, sitting down at a table in the back, opposite Taehyun.

His golden cross caught the light as he dropped himself onto the bench.

“Thanks,” he said, already cutting into his cake. “It’s the one Nara made for me.”

Kai, on your right, leaned forward to flaunt the four-leaf clover at his throat. “She made this one for me.”

Nara, from what you’d gathered, had discovered jewellery design earlier this year, after ordering a bracelet online and receiving it broken. Irritated, she’d bought wire cutters and a new clasp, and fixed it herself. It was a matter of principle, she’d said. Also, shipping was criminally expensive.

From there, she discovered beads. Then gemstones. You were sure she’d start melting metal soon, too.

“Reina mentioned she made her a lily,” you said, taking a bite of your own cake. The chocolate clung to the roof of your mouth. “Out of—out of wire. S’beautiful. I don’t know how she does it.”

“Oh.” Taehyun looked up sharply and shook his head. “Don’t ever ask her. She’ll walk you through every step in excruciating detail.”

You huffed. “That sounds interesting, though.”

He leaned back, lifting his plate. “Not when it’s the tenth time you’re hearing it.”

“I’ve asked her to make me a chain next,” Kai said. There was chocolate at the corner of his mouth. “One of those proper chunky ones that you can use as an accessory and a weapon.”

Taehyun glanced at him. “What’d you need a weapon for?”

“You never know,” Kai said, shrugging. “Better to be prepared.”

You smiled. “I like your thinking.”

“Practical,” Taehyun agreed, wiping his hands slowly on a napkin. Then he looked at you again, more thoughtful now. “I still think it’s ironic, though. You’re back from New York, giving a speech on what Sociology students can do with their degrees. Yet no one else in your year is actually doing it. I mean, Nara’s making jewellery.”

You tilted your head, your gaze dropping to his cross again. “Thought that was still a hobby.”

“Well, yeah,” he said. “But we don’t know what she and Beomgyu actually do, either.”

Kai looked up again. He was very invested in Beomgyu’s whereabouts now that they no longer lived together; partially because Beomgyu constantly sent him the most ridiculous pictures and never explained any. This morning, it was a photo of what looked like herring on a plate.

“To be fair,” he said, pointing his fork at Taehyun, “it could be related to Sociology. They never explained it.”

“Them not explaining it is exactly why I think it isn’t,” Taehyun replied.

You gathered the crumbs on your plate with the edge of your fork.

It was a known fact among your friends that Nara and Beomgyu left together every morning. Same car, same hour, every day. They came back the same way, too. They called each other ‘business partners’ and always giggled obnoxiously whenever anyone asked what they actually did.

“They are legal, though,” you said. “Right?”

Kai shrugged. “We hope so.”

“Hmm.”

You took another bite of your cake. It was still aggressively sweet and far too dense.

“Jun’s doing something with racing,” Taehyun said after a moment. He kept his gaze on his plate, but watched your reaction from the corner of his eye. “Actually think it might be something to do with data analysis, after all.”

“Mhmm.” You swallowed the chocolate. “He mentioned something.”

Taehyun lifted his head properly. “He did? To you?”

You looked up.

“He—yeah.” You paused, suddenly aware they’d both gone still. Something was rattling in the kitchen at the far edge of the canteen. “H-he lives in my building. I didn’t mention? Anyway. I think—”

“Whoa, hang on.” Taehyun raised a hand so abruptly that he nearly dropped his plate. “He lives in your building?”

Kai leaned forward, his eyebrows raised.

“Since wh—and you talk?” Taehyun added. “What the fuck?”

“What the fuck,” Kai echoed helpfully.

You reached for a napkin. The paper felt thin, almost useless, between your fingers, leaving a tear where your thumb pressed too hard.

“Yeah,” you said. “So, uh—funny story.”

Understandably, Taehyun and Kai ended up keeping you on campus a good half an hour longer than you’d planned. Your own fault, they’d said. Should’ve informed them about this Yeonjun development.

Swallowing your protests, you focused on answering their (many) questions without going into too much detail. The two of them already looked outrageously amused as it was.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 27, 2026. 4:35 PM

By the time you finally made it back to your building, the clouds had gathered overhead, thick and grey. It looked like it was going to pour.

You pushed through the lobby doors, quickening your pace. You were worried that Violet had started to feel abandoned in your flat. Or perhaps she’d already returned home through the gap in the window. Unless she got lost on the fire escape—

Yeonjun wasn’t in the lobby.

You stopped short and looked around, as though he’d decided to hide inside one of the letterboxes or behind the noticeboard.

He hadn’t.

You glanced at your phone.

To be fair, you were late. And you had told him to stop coming down here. Perhaps he’d listened.

A small flicker of disappointment tightened your chest. You clenched your hands into fists.

It annoyed you that you’d expected him to be here.

You’d never asked outright why he kept coming down in the first place. But he had, and now it had been over a week, and you found yourself lingering at the letterboxes, fingers brushing over the cool metal—waiting, without admitting you were waiting, in case he hadn’t noticed the time and was still on his way.

He was.

Not even two minutes later, the lobby doors pushed open again, the heavy frame resisting as usual. Yeonjun stumbled in, breathless, hair a mess over his forehead, one hand clutching a potted plant.

You straightened, stepping back from the letterboxes.

“Shit,” he managed between wheezes. His right hand was tangled in his jacket sleeve. “H—hi.”

“Hi,” you said, your gaze honing in on his hands. “You’ve got a fern.”

“I—” He bent slightly, bracing one hand against his hip as he lifted the small white pot, victorious. “I’ve got a fern.”

“Very nice,” you said, and waited, silently, until he’d recovered enough to move.

He pushed himself forward after a moment and joined you by the stairs. The two of you started up together, slower this time.

“Really think it’s nice?” he asked, drawing a steadier breath. His insides were burning. “Picked the greenest one.”

“Yeah,” you said, reaching out to brush your fingers lightly along one of the leaves. It was soft under your touch, but springy. “S’pretty much the main requirement.”

“I thought so,” he said, a flicker of pride in his voice. “Did you know they predate dinosaurs, by the way? Ferns. ‘Course they’ve evolved plenty since then, but still.”

“I didn’t know,” you said, a familiar smile settling on your lips. “Fascinating.”

“Hmm. There was a sale.” He tapped the yellow label on the edge of the pot. “S’why I went there—uh, today.”

He chose not to mention the calculations he’d performed to time his trip right, so he’d be back just when you returned home. The queue had ruined his plans. And the run back had nearly finished him.

You, in turn, chose not to mention waiting for him.

The two of you continued up the stairs in silence. By the time you reached the fifth floor, the rhythm of his breathing had grown unsteady again.

“Let me drop this off,” he said, hoisting the pot while his other hand rummaged through his jacket pocket for keys. “And we’ll go up for Violet.”

Nodding, you leaned against the railing, fingers tapping against the wood while he pushed the key into the lock.

You were waiting for him again, you realised.

That was not great.

“Actually,” Yeonjun said, opening the door. You looked up. “Would you mind coming in? Help me find a spot for the fern?”

You didn’t move straight away. You knew you shouldn’t.

Then you pushed off the railing anyway. “Sure.”

Yeonjun’s flat had the same layout as yours, but it felt noticeably larger. Your footsteps echoed once he shut the door.

It was the lack of furniture, you supposed. Aside from the standard built-in counters in the kitchen and a few chairs, the living room area stretched open completely bare. No sofas, no rugs, no tables. Nothing to fill the space.

The light fixtures on the ceiling looked new, though. That might’ve explained the noises you’d been hearing at night.

The curtains on the windows were in a terrible state. Half of them hung properly, but the other half draped over the frames and slumped to one side. He’d mentioned adjusting them for Violet. It looked like he’d started, then given up.

You found yourself wondering, without much reason, what Yeonjun’s parents thought about him living somewhere like this.

Then, as you turned your head towards the archway leading to the bedroom, you saw a piano tucked into the corner, partially obscured behind the wall. Its dark wood blended into the dark of the flat.

Something warm flickered through you.

“Oh.” The word slipped out before you could stop it. “You started playing again?”

Yeonjun followed your gaze as he set his keys down on the kitchen counter.

“Sometimes, yeah,” he said, shrugging out of his jacket. “Only when I’m in a good mood, though. Still pisses me off otherwise.”

You watched the piano for a second longer.

You hadn’t heard it once since he’d moved in.

“Uh…” You dragged your attention back to the living room. “Not many options where to put the fern.”

“Yeah.” He turned the pot thoughtfully in his hands. “I’m still moving in.”

“I can see that.”

Yeonjun hummed. He’d never lived alone before. Even after Soobin moved out, he’d kept to his room and didn’t touch the rest. This open space, this potential for other rooms, felt awkward to him.

He’d taken a few things from his old house—mattresses, mostly—but they hardly felt fitting here. He kept them all at the back of his bedroom.

“I don’t really know what living rooms are supposed to look like,” he admitted. “Never needed one.”

“Well,” you said, “they usually have a bit more furniture than this.”

“I assumed so.” He set the fern down on the counter and glanced towards his bedroom. “Hold on.”

He disappeared through the archway and returned a moment later, carrying a small metal table with golden detailing around the sides. It looked heavy.

“Got this in my bedroom,” he said, lowering it to the floor with a grunt. It landed with a loud thud. “The previous owners left it. Could put it here somewhere. By the curtains? I’ll sort those out, by the way, I know they’re a mess. Would that be a good spot? In the corner, there?”

You stepped closer. “Show me.”

He pushed the table across the floor. It moved with a jarring scrape that made you both wince. Abandoning the effort, he dropped it close enough to the corner and shoved the curtains aside with his forearm. Half of them shifted; the rest sagged further. One panel gave up entirely and slipped to the floor.

The room remained dim.

You stopped beside him to study the corner as he put the fern on the table. The green leaves seemed dull in the low light.

“This could work,” you said slowly. “But I hope you open the curtains in the morning. Fully, I mean.”

“Uh…” He glanced at you. “Well, what’s ‘morning’?”

You frowned. “What time do you usually wake up, then?”

“When you text me to say Violet’s at your place.”

“Oh—”

“Then I pick her up,” he continued, “and go back to sleep.”

Something in your chest clenched suddenly.

You were shaping each other’s routines now.

That was not great.

“Well,” you said, folding your arms, “it’d be good if the fern got some morning light. So maybe leave a gap in the curtains? Not directly on it, but just enough to let some light in.”

He turned back to the curtains.

They had been designed, quite deliberately, not to leave gaps—he’d made sure of that when he bought them.

He spent three minutes trying to find a way to make one. After that didn’t work, he dragged a chair over from the kitchen and wedged it between the drapes, forcing a narrow slit open.

“There,” he said at last, stepping back. “That alright? Kind of defeats the purpose of blackout curtains, but…”

“Looks okay,” you said.

A thin sliver of light cut into the room, catching the leg of the table. Small as it was, it changed the air immediately. The flat looked more alive.

“Why d’you even need blackout curtains in the living room?” you asked. “They’re meant to help you sleep.”

“I am very fascinated with the idea of living in a cave.”

You snorted. “Explains your obsession with Plato.”

He grinned, bringing a finger over the bruise Violet had left on his hand and instinctively searching for something to lean against. There was nothing.

He really didn’t have much furniture here, he realised. But, to be fair, he didn’t have many people over. He’d never needed to think about where to stand when talking to someone.

“I tried taking them down for Violet,” he said, nodding towards the uneven mess of fabric on his windows. “She didn’t care, so I hung—well, tried to hang them back up. In any case, I think I’ve got the disadvantage of that old billboard across the street. It blocks all the light.”

You glanced at the window, but the gap in the curtains wasn’t wide enough to show much.

You knew the billboard he meant anyway; it was an old wooden frame with peeling remnants of posters layered over each other. It had a habit of absorbing what little light reached it.

“Right,” you said, turning back to the fern. “Well, it should be fine here. Give it some time, see how it settles.”

He nodded. “Alright.”

You tapped your jacket pocket, searching for your keys. “Should we check on Violet?”

Yeonjun dropped his hands to his sides. “Yeah.”

The corridor was quiet when you stepped back out. The two of you moved upstairs, your shoulders brushing in the narrow stairwell.

For a few seconds, this felt perfectly normal.

The moment you noticed it, the feeling thinned.

It was really not great, you thought, this ease with him.

Not great, the way your breath kept catching in your lungs.

The last time that happened, it had taken you months to recover.

You jammed your key into the lock with unnecessary force, letting the resistance travel up your arm. The door stuck, as always. You lifted the handle and rattled it until it finally gave.

As soon as the door opened, Violet darted out of your bedroom, her paws quick and light against the floor. She locked onto Yeonjun, stopping abruptly at his ankles.

“Oh—hi, love.” He crouched down. “Have a nice day at kindergarten?”

She answered with a pleased little sound and pressed her face into his palm.

You looked past them.

The sky outside the windows was dark. Your bedroom door stood open. The sheets had been dragged halfway off your bed, trailing onto the floor. There were small holes, suspiciously shaped like paws, on your pillow.

An absurd smile pulled at your lips.

“I see she’s explored your place a bit,” Yeonjun said, glancing up.

“Yeah.” You looked back down at her. Violet blinked up, her blue gaze curious. “S’fine. I’m not hiding anything from her.”

“That’s good,” he said. “Because she will find it.”

You crouched beside him and ran your fingers over Violet’s back, her fur warm and soft. She leaned into you, inadvertently pulling Yeonjun closer. Your little finger brushed his. His hands were cold.

Swallowing, you drew your hand back.

“See you tomorrow, then,” you said, nodding at the cat. “Right, Vi?”

She turned her head towards you and let out a soft, agreeable meow.

You stood, brushing your hands lightly against your dark trousers.

Yeonjun gathered Violet into his arms and stood up, too. She rested her head against his wrist.

“Let’s see if I can recreate this setup,” he said, nodding towards your flat, “with my sole fern.”

“No direct sunlight,” you reminded him.

“I’ll try.” He pivoted towards the stairs. Violet blinked slowly at you from the crook of his arm. “If it’s dead tomorrow, though, that’s on you.”

“It won’t be dead tomorrow,” you called after him. “I trust Violet to keep an eye on it.”

Violet meowed obediently at the sound of her name. You snickered.

Yeonjun paused on the stairs just long enough to catch it, then gave you a brief wave as he reached the turn and continued down.

You watched him go.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 28, 2026. 6:55 AM

On Friday, following your newly established routine, you left Violet in her usual spot, pawing idly at your monstera. Her fur was a little wet; it was raining outside. You filled her bowls, checked the window latch, and set off for university.

Unlike your established routine, you were back two hours later.

Professor Lee had mentioned a book he needed for his research on incarcerated adolescents: Erikson’s Identity, Youth and Crisis. He said it’d been checked out of the library.

You had an interest in the formation of identity—less about being incarcerated, though—and happened to own a copy. Still too eager to be helpful, you offered to fetch it for him.

And so, you barged through the door of your flat just before midday, startling Violet out of her wits. She bolted from your bedroom—her new playground, apparently—back arched, eyes wide with alarm.

“Hey,” you said, breathless, as you shut the door behind you. “Did I scare you? I’m sorry.”

She stared at you from a careful distance, assessing whether you deserved her forgiveness.

You dropped your umbrella to the floor and lowered yourself into a squat, lungs still tight. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw that your wardrobe doors were open in your bedroom. You’d definitely closed them before you left.

“I just popped in to grab a book,” you explained softly, extending your hand. “S’why I’m back. And what’s your excuse for going through my wardrobe?”

Violet approached and pressed her face into your palm with a small purr. She accepted your apology and did not think she owed you any explanations.

You scratched under her chin, briefly captivated by the fine wisps of hair above her eyes. God, she was beautiful. Then you stood.

Once you stepped into your bedroom, you saw precisely what had kept Violet busy.

She’d found the box at the bottom of your wardrobe and lovingly redistributed everything across the floor. Old keychains, small trinkets, and empty picture frames were all scattered around your bed.

The black woollen scarf hung on the edge of the box. You could see the wrong side of the golden stitching on the corner.

The hippo plushie lay slightly apart from the rest. Its once vibrant grey had faded into a softer white.

You watched it for a minute.

It had been over a year now since Yeonjun had taken you to the zoo. And yet, you could recall that trip with near-perfect accuracy: the angry peacocks, the silly pictures with the camels, the gift shop.

And the giraffe, the other half of the pair.

He’d kept it.

Violet meowed questioningly behind you. You snapped out of the brief trance and turned to her, offering her a small smile.

“Right,” you said. The room was cold from the open window, a little drafty. “Let’s get the book, yeah?”

Violet followed you to the bookshelf. Your heart banged against your chest as you squatted to scan the lower rows.

Why had you kept the scarf and the toy?

It wasn’t because you loved Madagascar exceptionally much. And it definitely wasn’t because you’d wanted to wear Yeonjun’s scarf again.

It wasn’t because you’d forgotten them, either. You vividly remembered unpacking after New York, jet-lagged and disoriented, standing in the middle of your empty flat with your entire life still zipped into suitcases. You remembered finding the scarf—and remembered the brief flash of thought that followed: you’d wanted to run into Yeonjun.

You hadn’t been sleeping for those first two weeks back, and the noises in your head were very loud. You hadn’t been thinking clearly.

You supposed you’d wanted to see him just to reassure yourself that he had been real. Maybe to return the scarf, too.

You let out a deep breath.

Now that you’ve actually seen him, none of your thoughts made sense.

A little lightheaded, you finally spotted the red spine of the book and pulled it free from the shelf. Violet stepped closer, intrigued by the new object. You could still see the scarf out of the corner of your eye.

Had you kept it for the memories, then?

To relive everything now that it was safely contained inside a box that you could open and close at will?

But reliving everything meant reliving everything.

You sat down on the edge of your bed.

Back then, fresh from nine months in a city you didn’t know, you might’ve clung to everything that was familiar. Everything you could recognise without thinking about it. You’d even salvaged all of Reina’s doodles that she’d left on napkins all around your flat.

But you were home now.

And Yeonjun lived downstairs.

And you were seeing him in the lobby—and seeing him there again. And again, and again.

You were talking to him now.

Trying his peach cobbler.

Helping him with his fern.

Looking after his cat.

You inhaled sharply, your hand instinctively settling on Violet’s soft back. Your fingers moved slowly along her spine, tracing the soft brown patches, then the darker ones.

She shouldn’t have been here.

You thought you didn’t mind. Didn’t care.

But you did care.

Cared so much, in fact, that you could hardly take another breath.

It had been a monumental mistake, those two weeks with Yeonjun. Had they taken only your pride, perhaps you might’ve been fine now.

But they hadn’t.

You’d spent months thinking about his reasons for ending it and walking away. Months, thinking about what you could’ve done differently so that he would’ve stayed despite those reasons.

You felt uncomfortable about those thoughts now. You were supposed to be fine.

You sat on your bed for a minute longer, staring at the corner of the room, with Violet quiet by your side.

You wouldn’t relive it.

There wasn’t much you could do to change Violet’s ways—she was a cat, she went where she wanted—but you could still change yours.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 28, 2026. 1 PM

Your traditional lunch with Reina stretched far past the point of reason.

You’d gone over to hers to help her pick a dress for the engagement party tomorrow—quickly, before Soobin got home from work. Not long after, Nara came over to join you. She’d recently dyed her hair light pink and wore a golden necklace with a bear pendant. She’d made this one herself, too.

You spent the first half an hour eating noodles and talking about her jewellery. And, an hour later, the three of you were still sitting on Reina’s sofa, on your second glasses of wine.

Soobin had called Reina five times in the past twenty minutes. Reina’s uncanny sixth sense must’ve rubbed off on him; he sensed that she was planning some sort of surprise.

She let the first three calls ring out. Then she answered the fourth with a voice she assumed was casual, but actually sounded a little like she was being strangled.

By the fifth call, she admitted she was choosing the dress for the party.

Soobin said he was coming home immediately.

Laughing, you stood to gather the dresses and cram them back into her wardrobe. Nara, meanwhile, tried to help her hang up by feigning a crisis (dark red wine on Soobin’s grey carpet).

“I genuinely don’t know what we’ll do when it’s your actual wedding,” you said, once Reina finally tossed her phone onto the sofa. “When he’s not supposed to see you before you walk down the aisle.”

Nara picked up the glasses from the table and carried them to the sink.

“Maybe,” she said, “we could convince him to wear the dress instead.”

“Oh, yeah,” you said. “But then Reina will be the one trying to get a glimpse of him before the wedding.”

Reina sighed, slumping onto the sofa and holding out her wrists. “You’re right. We’re doomed. Just lock me up.”

You laughed again and joined Nara in the kitchen to finish tidying up.

By the time you left, you were in a good enough mood to forget the tremor in your hands.

Yet, back on campus, the day refused to settle.

Professor Lee’s office seemed to have a revolving door today. People came and stayed, stayed and talked, talked and drank coffee. They wanted to know how your first lecture went, how New York was, what the topic of your dissertation would be. You were fairly certain someone had asked about the colour of your socks, too, though you couldn’t remember.

When you finally staggered back home that afternoon, your hands were as heavy as the lobby doors. Your hair was wet from the rain (you’d left your umbrella at home when you stopped for the book), water dripping from your jacket onto the tiles.

Yeonjun was there.

He stood in his usual spot by the letterboxes, his phone pressed to his ear. He looked up as the door shut. No glasses today.

“Gotta go now,” he said into the phone, already turning towards you. “Yeah—sure. Yeah. Okay. Bye.”

He slid the phone into the pocket of his jeans before you could decide whether to acknowledge him or try walking past.

“Soobin,” he explained, tapping his pocket.

“Ah,” you said. “Getting ready for tomorrow?”

He exhaled and nodded. Ever since Soobin had determined that Yeonjun was functioning well enough, he’d been on the phone with him every day for at least forty minutes at a time.

“He’s spiralling about whether to wear a tie or a bow,” Yeonjun said. “Beomgyu voted tie, but Bin thinks it’s too much. It—it’s a whole thing.”

“Hmm.” You started towards the stairs. “Reina’s stressed about her outfit, too. It’s good, though, that this is their biggest problem.”

“Yeah.” He fell into step beside you, as easily as before. Something sharp pinched at your stomach. “M’happy for them. But, uh—still fucks with me that they’re engaged. I remember Bin losing it before their first date—he was dry-heaving on the bathroom floor. Feels like that was a few weeks ago.”

“Yeah.”

You remembered talking to Yeonjun about Reina and Soobin before. Remembered sitting across from him at that Italian restaurant—Linguini’s, your mind supplied helpfully. With Edgar, the waiter, and that piano player with hands growing out of his ass.

“Time’s strange like that,” you added, your throat dry.

“Mm.” Yeonjun’s throat felt dry as well, though for a different reason. “So, um—about tomorrow.”

You sensed the shift before he even said anything.

“Would you…” He trailed off, opting for a different approach. “I mean—we could, uh—go to the party together.”

Your heartbeat jolted, sharp against your ribs.

You reached out a hand to the wall to steady your balance.

“I’ve got to go there early,” you said, fingers tracing the uneven layers of paint. “Need to help Reina get ready. We’ve got a—kind of a ritual. Wouldn’t be good to break it on a day like this.”

“Oh, yeah,” Yeonjun said, nodding quickly. “Makes sense. Can’t break rituals. But I mean, I wouldn’t mind going early, too. Not to help Reina, but, uh—”

“Yeonjun.”

He looked up. “Hm?”

You’d stopped on the third-floor landing. Your hands, you realised, were shaking worse than before.

“Let’s not do this,” you said.

He visibly recoiled.

His jaw tightened, hands disappearing into the front pocket of his dark blue jumper.

“What are we doing?” he asked.

“This,” you said, gesturing between you. Your voice reached him as though from underwater: low and muffled. “Going places together. Let’s—let’s not.”

The landing felt smaller suddenly, and airless. The peeling paint on the walls beside you seemed to curl downwards in your peripheral vision.

“What’s wrong with that?” he asked.

“If you don’t know, I doubt I can help yo—”

“You can,” he said, sharper now, “by answering the question. Why can’t we go places together?”

You felt a pang of irritation at his tone.

A torrent of words teemed on the tip of your tongue, all of your past history: from the casual we’re-just-playing dating, to the serious it-had-not-felt-like-a-bet goodbye.

You could have unleashed it, you knew.

But you also knew what it would sound like. Knew what it would reveal.

You didn’t think you wanted him to hear it.

“We’ve already tried that before,” you said. “Hasn’t gone well, has it?”

Yeonjun swallowed. His throat felt full of sand.

He watched your wet hair for a moment and couldn’t help remembering that last day he’d talked to you, in the parking lot by the Social Sciences building.

He’d left you in the rain and driven off.

“That—well, that was—” He tried to grab onto a sentence, or even a word, and took a sharp breath. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”

You turned towards the next flight of stairs. “Nothing to talk about.”

A frustrated breath left him. “Don’t do that.”

You scoffed. “What am I doing?”

“Acting like nothing means anything. Looking for some angle. Some ulterior mo—”

“No.” The word was clean and brittle. “I stopped looking when I found it.”

Yeonjun shut his eyes for a moment, pausing on the topmost step.

He knew the scheme would come up. He just hadn’t expected to be standing in the middle of the stairwell when it did.

“That’s exactly what we should talk about,” he said.

“Well, then we already have.”

“No, we haven’t,” he insisted. “That wasn’t—I was just—there were things happening that aren’t… they’re not happening anymore. I can talk about them now.”

You stopped—abruptly enough that he nearly missed a step and landed at your feet.

“Can you?” you shot back. “What does any of that even mean, ‘there were things happening’?”

Yeonjun had wanted to have this conversation with you, but hadn’t planned for it to happen like this.

He wanted, a little bit, to back out now. To rewind the time. Honestly, to have never been born.

“It—it’s a long story,” he said. He pulled his hands from his pocket, then shoved one back in, restless. “But I want to tell you.”

You studied him for a long moment.

Then you faced the stairs again.

“No.”

He couldn’t process the word. “No?”

“Think I’ve heard enough of your stories.”

The finality in your voice startled him.

He’d known better than to expect anything easy from you. But you were talking to him now. Joking with him. Smiling sometimes.

He thought the two of you were better.

He bounded up three steps to catch up.

“But it’s important.” His hand shot out on instinct, fingers closing around your wrist. “It—”

You stopped mid-step, startled more by the coldness of his hands than the touch itself.

He let go right away, but the brief contact was enough to send something electric through you both. You resented that your first instinct was to reach back. To warm him.

You weren’t sure you were breathing.

“I want to explain everything,” he said.

Slowly, you folded your arms across your chest.

He looked unsure and a little scared. You felt something inside you waver.

Maybe you should talk.

Maybe he should explain, and you should listen.

“Why?” you asked.

“Well, because it—because everything that happened was my fault,” he said, and you heard it in his voice—the I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry he’d kept repeating as he walked away from you, without an explanation, the last time.

“And what is it that happened?” you asked, jaw tightening.

“Everything,” he said. He felt each of your questions like a punch in the gut. “Us. And—you leaving for New York.”

Your eyes narrowed. “What’s me leaving got to do with anything?”

Yeonjun blinked down at the stairs.

This wasn’t how this was supposed to go.

“It—well, it was all happening at the same time, I don’t know,” he said, his gaze flicking, momentarily, to your face, then dropping again. “I—okay. Can we just talk about it? All of it.”

“We are talking about it.”

“No,” he said. “We’re talking around it.”

You dropped your hands to your sides.

“Right,” you said.

He looked up, hopeful despite his better instincts. You weren’t looking at him.

You didn’t want him to explain.

You wanted there to be nothing to explain. Wanted him not to have walked away that day.

You continued up the stairs. “Maybe we shouldn’t be talking about or around it at all, then.”

Groaning, he followed after you. “Why not?”

“Because I’m not doing this again.”

“Not doing what?”

“This.” Your voice rose despite yourself, instinctively matching his. “Arguing and explaining and playing games. I’m done wi—”

“I’m not playing games, though!” he cut in. His hands flew up, then faltered, fingers pushing back through his hair. “I—I’m not. I mean that. I meant it before, too.”

You paused again, your chest constricting, as if something inside was being forcibly pried open. It pinned you down to the floor. You could feel yourself start swaying faintly on your feet.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The stairwell did not know what to do with this silence. It stretched between you until it echoed in your ears.

You glanced up towards your floor, then down again, twisting the ring on your index finger.

This was enough.

“Look,” you said, in a voice so level and calm that Yeonjun didn’t recognise it at first. “Technically, we’re only talking because of Violet. Or because we’re neighbours. That’s all. And that’s all we’re ever going to talk about. Is that alright with you?”

For a second, Yeonjun simply stared at you.

He realised his mistake.

The more time that he’d spent around you, falling into these small routines, the more he’d taken it as a sign. Convinced himself that he could fix this. That you’d let him.

His wounds, he realised, had closed when he saw you.

But yours had opened.

“No,” he said finally. “S’not alright. But I get it. You don’t want to talk.”

You didn’t. But you found yourself itching to say something else. Felt the words rise, desperate and frightened on the tip of your tongue. You swallowed them down and turned back.

Quietly, Yeonjun followed.

At your door, he watched you wrestle with the lock. Watched the key catch, then slip out. Watched it struggle to turn. You adjusted your grip and pushed your shoulder into the frame.

The door opened.

Violet was already sitting on the threshold, as though she’d been listening. Her white tail flicked slowly side to side, her blue eyes bright and expectant.

You stepped back.

Yeonjun moved forward and scooped her up. He offered her no greeting. She didn’t dare breathe a meow in response.

You didn’t say anything else.

And this time, neither did he.

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[taexual]

. . . d e l i r i u m | 2

i’m already shut in a shattered state and i wish you’d stayed in my life /// yungblud, change

pairing: yeonjun x fem!reader

summary: sometimes love and hate exist on opposite ends of the map. other times, on separate floors of the same building.

genre: ex!yeonjun / enemies to lovers au / neighbour au

warnings: slow burn, mutual pining, strong language, tensionnn and some angst, their usual bickering and flirting, whipped!jjun and lowkey in denial!reader

words: 9.7k

[ ! ] this is a sequel to equilibrium

masterlist / read from the beginning

✦ • ─── AUGUST 20, 2026. 11:30 PM

As Yeonjun tried to fall asleep that night, his thoughts stubbornly dragged him back to Monday morning.

He could see himself back at his window, shirt plastered to his back, sweat trickling down the nape of his neck. For hours, he’d been trying to wedge a rolling pin into the window frame to keep it open.

It hadn’t worked. The frame slipped; the window slammed—again and again and again.

He was exhausted. There was no air in his bedroom. At one point, he genuinely feared he’d suffocate and end up as Violet’s last meal on earth.

His wrist had throbbed from the exertion. It always did, even worse when the weather turned. He regretted tearing off the cast every time it rained.

He hadn’t slept properly in months. At least, the move had given his insomnia purpose.

Lost in the task at hand, he hadn’t even thought about the hour or the noise from the window. Or from the lamp shades he’d assembled earlier.

Then you’d knocked on his door.

He’d opened it.

And he’d seen you for the first time since you’d both finished grad school—one year, two months, and twenty-five days ago.

And he’d talked to you—one year, five months, and one day since he’d said he was sorry and walked away.

He’d tried to focus the rest of that Monday, but found himself pacing in circles around his empty living room instead. He’d decided he would clarify everything the next time he saw you. And that would be all. You wouldn’t want anything more to do with him; he knew that much.

So that first Monday afternoon in the lobby had been a coincidence; he’d really had a parcel to collect. The courier had been late. You’d returned home. It was great timing—or bad, depending on who was telling the story.

Tuesday had been a hopeful shot.

He’d climbed down to check his letterbox at the same time as yesterday. And you’d come home at the same time again.

Wednesday was planned.

He cut his visit to Beomgyu’s short, abandoning his half-eaten apple pie with a heavy heart, and sped back home. He made it just before four. You were there.

By Thursday, he’d developed a habit.

You’d called him out on it, unimpressed as always, and for a brief, inconvenient moment, he remembered Soobin telling him to behave around you. He hadn’t dared ask what that meant, exactly; Soobin had already sounded ready to come over and smack him on the forehead.

And he’d tried to behave in any case. He thought he did well, considering that every word he exchanged with you sent an electric current from behind his eyes all the way down to his toes.

He was talking to you again.

Teasing you and rightfully earning your irritation.

He’d almost forgotten what that felt like.

Now that he knew about the latch, he was able to open the window.

And, with Violet curled up beside him, he finally managed to fall asleep.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 21, 2026. 6:55 AM

On Friday morning, you were woken by a delicate tap-tap-tap against your bedroom window. You assumed it was the rain. Or a hapless pigeon trapped on the fire escape.

Turning on your other side, you dragged the duvet up higher and burrowed your face into the pillow. You hoped to return to your previous dream. Hoped to—

A sharp, insistent meow.

Disoriented, you blinked your eyes open and pushed yourself up onto your elbows. The window was right beside your bed, but you still had to squint to see—and then squint harder to make sense of what you were seeing.

Violet was perched on the deck of the fire escape, one paw lifted to the glass.

Tap-tap.

Her blue eyes locked onto yours. She meowed again, more demanding.

“What—” you huffed, leaning over to fumble with the latch before she fell into the gap in the railing.

The moment the window opened, Violet slipped in. She shook off the outside, sending wisps of her fur into the air, and set off across your bedroom.

You weren’t entirely convinced you were awake.

Standing from the bed, you glanced back at the window. The fire escape ran the length of the building in a narrow metal strip. Thankfully, there seemed to be no other cats on it.

When you turned back, Violet had already wandered into your living room. She meowed approvingly at your flowerpots by the balcony doors.

You picked up your phone from the makeshift bedside table (a tower of three cardboard boxes) and checked the time. Your alarm wasn’t set to go off for another half an hour.

Smashing.

You followed Violet into the living room.

She was conducting a brief inspection of the floor and sniffed at the suspicious brown stain by the kitchen island. Then she paused, whiskers twitching, and contemplated where to settle down.

The kitchen island was option one; it smelled nice and promising.

The floor by the window was option two; the plants were clearly up to something.

Neither spot seemed to have that specific je ne sais quoi she seemed to be looking for, however. She glanced at you for help.

“Oh, looking for more light?” you asked, reaching over to pull the curtains open.

Faint morning light seeped into the room, partially hidden behind a duvet of clouds.

Violet rose immediately.

She crossed the room, nosed at the curtains, and then, apparently satisfied, settled into a faintly sunlit patch between your plants. The leaves of your monstera brushed her sides.

You watched her with your eyebrows raised.

“You like the sun, then?” you asked. “Or the plants?”

Violet made a quiet, contented sound in response.

“Both, hmm.” You moved towards the fridge. One of your pyjama legs had ridden up, and you tugged it back down to your ankle. “I know I promised you something sweet, but I haven’t got much that’s suitable for you.” You scanned the shelves. “You can have a bit of turkey, okay?”

Intrigued, Violet joined you in the kitchen. She accepted the slice of turkey with the enthusiasm of someone who hadn’t eaten in a week. Then she turned around and dropped it to the floor.

You folded your arms. “Not good enough?”

She nudged the slice with her nose. Then, with a glance at you that felt especially performative, she picked it up and ate it properly.

You snorted under your breath and watched her saunter back to her previous spot. She curled into a little ball in between the two flowerpots, the end of her tail flicking lazily against the leaves.

You tried to decide what to do.

Yeonjun was probably looking for her. But the thought of knocking on his door again this early in the morning was deeply unappealing.

If you hadn’t deleted his number—and blocked him everywhere else for good measure—you could’ve just sent a text.

Well, then.

You figured you could spare a minute to brace yourself and left Violet to nap while you showered and dressed.

Twenty minutes later, you were crouched by your door, making increasingly undignified ps-ps-pss sounds at Violet. You didn’t dare grab her; the two of you weren’t that close yet.

She ignored you.

You stood. Your legs were numb. Water trickled from the ends of your hair, sliding down your back. You glanced at your black shirt and almost considered changing again.

“Violet,” you said. “Please.”

Mid-groom, Violet paused. Now that you were standing, she seemed to consider you respectable and therefore worth acknowledging.

You hissed some more.

She rose, slow and graceful, and padded over.

You opened the door. She stepped into the corridor and waited, tail flicking, while you locked up.

Her tail gained momentum as you stopped outside Yeonjun’s door. She seemed to know this was home. Seemed excited to return, even. You couldn’t figure her out.

You took a breath—God, let this be the last time—and knocked.

Something clattered inside, followed by a muffled curse.

Then the door swung open.

“Oh—shit,” Yeonjun breathed, blinking at you, then down at Violet as she slipped past him into the flat. “Was she—was she bothering you? Hi, by the way.”

“Hi,” you said, keeping your eyes firmly above the grey shorts he was wearing. “She wasn’t bothering me. Did break into my flat through the fire escape, though.”

His eyes widened, cheeks still puffy and soft with sleep. You turned your gaze to the butter-coloured paint beside his door frame.

“She—I thought she was just sitting by the window,” he said, turning halfway to look into the dark of his flat. “I didn’t—didn’t realise she’d gone up to you.”

“Does she wander off a lot?”

“I guess,” he said, turning back to you. “Not on the fire escape, though. And she always comes home. Shit—don’t know if she’s tried visiting any of the other neighbours.”

“Hmm.” You stepped back, fingers finding the bannister. “Well, she’s home now. So I’ll go.”

He still looked mildly startled. “Sorry about her.”

“S’fine.” You waved a hand without looking back and started up the stairs. “She’s good company.”

His gaze stayed on your back until you disappeared on the landing upstairs.

Violet was good company, then.

Perhaps, Yeonjun thought, shutting the door, the next time he went down to the lobby, he should bring her with him.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 21, 2026. 12:30 PM

Ever since you’d returned from New York, you and Reina developed a tradition to grab lunch together every Friday. Her office was just off campus, so she could easily nip out between meetings, and you still had a forgiving schedule before classes started for undergrads.

She’d picked a new restaurant for the day. Found it on Instagram, she said, and was taken by the picturesque stained-glass windows and the many comments about the comforting food. She spoke about it as though eating here was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

It might’ve really been. Half the city seemed to have decided to try it.

The two of you stood in a warmly lit corridor that smelled of pastries and potatoes, and listened to the faint rattle of cutlery inside. The queue refused to budge.

Reina’s stomach voiced its discontent with a loud rumble.

“If this doesn’t live up to my expectations,” she mumbled, hand pressed to her abdomen, “think I’m leaving my first-ever Google review.”

“Do it right now,” you said, slipping off your jacket. “Maybe that’ll speed things up.”

“I might.” She checked the time on her phone again. “M’thinking I’ll start with, ‘I starved to death before I even got inside.’ Oh—should I actually faint? For more credibility.”

You waved it off. “They won’t know anyway.”

“We could add pictures.”

You snorted. “You could also mention that at least it smelled nice here.”

“Oh, that’s the worst thing about it.” She groaned. “My stomach’s about to start eating itsel—”

The hostess finally caught your eye and waved you over.

Reina gritted her teeth. “Finally. I know it’s not her fault, but I still feel like—”

You steered her forward by the elbow before she could growl at the young hostess.

Inside the eating area, waiters swept past you with trays of huge plates—glossy cuts of steak, vibrant peas, majestic pyramids of mashed potatoes. The couple at the table next to yours was sharing a massive slab of tiramisu. You considered ordering all of it, one after another. Perhaps even all at once.

The two of you settled at your table. The stained-glass window beside it was green and red and yellow in colour. It seemed to depict some sort of woods, or perhaps the sea.

You leaned back in your chair and exhaled wistfully.

“Reckon I could live here,” you said, dropping the paper menu onto the table. Your palm caressed the side of your velvet armchair. “This chair is divine.”

“We’re here for the food,” Reina said. She was about to eat the chair. “Not the furniture.”

“Speak for yourself.”

Before she could unleash a hunger-fueled barb in response, the waiter finally approached for your orders. Then, perhaps prompted by the sounds of Reina’s stomach, he returned a moment later with a jar of complimentary breadsticks.

Reina brightened at once.

“Knew this place was worth it,” she said, reaching for the jar. The ring on her fourth finger caught the sun outside the colourful windows. “Maybe Bin and I should host the party here.”

Grinning, you took a breadstick as well. You’d expected to taste garlic, but found it surprisingly sweet instead. It seemed to be glazed with honey.

“I see the vision,” you said, glancing around. “The windows do remind me of a church.”

She gave an eager nod. “Exactly, yeah.”

“Have you decided on the date, then?”

“Oh, right!” She wiped her hands, scattering crumbs over the table, then reached for another breadstick. “We’re thinking next Saturday. Does that work for you?”

You’d have happily rearranged the entire universe to make room for Reina and Soobin’s engagement party; you didn’t know why she’d even asked. For about two months now—ever since Soobin had nearly fainted mid-proposal—you’d been looking forward to it.

“Of course,” you said. “I’ll make anything work.”

Chewing hurriedly, she leaned back in her chair. “Great.”

With the breadsticks soothing her hunger pangs, she began to reconsider her earlier stance on the furniture. This really was a ridiculously comfortable chair. She wondered if she could find out where they’d got it from. Perhaps smuggle it home in her bag.

“My parents can’t do any other day, actually,” she added, “which is crazy, because my mum drives up every weekend to get lunch with Bin’s mum. But for her daughter’s engagement party, she can’t make time.”

You snorted, grabbing another breadstick. “She’s probably still processing it. Her little girl’s engaged, that must be a lot.”

Reina exhaled, softening.

She remembered calling you after Soobin proposed. You cried for a good ten minutes (her mother only made it to five), stuttering through endless oh my Gods—never mind that you’d known it was coming.

For weeks leading up to the proposal, Soobin had consulted you on everything: from what colour socks he should wear (black) to the ideal kneeling posture (just keep your back straight; everything else won’t matter). Apparently, you weren’t his first choice for advice, but everything he’d heard from Taehyun and Kai was questionable.

“I should warn you, though,” Reina said, toying with the delicate golden pendant at her neck, “Yeonjun’s probably going to be there, too. Don’t want that to be a surprise.”

You dropped your gaze to the table. The breadstick seemed to glue itself to your throat as you swallowed.

“It wouldn’t be,” you said. “He’s Soobin’s friend.”

“Right.” Her gaze lingered on your hands as you traced the grain of the table. “Yeah.”

The waiter, a great man with a great sense of timing, returned with your cutlery, two glasses, and a carafe (that looked more like an extravagant flower vase) of sparkling water. It took him a moment to arrange everything on the table. It was a long, blissfully silent moment.

Reina waited until he’d gone before continuing: “He’s talked about you, actually. To Bin.”

You reached for the carafe and poured her glass first, steadying your hand on the spout before filling your own. The water was cold enough to bite at your teeth when you took a sip. You didn’t take another.

You cleared your throat. “Yeonjun?”

“Yeah.” She lifted her glass, but didn’t drink. The bubbles sparkled on the surface. “He, um—he hadn’t known you were back. Soobin hadn’t told him.”

“How come? He knew I’d left anyway.”

Reina rotated her glass idly, the ice ticking against the sides.

“Bin’s come to treat Yeonjun a bit like a wild animal since then,” she admitted. “Doesn’t even bring you up unless Yeonjun does first.”

You leaned back into the lush softness of your chair.

“And Yeonjun hasn’t exactly been around much anyway,” she went on. “Missed most of the birthday parties this year, never explained anything—and thank God, honestly. S’been nice not seeing him so much. Just that Bin’s been upset.”

You nodded faintly.

Then you found yourself thinking of all the parties you’d skipped before New York, in case Yeonjun would be there.

He hadn’t been.

“Right,” you said. The velvet of the chair darkened as you traced circles over the plush armrest. “Doubt he’d skip your engagement party, though.”

“Hmm.” Reina finally took a sip of her water. “Well, anyway—he called the other day, told Bin you live upstairs. Bin told him to behave or—”

You snorted.

She grinned. “Yeah. He’s very committed to this Older Brother Figure bit.”

“He’s younger than me.”

“He’s decided it’s not enough to count,” she said, shrugging. “Anyway. He told him to behave, and Yeonjun, apparently, promised he would. So, uh—that’s that.”

You took a long sip of your water and set your glass down.

“Very reassuring,” you said, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Not like Yeonjun has ever changed his mind overnight or anything.”

Reina sucked her lips in. “Right.”

You tapped your fingers against the table.

You appreciated Soobin’s support, but couldn’t help remembering the last time you’d talked to him about Yeonjun. He must’ve still felt guilty about inadvertently becoming part of Yeonjun’s scheme.

“I’ve got no plans to speak to him at your party anyway,” you said. “So it doesn’t make much difference.”

Reina watched you and tried to sort all the questions she had by importance. She knew there were doors you wouldn’t let her open.

“Have you seen him much, then?” she tried. She hadn’t blinked in a minute. “Around the building?”

You ran a finger along the rim of your glass, then down the side, clearing a thin path through the condensation.

You didn’t want to recount the string of alleged coincidences of running into Yeonjun in the lobby every single day. Reina would likely have an opinion about that.

“I’ve seen his cat, actually,” you said.

“Violet,” Reina supplied, with far too much delight.

“Right,” you said. “That was her name at the shelter, by the way. He didn’t name her.”

“No?” she said, growing more amused. “Bet he took it for a sign, then.”

“He—” You frowned. “He also said—what sign? It’s a pretty name. I named my cow that once. Someone else named their cat.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “He said it was a sign?”

“Yeah.” You shrugged, sharper than usual. “He was just saying shit.”

She turned towards the window, but you still saw her smile stretch across her cheeks. The red and yellow stained glass painted her face.

Unable to hold it in any longer, she chuckled.

You sighed. “What?”

“Nothing.” She looked back at you, her head tilting. “Just feeling nostalgic. S’comforting you’re still making excuses for him when he says things like that.”

“I’m not making excuses.”

“Oh, wow.” Her exhale turned into a scoff. “Really does feel like we’re back in grad school now.”

You clicked your tongue and snatched a napkin from the dispenser to fold and refold it between your fingers.

“Right, then,” you said, glancing up just long enough to signal the end of the conversation. “Have you decided what you’ll be wearing at the party?”

“Oh!” She leaned forward, her eyes glistening. “I haven’t, but this reminds me—are you free tomorrow?”

“Ye—”

“Come shopping with me.”

The corners of your lips lifted.

You and Reina had gone shopping ahead of every important event in your lives: first dates, graduations, birthday parties, job interviews. You cherished the tradition—particularly Reina’s commentary as you went from shop to shop (‘why the fuck does that jumper just say I am? What if I’m not?’).

“Sure,” you said. “My grandad’s coming to take a look at my washer, but I’m free after that.”

“Perfect. I’ll text you.” She leaned back, curling her fingers around her glass. “Still fighting with the washer, then?”

You propped your elbow on the table, resting your cheek against your palm. “Yeah. The whole plumbing’s fucked, to be honest. Can’t wash more than two plates in one go, or the sink clogs up.”

“Hmm.” She smiled into the rim of her glass. “I did say Yeonjun could help you with that.”

You raised your eyes, slowly. “He’s very far from a plumber.”

“Not that kind of help.”

Your loud groan earned you a glare from the elderly couple at the next table. They were done with their tiramisu.

Reina barely managed to swallow her water before she broke into laughter, bright and careless. Your own lips stretched despite yourself.

“You know what,” you said, pointing at her feebly, “I prefer Bin telling him to behave.”

She snickered one last time, then raised a hand and inhaled dramatically.

“I’m joking,” she said, her expression decidedly grim. “You know I’d still slice him in half if he hurt you again.”

You wanted to argue the again, but took another sip of your water instead. The ice melted against your tongue.

There wasn’t much point in defending your dignity anyway. Reina knew you better than anyone.

“Oh.” She nodded her head at something behind you. “Here we go.”

You followed her gaze. The waiter approached, carrying two trays with plates of chicken, enough mashed potatoes to drown in them, salad bowls that looked like they’d need their own table, and a glorious basket of bread.

You reached for the cutlery holder and picked up a fork.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 21, 2026. 4:25 PM

When you returned home that afternoon—later than your usual time, you’d needed to detour for groceries—Yeonjun was in the lobby.

He turned from the noticeboard when the door shut, his fingers slipping off the corner of a peeling advert. He wore a red, oversized jumper with the word ‘blessed’ stitched in white letters—Reina would’ve loved it—and looked as though he’d only just woken up.

You stopped inside the doorway and exhaled.

“You again,” you said.

He grinned. “Been expecting me?”

“Had a feeling you might be here.”

He snickered, his gaze drifting to the bags in your hands. “Need help with those?”

You glanced down, as if to reassess the weight. The handles bit into your palms.

“No,” you said. “I’ve got it.”

Yeonjun gave an easy nod in response—he didn’t expect you to accept anyway—and pivoted towards the stairs.

“Oh,” you called from the door. “Done loitering, then?”

The sound of your voice made his blood rush in entirely unhelpful directions.

“Yes,” he said, turning back. “But I can stay longer, if you’d like?”

“I wouldn’t.”

The grin on his face was pathological.

He jerked his chin towards the stairs. “Home, then?”

You gave him a long look. He held your gaze for every second of it, his cheeks lifting further.

Already at the edge of firing back, you swallowed it down. “Home, then.”

Yeonjun turned back to the stairs. You followed a second later, your footsteps falling into involuntary rhythm with his.

You hoped he’d veer towards the lift at the last second.

He didn’t.

There was a faint smell of chlorine in the stairwell; it had recently been cleaned. The air dried your throat halfway up the first flight.

“Violet,” Yeonjun said, knowing it was the only topic of small talk you’d accept, “was very happy after she got back from yours.”

You coughed lightly, eyes dropping to your hands.

“I gave her a bit of turkey,” you said. “Hope that’s okay.”

“Oh.” His brows lifted a fraction. “Yeah, of course. Explains why she was so excited.”

“I actually got the feeling she only ate it out of politeness,” you said. “Does she prefer fish?”

“She likes everything,” he said, glancing at you over his shoulder. “She was just playing, so you’d offer something more. She’s very spoiled.”

You smiled.

He caught your lips stretching and promptly missed a step.

“Shit—”

You looked up just in time to see him grab the railing. He felt your gaze in his peripheral vision and cleared his throat.

“Slipped,” he said, gathering his legs together. “M’fine.”

“Mhmm.” You lowered your gaze back to the stairs. “Should’ve taken the lift.”

“And miss our delightful conversation?” He tried to catch his breath. “Never.”

“Rather break your neck, then.”

“I’ll be okay. Thanks for worrying about me, thou—”

“How long have you had her, then?” you cut in before his earlier grin could return.

He pulled on the laces of his jumper. “Violet?”

“Yeah.”

“About four months.”

Your brows lifted. It had taken your cousins close to a year to get their rescue cat—Pistachio—used to them. She still hissed every time she heard her name (rightfully so). And she still occasionally dragged all their shoes out of the house in the middle of the night (less rightfully).

Then again, Pistachio might’ve just had a spiteful nature to begin with. You loved her.

“She adjusted to you very quickly,” you said, recalling how Violet had pressed into him on the stairs yesterday.

Yeonjun nodded; he was very grateful for that. The woman at the shelter had warned him to be patient.

“She was at the shelter for less than a month,” he said. “So I guess I got there early enough.”

You shifted the bags, easing the pressure on your palms. “Did they tell you how she ended up there?”

“Someone tried to drown her.”

You paused mid-step.

He noticed the silence and turned around.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding at your wide eyes. The two of you came to a stop between the third and fourth floors. “This brown bag washed up by a pond not far from here. Some people were walking by and got suspicious. Not the first time it’s happened in the area, apparently—people drowning kittens. So, they opened the bag and found her, soaked through and barely moving. She was—”

A door shut somewhere below. You both quieted, listening to the rattle of the keys, then the whir of the lift.

Yeonjun’s jaw was tight, lips pressed tightly together. He fixed his gaze somewhere over your shoulder.

“She, uh—she washed up onto a patch of violets,” he continued after a minute. “S’why they gave her that name. And they took her to a vet. She survived, but they couldn’t keep her. They had two dogs, I think—or three. Either way, she ended up at the shelter.”

He glanced at you. The horror in your eyes had melted into something painfully sympathetic.

You held his gaze for a second, then blinked down and started up the stairs again. The fresh scent of your perfume gathered around him as you walked past. He tried not to breathe too deeply.

“Poor thing,” you said. Your voice carried over to him in a whisper. “I’m glad she made it.”

Yeonjun glanced up and finally pushed himself into motion.

“Yeah,” he said, swallowing. “Some people are just evil.”

Your fingers skimmed the bannister. His gaze followed the glittering pendants on your bracelet.

“Well,” you said finally. “Never thought I’d say this about you, but, uh—she’s lucky to have you.”

His heart was convinced he was currently headed down the stairs on his ass, apparently, judging by the sudden increase in tempo. He could taste all of his teeth.

“Yeah?” he said, hoping you’d elaborate.

You didn’t. “Yeah.”

He pursed his lips, nodding to himself.

“I’ll tell her you said that,” he said, “the next time she mistreats me.”

You scoffed. “How could she mistreat you? She’s just a little baby.”

“Oh, no—” He tipped his head back in exaggerated despair. “She’s got you fooled, too.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself.

The sound struck him right in the chest.

In just a few steps on this stairwell, the void he’d grown used to seemed to close inside him—just like that. No more cracks, no jagged edges. As whole as it’d always been.

“She, um—she doesn’t really like people much,” he said, fingers tapping against the bannister. “Scratched Bin right across the back of his hand the first time she met him, even drew blood. Then she peed in Gyu’s shoe while we were out on the balcony.”

This time, your laughter came easier. Lighter.

He grinned.

“M’sure she just sensed their sinister thoughts,” you said.

“Probably.” He glanced up at the turn of the stairs. “But she liked you straight away.”

Something sharp twitched in your chest.

Your fingers slipped on your bags, and you lowered them to the stairs for a moment to readjust your grip.

“I’m honoured,” you said, gaze fixed on your boots. “She’s wonderful.”

Yeonjun hummed. He remembered you telling him about Britney, the cat back at your village. He wanted to ask you about her, but couldn’t bring himself to. Your laughter was still ringing somewhere inside him, and he worried that one wrong question would be enough to shatter it.

“Tell Violet I said hi,” you said, stepping onto the fifth-floor landing.

He hadn’t realised he’d reached his flat.

Before he could think of anything to keep you there another minute, you were already heading up the next flight.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, still faintly dazed. “I will.”

✦ • ─── AUGUST 22, 2026. 6:40 AM

Early on Saturday morning, your grandfather announced himself the way he always had: by rapping his knuckles against the door three times. He considered the bell both rude and unnecessary.

Unsure whether you’d imagined the sound, you lay in bed for another minute.

Then came another three knocks.

Yawning, you threw on your robe and opened the door. Your grandfather smiled sheepishly in the dim corridor, his jacket slung over one arm. He held a bouquet of sunflowers.

He never forgot flowers when he visited.

You greeted him the way you always had: by gently scolding him for being so quiet and hugging him—indoors, never over the threshold. He insisted that was bad luck.

“Come in,” you said, stepping aside. “Keep your shoes on. The floor’s—”

He was already taking his shoes off.

Sighing softly, you took his jacket and hung it by the door, on top of yours. You still only had the one hook.

Your grandfather settled on the stool by the kitchen island and ran a hand over the marble countertop, a small, pleased smile on his lips. He liked the counters, then. That was good. He hated everything else about the building.

You took the flowers from him and started the coffee machine. “I’ll show you the washer after coffee, yeah?”

“Of course, dear,” he said, watching you cross the living room to open the curtains. The flat remained dim as the sun slowly inched up from behind the buildings across the street. “Did I wake you?”

You turned to him with a self-conscious smile. It was too early to lie.

“It’s okay,” you said instead. “Happy you’re here. How was the drive?”

You found a vase for the sunflowers while your grandfather recounted his thoughts on the peculiar intersections in the city and the two individuals in jet-black BMWs who honked at him.

“Why were they honking at you?” you asked, shutting off the tap once the vase was halfway full.

“Suppose I wasn’t going fast enough by their standards,” he said. “That’s okay, though, because I started going at twenty per hour after that. They got it.”

Chuckling, you placed the flowers on the kitchen island. “Serves them right.”

“Hmm. What about you, sweetheart?” he asked. “Getting settled? Aside from the washer, of course.”

“Yeah,” you said. “It hasn’t been bad. I finally put up my bookshelf yesterday. Want to see it?”

He wanted to see it.

The bookshelf stood against the wall opposite your bed, still smelling of polished oak. You’d sacrificed your blood, sweat, and tears for it last night—three of your fingers were now bandaged—and you were very proud of it. (It still didn’t fit all of your books, but that was beside the point).

Your grandfather stepped closer, pressed his palm against the side frame, and gave it a small, testing nudge. It did not sway.

He nodded and turned to you—then paused.

“T-that’s a very nice job,” he said. “But—ah, are you aware you’ve got a cat on your fire escape?”

“A ca—” You turned.

Violet sat behind the glass, centred in the window, her blue eyes bright against the dull morning.

Scoffing in disbelief, you crossed the room and unlatched the window.

“This is Violet,” you said, resigned. The cat slipped inside and made straight for your grandfather. “She’s my neighbour’s cat.”

Your grandfather’s expression relaxed at once. He had always been a friend to all animals; even the neighbouring sheep in your village seemed to favour his fields.

He bent, despite his notoriously stiff knees, and offered her his hand. Violet leaned into it without hesitation, arching her back to make it easier for him to touch her.

“Must be friendly neighbours,” your grandfather observed, scratching under her chin, “if their cats visit uninvited.”

“Uh—more of a friendly cat, really,” you said. The smile on your lips felt a little uneven. “She keeps turning up.”

“Isn’t her owner worried?”

“Probably,” you said. “If he’s even awake.”

Your grandfather straightened slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. He’d assumed, you could tell, that the neighbour was a woman.

“Oh,” he said, clearing his throat. “Right. Well. Best let him know, then.”

He didn’t seem to know where to put his hands anymore. Violet dug her nose into his palm, helping him with this problem.

“Yeah.” You stepped back towards the kitchen. “You’ll be alright for a minute while I take her home?”

“Of course, of course.” He pushed himself upright, bracing a hand against your bookshelf for support, and followed you back into the kitchen. “Don’t fuss about me. Have you got something for her? For her trouble?”

You snickered, turning back over your shoulder. “The trouble of running away from home, yeah?”

Your grandfather shrugged. “She chose you to run to.”

Unreasonably warm all of a sudden, you handed him his coffee. He accepted it with a small nod and took a sip immediately, seemingly immune to the heat. He was a lot like Reina in that regard.

The coffee machine sputtered again as it began to work on your mug.

In the meantime, Violet drifted along the edge of the living room, searching for sunlight. She was already quite familiar with the way your floor smelled, but figured she could still help you with that. Several more wisps of her hair scattered onto the tiles.

The moment you opened the fridge and lifted the plate with the last of the turkey, she snapped to attention and trotted over.

You squatted, smiling, and offered her a small slice.

She sniffed it first. Gave it a cautious lick. Then, with her ears twitching in approval, she grabbed it in one decisive bite.

“Think she likes it,” your grandfather said, grinning.

“Mhmm.” Violet nudged the plate in your hands before she’d even finished chewing. “That’s enough, little one. Don’t want you thinking I’m rewarding bad behaviour.”

She drew back and gave you a questioning meow. She was not familiar with the concept of bad behaviour.

“That’s right,” you reiterated. “You’re not supposed to run away from home like that.”

Another meow, strongly disagreeing.

You chuckled, standing up. Violet lost interest at once and padded back towards the window.

Your grandfather snickered—and burst into a cough.

You turned for the sink. “Water—?”

He placed a palm on your shoulder.

“M—I’m f-fine,” he managed, breath catching again before it settled. His soft smile returned. “D-don’t think that one realises she’s run away. Looks to me like she thinks she’s home.”

You followed his gaze to Violet, who was pressing her nose to the glass. She jerked back, startled by the cold.

She already reminded you a bit of Yeonjun, now that you thought of it.

“She’s very curious,” you said. “Think she just likes exploring.”

“Oh, no.” Your grandfather shook his head. “Cats are particular. They choose where they go, and they choose where they stay.”

As if to prove him right, Violet sprawled onto her back, paws reaching up to swat at the edge of the curtain.

Your chest warmed all over again.

“I don’t mind her here,” you said, “but I should take her back. Drink your coffee, alright? It’ll only take a second, she lives just downstairs.”

“Of course,” your grandfather said, lifting his mug. “Take all the time you need.”

You did.

It took a solid five minutes just to persuade Violet to come to the door. She had evidently decided you needed to work for it.

Another slice of turkey convinced her.

She really was spoiled, you realised as she chewed the turkey and stepped into the stairwell. She paused every few steps, as if pondering whether she could negotiate another snack for her had work. You were already completely smitten with her.

You stopped outside Yeonjun’s door.

Maybe, you thought, hand stretching over the back of your robe, you should knock and run back home. He might think Violet came back on her own.

Unfortunately, the door opened the moment your knuckles touched it.

Violet sat down on the threshold, reporting back for duty.

“You’re out again,” Yeonjun said to her, the reprimand softening into affection halfway through. Then he lifted his eyes to you, and something in his expression softened further. “I’m really sorry. I was about to come up and check if she was with you. Fire escape again?”

“Yeah,” you said, shifting on your feet. “My grandad noticed her.”

“Oh.”

He remembered your grandfather from your graduation—remembered your whole family, really. All the aunts, uncles, and cousins you’d told him about. You’d been smiling the whole ceremony, even as you tried to keep them all in line. He’d known better than to approach.

Swallowing, he looked down at Violet again.

“Haven’t we talked about this?” he said. “You don’t leave without my permission.”

She answered with a small meow and slipped past him, her tail catching on his ankle.

“Don’t talk back to me, young lady—” he started, louder now, but whipped his head back to you the moment he heard your quiet chuckle.

There was flour on the tips of his fingers, he realised. He brushed it off on his sweatpants.

“Anyway,” he said. “Thought I left a smaller gap, but she slipped out anyway. Wants me to have a heart attack, I s’pose.”

Your mouth tilted. “Guess she likes visiting.”

“Goess so. Sorry about that.”

“S’fine,” you said. “I wouldn’t have minded if she’d stayed for a bit, but I’ve got plans.”

“Oh.” He leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. “Yeah? What plans?”

He thought he sounded very casual. Neighbourly.

You recognised the brightness in his gaze at once.

“If I tell you,” you said, dry, “you might start showing up there, too.”

He grinned, glancing down at your hot pink robe. He liked this colour on you. Liked, especially, how bright you looked against the subdued corridor.

He thought you’d look even better if you told him more about your plans.

“Hmm,” he said. “Gonna be back by four, then?”

You pursed your lips. “Why don’t you go down and check?”

“I will.”

“Mm.”

You took a step back. Your left slipper snagged on the uneven edge of the linoleum by his threshold.

“Oh, wait—um,” he said, stepping out onto the landing.

You straightened and took another instinctive step backwards. He pretended not to see it.

“Can I—I’ll give you my number, yeah? I mean, I’ll try to sort the window, but in case this happens again, you could just text me, and I’d come get her. You wouldn’t need to—” he gestured vaguely at the stairs, “—run a delivery service.”

Your gaze dropped to your slippers. The cotton was beginning to crease at the bend.

“Uh—sure,” you said, pushing your hair back over your shoulders. The bandage on your middle finger caught on a strand.

Yeonjun pulled his phone from the back pocket of his sweatpants.

“Your number still the same?” he asked, thumbs hovering over his screen.

“Yeah.”

“Cool. I’ll just send a text, then, yeah?”

“Sure.”

You waited while he typed, staring at the scuffed linoleum. The stairwell was quiet around you, amplifying the soft tap of his screen. A sweet, fruity scent seemed to hang in the air.

Yeonjun heard you sniff and looked up.

“I’m—uh, baking,” he said, gesturing behind himself. “Peach cobbler.”

You lifted your chin slightly. “Oh.”

You hadn’t known he baked, and the new information landed uncomfortably heavy in your mind.

Before you could say anything else, your phone buzzed in your pyjama pocket. The vibration travelled down your leg.

UNKNOWN [7:27 AM] hi it’s me

His number seemed to be the same as last year.

“If—if you stop by after your plans,” Yeonjun said, forcing your attention back up, “you could try some. As, uh—as a thank you for Violet.”

You stared at him for a second.

He baked, then. And you could try some.

Maybe he smoked something before opening the door. You’d love to try some of that.

“That’s alright,” you said, slowly. “I’ll probably be out the whole day.”

Something tightened behind his eyes.

He did not like that, but couldn’t figure out how to ask you about it without reminding you of his clinical insanity.

Who’re you going with?

Is it a date?

Can I come?

Yeah, you’d call the police on him.

“Well, not a problem,” he said. His eye threatened to start twitching. “Another time.”

Swallowing thickly, you turned for the stairwell.

“Right,” you said, hand gripping the bannister. “I’ll go, then.”

“Yeah. Of course.” Yeonjun stepped back into his flat and lifted a hand in a small wave. “Thanks for bringing the troublemaker back.”

Already on the stairs, you returned the gesture without thinking.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 22, 2026. 8 AM

It had taken your grandfather a mere half an hour to tighten the hose and change the gasket—would’ve taken him less if his glasses hadn’t kept sliding down his nose. Twice, they dropped onto the tiles and slipped under the washing machine.

“You would think,” he muttered, fishing them out with two fingers, “that after almost seventy years, I’d have mastered the art of wearing glasses.”

You snickered and switched off the torch you’d been tasked with holding.

Glasses on, your grandfather stood to wipe his hands on an old rag he’d brought with his tools. He gave the machine a firm pat.

“Should be alright now,” he said. “But I don’t know for how long.”

“That’s alright,” you said. “I’ll just have to invite you over again.”

He huffed a quiet laugh and wiped his nose with the same rag before you could scold him.

He stayed for another half an hour for breakfast, then left, unnecessarily secretive about the rest of his plans. You suspected it involved more flower seeds, and, almost certainly, a box of chocolates for your grandmother. He never returned home empty-handed when he knew she was waiting.

You spent the rest of the day with Reina.

The shopping centre was packed. You nearly lost her three times—by that point, you were not above tying a helium balloon to her wrist to keep track of her. Thankfully, she had an uncanny ability to sense when you’d fallen behind and always circled back to find you.

After three hours, she picked out four dresses.

Naturally, that meant you’d have to have another meeting to decide on the best option. You didn’t mind, even if it meant finding ways to keep Soobin out of their house. You already knew Reina would want her outfit to be a surprise, and he would take that as a challenge.

“We could do it at my place,” you suggested. “Although I don’t doubt Soobin would still try to climb in through the window.”

“Yeah.” She exhaled, her paper bags knocking lightly against her legs. “I’ll try not to mention what I’m doing. Maybe that’ll work.”

You snorted.

She gave you an indignant look. “What? I don’t tell him everything.”

You snorted louder.

“Fine,” she conceded, fighting back a helpless grin. “I’ll just tie him up for an hour, then.”

The sky was dark once you and Reina finally emerged into the parking lot. Your lower back ached, and every step felt heavier than the last.

Normally, you refused her offers to drive you home. Having learned how to drive from her dad, Reina was extremely precise on the road, but also had the road rage of a middle-aged man. Sitting beside her was a test of endurance.

Today, however, you agreed without hesitation.

Her Audi—red, to match Soobin’s—moved through the streets with growing impatience. The drive that should have taken twenty minutes took ten instead. All through it, Reina honked at any man behind the wheel (men shouldn’t drive) and at anyone who missed the traffic lights by even half a second (are they fucking asleep?).

By the time she pulled up outside your building, you felt mildly carsick.

“Right, then,” you said, carefully opening the door, “you’d make a great pilot.”

Grinning, Reina pointed to the airplane-shaped air freshener clipped to her dashboard. Kai got it for her after the first—and last—time she’d driven him home from his classes.

You nodded and stepped out into the crisp evening air, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself. Reina leaned across the centre console, reaching her hands out through the open window.

Laughing, you leaned in to meet her halfway for a hug—only to be met by her elbow right on your forehead.

“Oh—I’m so sorry,” she spluttered, hands flying to her mouth as she tried to suppress a laugh. “I was—was trying to pull you closer.”

“I’ll live,” you muttered, rubbing the spot. “Get home safe, yeah?”

She gave you an affectionate salute, still giggling, and rolled up the window.

You stepped onto the pavement. Her car slid back into traffic, taillights glowing bright, then disappearing into the dark of the night.

Five floors above, Yeonjun stood at his window, watching you heave the lobby doors open. He hadn’t meant to be watching, but he’d come to close the curtains and recognised Reina’s car. By then, it was too late to turn away.

As he watched you enter the building, the tension in his chest eased.

Not a date, then. You’d just been out with Reina.

He nearly tossed Violet into the air in absurd relief.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 23, 2026. 6:55 AM

On Sunday morning, Violet was back on your fire escape, punctual as always. She watched the window and patiently waited for you to stir.

Your breath caught when you saw her.

She meowed supportively.

Groaning—you’d only gone to sleep five hours ago, waiting for the final spin cycle of your washing machine—you pushed yourself out of bed and stumbled to the window. Your fingers slipped on the latch before finally yanking it open.

“M’starting to think I should install a bell here for you,” you said as she slid in through the gap. “Aren’t you cold out here? Why don’t you stay home?”

Violet declined to comment.

Brushing past your legs, she headed straight into the living room. First, a quick sniff at her chosen patch between your flowerpots. Then, a demanding meow.

The curtains.

Obeying, you walked over to open them. Violet shuffled a few centimetres to the left, settling directly in front of the rising sun.

She didn’t seem to want anything to eat. She just really liked your windows. And your plants. Possibly your rug, too, though the tassels hadn’t passed the inspection yet.

You turned towards the kitchen and started the coffee machine. While it whirred and warmed the flat, you leaned your hip against the counter and pulled out your phone to text Yeonjun.

Just then, Violet folded into a perfect loaf, her paws tucked tight beneath her, and let out a small, satisfied breath.

Lips stretching, you closed your contacts and opened your camera instead.

She looked cinematic in the picture: her fur catching the sunlight, her little ears poking out from behind the fluff of her body, plants on either side of her.

You sent it to Yeonjun.

By the time he replied, you were already halfway through your coffee, scrolling absentmindedly through Instagram.

YEONJUN [7:16 AM] ??? convinced she learned to work the latch can i come up?

You glanced at Violet once more. She was lying on her side now, her body rising and falling softly in time with her breaths. The sun caught on her white paws.

YOU [7:17 AM] i’ll be home all day, so she can stay for a bit if you’re ok

The three dots appeared and disappeared on your screen. Then appeared again.

Finally:

YEONJUN [7:18 AM] i’m ok

You set your phone aside and returned to your coffee. It was already lukewarm.

After breakfast, you found an old, dark-blue ceramic bowl in your kitchen, probably something you’d taken from your grandmother’s. You filled it with water for Violet and brought it closer to her spot by the window. Her tail twitched.

The rest of your Sunday morning went on as usual.

You triple-checked the washing machine for any leaks—all good—and moved on to fold your clothes. Despite last night’s effort, the laundry basket was still only a third empty.

Violet, in the meantime, migrated slowly across your flat, following the sun as it moved from your rug to the back of your sofa, then back to the floor again. She’d climbed onto the kitchen island once, to get acquainted with the sunflowers there, but quickly decided she preferred being closer to the windows.

It was nice, having her here.

You caught yourself glancing at her every now and then as you settled in the living room with your laptop. She rarely looked back at you, but made her presence known with the occasional thunderous snore that was absurd for someone her size.

By the time you finished revising your notes for tomorrow’s seminar, your living room had turned golden. Sunlight stretched across the floorboards, the shadows of your window frames shifting over the rug.

You shut your laptop and leaned back for a stretch. Your spine cracked.

Then the doorbell rang.

Surprised, you checked the time on your phone and pushed yourself off the sofa.

Noticing your movement, Violet lifted her head, ears perked.

“I have a feeling that’s for you,” you said.

She licked her nose and settled back down, unfazed.

You stepped over her outstretched tail and went to answer the door.

Yeonjun stood in the corridor, holding a plate with two uneven slices of pie—peach cobbler, by the look of it. He looked faintly winded, as though he’d sprinted upstairs. One of his sleeves was rolled up.

“Hi,” he said, exhaling with a slight wheeze. “Came to—to pick up Violet. And—um.” He lifted the plate. “This is for you. Still good today.”

You stared at the plate for a second, unsure what to do with it until he pushed it closer.

“Oh—” You took it from him. “Thank you. Violet’s right there.”

Yeonjun leaned over, careful not to cross the threshold, and glanced past you.

“In the sun,” he said, nodding at her. “Of course.”

You set the plate down on the kitchen island next to the sunflowers. “She stayed there nearly the entire time.”

“Yeah,” he said. “She’s been scratching at my curtains, so I suspect that’s her problem. She loves the sun.”

You crouched beside Violet, the late afternoon light painting the brown patches on her back golden. She was busy lying on her side and pawing at a leaf of your monstera, and did not bother to look up at you.

“Come on, baby,” you murmured, reaching under her chin. “Your ride’s here.”

Your touch intrigued her. She abandoned the plant and leaned into your hand. You’d discovered she had a favourite spot—the small white patch on her neck, just beneath her whiskers—and lingered there for a second longer.

Then her ears flicked. She heard Yeonjun calling for her in the doorway.

You let your hand slip away.

She rose, stretching, then made her way over to him, her tail held high.

“Hi, love,” Yeonjun said, bending to scoop her up. She chirped against his chest, and he reached out to rub the top of her head. “Had a nice day?”

She tucked herself into his arms.

You stepped back towards the door.

“I’ll try to sort out the curtains,” he said, glancing up at you. “Maybe s’why she runs away every morning.”

“Yeah.” You ran a hand over the side of your doorframe. “Or maybe she doesn’t like you that much, after all.”

His mouth twitched. “Mhmm. I did close the window overnight, to be fair. Nearly suffocated in my sleep, and still she got out.”

“Maybe you didn’t tighten the latch properly.”

“Maybe.” He glanced down at Violet, bringing a hand over her back. “Went ahead and opened it yourself, did you, then?”

She nestled her head into the crook of his arm. You looked down as a small smile found its way onto your lips.

“How’s your grandfather?” Yeonjun asked.

Your smile slipped.

For a moment, you watched his hand move along Violet’s back. There were white hairs clinging to his black shirt.

“He’s good,” you said finally. “Came to fix my washer.”

“Yeah? What’s wrong with it?”

“He thinks it was the gasket or the hose,” you said, the words no longer foreign. You suspected you’d acquire all the skills for a qualified plumber by living here. “He had to come and fix it because his granddaughter was too scared to go near it.”

Yeonjun snickered. “Is it working now?”

“Yeah.” You flicked a glance towards the bathroom. “Should be anyway.”

“The plumbing’s shit here.”

“It is, yeah.”

You turned back.

He was already looking at you.

“Uh—thanks again for the pie,” you said, glancing towards the kitchen. “It looks good.”

“S’nothing.” He continued to stroke Violet’s back. “Let me know if you like it. Think I overdid it with the sugar.”

You turned back to him. “I don’t mind sugar.”

“Yeah.” The corners of his lips lifted. “Me neither, actually.”

Another quiet moment passed.

You hardly noticed the way the two of you began to linger again.

Drawing in a breath, you forced your gaze past him, towards Mr Jung’s door in the corridor. “Right, then.”

“Right,” Yeonjun echoed. He adjusted his grip on Violet. “Thanks again for looking after her.”

“No problem.”

You watched him start down the stairs, Violet’s tail flicking from the cradle of his arms. Then you eased the door shut.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 23, 2026. 9:20 PM

The pie was excellent.

The last time you’d had peach cobbler, your grandmother had baked it for your grandfather’s birthday—years ago now. She only made it on special occasions, which was all the better, given her merciless standards: that’s too much sugar, why do peaches taste like that, I am never making this again.

She would have approved of this one.

You set the empty plate down on the floor by the sofa and pushed it away.

Grabbing your phone from the armrest, you sank back into the cushions. The flat was quiet, save for the distant hum of cars out on the street.

You hadn’t bought a TV yet, so your options for entertainment were limited: scrolling on your phone or watching the night sky through the dark window.

You glanced down at your phone.

There was another option. Yeonjun had asked whether you liked the pie.

You figured you could answer this much.

YOU [9:26 PM] your pie was great i’ll return the plate tomorrow

His reply came immediately.

YEONJUN [9:26 PM] don’t worry about it, i’m glad you liked it

That should have been the end of it.

Your screen lit up again less than a minute later.

YEONJUN [9:27 PM] never thought i’d hear you admit you enjoyed something i made though must’ve caught you on a good day

You smiled, then immediately chastised yourself and pressed your lips flat.

YOU [9:27 PM] you must have don’t get used to it

YEONJUN [9:28 PM] etching this into my memory as we speak

A familiar restlessness stirred in your stomach.

YOU [9:28 PM] better not

YEONJUN [9:28 PM] too late :)

You began to type, but paused after the first word, thumb rubbing the edge of your phone case.

You inhaled, staring at the screen, then exhaled.

Then you continued to type.

YOU [9:29 PM] still won’t listen to warnings i see

It was Yeonjun, this time, who started to type, then stopped.

For the second time that day, you found yourself hypnotised by the three dots pulsing on your screen.

YEONJUN [9:30 PM] still won’t but to be fair neither do you :)

A siren wailed somewhere a few streets over, shrill but too distant to really register. You leaned back against the sofa, the soft suede brushing your arms.

YOU [9:30 PM] never too late to start

He answered at once:

YEONJUN [9:30 PM] we were never great at starting things

You inhaled sharply, but none of the air made it to your lungs. Your fingers moved over the keyboard faster.

YOU [9:30 PM] even worse at ending them :)

The three dots blinked back, more persistent now, as though trying to match your pulse.

YEONJUN [9:31 PM] true that part’s shit i miss all the rest though

You were on your feet before you realised you were moving.

Your vision darkened for a moment. You braced a hand against the back of the sofa until the living room stopped swimming around you.

Your last text was more reflex than conscious thought.

YOU [9:33 PM] goodnight, yeonjun

You dropped your phone screen-down on the sofa before it could light up again.

Pointedly ignoring the plate you’d left on the floor, you returned to the kitchen to wipe down the counters for the night.

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thank you for reading!!♡♡

[taexual]

. . . d e l i r i u m | 1

i try my best to ignore what you’re saying, i’ve got your words written on my skin /// normandie, enough

pairing: yeonjun x fem!reader

summary: sometimes love and hate exist on opposite ends of the map. other times, on separate floors of the same building.

genre: ex!yeonjun / enemies to lovers au

warnings: slow burn, mutual pining, flirting and bickering (we’re sooooo back), strong language, some angst, kinda mean!reader but she obviously has her reasons

words: 8.8k

[ ! ] this is a sequel to equilibrium

masterlist

✦ • ─── AUGUST 15, 2026. 5:30 PM

It was a cloudy day, not uncommon for mid-August. Your grandfather used to say that clouds shielded you from the worst of the heat, but today they felt more like a lid, trapping the cold in. You wore three layers and a loose scarf, but the chill still crept in, nosing at your collarbones and pricking your wrists the entire walk home.

Shivering, you heaved the door of your building open.

“No, Grandad, the washing machine,” you said, shifting the phone to your other ear. “I haven’t got a dishwasher.”

“Right,” your grandfather replied, voice crackling faintly on the line. “So what’s the matter?”

The lobby was warm, dim, and smelled faintly of aged pipes. It always reminded you of your grandparents’ basement.

“It’s making this—I don’t know, this glugging sound when it drains,” you said. “And—”

Something heavy clattered overhead. You glanced up. Hurried footsteps followed several floors above, forcing the entire stairwell to creak.

Deciding to wait out the commotion, you stopped near the row of grey letterboxes.

“And there was a small puddle behind the washer when I checked later,” you went on, lowering your voice so it wouldn’t echo around the lobby. “Not sure if it’s really from that, because my sink’s been clogging, too, so—”

Your grandfather’s heavy sigh cut you off. You sucked your lips in.

“I told you, my child,” he said, “it’s an old building with terrible plumbing. I told you to find something better.”

You’d tried.

For an entire month, after you returned from New York, you’d walked through flats smelling of bleach, or with four layers of peeling wallpaper, or no electrical sockets—sometimes even no electricity. You learned, quickly enough, that ‘affordable’ was a euphemism for ‘probably shouldn’t be lived in.’

This building seemed to be the best there was. And it was charming, really, despite being so old. There was an air of elegance here: from the narrow, rounded stairwell to the high ceilings and tiny balconies that let the afternoon light cast a golden glow over your living room and kitchen.

Sure, the lift had trapped you on your very first day, and you’d spent a good hour staring at the blinking lights, convinced you’d die here. But you hadn’t! That had to count for something.

“It’s really not that bad,” you said, flipping open your letterbox. It was empty. “Just the washer’s acting up, really. And I didn’t overload it this time, I swear.”

Another dull thud landed somewhere above you, followed by a slow scrape of something heavy being dragged across the floor.

“Could be the hose came loose,” your grandfather said. You forced your attention back to the call. “Or the drain’s backing up. Did you check the hose at the back?”

The noises upstairs ceased.

Assuming that your neighbours had finally gone home, you began to climb up to the sixth floor.

“I mean, I looked at it,” you said, unzipping your jacket. “It’s, uh—it’s definitely there.”

Silence answered. You could picture your grandfather pinching the bridge of his nose, his eyes screwed shut.

“Did you try feeling it?” he asked.

“No,” you admitted. “I was scared it would fall apart if I touched it.”

“Mm. Any water near it now?”

“I’m not home yet.” Your breath began to shorten, the stairwell air warm and heavy with dust. “But this morning, there was that puddle. Not very big, but the last time I used the washer was a few nights ago, so I don’t—”

“Mhmm,” he cut in. “Could mean there’s a slow leak.”

You could tell from his voice that he’d entered his professional mode. He could repair anything: pipes, shelves, radiators, old bikes. Sometimes he even repaired things that weren’t broken yet, just in case they were thinking about it.

“Okay,” you said, dread seeping into your voice. You hadn’t met your downstairs neighbours yet; you would’ve preferred not to drown them.

“It shouldn’t be anything serious,” your grandfather added, sensing the direction your thoughts had taken.

“Right,” you said. “That’s usually what people say right before the whole building floods or—”

You stopped short in surprise.

The fifth-floor landing was buried in cardboard boxes, every wall lined with uneven towers. Some were excessively taped, others gaped open, revealing scraps of fabric or the edges of plates inside. The door to your right stood ajar.

Clearly, someone was moving in.

“Don’t worry,” your grandfather said. You heard him moving about on the other end; his glasses clicked as he set them down. “I’ll pop round next weekend.”

“No, Grandad. You don’t have to—”

His dismissive cough interrupted you.

“Nonsense.” Another cough followed, rougher this time. He’d been doing that more often lately, ever since his flower shop filled with autumn deliveries. “I want to see my little girl. And I’ve business in the city anyway, so don’t fuss. Try not to run the washer in the meantime, alright?”

Carefully side-stepping past the stacks, you clutched your phone tighter. The boxes smelled pleasantly of paper—old books, even—and reminded you of the days you’d spent at the library. Your shoulder clipped one by accident, and the entire tower wobbled.

Holding your breath, you reached out to stabilise the topmost box. It felt unreasonably heavy.

“I-I’ll try,” you said into the phone. “I’ve only got one pair of clean socks left, though.”

Your grandfather gave a low snort that broke into another cough. “Wear them mismatched. No one will notice.”

“Hmm.”

Another small box lay on its side at the foot of the stairs in front of you. Its contents had spilt across the landing: buttons, combs, a handful of empty plastic cases that shifted in the stairwell draught.

“You sure it isn’t anything serious?” you asked, nudging the box upright with your boot and crouching to gather what had scattered so it wasn’t in your way.

“Doesn’t sound like it, sweetheart,” your grandfather said. “Probably just the hose. Maybe we’ll need a new clamp, nothing big.”

Your attention wavered.

As you pushed the box, the loose bits shifted, revealing a patch of yellow beneath. You stared at it for a moment. Then, you pushed the clutter aside with the tips of your fingers.

A small plush giraffe lay at the bottom.

The fabric was worn, one of the ossicones slightly crooked. Despite the sad state of it, the beady eyes caught the light from the small stairwell window and looked almost alive.

You could not understand what you were looking at.

“Promise you won’t try to sort it yourself,” your grandfather continued, his voice indistinct now. “I’ll handle it when I get there. Alright?”

Your fingers lingered against the edge of the box.

Your mind flashed back to Madagascar—and to the twin toy, the hippo, that you kept in a similar box at the bottom of your wardrobe. A box that also held an old woollen scarf with golden initials stitched in the corner. You hadn’t opened it in months.

“I—mhmm,” you said, the sound automatic. “Yeah. I promise.”

You buried the giraffe back under the clutter.

It wasn’t anything. Just a toy from the zoo, the sort shops sold by the dozen. The sort every child had.

This had to be a young family moving in, then. That made sense. Lots of boxes.

“Uh—thanks, Grandad,” you said into the phone. “I’ll see you soon.”

“See you soon, sweetheart.”

You ended the call and slipped your phone into your jacket pocket. Steadying yourself with a hand against the wall, you sidestepped the boxes on the stairs. The labels caught your eye, scrawled in hurried, uneven handwriting: KITCHEN (probably), KITCHEN (definitely), and BEDROOM (I guess).

Your lips twitched.

Then you heard a soft, tentative meow.

Surprised, you turned your head. Between the stacks stood a white cat with black and brown patches speckled across its back and nose. Another darker splotch sat over one blue eye, drawing it into a permanent squint.

The little creature was sneaking out of the open flat, its tail high up like a question mark. It fixed its bright eyes on you and meowed again.

Your heart softened at once.

“Hello,” you said, stepping back on the landing and dropping into a squat. You held out your hand, palm open.

The cat strode forward. Its whiskers twitched as it inspected your fingers. Satisfied, it leaned in and pressed its fuzzy face into your palm, eyes narrowing in approval.

Your chest swelled with a disproportionate sense of accomplishment.

“Hi, baby,” you said. “Do you live here?”

The cat answered with another small meow and padded closer. You let your hand glide down the curve of its neck, fingers sinking into the warm fur.

“You’re very beautiful,” you said. It made a pleased sound and circled your legs. You chuckled under your breath. “Do your people know you’re out here on your own?”

The cat gave a questioning chirp. Your hand continued its idle path along its neck as your gaze drifted to the open flat. The doorway offered very little; just the shadows of a dim corridor, the windows inside obscured by a dark drape.

The cat meowed again, sharper this time, demanding your full attention.

You smiled and gave it one last slow stroke.

“I’d love to stay and chat,” you said, “but I’ve got to get home. My washer might be causing a flood as we speak.”

The cat blinked at you, a little offended. She’d let you pet her; surely, she’d earned a reward?

“I’ll have something sweet for you the next time I see you, yeah?” you said.

It meowed impatiently in response.

You chuckled again. “Oh, I’m sorry. But, see, I didn’t know you’d be here. I’ll be prepared next time.”

You straightened, casting a final glance at the open doorway. You considered knocking to inform them that their cat was here. Then reconsidered, once you remembered the box with the giraffe.

They probably knew the cat was here anyway.

You dropped your hands to your sides and took a step back. The cat slipped off your foot and made another slow circuit around your legs, deliberately brushing its tail against your jeans and leaving behind a scatter of white fur. Then, with an easy spring, it hopped onto one of the boxes.

“Bye, little one,” you said, glancing back as you stepped over another box. “Don’t go wandering off too far, okay?”

The cat raised a paw for a languid lick, but paused, suddenly, at the sound of your lock clicking upstairs, its little head tilting in curiosity.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 15, 2026. 6 PM

Thankfully, the puddle behind the washing machine had not reappeared. You mopped the floor again anyway, just in case, then crouched to unplug it. The standby light died immediately.

You stood still for a moment, listening, but nothing dripped. Good.

In your bedroom, the laundry basket sat full to the brim, clothes already spilling over its sides. In your attempts not to overload the washing machine, you’d only been able to wash a few shirts and the occasional pair of pants in one go. It barely made a difference.

You nudged the basket with your foot, trying to shove it back into the corner by the wardrobe. It refused to move.

You supposed you could’ve done your washing at Reina’s. She’d offered more than once, including at your late lunch today. But now that she lived with Soobin, turning up with a week’s worth of laundry felt too intrusive, even if neither of them would say so.

You’d manage.

You walked over to your desk. Books and papers covered every bit of it; you never seemed to keep it tidy. You lingered at the edge for a moment, your mind wandering.

You felt a wild instinct to reach for the old box inside your wardrobe and check the contents. Check if the hippo was still there. The scarf. Check if they’d changed in any way over the last—

No.

You wouldn’t check.

Clearing your throat, you started rearranging the books on your desk to fit your laptop.

Monday would be your first day back at university, starting doctoral seminars and working as a teaching assistant for Professor Lee. He’d already emailed you a reading list that, at first glance, felt like a joke. It was monstrous. You’d made it through half of it over the summer. You hoped to finish the other half tonight, so you could have the rest of the weekend off.

You did not finish the other half tonight.

You finished one book, your notes in the margins blurring as the hours passed. Your concentration diminished, too.

It was nearing eleven o’clock. Enough now.

You’d built a good routine in New York—after sleeping for three hours a night the first month—and you were determined to stick to it, even on Saturdays.

So, despite the August night pressing against your windows and tempting you toward the balcony for an evening sit, you began your evening routine: face cream, hand cream. Enough lip serum to feel indecent. Then, some light reading.

You settled into bed, propped up your pillows, and opened your current book—by a Norwegian author who could spend three pages describing the exact behaviour of a lawn sprinkler. You found you rather enjoyed it.

You’d just started Chapter Eleven when the first thump came from below.

It rose through the floorboards and sounded like a wardrobe or a hefty table being knocked over.

You stilled, listening.

Another thump followed, duller, but heavier. It could’ve been hammering, judging by the frustrated huff that came right after, but it sounded too uneven. The echo resembled something repeatedly falling or deliberately being dropped.

You blinked at your book and shuffled under the duvet to get more comfortable.

This had to be the new neighbours downstairs. You felt for them, just a little. Moving always came with a racket. Two months ago, you’d walked around, apologising for the noise, too.

Determined to ignore the next series of thumps, you turned the page in your book.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 16, 2026. 11 PM

The noises returned on Sunday.

You heard faint, intermittent knocks throughout the day, but they were easy to forget in daytime. Earpods helped. Professor Lee’s mind-numbing reading list did, too.

You hoped they would quiet down by the evening.

They did not.

In fact, as you settled into bed, the thumping increased. You were half-convinced this was deliberate—as if the neighbours had waited for you to get ready to sleep before bringing out the entire toolbox.

The thumps grew more insistent, too. Each strike landed louder, closer together, as though they were trying to tunnel through their ceiling and into your flat.

You sat in bed, staring at the spine of your book, and wondered why the rest of the building wasn’t reacting. The woman downstairs was certainly home; she rarely wasn’t. She’d welcomed you with a warm smile when you moved in, and then, upon seeing you a second time, commented on your footsteps on the stairs: Dear God, you would think you wanted to wake up the whole building. You weren’t particularly eager to see that warm smile again.

Surely she should have heard this.

You waited.

Ten more minutes stretched by. Then twenty.

The pounding grew more insistent, each blow sending a flat shudder up through the structure of the building and into your bedframe. Even your windows seemed to tremble.

You didn’t know what specific brand of idiots the new neighbours were. But, on the off chance that they ran a cult and hosted loud, sacrificial rituals, you decided not to go down and knock on their door this close to midnight.

You’d have to talk to them in the morning.

Exhaling, you set your book down and pulled out your earplugs from the drawer by the bed.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 17, 2026. 6:45 AM

You fell asleep to the thudding on Sunday night, and it woke you again on Monday morning. The earplugs had fallen out at some point while you slept, so now the sounds felt even more invasive. They seemed to clatter in your brain.

Groaning, you yanked your duvet off and swung your legs out of bed before you could think better of it.

It was time to meet the new neighbours.

You shrugged your hot pink robe over your pyjamas and slid your feet into your slippers. And, just to be safe, you grabbed your can of pepper spray from your handbag in the corridor.

Finally, keys in hand, you stepped out into the stairwell. The click of your lock was swallowed by another series of thuds. Now that your flat wasn’t muffling it, the noise hit with full ferocity. You felt it reverberate through your entire spine.

Irritated anew, you moved towards the stairs—then flinched, suddenly, when a door swung open behind you.

Your neighbour, Mr Jung, was squinting sheepishly into the gloom of the stairwell through the gap in his door. He was in his seventies and usually carried a sturdy umbrella with him, regardless of the weather. You were surprised he didn’t have one now; it was shaping up to be another cloudy day outside.

“Good morning,” you said. There was a breeze against your cheeks from the sudden draught.

“Good morning, dear,” Mr Jung replied, poking his head out and immediately pulling back once another thump followed. “Dreadful noise. Is it coming from downstairs?”

You glanced down through the small gap in the railing. “I think so. I was just about to check myself.”

“Oh. Good, good,” he said, keeping a tight grip on his door handle. He seemed a little frightened by the noise. “Perhaps something’s the matter. They’ve been at it all night.”

It hadn’t occurred to you that anything could be the matter; you’d just assumed the people downstairs were being right twats.

But perhaps they did need help. You were going to come over there and offer some. Grab that hammer they seemed to be using and try knocking them on the—

“I’m sure it’s nothing serious,” you said, a little less certain now. “Hopefully they’re just not thinking about the time.”

“Yes, of course,” Mr Jung replied, nodding and slowly closing the door. You could still catch his soft mumbling before the lock clicked, “bless you for checking, dear. Bless you for checking.”

Nodding awkwardly to yourself, you finally started down the stairs.

The fifth-floor landing had been cleared of the boxes; only scuffed arcs across the linoleum remained, leading straight to the door. You followed them, guided by the thin spill of light through the narrow windows.

You knocked.

The thudding inside answered you, sharp enough to jolt through your arm. You recoiled from the door.

Clearly, then, these people had set their minds on never sleeping and wrecking their entire flat. Perhaps you should have called the police instead.

Another series of thumps.

The walls vibrated around you.

There was no time to wait for the police.

Jaw tight, you knocked again, harder this time, putting your elbow into it and letting the sound thunder through the stairwell.

Still nothing.

The window glass to your left caught your reflection as you pulled back: your robe was uneven, hands balled into fists, hair dishevelled. Your feet felt cold inside the slippers.

You were convinced you were going to get a criminal record today.

You raised your fist again, prepared to knock a third time, to tear the door down if you had to—

The door opened.

The shadows in the stairwell shifted at the new source of light. You squinted, momentarily blinded.

A silhouette stood in the doorway, holding a rolling pin.

You would have recognised him in complete darkness.

In a massive crowd.

In a hazy, mid-morning dream.

Half-asleep and half-awake.

Yeonjun.

Your hand stilled mid-air. You forgot the noises altogether. Forgot the early hour and your cold feet.

He stood in front of you in an oversized white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, collar askew. Light from inside the flat framed him, catching on the rolling pin in his hand and turning it briefly golden. His black hair, longer than you remembered, fell in a frustrated heap over his forehead. There were beads of sweat on his temples.

For longer than was reasonable at this hour, the two of you simply stared at each other.

Then Yeonjun finally found his voice: “W-what are you doing here?”

It took you another moment to remember the noises. Your hand instinctively checked your robe pocket for the pepper spray. It was there. You briefly considered using it and bolting, but decided to be an adult.

“I came to—could you be quieter?” you said. “You—you were hammering.”

You gestured vaguely at his rolling pin, then frowned. You wondered whether it was the culprit for the noise or his weapon of choice in response to your aggressive knocking.

Deciding not to question it—there were, clearly, more pressing questions, including, but not limited to, what the fuck—you cleared your throat and looked back at his wide eyes.

“You do it at night, too,” you said.

Understanding flickered across Yeonjun’s face, followed quickly by something like embarrassment. He didn’t know what he’d thought had brought you here—fate, perhaps—but he hadn’t considered his rolling pin.

In retrospect, this probably also explained why his next-door neighbour glared at him when he ran into her yesterday morning.

“Oh, I was—I’m sorry,” he said, glancing at his hands. His lips twisted to a side as he spoke, bashful. “I was trying to get the window to stay open, it’s—it’s stuck. And then I was struggling with my—I didn’t realise it was so loud.” He blinked at you, swaying lightly in the doorway. “Why are you here? I—I mean, you live here? On your own?”

He did not like these questions.

In fact, he was realising he was terrible at questions. Perhaps he should’ve just stared at you for another minute; that might’ve expressed his thoughts better.

“I do,” you said, your expression shockingly blank. “On my own.”

“Oh. Well, uh—I also live here. On my own. Well, sort of.”

You continued to stare at each other.

Yeonjun was particularly interested in your robe. He couldn’t remember ever seeing you in something this bright. Your hands were clenched by your sides—this, he was more familiar with. There was a silver bracelet on your wrist, the small pendants catching the light from his flat.

You noticed his gaze wandering down your robe, but your eyes did not dare move below his shoulders. They caught on to everything at once: the glint of light in his eyes, his earrings (he’d got new ones, you noticed), the faint lines on his lips, dry at the edges, the movement of his throat when he swallowed.

You wondered what it meant, him sort of living here on his own. Perhaps he had a part-time roommate.

Then you understood what he meant.

A white cat with black and brown spots wriggled between his legs and padded forward. It came to rest on the threshold and looked up at you.

You watched its fur catch the light from the flat, each strand briefly outlined. Your thoughts scattered before they could settle into words.

“That’s your cat?” you tried.

“Violet,” Yeonjun said.

“Th—” You blinked up at him. “Violet.”

The name pulled you back at once: to the late nights, the cooking, and the stories about cows.

You didn’t know if he remembered, or if your Violet had anything to do with his. Your hands felt frozen regardless.

“Yeah,” he said, nudging the cat gently with the side of his foot. “Go on, Vi. Back inside. S’late.”

The cat, as most cats would, refused and stayed planted on the threshold, her tail curled around her paws. Her blue eyes flicked between the two of you with mild interest.

You were half-convinced you’d sleepwalked into this situation.

It seemed sensible to try to sleepwalk out of it.

“I’m going to go,” you said, taking a step back.

Yeonjun looked up, his eyes even wider now. “W-where?”

You lifted your chin. “Home.”

“Right.” He hesitated. “Where is home?”

“Uh—” You turned your head towards the stairs, then back to him. “Just upstairs.”

“Oh.”

Another quiet moment passed between you.

Violet broke it with a soft mewl as she stretched, her front paws reaching toward your slippers. Whatever interest she’d had in the situation was fading now that you were leaving.

“Try to keep it down, please,” you added. Your gaze remained unfocused. You wondered how your legs were meant to get you upstairs.

“I will, yeah,” Yeonjun said, his gaze fixed on your grip on the bannister. “I—I’m sorry.”

You nodded and climbed, slowly, up the steps. Your slippers brushed against the wood, too quiet to make any proper noise.

Yeonjun listened anyway and stayed on his doorstep until your lock clicked upstairs. Then he nudged Violet back inside and closed his own door.

Your flat was quiet.

The living room curtains stirred, irritated to be disturbed this early. The oven clock glowed from the kitchen. You couldn’t recognise the numbers.

For a minute, you stared at your floor tiles without really seeing them.

Then you went to get a glass.

Filled it with water from the tap.

Finished it all in one big gulp.

You rinsed the glass, set it back in the cupboard above the sink, and turned around to stare at your floor for another minute.

You realised you were not doing so well.

Mechanically, you started the coffee machine and pulled out your phone. You tapped open Reina’s contact, then hesitated.

This didn’t feel much like a text conversation, but calling felt too dramatic. Not to mention, Reina had the evening shift today; she wouldn’t have gone to sleep before 3 AM. You didn’t want to wake her.

You decided on a voice message.

You perched the phone on the kitchen counter next to the whirring coffee machine and pressed record.

“So,” you began, pacing the length of the flat, back and forth from the kitchen island to the sofa in the living room, “apparently, I’ve got new neighbours downstairs—and this will be a great story, by the way, so maybe sit down. So, the neighbours have been hammering something for two nights straight now, right? So I just went down to ask them to quiet down. In hindsight, I should’ve just called the police, but—anyway.”

Your hand sliced absently through the air, clipping the edge of your monstera by the window. One of its leaves trembled, offended.

“So, I went down,” you continued, a little short of breath, “and, despite the circumstances, I hoped it’d be a very apologetic young woman opening the door, explaining that her husband had no sense of time or shame. Then we would’ve laughed about useless men, maybe grabbed a coffee.” You scoffed, shaking your head at the floor. “Instead, Yeonjun opened the door. Yeah—no, I’ll repeat that in case you thought you misheard. Yeonjun.”

The coffee machine switched off behind you. The smell of warm milk wafted into the room.

You took a deep breath and tried to lower your shoulders. Relax your jaw.

“So he’s moving in downstairs, then,” you said, returning to the kitchen. “That’s fucking splendid. Even got a cat—Violet, by the way! That’s her name. Love everything about that.”

You reached for your mug and took a sip without thinking. It promptly scalded the roof of your mouth.

“Ah, shit—” You yanked the mug away and set it down, exhaling carefully through your mouth. “Fuck. Anyway. D-don’t know why he named her that. If he did.”

You leaned back against the island, its dark marble edge pressing into your lower back. Your mouth stung when you ran your tongue over the back of your teeth.

“Don’t think I can fully process this, to be honest,” you said. “It’s been so long. And it’s so—it’s insane. We graduated with him twice, and still, he’s here. Just—just won’t fucking leave. Maybe next time you come over, we should stage an exorcism just to be safe.”

You picked up the mug again, cautious now, and blew across the surface. The coffee rippled, then stilled.

“Anyway,” you said. “I’ll be off now. If Yeonjun shows up at my meeting, too, I’ll assume this is deliberate and react accordingly. Check police stations if I don’t text back. Love you. Bye.”

You ended the recording. It sent at once, a little tick popping up beneath it. For all its flaws, the building had excellent wi-fi.

You watched your reflection on the screen of your phone.

That fucking giraffe should’ve been a warning.

And your grandfather had been right, too. You should’ve looked for a better place.

Finally, you tucked your phone into the only pocket of your pyjama bottoms and carried your coffee to the bedroom, so you could drink it while you got ready.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 17, 2026. 11:35 AM

Reina’s reply came just as you were leaving Professor Lee’s office. Your head was still swimming with his instructions, half of them already slipping away. He spoke like he was being chased down a corridor with machine guns, and you only had one keyboard to keep up.

Ignoring the insistent buzzing of your phone, you drifted toward the staff room for another cup of coffee and a comfortable chair.

Thankfully, the room was empty. Sunlight poured in through the tall windows, settling across the dark panels on the walls—quite a lot like the ones at your old reading room at the library. You missed it sometimes.

You opened a cupboard and took out a mug with the university logo. The edge by the handle was chipped. You checked the water level in the coffee machine and turned it on.

At a table by the window, you finally unlocked your phone.

REINA [11:35 AM] BABE OH MY GOD SHIT THINK NARA CURSED YOU IN UNDERGRAD?? WHEN SHE SAID YOU TWO WERE MEANT TO BE????

Scoffing, you tapped the keyboard, but her messages kept arriving, tumbling over one another in capital letters and violent question marks.

After another minute, they slowed.

REINA [11:42 AM] ALSO??? he named his cat after your cow??? ok that’s kinda cute

You stared at the last messages for a second.

Then the coffee machine powered off, steam rising from your mug. The room began to smell of something sweet and slightly burnt.

Cute, then.

Why not.

You rose, collected your coffee, and slumped back at the table.

YOU [11:43 AM] i think insane is the word for it

Three dots popped up as Reina typed.

You turned to look out the window on your right. The Languages building stood where it always had, at the far end of campus, partially hidden by the library. The Social Sciences building was just across the street, a small wind turbine spinning on the roof. The paths and the trees and even the clouds were all the same.

Nothing had changed out there while you were gone. It was absurd to expect it to.

Your phone vibrated again, sharp against the tabletop.

REINA [11:44 AM] hate to mention this but you’re talking about him like he’s still our insufferable classmate…..

You cleared your throat in an old, defensive reflex.

YOU [11:44 AM] isn’t he?

Reina’s response came in a second:

REINA [11:44 AM] thought he fell into the ex-boyfriend category but you tell me

A defiant retort pricked at the back of your throat. You swallowed it down.

Over the past year, you’d worked hard to dismantle the bet in your mind. By now, those two weeks in grad school were just a sequence of blurry, meaningless fragments of your life. They caught up to you at night, but left you alone in the morning. You could almost live with them now.

Your thumbs hovered over the keyboard of your phone for a second, then moved.

YOU [11:46 AM] he’s my neighbour now, apparently

The sunlight had shifted, and the glare from the Social Sciences building windows flashed directly into your eyes. You lifted yourself from your chair and tugged the blinds down.

Your phone buzzed just as you sat back down.

REINA [11:47 AM] my offer to take him out back still stands

A small smile pulled at your lips.

You lifted your mug and took a careful sip. The coffee was too sweet here, always was. You might have to start bringing your own capsules.

YOU [11:47 AM] thinking about it

You set your phone down and pulled your laptop from your bag, along with one of the books you’d brought from home. A pen rolled out from between the pages. You snatched it just before it reached the edge of the table.

Your phone lit up again.

REINA [11:48 AM] or… maybe he can help you with your plumbing :)

You pressed your lips together.

YOU [11:48 AM] he can help by moving out :)

Not waiting for her response, you pushed your phone aside, opened your laptop, and found Professor Lee’s reading list. Then you picked up your book and began to read.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 17, 2026. 4 PM

You ran into Yeonjun again that afternoon.

He stood by the letterboxes in the lobby, a parcel tucked under one arm, his other hand struggling to get the key out of a stubborn lock. When the front door shut behind you, he looked up.

He wore a ragged leather jacket and black jeans, and looked like he was either coming back from somewhere or going to ruin your entire day. His hair was brushed back, save for one strand that threatened to fall across his forehead. You hoped it wouldn’t.

“Hi,” he said.

You slowed, but didn’t stop. “Hi.”

“I—um.” He finally got his key out. “I-I feel like I should clarify that I didn’t stalk you here. I didn’t even know you were back.”

You stopped in the centre of the lobby, maintaining a solid two metres of space between you. You were very aware of the weight of your jacket on your shoulders.

“But you knew I’d left?” you asked.

“Uh—well.” He dragged a hand through his hair. The strand fell into his eyes. You turned away at once. “Yeah. I’d heard.”

You forced yourself to nod. Suppose the two of you had enough friends in common for that to make sense.

“Right.” You shifted your weight. “Well, it—it’s fine. I didn’t think you stalked me.”

“Okay. Good,” he said, gaze darting restlessly at the floor, then to the stairs behind you. “‘Cause I didn’t. Honest. I’d spent ages looking for a place, but no one allowed pets, and I couldn’t just leave Violet. So I—”

“You don’t need to explain yourself to me.”

He closed his mouth.

His left wrist, never fully healed, throbbed again. He stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets, his shoulders drawing in slightly. The edge of his parcel bent under his arm.

“Right,” he said, nodding once. Then once more for good measure. “Yeah.”

You turned back to the stairs. “I, uh—I’ve got to get going.”

“Sure, yeah.” He nodded again. He seemed unable to stop. “Me too.”

You responded with a small dip of your head and made your way towards the stairwell before your pulse could gather any more misplaced enthusiasm.

Yeonjun moved at the same time.

You paused at the foot of the stairs.

The lift loomed in your peripheral vision. It was unreliable, no doubt about it, but it was efficient when it worked. You’d only have to endure thirty seconds with Yeonjun in the lift, maybe less. If he took the stairs with you, however, you’d be stuck with him for a good couple of minutes.

You weighed your options.

No, you decided. You couldn’t risk it with the lift. You had no interest in discovering what it’d do if given a second chance.

You started up the stairs.

Behind you, there was a small shuffle of movement.

“You’re not taking the lift?” Yeonjun called out.

The sound of his voice lifted the hairs at the back of your neck.

“No,” you replied, glancing back despite yourself.

He stood by the lift, looking at the stairs and evidently performing serious calculations in his head.

Then he looked up.

You turned away before your eyes could meet.

A second later, the lift doors buzzed open. By the time you reached the next landing, it had begun its rattling climb. You adjusted your speed so you wouldn’t run into Yeonjun just as he got off on the fifth floor.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 18, 2026. 4 PM

The next day, on a Tuesday as grey as the rest of the week, Yeonjun was in the lobby again.

This time, he was at the letterboxes with a handful of envelopes, turning them over, reading and re-reading the addresses. There was a chain on his jeans, with a vaguely heart-shaped pendant on one of the links. It reminded you of something you did not want to remember.

He glanced up when you walked in. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

There was nothing else to say. You hadn’t heard any noises from his flat last night or this morning.

You drifted towards the noticeboard, hoping he’d leave first, sparing you the gamble of choosing between the stairs and the lift again.

Your eyes skimmed the adverts: a concert next week (a band called Rated Riot in the photo), an Italian language tutor offering classes for kids aged five through sixteen (no photo), a missing dog (a dark brown dachshund named Alfred that didn’t look like he wanted much to be found), and a preposterous number of ‘flat wanted’ notices.

Yeonjun continued to rustle the envelopes behind you. There wasn’t much to read on them.

You scanned the adverts for the second time. Then the third.

Yeonjun was still here.

Perhaps, you thought, you’d go out searching for Alfred. Couldn’t have gone far, dachshunds did not have particularly long legs.

Fuck it.

Turning away, you headed for the stairs, bounding up two at a time.

A moment later, the lift doors opened behind you.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 19, 2026. 4 PM

On Wednesday, Yeonjun beat you to it.

He arrived at the building from the parking lot just as you crossed the street. He pushed the door open with his shoulder and waited. When you reached him, he gracefully stepped aside and nodded his head in acknowledgement.

You gave him a curt nod and swept past without breaking stride, headed straight for the stairwell. A strong whiff of your perfume—still floral—made him shut his eyes for a second. He did not stop at the letterboxes today.

You took the stairs.

He took the lift.

✦ • ─── AUGUST 20, 2026. 4 PM

By Thursday, you were convinced this was a plot.

You pushed through the front door at precisely four in the afternoon, as you always did. The old door hinges whined, the wood frame creaked along. The lobby smelled of the same dust and overheated pipes.

And Yeonjun stood by the letterboxes.

You halted just inside the doorway, a strange clenching in your chest. Then you let go of the door. It slammed shut with enough force to fling your hair across your face.

Yeonjun flinched. “Hi—”

“Do you honestly not have a better time to pick up your mail?”

“I—” He blinked, clearly caught off guard. “I honestly do not. Wh—?”

“Because I never run into any of my other neighbours.” Your hands lifted of their own accord, fingers twitching as you pointed at him. “Just you.”

“Do you, uh—do you want to run into your other neighbours?”

He still looked mildly startled, his lips rounded into an uncertain pout, and you had to begrudgingly admit to yourself that you might’ve overshot.

You’d only meant to ask him a question.

This had the feel of an ambush.

“I do, actually,” you said, steadying your voice. Your gaze lowered to the small wooden table by the noticeboard. “I haven’t met many neighbours. Would be good to know someone if I needed to borrow something. Sugar. Or eggs.”

“You could borrow some from me, then.”

Your eyes squeezed shut for a second. He’d taken you straight back to grad school, with just this one unthinking offer.

“No,” you said. “I couldn’t.”

“Why not?” he asked, as if this was a wholly reasonable question.

He’d driven you home before, he reasoned. Picked you up, too. Stayed over and stayed out with you. He could lend you some sugar now. A few eggs.

“Because I don’t want to.” You fixed your backpack. The strap dug into your collarbone. “Just as I don’t want to keep running into you here every single afternoon.”

He hummed, following after you as you crossed the lobby. His right hand fiddled with the zipper of his jacket, dragging it up a centimetre, then back down again.

“Would you rather run into me some other time?” he asked.

Your hand closed around the bannister. “I’d rather not run into you at all.”

Yeonjun, who had always considered red lights mere suggestions, found himself smiling.

“That’s a very rude way to treat your neighbours,” he said. “No wonder you haven’t met many. They’re probably avoiding you.”

Your grip tightened on the railing.

This was a challenge, no doubt. The Devil himself, tempting you to surrender to the old rhythm and see what happened.

You did not want to see what happened.

Drawing a breath, you started to climb. Your dark brown leather jacket rustled under your backpack.

Behind you, Yeonjun lingered for a moment, contemplating.

This hadn’t gone so bad, really.

He followed you into the stairwell.

You turned at the first landing. “What are you doing?”

“Hm?” He looked up, perfectly innocent if not for the faint lift at the corners of his lips. “Going home. Why?”

“You always take the lift.”

“Well,” he said, continuing up, towards you, “I quite like the stairs, too.”

You let out a short, reflexive laugh. “Do you?”

He reached the turn and joined you on the landing. One of his hands glided along the bannister, mirroring yours, but not drifting close enough to touch.

“I do,” he said. “Why?”

You didn’t answer.

You could tell he wanted you to admit you remembered the way he used to dawdle behind you, muttering curses and prayers as he dragged himself up to your flat.

You’d decided you wouldn’t remember. And you were quite good at doing what you decided.

Undeterred, Yeonjun followed you up the stairs. He was quite good at undoing everything you decided.

“Can I ask you something?” he said.

You fixed the backpack strap on your shoulder. “Sure. I love questions.”

He grinned at your dry tone. “Is the reason you don’t take the lift because you think you’ll get stuck?”

You shrugged, though he couldn’t fully see it from below. “Yes. Already did once.”

“Hmm.” He nodded, even though you couldn’t see him, either. “That sucks. M’not a big fan of this lift, either, actually.”

“Got stuck, too?”

“Not yet.” His footsteps softened and slowed. Without meaning to, you found yourself slowing, too. “But I’m sure it’ll come.”

You realised how easily his voice carried up the stairwell, and couldn’t help remembering all that he’d wanted you to remember, after all. There was no hitch in his breath where there used to be.

It unsettled you, this small change. This quiet proof that he’d continued to live his life without you.

You turned your gaze back ahead without replying.

The stairwell warmed up as you climbed. The air pressed in, thick, dusty, and eager to wrap around your neck.

You slipped off your backpack and shrugged out of your jacket.

Yeonjun looked up at that. “Hot?”

“Mm.” You draped the jacket over your arm, then fixed your backpack. “Never any air here.”

“Yeah?” he said, glancing around as if he could physically check his surroundings for air. “I’m sort of used to it. My flat doesn’t get much air, either.”

“Try a window.”

His grin returned. He wasn’t in control of it anymore.

“See, I did try,” he said. “But then I got scolded.”

You pursed your lips. “Shouldn’t have tried at midnight, then.”

“Righ—”

“There’s a latch at the bottom of the frame,” you added. “Have you tried that?”

He frowned. “At the—at the bottom of which frame?”

“The fire escape window,” you said. You’d struggled with it when you first moved in, too. “The rest don’t open.”

“Oh.” His eyebrows rose in recognition. He’d seen a latch, but left it alone. The last time he’d touched something at his flat that he wasn’t sure about, he couldn’t turn the water off in his bath for half an hour. “I haven’t tried that.”

“Well.” You shrugged. He saw it this time. “There you go.”

“Hmm.” He climbed a step closer, drawing the zipper of his jacket up again. “Probably would’ve found a better place if I’d known only one of the windows actually opens.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He released the zipper. “Hm?”

“Find a better place.”

He glanced back down at the steps, letting the sound of their creaking fill the stairwell for a moment.

“I mean, I tried,” he said. “Looked at everything in the city, probably. One place was decent, but smelled like a crime scene—just air freshener and bleach in every room. Maybe washing-up liquid, too—there was this lemon scent—anyway. There was also a flat with one electrical outlet for three rooms. Actually, that one wasn’t so bad. I nearly applied.”

Your fingers tightened into the edges of your jacket. You had a suspicion that the two of you had been circling the same flats.

“What stopped you?” you asked.

“Violet didn’t like it.”

You snorted.

“They didn’t like her, either, actually,” he continued. “Said they welcome pets, but implied we’d both get evicted if Violet left the flat at any point.”

“Hmm.” You shot him a glance as you rounded the stairwell. He was smiling. “So, you ended up here.”

“So I ended up here,” he echoed. “Where the windows are sealed shut. Feels a bit like a psych ward, if I’m honest.”

Your lips threatened to stretch further before you caught yourself and turned away.

You’d joked with him before about ending up in an institution. Felt like you had, after all, come to think of it.

“Least the flats aren’t that bad,” you said, deliberately not thinking of your washing machine or the odd, dark brown stain on the kitchen floor.

“Yeah,” Yeonjun agreed. “M’sure yours is better than mine, though, love.”

Your stomach lurched. Your jacket slipped from your grasp. You caught it before it could fall, reaching for the bannister with your other hand.

“Don’t call me that.”

Yeonjun looked up, surprised. He probably shouldn’t have been; you’d always drawn your boundaries cleanly enough. He supposed he hadn’t expected one here.

“You mind?” he asked.

“I do,” you said.

He tapped the railing with his index and middle fingers. “What should I call you, then?”

“Don’t call me anything.”

His lips twitched. He tried to fight it, but lost to the old habits anyway.

“Alright, Don’t Call Me Anything,” he said. “S’got a nice ring to it, too.”

You groaned and immediately regretted it. His smile widened at the sound, encouraged.

You should have expected it. He’d been like this for as long as you’ve known him.

Hi, I’m Yeonjun.

Hi. I’m actually waiting for someone here.

That’s an unusual name, Actually Waiting For Someone Here. Got any nicknames?

For years, following that first meeting on the grey sofa in the university basement, Reina had asked you why you kept rising to his taunts. Why you granted him the satisfaction.

Being on a different continent made it easy to believe that you’d outgrown that. That you didn’t care to match him word for word anymore.

You were surprised to discover you still cared.

“I thought,” you said, turning back to the stairs, “the deal was we wouldn’t speak again if I won the bet.”

Behind you, Yeonjun stalled for half a step.

He realised he’d classified the bet as something imaginary in his head. A dream he’d had, perhaps.

“That,” he said, quieter now, “was a long time ago.”

“Didn’t realise there was an expiration date on that.”

Your footsteps rang louder now, the sound folding back on itself in the narrow stairwell.

“There wasn’t,” he said, more cautious. “Guess I didn’t think you’d still hold me to it.”

“Right.” You hummed. “Why would you?”

He didn’t have much to say to that.

You were relieved to return to the heavy, uncomfortable silence. You preferred it significantly to heavy, uncomfortable conversation.

Wordlessly, you passed his flat on the fifth floor and continued up. You heard his lock click behind you just as you slipped your hand into your pocket for your own keys.

“Vi—!”

The call cracked up the stairwell. A flash of white crossed your peripheral vision and landed neatly by your feet, just outside your flat.

Violet.

She looked up at you, her blue eyes bright and expectant, and meowed. She was asking for your opinion on what she’d just done (good?) and wondering about the sweets you’d promised her a few days ago (where?).

“Hi,” you said, the word softening on its way out.

You crouched and offered her your hand. The cat leaned in, her nose damp against your skin, and pressed her face into your palm.

“You enjoy running away from home, don’t you?” you murmured, scratching under her chin.

She answered by nuzzling closer. Her fur felt absurdly soft beneath your fingers, her whiskers stiff as plastic against your thumb.

Footsteps approached.

You didn’t look up.

Yeonjun halted in the stairwell. He’d noticed the invisible barrier you kept around yourself and didn’t dare cross it.

Violet, for her part, had no such reservations. She nudged your hand, guiding it down the length of her spine.

Smiling, you followed her cue and scratched along the curve of her back.

“Uh—I’m sorry about her,” Yeonjun said. “She’s got a mind of her own. She and I will have a word about that later.”

You glanced at him briefly, then returned your attention to the cat. She purred louder, unimpressed by the threat in his voice. Her tail curled around your knees.

“She’s fine,” you said. “Keeps an eye on things.”

Yeonjun watched as Violet settled fully under your palm and fixed him with a smug stare. He scoffed under his breath.

“S’enough,” he said, “don’t you think, Vi?”

The cat meowed and licked her nose. For a second, Yeonjun thought she was sticking her tongue out at him, the little brat.

“Come on,” he coaxed. “Let’s go home.”

Violet lifted her head to glance up at you, seemingly weighing her options. You drew your hand back, almost reluctantly.

She lingered for another moment, meowed thoughtfully, then stepped down towards Yeonjun, her paws quiet against the floor.

“Did you name her?” you heard yourself ask as you straightened. Your backpack threw your balance off a little.

Yeonjun didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped to the cat as she wound around his ankles, tail brushing his calves.

“No,” he said finally. “Someone at the shelter did. I went in looking to adopt, and this one just walked up and sat on my lap, like she was the one adopting me. I asked the woman there what her name was. She said Violet.”

Violet flicked him a look at the mention of her name.

“It, uh—” Yeonjun glanced back at you. “It felt like a sign. So I took her home.”

Your fingers tightened around your keys, their edges digging into your palm. “What sign?”

The answer to the question hung in the air.

Yeonjun could tell from the tight set of your shoulders that you did not want him to admit he remembered your cow.

“You know what sign,” he said.

You lowered your gaze to Violet before his words could nudge something they shouldn’t have even touched.

The cat sat by his feet and watched you.

“Well.” You pulled the jacket off your arm and gripped it by the collar. “She’s lovely.”

Yeonjun noticed the soft way you spoke about her. He moved before he could think about it and lifted Violet into his arms—to prolong the conversation for a minute more.

Violet didn’t mind being used for this purpose and folded into him without protest.

“Yeah, she’s great,” he said, scratching behind her ear. She gave a satisfied rumble. “Bites sometimes, though. And she’s a bit mean.” His eyes flicked to you for a second, a smile playing at the edges of his lips. “Reminds me a lot of someone.”

Your eyebrows lifted before you could stop them, eyes narrowing at the glint in his gaze.

“Mm.” Your tongue traced your lower lip. “Going to use her to prove a point and return her to the shelter after two weeks, then, yeah?”

The smile on his face faltered—for just a second. He smoothed over it quickly, but the glint in his eyes was gone.

“No,” he said, dropping his gaze to the stairs. “I know better now.”

You swallowed and reached for the handle of your door. The metal was cold under your palm.

“Right,” you said. “Well. Good luck with her.”

Yeonjun adjusted his grip on Violet. Understanding the conversation had ended, he nodded and turned back towards the stairs. The cat draped a paw over his arm, stretching towards the railing, her tail flicking lazily against his jacket.

You realised you were watching them leave and looked away. Pushing the key into the lock, you paused again.

“And, um,” you called out, “try not to linger in the lobby, would you?”

Yeonjun froze mid-step and looked at you over his shoulder. Your eyes locked for two long seconds.

Then he grinned, light and easy again, and continued down.

You knew he would linger.

prequel ○ next

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thank you for reading!!♡♡

[taexual]

. . . e q u i l i b r i u m | 21

maybe this time love means letting go /// miguel, always time

pairing: yeonjun x fem!reader

summary: it takes a long time to fully explore the thin line between love and hate. but seven minutes is a good start.

genre: academic rival!yeonjun / college au / enemies to lovers au / fake dating au

warnings: angst

words: 11.5k

masterlist / read from the beginning

✦ • ─── MARCH 10, 2025. 10 AM (DAY 13)

The sky hung low and colourless that Monday morning, like a lid clamped down over the city. A thin drizzle stitched against your bedroom window, leaving silver seams that caught the weak light of your desk lamp.

After a largely sleepless night on Yeonjun’s sofa and a questionable drive home, you’d promised yourself an hour’s nap. Your elective today had been cancelled after the professor got sick, so you figured you could spare sixty minutes with your eyes shut before your only remaining seminar of the day. Your bed waited, sheets rumpled and pleasantly warm.

Reina did not agree with this plan.

Every time she crossed the corridor while getting ready, she deliberately paused in your doorway.

When your face surfaced from the folds of your duvet, she bared her teeth. “Well?”

You burrowed deeper into the covers.

She breezed into your room.

“I know you’re awake,” she sang. “Tell me what I’ve missed.”

Groaning, you dragged yourself upright. Reina took that as consent and clambered onto the mattress, her knees digging into your thigh.

Ever since she’d returned from her hometown the previous night and discovered your empty bed, she’d been incandescent with curiosity. And when Soobin came back shortly after, announcing—with a faint flush in his cheeks—that you and Yeonjun were at his house, her curiosity turned into proper sport. Now she was in the first row and demanded fireworks by intermission.

You refused to give her a show.

Pointedly ignoring her excitement, you recapped the weekend in clipped bullet points: a meal with Yeonjun’s parents, then the funeral for his Nissan. Not much else.

Reina declared that you were recounting it like items on a receipt and shook her head, unimpressed.

Instead of interrogating you further, however, she filled in every gap herself, tweaking her theories based on how heavily you sighed. Much to her growing satisfaction, you sighed very heavily.

When you escaped to the bathroom, she was hot on your heels.

“Think it’s clear,” she declared while you reached for your toothbrush, “you are obsessed with each other.”

“It’s just one weekend,” you replied, toothpaste frothing at your lips.

“Technically, it’s your second one,” she said, hopping up onto the counter. Her slippers knocked softly against the door. “And I bet next weekend, you’ll already have a shared list of groceries. Milk, eggs, toilet pap—”

“Rei.”

She grinned. “You’re glowing, have I mentioned?”

You switched the toothbrush to the other side. “S’the lighting.”

She leaned forward and covered the bulb above the mirror with her hand, throwing half your face into shadow.

“Mm.” Her eyes sparkled. “Still glowing.”

You laughed despite yourself, bent to spit, then straightened. Reina bumped her shoulder into yours. You retaliated by nudging her hip, enough to make her wobble on the counter.

She yelped, laughing as she caught your sleeve to steady herself.

“For the record,” she said, bracing a hand behind her so you wouldn’t both topple into the shower cabin, “I support this development between you. Just one thing, if I may?”

You sighed. “You may.”

“I believe I did very much tell you so.”

You clicked your tongue, and, for a few bright minutes, the flat floated with her laughter.

Soon, infected with her energy, you started to feel giddy, too—childishly so. Like a little kid trying not to laugh in the middle of a very serious lesson. You didn’t mind when you caught your reflection and noticed the smudged mascara on the corners of your eyes.

Then Reina reached for her phone to check the time and gasped.

You looked up from the sink. “What?”

She turned her screen towards you. There were five messages from Soobin stacked on top of each other, warning her of his upcoming demise from the cold outside.

“He’s been waiting for ten minutes,” she said, jumping off the counter. “Says he’s writing his will.”

You snorted. “He couldn’t come up?”

“We sort of agreed to meet downstairs,” she admitted, crossing the bathroom. “But then I got distracted by you and your boyfriend, so…”

She trailed off, casting one last meaningful look at you.

You shook your head, lips twitching. “Go. Don’t make him suffer.”

She gave you a hurried hug, then headed down the corridor to grab her bag and find her shoes. A minute later, the front door slammed shut.

Silence unfurled around you, interrupted only by the gentle rush of water as you washed your hands under the tap.

You glanced at your own phone.

YEONJUN [11:29 AM] can we meet before class? i need to talk to you

The smile on your lips waned.

You’d noted the message when it came, but Reina had been mid-cross-examination, so you didn’t dare to pick your phone up.

Now you hovered over the keyboard, tempted to say something flippant (are we bringing knives to this talk, or why are you so ominous). You swallowed it back.

YOU [12:07 PM] sure, omw now

This weekend had shifted something fundamental between you and Yeonjun. And with the bet ending tomorrow, it was relatively obvious what he’d want to talk about.

The inevitable now what.

The awkward so what are we.

That would have made sense.

But, alone under the bathroom lights, you saw the unease in your reflection: shoulders pulled in, a subtle tremour along your jaw. There was a taste of mint and something metallic in your mouth.

You were thinking about the drive home this morning.

Yeonjun had insisted on coming with you. He’d buckled himself into the passenger seat of Reina’s Honda, commented that it smelled very strongly of citrus, and hadn’t said anything else.

You didn’t have to come all this way, you had teased, pulling out into early morning traffic. I had the car.

He had looked at the windscreen and shrugged.

How’s your wrist? you’d asked.

Fine.

You sure?

Yeah.

You’d waited, hoping he’d hear his short, terse responses and offer just a sliver more. He hadn’t.

You alright? you’d tried again.

He’d glanced down at his brace and tightened it until his hand paled. Just tired, I guess.

Something brittle had threaded his voice. You felt it and pulled back, pride sealing your mouth before you could embarrass yourself by asking again.

Later, after parking down the street, you’d stood with him for ten minutes outside your building while he waited for his taxi. He’d had his hands in his pockets. In all that time, he hadn’t looked at you once.

Now the memory clung to you, unpleasant and persistent, as you locked the flat and stepped into the stairwell.

Maybe, you thought, it meant nothing. He might’ve really been tired.

Outside, the drizzle thickened into a steady downpour. It dampened your coat and seeped through the seams. Your umbrella snapped open with a resentful crack, warning you it was nearing retirement. The street was empty of colour, even the car headlights were blurred into pale smudges.

The closer you drew to campus, the thicker the scent of coffee became. The Social Sciences building loomed on the edge, its red bricks darkened by rain so much that they looked charred.

Yeonjun was standing at the edge of the parking lot.

You saw him before he saw you.

He stood too straight, spine locked, shoulders squared as though he expected something to hit him and had decided, stubbornly, not to budge when it did. Rain gathered along the seams of his black leather jacket, turning it glossy. He held three bouquets of freesias, their pale purple blossoms absurdly bright.

“Hi,” you said, stepping off the kerb.

He turned.

Up close, he looked worse than he had this morning.

Shadows pooled under his eyes. The bruises from the crash stood out, livid against his pale skin, deepening his cheekbones to a painful violet. Rain had plastered his hair into damp strands across his forehead.

“Hi,” he replied.

“You okay?” You angled the umbrella to cover him. “Sleep at all?”

He drew in a shuddering breath. “Uh, a bit.”

“But not much?”

“No.” He cleared his throat. “Not really.”

You readjusted the strap of your backpack, and your grip on the umbrella faltered. It tipped, and the corner tapped him on the head. He didn’t flinch.

“Sorry,” you muttered, righting it.

“S’fine.”

His eyes hovered somewhere near your collarbone. You weren’t wearing a scarf.

He dropped his stare to the wet pavement and inhaled.

He’d spent most of the morning getting you flowers and staring at them on his kitchen island with a bottle of wine from the fridge. It didn’t count as day drinking, he’d decided, if he’d never gone to bed. His mouth still tasted sour, his limbs oddly distant. More than anything, he wanted to cease for a minute. Just not be.

“This, um—” His voice faltered. He held out the freesias. “For you.”

Sighing, you wedged the umbrella between your cheek and shoulder and accepted the bouquets. The stems were cool, damp, and slightly sticky against your palm.

“Why three?” you asked.

Technically, he owed you two: one for yesterday, one for today.

“It’s in advance.” His hand lifted to the back of his head, fingers pressing into his hair. “And it’s an apology.”

You were breathing in the soft fragrance when the word registered.

“Hm?” You looked up. “For what?”

His throat moved as he swallowed.

“It’s over,” he said. The rain hushed his words, but didn’t soften them. “The bet. You’ve won.”

You stared at him.

“I’ll leave the workshop,” he went on, his tone eerily even as though he was reciting a paragraph from a book. “We won’t talk again. It—that’s it. You’ve won.”

The parking lot seemed to shrink. White lines pressed at the edges of your vision.

Your fingers tightened around the bouquets. One freesia bent under the strain, and the stem snapped.

“What,” you said slowly, “do you mean?”

Yeonjun ran his tongue over his lips. They were as dry as the inside of his mouth.

“I said I’d prove you wrong about me,” he said. “And I’ve failed.”

Heat rushed up your neck.

You briefly questioned whether you’d imagined everything that had happened yesterday: from the A&E to his bathroom, his bedroom, his sofa.

“Mhmm.” The freesias rustled as you gathered them into one hand, gripping the umbrella with the other. Your ears burned. “So you think I don’t want you, then?”

A car rolled into the parking lot behind you, tyres hissing on wet asphalt. Instinctively, Yeonjun reached for you, hands lifted to guide you out of its path.

He stopped himself.

You saw the aborted movement. Saw the way his fingers curled inward instead.

The restraint hit like a punch to the gut.

“Wanting,” he said at last, drawing in a breath that scraped his lungs raw, “is not what love is.”

Recognition narrowed your gaze and tightened your throat.

You’d said this to him once, outside your flat, during your long, circular discussion about the purpose of the bet. About what love meant.

You’d waited for him to end the bet then.

But not like this.

Another car cut through the lot, spraying a fan of dirty water that stopped just short of your trainers.

Yeonjun flinched. “Could you move away from the—”

“I don’t get it,” you cut in, your pulse throbbing in your gums with every word. “What do you want me to say, then? Want me to tell you I’m in love with you?”

His chest seized. “I d—”

“I thought—you made it seem like this wasn’t a bet anymore.”

A frigid breeze swept across the parking lot, needling through your coat and whipping rain against your calves. The umbrella shuddered, dripping water from the rim. The paper around the flowers had gone limp and translucent.

Yeonjun was wondering if this was the last rain he’d ever get into with you.

“I know,” he said. His hands hovered awkwardly at his sides.

“So it was just that, then?” you asked. Your voice had gone strangely calm. “A point to prove?”

He shook his head once, quick. “I—look, I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For everything.” His gaze tracked the ripples spreading through a puddle at his boots. “Mostly for this.”

“What is this, Jun?” Your voice cracked on his name; it almost sounded pleading. You hated that it did.

“It—” He inhaled and forced himself to look up, but only managed half a glance at you before flinching away. “It’s over.”

The words propelled him.

Before he could reconsider, before you could say something that would pin him in place, he ducked out from under your umbrella and stepped past you.

The rain lashed down on him immediately, darkening his jacket, soaking his hair. For a heartbeat, you braced yourself, expecting him to brush against your arm. To hesitate. To stop.

He didn’t.

His boots skidded on the slick asphalt as he headed for his Mercedes. His movements were hurried, graceless, almost desperate. He was fleeing.

“You’re actually serious?” you called after him.

The rain drowned the question. He didn’t turn.

His fingers fumbled with the door handle. The brace on his wrist forced his hand into an awkward angle, grip compromised, knuckles pale with effort. He wasn’t supposed to be driving yet.

He slipped inside anyway.

You stepped forward without fully deciding to. Puddles swallowed the hems of your jeans, icy water seeping through your socks. The umbrella sagged against your shoulder. Rain found the gap at your collar and slid down your spine.

“So that’s it?” you demanded as his engine roared to life, too loud in the quiet parking lot. “We’re just not going to talk anymore?”

He didn’t answer.

For a wild second, you considered chucking the freesias under his tyres. Letting the petals burst purple beneath the wheels. Forcing him to get out and talk to you.

Inside the car, Yeonjun sat rigid, fingers locked around the steering wheel. The engine vibrated through him, a mechanical pulse that matched the frantic rhythm in his chest.

He could’ve driven off; you weren’t blocking him. There was space.

He didn’t move.

Through the rain-streaked windscreen, he felt the weight of your gaze, felt it land like a hand between his shoulder blades. Like your touch after he’d wrapped his Nissan around the oak.

Fuck.

You didn’t move, either.

Yeonjun knew you wouldn’t beg. Wouldn’t chase him down the street, wouldn’t call him a coward, wouldn’t demand explanations. Partly out of pride, yes, but more than that, self-respect. You shouldn’t have had to ask for what he should’ve given freely.

He didn’t deserve you asking anyway.

And he had nothing to give.

Finally, almost involuntarily, he shifted into reverse. The car jolted slightly, then smoothed out. The indicator blinked, absurdly cheerful.

You watched the car retreat, tyres slicing through puddles. It turned the corner and disappeared.

Your coat clung heavily to your shoulders, water dripping from your sleeves. The freesias shook in your hands.

You inhaled. The air hurt.

Then you turned and went to class.

✦ • ─── MARCH 10, 2025. 1 PM

Professor Myers’ auditorium was very warm. One window at the back had been cracked open, allowing in a reluctant draught that did nothing but rearrange the dust. The room smelled faintly of rain and old carpet.

Ten of your classmates sat around the seminar table, discussing news cycles. Someone clicked their pen with an arrhythmic insistence.

Click.

Pause.

Click-click.

Pause.

Click.

Your nerves latched onto the sound immediately. Your pulse matched with it, thudding in your temples, your wrists, the soft hollow at the base of your throat.

You hadn’t done the reading last night.

You’d been busy.

The thought promptly reignited your irritation with Yeonjun. You pressed your lips together and tried to focus on the PDF on your laptop screen in front of you.

The institution-based media of mass communication is no longer—

You scrolled.

The virality of the content in the observed period—

You scrolled.

Nothing assembled into coherence.

The pen clicked again. You had to resist the urge to lean across the table and snap it in two.

The discussion around you fell into a hush. Professor Myers’ gaze drifted over the table. She paused on you.

Your stomach dropped.

You’d always been prepared. Always had a sentence ready, something brief but sufficient. Now your mind was empty.

The professor watched you for a second. Then she moved on.

Relief came, but it wasn’t satisfying. Your pulse did not slow.

You shifted in your seat. The freesias rustled on the floor beside your chair, their wrapping wrinkled and damp. A few petals had already fallen onto the scuffed linoleum. Reina, seated to your left, glanced down at them. The small smile she wore felt like a relic from a different life.

When the seminar finally ended, the pen-clicker left first, abandoning the offending object on the table. You shot it a withering look as you pushed back your chair and slipped your laptop into your backpack.

Professor Myers called your name.

You looked up, startled.

She stood at the front, papers gathered in her hands. “A moment, please?”

Your stomach lurched with an unsettling sense of déjà vu.

You nodded.

At the doorway, Reina lingered just long enough to catch your eye. She mouthed I’ll see you later?, her brows raised in silent question. You managed a small nod. Nodding back, she disappeared into the corridor.

The auditorium felt larger now that it was empty, but no less stifling. Someone had dropped a tissue; it lay crumpled at the leg of the table.

You slung your backpack over your shoulder and collected the freesias. The stems had softened, bending slightly under their own weight.

You checked your phone on the way to the professor’s desk.

No new messages or missed calls.

Alright, then.

“So,” Professor Myers said, and paused for a long moment.

She sat behind her mahogany desk, arranging and rearranging a stack of papers that did not appear to require it. Her email was open on her desktop.

“There’ll be some changes to the workshop,” she said at last. “Yeonjun stopped by before the seminar.”

She made no comment about his absence at said seminar. You swallowed every tart reply that rose to your tongue.

“Yes,” you said. “He mentioned something.”

The professor hummed. “Do you think you’ll be alright continuing on your own?”

For a moment, you were acutely aware of your posture, the damp denim at your ankles, the awkward grip you had on the flowers.

You didn’t know if you would be alright continuing on your own.

“Yes,” you said anyway. Your voice sounded distant, as though you were borrowing it from someone else. “Of course. I’ve just been following the study plan.”

“Right, right.” She lifted the same stack of papers, tapped them into alignment, and set them back down. “To be honest, I don’t quite understand his reasoning. He made a very compelling case to co-host. It seemed important to him.” She pushed her glasses up her nose. “I can’t see why he’d suddenly withdraw. He—he did look tired, I suppose.”

She was subtly asking you if something had happened to him, you surmised. Perhaps some dramatic, sudden disease that had eaten away at his brain.

You were wondering the same thing.

“Yeah,” you said. “I don’t understand it either, Professor.”

She exhaled. “Well. I told him to formalise the withdrawal with the Administration himself. Hand back his staff badge, all that fun stuff. I assume he’ll sort that today, so he likely won’t join you tomorrow.”

“Right.”

Distracted, you glanced over to the clock above the door.

It was 2:45 PM.

The administrative hours began at three.

You could still catch him, if you wanted to.

You didn’t know if you wanted to.

“I was a bit curt with him,” the professor admitted, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “I could’ve handled the paperwork for him. But I admit, I felt rather blindsided.”

Blindsided was a good word.

It nearly made you laugh.

“It’s a busy time,” you said, nodding towards her stack of papers. Someone’s midterms, you guessed from the student ID numbers at the top. “I’m sure he’ll manage himself.”

The professor studied you for a moment, more closely. Inevitably, her gaze slid to the bedraggled flowers in your hands.

At last, she leaned back in her chair, fatigue setting into her shoulders. Whatever rumours she’d overheard, whatever conclusions she might’ve privately drawn, she set them aside. With spring break starting next week, she had better uses for her energy.

“Would you mind stopping by tomorrow after the workshop?” she asked. “Any time before five. I’d like to hear how it went, in case we need to make adjustments.”

You assumed she meant finding you a new co-host.

You’d had quite enough of those.

“Of course,” you said. “Although I’m sure it’ll be fine. It’s a good class. Very motivated.”

That was a lie, of course.

The students weren’t motivated so much as deeply aware of their credit requirements. But Professor Myers looked too weary to interrogate your claim.

“That’s good,” she said. “I’ve no doubt you’ll manage it.”

You produced a smile that finally allowed her to dismiss you.

Fixing your backpack, you turned a little too quickly and caught the corner of her desk with the bouquets. More petals fell, bright against the dark wood. You didn’t stoop to gather them.

The corridor outside was noticeably cooler. You stopped by the window at the far end and leaned your hip against the windowsill.

You needed a moment.

The glass of the window was faintly fogged. Outside, students crossed the quad, their umbrellas tilting every which way with the wind. You slipped your hand into your coat pocket and found your phone.

Then, movement by the staircase caught your eye.

Reina and Soobin were approaching with identical expressions of cautious concern. They stopped on either side of you, unintentionally blocking every exit.

“Everything okay?” Reina asked, chin tilting toward the auditorium behind you.

You released your phone and pulled your hand out of your pocket.

“Yeah,” you said. “Just workshop stuff.”

Soobin hovered to your right, framed by the weak afternoon light.

He kept glancing at Reina as though waiting for her permission to speak. She looked at him and nodded.

“Um,” he started, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeonjun just texted me. Said he’s not going to be home the rest of the week. Have you two got plans? Because I don’t mind you staying at the house, I can just—you know.”

You lifted your head slowly.

Yeonjun wasn’t just leaving the workshop, then. He was leaving.

You couldn’t understand.

If this was about pride—what more did he want from you, your heart clearly wasn’t yours anymore—then yours had taken the bigger hit. You were the one standing in the parking lot, trying to process the end of something that had never even officially started. With three fucking bouquets of freesias.

“We haven’t got plans,” you told Soobin, “I don’t know anything about that.”

Reina’s eyes narrowed slightly. “S’he coming with you to the library?”

“No.”

Soobin edged half a step back, closer to Reina. They exchanged a look over your shoulder, brief but loaded.

“Did something happen?” he ventured. His eyes dipped to the freesias.

You exhaled and set the bouquets on the windowsill. One stem rolled lazily before settling against the damp paper. Then you hoisted yourself up beside them, palms braced against the sill. The glass pressed cool against your spine.

Yeonjun was probably at Administration by now.

“Nothing happened,” you said. “I won the bet.”

Soobin’s face lost colour in increments. Even his black turtleneck looked a shade lighter.

Reina blinked once. Twice. Then closed her eyes and frowned.

Their surprise steadied you. If they were this bewildered, then you weren’t losing your mind.

“What does that mean?” Reina asked.

You shrugged. “He said I’ve won. So he’s left the workshop. And we’re not speaking anymore.”

“Wait,” Soobin said. His tongue felt too big for his mouth all of a sudden. “So he just—and you—h-how—wh—”

Reina placed a hand on his forearm, squeezing briefly in a quiet command to stop, please.

She turned back to you. “Start at the part that makes sense, babe.”

You stared at the plant slumped in the corner of the windowsill. Its leaves were yellowing at the edges.

“Don’t know where that is,” you said. “He texted me this morning, said he needed to talk. So we talked. He said the bet was over.”

You lifted one shoulder in a shrug. Reina released a breath that sounded like it’d been trapped inside her lungs for days.

“It’s really not much of a plot twist when you look at it like that,” you added, dry. “We agreed on two weeks. Two weeks are over. Apparently, I won.”

Your gaze drifted back to the freesias beside you. Their purple blossoms had already started to bleach, as though reconsidering their earlier optimism.

For one reckless second, you imagined scooping them up and hurling them out of the window. Watching them arc against the low clouds and scatter across the quad like fucked up confetti.

The corridor was quiet.

Reina watched you without blinking, her hands clenched at her sides. She had a meeting with her thesis advisor in an hour. Now she was calculating whether she could squeeze in assault and battery beforehand. Perhaps just battery.

“Has he hit his head very hard at some point yesterday?” she asked, her tone honed to a fine point. “This is clearly not a fucking bet.”

The ferocity in her expression was familiar. Reina’s protectiveness had always bordered on criminal.

Once, years ago, during a night out in a basement club, some random bloke had asked for your number at the bar. You’d given it; he was very cute. Ten minutes later, Reina spotted him in a corner, devouring another girl with alarming enthusiasm.

She hadn’t stopped to think for one second.

She’d marched across the club, seized him by the collar—how she managed it, given he was twice her size, remained one of life’s enduring mysteries—and dragged him into the men’s room. Afterwards, she’d wedged a decorative plant against the door and left him there to reflect on his life.

He’d emerged twenty minutes later, looking very sober, and promptly left the club.

You were briefly tempted to unleash Reina on Yeonjun.

You resisted.

“Rei—”

“Hang on,” Soobin interjected, pressing a hand to his forehead as if his thoughts were threatening to spill out. “She’s right. He—I talked to Jun about this a few days ago. At Gyu and Kai’s.”

The memory of that party rolled through you like nausea. You’d lived three different lives in the space of this past week.

“That’s smashing,” you said, staring at a crack in the windowsill. “I talked to him today.”

“Okay, that—” Soobin frowned. “But it’s not just a bet. I asked him. I—”

“Well, then he lied to you too, Bin,” you said, unable to keep the edge from your voice. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

A group of students passed behind Reina, their chatter loud and careless. It washed through the corridor.

The quiet after they disappeared into the stairwell felt hostile. The light behind the window dulled another shade.

Reina shook her head slowly. “I don’t think he lied.”

“Yeah,” Soobin said. “I don’t believe that, either.”

Their certainty pressed against your ribs, gentle and a lot like hope. You tried not to let it in.

“Something must have happened,” Soobin insisted, his gaze drifting past you to the rainy quad.

Reina stood next to him, deep in thought. She was rifling through every story you’d told her about Yeonjun, turning each detail over, pulling out screws, checking for loose wiring.

Either Yeonjun was in mortal danger, she reasoned, or she was going to put him in one.

“Could be his parents,” she said.

Soobin opened his mouth beside her, then turned to you, wide-eyed. “His parents.”

Your heart kicked and then slowed, wary.

“They were docile when we saw them, though,” you said, inclining your head. “Nothing happened.”

Reina shrugged. “So, they did something after you left.”

“What could they have done?” you returned. “We were together nearly the whole time.”

There were reasonable doubts in your voice.

Soobin shared none of them.

He knew Yeonjun’s parents well. They had deemed his family a good match and always welcomed him to their immaculate dinners. He’d seen Yeonjun’s mother smile at guests, and he’d seen that smile vanish the moment everyone’s attention shifted. He knew her. And he knew her control could travel through phone calls, through texts. Even through silence.

“They said something to him,” Soobin said, raking a hand through his hair hard enough to spark static. A few strands lifted at the crown. “They had to. Fuck.”

He began pacing in tight circles, visibly agitated. His boots squeaked faintly against the tiles.

“I warned him about playing games,” he muttered. “I fucking told him—” He cut himself off and pivoted back to you. His eyes found yours, but there was nothing in them that recognised you. “But I don’t—I still don’t understand.”

Uncomfortable under his vacant stare, you glanced at Reina.

She gave a shake of her head: let him dig.

“Even if his parents had said something to him,” Soobin dug, “he took this bet seriously. Swear he did. He wouldn’t have just—I mean, I talked to him. He was all ‘I’ll think about it’ and ‘fuck the scheme.’ He obviously knew what would happen if—”

“Wait.” You lifted a hand, palm out. “What?”

He finally blinked. “Hm?”

“What scheme?”

The silence in the corridor deepened.

Soobin’s shoulders drew up, his chest locking rib by rib.

“It—no,” he said, swallowing. “No, that was a joke.”

You stared at him. “About me?”

Reina got a very bad feeling and shifted a step back, putting a touch of space between them. Soobin watched her with naked horror.

“No,” he said quickly. His voice frayed. “It wasn’t about—not—not about you. Not exactly. It—”

“Bin,” Reina said, calm in a way that was almost threatening. “What’s this about?”

“Nothing, my love,” he replied automatically, forcing a smile that looked painful to maintain. Blinking too fast, he turned back to you. “It’s—have you tried talking to him again? Maybe he’s having—maybe he’s gone insane.”

“Maybe you have,” you said, pushing off the windowsill. Your trainers hit the tiles with a blunt thud. “What’s going on?”

Soobin tried to exhale, but lost sense of his breath halfway through. With his wide eyes and flushed cheeks, he looked abruptly younger. Like a kid who’d accidentally dropped something expensive and now waited for an adult to scold him.

“You should really speak to him,” he said. “There must be something you can do about—”

“I don’t want to do anything.” Your anger bit at your chest before it reached him. “What scheme?”

“It’s nothing.” He squeezed his eyes shut as if that might reverse time. “I shouldn’t have said anything. It was stu—”

“What scheme?”

His jaw clenched so tightly that you heard his teeth click.

“Please,” he said, glancing at you. “Just—just talk to him.”

You looked at Reina.

Her expression mirrored yours: the same disbelief, the same slowly rising fury.

Without another word, you gathered the freesias, scattering another handful of petals, and strode away. Your footsteps ricocheted against the stairwell walls.

For a moment, neither Reina nor Soobin moved.

Reina stared at the fallen petals, her chest tight.

“What the hell, Bin?” she said softly.

Soobin swallowed. The corridor felt smaller now, suffocating.

“I’m sorry,” he said. Then, quieter, “fuck.”

✦ • ─── MARCH 10, 2025. 3:30 PM

You crossed the quad in time to see Yeonjun step out of the Administration building, the heavy oak door swinging shut behind him. He headed for the parking lot without a backward glance, head down, eyes glued to the darkened pavement.

The rain had stopped, but the air still carried the scent of wet grass and damp stone.

By the time you reached him, he was already unlocking his car.

“Yeonjun.”

He froze.

He hadn’t expected to see you again today. He’d checked your timetable after he’d talked to Professor Myers. He’d calculated everything so he could leave campus before your library shift began at four.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, pulling the car door open wider. “I’ve got to—”

“What does ‘fuck the scheme’ mean?”

His hand tightened on the door handle.

You stood directly in front of him, close enough to see the pulse jumping at his neck as he looked up at you.

For several long seconds, he only stared. It was a change from his earlier avoidance, and you didn’t know what to make of it. You held his gaze anyway.

A car alarm chirped somewhere in the distance.

Yeonjun tried to find his words and ended up finding too many: “Where—what—wh—”

“Soobin mentioned it,” you said. “What scheme?”

The corner of his left eye twitched. He loved Soobin. At that moment, he loved him enough to consider throttling him.

He briefly shut his eyes, then opened them again.

He’d done this himself.

It was his fault.

“It’s not—” He exhaled sharply. “It’s nothing serious. Just an old joke.”

Your expression did not soften. “Let’s have a laugh, then.”

He swallowed, eyes darting over your shoulder to the gradually filling parking lot. A pair of students passed behind you, laughing about something. Their joy felt inappropriate. Obscene.

“I should really go—”

“You won’t be going anywhere,” you said, inching closer, “if you don’t explain that shit to me right now.”

His pulse jumped in a familiar reflex. He inhaled and forced his chest to settle.

He knew he shouldn’t be speaking to you here, under the Administration windows, where the glass reflected everything, including his mother’s office two buildings over.

Yet he found, with nauseating clarity, that he feared walking away from you now far more than the consequences that awaited him if he didn’t.

“Okay,” he said finally, his voice subdued. “Can we just go over there? It’s quieter.”

He motioned to the empty bench against the far wall, half-hidden behind a bare sycamore. Its branches swayed anxiously in the breeze.

You turned towards it without replying.

He followed.

Two weeks ago, you’d have made a joke about the bench being conveniently secluded; fewer witnesses if you’d killed him. He would’ve snorted and teased you about wanting to get him alone. You would’ve rolled your eyes.

Now you walked beside him in silence with a deliberate gap between you. And Yeonjun had a sinking suspicion that it would not be your rage that ultimately undid him. It would be this gap.

The bench was cold.

The moisture from the wood seeped into your jeans. You placed the freesias beside you, pretending not to feel the chill. Yeonjun lowered himself next to you with visible hesitation, leaving a careful inch of space. He rested his braced wrist on his thigh. His leather jacket creaked in the quiet.

Above, the sycamore stirred. Its few remaining leaves scraped together in dry, conspiratorial murmurs.

He needed a moment before he could speak. He had to make sure that when he opened his mouth, what emerged would be more than just a defeated heugh.

“Okay,” he said at last. “So, uh—a long time ago, I told Soobin that Amy and I had split up. ‘Course that didn’t mean much since we were never actually—well, you know the story.”

“Right.”

The single syllable fell flat between you.

Yeonjun fixed his eyes on the gravel under his feet. He nudged a loose stone with the toe of his boot.

“Well, after that break-up, my parents started parading candidates again,” he continued. “Organising dinners where everyone pretended we weren’t one meal away from an arranged marriage.” His mouth twisted into a grimace. “I kept refusing to go. My parents kept not caring.”

You stole a glance at him. The wind pushed a strand of hair into his eyes; he didn’t notice.

“So I was venting to Soobin about all that,” he went on. “And I said—it—this was long ago by the way. Years. I don’t even remember when exactly—”

“Get on with it, Yeonjun.”

His shoulders stiffened.

He couldn’t remember the last time you’d called him by his full name.

At once, he felt the past two weeks begin to lose their meaning. Felt them fading as though they’d never been more than a suggestion.

He knew he shouldn’t have cared. There was nothing he could do now. But, shit, his spine could barely find the strength to hold him upright.

“I-I told Soobin,” he forced out, scratching the corner of his eye, “that I was so tired of this rubbish that I was considering going out with someone my parents would hate. Someone they’d never choose for me. Different background, different everything. Just—someone to spite them. To piss them off.” He swallowed. “To prove they didn’t own me.”

The wind rose. The branches rustled, and a twig snapped somewhere directly overhead.

You couldn’t remember when you’d last inhaled.

“I was joking,” he said, staring at the ground. “It wasn’t serious. I said, uh—said I didn’t even know anyone who’d fit that scheme.”

The word lingered for a moment.

You heard it repeating, mixing with the echo of your pulse in your ears.

“And then,” he said, voice dropping, “Soobin joked that, um—that you would.”

He looked at you then. Saw the shutters slamming down behind your eyes as you turned away and clenched your jaw.

“He wasn’t being serious,” he added hastily. “He used to bring you up just to get a reaction. It was—it was a bit of a running joke.”

Slowly, you returned your gaze to him.

“You had a running joke,” you repeated, each word level, “about how I am exactly the sort of person that would embarrass your parents.”

“That—no.” His breaths grew uneven. “It wasn’t about—shit. It wasn’t like that. Bin mentioned you because he was trying to get under my skin. We—we laughed. S’all it was. Just—a stupid joke.”

You gave a curt nod. “Yeah, no, s’funny. Because I do, actually, fit the scheme.”

He blinked, instinctively prepared to contradict you, then stopped himself. Denying it, he knew, would only insult you further.

“Technically,” he said weakly, “I guess you do. But that’s not—this was before you and I started to—”

You stood from the bench. The wood gave a harsh creak.

Yeonjun flinched at the sound. Something in his chest choked him, like a knot he’d meant to loosen but ended up tightening instead.

“No, see,” you said, slowly shaking your head. “I knew it.”

The memories in your head realigned. You recalled sitting with Yeonjun at your flat, when he’d first told you that he and Amy had never actually dated. You recalled how carefully he’d chosen his words.

All the better for me, he’d said after you pointed out that you weren’t from a so-called respectable family.

You’d found that phrasing odd. Tried to excuse it.

But of course, it was better for him. This way, he could spite his parents.

Your skin crawled.

You couldn’t remember anything else from that night, not the piano at Taehyun’s theatre, not the walk home. And what did any of it matter anyway?

“I told you that you had motives,” you said, a sardonic smile on your lips. Your eyes were hollow. “And when you said you’d only gone out with Amy to get your parents off your case, I thought, oh. Maybe you’re doing the same with me.”

Yeonjun opened his mouth to argue. You cut it off with a sharp scoff.

“I didn’t fucking realise,” you went on, “that you were using me to get back at them instead.”

The wind swept low across the quad, pressing the grass into obedient waves. Its steady rush filled the space between you.

Yeonjun swallowed, as though he could force your accusation down with his breath.

“It wasn’t that,” he tried, his voice barely audible over the wind. “I didn’t want my parents to know about you. I told yo—”

You let out a short, humourless laugh.

“Yeah. You said they’d never support this relationship. Turns out that was the whole point.” You turned to him, eyes blazing with a heat so merciless that it made him feel entirely flammable. “And, really, you could’ve picked anyone for your little rebellion, couldn’t you? But you picked me. Because I fit the scheme best, yeah?”

His fingers twitched against his thighs.

Everything that he had said to you over the past two weeks was crumbling and reforming into the version of him you’d always accused him of being. The version you’d dreaded.

“S’why you asked about my family on our first date, wasn’t it?” you went on. “Just doing your research. Making sure I came from nothing. That’d really show them.”

He felt flayed open under your gaze.

When you looked away, however, he felt even worse.

“I asked about your family because I wanted to know,” he said. The words had to scrape their way up his throat. “That was real. It wasn’t about anything else.”

“Right.” You folded your arms tightly across your chest. “But the bet itself was about your parents.”

Yeonjun dropped his gaze back to the gravel.

He understood painfully well that he couldn’t fix this without breaking something else. If he explained everything properly, he’d end up telling you he loved you again. And he couldn’t tell you he loved you if he couldn’t be with you.

“I fucking knew it,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him. “And you made me feel stupid for thinking you were hiding something.”

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Until his mother’s call that morning, he had believed the two of you might stand a chance. He’d thought you’d have a real shot, none of this game shit. Thought you’d be happy.

He couldn’t believe now that you never would be.

“I’m sorry,” he said, clutching his jeans hard enough that his palm stung. The words were flimsy and inadequate, and still, he couldn’t find better ones.

Your voice was flat: “Don’t be.”

You bent down to gather the freesias from the bench. The faint scent of your perfume brushed past him, painfully familiar. The flowers looked terrible up close: bruised and battered, their stems bent at defeated angles.

You stepped onto the gravel without looking back.

Yeonjun felt each of your steps as if they’d landed inside his chest.

You only paused once, at the rubbish bin by the low wall. Every fracture in your heart seemed to echo outward. You felt the cracks spread to your lungs, your ribs, your skin.

You weren’t breathing.

One by one, you dropped the bouquets into the bin. The flowers struck plastic with a hollow thud, their colour vanishing into shadow.

The sound emptied him.

He knew he should’ve stayed where he was. Should’ve let you walk away.

If you believed he had used you, you’d stop fighting. You’d leave. And if you left, his parents couldn’t reach you.

He knew that.

And still, he stood. Still, he followed you down the path.

“Wait—please.”

His voice cracked behind you, splitting the steady crunch of gravel beneath your feet. The sound startled a pair of pigeons pecking at the edge of the grass. They burst into the air in a frantic flurry of wings and landed on the roof of the Administration building. Its tall windows reflected the colour of old tin.

You heard the rhythm of his boots, heard his strained breathing.

You did not slow. If you slowed, you might stop. And if you stopped—

Yeonjun’s hand closed around yours.

His touch jolted your bloodstream, igniting a cascade of tremors along your spine. You stopped.

When you turned to him, your face was stone.

He released you at once. “I—I’m sorry.”

You folded your arms across your chest again, rebuilding the barricade between you. Your fingers dug into the sleeves of your coat.

“I just—I wanted to say,” he began, floundering, “that it’ll be okay. You’ll forget about me.”

Your brows furrowed. “What—”

“You will,” he rushed on, looking at you like he needed you to believe this so that he could too, “because you deserve better.” His throat tightened helplessly. “But I—I’ll never forget.”

The air thinned inside your lungs.

A ray of sun slipped through the cloud cover and caught on the slick pavement. For a moment, the quad seemed jarringly bright.

“I’m really sorry,” he said again.

He took a step back, barely. Still, the distance struck you with palpable force.

You sucked in a sharp breath, grasping for words before pride could cauterise them.

“Jun.”

His breath shuddered. His head dipped slightly forward like he’d been hit.

For a long, burning second, he hesitated, trying not to imagine what would happen if he walked back to you. If he explained everything. If you listened. If you—

He couldn’t.

He couldn’t.

He couldn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he said, hoarse. “I’m so, so sorry.”

He turned back towards his car.

Each step felt like he was walking through something viscous. He wanted to drive away. Disappear into roads that led nowhere, until he couldn’t recognise anyone, not even himself, anymore.

You didn’t move.

You watched him climb into his Mercedes. Heard the engine start. And watched, for the second and final time that day, as the car accelerated and disappeared at the end of the street.

When it was gone, the world did not pause for you to catch your breath.

A cyclist cut across the quad, with shorts that were too flimsy for this weather. Someone’s phone rang behind you with a generic Apple tone. A window opened above.

Yeonjun had been wrong.

You would not forget.

✦ • ─── MARCH 10, 2025. 4:25 PM

When you checked the time, the screen of your phone blinked up at you with cold indifference.

You were twenty-five minutes late for your shift.

You stared at the numbers for a moment longer, as if willing the clock to rewind. It didn’t. Your reflection stared back, warped faintly by the smudges on the glass, tired and unfamiliar.

You rang in sick before you could talk yourself out of it.

Your voice sounded distracted and stifled, even to your own ears. Eunji wasn’t in today, but her assistant believed you without question. The ease of it all left something hollow behind your ribs.

You lowered your phone.

You’d go home, then. Sort yourself out.

The campus stretched before you in brick and glass and damp concrete. Noticeboards sagged under layers of outdated flyers. Students passed, laughing and arguing. Someone was lying on the bench by the marble fountain.

“Hey!”

The voice reached you from behind, pulling you back by force.

You turned back to see Soobin in the doorway of the Social Sciences building, his hand hooked in his backpack strap, the other one raised in a tentative wave. His hair was mussed by the wind.

You stopped, hesitated awkwardly, then wandered over to him.

“You okay?” he asked, stepping down the stairs by the entrance.

Your gaze flicked past him automatically, searching.

“Sure,” you said. “Do you, um—where’s Reina?”

Soobin glanced back without thinking. “Uh, still with her advisor. Her meeting’s running late.”

You turned to the dark first-floor windows. “Okay.”

There was nothing else for you to do with yourself.

Soobin shifted his weight. He didn’t know what to do with himself, either. He clasped his hands together, then let them go.

“Did you, uh,” he tried, “find Yeonjun?”

Your jaw clenched before you could stop it. “I did.”

He lowered his voice as though Yeonjun would materialise beside you at the sound of his name. “Did you talk to him?”

“I did.”

He paused.

Clearly, he shouldn’t ask how it went.

“I—I’m really sorry,” he said.

Something volatile churned in your chest. You’d heard at least twenty apologies today, which was about twenty more than you’d needed.

“For what?” you asked. The question came out quickly, sharper than you meant, and Soobin took a surprised step back. Guilt followed swiftly behind your irritation.

“For mentioning, uh—that so carelessly,” he said, then frowned at his choice of words. “I didn’t mean to make anything worse. I know you’re sort of fighting and—”

“We’re sort of not,” you said. “It’s over.”

Lips parting, he glanced down at your hands. You didn’t have the freesias anymore. Your fingers were clenched into fists.

“You—you brought up my name,” you said.

His gaze shot up. “Hm?”

“When Yeonjun couldn’t think of someone to fit his idiotic scheme, you suggested me.”

The wind tore across the quad, tugging at the hem of your coat. Behind him, a door slammed shut in the draft.

Soobin’s boots scuffed against the gravel. “I—I didn’t mean it like that.”

“That really hurt, Bin,” you admitted. “I thought we were friends.”

He winced.

“We are friends,” he said. “We are. I swear, it—God, this is such a mess.” He dragged a hurried hand down his face. “The reason I suggested you wasn’t—I wasn’t really suggesting you at all. Back then, Yeonjun talked about you constantly. Complaining or ranting or—whatever. I told him he probably had a crush on you. He denied it, but he denied anything that didn’t make him look cool.”

Your heart made an old, treacherous jump. You ignored it. You were getting very good at it.

“So I-I said your name to wind him up,” Soobin explained. “I brought you up to him whenever I could. I was teasing. That’s all it was.”

A group of girls hurried past him, hunched against the wind. Introduction to Sociology was printed in thick blue letters across the spines of the books clutched to their chests. First years, most likely. They looked purposeful. Keen. You almost envied them.

“I shouldn’t have said your name in that context, though,” Soobin added, quieter now. “Even as a joke. It was disrespectful. I’m sorry.”

You turned back to him, measuring the sincerity in his eyes against the uncomfortable ache spreading quietly through your chest.

“I get that,” you said at last. You did not have the energy to dig through another argument today. “It’s okay.”

Soobin knew it wasn’t okay.

But he hoped, perhaps selfishly, that you wanted it to be okay.

“I really wasn’t trying to plant ideas in his head,” he continued, the words stumbling out of him as though on a run from something. “I just wanted to tease him. And he was—he was angry about—about Amy, I think. Or his parents. We were both talking out of our asses.”

“It makes sense, though,” you said, staring at the building steps behind him. “I do fit the scheme.”

The wind dragged a scatter of dry leaves across the quad. They scraped over the gravel with a loud, brittle sound that set your teeth on edge.

Soobin watched the distance settle in your eyes.

“Okay,” he conceded reluctantly. “Maybe you do. But that’s not the reason he wants to be with you.”

You exhaled. Your gaze drifted past him to the spindly trees lining the gravel path. Their branches clawed at the grey sky.

“He doesn’t want to be with me,” you said.

I think I’m in love with you

I think I’m in love with you

I think I’m in love—

“We had a bet,” you added, stubbornly fighting against the tightness in your chest. “And now it’s over.”

“Right,” Soobin said. “But it wasn’t just a—”

“Well, even if it wasn’t,” you said, voice growing louder despite your attempts at restraint, “even if the scheme doesn’t mean anything, he left, yeah? Said whatever he had to say and left.”

Soobin swallowed. “Okay. But that still doesn’t mean that he—”

“Oh, forget it, Bin. It doesn’t—”

“No.” His voice was sharper now. It startled you both. “Just—just listen to me for a second, alright?”

The campus had fallen unnaturally quiet. A lecture must have started; every building around you stood solemn.

You’d never heard Soobin raise his voice before.

You nodded once, brief.

Soobin exhaled.

“He’s tired,” he said. “He’s been doing what his parents told him since he could walk. I think it’s reached the point where he doesn’t even feel like a person anymore, just going through the motions. Following obligations. Day in, day out.”

He scratched his neck, searching for words that would explain his point without betraying everything Yeonjun had trusted him with. This felt like force majeure, though. He hoped Yeonjun would forgive him.

“S’why he races,” he went on. “S’why he goes out so much. He’s got nothing that’s actually his. That’s why he came up with that scheme, too. Out of desperation, I guess.” He stopped, catching himself. “It—it’s not an excuse, of course. Just... context? A-and I was—I was scared for him. Living like that, always at someone’s command, it—that’s not a good life. But, um—with you, he’s different.”

Your fingers found the edge of your backpack strap and pulled it tight.

“I don’t know how to explain it,” Soobin said, exhaling slowly. “He still never thinks before he speaks, I don’t think he ever will. But he started to look more awake when he met you. More alive. He had a—well, a purpose. Of course, that purpose was to piss you off, yeah—but still. It was his. No one else’s.”

Your thoughts were tangled together. You felt them splinter, felt them fight to make sense.

You remembered the way Yeonjun had looked at you—last night and two weeks ago. Remembered that he’d wanted to cover up your relationship using the rumours about himself and Amy.

Maybe, he’d said, I didn’t want to lose the one thing in my life that’s got nothing to do with my parents.

You swallowed. “How do you explain what happened, then?”

Your voice had changed. The new softness made Soobin’s chest twist.

He could hear, unmistakably now, that you were hurt.

Instinctively, he glanced at his coat pocket. His phone sat there completely useless. He’d texted Yeonjun a solid half a hundred times already. He’d left voice notes that ranged from frantic yelling—do you realise what the fuck you’re doing?—to desperate reasoning—try to use your brain, for once—and none had received a response.

Soobin knew there probably wasn’t much of a response anyway.

“He’s protecting you,” he said. “From his life.”

Something inside you recoiled.

You did not believe that leaving could ever be protection.

“Mhmm.” You clicked your tongue against your teeth. “Or maybe he’s still making it useful. Turning this into some other way to get his parents to fuck off. A new scheme, if you will.”

Soobin’s jaw tightened.

He could see you didn’t fully believe this. But reverting to your old habit of hating Yeonjun restored your balance.

Hurt made you feel small. Anger did not.

“I’m really sorry,” he said again, softer this time.

“I told you, it’s okay.”

“No.” He shifted his backpack higher on his shoulder. “I mean, about what happened with Yeonjun.”

You drew in a slow breath. The air in your lungs felt cooler now, sharper somehow. You held it in for a second, then let it go.

“Well,” you said with a faint lift of your chin, “it’s fine. I won the bet. So that’s something.”

Soobin wondered, distantly, what his dentist would say about the way he’d been grinding his teeth for the past ten minutes. It’d probably involve a mouth guard.

“Were you heading home?” he asked.

The question dislodged your mind from the dark depths it’d wandered to. You glanced over your shoulder, as if to check if the road you’d been taking was still there.

It was.

And if you squinted, you could just make out the trash bin, two streets over, where you’d tossed out the freesias.

“Yeah,” you said.

“Let me walk you.”

You turned back to him. “What? No. You’ve got to pick up Reina from her meeting.”

Soobin was already fishing his phone from his pocket. “I’ll text her.”

“No.” You brushed your fingers over the edge of the device. “Seriously. I’m fine.”

He lowered his phone and looked at you properly.

Your voice held steady, admirably so. But your eyes were overbright, like glass reflecting an aggressive slice of sunlight.

You noticed his scrutiny and offered him a small, stubborn nod. You weren’t fine, but you would force yourself to be.

“I’m staying with you until Reina comes to replace me, then,” he decided, just as stubborn.

You let out a short scoff. “Am I on suicide watch? You really think I’m down that bad?”

Panic flashed across his face. He mentally cursed himself for not having better articulation. He might just stop speaking altogether after today.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said quickly. “I just think you could use some company. It’s been a long two weeks.”

“It—” you began, but the weariness in your lungs stole the rest of the words. You exhaled what little air remained and nodded. “Yeah, alright. It has been.”

His shoulders dropped an inch.

“Come on,” he said.

He draped an arm around your shoulders, careful, very afraid of startling you. His coat smelled faintly of Reina’s perfume, floral and familiar. You allowed yourself to lean into it, just slightly.

“Let’s stop by the corner shop, and we can come back, pick Reina up,” he said. “Saw they restocked the ice cream you and Rei always hoard.”

A ghost of a smile flickered over your face. “We don’t hoard it.”

“It’s been sold out for months.”

“Not our fault they don’t stock enough.”

He snickered, his chest moving gently beside you. The gravel crunched beneath your shoes as you walked.

“Thank you,” you said, quietly.

He gave your shoulder a light squeeze. “S’what friends are for.”

✦ • ─── MARCH 10, 2025. 5 PM

By the time you and Soobin made it back to the Social Sciences building, sugar buzzing through your veins, plastic bags of ice cream biting into your fingers, the streetlights had begun to flicker on one by one. Behind the buildings, the sky had sunk into a flat, depthless blue.

Reina was just stepping out mid-sentence, Taehyun beside her, caught in a debate about a reality show that they both claimed to have never seen. Her hands carved passionate shapes through the air, nearly thumping into his chest as she made her point.

Taehyun noticed you first.

His gaze dropped immediately to the waffle cone in your hand, then the bag swinging from your wrist.

He gave Reina a distracted, “mhmm, yes, yes,” and crossed to you with singular purpose. Without ceremony, he reached into your bag and extracted a strawberry ice cream.

“Appreciate it,” he said, as though you’d got it for him personally, and tore into the wrapper with his teeth.

You snorted. “You’re welcome.”

He paused, cone halfway to his mouth. His eyes flicked to your tense shoulders, then to the restrained clench in Soobin’s jaw.

He almost asked what was wrong, but guessed, from the ice cream bags and the conspicuous absence of Yeonjun at your side, that you wouldn’t want to talk about it.

“Cheers,” he said instead, and stepped in to hug you. It was firmer than usual, deliberate, even as he angled the ice cream away from your hair. Cold syrup from his cone still brushed your sleeve as he pulled back.

He transferred the embrace to Reina, who squealed about the stickiness of his hands, but still wholeheartedly accepted the hug.

Then he gave Soobin a sticky fist bump, saluted you vaguely with his melting ice cream, and walked down the gravel path towards his theatre.

Reina stepped into the space he left behind, eyes alight when she spotted the second bag.

“You angels,” she breathed while you rummaged for her favourite pear flavour, holding your cherry cone between your teeth.

“Meeting okay?” you asked, pressing the ice cream into her expectant hand.

“Yeah,” she said. “Just a bunch of new reading he wants me to do. And I’m still about two thousand words short of the minimum.”

You huffed. “More literature review, then?”

“Yeah. Or something close to it, anyway.” She shrugged. She wrote most of her thesis at three in the morning; that was when her brain worked best. “I’ll worry about it before my next meeting.”

You smiled softly, biting into your waffle cone.

She watched your face as she unwrapped her ice cream. Your gaze seemed carefully neutral.

Soobin cleared his throat lightly.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll head home, then. Give you two some—”

“No,” you said quickly. “Stay. The three of us could hang out.”

Reina’s eyes flicked to him.

He nodded.

She continued to watch him, another question passing through her gaze.

This time, he gave the slightest shake of his head.

She inhaled sharply and licked the melting edge of her ice cream.

“Alright,” she said, linking her arm through yours. The pear cream was a little tangy on her tongue. “Let’s go.”

The three of you walked back towards your flat. Conversation drifted in and out without committing to anything heavy: homework, spring break, graduation. The pavement glittered faintly beneath the streetlights. Your shadows stayed close together.

As soon as you unlocked the flat, warmth folded around you. The air inside still held the clinging sweetness of freesias.

For a second, you considered turning around, claiming you’d forgotten something, camping out in the stairwell. Anything to avoid the scent.

Reina brushed past you, clasping your hand and tugging you inside.

“Right!” she announced, kicking off her trainers in the corridor. She only released you when Soobin shut the door. “Takeaway. Do you want noodles? Or something spicier, maybe. Or pizza? Actually, pizza sounds great. But noodles are—noodles are nice. Oh, maybe soup? Is soup too depressing? Soup can be depressing, s’very—actually, maybe we should skip straight to dessert. I read somewhere that fruit yoghurt works with roasted vegetables. Not cauliflower, though. I hate cauliflower. Would you want cauliflower with yoghurt? I think it—”

You laughed.

Her gaze snapped towards you, eyes lighting up with cautious victory. She’d distracted you, then, if only for a second.

“I’m going to put these in the fridge,” you said, taking Soobin’s bag. “But if you order cauliflower with yoghurt, I’m moving out and taking the ice cream with me.”

She laughed—louder than she’d meant in her eagerness—and nodded. Then she turned to help Soobin disentangle the absurd knot on his scarf.

In the kitchen, the freesias made it awkward to open the fridge. Petals brushed your wrist as you shifted them aside. The scent clung to the back of your throat.

You kept your gaze fixed firmly on the brushed steel of the fridge, refusing to look at the flowers directly. Refusing, especially, to think about where they had come from.

You’d throw them out tomorrow, you decided. You didn’t want to make a scene in front of Reina and Soobin.

You jammed the ice cream into the freezer, forced the door shut, then washed your hands to get rid of the stickiness from the cherry syrup.

With Reina and Soobin still arguing about noodles in the corridor, you slipped into your room. Your backpack landed on the bed with a soft, tired sigh. You unzipped it, pulled out your laptop and plugged it in.

While it powered on, you gathered the clothes draped over your chair and dropped them onto your bed. The shirt from last night was still faintly damp, cold at the cuffs. You dropped it quickly.

A soft ping.

You turned to your laptop. There was a new email notification in the lower right corner.

Subject: Offer – Predoctoral Research Fellowship, Sociology

Frowning, you lowered yourself into your chair and clicked it open.

The email started with your name.

It continued with words you couldn’t understand.

Following a faculty review of candidates nominated to our office, the email read, we are delighted to offer you a place in the Predoctoral Research Fellowship Program in the Department of Sociology at New York University.

You blinked. Then scrolled down.

The more you read, the less plausible the email seemed.

It claimed to be about a fully funded, nine-month fellowship with a monthly stipend, health insurance, and guaranteed access to graduate housing. At one of the leading research universities in New York.

Your head spun. Your heart beat so fast it felt briefly unmanageable.

Institutions like that were for people who wrote their names with bold, golden letters. You had never even dared to visit their admissions page. You could only imagine the acceptance rate, the cost.

You scrolled back to the top and checked the sender. Director of Predoctoral Studies. When you hovered over the address, a proper New York University domain appeared.

Official, then.

Real.

You stood abruptly. The room tilted around you. You steadied yourself against the desk, then dropped to your bed, pulling the laptop to your knees. The charger stretched across the room.

You read the email again. Then read it three more times.

The quiet in your room had grown unnatural.

Reina knocked lightly against the doorframe, Soobin just behind her shoulder.

“You good?” Reina asked.

You craned your neck towards her, then silently angled the screen.

They stepped inside. Soobin tripped on the charger and knocked the vase on your desk. He caught it before it hit the floor, muttering a distracted Jesus—fuck, then placing it back on your books.

They leaned in and read the email. Then read it three more times.

“Shit,” Soobin finally exhaled. “I didn’t even know you applied.”

“Me neither,” Reina murmured, her eyes locking onto the stipend figure.

“I didn’t,” you said. “Says it was a nomination.”

Something tight pressed into your chest, neither joy nor anticipation. It made your eyes water. You swallowed and scanned the email again.

“They’re citing my Master’s thesis,” you read, blinking too quickly. “Said some—someone from the programme attended the Spring Conference last year. When I presented my research project. Said they were—” Your throat caught. You cleared it. “Said my work was noted for its rigorous methodology.”

You remembered that conference room last year, the harsh light of the projector. Remembered how dense your slides had been, how fast you’d rushed through them, words tangling on your tongue. Your hands had been shaking.

You’d been proud of your work before, but during that conference, you were certain you’d embarrassed yourself. You couldn’t remember who you’d spoken to after that, if anyone at all.

What you did remember, however, was that Yeonjun had been there, too, sitting in the back row. He hadn’t presented anything, but he’d won the scholarship for outstanding academic achievements in a school year shortly after. It had reeked of nepotism. You’d hated him for it.

Exhaling shakily, you returned your gaze to your laptop screen.

“Fully funded, too,” Soobin said, leaning closer. “Shit—you’d only need to cover the flight.”

Your hands trembled against the keyboard. “Yeah.”

Reina was the first to notice the shine at the corners of your eyes.

“Babe,” she said gently, sitting beside you on the bed. Her arm came around your shoulders. Her cashmere sweater was warm and soft against your side. “This is incredible.”

You wiped at your cheeks with the heel of your palm, irritated by the heat in your eyes.

“I know,” you said. “Yeah.”

Your voice sounded small, even if it refused to tremble.

Reina watched you, brows drawn together, her chest weighted with everything you weren’t saying.

Only this morning, the two of you had chatted in the bathroom, laughing as you dissected the previous night. Following her relentless badgering, you’d told her about Yeonjun’s careless joke that you were practically living together. Told her about his infuriating smirk.

Would you mind, though? she’d asked, waggling her brows at your reflection. Actually living with him, one day?

Horribly, you had replied, smiling despite yourself, not at all.

Now your eyes burned, and you couldn’t understand why.

Reina could.

“Come here,” she whispered and did not wait.

She pulled you into her, one arm firm around your shoulders, the other sliding up to cradle the back of your head. You folded into her without resistance, forehead pressing into her jumper. Her strawberry shampoo washed over you.

Your fingers curled into the fabric at her waist. Your breath hitched, then steadied. Then hitched again.

Soobin hovered tactfully in the doorway, pretending great interest in the peeling paint near the frame. He shifted his weight once, cleared his throat, and wordlessly excused himself to gather the takeaway menus abandoned on the kitchen counter.

Your bedroom held its breath. Your laptop cast a faint blue glow on the bed beside you. Staring at the screen, at the new life waiting for you there, something old stirred in your memory.

A poem.

You’d read it in your first year, sprawled across your bed while you waited for Reina’s late seminar to finish. The book had been second-hand, its spine broken, its margins annotated in cramped handwriting that wasn’t meant for you to understand.

You couldn’t remember the poet now. Couldn’t even remember what the poem had really been about.

Only the final lines had remained, lodged deep inside you, dormant and patient. Waiting.

And the fairytale ends early,

On an unexpectedly sad note.

THE END

CONTINUED IN THE SEQUEL

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[minkieater]

one night, one party, two men.

🎤︎︎ wooyoung x fem!reader | college au, mini-series, part 5/? 9.4k words 🎤︎︎ 18+ reader is the host of a sex podcast, wooyoung is a frat boy whore | smut minors dni oral f!receiving, dirty talk, lots of kissing, fingering, multiple orgasms, thigh riding, Other Sex Happening™. we're getting somewhere. hi yunho

YOU’VE DECIDED YOU AND UNSCRIPTED are no longer two separate people. Tonight, right now, in the bedroom at the very end of the frat’s dimly lit hallway, Unscripted is with you. She is you, she’s a very real part of you, not a figment of your imagination or an alter-ego. She’s been you the whole time, banging on the steel beams of her cage, waiting to be let out, to be put to use.

Tonight was supposed to be about overcoming change, about listening to your instincts, your desires. It was about becoming the truest version of yourself, unabashed, shameless, letting all of your walls down and demolishing every filter. It’s impossible to build her level of confidence within minutes, to rework your mind, to step into her shoes, but you’ve got plenty of vodka inside of you and a man who just begged to get his head between your legs. Close enough.

You’ve barely got the door behind you before Wooyoung presses his lips to yours. Your brows lift high, hands reaching for his chest, back flat against the wooden door behind you, you were expecting at least a short conversation first. Maybe a small discussion on how this actually goes. You suppose he isn’t the type to need one, he already knows how this goes, he does it on a daily basis. 

“Wait, wait,” you push on his chest, but all it really does is push you farther into the door. “That’s it? You just bring me in here and start making out with me?” 

Panting, his brows furrow, hands lowering where they’d taken root on your hips. “Yes? What else is there to do?” 

“I don’t know,” you shrug your shoulders, arms stretching on either side of you. “Talk about it? I don’t want anyone to know you went down on me.”

“I’m so gross and nasty that no one can know you hooked up with me?” he teases, amusement in his eyes. “I won’t tell anyone, Virgin. It’s just a favor, a one-time thing.” 

So close, you’ve never noticed his eyes are two different sizes, like the angel and devil on his shoulders control each half of him. His eyes that are usually a warm, glazed amber are deepened to a woody, husky brown, but still soft, not impatient, not brash. 

“Okay,” you blink, swallowing. “I’ve never hooked up with anyone before. Every guy I’ve ever fucked was my boyfriend, longterm.”

“If you don’t want to do this, then we don’t do it,” he says honestly. Then he grins like he just remembered, “I’ve got another appointment after this, anyway.” 

Your skin burns, cheeks flaming, the tips of your ears threatening to melt your skull. You should hate each word he just said, you should hate that he’s fucking someone after he hooks up with you, but part of you finds it reassuring. That this, whatever was about to happen, was casual. A one time thing. A favor. Something inside you enjoys that you’re taking precedence, though, that he was putting off his own pleasure to tend to yours first.

“No,” you shake your head, certain. Despite the slight discomfort, the newness of it all, you’ve already imagined how this goes, you’ve already pictured his head between your legs. “I want to do this.” 

He nods, eyes dancing over your features, you can only assume he’s checking to see if there’s any part of you that physically doesn’t want him. But he won’t find any proof in your quickly rising chest, the flush on your skin, your dilated eyes. 

“Good,” he whispers, leaning close to you again, so close his lips brush yours. “Because I really want to see how fast I can make you cum.” 

His lips meet yours again, hands heavier on your hips now, using his grip on your shorts to push you flat against the door. You gasp, hands finding purchase on his shoulders, balancing yourself on your tippy toes to reach his mouth. 

He uses your parted lips to push his tongue past, and his rhythm, not frantic, controlled in a way that makes you feel how badly he wants this, how badly he wants you. You don’t know if anyone has ever kissed you like this, with such purpose, intent behind it that wasn’t half-assed. If you have, it’s been a long, long time.

He explores your mouth like he could get lost in it, hands sliding up to your waist, tucking beneath your top, hands roaming your skin just to feel. He dips down below your chin, lips pressing along your jaw and your head falls backward, hitting the door with a thump. Neither of you pay any mind, especially not as he shifts his hips, slotting one of his legs between yours, trapping you between him and the door, lining you up with his thigh. 

You choke on a whimper, hips instinctively twitching against him. 

“Yes,” he encourages, his breath hot on your neck, one of his hands finding purchase in the hair at the back of your neck. “Do it again.”

You roll your hips again and heat spreads like wildfire, stimulation bubbling inside your gut, reaching each nerve ending. Even through your shorts, his pants, your clit catches mercifully against the fabric, forcing a staggered sound of pleasure from your throat.

One hand hits the door behind you, nails clawing at the wood while the other reaches for his hair, fingers tangling in his roots. His lips move softly, rhythmically down your neck, never once moving his strong thigh, never twitching, never shifting. 

“Use me,” he whispers into your neck, breath cooling the area where his mouth had just been. “Do whatever feels right.” 

Your hand that’s in his roots pulls. He groans, head tipping back, dark eyebrows knitting together, his face so blown out in pleasure it makes a sharp noise escape your chest. Your eyes widen, silencing yourself with your lips smacking shut and he’s quick to shake his head no.

“Let me hear you,” he leans in close again, teeth grazing your jawline, making your hips snap against his thigh. “Wanna hear all those pretty sounds you make.” 

“Wooyoung,” you arch into him, fingers tightening in his hair again. “Oh my god.” 

You get it now— he’s barely done anything and you get it now. There’s an air about him, or maybe his saliva is laced with heroin, but the moment his hands touched your body something inside you relaxed. He’s never been shy about how much he loves sex, and you personally know six women who have had nothing but good things to say about his skills, all of which you’ve ignored because it never pertained to you, you never cared. Now, experiencing it for yourself, with all of your clothes still on your fucking body, you understand.

He smiles into your skin, you can feel the stretch of his lips, his teeth against your neck. He reaches for the hem of your top, lifting it upward, folding it over your bra, and takes a second to explore the stretch of skin across your stomach, the indent of your spine with his hands. 

“So soft,” he murmurs, then pulls away, taking a good look at you, eyes zeroing in on your chest. “Damn, you’ve been hiding these.” 

Your cheeks burn, you ignore how badly you want to cross your arms over your chest. “Shut up.”

“What?” His eyes find yours again, a smirk on his lips. “I can’t appreciate?”

“If you’re gonna use your mouth, use it between my legs, not to speak,” your back arches again, impatience radiating off of you. 

“There she is,” he smiles all teeth, eyes flaring with amusement, thumbs tucking into your shorts. “I’ve been waiting for you to come back to me.”

“I’ve been here, just waiting for you to do something that actually feels good,” you quip, rolling your hips toward him. 

He chokes on a punched, disbelieving laugh. “Right. Sure.”

He doesn’t fumble with the laces of your shorts, quickly untying them, you arch your back off the door to help him get them down your thighs. He sinks to his knees, lifting one of your legs to shimmy your boot out of your shorts, leaving them hooked around the other one. 

Looking upward, his brows tie in, letting out a long, groaned, “Fuuck.” He meets your eye again to taunt, “You soaked through your panties, baby. Thought you said you were waiting for me to do something that actually feels good?”

“Shut up already, fuck,” you hiss, bending yourself toward him, itching for him to finally touch you where you need him. As much as he had to convince you to get you in here, the tables have turned too quickly for your liking. 

His fingers dance along your skin, up the backs of your thighs until he throws one of your legs over his shoulder. Looking down at him, he keeps your eye while he presses his mouth softly to your inner thigh, then another one, inching closer, then another one, so close you could feel his breath on your underwear. 

“Stop fucking teasing,” you nearly whine, voice raw with impatience, and the leg that’s over his shoulder begins to shake. The anticipation is eating you alive, it’s right where he wants you. 

He laughs to himself before planting his final kiss over your panties, at the apex of your thighs, directly above your clit. You whimper, the knee holding you steady threatening to buckle. His other hand softly lands over it, holding it straight. He smirks, “How am I gonna eat you out if you can’t even stand up straight?” 

Your chin tilts toward the ceiling, eyes closing, a harsh breath escaping your lungs, a whine wanting to crawl up your throat. “Please,” you mumble, without looking at him. 

His tone is taunting as he asks, “What was that?”

“Please,” you whine this time, back pushing off the door, rolling your hips toward him. You look down again and he’s wearing a shit-eating grin like he’s proud of his ability to get you in this state, begging for him. 

He presses another kiss over your panties, this one perfectly over your clit. A verbal breath escapes you, a soft noise of pleasure. Then his tongue pokes out from between his lips, and he licks a stripe over the fabric, along the seam of your center. 

“Fuck.” You twitch like a livewire, hands reaching for his hair, fingers tightening in his roots. “More, take them off, Wooyoung.”

His hand that was holding your knee reaches upward, tugging the thin fabric covering you to the side. He groans at the sight— a true, full-chested, shameless fucking groan. 

“So pretty,” he whispers, not even looking up at you, and it’s all he says before he leans forward, sticking his tongue out to collect every ounce of wetness from bottom to top. 

Your fingers curl in his hair, hips bucking toward his face, a moan just as shameless ripping from your lungs. Both of his hands go to your thighs, your panties tucked away, he flattens out his tongue to lick over your clit. 

“Yes,” you nod, jaw dropped, holding his eye as he softly but intentionally flicks at your clit with his tongue, slowly adding more pressure, circling it just right. “S-shit, Wooyoung.” 

He groans into you, fingers sinking into your thighs harder, burying his fucking face between your thighs. His tongue drops down to your entrance before licking his way back up, circling your clit, closing his lips around it, making noises that should be embarrassing. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you chant, eyes squeezing shut. There’s no testing the waters, he doesn’t need to try to figure out what you like, he uses his tongue at a perfect pace with perfect rhythm like he already knows how your body works. 

He lifts your leg off his shoulder, stretching you wider, lips wrapping around your clit and sucking harshly. Your toes curl in your boots, a shrill sound piercing through the room, hands leaving his hair to find the door again, clawing at it, needing to find purchase in something, anything— it feels too fucking good, and it’s too fucking soon for your stomach to be filling with warmth. Your moans heighten in pitch, breath heavier, the leg hanging from his strong arm shaking like a fucking leaf, it would be mortifying how quickly he’s pulling you to the edge if you weren’t so focused on how good it feels. 

With your shoulderblades against the door you roll your hips into him and he meets your movement like he expects it. You watch with lips pried open, and then experimentally roll them again, and he follows your hips with his lips suctioned to your clit. Holding you steady, he watches you while your hips pick up speed, grinding yourself against his face like he was only there for you to use. His eyelids flutter, dilated pupils beneath them like he was enjoying every second of it, like the whole reason he kept you against the door was so you would ride his face. 

“You want me to fuck your face?” you ask, breathless, then you hiss a strangled moan when he nods his head, his nose bumping against your clit. “F-fuck, do that again, do that again.”

Shameless moans and staggered breaths pour from your lips in symphony, fingers back in his roots as he nods his head in rhythm with your hips, his nose hitting your clit perfectly with every stroke. The warmth in your stomach amplifies, abdomen clenching, both of your legs shaking now, your breath catching in your throat. 

He doesn’t stop, nor does he speed up, he keeps the same pace, the same rhythm, you think he can taste your fucking orgasm, it’s so close. You don’t want it to be over, you don’t want to finish but you have no choice with his hands on your body and his nose sliding over your clit. 

Euphoria looms, muscles growing taught, you swear your heart stills in your chest before your orgasm hits like a tidal wave. Your back launches off the wall, curses flying off your tongue, you ride his face like it’s yours and he eats you through it, never once faltering. 

You don’t know how you missed his hands leaving your thighs, the movement was lost somewhere in nirvana, but as one hand travels behind his tongue, two fingers slipping inside you, your body ignites all over again. 

“No,” you whisper, voice shaky beyond belief, eyes wider than saucers. The pleasure was too much, your orgasm hasn’t properly ended yet and his fingers curl perfectly, pressing, massaging against your walls. You’re shaking your head in panic as you stammer, “W-Wooyoung, I can’t– I’m not–”

He finally pulls back for air, his chin soaked in you, eyes hazy. “Give me one more, baby, you can do it again. One more.”

Your legs are shaking, knee threatening to buckle, wobbling where you stand. The rest of you is rigid, high off euphoria, stuck somewhere between foreplay and post-orgasm bliss. “I can’t!” you shriek, hips twitching beyond control, your breath staggered, body in fight or flight. “It’s too much.”

His fingers pump into you steadily, curling into your walls, he gives you only a moment of reprieve before his tongue is poking out between his lips again. 

“F-fuck you,” you grit out as his tongue flicks at your clit, and it makes him smile. The pleasure hurts, overstimulation bleeding into something hot. “You’re– you’re s-such a– fucking asshole– ah!”

The last word is broken by a sharp moan, stars blinding your vision, another orgasm creeping up too quickly for you to breathe. You could shift tectonic plates with how hard you’re shaking, nails surely leaving crescents in the door behind you, your eyes squeeze tight with your jaw pried open as he brings you close to the edge for the second time.

“I’m g-gonna, I’m gonna cum,” you manage to get out, and it’s the last reserve of air in your chest before another orgasm rocks through you. He must be able to tell that you’re legitimately about to cry, because lets you come down slowly, slipping his fingers out of you after pressing one last kiss to your swollen, buzzing clit. 

You deflate into the door, chest heaving, legs still shaking hard enough to shake the entire house. He takes time kissing your thighs after lowering your leg to the floor, your knees, hands roaming your skin, laughing under his breath when your legs don’t let up. 

“Why are you laughing?” you finally croak, running a hand through your hair.

“I think you should sit,” he looks up at you through his brows, pride in his grin, his chin still soaked. “I’m scared that if you try to walk, you’ll fall.”

“Don’t look so smug about it,” you mutter but reach for his shoulders anyway, lowering yourself down to the floor slowly. Around the mid-way point you feel the loss of strength, but you’d rather die than fall in front of him, so you let your nails sink into his shoulders instead.

He sucks in a sharp breath, but reaches for your hips, not touching but holding his hands out, just in case you tumble. You land softly with your knees spread, boots sprawled out behind you, and you quickly reach for your underwear, moving them back into place, then slide your top back over your bra.

Looking up at an uncharacteristically quiet Wooyoung, his eyes are glued between your legs as he sits back on his calves. Heat spreads, shame, need, you aren’t sure. “I’m not fucking you,” you remind him.

“I know,” he nods, eyes sliding back up to yours. He licks his bottom lip, his chin, “Just taking one last look so I can remember the time I ate virgin pussy.”

Your jaw drops as you reach forward to smack his arm, “I am not a fucking virgin!”

“Not anymore,” he smirks, wiping the rest of you off his chin with his thumb. “Everyone’s a virgin before me.”

“I can’t believe I just let you do that,” your palms find your face, shame spreading. “You’re fucking disgusting.”

“Disgusting, maybe, but skilled? Absolutely,” he teases, voice playful. He sucks on his thumb, and then the two fingers that were inside you before musing, “I just made you cum twice and you thank me with insults?”

“Why should I thank you?” You rip your hands from your face that’s scrunched up in revolted confusion. “You asked, and I let you. You should be thanking me.”

“Fair,” he nods, bottom lip folded over. “Thank you for letting me eat your pussy.” Oh, your ears fucking burn. His head tilts back like he’s daydreaming, “Taste so sweet, coulda eaten her for hours. Same time next week?”

This can’t be real. He can’t be real. You shake your head, pushing yourself up from the floor, “I’m getting the fuck out of here.”

“Boring,” he frowns, uncurling his legs from beneath him, his arms stretching behind him. He watches as you try to shove your shaky leg through your pant leg, “You sure you don’t want another one as a parting gift?”

There’s a pang in your gut, arousal mixing with shame, an ugly cocktail prickling at your skin. “Please forget this ever happened,” you look at him earnestly while lacing up your shorts. “This never happened. Okay?”

“Whatever you say, Virgin,” his head falls to his shoulder, cocky amusement radiating off him. “Remember this the next time you have sex and he doesn’t play with you first. Remember how easy it was for me to get you begging.”

Right. He had a point to make, something to prove, and he did. With you. Easily. The words send butterflies swarming through your stomach, a firework show of sparks up your spine and you fucking hate it, how easy it was for him, how easy it was for you to let go. You don’t answer, you reach for the door handle behind you and rip it open instead, he has someone else to fuck tonight. Another name to scratch off his list.

You can’t believe your name is one of them.

Your heart is pounding against your chest as you walk down the hallway, thighs still trembling, you think adrenaline and shame might be the only things keeping you upright. Your ex boyfriend is upstairs, and you just came twice on another man’s face. Wooyoung’s fucking face. Reaching for the handle at the end of the hallway, you let out a verbal sound of frustration before pulling it open.

This should feel liberating. People your age do this every single day, casual sex is normal, but it’s not normal for you. You thought that you could step into Unscripted’s shoes for a night, you thought the two of you might be one person, but you were wrong. This doesn’t feel good. Maybe you chose the wrong person, maybe if you had hooked up with someone else you’d feel better, possibly even proud of yourself for letting go of the strict rules you made for yourself.

Doubtful. You’re a relationship girl for a reason, hooking up with someone you have no ties to just feels… hollow. But that’s how you felt every time you slept with Yeonjun, too.

When was the last time your blood boiled with so much arousal?

You can feel it in your fingertips, mixed with the anger, the shame, you can feel your body itching for more. His fingers inside you, they were enough to make you finish, but they weren’t enough to fill you.

You bee-line for the bar, you need something to take the edge off. Ignoring the naked people on the couch, you refuse to look to see what the fuck they’re doing now, you walk behind the bar and grab a bottle of vodka, pouring at least three shots into a crystal glass. Your fingers are trembling, breath short, body tight with stress. What if people find out? What if your friends find out, all of who have already fucked him? No, he promised not to tell anyone, and you most certainly won’t tell a soul. You take a long sip from the glass, almost choking on the taste, the burn, but it’s necessary. 

You need to stop the panic before it spreads. Is the feeling really anxiety about what you’ve done, or is it just terrifying that a man actually took care of you for maybe the first time in your life? He did exactly what he said he was going to, without expectation of more, and made you feel better than anyone has ever made you feel. Your thighs are still fucking trembling and you didn’t even have sex.

The way he looked up at you, the way he purred so pretty… you send the rest of the glass of vodka back and your body racks a full shiver. That wasn’t about you, that was about proving a point. It wasn’t about you. But is that even possible? Can someone really put that much effort into pleasing a partner if it isn’t about them?

You leave the glass on the bar, making your way through the basement, ignoring the smoke and the people and the laughter and the sound of ping-pong balls bouncing. You’re wearing your shame like a cloak, keeping your head down as you walk up the staircase, back into the screaming living room vibrating with bass. The music has since shifted to house, a bright beat, accompanied by lights and bodies and a maze you need to push through.

All you’ve had is long-term boyfriends, but none of them have made you feel a fraction of what you felt in that room. In that room, you felt wanted, needed, you felt so fucking sexy. Like your pleasure was the only thing that mattered, your body an instrument to be played, he was on his fucking knees to coax you to orgasm. You can’t remember the last time Yeonjun laid down on the bed to attempt to make you cum.

You need to get out of here before you go back down there.

Wooyoung hears your scoff of frustration at the end of the hallway, and he can’t help the way it makes him laugh. Head tipping back, he laughs from his chest, because that’s the only reaction he could have imagined you to have. You just came on his face twice, yet you’re still stuck in your eternal irritation.

He picks himself up, makes sure there’s nothing on his shirt, then leaves the room. He plays eeny-meeny-miny-moe on the doors, then pushes the one he lands on open. To his surprise, not only is he right, but she’s still there, sprawled out across the bed, playing on her phone. 

Her head whips toward the door, smiling, turning on her side when she sees him, “Finally. You’re lucky I didn’t leave.”

“I’m sorry, baby.” He shoots her an apologetic smile, closing the door behind him. “Had to take care of something real quick.”

“Take care of me,” she whines, throwing her phone across the bed, sinking deeper into the mattress, legs prying open. “You promised.”

If his dick wasn’t already rock fucking hard, then it would have jumped at the sight. It still jumps, pressing against his nylon briefs, begging to be let out of his jeans. His hands go to the neck of his tee, tugging it over his head, throwing it at the end of the bed as he walks toward her. “You know I will, baby.”

He can’t kiss her yet, he knows he can’t. So he pulls her by her ankles to the edge of the bed, unbuttons her denim shorts, and kneels.

He meant it, everything he said to you about this being for his pleasure, something he enjoys. You thought he was bluffing, lying, but this is where he loves to be. Of service, on his knees, hearing the sweet song of pleasure that’s like a hymnal in his honor, he adores it. Gets off on it.

Except he’s not hearing it, because he’s too busy thinking. He uses his hand, making her arch, her cries louder, borderline pornographic, he grinds his hips against his jeans, or tries to, he’s starved. He works harder, not in the mood to drag it out, he stills his mind, his body, working at the same pace, using the same pressure until she’s clenching around his fingers, thighs shaking on either side of his head.

“Wanna ride you.” She stops him with a hand on his chest as he crawls over her, and who would he be if he denied a woman of anything? So he lays down beside her, grabs his wallet from his pocket before he shimmies his jeans down his legs, and rolls the condom from his wallet onto his cock. 

She watches like she wasn’t expecting it. But Wooyoung’s had too many experiences, made too many mistakes to not at least put on a fucking rubber.

It’s routine, the dirty talk, his hands on her body. It’s a rhythm, the way she bounces, how his hips snap upward to meet her. It’s a dance, lips, tongues, hands, angles and stretches, the background music cries, moans, grunts, curse words filling the air. 

He wonders if you regret it. You didn’t stay– part of him thought, maybe part of him hoped you would ask for more. That you were curious if he could use his cock as well as he used his mouth. It wasn’t the plan to make you cum twice, but the first one was too quick, and the second was even quicker, he felt like he was in that room for ten minutes, tops. 

He isn’t finished after he fills up the first condom, and to his satisfaction, neither is she. On all fours, Wooyoung behind her, his hands on her hips, fingers sliding up her spine, taking root in her extensions, it was like he had an itch he couldn’t scratch. 

It really was like looking up with a virgin. How timid you were in the beginning before you finally gave in, losing yourself to the pleasure, the way you shook with relief, euphoria… he’ll see that in his dreams tonight. He thinks that’s what has him hooked; knowing what he could do, a physical proof of his own skills.

At a ninety-degree angle, he feels like he’s piercing her. She wails, nails clawing into the bedsheets, toes curling, legs lifting to kick at his thighs, he gets proof of his skills every other day. She clenches around his cock a second time, and he focuses on following, brows furrowed, hips angled.

After tying the second condom and throwing it in the trash, he’s beat. She throws her clothes back on and kisses him goodbye, and it dawns on him that he never got her name. Shame. She was a pretty good fuck. He stares at the ceiling for a few minutes, letting his chest rise and fall until it evens out. He still feels like the scratch isn’t itched, he doesn’t know if his balls have more to spill, or if it doesn’t have to do with sex at all. Did he turn in his assignment before he left the house?

He finds his jeans, pulling out his phone, and on top of the bed, butt-ass naked, he scrolls. He finds your profile after some digging, but he doesn’t follow you, and you’re private. He clicks follow, the button turning to requested, and then he wonders if you’re still at the party. Maybe you re-thought your decision, and were curious about what else he can do with his hands or his mouth. He could probably make you cum without even touching your cute little clit. 

He dresses himself, then passes the series of half-opened doors, those who didn’t mind people who took a step inside and watched the show. The same people who were on the couch, fully having sex now, those that Wooyoung can’t judge because he’s been one of those people his sophomore year. With his hands in his pockets, he makes his way upstairs, and it’s too cloudy, too loud, the multicolored lights too blinding for him to make out any faces at all. 

Oh, well. He’ll try to find at least one of the guys from his frat, instead.

His walk is pointless until he finds San, currently taking a body shot off of a new round of women in the kitchen. He’s shirtless now, and Wooyoung isn’t sure if the sheen on his skin is from sweat or liquor.

“Woo!” he yells, grinning wide. Definitely liquor. “You’re next!”

He looks at the island, the girl laying on her back, and his brows furrow before realization sinks in. “Yunjin?”

“Wooyoung!” she throws an arm out, manicured nails clasping around his wrist. Her top is over her bra, shorts rolled down beneath her belly button, splayed out for anyone who has eyes to see. “Pour him a shot, Sannie.”

“Is Virgin still here?” he finds himself asking, doing his best to sound curious without any ulterior motives. “I mean– your roommate.”

“Nooo.” Yunjin pouts, shaking her head. “She texted me that she wasn’t feeling well, so she went home. Why do you call her that? She’s not even a virgin.”

Wooyoung shrugs, “Close enough.”

Yunjin thins her eyes. “You’re rude.”

“And you’re drunk,” he argues back. “Enjoy Sannie tonight.”

“I will!” she calls after him, and he’s sure none of them watch as he turns, heading for the living room which is a fucking maze, but it’s the only way to the front door. He drank, he fucked, he’s over it. He’s ready to lay his head down and go to sleep– after making sure he turned his assignment in.

He slips through bodies, going through his usual motions. Winking, scouting for next time, making promises he may or may not keep, all of them pretty, all of them hammered. It skeeves him, the idea of hooking up with some piss-drunk girl who won’t remember his name tomorrow. When he fucks, he’s remembered, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.

He finds Mingi lounging on a couch by the door. His hair is a little fucked up, most likely by the girl he’s sitting next to, pretty, olive-toned. Wooyoung recognizes her, and it’s for reasons Mingi wouldn’t enjoy hearing if he's planning on getting laid.

“Hey, baby.” He shoots a wink to the dark-haired woman, then looks at Mingi. “Yunho still here?”

“Oh my god, scandalous.” Mingi’s eyes flare with excitement. “Guess who he went home with?” Wooyoung shrugs, as if to say tell me, I guess. “Virgin.”

Wooyoung’s jaw drops. Mingi laughs, “I know, scandalous, right? He’s had a thing for her since the cuff party.”

“Like, went home together, as in they’re fucking right now?” Wooyoung asks, head shaking in disbelief.

Mingi shrugs, “That’s what it seemed like, I don’t know.”

“Ain’t no way,” Wooyoung laughs under his breath. “Good for her. Didn’t think she had it in her.”

He doesn’t really believe it. There’s no way that you have four bodies in total, and you not only hooked up with Wooyoung tonight, but you’re also hooking up with Yunho. There’s just no way. It’s too out of character, too bold, too… un-virgin-like. He’s going to have to think up a new nickname.

“I’m heading out.” He dips his chin toward Mingi, reaching out a hand for the older man to clasp. “See you.”

He doesn’t wait for Mingi’s returning see you before he turns again, the area around the front door sparse, less bodies, more space to walk through. He doesn’t spot Yeosang’s SUV where he parked it along the street, and he wonders if you and Yunho took it back to the house with the rest of them. 

“Need a ride?” He hears from feet away, a woman’s voice, one he knows.

Minatozaki Sana. He grins, skipping toward the SUV her head was hanging out of, realizing too late that it’s filled with people he’s had sex with. “Ladies,” he announces, nodding his head, looking in through the windows. “Seems we all have something in common.”

“Not me,” the dark-haired one says from the backseat. “Get in or don’t, I’m tired.”

Wooyoung doesn’t think twice about climbing into the backseat, sitting on the end, next to Momo. The drive is quiet for the most part, Sana focused as she drove, Nayeon in her passenger seat. In the back was the dark-haired woman, Momo, Chaeyoung, and Tzuyu who was sitting on the dark-haired one’s lap. A tight squeeze, but Wooyoung has fit in tighter, like Chaeyoung, sitting beside Momo.

She pulls up at the curb of his frat, parking the car, and not a single head turns to Wooyoung. It doesn’t feel hostile, though; every woman in this car was well aware who Wooyoung is when he fucked them. 

“Goodnight, ladies,” he teases as he climbs out of the passenger seat. He winks before closing the door, pointing at the tattooed, dark-haired woman in the middle, “Chae, text me later.”

The car erupts as he jogs away, and he smirks to himself, kinda wishing he could listen. He opens the front door with purpose and the living room is empty, the kitchen empty. He wonders if they’re in Yunho’s room. He doesn’t know why he’s tip-toeing up the stairs, or why he feels like he’s doing something wrong. He’s just curious.

He passes his room, tip-toeing further, praying to fucking god he doesn’t step on one of the squeaky parts of the floor. He just wants to know. He presses his back to the wall beside Yunho’s room, craning his head closer to the crack, straining to hear anything. A moan, a grunt, a whimper. Anything. 

But there’s nothing.

“The fuck are you doing?” 

He jumps, clasping a hand over his mouth, eyes almost falling out of their sockets. Hongjoong eyes him from across the hallway, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, completely confused.

“Nothing, fuck,” he mutters as he jumps away from Yunho’s door. “I wanted to see if he was still up.”

“No, he went back to that virgin girl’s house, the one you guys are always talking about.” He’s using his hand as he speaks, clearly annoyed like he’d just woken up. “I heard someone creeping, I thought we were getting robbed by one of your scorned hookups.”

“I don’t have any scorned hookups, asshole,” Wooyoung scoffs as he walks past him, towards his room. “They all know very well that I’m romantically unavailable.”

“Not all of them,” Hongjoong looks over his shoulder. “Trust me.”

“Virgin!”

Your brows furrow, head turning every which way in the midst of the maze, bodies surrounding you, none you recognize. It’s like a fucking nightclub and you’re in someone’s house. Can’t they get fined for this?

A hand on your wrist has you whipping around, ready to tell whoever it is to fuck off. Blonde hair greets you, sticking to his forehead, a loose tee leaving another sliver of skin before his baggy, wide-leg jeans. You yell over the music, “Do you have any shirts that fit you?”

“I like them this way!” Yunho yells back, his grin wide. “Are you okay?”

Your head tilts, brows furrowing. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Your blood that was boiling minutes ago seems to settle, slowing into something calmer. The heat shifts from arousal to the comfort of vodka, a warm blanket, like a hole was drilled into your head, setting the pressure free. 

He shakes his head, his shoulders relaxing. “Nothing. You look pretty.”

“Thanks, so do you,” you smile, head tilting, giddy all of the sudden. “I mean, not pretty, you look–”

“No, I’ll take it,” he cuts you off, still holding onto your wrist. “I like pretty. Yunjin was looking for you, but do you wanna dance?” You glance around to the crowd, it really is like a fucking nightclub. People are grinding, jumping to the music, like the beat was hypnotizing them all. You start to shake your head, but Yunho cuts you off, “Don’t say no.”

Your lips flatten, caught in the act. “I’m not a dancer!”

“Liar,” he yells back, his smile impossibly wider, brighter. He tugs on your wrist, dragging you further into the crowd and you giggle as if you weren’t just tweaking the fuck out. “Follow my lead.”

Finding an open spot between bodies, thighs still twitching and lacking their full strength, you follow his lead. His hips sway from side to side, and he watches as yours try to mimic his, focused. He pops a brow, “Follow my lead, don’t copy me.”

“What the fuck else does follow my lead mean?” you bark back, standing straight again, hands on your hips, unmoving.

“Your body is as stiff as your attitude,” he yells, shaking his head as he removes your hands from your hips, replacing them with his own. Your arms shoot upward, bent over your chest, eyes glued to where his hands swallow your hipbones, moving you closer to him, shifting you slightly to the side so your shoulders line up. “Now do it again.”

You bend your knees, arms lowering, eyes lifting to see him. He grins, “Try actually moving to the beat, Virgin.”

“Do you have to call me that, too?” you frown, but listen, waiting a beat to start swaying your hips again. “I’m suffering enough right now.”

“That’s what they all call you, San, Wooyoung.” Your cheeks feel hot at the sound of his name, that same burning kissing up your spine. Your back arches into the movement. Yunho grins, “There you go, you’re learning.”

Yunho’s leg between yours… if you lowered yourself just a little, you’d be transported to fifteen minutes ago, when you were grinding yourself against Wooyoung’s thigh. Is the mere mention of his name going to send you free diving into your memories for the rest of your life?

Yunho’s hands find your hips again, leaning close to your ear. “He’s here.”

“I know,” your brows furrow. I spent fifteen minutes with him in a sex room. “I saw him.”

“Is that why you stopped dancing on the counter?” Yunho pulls back, hands sliding up to your waist, keeping you moving. “Not a dancer, my ass. Who cares if he’s here? Let him see you.”

“Why would I stop because of Wooyoung?” you ask, running your hands through your hair, arching into Yunho’s touch, letting the music guide you instead.

Yunho’s brows furrow. “Wooyoung?”

Your smile is lazy, “Who else?”

“Your ex.” Yunho’s fully confused now. “Are you drunk?”

“Oh!” Your eyes blow wide, smile dropping. “Yes, yeah, I drank… I drank a lot.” Right right right, tonight started off with you worried about seeing Yeonjun. “I didn’t want to see him, it’s not that I didn’t want him to see me.”

“I saw him with another guy.” Yunho’s lips snag to one side. “Is that why you broke up?”

You nod. “Caught ‘em in bed together.”

Yunho’s jaw falls open, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you say in a sigh, head tipping backward, and somewhere deep inside you, you mean it. “At least I don’t have to marry him anymore.”

Yunho laughs, his grip on your waist tighter with your head dipped backward. “You don’t want to get married?”

“When I’m old enough,” you’re smiling as you bring your head upright, reaching for Yunho’s biceps. You think the vodka might be hitting you now. “I’m not old enough yet, just wanna have fun.”

“Are you having fun now?” Yunho sounds playful, teasing. He pulls you closer to him, your abdomen against his. “Dancing?”

You bring one hand up to his neck, palm grazing his soft, sweaty skin, wondering if he’s anything like Wooyoung. Does he view sex the same way? Something casual, fun, like a hobby? If he found out that your boyfriend never cared enough to make you finish, would he get on his knees for you, too?

There’s still an ache in the pit of your stomach, space Wooyoung’s fingers had left, you want more. The thrum beneath your skin that you’re confused, maybe even disgusted by, has the wires of your brain tangled, like all the rules you made for yourself no longer exist, a wall broken down. 

You nod, eyelids heavier, catching your bottom lip between your teeth. Yunho’s different from Wooyoung, softer, kinder. Like he’s capable of more than one night with a woman, he’s capable of feeling, he’s interested in knowing. He looks at you like he’s curious, like there’s more to you than the girl with a boyfriend, the girl who got cheated on, the Virgin. 

Wooyoung was just interested in seeing how fast he could make you finish, and Yeonjun was just interested in getting you out of his bed so Beomgyu could take your place. Yunho seems to be interested in you.

“Do you want something to… take your mind off the situation?” His cheeks turn a dusty rose color, clear under the lights that flicker white. His lips curl, “Or is dancing enough fun?”

“Is it bad if I do?” you find yourself asking. “Want a distraction?”

The distraction is for two completely separate purposes, you think.

He shakes his head, smile growing, leaning closer to you. “Is it bad that I’ve wanted to kiss you since the night of the cuff party?”

“I wish you had,” you whisper. “Trust me.”

He smiles before leaning in, pressing his lips to meet yours, and there’s a fraction of the haste Wooyoung used. It’s slow, a curious exploration, like he isn’t sure if you’re fully okay with this and he doesn’t want to push you too far. Your hand on his neck slides up into his hair, the other glued to his bicep following as his hands lead down to your hips, keeping you moving to the music. 

He tastes like beer, but there’s a sweetness to it, like he was chewing gum, or took a shot of something flavored. Your tongue slips between his lips, tasting him, bending toward him, you’re sure he can taste your desperation, your need. The part of you still left unsatisfied.

“You taste like vodka,” he whispers into your mouth, his lips still touching yours.

You smile, a breath of amusement tumbling off your lips, “Caught.”

He kisses you again, harder this time, using his height to tip you backward. Your hips tilt toward him, arms hooked around his shoulders, meeting his pace with a need of your own. His hands sneak around you, taking two fistfuls of your ass, grinding you into him and it forces a sharp gasp from your lips, a streak of red-hot warmth up your spine.

You’re too aware of the people around you. You need more, and you need it now, but you don’t need extra eyes watching it all unfold.

“Yunho,” you whisper through your panting.

“Mind all empty yet?” he muses, smiling.

Yes, this is about you. This is about you.

“No,” you bite your lip, pecking his lips again. “Gonna need more than that, I think.”

“Don’t worry,” he leans in close, teeth grazing the shell of your ear. “I’m good at making pretty girls go dumb.”

“Let’s go,” you blurt, hands finding his wrists, holding onto them. “Jen will stay out late, I wanna go, let’s go to my apartment.”

“Are you sure?” His brows raise, raising his arms you were still holding onto. “You– are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” You’re nodding rapidly, and maybe you’re trying to convince yourself, too. “You said you wanted to be my distraction, right?”

“I do, but you’re–”

“I’m fine,” you drop his wrists. “I promise. Let’s go.”

He nods, hands finding your shoulders, turning you around before he guides you through the crowd. With his height, he can see where to move, where the small pockets of space are, and there’s a part of you that kinda enjoys not having to think, that likes just being guided in the right direction, without having to figure out for yourself what it is.

“Those are my friends,” he says in your ear, guiding you toward four guys standing together. All pretty small, there’s one with bright, orange hair, a blonde one, a taller one with dark hair, and one you recognize from the night at the Penny.

The blonde sees you and Yunho first. “Good timing, if you’re looking for a ride.”

You can hear Yunho’s grin behind you, “We are, but it’s to her place.”

The brunette stares you down, brows knitted together like there are many pieces floating around and not one of them is being put together. You keep a small smile on your cheeks, not in the mood to explain.

Yunho puts his elbow on your shoulder, pointing at each one of the men in front of you. “Hongjoong, Yeosang, Seonghwa, Jongho.”

You nod, storing the information for later, and introduce yourself. Jongho asks, “Don’t they call you Virgin?”

Your lips flatten. “Unfortunately.”

The three other heads look up to Yunho, confused, maybe concerned. Yunho quickly fixes the misconception, “She’s not a virgin, Wooyoung came up with it.”

Then there’s a chorus of ah’s like that just makes sense to them or something. And knowing Wooyoung, you guess it makes sense to you, too. Fuck. You don’t want to think about him right now.

“Guys!” Another man approaches, massively tall like Yunho, but thicker with muscle. His hair is dark, short, choppy, in a hot way. The sunglasses sitting on the bridge of his nose are really doing something for you. He asks, “Have you guys seen Sannie?”

“I heard there’s a stripper pole in one of the side rooms,” Seonghwa responds, his voice cool, calm. “Check there.”

The man pushes his sunglasses over his head, and you realize he’s noticed you, standing small in front of Yunho. His eyes thin out as he asks, “Is this Virgin?”

Your lips flatten again. Does everyone know now? Is this becoming a thing?

“In the flesh,” you respond, then ask, “Who are you?”

“Mingi,” he says, grinning from ear to ear. “You’re really cute.” He looks up at Yunho. “She’s really cute.”

“I know,” Yunho says from behind you, matching Mingi’s tone, filled with giddiness. They must be close. Yunho turns to the rest of the group, “Are we going? Can we go?”

“Please,” Hongjoong says, already making for the front door.

It’s like they’re split down the middle, the introverted ones and the extroverted ones. Although, you don’t really think Wooyoung is extroverted, you think he might just be a whore. Fuck. You did it again.

Yeosang’s SUV is parked at the end of the driveway, you give him your address for him to put into the GPS after squeezing into the backseat, knee bouncing. In the crowd, with his lips, his hands on you, you were certain you wanted this. A thousand percent certain. Now, it’s more like… five hundred percent.

The ride to your apartment is quiet, Jongho already asleep by the time Yeosang dropped you off, even if the drive was only seven minutes long. Hongjoong looked like he was drifting, too, his eyes half open. You thanked Yeosang and climbed out, Yunho following you up to the second floor.

Your kitchen still had remnants of your pregame scattered across it, and you can only imagine what your bedroom looks like. Then it dawns on you that you had another man’s mouth on you an hour ago. 

“I’m gonna go freshen up,” you tell Yunho, hoping your smile doesn’t look nervous. You point to your door, “My bedroom is right through there.”

You skip into your bathroom, immediately turning on the shower and undressing. The water may be hot, but it might as well be ice cold with how reality is pouring over your head, and there’s a man in your fucking bedroom. A man you barely know. 

And you made him come here.

You shower quickly, washing the remnants of Wooyoung off of you, and then swish some mouthwash around, removing him from you completely. You feel better after, but there’s still a level of uncertainty that you can’t shake. 

In your towel, you walk back to your bedroom, and he’s poking around on your shelf, looking at all of your figures, your trinkets, your music albums. “Hi,” you say from the doorway, and he jumps back like you scared him. 

“Fuck,” he clutches his heart with a laugh. He points to your figures, “You like Jujutsu Kaisen?”

“No, I just love Gojo,” you tease, stepping into your room. “Have you seen the new season?”

“Yes,” his smile spreads, excitement in his eyes. Like a puppy. “Still don’t understand the Culling Games, though.”

“Then you aren’t reading enough Reddit threads,” you respond, tone snarky. His eyes sink down to your towel, your bare feet. Your lips scrunch to one side, heartbeat picking up, “Will you be mad at me if I maybe changed my mind?”

His face immediately bends into concern, “No, fuck no, are you kidding? Do you want me to go? Yeosang is definitely still awake, I can ask him–”

“No,” you interject. “I don’t know if it’s weird, and I understand if not, but… you don’t have to go. I just don't want to… do anything until I know you a little better, if that’s okay.”

He walks toward you with a genuine smile, one so comforting that it makes the unease in your chest disappear. “Of course that’s okay, it’s not weird at all. You’re lucky I saw the Gojo figures, though, ‘cuz I might have left if I didn’t know I’d be sleeping beside them.”

“Don’t fucking rob me.” You raise a finger between your bodies in warning. “I paid, like, four hundred bucks for the prison realm one.”

“Let me take a picture and I won’t,” he argues, raising a finger back at you. “Do you want me to step out while you change?”

“Oh.” You look down at your towel then back up at him. “Sure, whatever, that’s fine.”

He does step out while you change into a pair of shorts and a tee, clean ones you got from the clean pile of laundry in the corner of your room. That pile was growing smaller by the day. You climb into your bed, calling him back in, and he joins you so comfortably it’s almost like he belongs here. He radiates comfort, kindness, nothing like the fuckboy energy Wooyoung gives off, or the detached energy Yeonjun has. 

“Wanna watch TV? We can order a pizza or something,” you wonder, looking over at Yunho lounged out next to you, his arms behind his head, jeans still on his body. “I might have an old pair of Yeonjun’s sweatpants or something.”

You crawl off the bed without waiting for an answer, digging through your drawers. Finally finding an old pair of dark green sweatpants that were absolutely Yeonjun’s, you throw them at him, and he catches them swiftly as he sits up. “Are these from Urban?”

You shrug from the floor, “I dunno. They look long enough, though.”

Yunho stands, unbuckling his belt, then unzips his jeans. You know you should give him privacy, but he’s in briefs, and even soft– even soft he would probably tear you apart. He hears your intake of breath, looking up, then a smirk tugs at his lips as he pulls the sweats up his legs. “Are you peeping, you fuckin’ pervert?”

“I’m sorry!” you squeak, cheeks flushing, quickly looking away. 

“You can look,” he says coolly, his voice a genuine threat to your wellbeing. “I don’t mind.”

You still ache. “I’m just happy I got a warning.”

He laughs at that, from his chest, genuine. “You think you need one?”

You still don’t turn your head. “I know I do. I need… preparation for that.”

“Why so shy?” You hear the bed squeak like he’s laying back down, and reluctantly, you turn your head. He’s on his side, head propped up on his hand, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “First time seeing a dick in real life? Don’t tell me you’re really a virgin.”

“No, asshole,” you scowl, standing up, even though you know he’s joking. You press a knee to the mattress, crawling toward him. “Yours is just terrifyingly large.”

“Terrifyingly?” He grins, laying on his back as you crawl closer to him, the upper half of your body leaning over him. “I think you’ll be able to take it, when you’re ready. I’ll prepare you.”

“We were supposed to be hooking up,” you frown, sitting back on your calves. “I feel bad making you wait.”

He shakes his head, “I’m patient, and I like you. I don’t mind waiting.” His face drops after he realizes what he just said. “I know you just got out of a relationship, please don’t get freaked out. I mean I like you in a friendly way, not in a serious way, I’m not trying–”

You laugh, head dipping forward. “You basically just met me, Yunho.”

“I had a lot of time to snoop in here,” he answers, looking around your room. “I can tell you’re cool.”

“You can tell from my four hundred dollar Gojo figure?” You pop a brow, still laughing a little.

“That, and your music taste, and your other anime figures,” he grins. “Great music taste, great taste in anime, terrible taste in men. Besides me, of course.”

You laugh again, then decide to shut him up by leaning down, pressing a kiss to his lips. His hands come up to your cheeks as you kiss him deeper, moving your hair out of the way, shifting so you can crawl over him easier. Your tongue splits his lips and his knees bend, hands moving to your hips, shifting you forward to what you presume is away from his length.

You stop kissing him before it gets any heavier, and press your forehead to his. “You’re cool, too. For waiting.”

“Wooyoung is the only asshole in our frat,” he looks at you, his eyes honest, warm. “He shouldn’t represent the rest of us.”

The evil part of you hopes he represents them in the one area it matters.

“Let’s order pizza,” you smile, crawling off his torso.

masterlist 🍬

[taexual]

. . . e q u i l i b r i u m | 20

you’re the only light left in the room /// lany, soft

pairing: yeonjun x fem!reader

summary: it takes a long time to fully explore the thin line between love and hate. but seven minutes is a good start.

genre: academic rival!yeonjun / college au / enemies to lovers au / fake dating au

warnings: slow burn, mutual pining that finally explodes here, strong language, some angst, LOTS of fluff, SMUT so MDNI (caution: long and descriptive). oral (m & f receiving), switch!jjun meets switch!reader in a battle of which one will drive the other crazy faster, jjun is completely whipped

words: 13.7k

masterlist / read from the beginning

✦ • ─── MARCH 9, 2025. 3 PM (DAY 12)

Yeonjun woke to the weak Sunday afternoon light bleeding into his bedroom through the gap in the curtains, the odd hour pressing against his closed eyes.

He shifted faintly. One of his arms had gone dead, pins and needles coursing from his shoulder to his wrist. The other was caught in a confusing arrangement of warmth.

Last night returned to him in fragments, jumbled and out of order. First, your voice, a little hushed, right next to him. Then the smell of smoke from his Nissan. Beomgyu’s rain-slicked face. His mother’s piercing laughter.

He pried his eyes open.

Your face was inches from his, lashes resting against your cheeks, lips softened by sleep. There was something almost illicit about looking at you like this, as though he’d wandered somewhere cordoned off. Somewhere he should’ve kept his hands off the exhibits.

His gaze drifted lower, taking in the knot of your shared limbs: your legs tangled with his, his arm slung over your waist, your hand fisted loosely in the fabric of his shirt. It should’ve been awkward, too many elbows and knees.

It wasn’t.

He breathed in carefully, afraid that anything louder might wake you. You remained still, your breathing smooth and even.

He’d told you he thought he was in love with you last night. The memory struck him square in the chest, sharp enough that his fingers pressed tighter into your waist.

He couldn’t understand why he’d tried to soften it. Why he’d made it sound uncertain. Like he could be talked out of it.

He couldn’t be.

The fact sat solid and immovable inside his chest. He couldn’t really breathe around it. And he felt like you’d take one glance at him and see straight through his ribs.

He hadn’t decided if he was ready for that.

When you woke a few minutes later, you assumed Yeonjun to be asleep. He looked serene. Cosy. You could vaguely recall his snoring waking you in the night, and felt yourself smile.

You reached out, brushing your fingertips along his cheek, tentative and a little indulgent.

His eyes opened at the touch.

You startled so violently that he grabbed you on instinct, arms tightening as though you might otherwise tumble off the bed and vanish entirely.

“Hi,” he said, voice rough with sleep.

You stared at him for a moment, your thoughts pleasantly hazy.

“Hi,” you managed. “H-how’d you sleep?”

He had no idea. You looked half-awake beside him, your lips curved into a tired smile, and he tried to search his memory for dreams, for anything to prove he was really awake now, but found nothing at all.

“Very well,” he said. “You?”

You gave a weak nod. “Well.”

His hand slid down your spine, unthinking.

“Would it be alright,” he said, carefully casual, “if we stayed here all day?”

You didn’t know if he meant here as in his bed, or here as in his house. Here, perhaps, as in tangled together.

He’d said he thought he was in love with you last night.

Wherever here was, it had to include that.

“Yeah,” you said after a moment. “Think it would be.”

And so you stayed in bed, hardly speaking and mostly kissing, until your muscles ached for more room. Until your ankles cramped, your arms went numb, and the sheets twisted tightly around you.

Then you stayed in bed a little longer still, aware that this moment was already hardening into a memory even as it continued to happen.

• ─── MARCH 9, 2025. 7 PM (DAY 12)

You spent the rest of the evening downstairs, not talking about last night.

Instead, you were trying not to encourage Yeonjun’s persistent commentary about how the two of you were practically living together.

“We were here last weekend, too,” he insisted, stirring his tea far longer than necessary, “so statistically speaking—”

“Let’s not speak statistically,” you interjected.

“I’m just saying,” he said, tapping his spoon against the rim of the mug. “M’going to leave you a shelf in the fridge.”

You sighed. He grinned, completely undeterred, and went on, assigning you mugs (the white one with a frog) and household chores (making tea, considering you were the only one who remembered where the tea packages were).

Then, after setting the new world record for the latest breakfast, you relocated to his living room. The house had cooled significantly while you were upstairs, and the overcast evening didn’t help the matter.

You mentioned the chill once.

“I could light the fireplace,” Yeonjun suggested immediately, already halfway to his feet.

“It’ll be too much—”

He lit it before you finished.

Resigned, you slumped onto the sofa. The fire hissed and popped in the fireplace below the bar, settling into a steady crackle. The bottles on the mirrored shelves above it caught every spark. The heat sank into your bones until you felt pleasantly overdone, like a loaf of bread left a minute too long in the oven.

Yeonjun brought out a bowl of grapes and a plate of chocolates. He plopped down on the sofa beside you and graciously allowed you to pull up the PDF for tomorrow’s lecture on your phone. He swore, hand over heart, that he wouldn’t distract you from your reading.

So, he lay with one shoulder propped against the cushions, legs stretched out onto the nearest armchair. The giraffe toy he’d got during your zoo trip sat on his lap. His fingers tapped an absent rhythm against your thigh as he stared into the fire as if he were expecting a call from Sirius Black himself.

The brace on his wrist irritated him on principle. He held his hand like it was an object rather than an actual limb: adjusting it, lifting it, setting it down again.

“Does it hurt?” you asked, glancing up from your phone.

He dropped his hand between you on the plush velvet, searching for an angle that didn’t pull.

“No,” he said. He’d taken an ibuprofen after breakfast; it hadn’t done anything yet. “Are you finished?”

You’d hardly started. But the hopeful tilt of his lips was awful for your sense of responsibility.

You locked your phone. “Let’s pretend I am.”

“Perfect,” he said, tossing the giraffe toy into the corner of the sofa. “Talk to me about something. Oh! Actually, let’s play 21 Questions.”

You squinted, trying to work out how long he’d been plotting to suggest this.

“What is it,” you said, “with you and Nara and these childish games?”

“Hey,” he said, affronted. “Our relationship started with a childish game in my wardrobe.”

“Feel like it started in the workshop.”

“For me,” he said, reaching for a handful of grapes on the coffee table, “it started in my wardrobe.”

The grin on his lips implied that he brought up the wardrobe to fluster you. The soft glint in his eyes, however, implied something else.

“Come on,” he encouraged after you didn’t reply. “21 Questions.”

You breathed out slowly.

You did, you supposed, have things you’d have liked to ask him.

“Fine,” you said. “We can play.”

His grin stretched wider as he chewed the grapes, sweeter now that he had your full attention.

“Great. I’ll start,” he said, glancing past you at the curtains. They fluttered faintly with each breath of heat from the fire. “Why’d you date your ex?”

You lifted your brows. “Starting off strong, I see.”

Yeonjun shrugged and pushed his legs off the armchair, dropping them to the floor. He had more to add to his question, and he needed to be in a dignified position when he added it.

“What was it,” he barrelled on, swallowing the grapes, his fingers pinched together, “about the bonehead that charmed you? His philosophical belief that he’s better than everyone?”

“You think you’re better than everyone, too.”

“I know,” he said. “S’why I’m asking. Seeing if this is a pattern with you.”

You snorted, smoothing your palms over the cotton of the sweatpants he’d given you. A stray piece of lint caught on your ring, and you flicked it off.

“Alright,” you said. “Well, his name’s Lewis, and—”

“Shit name.”

You shot him a look. “Do you want me to answer or not?”

He raised both hands and did not say anything else.

“Right.” You gathered your legs closer. Your phone slid off your lap and dropped to the cushion beside you. “First of all, he was very good-looking.”

Yeonjun scoffed on instinct.

You turned your glare on him.

“Sorry,” he said. “Go on.”

You leaned back against the cushions.

“He was hardworking,” you said. “Very career-minded. More than relationship-minded, which I respected, initially. I just didn’t realise how unbalanced it all was with him. He, uh, wasn’t great at communicating. But we had a similar sense of humour. And he had a nice smile.”

“Oh, I bet,” Yeonjun said dryly. “Probably why he rationed it.”

“He—yeah,” you conceded. “He didn’t smile much. Awkward in public, in general. Crowds overwhelmed him. He’d get irritable. And instead of dealing with all that himself, he made it everyone else’s problem.”

You glanced at Yeonjun again, bracing for a snarky comment about how you should’ve seen this coming.

He only nodded instead.

“So,” you said, “there were things I admired at first. But I think I built him up too much in my head. Turned potential into personality. And he couldn’t live up to that. No one could, probably.”

He hummed, thoughtful.

“Not your fault for expecting better,” he said. “He put a good face on. Why wouldn’t you believe it?”

You gave a half-shrug, half-nod. It didn’t matter much now anyway. It’d been over two years.

“How long were you together?” he asked.

“Oh.” You needed to think; the memory had dulled. “About six months? Maybe seven.”

“Did you love him?”

You laughed before you could think of it. Yeonjun was visibly taken aback.

“Of course not,” you said, as though that was obvious. “We saw each other maybe once a week, always on his terms. Towards the end, we’d just get coffee and sit in silence the entire time. It was fairly regular, but, uh—sort of like a timetable. Felt like that, too. Like an old routine, and not a proper relationship.”

Yeonjun was relieved only for a second.

He hadn’t actually dated Amy. But if he had been dating someone for seven months, he couldn’t fathom not falling in love, unless there was barely anything to work with from the start. Yet you claimed you were attracted to this guy once.

Yeonjun wasn’t sure what that meant for him.

“My turn, I guess,” you said. “Have you ever thought about what kind of relationship you’d want? If it wasn’t fake, I mean.”

He scoffed, plucking a grape from the bowl.

He’d thought a lot about relationships. Mostly, though, he’d thought about you.

“Right,” he said. “Yeah. Funnily enough, the relationship not being fake is pretty much my only requirement.”

“How many of yours were real?”

He was quiet long enough for you to assume he was counting exes.

He wasn’t.

“Well,” he said, chewing on a persistent grape skin. “This is the closest I’ve come.”

He looked up as he swallowed, and the fire caught in his eyes, bright against the dim of the room.

“That’s actually quite sad,” you said.

He snorted. “Not really. M’alright with it.”

You didn’t have an answer to that.

He hadn’t expected one.

“I was never really looking for much, though,” he said, returning to your initial question. “Just driving around with someone, the music up. Guessing which song’s coming on next. Drawing ink tattoos on each other.”

He didn’t look away from you as he spoke, noting the way your eyes dropped to the corner of the sofa.

“In the rain,” you said. “Yeah?”

His heart performed a cheerful leap. “Of course, yeah. With biscuits.”

“Hmm. Cherry-flavoured.”

“Yeah.”

Your smile looked very comfortable against your cheeks when you looked up.

Yeonjun could almost smell rain—that specific downpour; he could tell apart every single rain he’d got into with you—in the room. Could almost feel the lopsided spider web you’d drawn on his neck.

“Well,” you said then, “that’s not much at all.”

He nodded, pleased. “I think so.”

The room descended into a fleeting hush. Firelight danced on the edges of the glass bowl, caressing every grape.

“I’ve got a bit of a serious question now,” Yeonjun said. “That okay?”

You gave him a sceptical look. “The one before wasn’t?”

“Not as serious as this one.”

“Alright.” You bent down to set your phone safely on the table. “Go ahead, then.”

“Why do you care so much about what people think of you?” he asked. “You didn’t use to.”

He watched you look away before he’d even finished the question.

He remembered the first time he’d met you, down in that basement before class, the corridor cold and damp. Remembered the flirtatious joke he’d made without thinking, the one that probably earned him your immediate dislike. Fair enough.

Back then, you’d been terribly unimpressed with everything. Sharp-tongued and allergic to everyone’s nonsense, not just his. Never softened your opinion or humoured anyone.

He’d loved that about you.

It had been later that you’d started smoothing yourself down. Smiling more. Second-guessing your words. Making sure you left a good impression, even when the light had drained from your eyes.

You’d been doing it for so long now that you couldn’t even answer his question properly.

“Well,” you said at last, fingers tapping absently against the sofa. “I didn’t really have friends before uni. I had my family and my cows, and—”

“Violet?” he cut in.

You turned to him. “Yeah. Violet was—she was just a calf back then. Think I was thirteen when she was born. Cinnamon was my best friend at the time, but Violet—” Your expression softened into a smile. “She was so sweet. Followed me around the field like a puppy. Always made sure—alright. Anyway. Not about the cows.”

Yeonjun tucked his legs beneath himself.

“I like hearing about the cows,” he said.

You cleared your throat. “Then you should’ve asked about them.”

He smiled. “Mhmm. Go on, then.”

“Right.” You drew in a breath. “Well, at first, the kids at school did ask me to go to the films with them over the weekend. Or bowling. Or whatever else they were doing. I always said no. Had to study. Needed a scholarship to get into university. And I had my cows anyway. Thought I didn’t need anyone else.”

You fell into a pause, suddenly feeling as though your body took up half the room. Yeonjun nodded, uncharacteristically patient.

“But, uh—I never really learned how to interact with others,” you continued. “I only knew how to argue. How to always be right. And it—I mean, I was surrounded by my family: aunts, uncles, cousins. They couldn’t leave even if I refused compromise.” You chuckled dryly. “Well, 99% chance, anyway.”

The self-deprecating twist of your mouth made him wince. He tried not to think of your mother so he wouldn’t say something he shouldn’t have.

“I had this enormous superiority complex,” you said. “A bit like you in that regard, actually.”

He blinked, then immediately tsked. “Alright.”

You snickered. “Anyway. So, uh, I was always arguing with my classmates, ordering them around, refusing to go out with them. And that—well, that was probably when they decided I thought too much of myself. Too good for them and whatnot. I can’t really blame them. So they stopped inviting me after that. Stopped talking to me altogether. Started whispering.”

Your gaze dropped back to the carpet, grey and uncomfortably clean.

Memories of your old school came back to you in pieces: maths class, where you’d asked to borrow a classmate’s notes, and she’d pointedly pretended not to hear you. The canteen, where you’d been left out of everyone’s conversation about some birthday party because you hadn’t been invited. The corridors, and the snickering behind you that cut off the moment you turned around.

Partially your own fault, you knew. But hurtful anyway.

“And then I came here,” you continued after a long moment. “And I was suddenly surrounded by new people. Reina, especially.” You let out a soft breath. “She just—she draws people in. And I was—well, cold. It was the first time I thought, shit. She might change her mind about me. Not that she would—she’s an angel. But she already had her circle. Why would she need me?”

You swallowed, the words catching at the back of your throat.

Yeonjun felt his fingers tighten against the brace on his wrist. He was starting to understand.

“So,” you continued, “I started to realise that I really wanted that. Wanted to stay in Reina’s circle. Wanted my own circle, too.”

He nodded, more slowly. “Makes sense.”

Your fingers traced the seams on the cushions. You remembered how desperately you’d wanted to be more easy-going back then. How difficult it’d been at first, swallowing back your arguments, practising peace and serenity.

You’d worked very hard on it.

It was ingrained now.

“It feels fake sometimes,” you said, “how hard I try not to come across as off-putting. Or difficult. Feels a bit like begging everyone to like me. But, uh, you know. It’s nice when they do.”

Yeonjun turned his gaze towards the fireplace.

“Everyone here loves you,” he said, watching the fire tick quietly. “I mean, Taehyun’s obsessed. I—for a while, I actually thought he had a crush on you.”

You waved a dismissive hand. “He’s like that with everyone. Too nice for his own good.”

Yeonjun snorted but had to concede. Taehyun did accidentally make friends wherever he went. That was why he and Beomgyu could not be trusted alone together; they’d end the night by adopting someone.

“Reina, then,” he said. “You didn’t have to win her over.”

“Well, she loves most peop—”

“Sure,” he cut in. “But she loved you before you started trying.”

You forced yourself to exhale more slowly.

He would’ve kept going, you knew. Would’ve found examples of people who liked you before you’d subconsciously trained yourself into being agreeable and accommodating. And he would’ve had a point. But you would’ve kept disagreeing anyway.

“Right,” you said instead. “Yeah.”

Yeonjun did not add anything else. He knew that simply pointing this out wouldn’t magically stop you from bending into shapes that made others comfortable.

“So, then,” he said, lighter now, “I’m kind of like a cow to you, too.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I mean, you don’t worry about what impression you’ll leave on me.”

Your initial surprise melted into an amused smile.

“Alright,” you said. “I guess you are like a cow.”

He grinned, delighted. He thought he’d given himself a big compliment; you obviously cherished your cows above all else.

You stared at the armchair and considered what that meant, speaking freely with Yeonjun. You’d never cared before. But now you worried, for just a second, that you’d been taking him for granted, too. Assuming he’d keep showing up, keep badgering you, keep suggesting absurd games—because he always had.

And you worried, then, that you’d have to start adjusting for him, too: tone first, then posture, then everything else. So that he wouldn’t stop. Wouldn’t leave.

You cleared your throat and tugged at the sleeve of your t-shirt, dragging a hand down your arm.

“My turn,” you said. The room perked up again, the fire popping louder in front of you. “What do you want to do in the future? After graduation, I mean.”

Yeonjun drew in a large breath.

He remembered you telling his parents you’d be going for a PhD. He wished he felt that sort of certainty. For him, the future felt obscure and inevitable. Like he’d wake up one morning, and it’d already be here. And he’d have to make sense of whatever he’d ended up with.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Think I just want the freedom to decide it at all.”

You nodded. You’d already expected his parents to be part of his answer.

“And if you had it?” you asked.

He pursed his lips, thinking, and let his head fall against the back of the sofa.

“I like cars,” he said. “M’too pretty to be a mechanic, though, so—”

“Mechanics are pretty.”

He raised his head again, glaring. “Which ones?”

You snorted. “I mean in general.”

He held your gaze for another second, then dropped his head back with a quiet, theatrical huff.

“Maybe that, then,” he said. “Automotive design’s interesting, too. Ergonomics.” He paused, foot tapping against the armchair cushion. “Would make my Sociology degree useless, though.”

“Not necessarily,” you said, gaze sliding over the coffee table. A bead of water from the grape bowl had darkened the wood. “Data analysis, vehicle performance. Consumer trends, I don’t know. M’sure there’s overlap.”

He turned to look at you again.

Your words had struck something. For a moment, he could see his future shaping out: himself at a workstation, headphones on. Cars blurring past on a track in front of him. You, sitting beside him, watching him work, looking a little bored. Later, him driving you to your doctoral classes. Listening to you rehearse defending your dissertation. Going back—

He swallowed and faced forward again. All of his fingers were numb.

“Yeah,” he said. “Guess something like that could work.”

“No driving, though?” you said. “Don’t want to race in the future?”

He let out a resigned breath. “No. Think m’getting old.”

You hummed. “Retiring after last night seems sensible.”

He grunted in a way that almost resembled a laugh. Both of you glanced down at his braced wrist at the same time.

“Alright, s’my turn, then,” he said before the moment could settle. He leaned over to grab a handful of grapes and rolled them in his palm. “At that party, years ago—”

He paused as you squeezed your eyes shut and exhaled through your teeth, already knowing where this was going.

“—at the arguable peak of your hatred for me,” he went on, undeterred, “your friends made you choose between Beomgyu and me.” He waited until you opened your eyes again. “Why’d you pick me?”

“You’re violating our previous agreement to never speak of this again,” you said, staring resolutely at the corner of the table.

“Taboo questions are allowed,” he said. “Won’t mention this again outside of 21 Questions. I swear.”

You rolled your eyes, no longer trusting his promises about this, and rested your chin on your knee, arms looped around your ankle.

“I already told you why anyway,” you said. “Beomgyu was with whipped cream, and I—”

“You don’t like whipped cream,” he finished. “I know. But I don’t buy that it was the whole reason. You could’ve easily endured whipped cream to avoid me. Why not, then? Why pick me, even hypothetically?”

Each why prompted a deeper sigh from you.

“Knew you started this game just to get me to inflate your ego,” you mumbled.

“Of course.”

“Then you already know the answer.”

“I don’t,” he said, a lying grin on his lips. “S’why I asked.”

You let your knee drop and slumped back, gazing at the ceiling while you calculated the damage your answer might do to your dignity, as well as the statistical likelihood of Yeonjun ever letting this go.

You knew that the longer you stalled, the more excited he’d get.

“Alright,” you said reluctantly.

He immediately scooted closer, cheeks bulging with grapes. “M’lithening, luff.”

“I thought,” you said, “that aside from your insufferable arrogance and your compulsive need to comment on absolutely everything, you—you were very attractive.”

His triumph was too large to be contained by his face. The ten grapes he’d stuffed into his mouth didn’t help, of course.

“Damn—” he swallowed with an audible gulp, “—a very in there, too.”

“Was that news to you?”

“That I was very attractive?” he clarified. “No. That you thought I was very attractive? Also no. But I am extremely pleased to hear you admit it.”

Scoffing, you turned away.

He laughed and bounced once on the sofa. The cushions dipped, nudging you closer until your shoulder knocked against his.

“When’d you first realise I was very attractive, then?” he went on, crossing his legs and reaching for another grape. “Was it when I gave that presentation on Skinner, first year? Think that was very good for me.”

Your sigh—so ample, so gorgeous—nearly made him swallow the grape whole, just so he could laugh faster.

You remembered his presentation on Skinner. He’d decided to wear a suit for it. You’d left midway through the seminar for a dentist’s appointment.

“It’s a very interesting story, actually,” you said. Your heart evidently had no plans to calm down. “Unfortunately, it’s too long, so let’s go back to—”

“Never once in my life have I had plans more important than hearing this.”

You pressed your tongue against the roof of your mouth.

“You’re getting two questions in a row, actually,” you said. “It was my tur—”

“The rules allow piggybacking,” Yeonjun replied smoothly, “provided the follow-up question meaningfully contributes to the original.”

“That—” You laughed, surprised by how quickly he’d summoned what sounded like a quote from the Official Rulebook of 21 Questions. “Okay, wow.”

He nodded. “Let’s hear it, then.”

You wiped at the corner of your right eye. Your sigh, if that was possible, seemed even deeper now.

His smile grew wider. He wasn’t going to quit staring until you gave in.

You figured, begrudgingly, that you’d have to give in. He hadn’t evaded your questions, after all. He’d answered all of them, short and questionable as his answers had been.

Still, you paused, out of spite for his pushiness, and reached for a chocolate, then waited for it to start melting before you dropped it into your mouth. Yeonjun followed the process with rapt attention, as though this were part of your answer.

“Right, then,” you said at last. His heart ran a quick victory lap around his chest. “Remember how we met?”

He gasped. “You wanted me back then already?”

“I didn’t want—okay.” You exhaled slowly. “Just answer the question.”

Delighted by your rising irritation—it usually meant good things for him—he leaned back.

“I remember,” he said. “Outside class. I sat next to you on the sofa. You were on your pho—”

“Yeah,” you cut in. You didn’t want the memory sharpening between you. “I saw you come in. You were late, everyone was already there. Hard to miss.”

“Right.”

“Right. So you came in,” you continued, “and I was—okay. No.”

You slapped both palms flat against the sofa. The vibration travelled through the cushions and into his ribs.

He watched you breathe in, hold it for a few seconds, then breathe out.

“Debating if you’d rather die than tell me?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He laughed again, inexplicably thrilled.

“Come on,” he prodded. “Can’t be that bad.”

You shook your head, not comforted in the least.

“Some context first,” you decided. “Maybe that’ll make this easier.”

“Wonderful,” he said, radiant. “Continue.”

You debated relocating to the armchair first, just so your skin would stop burning from his close proximity.

Then again, you didn’t want to give him even more satisfaction.

“So, uh, Reina and I had met a few weeks before all this,” you began. “We weren’t very close yet, but Reina doesn’t really do acquaintances. You’re either fully in, or you don’t exist to her. Luckily, I was in.”

Yeonjun nodded, smirking. Reina hadn’t bothered to acknowledge him in any way until a good couple of months into her and Soobin’s relationship. And even then, it had been out of necessity—she’d lost Soobin somewhere in the house (he’d accidentally locked himself in the upstairs bathroom).

“So, even back then,” you said, “it already felt like I’d known her for years. And one night, we went out for drinks. And we ended up inventing this stupid game.”

Yeonjun raised his eyebrows, impressed, and already geared up to protest your judgment of his games when you clearly had your own.

“We were talking about middle school, I think,” you went on. “About how having crushes used to be so silly. So fun. All the giggling, the whispered recaps with friends. Taking the long way to class just to maybe see them for three seconds. That whole thing. You know.”

Yeonjun didn’t, actually, know. He’d gone to a private school where boys and girls occupied separate buildings. Most of his giggling had come when he started university.

“Yeah,” he said. “Sure.”

“Yeah.” You paused to wet your lips. He didn’t even try to hold back from following your tongue with his eyes. “Reina was still with her ex then, but they were already barely talking. And she was miserable about missing that fizzy feeling of having a crush.” You scratched lightly at your neck. “So, I, uh—I suggested she found a campus crush. Nothing serious, just someone she finds cute. Someone we could giggle about.”

Yeonjun’s eyes didn’t leave your face.

“She loved the idea,” you said. “Then she told me to find one, too. And somehow, that turned into an argument about which one of us was more likely to find someone on campus cute. We have—see, we have very high standards.”

He leaned forward, nodding. “Of course.”

“Hmm.” You tried to force your lips back into a straight line. “So we made it a competition, sort of. Whoever found a crush first lost.”

He blinked. “Wait. Lost?”

“Yeah,” you said. “It was dumb. For example, Reina would go for coffee after class, and I’d get a text from her, like, ‘considering losing our game…’ and then, five minutes later, ‘false alarm, he didn’t leave a tip.’”

“Oh.” He laughed softly. “Okay, I see the vision. Loser is the one with the crush. Because the winner supposedly has higher standards.”

“Yeah. It was all a joke,” you said, because it was important for it all to be a joke. “And so, uh, a few weeks after that, I was sitting in that basement, scrolling on my phone. And you walked in.”

Yeonjun went very still. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You sighed softly. “I texted Reina immediately.”

“What did you say?”

“I said, ‘I lost.’”

The sound he made was half laugh, half sharp inhale. “Wow.”

You closed your eyes, bracing yourself.

“So, not even considering losing,” he said. “Just straight up lost.”

You clicked your tongue. “Well—”

“Wait—so—wait, wait.” He shifted, momentarily forgetting his injured wrist as he wrestled the cushion into a more comfortable position. “So, you had a crush on me? Because that was your whole game.”

“I mean,” you said, “for about two minutes maybe. Then you opened your mouth, and it passed.”

He ignored the last part completely and stared into the dim living room, both stunned and incandescently pleased. Like some impoverished orphan who’d just discovered he was the long-lost prince of a faraway kingdom.

“Shit,” he said, a persistent grin plastered across his face. “You had a crush on me.”

“For two minutes.”

“A crush is a crush.”

“It really only means that my standards aren’t that—”

“No take-backs!”

You pressed your lips together, your eyes rolling back at the ceiling. The fine cracks in the plaster looked like they were trying to escape this room, too.

“Knew you’d be like this,” you muttered.

Yeonjun didn’t think he’d be able to fall asleep at any point in the foreseeable future. So he did the most logical next thing and tried to learn more.

“Did Reina ask who your crush was?”

“Of course.” You leaned down to tug your socks up your ankles. “I didn’t tell her. I texted, ‘never mind, he started talking and turned out to be an idiot. Forget I said anything.’ That was it.”

His laughter burst out of him, loud and bright and completely unrepentant.

“So she still doesn’t know it was me,” he said.

“No,” you said. “She lost the game later anyway, because, uh, Soobin.”

“Of course, yeah.”

You didn’t look at him, but you could sense his grin beside you, practically sentient, nestling into the sofa between you.

You shook your head in quiet disapproval, which only fueled his laughter further.

“Alright, moving on,” you said pointedly. “So you’re not planning on staying in academia, right?”

The spark dulled in his eyes at the change in topic. “Right.”

“Then why’d you agree to host the undergrad workshop with me?” you asked. “Sounds like a spectacular waste of your time.”

Yeonjun stopped feeling so utterly elated. He could still feel the grapes, though, heavy on the way to his stomach.

This was, he realised, not that big of a change in topic, after all.

“Well,” he said, “it’s actually a very interesting story, too.”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” he said. “Deeply.”

“Mhmm.”

“I, uh—I didn’t exactly agree,” his gaze flickered to you, “so much as I… asked if I could.”

You frowned. “What?”

“Yeah.” His focus shifted to the sofa. “It got a bit awkward. They thought I wanted to host instead of you.”

Still baffled, you turned towards him. Your foot nudged his knee.

“But you didn’t?” you asked. “They’d have clearly given it to you. And why—”

“I wanted to do it with you,” he said, turning to his side. His words were casual, disproportionate to the complete hassle it was, inserting himself into your workshop. “Seemed like a good excuse to spend more time around you. Poke the bear a little.”

You pursed your lips. “I’m the bear, then?”

He laughed before he could stop himself. “I meant the situation. Our relationship. But you are very fun to poke, love.”

“Mhmm.”

“So, yeah, I, uh—I told them that I’d be a great asset to the class,” he recalled. “Said you’d regret not having me there. They knew I pulled that out of my ass, by the way. But, well, I’m Choi Yeonjun.” He paused. His name had sounded less triumphant than it used to. “They couldn’t refuse me.”

You glanced back at the fireplace.

You remembered running into Professor Kang with Yeonjun once, right after the workshop. Remembered the professor saying that everyone on the faculty had been worried about you two. He’d called it a gamble, choosing two students to host.

You’d been very confused.

“Shit,” you said with a disbelieving scoff as the realisation dawned on you. “Professor Kang implied they hadn’t anticipated including you.”

Yeonjun remembered Professor Kang, too. He’d practically suffocated that day.

“Right,” he said. “Well—”

“But then he assumed we were a couple,” you recalled, “and I forgot—”

“He assumed we were a lovely couple.”

You shot him a sidelong look. “Right. So you just didn’t want me to have the workshop.”

“No,” he replied. “I wanted you to have it. I just didn’t want to be somewhere else while you were doing it.”

Groaning softly, you slouched back against the sofa, your face warm from the fire.

This wasn’t about academic recognition for him, then. Wasn’t about overshadowing you. Wasn’t about your lack of authority on your own.

“You’re such a pain in my ass,” you said, so warmly that you might as well have complimented him outright. “Have I mentioned that?”

“You have, yeah,” he said, trying to keep a straight face. His hands lay uselessly at his sides. Carefully, he tucked them beneath his thighs, mindful of the brace.

You didn’t say anything else, and he didn’t, either.

He was waiting for you to meet his eyes first.

You didn’t.

“Clearly,” he said finally. “I had a problem. Had it for a while, I’ve told you. Think the wardrobe only made it worse.”

His words lacked the weight to drown the room, but they still pressed hard on your chest as you sorted the timeline in your head.

Soobin’s birthday in undergrad. Then Yeonjun had organised the workshop. Then, the wardrobe happened. Then, whatever this was.

It was fairly obvious, in retrospect.

A part of you had already deduced what his problem was, as much as you’d tried to argue with Reina and rationalise it all away.

That same part of you wondered how big your own problem was.

“Right,” you said. Through your peripherals, you noticed his foot tapping against the floor, keeping time with your pulse. “The bet was a very dumb way to make that problem better, then.”

He snorted. “Yeah. I know that now.”

“Hmm.”

The silence in the living room started to grow texture, ridges and lumps, each one leading somewhere dangerous.

Yeonjun could almost see the memory of what he’d said to you last night lighting up behind your eyes.

“Why, um,” he began, his hands unsteady, “why’d you agree, though? With the bet. If you only had a crush on me for two minutes, and hated me from then on.”

Frowning, you turned even further away from him.

“And,” he added, “you can’t say s’because I’d be out of the workshop if I lost.”

“Why not?” you replied. “You would be.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Why is it not—”

“Come on,” he cut in, tone nearly pleading. “Give me the real reason.”

You ran your tongue over the inside of your teeth and tried to organise your thoughts into the most neutral explanation you could manage.

“Fine,” you said. “Aside from the great benefits should you lose, I thought you made an interesting proposition. From a purely scientific standpoint. A ridiculous hypothesis with an even more ridiculous time frame. I wanted to see how you’d attempt to prove it.”

“Ah,” he said, a small smile appearing on his lips. “So I’m a research project.”

Your lips quirked. “Sure.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you want to see me attempt to prove it?”

Your smile faltered.

“It’s a ridiculous hypothesis,” he went on, his gaze steady. “Nonsense. Why let me try?”

“You weren’t expecting me to?” you returned.

“I—” He blinked. “I don’t know. S’pose I hoped you would. Didn’t really think about what I’d do if you didn’t. Probably would’ve kept annoying you until you agreed.”

You’d expected as much. “Maybe s’why I did. To save us both the time. You kept insisting I was scared, too, which I clearly wasn’t.”

“Hmm.” He tapped his foot against the floor once, twice, then paused. “That’s it, then?”

His question cracked at the end. He didn’t care to hide the disappointment.

You studied him for one long second.

“You’re really asking,” you said, “whether I liked you a little bit already. More than just for those two minutes. Want to know how much potential you had to win this bet from the start, yeah?”

“Not how much,” he corrected, stubbornly holding his breath just to see how long he’d last. “Just whether there was any potential at all.”

Your throat tightened.

This bet was so stupid.

“There was,” you said.

The sofa swam beneath him.

All his earlier emotions twisted into something weightless in his stomach, like he’d been dropped from a very tall height. Like he’d skimmed the white line at the side of the road once more. Aquaplaning, yet again.

He still wasn’t breathing.

“Yeah?” he asked, barely audible.

“Yeah.”

At last, he gasped for breath.

“Alright,” he decided. “Fuck.”

It was, he figured, the most succinct summary he could manage. His hands lay useless at his sides.

You weren’t looking at him.

He thought you sat awfully far from him: close enough to see, but too far to feel your warmth. He wondered, vaguely, if he wouldn’t pass out if he tried to reach you.

“I, um…” You rubbed your palm over the armrest. “It’s my turn.”

He looked up carefully. “Yeah?”

“Did you mean what you said last night?”

His stomach took a plunge. It was more than it could reasonably afford, already lounging at his feet as it was. He drew another measured breath, hoping that oxygen would talk some sense into his pulse.

“I did,” he said.

You didn’t laugh. Didn’t bolt for the door.

That felt promising.

Emboldened, he added, “how did—how does that make you feel?”

You looked down, fingers tracing the velvet lines of the sofa.

There were words somewhere in your head. Words you could’ve even used to formulate a response. Perfectly good ones, really. They refused to line up for you.

You realised you’d asked Yeonjun about his feelings for you a fair few times before. And, each time, you’d answered the question yourself.

Technically, the bet was about you falling in love with him.

It hadn’t said anything about him getting there first.

“You said—you said you believed me,” Yeonjun offered quietly.

“Yeah.” You swallowed. “I did. I do. Just trying to make sense of it.”

Hope flickered across his face when you looked up at him, if only for a second.

You realised you probably wouldn’t have said anything you were about to say if he didn’t look as though the world might end any minute.

“The thing is,” you said, “I always pictured you as the exact sort of person I’d loathe. From the moment we met, I thought—oh, you flirt carelessly. Just fuck around. All charm and no consequence.”

He smiled without meaning to, only proving your point.

“And in class,” you continued, “you stole answers and still got the credit. You were dismissive. Honest, yeah, but it always veered into rudeness. You sort of—sort of reminded me of me, I guess. Except I’d trained myself out of being blunt. You hadn’t. So I-I really wanted not to like you.”

Yeonjun did not know what to do with himself. He was half-convinced he’d left his body upstairs this morning.

“But, obviously, I thought you were attractive,” you said, rolling your eyes for emphasis. He fell a little more in love with you at that. “And I think I knew, even back then, how easy it would be, if you ever got your pride under control, to feel something real for you.”

His breath caught. His fingers twitched against the cushions.

“Have I got it under control?” he asked.

“Not really.”

“Oh.”

“But I learned that you’re a lot more than that first impression,” you said. “And I’m prideful, too.”

Breathless, he watched the fire reflected in your gaze and didn’t ask if he’d changed your mind. Didn’t ask about the bet.

Actually, he wasn’t thinking about the bet at all.

He was thinking about the colour of your eyes. Thinking about how clearly he could hear your breathing, and how much he wanted to make it his own.

He knew, dimly, that if he waited any longer, he’d never stop thinking.

“Love,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“I’m going to kiss you.”

Your smile made his hands shake. His legs, too. Actually, if he was perfectly honest, he thought his entire body was vibrating at a rapidly increasing frequency.

You nodded. “Kiss me.”

He leaned in.

The kiss was hurried and unpolished, his body rushing ahead before his mind could follow. And you kissed him back like you’d been waiting for it.

His heart swelled painfully.

His hands sought your waist, drawing you closer. When your fingers brushed his chest, something deep within him lurched, almost violently, before righting itself again. His mind was in a right spin.

He breathed you in, giddy, absurdly certain that if he loosened his grip, even a little, he might float clean off the sofa and never quite come back down. He’d hang about the curtain rod, then. Take you up with him, too.

He nudged you backwards until the back of your head met the cushions, gentle but unmistakably purposeful. One of his thighs settled between your legs, warm enough to steal the breath out of your lungs and keep it for himself.

“No more questions, then?” you asked, your smile teasing against his lips.

“No,” he breathed in a husky murmur. “Think you’ve already driven me completely insane.”

“Completely?” you repeated, hands rising to cradle his jaw, your fingertips sliding to the back of his neck.

“Mhmm.”

“So there’s nowhere left to go, then.”

He drew back to catch his breath, forehead resting briefly against yours. “Oh, plenty else to go, love.”

“Yeah—?”

The word barely escaped your lips before he pressed his mouth back to yours.

“I’ll take you anywhere you want,” he breathed into the kiss, “if you let me.”

You tightened your arms around him, dangerously close to letting him take you everywhere: places you’d never visit on your own, and places you hadn’t even known you wanted. To hell and back, if that’s where he was going.

Your touch short-circuited his brain. His thoughts snagged, absurdly, on an article he’d once read, a smug science piece. It’d said that falling in love was a disorder. Said that if symptoms lasted longer than six months, it might require medical intervention. Decreased serotonin and increased dopamine, it claimed, rendered a person temporarily irrational. Obsessive.

He’d laughed at it then.

Now, with you beneath him and his heart hammering like it wanted out of his chest, he suspected he was well past treatment.

The brace on his wrist turned even the smallest movements into quiet skirmishes. Each time he tried to pull you closer and failed to get a solid grip, he muttered a comment under his breath, not particularly complimentary to modern medicine.

You smiled into the kiss, sensing his impatience. He was visibly contemplating the merits of ripping the brace off just to get to you properly.

“We’re okay,” you whispered, guiding his injured hand to rest at your side. “We’ve got time.”

His breath shuddered against your mouth.

After everything Soobin had said to him at Beomgyu and Kai’s party, and with only two days left before the bet was meant to end, Yeonjun realised how fast he’d been running.

We’ve got time.

It sounded like an invitation. Like a promise.

He found the hem of your shirt and lifted it slowly, because you had time.

His brace caught on the fabric once more, but he didn’t curse, because you had time.

Shivers ran down your skin as the shirt dropped to the floor. He would’ve lingered, studied every goosebump with proper care, if you hadn’t pulled him back into another kiss.

He didn’t complain.

You had time.

You had time.

You had time.

He kissed you with a grounded devotion, and it felt a little surreal, like something you’d wake from and mourn before you’d even opened your eyes.

His hands crept up your sides, a little tentative, his brace dictating a careful route until his fingers found the clasp of your bra. He paused, concentrating, then worked it free with surprising ease.

Then the rough edge of the Velcro brushed your skin. He froze instantly, eyes snapping to yours.

“Sorry,” he murmured, adjusting his hand so it wouldn’t graze you again.

“S’fine, Jun,” you said, tugging him back toward you. A scrape seemed insignificant compared to the sudden chasm he’d created by pulling back.

When he touched you again, his hands trembled. His lips were gentle against yours, silky but firm.

You broke the kiss only long enough to drag his shirt up and over his head in a clumsy, inelegant manoeuvre. He laughed, his chin catching in the fabric, until you finally freed him.

He was back over you in a heartbeat, kissing you with less restraint now, with impatience. With a growing need. His hands roamed more confidently, tracing every inch of your skin. His mouth followed, trailing from your lips to your jaw and down the curve of your neck.

Your skin felt impossibly alive under his touch, answering him faster than you could process it. His fingers danced across your stomach and ribs, tracing your tattoos and learning the shape of you by feel, because sight was not enough.

Taste, though, might tell him more.

He sucked gently at the tender skin near your collarbone, feeling your shallow breaths reverberate through his own chest. The fire cracked nearby—closer, it seemed, than before. It warmed the mark his mouth had left.

His hands caught at the waistband of your sweatpants. His, technically, and criminally perfect on you. But he wanted them gone anyway.

“Can I, love?” he asked quietly.

“Please.”

He eased them down with careful resolve, working past the resistance of the brace despite his trembling fingers.

His gaze caught on the ivory silk of your panties, the lace accents framing places he ached to touch. His breath slipped from him in a reverent sigh.

He traced the curve of your hips, eyes fixed on you like he was reassessing his entire life. Surely, there had never been anything more important than this—so what the fuck had he been doing?

He brushed his fingers over the lace once, just enough to send your pulse skittering. Then he pushed the fabric lower as his impatience surged back.

“God,” he exhaled, helping you lift your hips up. “You can’t be real.”

His hands followed the heat of you, grazing your thighs. Every half-formed curse from his mouth landed like a spark over your skin.

“Fuck.” You pushed yourself upright, hands sliding down his arms. “Can you—could you stand up for me?”

He blinked at you. “St—you want me to stand?”

“Yes.” Your voice was steady. Your breathing was not. “Want to taste you for a change.”

His head went spectacularly empty.

He rose slowly beside the sofa, legs unsteady. You edged closer, and just this small movement alone stole the breath he’d taken from you before—quick, like you’d reached in and taken it back personally.

Your hands found his waist and brought his sweatpants down in a single, decisive motion, the cotton smooth against the tight line of his boxers. He cursed roughly under his breath.

You didn’t rush, which was extremely cruel of you.

He wondered if there was anything that would help him now, some last sensible thought, some anchor to reality. Then he wondered if he even wanted there to be.

Your fingers traced the fabric of his boxers, deliberately slow and feather-light. He sucked in a breath but failed to hold onto it when you glanced up.

“Alright?” you asked, fingers slipping under the elastic.

“Mhmm.” His voice strained despite his effort to sound casual. “Take your time, though, love. M’just grand.”

Your chuckle warmed his skin.

Then your hand closed around him through the fabric, firm enough to make him twitch. Suddenly, the living room felt too small, the fire too close. Heat pressed in on him from every side.

He tilted his head back as you eased his boxers down. The air in the room barely brushed him before he felt your palm, slow but certain, gliding from base to crown.

“Oh—” The sound fell apart in his mouth. His hands found your shoulders, then slipped helplessly down your arms. Your thumb swiped over the slick at his tip, spreading it downwards, and his breath broke completely. “Sh-shit, love.”

He kept his eyes on you and tried to sync his breathing to the careful strokes of your hand. But then you leaned in, intent written on every line of your face, and all his effort collapsed.

The first touch of your tongue took him by storm. His eyes shut on instinct, fingers threading into your hair.

“God,” he sighed as you licked a slow stripe upward and closed your lips around the tip. “Fuck.”

Blindly, he ran his hand through your hair, careful despite the desperation in his grip. He felt your breathing deepen as you took him fully into your mouth. Felt the reflexive pull as you swallowed around him.

He knew his legs wouldn’t hold out much longer.

Your hand steadied him, wrapping around his base while your mouth worked on the head. The pressure inside him climbed, hot and unruly. He felt his pulse everywhere, loud in his ears, frantic against your tongue.

“Baby,” he managed. “S-slow—m’not—”

You tightened your grip just slightly, twisting your wrist, and that was too much already. He leaned back against the sofa, the frame creaking as his braced wrist knocked against the cushion.

The fucking ibuprofen hadn’t done a thing for his pain.

But you had.

He bent forward, fighting to keep his hips still. “You’re—you’re so fucking good t’me, love. Fuck.”

You shifted to give him more room, then took him deeper, cheeks hollowed, tongue firm. The sound he made wasn’t language.

He gripped the edge of the sofa, hips twitching despite his honest attempts at patience. You didn’t pull back. You moved faster instead.

His thighs tensed as heat crested and flooded through him, lighting his spine from the inside out. Any attempt at words disintegrated into breathless groans.

You glanced up and almost wished you hadn’t.

His mouth was open, breath wrecked, cheeks flushed pink. A few strands of hair had fallen loose, shadowing his tightly closed eyes.

He was breathtaking. Anyone would have seen it.

You wanted him to be only yours.

The muscles in his abdomen jumped with every press of your tongue. He thought he could smell the familiar scent of his shower gel on you and inhaled sharply as though this was the oxygen he’d been seeking.

“Love,” he choked out as your tongue circled his sensitive tip. “N-need you—so good—just—need you to stop now.”

You drew it out just a second longer, tracing your tongue up his full length before pulling back. He swore he’d feel the imprints of your lips at his tip for weeks.

“Shit,” he huffed, collapsing back onto the sofa.

Before you could say a word, he lunged forward, mouth crashing into yours with almost bruising urgency. The kiss was messy, all hot breaths and teeth and hunger. It knocked his thoughts loose until they scattered through him in fractured images of you.

He shifted, barely coordinated, and pulled you into his lap, panting now. Nearly shaking.

“I—fuck,” he breathed into your mouth. “I need you, love. S’actually—s’so bad.”

You smiled into the kiss, settling over him. Your mouths refused to part as you moved, tongues chasing warmth, chasing each other.

The room seemed to hold its breath around you. Even the fridge didn’t dare to hum.

His hands clasped your hips, the brace firm and cool where it pressed against your back. You rolled your hips against him without thinking, coating his length in your slick, and his sharp inhale died between your lips. The kiss lost its shape after that, turning clumsy, frantic. Hands everywhere, grasping and slipping.

You had time. You could’ve slowed down.

You didn’t want to.

You rolled against him again, and his body answered before his mind could, hips lifting in reflex. The small sound he drew from you nearly split him open.

“Baby,” he said, helpless.

You raised your head just enough to press a kiss to his jaw, feeling the tension there. “How do you want me?”

His whimper in response was small, ruined, and wildly unhelpful for the heat coiling inside your stomach.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “On your back?”

You answered by kissing his neck and lowering yourself onto the sofa. The velvet was cool against your overheated skin. He followed immediately, as if tethered to you, one hand always seeking something to hold: your thigh, your hip, your fingers.

By the time he knelt between your legs, he was breathing as if he’d just climbed the stairs to your flat. He paused, just looking at you for a moment, one hand wrapped around his length.

Firelight flickered over his face as he took you in, sprawled on his sofa, gaze heavy and focused solely on him. His stomach tightened.

Shit.

He couldn’t, with good reason, rush this.

He’d fall apart if he didn’t slow himself down.

So he leaned in and pressed his mouth to your neck instead, his tongue warm at your pulse. Your hands slid over his back, fingers digging in, asking without words. He obliged, always did, and let his mouth trail a languid, wet path down your chest.

Kiss by kiss, he followed your lines, hands mapping your ribs and waist. The glow of the fire shifted across the ceiling in time with your breathing.

“Spread your legs f’me, love,” he murmured. “Just a little, yeah?”

The low timbre of his voice threaded straight through you. You did as he asked, and he stilled, breath warm over your skin. He needed to decide what to do with himself. He felt awfully like exploding.

Inhaling sharply, he pressed a kiss to your navel. Then another, lower, his lips softer. You didn’t dare move.

“Fuck,” he exhaled, his vision blurring. “Look at you, love.”

He swept his tongue over your folds before you had time to respond. Your breath broke sharply.

He felt you tense and reached out instinctively, palms firm on your thighs, pressing you deeper into the sofa as he alternated between light kisses and cruel licks.

He took his time. Savoured your taste. Relished the moment. Learned the sounds you made when you tried not to make any at all.

The tip of his tongue gently nudged at that spongy bundle, and your breath caught.

That was good.

He kissed the spot again, testing.

The breath you released this time wasn’t quite enough for his practised ear.

His hand shifted, one thumb coming to trace a slow, deliberate line over your folds. The gentle pressure sent a jolt through you, sudden enough to draw a sound from your throat.

That was much better.

He brought his lips back to the sensitive bud, sealed his mouth over it and sucked.

“Fuck—” you gasped, hands flying to his hair.

His answering breath trembled against you.

You were stunning like this, responsive and unguarded. Intoxicating. He wanted you everywhere: in his space, in his mouth. All the time.

Doomed by it, he rutted his hips into the sofa, desperate for any sort of friction.

Still, his focus stayed on you.

The air between you filled with the sounds of his breathing, damp and uneven. He maintained a steady pace, pressing his tongue flat, then swirling it again. His fingers joined the rhythm, tracing small, slow circles, building the sensation before it could settle. Touching you long enough to leave you restless, then pulling back.

“Jun,” you breathed, his name thinning on your tongue. “Starting to rethink us having time.”

His lips curved, cheeks brushing the insides of your thighs. He had no desire to pull back from you. Not for air, not for anything in the world. He wanted the sounds you made. Wanted your thighs tight around him, your hands pulling on his hair.

“Yeah, love?” he murmured, his mouth spelling the word into you. “Want me faster?”

You tried to answer.

He didn’t let you.

His tongue stayed patient, unrelenting, slow enough that it drew you up from the sofa and into him, again and again. And again.

Outside, a car passed down the street, headlights cutting through the curtains before the room fell back into firelight and shadow. The glow drifted over your closed lids.

You couldn’t hear anything but the soft sound of his lips smacking against you.

He pressed closer, his focus narrowing to the parts of you that had you writhing into him. Your chest heaved with each breath, thighs restless against him.

The way you reacted, the way you wanted him, it all hit him low and hard. His hips bucked into the sofa again, rubbing against the edge of the cushion.

His faint, muffled whimper against you made you gasp. That, in turn, made him deepen his touch, his fingers picking up speed.

Your voice broke on his name, then disappeared entirely.

You were gone.

Heat surged through you, bright and disorienting, arriving in waves you couldn’t control and knocking the room sideways.

He stayed pressed to you, murmuring soft, unintelligible praises as you squirmed against him. The firm pressure of his tongue made sure the intensity of your high did not ebb too soon.

Finally, you melted back into the cushions. Your limbs felt pleasantly numb, breaths loose and shallow.

The room around you regained its proper shape, but it took a moment for the static to dissipate from your vision.

“God,” you exhaled, fingers combing through his hair as he leaned back.

“Yeah?” He ran his tongue over his glossy lips. “Love it when you call me that.”

You scoffed weakly and wrapped a hand around his neck to pull him down into a kiss. He moved too fast, eager. His arm slipped on the cushion, and his weight tipped over you. You laughed against his lips, startled.

“Shit—m’sorry,” he mumbled, breaking the kiss as he tried to push himself off you.

You caught his arm and held him down. “Stay. Want to feel you.”

The last vestiges of his self-control nearly shattered when he looked at you. He leaned back in, kissing you again, slower now, deeper. You could taste yourself on his lips, faintly salty and warm.

You bent your legs on either side of him, knees brushing his ribs. Without breaking the kiss, he lifted your legs higher, your ankles locking around his waist.

He needed a moment after that. Maybe two.

God, you were so warm and so close.

He shifted, sliding his length over your sensitive folds, measuring. Teasing.

“Jun,” you said. It sounded so much like a demand that he nearly ascended to some unknown heaven right then and there.

“Hmm.” His eyes flicked up to yours. “Tell me what you want, love.”

“Wan’ you to hurry up.”

The grin on his lips was unholy.

It flickered, then faded the moment he nudged past your entrance. You sighed softly, thighs tensing instinctively around him. Yeonjun gritted his teeth and leaned down, his forehead brushing yours, his breath coming in hot, shaky bursts.

“Alright?” he murmured.

You nodded, arms snaking around his neck as you adjusted to the growing stretch inside you. His lips brushed your temple, then your cheek, then rediscovered your lips.

He stayed still for a long, electric minute: breathing you in, kissing you, and fighting the urge to lose himself in how perfectly you fit around him. In how fucking good you felt.

You whispered his name again.

He gave a nod and pushed in to the hilt. The stretch knocked the air from both of you, sharp enough to make him pause once more. He was starting to realise that he’d been very hopeful. But this was not going to end well for him, after all.

Perhaps if he thought of something else. Perhaps if he—

“Jun,” you said, and the smile in your voice made him inhale sharply.

“Mhmm, yeah?” He blinked up at you, his gaze foggy. “Th-think I can move, love?”

“Can you?”

Groaning, he eased back almost entirely, then pushed in, drawing out the sensation and stealing more of your breath with every inch. Your teasing smile dropped at once. That was good. He wanted you where he was. Wanted to be all you felt, all you knew.

When you lifted your hips a mere inch, his hands tightened on your waist immediately.

“Love,” he gasped. “I’m—I’m already so fucking close, I really need you t—to not move. Yeah?”

His crumbling composure was exquisite.

You hummed a faint agreement and shivered when he buried his face into your neck. He held you firmly, pulling out and plunging back in a careful rhythm that kept slipping from him.

Your breath fractured into a plea for more.

For a moment, he thought he died.

Then he came back to life, so he could trace his mouth over your neck, greedy for every goosebump that he woke up on your skin. His pace increased, even more uneven now, driven by want, by helpless need.

The sofa creaked softly beneath you. The giraffe plushie lay forgotten on the floor, knocked onto its side. Firelight flickered over it with an almost polite hesitance, as though the room itself was trying not to intrude.

Yeonjun’s entire universe was you. He tracked all your breaths, all your involuntary tremors when he shifted his weight, even by a fraction.

Finally, he found an angle that pulled your head up off the sofa, your fingers tightening around his neck. He held there for a breath, hips fused to yours, then drew back to rock into you again, more confident now.

You bit your lip, which was a terrible shame. He wanted to do it for you. Wanted to hear the sounds you weren’t letting him hear.

“Love,” he murmured, “tell me how it feels.”

“F-fuck.”

Your struggle for a better word was dreadful. It went straight to his head.

“Yeah?” he whispered, a quiet, broken laugh in his voice.

He moved again, each stroke inside you sharpening into something almost overwhelming.

“Feels good,” you murmured. “You’re—shit. You’re doing great.”

He opened his mouth to gloat, neck warm at the praise, then lost the thought entirely when you pushed back against him, lifting your hips and guiding him deeper. You couldn’t help it; he looked too happy with himself.

His voice cracked, his forehead dipping to yours, gaze locked on your parted lips.

You were setting the pace now.

He was seeing double.

He drank in the way your teeth worried your lip, the flutter of your lashes, the white-knuckle grip your hands had on his arms. None of it eased the knot tightening inside him. You were relentless.

“Shit,” he exhaled, his breath scorching against your neck. “You’re unbearable, love. S-so fucking beautiful.”

You hardly managed a sound in response as his hand glided over your wrist, then twined your fingers together. Your clasped hands swayed gently with every roll of your hips, calming and breaking him all at once.

He tried to reclaim some control, tried to move into you faster, take you by surprise. He wanted to be the one to push you over the edge. But the cursed brace on his wrist snagged on the cushion as he reached for you, the resistance yanking him back.

You felt his frustration before he voiced it, in the subtle falter of his grip on your hand.

“Fuck,” he muttered, tugging at the strap with his teeth. “Gonna—tear this fucking thing—”

“Shit.” You pushed yourself up enough to catch his attention. He stilled at once. “Leave it, Jun.”

He dropped the brace, breathing hard. A reckless impulse urged him to grab it back, just to hear you say his name like that again.

“But I need to touch you,” he grumbled.

You released his hand and placed your palm flat against his chest, right over the unsteady beat. You held his gaze long enough for his shoulders to ease.

Then, you guided him back into the cushions until he slipped out of you. He hissed at the sharp loss of contact. But before the emptiness could fully take hold, you moved, climbing into his lap and pressing him into the corner of the sofa. You caught his wrist, careful with your grip, so you could pin him down without hurting him.

“Baby,” he said, all exaggerated offence and very genuine longing. “Thought you were letting me make you feel good.”

“I am,” you said, breathless as you lifted yourself. He watched, transfixed, as you lined him up at your entrance. “Gonna have to do it this way, yeah?”

“Hard to,” he whined, “when you’re holding me down like—nngh, shit. Baby. Oh my God.”

You lowered yourself onto him, forcing his head back against the sofa, all his arguments dead and gone.

You stayed there, listening to his laboured breaths, feeling the way his chest pressed into yours every time he inhaled. His skin smelled of his shower gel, earthly and fresh, and a little of you.

He felt the way your body adjusted. Registered the moment you relaxed.

You were getting used to him.

Shit.

You moved intentionally slowly, letting the hard line of his length slide smoothly inside you. His wrist twitched in your grasp.

“Stay still,” you whispered, your mouth close enough that the words brushed his ear.

“Mhmm,” he answered—and then promptly failed to comply. His hips lifted, seeking more of you, muscle memory firing without his permission.

“Baby,” you groaned, pushing him back into the sofa with a cruel, delightful roll of your hips. “That was not still.”

“Yeah—sh-shit.” His free hand curled into the cushion. “Asking for miracles here, love. I ca—I can’t. Won’t count if I can’t touch you.”

You laughed, chest pressed to his as you tried to find a better balance. The cushions beneath you were warm from your shared heat. They remembered the last time you’d sat in his lap. Remembered how that had ended.

“How won’t it count?” you asked.

“‘Cause—” he started, then broke off when you shifted, grinding down on him harder. “Shit. ‘Cause we’ll have to start all over again.”

You gasped theatrically. “Oh, no. How devastating.”

A grin flickered over his lips, utterly wrecked, then dissolved into a sigh as you lifted your hips again. His free hand slid to your lower back, fingers splaying over your skin in an attempt to feel more of you. To compensate for his other, useless hand.

Whenever your hips slowed, he pressed up gently, urging you back into motion. His braced wrist strained against your hold.

“Hmm,” he murmured, gaze fixed on the way he disappeared inside you, his pupils wide and dark. “You like this. Need you to—shit—need you to say it, love.”

“Need you to behave first.”

He squeezed his eyes shut again. You felt the effort it cost him to keep from moving, every muscle taut as he fought the pull toward you.

“Might have to tie me up next time,” he muttered, only half joking. “Need to touch you. Let go of my hand, yeah?”

“Missed something,” you whispered. Your voice was a taunt against his neck, but your lips were the real threat, skimming over his skin so lightly that it felt lethal.

“Ah—shit.” His fingers dug into your back. “You al—always fucking make me beg, baby.”

“Mmm.” Your hand traced down his chest, skirting the bruises at his collarbones as you kissed his neck. “Sound pretty when you do.”

“Fuck.” The sound vibrated low in his throat. “Please. Just—fuck. Let me touch you, baby. Please. I’ll be good.”

Your breath caught as the pitch of his voice rose.

You loosened your grip on his brace just enough to allow some mobility. “Carefu—”

He barely registered the word.

Breaking through your mild constraint, he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The sofa nearly tipped over as he drove his hips up into you.

Your breath came in a surprised rush, thighs tightening involuntarily.

“Jun,” you gasped. “Said you’d be good.”

“You said I could make you feel good,” he replied, mouth finding the curve of your neck, almost vengeful with each lazy, sloppy kiss. “Let me. Please.”

He thrust up again, meeting you every time you lowered yourself, refusing to let you slow now that he had his hands on you.

“Just—” You dragged in a breath. “Don’t stop.”

He didn’t intend to. Ever, ideally.

He repositioned himself, turning you and guiding you down onto the sofa until the cushions pressed into your ribs. Firelight stretched and warped across the walls as he settled on his side behind you, his chest warm against your back.

He could touch you like this. Could feel all of you.

He moved quickly enough not to slip out as you adjusted, your head resting on his arm. His fingers brushed your collarbones, delicate and curious. The brace on his wrist knocked softly against your hip before he pinned you against him and pushed deeper into you.

Heat flared inside you all at once.

“Stay with me, love,” he said quietly, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Just like this.”

He tilted your chin. You followed, craning back until his mouth met yours. The kiss was breathless, crooked, with no space for reservation. Only craving more.

The sofa didn’t give him much room in this position, but he didn’t need it. He drove into you in short, precise thrusts instead, each corresponding to every desperate twitch of your thighs.

His rushed breaths came apart against your mouth. Faster. Louder.

He was losing it.

You felt it in the way his hands locked on you. In the hitch that stuttered through his rhythm. In the way he pulled back, breaking the kiss, just to look at you, to feel every uneven second stretching between you.

Firelight blazed in his eyes, transforming their darkness into something restless.

He needed this. Needed to be the reason your voice cracked into helpless little sounds. The reason your control slipped bit by bit.

He braced himself harder against the back of the sofa, the velvet whispering beneath you. The change in his balance sharpened everything: his movements grew surer, more urgent, his hips slamming into yours with desperate, single-minded focus.

Your gasps rang through the room. Each one snapped something in his chest and dropped it straight to his stomach.

“Baby,” you breathed, your thoughts blurring into white noise.

His lips brushed yours as you fought for a breath. “Hmm. You close?”

“Yes.” The word shook. “Fuck.”

He shut his eyes, jaw tight, every muscle locked as he held himself back through sheer force of will. He wanted you first. Wanted it fiercely enough to forget he’d ever wanted anything else.

He pressed his mouth to yours and lingered there, not so much kissing as breathing in your warmth. Swallowing each of your breaths.

Your neck ached at the angle. You ignored it and adjusted subtly instead, rolling your hips back, testing what would happen.

What happened was Yeonjun losing his head entirely.

Drowning in your warmth, he let the slow roll of your hips knock him off his pace. Let you find what you needed.

Your legs trembled. The stretch inside you turned gentle, almost fluid. Heat gathered in your stomach, eclipsing the room, the fire, everything but the way he filled you.

“Jun,” you whispered.

“Yes,” he urged. “That’s it, baby.”

The words cracked as they left his throat, sending a clean line of electricity up your spine. God, he sounded beautiful like this.

You wanted to see him unravel as much as he wanted it from you.

You were worse at waiting, though.

Before he could draw another breath, you propped an elbow against the edge of the sofa and pushed back, thighs squeezing around him. Immediately, the flames from the fire flared brighter in front of you.

His self-control had slipped its leash. It was off. He couldn’t catch it.

“Fuck—love,” he rasped, his hips jerking into you. “M’gonna—”

You reached up and covered his hand over your chest. “Doing so well, baby. So good.”

Oh, that was it.

That was so fucking it.

His back arched as the last of his restraint burned away. He came apart, head dropping to the crook of your neck as his body gave way, spilling warmth inside you.

You kept moving. “Good—good boy.”

The praise nearly broke him all over again.

His fingers tightened around you as he pressed closer, meeting your hips with his own. His thrusts were disorderly, helpless, oversensitive—

They lit you up.

Your release came hard and fast, triggered by his aftershocks. You gasped, tugging on his hand as your vision washed warm at the edges.

He held you through it, flinching as you clenched around him, but not pulling away. He’d waited for this. Wanted it so much that he would’ve let you suffocate him if you wished, tight and devastating and so fucking perfect around him.

It took a few long seconds for the tremors to subside.

Yeonjun didn’t look away from you once.

“So beautiful,” he whispered, his touch gentle as his fingers traced your chest. “You’re so fucking beautiful. Shit.”

He said it like an accusation, like he couldn’t believe you’d dare.

And when you laughed, softly, in response, he was ready to accuse you of a thousand things more. Theft. Attempted murder.

He’d still had his heart before he met you.

Now it ran to you when you called.

You tried to catch your breath, but lost it somewhere between your throat and your ribs as you watched him watch you. Watched the dark of his eyes soften, his gaze tracing the contours of your cheekbones, your lips.

Carefully, you turned around to face him. The warmth of your chest against his drowned out the sharp chill as he slipped out of you. His arm settled around your waist, fingers wandering in idle, thoughtless patterns along your side.

For a long time, neither of you spoke.

The living room hung suspended in silence. The fire mellowed to a gentler glow. Everything felt bigger and wider, as though the walls had pulled back to give you more space.

At some point, Soobin returned home. He walked through the door, cast one glance at the shoes scattered in the corridor, and decided he was staying over at Reina’s tonight. You’d hardly heard the door shut.

The only proof of his brief return was the messages he’d sent Yeonjun.

SOOBIN [2:03 AM] you better be dressed when i come home after class tomorrow or i swear and put the fire out before you go to sleep if you actually sleep……

Yeonjun was not bothered in the slightest and cooed lovingly at your embarrassed groans, prying your hands away from your face.

“He doesn’t care, love,” he insisted. Then gasped suddenly. “Shit. I didn’t get you freesias today.”

You blinked. You were not thinking about the freesias.

“Good,” you said. “Thank God.”

“You don’t like them anymore?”

“I do,” you said, tilting your head up to look at him. “But you’ve seen my flat. I like things in moderation.”

A grin tugged at his mouth. “Do you like me in moderation?”

You closed your eyes, smiling despite yourself. He was warm and solid against you, the weight of his arm familiar around your waist. You didn’t want to think about anything outside this room.

“Usually, yes,” you said.

“Oh, usually.” His fingers resumed their slow journey along your ribs. They had no real destination, just wanted to embed your shape into his brain. “And when do you like me a lot, then?”

You breathed out at his touch. “Right now.”

His chest stilled against yours for half a second.

When you opened your eyes, his smile looked slightly dazed.

“Yeah?” he breathed.

“Mhmm.”

“What’s special about right now?”

Your gaze drifted over the damp strands of hair at his forehead, the soft swell of his lips, the faint flush at his neck.

He always did this, you thought. Hounded you and whined until you told him he looked good, but fell apart the moment you said it unprovoked.

“You’re pretty,” you said anyway. You really liked him when he fell apart.

Whatever composure Yeonjun had been clinging to evaporated at once. You grinned.

“God,” he exhaled. “Fuck. Yeah?”

“Yea—”

“Hang on, though.” His arm stiffened around you. “S’that mean I’m only pretty right now? Am I not pretty all the time?”

You sighed. He was on cue, as always.

“This is why I like you in moderation,” you said.

He was on top of you again in a flash, careful with his weight but absolutely unyielding.

You startled, blinking up at him as he held you down with that same measured look from the wardrobe from two months ago. The one he wore all through the bet.

You never wanted him to look away when he looked at you like this.

“Jun—”

“Tell me I’m pretty all the time.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “You’re so unserious.”

“I’m serious.” He lifted his brace. “I’ll rip this off if you don’t.”

“This is manipulation,” you informed him, “did you know?”

Without breaking eye contact, he tugged at the Velcro just enough for it to make a soft, threatening rip.

You groaned, reaching for his wrist. “Stop.”

He covered your fingers with his uninjured hand, preventing you from refastening the strap.

“Tell me,” he insisted.

You clicked your tongue, then let go of his brace.

“You’re pretty all the time,” you said.

His lips stretched into a satisfied smile. “Thank yo—”

“Pretty annoying, too.”

Snorting, he lowered himself until his chest hovered just above yours, bracing an elbow on the cushion beside your head. The sofa sighed beneath the shift.

“Hmm.” He remembered you saying this to him once before. “What else?”

“Insufferable,” you offered.

“Mhmm. More.”

“Insane.”

His smile deepened. “Yeah? More.”

You laughed, finally. His eyes caught the glimmer in your gaze, bright and alive in the firelight. His chest stirred.

“Alright,” you said, raising your head to brush a soft, fleeting kiss over his lips. “S’enough of that.”

His gaze lingered on your mouth even after your head fell back onto the cushion.

He gently traced a finger over your temple. “Don’t think it’ll ever be enough.”

“Oh, it won’t?”

“Mmm.”

He leaned in again, lips finding yours in a slow, unfocused kiss. The pressure of his weight settled over you, warm and comforting. The room around you darkened.

The night wanted to keep the two of you for itself.

You let it.

✦ • ─── MARCH 10, 2025. 7 AM (DAY 12)

As the sky began to redden at the edges, still tentative and unsure, you went upstairs to get dressed before heading home.

Yeonjun stood alone in the living room, tugging his shirt back over his head. The space felt hollow without you in it, hushed, except for the faint drone of the fridge. He missed you already.

Then his phone lit up on the coffee table.

MUM.

He hesitated only for a second, just enough to swallow down the worst of his dread. Then he answered.

Her voice came through tiny and distant, clipped enough to make his shoulders tense on instinct. It sounded almost unreal against the lingering warmth of the room.

Yeonjun listened, fingers tightening around his phone. His gaze roamed around without focus, catching nothing. The sofa, the armchairs, the table had all blurred into one indistinct shadow.

When the call ended, he didn’t move, the screen going dark in his slack hand. The silence in the room pressed harder than before.

Upstairs, the floorboards creaked as you moved around his bedroom, humming to yourself as you dressed.

The call had been brief, no more than five minutes.

And now it was morning.

The fire had gone out.

And the night no longer held onto the two of you.

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thank you for reading!!♡♡

[taexual]

. . . e q u i l i b r i u m | 19

she’s my final resting place /// friday pilots club, vampire disco

pairing: yeonjun x fem!reader

summary: it takes a long time to fully explore the thin line between love and hate. but seven minutes is a good start.

genre: academic rival!yeonjun / college au / enemies to lovers au / fake dating au

warnings: slow burn, mutual pining, baaad yearning, strong language, smoking, ANGST, illegal racing, descriptions of a car accident and minor injuries, stressed!beomgyu, STRONG SUGGESTIVE THEMES (descriptive but not overly explicit, reader draws jjun a bath)

words: 9.8k

masterlist / read from the beginning

✦ • ─── MARCH 8, 2025. 11 PM (DAY 11)

Yeonjun and Beomgyu met at their usual corner just off campus, where the road narrowed before curving back towards the racetrack.

It wasn’t a particularly remarkable place in daylight: cracked pavement, weeds clawing through the mud, a single crooked lamppost. But it felt special at night.

Yeonjun had brought the Nissan instead of his Mercedes. Now he sat at the wheel, fingers tapping against the gearstick, eyes fixed on the rain outside the windscreen.

Beomgyu was late, as per usual. (In his defence, the Audi’s brake disc had needed some persuading).

He finally rolled up beside Yeonjun another ten minutes later, flashing him a guilty grin through the open window. His Audi was slick with rain, its single headlight throwing an uneven beam under the streetlamp.

They both climbed out. Their handshake, predictably, morphed into a wrestling match and ended with Beomgyu laughing first. Cigarettes followed.

Within mere seconds, Yeonjun’s hood glued flat to his hair, the fabric sticking like a second skin. The damp breeze sucked in the smoke immediately after he exhaled it.

“Best of three?” Beomgyu asked. The grin on his lips was hungry and restless, adrenaline already fizzing under his skin. He’d been firing himself up ever since Yeonjun had called him, said, the usual, 11 PM, don’t be fucking late, and hung up.

“You know it,” Yeonjun said, flicking ash onto the asphalt. “Try not to lose your other light, yeah?”

Beomgyu scoffed, insulted by the implication that he needed any lights at all, and turned to his car. The filter from his cigarette sparkled red on the asphalt before the rain extinguished it.

Yeonjun slipped back into the Nissan. The seats already smelled like rain.

He left the music off. Normally, he liked to have some tunes on, trusting the engine enough not to listen to it too closely. But tonight, he wanted it raw. Wanted the growl of the car to bulldoze through the thoughts circling his head.

He turned the key. The Nissan sprang to life at once, a low tremor coursing through the chassis. The vibration, unhelpfully, reminded him of the text he’d received from his mother, just after dropping you off.

Give Florence a thought, she’d texted. If not, we can find something else for you.

There’d been nothing warm or negotiable in her text. There rarely was.

Yeonjun checked the rearview mirror and wrapped his fingers around the gearstick. He wouldn’t think about his mother right now. He would think—

Beomgyu hit the accelerator a fraction of a second before he did.

Then the night blurred as they tore down the deserted road.

The darkness swallowed Yeonjun’s headlights. The only source of light was a single porch lamp at a farm several kilometres to the west. He and Beomgyu had driven out there once, out of curiosity. The owners had been away. Their two German shepherds had not. Very good boys. Very clear boundaries.

The rain thickened after the first lap.

Yeonjun pulled ahead, though luck helped him – Beomgyu’s tyres slipped on a bend.

The second lap evened it out.

They ran side by side, engines snarling in perfect harmony, metal and motion locked together. Beomgyu edged ahead by inches, flinging a sheet of water across Yeonjun’s windscreen.

Laughing under his breath, Yeonjun flicked on the wipers and pushed harder.

The engine roared back at him. Rain lashed furiously against the roof. The wind pummeled the doors. Water hissed and slapped beneath his tyres. The noise drowned out everything: his mother, Italy, all of it. And still, something sharp continued to skid along the walls of his chest, refusing to flatten.

Exhaling, he put his foot fully onto the pedal. The Nissan surged forward, eager.

Beomgyu stayed ahead, his single headlight flickering through the rain. Yeonjun squinted, measuring the distance, timing the next turn. He’d take it right as Beomgyu checked his mirrors. He knew he would.

Leaning forward as if he could physically propel the car faster, Yeonjun locked his fingers around the wheel. His knuckles whitened under the faint glow of the dashboard.

“Come on,” he muttered, the howl of the engine syncing with his pulse. “Come on, come on, come—”

Beomgyu blocked him on the turn.

“Oh, you absolute—” Yeonjun cut himself off and slumped back into the seat. The upshifts felt wrong. Sluggish. He’d have to look at the clutch later.

The road stretched into a long, familiar straight at the end of the lap. It rose gently before sloping down. Yeonjun knew the area like the back of his hand. He’d raced Beomgyu here more times than he could remember, always at night, always fast enough to leave his lungs empty.

He knew Beomgyu’s habits, too. Knew he’d ease off on the incline, just a bit. Just enough.

Impatient, Yeonjun cut the corner tighter than he ever had before.

The steering wheel shuddered under his grip. He held his breath as the right rear tyre kissed the white line at the edge of the road, just barely—

Then the car broke loose.

The wheel bucked hard enough to knock the wind out of him. His back slammed into the seat. His hands flew loose for one long, sickening second as the rear tyres skated across the rain-soaked asphalt. For a brief moment, the car seemed weightless, as if the road had shrugged it off.

A jolt of hot terror seized his gut, but muscle memory yanked his hands back to the wheel. He counter-steered on instinct, but the road had no grip to offer him.

The tyres tried their best, screeching in protest. The asphalt remained wet and indifferent.

He was sliding.

The road veered away from him, the wet fields flashing pale in the dark.

Yeonjun twisted in his seat to check the rear window, trying to calculate his best outcome: grass, maybe. Maybe mud at the verge. Anything but—

The crash cut his thought short.

The airbag exploded into his chest with a brutal, suffocating punch that stole what little breath he’d managed to grab. The rest of the world returned to him in jagged fragments as he fought to inhale.

First, he registered the metallic crunch of his hood.

Then the shriek of glass as the windscreen fractured, then collapsed.

The Nissan had wrapped itself around the thick trunk of an oak—an ancient, sturdy figure that looked like it had stood here long before roads were invented and would still be standing long after the cars started flying.

Steam hissed from beneath the hood.

Yeonjun stayed very still.

His body felt distant, yet he was keenly aware of every limb. That, at least, was encouraging. Hadn’t dropped a foot on the grass. All parts were present and attached.

He didn’t think he was bleeding, though his brain seemed to think breathing was optional. He inhaled mechanically, then burst into a coughing fit. There seemed to be grit in his mouth.

Outside, the rain eased for just a minute, giving him a courteous pause to assess the wreckage.

The airbag sagged uselessly on his lap. The oak towered mere inches from what was left of his windscreen. The acrid scent in the air set his teeth on edge.

“Fuck,” he whispered. Then, after a moment’s reflection, softer, “shit.”

The rain poured down again.

Yeonjun pried his hands from his sides to release his seatbelt and hissed. A searing jolt of pain shot through his left wrist. It didn’t feel broken when he raised it, but it was swollen and clearly very offended.

He wiggled his fingers. They obeyed, which was sensible of them.

He considered testing the wrist again, then clenched his teeth and changed his mind. He must’ve twisted it when the car jumped off the road. Or when the airbag tried to fucking pulverise his ribs.

The driver’s door didn’t budge.

He sucked in a sharp breath and rammed his shoulder into it. Pain flared anew, hot and immediate, but the metal finally gave way. The rubber lining peeled away from the window frame as the door groaned open.

Rain gushed in, cold and real and blissful against his burning skin.

Yeonjun staggered out, shoes sliding on the churned grass. The ground felt unsteady beneath him.

Beomgyu came barreling across the field, skidding to a stop just short of knocking Yeonjun over. His Audi sat abandoned on the road behind him, crooked, as if it had turned its head away in embarrassment.

“Yeonjun!” he shouted, his voice ripping clean through the rain. “What the fuck?! Are you okay?”

Yeonjun stared at what was left of his car.

The hood had crumpled like a discarded tin. He’d lost a headlight—Beomgyu would laugh at that—and the other dangled by a trembling wire, flickering weakly as though the Nissan struggled to stay awake.

The oak stood unscathed, broad and imposing.

That felt oddly comforting. At least, he thought, he’d barely left a mark.

“Think I crashed my car,” he said eventually, watching rainwater cascade through the new gaps in the engine casing.

“No shit,” Beomgyu snapped, his hands seizing Yeonjun’s shoulders. He spun him around, eyes frantic as he checked for blood. “You could’ve folded in fucking half. What the fuck?”

Yeonjun stood still as Beomgyu’s hands swept over his collarbones, ribs, and arms. He cupped his face and tilted it up, inspecting his cheeks. Halfway through prizing Yeonjun’s mouth open to check for missing teeth, too, Beomgyu returned to his senses.

Nothing appeared broken. His eyebrow was bleeding, but that didn’t seem life-threatening.

That was good. It meant he was insane, but he’d live.

Yeonjun’s gaze slid past Beomgyu’s wide eyes, back to the steam rising from the wreckage, ghostly in the rain.

“Wasn’t even going that fast,” he mumbled.

Beomgyu pulled back, disturbed by his detached tone.

“You might have a concussion,” he said.

Yeonjun sighed as though that was a terrible inconvenience, and therefore, the possible concussion would just have to sort itself out, and slumped heavily onto the grass. The cold seeped straight through his jeans.

Cursing, Beomgyu sank to his knees in front of him. Rain dripped from his hair to his cheeks.

“Hey.” He reached out again, his palm warm on Yeonjun’s wet shoulder. “You sure you’re alright?”

“I crashed my car,” Yeonjun said slowly, as if it was only this thought that had survived.

Beomgyu swallowed.

This wasn’t how it usually went for them. Beomgyu was the one who scraped paint, shed headlights, fishtailed his way into ditches, and laughed it off with shaking hands. Yeonjun was the calm, steady voice, the pat on the back, the you’re fine, love, breathe.

Even when they crashed through that fence, when Beomgyu had been taken to the police station—even then Yeonjun had taken care of it. And it cost him, Beomgyu knew, though he didn’t know what.

Don’t worry your pretty head about it, Yeonjun had said every time Beomgyu brought it up.

So Beomgyu hadn’t worried.

And now his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

“If I call a tow truck,” he said carefully, “d’you reckon they’ll call the police?”

Yeonjun was thinking about the clutch. It had felt off before. He’d meant to check it later.

That had been optimistic.

“Oi.” Beomgyu slapped a hand against Yeonjun’s back. “I’m serious. Should I call Bin? S’he back yet?”

“Probably not,” Yeonjun said with a heavy sigh that made his chest hurt again. Even if Soobin was back, he wouldn’t have wanted to drag him into this. Soobin liked the Nissan. He’d be very upset.

Beomgyu nodded slowly. At least, he figured, Yeonjun was responding to his questions. That had to count for something, even if he still wasn’t convinced it ruled out brain damage.

“Do you need an ambulance?” he asked.

“No.” Yeonjun dragged a hand through his hair, grimacing at the sticky remnants of gel clinging to his fingers. “I killed the car.”

“I know,” Beomgyu said. “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” Yeonjun agreed. “Fuck.”

They sat on the grass with nothing else to say.

The rain persisted, drumming against the field, soaking their clothes, hissing against scorching metal, and smearing the world into a streak of grey.

Yeonjun stared ahead and wondered what his parents would say if they could see him now. Would Italy still seem far enough away from everyone he could damage, and everyone who could damage him?

Beomgyu glanced back at the open door of his Audi and, for a split second, caught himself worrying about rain soaking into his brand-new leather seat covers.

The thought tasted off.

He winced, as though chastised, and stood. Muttering to himself, he pulled out his phone.

He had no other option, he reasoned. Yeonjun looked half-catatonic.

Beomgyu tried to retreat to the road and nearly ended up back down in the grass as his trainers slipped on the incline. Standing straight, he pressed his phone to his ear.

“Who’re you calling?” Yeonjun tried to ask, but it did not sound much like a question.

Beomgyu didn’t reply.

You reached the coordinates Beomgyu sent you twenty minutes later.

Five of those minutes you’d spent searching for the car keys Reina had given you. Then you had to coax her weary Honda into action, whispering threats and promises until the engine begrudgingly rattled to life, clearly upset at being disturbed. The other fifteen minutes, you’d risked your driving license as you ignored every traffic light on your way.

When you pulled up, Yeonjun was still kneeling in the grass beside the road, soaked and unmoving. His Nissan rested decidedly in peace, its hood folded into an oak.

Your heart almost stopped.

Already halfway to a proper prayer, you climbed out and slammed the door shut.

Beomgyu turned at the sound. “Oh, thank fuck you’re—”

You hardly glanced at him as you strode across the road. Reluctant to become the recipient of your reaction—wrath, he assumed—Beomgyu quieted and took a precautionary step back.

Yeonjun dimly registered the arrival of another car. The rain swallowed everything else.

“Jun,” you said, so softly that he wasn’t sure if he’d heard it at all.

He didn’t move.

Your pulse echoed in your ears. You placed a shaking hand on his shoulder.

The contact sliced straight through him.

Yeonjun’s head jerked up. Panic flared across his features the moment your eyes met. He scrambled to his feet, shoes skidding uselessly in the grass. His legs buckled, and he dropped back down with a small, helpless sound.

No.

No, no, no—

You shouldn’t have been here. Shouldn’t have seen his mess.

“Hey—stay still,” you said, reaching for his hand. “Are you hurt?”

“You can’t be here,” he choked out. “You’ve got to—you can’t be here. Please—”

“It’s okay—”

“No.” He dodged your touch, convinced he hadn’t earned it. He forced himself upright again, hands braced on his knees. His left wrist throbbed with a deep, ugly ache. “Ah, shit—fuck. You—you need to go, love. Please.”

Your chest was knives and daggers.

“You’re drenched, Jun,” you said, stepping closer.

He couldn’t breathe.

This was it now.

He’d done it.

“Fuck,” he muttered, trying to turn away. His legs trembled violently.

You caught him just as he lost his balance, hands firm on his shoulders. He sagged into you at once, breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps.

“Please,” he whispered into your jacket. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Stop apologising,” you cut him off, wrapping your arms tightly around him. “You’re okay.”

His hands hovered in the air for a second, then clutched weakly at your jacket. He inhaled sharply and pressed his face into the curve of your neck.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured again, his skin cold and wet against yours.

“You’re okay, Jun,” you repeated, and realised you needed to hear it, too. Needed it to be true, or else your entire rib cage was going to shatter.

He held onto you tighter and didn’t speak.

You found yourself counting each of his breaths. There weren’t a lot.

A fresh wave of horror washed over you at that, followed immediately by an irrational determination to undo everything that had happened tonight.

You’d fix this, you decided. This would all be fine.

Carefully, you angled your head back towards the road. Beomgyu was standing in the mud, his hand pressed to his forehead, looking well and truly lost.

“Gyu,” you called out. The sound resonated through Yeonjun’s chest. Beomgyu looked up. “Call someone for a tow.”

“For a—” Beomgyu shouted back, then paused. “But if the police—”

“Police won’t need to get involved,” you said, hand firm on the back of Yeonjun’s neck. “You’re good.”

You were taking a gamble, you knew. The wrecked Nissan looked threatening. But it was off the road, and no one was drunk. Or dead. Those felt like decent odds to avoid unnecessary noise.

Still, Beomgyu hesitated, watching Yeonjun cling to you for a moment longer. Then he finally pulled out his phone. He still didn’t feel comfortable with roadside assistance, but he knew a guy (Taehyun) who knew a guy (the annoying new painter at his theatre) who had a nice big carabiner.

Beomgyu thought that could work—it couldn’t, but Taehyun would make it work—and stepped back to make the call.

A few minutes later, Yeonjun’s breathing finally evened out. You eased back just enough to see his face, keeping one arm firm around his waist for support.

“What happened?” you asked.

He let out a long, quivering breath and made no move to pull away from you.

“I don’t know,” he said, still refusing to look up. “It was raining. Think one of the wheels slipped on the white line. I slid. Then rolled into—” He paused. “Into that.”

He lifted his chin towards the oak tree to his left.

You didn’t follow his gaze. Instead, you focused on the way his mouth pulled tight on the left, nervous or hurting. The way he hesitated before each inhale, as though bracing himself.

“Did you hurt yourself?” you asked, scanning over his neck. “Are you in pain?”

He shook his head, barely, and tightened his grip on the corduroy of your jacket, pinching the fabric between his fingers, careful not to bend his wrist. He didn’t want you searching for injuries.

“I’m okay now,” he said.

“But were you hurt?”

His eyes flicked up to yours, finally, then darted away again. “My wrist, a bit. But it’s—”

“We need to take you to a hospital.”

“No.” The word was sharper now. “I’m okay, love. Honest.”

He pulled back slightly to show you his left hand. You reached up instinctively, then stopped yourself. The swelling was bright and clear.

“Jun,” you said, your eyes snapping back to his, “you hit a fucking tree. It could be broken.”

He caught the fear in your gaze and felt his own panic subside in response. His shoulders lowered.

“It’s nothing,” he said gently, sliding his hand back to your waist. “Probably just a sprain. I can live with that.”

“But you shouldn’t.”

He exhaled and leaned forward until his forehead briefly brushed yours, the rain cooling the narrow space between you.

“M’fine, love,” he murmured. “Nothing—nothing happened. Not really.”

“Still,” you said, your voice wavering despite your best efforts at composure. Everything that could have happened pressed tight against your ribs. “A doctor should have a look at you.”

“It’s nothing,” he insisted, voice faltering when your gaze drifted over his shoulder, catching on the spiderwebbed remains of his windscreen, glittering faintly in the rain.

Your hands trembled against his back.

“Let me take you to a hospital, Jun,” you said, your voice fraying.

He lifted his uninjured hand to tilt your chin away from the car and back towards him, his thumb warm despite the chill that had permeated the rest of him.

“I’m fine, love,” he said slowly. “Really. Don’t worry about—”

“I can’t,” you cut in, sharper than you meant to be. “I am worried. So come to the fucking hospital with me, Jun. If nothing else, just so I won’t have to worry.”

He swallowed.

A single raindrop slid down the bridge of his nose.

“Okay,” he said finally. “Okay, yeah.”

✦ • ─── MARCH 9, 2025. 2 AM (DAY 11)

You left Beomgyu on the side of the road with Taehyun and two young men, in a truck you didn’t recognise.

You made a mental note to check on them later, but, as it turned out, there was no need. Beomgyu texted you updates every twenty seconds: mostly complaints about how one of the lads had pointed at his Audi and said, this the one we’re towing? Taehyun, apparently, had not stopped laughing since.

The A&E was unusually quiet when you brought Yeonjun in. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, harsh and intrusive after the soft grey of the rain outside.

Almost immediately, Yeonjun became a terrible nuisance.

After the X-ray, he refused to go anywhere without you. Refused to sit, refused to lie down. He hovered at your side, his hair damp at his temples, fingers clutching your hand as he gave every nurse around him a headache.

The doctor—cheerful and bright and a little suspicious, given his wide smile—waved you both into the examination room without comment. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and something wet. You suspected the latter was you and your jacket.

The examination itself was mercifully quick: no breaks, no fractures. Just a sprained wrist. The doctor then ran over the shallow bruising along Yeonjun’s collarbones where the seatbelt had locked tight, and a scatter of small cuts across his face. He decided they looked dramatic but hardly required plasters.

Then Yeonjun mentioned a dull ache when he inhaled.

You nearly launched yourself from your spot at the wall, but the doctor only smiled and explained it was common after an encounter with an airbag. Uncomfortable, he said, rather than dangerous. Pain as a reminder of how much worse it could’ve been.

“What did you hit?” the doctor asked casually as he fitted a dark blue brace around Yeonjun’s wrist. “Lamppost or tree?”

“Tree,” Yeonjun replied glumly.

“Ah.” The doctor nodded. “Older model, I’m guessing?”

“Yeah. Didn’t even flinch.”

“Mhmm. They seldom do.” He adjusted the brace over Yeonjun’s thumb. “You took the brunt of it, did you?”

“The car did, actually.”

“Was it new?”

Yeonjun flexed his fingers experimentally. “No. But, uh—still sucks.”

“Hmm. I bet.” The doctor stole a peek at you. “Gave your girl a right shock, too, I’d say.”

Yeonjun looked up at you, standing by the door. Your lips were pulled tight as you watched the doctor measure the strap against his wrist.

“Yeah,” Yeonjun said quietly. “That was the worst part.”

The doctor nodded, visibly pleased. “That’s good. Tells me your head’s fine.”

Yeonjun raised an eyebrow. “That your standard diagnostic?”

“Absolutely,” the doctor said. “Most people I see can’t even remember who brought them in.”

Yeonjun lowered his gaze to the white floor tiles, speckled with black dots.

“Right,” he said, exhaling carefully. His chest protested against the effort. “I remember.”

The doctor glanced at you once more and smiled, knowing. He saw a lot of young couples when he worked night shifts. Saw a lot of them break up, too.

The two of you would be just fine.

“Alright, then,” he said, giving Yeonjun’s brace a final pat. “No driving until this settles.”

Yeonjun nodded, shoulders slumped, looking a bit like a child who’d learned he’d be grounded for life.

“No lifting or straining for the next couple of weeks,” the doctor went on. “If it hasn’t improved by then, see a specialist. But I don’t expect that’ll be necessary.”

“And the pain?” you asked, watching Yeonjun twist his wrist again, already testing the patience of the brace. You gave him a warning glare the moment he looked up.

“Ibuprofen should be fine,” the doctor said. “Regular dose. Ice if it really bothers him. But honestly,” he smiled again, “this isn’t too serious. He’ll feel normal sooner than you think.”

You nodded, and a tentative wave of relief finally eased some of the tension in your shoulders.

Yeonjun was alright.

You couldn’t wait to knock him unconscious in the parking lot.

✦ • ─── MARCH 9, 2025. 4 AM (DAY 11)

After thanking the doctor and scolding Yeonjun for trying to peel the brace off the moment you stepped outside—“it’s uncomfortable, I can’t live like this”—you drove him home.

You were gearing up to yell at him for his carelessness, for the idiotic decision to go out racing at night in the pouring rain. But then you caught his defeated focus on the dashboard and decided against it.

He knew what he’d done. Knew what could’ve happened.

It felt unfair to lecture him, as much as your racing heart wanted you to.

The rain had stopped on your drive, but the streets still glistened under the streetlights, reflecting everything that the dark clouds tried to hide. Reina’s Honda rattled beneath you, protesting with each gear change, but complying nonetheless. It had been trained well.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Yeonjun worrying at the edge of his brace, thumb picking at the Velcro.

“Does it hurt?” you asked, keeping your eyes on the road.

He glanced up, realised he’d been caught, and dropped his hand back to his lap.

“No,” he said. “Told you, I’m fine, love.”

He’d said that to calm you down, you knew.

It did not.

Jaw tight, you rushed past the flickering yellows of a traffic light. The GPS on your phone announced that you were a hundred meters away from your destination, its robotic voice barely audible over the engine.

The wind quieted as you pulled into his driveway. The Honda wheezed once, indignant, then fell silent, too.

Yeonjun shifted in his seat.

“I’m, uh—I’m sorry,” he said, voice low. “Beomgyu shouldn’t have called you.”

You turned to him, frowning. The apology felt off-key and a little offensive.

“Why not?” you said.

He blinked, not prepared to defend his words. “Well, w-why should you have to deal with all this?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” you returned. “You needed help.”

His thumb found the strap again, eyes fixed on the brace. “I shouldn’t have needed it.”

You sighed so profoundly that even the car seemed to slump in sympathy.

“Everyone needs help sometimes,” you said and immediately looked away, embarrassed by the cheesy sentimentality. “I-I wish you hadn’t needed it, obviously. But I’m glad I was there.”

You didn’t look at him when you said it, Yeonjun realised. It was how he knew you meant it.

He knew what he’d done.

And he knew what could’ve happened.

But now he was beginning to understand what that meant for you.

He lifted his hand to scratch the side of his nose and noticed the faint tremor in his fingers. This time, it had nothing to do with the crash. Still, he lowered it before you could see.

“Thank you,” he said finally, not for the first time. “For everything.”

“You’re welcome,” you replied, not for the first time. “But just so we’re clear, if you ever race in the rain again, I will kill you myself.”

The corners of his lips lifted despite his attempts at restraint. He leaned his shoulder against his seat and turned to you.

“What will you do without me, though?”

You finally looked up.

He felt the indentations in his chest smooth out at the sight of your glare. He’d been waiting for it.

“Think about that,” you said, “the next time you do something stupid.”

His breath faltered. He tried to force it out anyway and coughed, not particularly elegantly.

“Right,” he said, glancing at the windscreen, smeared with old rain. His house was dark behind it, the windows empty. He turned back to you, his pulse speeding. “Would it be too much to ask you to come in? Assuming you’re not sick of me.”

“That’s a bold assumption.”

His smile turned pensive. Then you undid your seatbelt.

Relief flooded through him so quickly that it left him dizzy.

As he followed you out of the car, Yeonjun found himself wishing he had something to give you. Something small and good, to overwrite the dinner with his parents, the wrecked car, and the smell of antiseptic still clinging to your soaked clothes.

You didn’t give him a chance.

The moment you stepped into his house, your boots leaving damp imprints on the floor, you took off your coat and ordered him onto the stool at the kitchen island.

“I can make tea,” Yeonjun protested, standing stubbornly by the counter. “Let me at least—”

“Sit,” you said again, scanning the room. “Where’re the mugs?”

He sat, defeated, and gestured vaguely toward the cupboards. You found the mugs easily enough.

“And the tea?” you asked.

He nodded towards a cabinet above the sink.

You reached for it.

“No,” he said. “The other one.”

You paused, then turned back to him and pointed at the cabinet beside it. “This one?”

He tilted his head. “Actually, maybe that one.”

You returned to the earlier cabinet and opened it to find plates and bowls. Then squinted at a stray leek inside one of them.

You turned back slowly, questioning.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding decisively. “Definitely the other one.”

You levelled him with a prolonged stare. “You’re lucky your wrist’s already in a brace.”

He snorted. “Told you to let me do it. M’terrible with directions. Try asking me where the sugar is.”

“I’ll find it myself.”

Surprisingly, you did.

You’d hoped that might wipe the proud grin off his face. Instead, it only made it broaden further.

Yeonjun watched you navigate through his kitchen, opening drawers, remembering what you’d found and where you’d left it, and he was incredibly pleased. He remembered you cooking here last week, and marvelled, once more, at how well you fit here, at his house: ordering him around, ensuring he didn’t bother you. Threatening him, occasionally.

He couldn’t bring himself to fully regret anything that happened tonight.

By the time you joined him at the island, two mugs steaming between you, the cold had finally drained from your fingers. The kitchen smelled faintly of camomile.

“Can I ask you something?” you said, hands wrapped around your mug.

Yeonjun took a careful sip of his tea. His hair was still damp. A stubborn droplet slid down his cheek and caught on the rim of his mug.

“Of course,” he said.

“Is racing the only way you know how to ease tension?”

He peered down into his mug, watching the string of his teabag drift and settle.

“I guess,” he said, trying for a smile. “I usually ring Gyu, and we go out, just the two of us. Race for a bit. Not much room for existential dread when you’re going two hundred an hour.”

You hummed, chin resting on your palm. “Right. So, always adrenaline.”

He nodded. Then hesitated, thumb tracing the warm curve of his mug.

He’d called Beomgyu last week, too, after dinner with his parents. His hands had been shaking, thoughts ricocheting off every corner of his mind. But speed hadn’t helped him then. And it definitely hadn’t helped him tonight.

Clearly, adrenaline wasn’t working anymore.

“I don’t go out as much these days,” he said more quietly. “Gyu’s got better plans, believe it or not. And, alright, I could race Kai, but he’s impossible. Can’t go late ‘cause he needs sleep. Can’t go early ‘cause he’s busy. And when he does come out, he acts like he’s doing me a massive favour—which I could live with, honestly, if he didn’t sometimes win out of pure spite.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Kai’s beaten you?”

Yeonjun clicked his tongue. “I don’t like to talk about it.”

You snorted. “Right.”

“He’s not even trying,” he went on anyway, fired up by the injustice of it all. “Just wants to go home the whole time. I’m always the one begging for one more run. And once—once, yeah?—he gave me that extra run.” He shook his head, affronted all over again. “Absolutely thrashed me. Then waited at the finish line, looking bored. Like he’d just popped out for milk and the queue was too slow. Never been so angry with him in my life.”

You took a careful sip to hide your growing smile.

“Wow,” you said. “You’re a terrible loser.”

“I know,” he said. “S’why I never lose.”

Your laughter resonated against the walls, settling into the corners of the kitchen.

Yeonjun had nearly forgotten the sound, and shit, was he happy to remember. The warmth from the tea spread over him faster.

“What about painting, though?” you asked. “It doesn’t help you relax?”

Yeonjun turned away slightly, without noticing he’d done it, and lifted his mug again. Steam brushed his nose, briefly fogging his vision.

“It doesn’t,” he said. “Just fills the hours when I can’t sleep. I—think it actually makes me more stressed. Things don’t always turn out right.”

You found, not for the first time, that you quite liked this about him. Beneath all the pride and well-rehearsed indifference, he cared enough to dread failure.

“Be honest,” you said, blowing on your tea until the steam thinned. “Does that happen often? Things not turning out right for you?”

It happened constantly. Tonight, though, he was thinking of one particular instance.

“Well,” he said, taking another sip, “remember that painting I showed you last weekend? The, uh—red one?”

You nodded.

You remembered it clearly – less the brushwork, and more the way the mahogany shades had reminded you of the cardigan your grandmother had knitted you years ago.

“That one didn’t turn out right,” he said.

“Oh. But it was really nice,” you said. “My favourite.”

Blinking, he took another sip. The tea soothed his throat and helped him avoid your gaze.

“How do you know, then?” you pressed gently. “When something isn’t right.”

“Just feels off, usually. Or it doesn’t match the reference.”

Your eyes flicked up. “Did you have a reference for that one?”

His stomach tightened, worse than it had on the streets earlier. Bracing for another collision, he lifted a hand to sweep his hair back. It promptly fell over his forehead again, in messy, careless strands.

“I did,” he said, gaze moving over the marble of the island. “Painted it after you.”

Startled, you lowered your mug. The porcelain clinked against the countertop, far too loud in the sudden stillness of his kitchen.

“What?” you said.

“Yeah,” he replied, matching your careful tone. “You were sitting in front of me in class. Had a dark red pullover on—cardigan? I don’t know. It was big, sort of swallowing you.” His lips twitched. “But you looked warm. Properly cosy. It—I couldn’t think about anything else all day, so I painted it. Thought it might help me get you out of my head.”

You dragged your tongue over the back of your teeth to steady yourself.

You’d felt drawn to the dark braids on his canvas the moment you saw them. You’d thought it was a coincidence.

Now you thought his kitchen was vibrating around you.

“Did it work?” you asked, quietly.

“No.” He finally looked at you. “Don’t think I really wanted it to, if I’m honest.”

Your chest felt very light, almost hollow, as though it was clearing space for something you hadn’t realised you’d invited in. It fluttered and swam.

You fixed your gaze on your mug and did not move.

Yeonjun didn’t either, and for a minute, the two of you sat perfectly still—delicate brushstrokes in one of his unfinished paintings.

“What, um—” you cleared your throat, which accomplished nothing, “—what else would help you, then, do you think? If not painting. And not racing.”

He snorted dryly. If he answered, the kitchen would fall into another long silence, and your shoulders already looked tense enough to hurt.

“This,” he said instead, lifting his mug. “Tea’s nice.”

“Good enough?”

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging. “Slows down my thoughts.”

You hummed, eyes still locked on the surface of your tea.

“Right,” you said. “We can do this, then.”

He nodded and took a long sip, eyes closing against the rising steam.

A small part of him, buried beneath the stress of the day, worried that this wouldn’t last. Worried it’d end when the bet ended. Worried you’d go back to sitting in front of him in lectures, and he’d go back to painting your cardigans.

But a much larger part of him didn’t have the energy to worry.

He just wanted to sit here with you, drinking tea in the quiet of his kitchen, for as long as you let him.

Half an hour ticked by without you noticing. Your mugs emptied to sad brown rings and soggy teabags. Outside the window, the night had quieted, the way it usually did after a heavy rain.

The stove clock glared at you with its insistent red digits. It was nearly six in the morning.

You’d survived Saturday night, then.

You swivelled on your stool to face him and hesitated. Then decided it was too late—too early?—for hesitation.

“You need to wash up,” you said. “Smell like mud.”

Yeonjun glanced at you, then bent his head to sniff his sleeve. His brows pulled together.

“This is how I normally smell,” he said, puzzled.

You smiled. “It’s not. But funny you think so.”

He clicked his tongue and turned back to his empty mug.

“And then you need to sleep,” you added. “You’ve been up all night.”

“So have you.”

“I haven’t crashed any cars,” you returned. “I’m fine.”

Lips pursed, he tried to think of something frivolous to say to keep the easy rhythm going. Instead, he yawned, jaw cracking slightly.

“Go,” you said, swallowing your own yawn as you stood to collect the empty mugs. “I’ll clean up and check if you’re actually in bed.”

He pushed himself upright. “You’d make a great babysitter, I bet.”

You approached the sink and turned on the tap. “I would. You wouldn’t want to disobey me.”

He heard the cold water splash into the sink and thought that he very much would.

Right now, preferably.

“I could use some help, though,” he said, drifting closer. “Don’t know how I’m meant to make it upstairs. So tired. Might collapse… Fall through the railing…”

“Are you asking me to carry you?”

“Are you offering?” He leaned in over the sink, catching a few stray droplets of water on his brace. “I can’t refuse, if you are.”

You tsked, turning your gaze away. “Can’t do anything on your own.”

“I know,” he said with a deep, exaggerated sigh, propping his hip against the counter. “Poor me.”

You switched off the tap and turned to face him.

“Fine,” you said. “I’ll walk you up.”

That was fortunate, because he was starting to consider fainting, too. With a woeful cry and all, to guarantee you didn’t leave him yet.

Grinning now, he extended his healthy hand and allowed you to guide him out of the kitchen.

✦ • ─── MARCH 9, 2025. 6 AM (DAY 11)

Yeonjun’s master bathroom looked like it belonged in the pages of an interior design magazine. Black tiles, polished to a mirror sheen, showcased accents of grey and brown. The bathtub was pristine white. Above the double sinks, a wide mirror captured your reflections under the harsh, almost interrogative light. The small window above the bath showed the black of the night outside.

The faucets were a riddle.

You spent a minute figuring out how to turn them on and trying to adjust the heat, all with Yeonjun’s unhelpful guidelines: “You lift that one. No, the other—oh, it won’t lift? Try turning it.”

Finally, the tub began to fill with a low rush, steam already rising from the surface. The room warmed quickly, and you rolled up your sleeves.

Beside you, Yeonjun reached for the hem of his shirt—grey now, dethroned from its earlier white—but the fabric snagged on the brace. He froze, elbows out, hair sticking up with static.

Snorting, you stepped in to help, but he yanked the shirt free with a vigorous jerk of his arm.

“Sure you should be moving your wrist like that?” you asked, as his shirt dropped to the floor with a defeated slap. “Going to loosen the brace.”

“S’fine,” he said, a little winded. “Don’t even need it. Could just—”

“You’re keeping it on.”

He glanced at the steadily filling bath. “In the water, though?”

“Well, keep it out.”

Scoffing, he perched on the edge of the tub to tackle his jeans. He bent forward, fumbled with the belt, and realised he had no workable way to hold the waistband with his brace.

He raised his head. “Um.”

You pressed your lips together. “Need help?”

“Please?”

He shifted, palms braced on the smooth porcelain on either side of him. A subtle, delectable pink coloured his ears as you undid his belt.

You heard him inhale, and then very deliberately not exhale, as you drew the zipper down. The metallic rasp echoed, indecently loud over the running water.

A little unsteady, he lifted his hips, letting you tug the jeans down his thighs. He leaned forward to help them over his knees and nearly sent both of you into the bath, thanks to the ruthless inflexibility of his brace.

“Shit—sorry,” he mumbled.

Thoroughly entertained by his lack of coordination, you grinned and stood to drape his jeans over the towel rack.

His gaze followed you without his permission. He traced the creases in your shirt as it clung to your sides, tighter at your waist. It was still a little wet from the rain. It looked good on you. And still, he missed your blue dress.

You turned around and caught his stare.

Yeonjun blinked, refocused, and stood. The steam from the water rose with him.

You tried not to fixate on the bruising across his chest and the tense muscles in his back, now that he was clad only in his black boxers.

“Right, then,” you said, reaching for the door. “Call me if you need—”

“Actually,” he said, the word quiet. It reeled you back like a tightened drawstring. “Could you stay?”

You paused, hand on the handle. “And watch you bathe?”

He pursed his lips and glanced down, as though to check what he was undressing for. His hair flopped forward when he looked up, drying unevenly from the earlier rain. Several strands clung to his forehead.

You dug your fingers into your thigh, nails pressing into the denim. If you reached out to smooth his hair back, you weren’t convinced you’d remember to step back again.

“I was hoping you’d help me,” he murmured, eyes sheepish despite the tilt of his tone. “But if you only want to watch…”

“What else do you need help with?”

“Well.” He lifted his braced wrist and pouted. “Everything. I’m injured.”

You let go of the door. “Thought it wasn’t so bad.”

“It’s bad,” he replied gravely. “It’s so bad. Only you can save me, love.”

You clicked your tongue, but the warmth within you had already made the decision for you.

“Fine,” you said, stepping closer. “I’ll help. But I’m not getting in there with you.”

He hummed and leaned over the edge of the tub again.

“No?” he said, dipping his fingers into the water. Wisps of steam curled obediently around his hand. “The water feels nice.”

“M’sure it does.” You lifted your chin towards the tub. “Get in, then.”

He stood, flicking droplets from his fingers. You didn’t immediately realise that your gaze caught on the delicate hairs at his wrist, then drifted to the elastic of his boxers. Didn’t realise you were watching him carefully balance himself, hooking his thumbs beneath the waistband and sliding the fabric down his hips.

The back of your neck prickled with heat. You spun round to face the window above the bath, arms folded tight across your chest.

Yeonjun stepped out of his boxers and glanced up to glimpse your unwavering focus on the window frame. You didn’t need to look at him to know he was smirking. You sensed it in the static rippling across your skin.

“Could use a hand,” he said. “Slippery here.”

You turned to give him a flat look, but he caught the small twitch of your lips.

“Very excited about your bath, yeah?” you quipped, extending your hand as he scaled over the edge of the tub with considerably more theatre than the movement required.

“Yes,” he said easily, tugging on your hand for no reason other than to pull you closer. “I’m quite fond of getting wet.”

“Mhmm.”

Your mouth was almost painfully dry. You kept your eyes on his face, resolutely ignoring his shoulders, his chest, his abdomen, and everything below that thought.

He lowered himself into the water, muscles tensing as the warmth settled around him. His skin broke out in goosebumps immediately.

“Temperature okay?” you asked, extracting your hand from his near-death grip.

“Don’t know,” he said, sinking back with a quiet exhale. “Come find out.”

Scoffing, you skimmed your hand over the surface of the water. “Seems fine.”

He snickered, stretching out his legs. His knees peeked above the shimmering water line.

“Come on,” he said. “Are you allergic to water? Got that H2O curse? Gonna turn into a mermaid if—”

You plunged your hand under and flicked a splash directly into his face.

Yeonjun jerked back, spluttering.

Ignoring his scrunched nose, you glanced around the bathroom. “Where’s your shower gel?”

Blinking, he nodded towards the corner of the tub, where a beige-coloured bottle sat beside a pale green loofah.

You picked them both up.

Yeonjun watched, holding his breath, as you soaked the loofah under the tap and squeezed out a generous layer of shower gel onto it. He realised he hadn’t expected you to actually help him, which was probably the reason for the small, knowing grin on your face.

Shit.

He’d wildly overestimated his composure. Now his heart was sitting, proud and comfortable, in his throat.

The bathroom filled with the scent of sandalwood.

“Lean forward for me,” you said, twisting the tap off.

He did, immediately.

“Keep your brace out of the water.”

He did that, too.

To be fair, you could’ve asked him to perform a small circus routine, somersaults and all, and he’d have done it as well, without so much as a splash on the brace.

You brought the loofah to the nape of his neck. The instant the suds touched his skin, he shivered again, despite the warm water swirling around his waist. His eyes fluttered shut as you drew the sponge over his shoulders in languid, circular motions, bubbles gliding over his muscles.

Your breath stilled when his back curved subtly into your touch. Slowly, you lowered yourself to sit on the edge of the tub, knees pressing into cool porcelain.

“A bit more forward,” you murmured.

His eyes opened at once, catching yours.

He leaned a fraction forward. “Like this?”

You nodded and returned to him, working the loofah down the firm line of his back. Suds dribbled down his spine. Steam rushed upwards, thickening until every inhale settled like warm syrup in your lungs.

“Feels okay?” you asked quietly.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “Shit.”

You focused on his shoulder blades, massaging over the rough knots with the flat of your hand pressed into the sponge. It scratched gently, but every once in a while, the bare tips of your fingers brushed his skin, and that was significantly better. His teeth sank into his lower lip.

He wished you weren’t holding anything at all. Wished he could feel the warmth of your hands.

He tilted his head to the side as you swept the loofah back up over his shoulders. Your breath skimmed the sensitive skin at the back of his neck. He stiffened instantly, heat rushing over him.

“I’m—I have to warn you,” he murmured, voice low enough to dissolve into the water. “I’m not very in control right now.”

Your lips quirked. “Oh, you’re not? I didn’t notice.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, more breath than sound. Drops of moisture slid down the tiles beside the tub.

You leaned in slightly to reach his upper chest and moved carefully around his collarbones, aware of the bruising. The bubbles on his back glued to the front of your shirt.

The gentle pressure of your fingers completely shut down his mind. He felt his uninjured hand rise to the surface of the water, featherlight.

This, he thought with a shaky exhale, was what he needed to relax.

“If it’s too much,” you said gently, “tell me.”

He breathed in, amazed that he was still holding himself together.

“Please,” he said, “keep going.”

You drew the loofah over his arms, brushing down from his shoulders toward his biceps in slow, sweeping motions. The water responded, swirling around his ribs in a warm current. Steam continued to cling to the edges of the bath, keeping the water from spilling over.

Yeonjun felt your hair graze his shoulders and inhaled with a shudder. His other hand slipped from the edge of the tub.

“Brace,” you reminded him, firm.

“Ngh—mhmm.” A strained huff escaped him. “Trying.”

“Relax, yeah?” You scooted to the corner of the tub. “I got you. Think you can stay with me?”

He lifted his hand back up to the edge, beside your thigh. “Yeah. I can.”

His gaze stayed on you, unblinking, as you worked the loofah over his neck. He had a feeling that he wouldn’t have managed to look away even if the bathroom had decided to catch fire around you. He could already see a soft flame in the foggy mirrors behind you.

“Your hair’s…” he whispered.

Before you could react, he brushed a strand back from your brow with his uninjured hand. Warm droplets trailed down your skin as his fingers lingered a moment too long.

His gaze dropped to your mouth. Your breath lodged behind your ribs, and you gripped the rim of the tub.

“Jun,” you said.

“Hmm.”

“Lie back for me.”

He leaned back against the tub, water sloshing up his sides as he settled, eyes never leaving yours. You brought the loofah back to his skin, guiding it across his torso in a measured line, careful over his ribs.

Your hands learned the shape of him with every new inch. Learned the way he reacted to pressure and release. How smooth his skin felt when you brought a handful of water to his shoulders to wash off the soap.

“Love,” he breathed, eyes falling shut again.

You caught his expression and paused. “Too much?”

His head shook at once. “No. God, no. Just—” He swallowed hard. “Sensitive. You’re doing something to me.”

The corners of your lips stretched. “Yeah? What am I doing?”

He wanted to reply, but you leaned over the edge and traced the loofah over the soft curves of his sides. He couldn’t possibly speak now. Could hardly think, really, as your free hand followed the sponge, your palm sweeping over his skin in gentle, easy circles.

The suds thinned beneath your slow strokes. The bubbles floated on the surface of the water, then popped.

You were close enough to breathe in the faint traces of night air still clinging to him. Close enough to feel the remnants of the tension humming under his skin – stubborn, but barely there anymore.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. He felt light. Buoyant enough to drift away.

He opened his eyes and fixed them, promptly, on yours.

“Can I—” His fingers slid over the bottom of the tub, gripless. “Shit. Can I kiss you?”

You paused for a second—almost long enough to make him regret opening his mouth—then slowly leaned in. Your lips met his in a lush, leisurely kiss.

Sighing, he shifted to his side to reach you better. The water splashed over the edge.

You hummed into the kiss and pressed a hand to his chest, guiding him back into the warm water. “Easy, baby.”

He whimpered in protest. “Love.”

You kissed him again, lips lingering, savouring his. Without pulling away, you brought the loofah over his chest, pressing gently with your fingertips. Your soft breath against his lips soothed the parts of him that your hands couldn’t reach.

Beat by beat, his pulse evened.

The kiss mellowed as he fixated on the soft pressure of your mouth. The gentle glide of your tongue over his lower lip, before it slipped inside. The faint tremor in your hands as you tasted him and lost your balance for just a second.

He realised it no longer hurt to breathe. The soft ringing in his ears had ceased, too.

God.

You’d brought him back from a place there was no coming back from.

By the time you parted, the gentle ripples on the surface of the water had faded into stillness. There were several glossy puddles on the tiles by your feet.

“Oh,” you said, eyebrows rising. “We, uh—flooded your bathroom a bit.”

He lifted a hand in vague dismissal, then let it sink back into the water.

“S’fine,” he said. “The house will forgive us.”

“Soobin might not.”

Yeonjun blinked, dazed, as though he needed a moment to remember who Soobin was. Then a moment to make sure he remembered who he was, too.

“He—he’ll be fine,” he decided. “He likes me happy.”

Your eyes returned to his. “Are you happy, then?”

He was practically at one with the water. But happy worked, too, yeah.

Pushing off the back of the tub, he reached for you again, pulling you back into him and pressing his mouth to yours. You didn’t warn him about the brace this time.

“Yes, love,” he murmured against your lips. “So fucking happy.”

✦ • ─── MARCH 9, 2025. 8:30 AM (DAY 11)

You’d only been in Yeonjun’s bedroom once before, a week ago, when he’d shown you his paintings. Back then, the space had seemed bare: clean and void of life, as if still waiting for someone to finally move in.

Now, stepping out of the misty bathroom in Yeonjun’s black Bring Me The Horizon t-shirt (which he graciously produced after you’d soaked your own beyond repair), the room felt different. The light from the corridor seemed golden against the pale walls. The air felt warm and familiar.

You tried not to think about the mahogany painting.

Yeonjun sat on the edge of the bed in a fresh white shirt and grey sweatpants, hunched over his phone. His hair, still glistening from the bath, caught the glow from the screen.

“Why aren’t you in bed yet?” you asked.

He jolted in surprise. Locking his phone, he tossed it across the mattress.

“Was getting to it,” he said. Then, blinking at the duvet: “I—will you stay?”

You hovered in the doorway, your chest doing something dangerously arrhythmic. The steam from the bathroom seemed to linger on the edges of your vision.

“Please,” he added.

“You need to sleep, Jun.”

“I will.” He lifted the duvet and slid over to make space. “I just need you with me.”

It was a little concerning how heavily his words landed in your chest. You rested your hand against the doorframe as they weighed you down. Pulled you towards him.

You figured you should’ve left; it had been a long day. And you still had some reading to do for next week.

But you didn’t want to drive home. Didn’t want to find his spare room, either.

Really, your heart won against your mind in a humiliating landslide.

You crossed the room and slipped beneath the covers. Your ankles brushed his, cold to his warm, and he gasped softly before instinctively shifting closer.

For a minute, he watched as your eyes adjusted to the dim light. Then, he lifted his uninjured hand and touched your cheek.

“What?” you murmured.

“Nothing,” he said, thumb tracing a warm line along the side of your face. “Just like looking at you.”

You exhaled and closed your eyes. “You’ve had a rough day. Need to sleep.”

“I had the best day.”

You opened one eye. “You crashed your car.”

“I—details,” he said, thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “Got to wake up with you. Got you taking care of me. Got you in my bed now, too—fuck.”

Your lips curved, helpless. You raised a hand and covered his fingers with yours.

“Sleep, baby,” you whispered.

He turned his hand so your fingers intertwined and released a breath that sounded almost reverent.

“Say that again,” he murmured.

“Sleep.”

“No.”

You snickered softly. “Baby. Come on.”

He sighed, utterly content. “Oh, that’s so good.”

Before you could fully succumb to the lightness inside you, he draped an arm across your waist and tucked himself against your side, effortlessly. His body seemed to be shaped exactly to fit beside you.

His bed was at least three times the size of yours, possibly four. And still, the two of you lay pressed together: one of your knees nudged against his, foreheads nearly touching.

You watched his eyes flutter shut.

Seeing him like this, you were beginning to realise, always steered your thoughts down perilous paths.

You found yourself thinking how gently the universe must’ve handled him when it shaped his face. How long it had lingered over the line of his jaw and his lips; how recklessly it had scattered constellations into his eyes. How many nights it had spent sharpening his mind, and how much Chemical X it had poured into his attitude—by accident, you assumed. Or maybe on purpose, to make your life harder.

You really, really liked your life like this.

“Jun,” you whispered.

His eyes snapped open immediately, as if he’d been waiting for you to call him. “Yeah, love?”

“Are you really okay?”

He drew back just enough to meet your gaze, opening up a sliver of space between you. In the faint glow filtering in from the corridor, the bruises around his cheeks seemed to fade.

“I am,” he said. Then grinned. “A lot better with you here, you know.”

You huffed quietly into the pillow. “Always saying things.”

Snickering, he tugged you closer until your legs tangled under the duvet. “Always thinking I’m lying.”

You brushed his hair back, finally, and smiled as soon as you saw him smile. Your fingertips grazed his temple, then dropped to the collar of his shirt.

“Goodnight, baby,” you murmured.

His cheeks stretched against the pillow. “Night, love.”

The room settled into a living silence as your breathing synced. Somewhere beyond the window, the campus ticked on, faintly melodic but largely irrelevant. The subtle scent of Yeonjun’s shower gel permeated the sheets and clung to his skin.

Eventually, your eyelids gave in.

Yeonjun remained awake.

He lay perfectly still and tried to memorise everything: the weight of your head against his shoulder, the warmth radiating from your hand on his chest, the soft, unconscious brush of your ankle against his leg.

If he tilted his head just right and squinted a little, he could believe this moment would last forever.

The Devil, then, had kept his word.

“I think I’m in love with you,” he whispered into the dark. “S’okay if you don’t believe me.”

Your heart kicked once, hard enough that he felt it against his ribs.

He thought he’d ruined everything.

Then you exhaled softly against his cheek. “I think I do.”

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[minkieater]

it's been two weeks since you got cheated on, and somehow, everything makes even less sense than it did before.

🎤︎︎ wooyoung x fem!reader | college au, mini-series, part 4/? 9k words 🎤︎︎ 18+ reader is the host of a sex podcast, wooyoung is a frat boy whore, reader no longer has a boyfriend who is choi yeonjun | hehehehe *evil noises*

“I THINK I’M GOING THROUGH WITHDRAWAL,” San mutters, his head in his hands, leaning over his knees on the couch. “Unscripted hasn’t posted a new episode in two weeks, I think she fucking died.” 

“She didn’t die, moron,” Wooyoung grumbles from the opposite side of the couch. “She probably got bored of talking about sex instead of having it.” 

“She talks about her own experiences,” Mingi answers, sitting between Yunho and Hongjoong, game controller in his hands. It isn’t often that the entire frat is home at the same time, besides parties, and even then sometimes all eight of them can’t get under one roof. “She’s clearly having a lot of sex.” 

“Maybe her and her situationship are back together,” Seonghwa offers, in the corner of the sectional, splitting Jongho and Yeosang. His dark brows wiggle, “Maybe he listened to the episode and decided to get his shit together.”

“Do you think he knows who she is?” Yunho wonders, undeniably intrigued. He curses under his breath, he missed a shot in the game. “Do you think we’ll ever find out who she is?”

“No,” Wooyoung and the other six answer as one. Yunho frowns. 

“It’s all so lame,” Wooyoung complains. “You’re all obsessed with her and you don’t even know who she is. Is a woman having sex really that interesting?” 

“Why are you whittling her down to just a woman who has sex?” San argues back, leaning his elbows on his knees now, eyeing Wooyoung from under his brows across the couch. “Women like her are basically nonexistent. Did you listen to the episode on anal?”

Wooyoung cringes, but Hongjoong speaks up, “No one is into anal.” 

“Yeah, not even her, I’d bet,” Wooyoung’s rebuttal is under his breath, he shakes his head as he pulls out his phone. He opens Instagram, scrolling through his feed, liking every bikini picture he sees. It gets boring after about six, so he refreshes his feed, and his eyes catch on the several circles at the top of his screen. Story posts. 

He clicks the first one he sees, Huh Yunjin. He remembers her, he fucked her a few months ago, he thinks. It was another themed party, a wear anything but clothes party, and she wore toilet paper around her boobs and butt. Wooyoung wonders if she still has the sweatpants and shirt he let her wear after he ripped it off of her.

The story post is a cute selfie of her and another girl, it takes Wooyoung four whole seconds of staring at the selfie with his thumb held on the screen to realize the other girl is you. Then he realizes he hasn’t seen you since the day you flipped shit on him at the gym. He screenshots it, opens his camera roll, and zooms in until he can see every pixel.

You look different. You’re smiling, happy about the two drinks in your hands, but there’s something off. Something different. He can’t figure it out. Why the fuck would he be able to figure it out just by a screenshotted picture from Yunjin’s story?

He locks his phone, throwing it on his lap, and brings his attention back to the conversation being held around him, except there is no conversation. Mingi and Yunho are yelling, he has no idea how he blocked that out, and the other five are leaning in closer to the TV, watching their FIFA match as if it was a real soccer game happening in front of their eyes. 

Wooyoung announces, “I’m in the mood to drink.”

Seonghwa doesn’t take his eyes off the screen. “It’s a Monday.”

Jongho turns his head, interested and apparently also in the mood to drink, “Jungwon’s frat is throwing tonight.”

“San?” Wooyoung tips his chin in San’s direction, like if San said yes, he’d say yes. That’s usually how partying goes— how everything goes, really. 

San makes a face that tells Wooyoung he doesn’t care either way. “Sure,” he shrugs, “I don’t have anything else to do.”

“I wanna come,” Yunho interjects, ripping his eyes away from the screen just long enough to look at Wooyoung with begging eyes. 

“I’m not your keeper,” Wooyoung doesn’t know why Yunho still asks. 

“I am,” Mingi’s lips pin upward in a teasing grin. “I’ll come, too, my first class is at noon tomorrow.” 

“As if any of you ever go to class,” Seonghwa snickers. 

“I go to class,” comes from Hongjoong and Yeosang, at the same time. They look at each other and grin, proud of their studious efforts.

“Let’s all go,” Jongho offers, sitting up straight, lips pinned in something mischievous. “We can infiltrate their house.”

“I don’t care about infiltrating,” Wooyoung’s head finds the back cushions, spreading his knees. “I want to drink and fuck and leave.”

Yeosang, ignoring Wooyoung, offers, “I’ll drive, if we want to squeeze into my car.”

They’ve all fit into Yeosang’s SUV before, after a serious game of Tetris, bending and forcing limbs into places they’re not supposed to go. But it works, and Wooyoung doesn’t mind stretching himself to fit, as long as the night ends with him stretching someone else to fit. 

“You can’t only go to class and work forever,” Yunjin’s arms are crossed in your doorway, her hair tied up over her head, her casual-but-cool outfit trumping yours completely. You’re still in the shirt you wore to bed, shorts hidden somewhere beneath, flip-flops on your feet, hair dirty as fuck and slicked back because of it. You had two classes earlier today, too.

“Yes I can,” you argue, your laptop screen suddenly beyond interesting. Soobin was right, it is a small campus, and it’s not like you were just avoiding one person, you’ve been avoiding three. “I really have to finish this report, Jen, it’s due tomorrow.”

“You finished it a week ago,” she sighs as she walks into your bedroom, leaning onto your desk, arms still crossed. Fuck her for knowing you so well. “You partied while you were dating him. You’ve never had any issues going out, so why start now?”

“Did I miss the part where your boyfriend cheated on you?” You sit back in your desk chair, lifting your feet until your toes rested on the edge of the slab of light wood. “Oh, wait, that was me. And he cheated on me with a man. Can’t a girl take a couple weeks to wallow in her heartbreak?”

“You came home that night feeling two emotions. Anger, and relief.” She turns to the side, one leg crossed over the other, the lower half of her tall body leaned up against the desk. “You weren’t crying because you were sad, girl, you were crying because he cheated on you. You admitted it!”

“I was confused!” you argue, voice pitched in defense. “I was with him for over a year, Jen. I thought I was going to marry him.”

“You were with him for six months, maybe nine if I feel like being generous,” she smacks her teeth. “You were never going to marry him and you know it. That basket was a cry for attention, and he gave you a reality check instead. I’ve comforted you for two weeks and let you sit and wallow or whatever, but tonight, we’re going out.”

“I’m not leaving this apartment,” you threaten.

“Jihyo will drag you out of this apartment with her bare fucking hands,” she threatens back, in the same tone you used on her. You stare at each other for a moment, a stand-off, before the side of her cherry-red lips tugs upward in a smile. Her smile makes you smile, and then the two of you are laughing like you weren’t arguing a second ago.

Your laughter blends into a groan as you tip your head back, closing your eyes. You really aren’t in the mood to party, and you especially aren’t in the mood to go to some fuckass frat you’ve been to maybe three times in your life. If Yeonjun was at Wooyoung’s frat the night of the zip-tie party, then he could easily be there tonight, too. You aren’t in the mood to think about what you’ll do, what you’ll feel if you see him.

Realization hits you like a slap across the face when Yunjin’s words process. Your eyes snap open, “You invited the girls over to pregame?”

Yunjin shrugs, a sly grin still playing on her lips. “You need a push.”

“It’s only been two weeks!” you shout, exasperated.

“Two weeks too long,” she complains, pushing herself off the desk. “You’re twenty-one and hot, there’s no reason for you to sit in here and deteriorate.”

“There’s no reason for me to go out,” you argue, rolling yourself backward as she moves toward your closet, watching. “I’m not like you, Jen, I’m not gonna go kiss randoms or fuck someone in the bathroom, that’s not going to make me feel better.”

She sorts through hangers, ordering, “You need to do laundry, this closet is empty.” Pulling out a random top, she makes a face like she’s semi-impressed by it, “You don’t need to kiss randoms or have sex in a bathroom. All you need is a good night out with your girl friends, at the very least it will help jump-start your heart into healing.”

Your bottom lip folds over. “What do I do if I see him? What if he’s with Beomgyu?”

She throws the top on your bed, and holds out her left hand to count on it. “You’ll have me, Jihyo, Momo, Sana, Tzuyu, Nayeon and Chaeyoung as your personal human shields. You won’t see him.”

“And, what? You guys are gonna circle me all night?” you raise your brows, sarcasm in your question. 

“Like fucking hawks,” Yunjin grins like she was already in agreement with the others. “Get up and get showered, and please wash your hair.”

Your lips part, offended. “I was going to wash my hair today anyways!”

She started bothering you about this party before your first class, early this morning. Well, really, she mentioned it last night, and then first thing when she woke up and met you in the kitchen, then once when you got home, and you suppose now she’s officially made the decision for you.

Yunjin wasn’t wrong. You’ve spent two weeks meticulously tiptoeing around campus, keeping an eye over your shoulder on the way to class and back, you’ve been terrified of the jingle over the door at the gym, where you work. You think the fear of seeing them, any three of them, might be overshadowing what emotions you actually feel toward your breakup. 

You’ve heard from Yeonjun several times. The next day he left voicemails on your phone, apologizing profusely, trying and failing terribly to explain the situation. He’s texted you, he’s emailed you, he’s gone as far as saying he’ll kick Beomgyu out of the apartment if it meant you’d get back together with him. You haven’t answered a single message, but you haven’t blocked him, either. It’s strangely easy to ignore, the calls, texts, emails, he’s strangely easy to ignore. Like there’s an imaginary wall up between you and the entire situation. Like you can’t seem to process it, let alone get over it, or try to move past it.

It’s not like it never happened, but it’s put a pin in your entire life like seeing him in bed with someone else has frozen time itself. Nothing outside of school and work seems to exist, or matter, nothing outside of your bedroom-classroom-gym bubble seems to be real.

It’s strange. You feel strange. You aren’t ready to figure out what that means.

After a long shower and an extensive post-shower routine, you still feel like you’re floating through the motions of doing your hair, your makeup. It’s like you’re living outside of your own body, but you don’t really feel an ache, or the hollowness in the space where Yeonjun once filled. 

“Do you want a drink?” 

You jump, throwing your eyeliner pen across your vanity. Whipping your head to the doorway, Jihyo stands as perfect as she always does, smiling wide, shoulders back, chin upward, radiating a comforting dominance you’ve never seen anyone else able to replicate. She’s holding a can in her left hand, a martini glass in her right, she isn’t taking no for an answer.

Her long, dark hair is in a high ponytail, baggy pants on her legs, a top that just covers what it needs to. Her tanned, golden skin glows from the fluorescent light of your vanity, or the LED lights, whatever they are. She looks hot.

Her hips move in a slow sway as she saunters across your bedroom, setting your martini glass down beside your array of compacts. “Do you know what you’re wearing yet?” she asks, her lips a sparkling, glossy pink.

You shake your head before answering, “Jen might have picked something out, I didn’t look.”

“I know you don’t want to go,” she changes the subject, her voice keeping the same confident, smooth cadence she always has. “And I know parties here are a dime a dozen, but tonight is the night you’re finally gonna break out of this funk.”

You haven’t spoken to the other girls about any of it. Not about Yeonjun cheating on you, not about who with, but you don’t mind that Yunjin passed the message along. It’s easier if you don’t have to talk about it.

Your mouth still feels dry. You try a smile, sipping your martini, feeling the absence of all three olives. “I’m not in a funk,” you lie straight through your teeth, “it is what it is.”

“That’s the funk,” she bends down enough to where you have to shift your head down to keep her eye. “You’re not a passive girl. You might have been with him, but that’s not you at your core. From now on, we’re focusing on bringing that back out of you.”

“I think it’s a good thing,” you basically murmur. “Not being argumentative, or loud, or angry. Being chill.”

“Being passive isn’t being chill,” she stands again, taking a sip of her own drink. “Being passive is allowing yourself to get walked all over, and that’s what you’ve spent the last year doing. Tonight is the first step in undoing all of that shit.”

You think of San, who has seen you since the day he met you at the Penny. When he was reading you just by your coffee order. Or Yunho, who you were able to talk to so freely, so much that you let words slip that you wouldn’t say to any of the women in this house beside Yunjin. You think about Wooyoung, the banter between you, how exhilarating and entertaining it is for a man to not only match your energy, but to send it back to you tenfold. Why is it so easy to be yourself around them? Why does everyone else require a mask?

You haven’t been able to bring yourself to sit in front of your microphone in two weeks, you don’t have anything happy or funny to say, you can’t think of a single topic when you have notebooks upon notebooks with topics written down. You feel disconnected from her, Unscripted, your alter-ego, she feels too far away, hidden beneath too many layers of shit. You miss her.

Your nod to Jihyo isn’t convincing, but it’s there. And it seems to be enough for her, because she smiles wide and orders, “When you’re done getting ready, you’re coming out to the living room and we’re all taking shots. We’re getting you fucked up tonight.”

You laugh, more of an amused huff of breath through your nose as you reach for your eyeliner pen. “If I’m getting fucked up, then you’re all getting fucked up, too.”

“Music to my ears, baby,” she drawls as she heads for your bedroom door again. You keep your eyes on her, just because she looks so fucking good walking away.

She’s right, and it’s easy to realize, easy to come to terms with. You let Yeonjun get away with murder in your relationship. He set the schedule, called the shots, chose your future, and you let him. You think you’ve let all the boyfriends you’ve ever had do the same. None of your boyfriends have seen the sarcastic, witty, loud-mouthed part of you, or the part that seems like she’d enjoy black coffee– hard and mad and serious and shit. 

It’s hard to tell which part of you is the alter-ego now.

“I brought you an outfit!” Yunjin announces, skipping into your room with clothes on hangers. She lays them down on your bed, and then leaves just as fast. “We want to take shots soon, so be quick!”

Maybe you never needed an alter-ego to begin with.

Honestly, Wooyoung doesn’t really like house parties that much. But this time of year the campus is always buzzing with them, including his own frat, and he always participates, so who the fuck is he kidding? He goes for the same reasons, and those are the only reasons parties are actually enjoyable. Drinking and fucking, smoking and fucking, sober and fucking, it doesn’t matter what comes first, just what comes after.

“My boy.” He spots Jungwon first, or Jungwon spots him. The president of his frat, a little taller than Wooyoung, he has a cute face but the personality of an oiled fucking machine. If there’s anyone that loves fucking just as much as Wooyoung, it’s Jungwon. Brown, shaggy hair that sits over his forehead, a lean but sculpted body, clothes that always look tailored to him, Jungwon might be just as rich, just as attractive as Wooyoung, too.

He remembers eventually and cringes. He clasps the younger man’s hand, bringing him into a quick embrace with a pat to his back, grinning. “Good to see you, bro.”

“You brought the family,” Jungwon eyes the pack of animals striding in behind Wooyoung, already on the prowl. They actually managed to fit all eight of them into Yeosang’s car.

Wooyoung nods with a small chuckle, “Couldn’t miss a banger. All your boys here?”

“They’re here,” Jungwon nods. “Good luck finding them, though.”

Wooyoung needs the luck, because Jungwon’s frat house is about six times bigger than Wooyoung’s. Not that Wooyoung was the president, that was Hongjoong, if any of them paid any mind to the dynamics of it all. Wooyoung thinks their entire house could fit into the living room he stood in right now. It was one of the rich frats on campus, with a brick-layed exterior, pillars on the porch, one of the houses that gets cleaned weekly by a service sworn-in and is paid for by donating alumni. Wooyoung, nor the rest of his frat, had any interest in having to take care of something as massive as this.

A blonde makes her presence known, fitting right into the space under Jungwon’s bicep, and Wooyoung takes that as his cue to leave. He sees Mingi’s head of dark, cropped hair beside Yunho’s head of blonde, and uses it as a beacon to weave his way through people, making eyes at a certain few on the way. He sneaks in between the couple and neither of them react, like the spot was already his.

“How long do you think we’ll be here?” Yunho asks, eyes darting all over the living room, art hung high on the ceilings.

“Why?” Mingi asks, turning his head toward Yunho. “You got plans for after or something?”

“His plans are on the back porch, wherever the smokers are,” Wooyoung adds. “How many miles do we have to walk before we can get a fucking drink?”

“San brought beers,” Yunho makes a face, like he’s just realizing he already lost the younger man. “Fuck, why does he go everywhere except toward the kitchen? That’s where liquor is dispersed.”

“I don’t think those rules apply in a place like this,” Mingi says, stopping in his tracks. In the kitchen, the massive, huge room that is only a kitchen because it has appliances in the corner, is roaring. At their own parties, the kitchen counters are usually filled with liquor bottles, shot glasses, ashtrays full of cigarette butts. Not women.

Wooyoung grins ear to ear, “Nice.”

Music blares, and each pounding beat guides the women on the countertops, on the kitchen island. Hips sway, liquor is spilled, cheers are shouted, there’s a crowd for the elevated-surface-dancers. Wooyoung’s never been one to chase, but he’ll watch and enjoy the free show like his life depends on it.

“I need a drink,” Yunho complains, barely watching the show before him. “We’re not even going to be able to get inside that kitchen, let alone get a fucking drink. Where the hell did San go?”

Wooyoung thinks mini-skirts were created just for him. He loves legs, calves, strength and muscle curving the long stretch of skin. He loves heels especially for that reason, when women’s calves are outlined perfectly, flexed just because they took a step. It’s mesmerizing, entrancing, and it makes his dick open an eye in his pants.

“Wooyoung.” He snaps back to Yunho, who’s clearly still complaining. “Get us in there, we need drinks.”

Wooyoung smacks his teeth. Why is it up to him? Actually, that’s a question for them. He shakes his head in irritation, “Why is it up to me?” He was perfectly fine watching the show.

“Because I said so.” Yunho’s reply is short but lacking the sweet counterpart. He grabs onto Wooyoung’s arm and drags him forward, toward the kitchen. Wooyoung doesn’t let his feet drag, because he wants to drink, too, but he’d rather find San than be the small guy dragging the two big guys through a women-watching crowd.

He weaves through bodies, a few women catching his eye, and he caught theirs, too. After a few winks thrown and another few diversions from women he’s already tapped, he finally finds a liquor bottle at the very corner of one counter, centimeters away from a stiletto. 

He looks up, and gets an eyeful of thong. Grinning, he tilts his head, cocky smirk on his lips as he asks, “Can I grab this bottle without my hand getting stabbed?”

The girl looks down, and it dawns on her the same time it dawns on him who the other one is.

“Wooyoung?” she asks, but slides her feet over, letting him reach in for the bottle.

He gives her a nod of acknowledgement, “Jen.”

She bends until the backs of her thighs are kissing her calves. “It’s Yunjin to you.”

Still pretty. Still a bitch. His favorite. His smirk gets sloppier, “Yeah? I’m pretty sure you told me to call you Jen when I was inside you.”

Her cheeks go pink, eyes widening. “You can forget that ever happened, I already forgot.”

He hands the bottle to Yunho and Mingi behind him, all while keeping his eyes on the brunette in front of him. Licking his lips, he considers going for seconds. “That’s a shame, I think about it all the time.”

“Funny, because you never reached out,” she barks out, her eyes thinning.

“Isn’t it better to meet each other like this? Naturally? Organically? I hate that texting bullshit,” he leans his side against the counter, elbow propped up on the granite. “It works, clearly, since you forgot all about me. Want a reminder?”

“I’m not here for that,” she purrs, a smile playing on her own lips. “I’m here for my friend, to help her get over a breakup.”

“Yeah?” Wooyoung’s eyes slide to the rest of the women on countertops. “Which one is she?”

Yunjin looks, too, to point her out to Wooyoung. But her eyes go wide, color draining from her face, “Shit! Help me down.”

She throws an arm out, which Wooyoung quickly takes, keeping her stable as she leaps off the countertop. “What’s wrong?”

“I fucking lost her,” Yunjin panics, quickly pushing past him, Yunho and Mingi. Wooyoung’s face falls as he turns to his friends.

Yunho and Mingi are already giggling with pink cheeks. Mingi snorts, “Guess you can check her off the list for possible bed-warmers.”

Wooyoung scowls, “Give me the bottle.” Yunho hands it over, a tall, skinny bottle of Grey Goose, a top-shelf vodka. He unscrews the cap and brings it to his lips, sucking down three, deep gulps, enough to make him choke on it. He doesn’t choke, though, he makes a face that relays the feeling, instead.

“Be careful or you won’t be able to get it up,” Yunho snickers, Mingi’s laugh following his words.

“I can always get it up,” Wooyoung quips. “I’m half-hard already.”

Both Yunho and Mingi groan in disgust, but it’s true. He just got a face full of ass, and when she bent down he could smell her perfume, look straight down her top. No one could expect his dick to stay soft after that.

Wooyoung scans the kitchen in hopes of finding someone else to ease what has his pants tightening, but his eyes catch on something else entirely. He squints, blinking away what was hopefully dust in his eyes, for a second he thought he saw your boyfriend. He takes a step closer, Yunho and Mingi intrigued now, too, and it’s a weight sitting heavy on his chest that what he thinks he sees is true.

Your boyfriend. But he’s not alone– no, there’s a brunette at his side, short hair, cut shaggy and layered. He’s giggling at her, cheeks pink, she throws a hand into his hair at the nape of his neck, and pulls him down to kiss her. Wooyoung’s jaw drops.

“Why are you staring at those two guys?” Mingi asks, voice quiet like the three of them were being secretive. “Is there something you need to tell us, Woo?”

Wooyoung’s head whips to the side, “That’s a guy?”

“Yes, bro, look,” Mingi throws an arm in their direction. Wooyoung looks at her– his outfit, baggy jeans, a tight top on his middle. From the back, his gender is ambiguous as fuck. The kiss is short, the brunette turns, letting Wooyoung finally see his face, and his stomach drops to the floor.

He thinks back to what Yunjin said, she’s helping her friend through a breakup. Then he looks up at the counter, realizing the women still dancing above him are Momo, Sana, Chaeyoung, Nayeon and Tzuyu– all women he’s slept with before. Then Yunjin’s Instagram story dawns on him, and all the pieces start quickly sliding into place.

“That’s Virgin’s boyfriend,” Wooyoung tells the other two, like he doesn’t believe it himself. “Yunjin said they just broke up.”

“What?” Yunho asks, baffled. “What do you mean, that’s her boyfriend? He was just macking on the pretty guy.”

“I know,” Wooyoung is still staring, like he couldn’t believe his fucking eyes. He wonders when it happened, if it was before or after he saw you at the gym, if that’s why you snapped at him. “I mean, I don’t know, I haven’t seen her in a few weeks.”

“Do you think she’s here?” Yunho asks, turning to Wooyoung, and he can see that glimmer in his eye again. “Does she know?”

“No,” Wooyoung blurts. “I don’t know, we just got here. She might be.”

“We should find her,” Yunho’s eyes are wider now, serious, problem-solving. “Tell her he’s here or something, I don’t know.”

“She probably knows already,” Wooyoung shrugs. “Yunjin just told me she’s gone.” 

It’s up for debate where you actually are in this big ass house.

You don’t care, anywhere is better than in the fucking kitchen where Yeonjun didn’t even see you. You were standing on the goddamn counter, basically a beacon, a sight to behold, and Yeonjun couldn’t pull away from Beomgyu long enough to notice. You didn’t want to be up there in the first place, that was Jihyo’s idea, and if Jihyo told you to jump off a cliff you’d ask her if you should dive. Your front was pressed to hers, Sana at your back, feeling the music and the liquor, letting your body give in to whatever was possessing it, finally relaxing before your world went upside down all over again.

You knew this would happen. You knew they would be there, that purging feeling in your stomach while you were getting ready wasn’t for nothing. But you still came, you still listened to your friends who told you they would shield you. That tonight was the turning point or whatever the fuck. 

You think you’re in some kind of game room, a pool table in the center of the large room with floor to ceiling windows, the air thick with a cloud of gray smoke from the people in the corner passing a bong around. You squeezed yourself between bodies to get through the kitchen, then you scurried down a hallway, then a weird, second one which curved, and it led you to two rooms: this one, and the one adjacent to it, which was some kind of den. There were more people in here, more bodies to hide behind, more space to make yourself invisible.

But you’re not invisible. You’re standing in the doorway in the tiniest shorts you’ve ever seen after abruptly stopping in a panic, your boots skidding against the hardwood. All eyes are on you for a few seconds, and those few seconds make you feel naked, too visible, too real. A guy on the other side of the pool table tilts his head, a cigarette between his lips, a smile tugging at the corner like he knew every thought going on inside your head, and wanted to make sure you knew, too.

You swallow down your physical panic as he makes his way over to you. “Never seen you before,” he drawls like you’re fresh meat, his voice soft, pretty. He’s pretty. Brown hair, curly and messy over his forehead, his body is lean, but strong, his clothes oversized but somehow fitted to his build exactly.

You force a smile. “I don’t usually come here.”

His lips tighten, the cherry of the cigarette burning a bright orange as he looks you up and down. “You should,” he says, smoke leaving his mouth with the word. He lifts his fingers, cigarette landing between two of them. “What’s your name?”

“What’s yours?” you ask instead, pushing your shoulders back. You bottle up the panic inside you, throw the lid over the top, and store it somewhere deep, a place you won’t find until tomorrow. You’re single. You aren’t dating Yeonjun anymore– he has someone else, even if he’s texting you, making promises he won’t keep, he’s not yours anymore. Turning point.

He grins with a feline kind of stare, like he’s assessing you. “Jungwon,” he answers, some amusement laced in his tone. “Why is it that you don’t come here?”

Some people walk in from behind you, you shift to the left to give them access. Jungwon moves with you, then closer to you. You feel your breath stutter in your chest, and you think he might be able to smell the unease radiating off of you. 

“I don’t…” you start, then stop, because you don’t really have a reason. Maybe that’s reason enough. “I don’t have a reason to come here.”

“You do now,” he brings the cigarette up to his lips again, pulling. When he exhales, he asks, “Do you smoke?”

You shake your head, “‘m not a smoker. I drink, though.”

“But there’s no drink in your hand,” Jungwon points out, frowning. “I should fix that for you, shouldn’t I?”

There’s a ghost of a smile on your lips. He’s pretty and a smooth talker. You guess you should start the countdown now for when he makes a move, and when you inevitably reject him. You nod anyways, though, because at least he’s easy on the eyes, and offering to get you a drink. The last party you came to, your boyfriend didn’t even say hello.

He brings you back down the curved hallway, but veers off away from the kitchen, walking down a staircase into what you assume is the basement. Clouds of smoke follow behind him, dissipating into the air over your head, and it only gets worse when you’re in the basement.

There’s pong tables, couches, bean bags, a bar setup with stools, everywhere to sit, to stand, is full. You could say that for the entire house, but walking deeper into the basement, you notice that everyone’s eyes, everyone’s body shifts toward Jungwon. You wonder who he is all the way until you get to the back, which has a secondary bar tucked away in the corner. It’s smaller, quieter, with a movie-theater setup, a screen and a couch, there aren’t as many people. The people that are here, on the long, black leather couch, are all making out.

Jungwon doesn’t seem to care, he slips behind the bar like it's his. He lights a new cigarette, assessing the back of the bar like it was full and functional, and asks, “What do you drink?”

You sit on a stool, “Vodka.”

“Like, straight?” he asks, one chestnut brow popped. “Vodka on ice?”

“Usually at parties I’d be offered a beer or a seltzer or something,” you fold your arms over the table, propping your chin on your knuckles. “You want me carrying around a glass?”

“I didn’t plan on leaving this room without you, so no,” his lips pull into that feline smirk again and your stomach drops. “I planned on you drinking and finishing it right here, with me.”

You can feel your cheeks flush, a heat warming up your bare legs hanging off the bar stool. “Smooth,” you smile. “Do you have vermouth? Olive brine?”

“Don’t tell me you’re a martini girl,” he muses, slightly muffled from the cigarette between his teeth. “No martini glasses, but this will do.” He sets up a short tumbler glass for whiskey, or an old fashioned. Your eyes flare, but you don’t complain. He notices, “Martini drinker and you’re picky?”

You smile, a real smile. “I’m not picky…”

He lifts a brow, “But?”

“But my glass isn’t even chilled,” you scrunch your lips to one side, teasing. “I’m not tipping you for this, y’know.”

He snorts, pulling his cigarette from his teeth to lay it on the glass ashtray you didn’t even notice, right beside you. “What, forgot your wallet or something?”

You shrug, “Caught me. Left it at home, with my emergency olives.”

“You can tip me another way,” he says coolly, like he wasn’t trying to flirt. Your toes curl in your boots. He shakes your drink, getting it all cloudy, then pours it into your glass as if he’s been bartending for twenty years. “Taste it, then you can talk to me about how much of a tip it's worth.”

You bring your lips to the rim, eyeing Jungwon over the crystal. It takes like a martini, and like you said, you aren’t picky. His brows raise, “Well?”

“A martini’s a martini,,” you lick your top lip, lowering the glass back to the bar. You feel lighter. Flirting like this, without pressure, talking to a man who is clearly interested in you feels good. 

He leans over the thick slab of wood, amusement in his eyes. “But is it tip-worthy?”

You don’t know what inside you makes you ask, “Are we still talking about the same kind of tip?”

He smiles, and it’s a full, widespread grin. “You’re funny.”

“I can tell from how hard you laughed,” you tease, picking up your glass again. “I’m not the hookup kind, though. Hate to break it to you.”

“Ah,” he nods his understanding, picking up his cigarette from the ashtray while you sip your drink. “You’re the wine and dine type.”

“I’m the type that needs a genuine connection,” you correct. “And I just met you five minutes ago.”

“I’d say we have a pretty strong connection right now,” he says, cigarette between his lips as he re-lights it. “What do they say? Love at first sight?”

It makes you laugh, a straight punch from your gut. You take a deeper sip, then lean a little closer toward him, swirling your finger around the rim. “I don’t fuck at parties.”

“You’re the one who brought it up,” he counters, voice a low, heavy whisper. “I think you want to, but you’re reminding yourself that you don’t.” Your smile falters. “Or are you convincing yourself? I can’t tell.”

You did bring it up. Cheeks heating up again, you sputter, “I-I just came out of a breakup, he cheated on me. I’m not in the headspace to do anything with anyone.”

“All I did was make you a drink, baby,” he reminds you, voice soft as cotton. “I only brought you down here to get to know you.”

“You didn’t want to join the orgy on the couch?” you smirk, pointing a thumb behind you. Jungwon glances over, then laughs, a pretty song of delight.

“This is my bar,” he admits, then walks around the side of it toward you. He slips into the barstool beside yours, and says, “Only I can bring people down here. The people on the couch have either been here before, or got the go from me. No, I didn’t bring you down here to join the party on the couch, I brought you down here because I wanted to bring you into my space.”

You weigh his words, the look in his eye, then ask, “This is your house?”

His smile grows again. “You don’t even know who’s house you’re in?”

“Don’t care,” you admit, and it’s honest. “I came here to get drunk and have fun with my friends. They kind of forced me.”

“They forced you?” He reaches across the bar, arm disappearing below the slab of wood. He pulls a bottle back, a deep amber color, bourbon. He unscrews the cap, saying, “I don’t see your friends around now.”

“They’re upstairs,” you watch him as he brings the bottle up to his lips, trading tobacco for whiskey. “They tend to stray toward elevated surfaces, not basements.”

Jungwon smiles as he swallows down the liquor. “And you don’t?”

“I was up there,” you’re grinning, nodding. “But it definitely wasn’t my idea.”

“I’m sad I didn’t get to see,” he mutters, setting the uncapped bottle down on the wood. Licking his lips, he shrugs, “You could always put on a private show–”

“Virgin?” you hear from the doorway, a voice you haven’t heard in over two weeks. Your head turns at the sound of it, the familiarity, and you’re met with Jung Wooyoung standing confused in the entryway. “The hell are you doing down here?”

“Hi,” your lips flatten. You still feel the shame from snapping at him, not seeing him, not hearing from him or speaking to him in these past few weeks. You still haven’t decided how you’d explain your breakup with Yeonjun to him. 

“Yo,” Jungwon stretches an arm out, and Wooyoung clasps his hand when he walks over like the greeting was practiced. Now you’re confused. They know each other? Jungwon turns toward you with furrowed brows, “You’re a virgin?”

“No!” you answer too quickly, eyes blowing wide. “He just calls me that,” you side-eye Wooyoung, “because he’s an asshole.”

Even shameful, the sight of him still pisses you off. White tee, dark jeans, hair long and curling beneath his ears, he’s dressed better than he is at his own parties. Wooyoung still looks confused, “Why are you down here? People fuck down here.”

Jungwon melts into his defeat, and your lips pop open. “You said–” you point at Jungwon, then turn to Wooyoung, “he said he didn’t– I’m confused.”

“People come down here to fuck,” Wooyoung explains, pointing with a thumb over his shoulder. “There’s bedrooms behind the screen, a hallway through the door next to it. Sorry J, but you know you’re running a brothel down here, right?”

Your lips stay parted. “You said you didn’t bring me down here to fuck.”

“I didn’t,” Jungwon’s voice grows in pitch. “People just happen to come down here and–”

Wooyoung snorts, a laugh ripping through his chest. “I’m sorry,” he manages to get out, “I didn’t mean to cockblock, but she might be the worst person you could have brought down here.”

Your lips part further, jaw hitting the floor. “What?”

Jungwon’s face falls flat, and he pushes himself backward in the barstool, the legs making an ugly noise against the tiled floors. “Wait,” you blurt, trying to put the pieces together. “Why are you leaving? What the fuck is going on?”

“He brought you down here to fuck you, Virgin,” Wooyoung spells it out for you, his words still drowning in amusement. “Or did you know that already? I didn’t take you for the mid-party-fuck type, unless it’s your boyfriend, who I just saw upstairs, by the way.”

“I thought you said your boyfriend cheated on you,” comes from a confused Jungwon.

“He cheated on you?” Wooyoung’s eyes blow wide. “No, tell me it was with that guy, the brunette one with the pretty face–”

“Oh my god, can you both shut the fuck up?” you snap, silencing the two men. “Yes, he cheated on me with Beomgyu and no I’m not the hookup type and no I didn’t know this was the fucking sex room. You said people come down here to fuck? Why the fuck are you down here, then?”

As if on cue, one of the prettiest women you’ve ever seen is giggling as she passes through the entryway, her heels clicking against the tile as she walks toward Wooyoung. “Wooyoungie,” she whines, not reading the silence from you and Jungwon as she attaches herself to Wooyoung’s side. “Aren’t you taking me back?”

Your brows raise, and so, so slowly you turn your head toward Jungwon. With pointed eyes, you ask, “You brought me down here to ‘get to know me?’”

“If something came after getting to know you, I wouldn’t have said no to it,” he admits shamelessly.

You grab your martini, sucking the rest of it back like it was a shot. “‘Kay, I’m done here, officially going the fuck home.”

“Wait, Virgin,” Wooyoung calls for you as you’re halfway off the stool. “You said you were going to update me, but you haven’t updated me, and clearly there’s a lot to update me on.”

You can only see the back side of her, but you somehow manage to glimpse her tongue poking out of her lips where they were attached to Wooyoung’s neck. With a flat stare, you respond, “Clearly, you’re busy.”

Turning your head, Jungwon is already gone, the bottle of bourbon gone, too. Fucker. He left you here with Wooyoung. But you think being left here with Wooyoung might be better than Wooyoung leaving you here with Jungwon. 

“Baby, baby,” Wooyoung peels the woman off of him with his hands on her hips. Grinning, using what you think is every ounce of swagger he possesses, you watch as he convinces her, “Go wait for me in a room, okay? I’ll come to you, this won’t take long.”

And to your surprise, she listens. She turns for the door you now notice beside the screen and purrs, “Don’t take long, okay? I don’t wanna have to start without you.”

Once she’s out of earshot, you repeat every word she said in a whiny, mocking tone. Wooyoung smacks his teeth as he crosses his arms, “Shut up, she’s hot. How could you let Jungwon bring you down here?”

“What’s it matter to you?” you retort, brows knitting together. “He said he was getting me a drink.”

“And you decided the safe place to get a drink was in the room with naked people on the couch?” he asks, one of his arms flying behind him, referring to the now very naked people on the couch.

Heat lines your cheeks as your lips part, “Oh.” Shaking your head, voice drawing defensive, you argue, “They weren’t naked when I got down here, they were just making out. It was PG-thirteen.”

“You’re too naive for a guy like Jungwon,” Wooyoung’s arms cross tighter. “He’ll tear you to pieces.”

“Maybe I wanted to get torn to pieces,” you proclaim. You were contemplating it, at most, and you’re not naive. “Why are you grilling me? Go get fucked.”

“You’re not the hook-up type, you just said it yourself.” Wooyoung rakes a hand through his hair, “I didn’t want to be right about your boyfriend, you know.”

“Don’t get serious now,” your tone is vicious. “We’re barely even friends. You have no reason to be consoling me right now.”

“You’ve walked in on me jerking off and you walked in on me having sex,” he counters, voice flat. “Now we’re not friends?”

You sigh, exhaustion building from this conversation alone. “You irritate me.”

“What happened two weeks ago?” Wooyoung asks, and in his eyes you can see the concern, the genuine curiosity. “I want to make sense of what I just saw. I want to know.”

Lips scrunching, running both hands through your hair, you don’t have it in you to argue anymore. “Okay,” you preface, and let the rest of the story come tumbling out. From the night he gave you advice, to having sex with Yeonjun, to the basket, to catching him in bed with Beomgyu, you don’t miss a single detail from that night all the way up to today, all of your friends having to convince you to come out.

“Damn, I’m sorry,” Wooyoung’s lips are tied tight to one side. “The marriage shit makes sense now, though. Projection, in a way, him holding on to what was left even though he was the one pulling out.”

Your brows raising is your only agreement, because you’ve thought all of this over already. Under your breath, you mutter, “Yeah, I’m sure, he only did that with me.”

You should have known that because he’s Wooyoung, he’d understand your play on words. “Wait, he didn’t cum inside you? Even though you were dating for that long, and he wanted to get you pregnant?” You shake your head. His head tilts, “Girl.”

“It doesn’t matter, it’s over,” you roll your eyes, sinking into the stool. “Can you go now? Go fuck enough for the both of us, since I won’t be having sex for a long, long time.”

Wooyoung studies you for a moment, eyes thin in a squint, debating. “How many bodies do you have?”

“Wooyoung!” you whisper-yell, looking around. “Why would you ask me that?”

“Now you’re shy? After telling me that whole story?” He laughs a little. “Answer.”

Your heartbeat picks up, feeling heat in your cheeks. “Four,” you mumble, so quietly you’re sure he can’t hear you. He cups his ear with his palm, and you repeat, louder, “Four.”

“I heard you the first time, I just wanted to be wrong,” he groans. Running his hands over his face, he stops when his fingers are wrapped around his jaw, “Have you never hooked up with anyone, literally ever?”

“No,” you answer, shameless. “I’ve always had boyfriends, I’m a lover girl.”

His face twinges with disgust, “Never say that again. You talked so much shit about him not fucking you right, and– you know, you should call Jungwon back in here. You should fuck him. You need to learn what good sex is.”

“I know what good sex is,” you argue, offended. “We had good sex, before… before Beomgyu. In the beginning. It was good!”

“Was it good or was it I think I might die good?” There’s a flush ripping through your entire body now, and Wooyoung takes your silence as an answer. “Did he at least make you cum?”

“Yes,” you reply too quickly. Wooyoung’s brows raise like he’s waiting for the rest. Self-consciously, you give him the rest, mumbling, “In the beginning.”

“When was the last time another person made you cum?” 

You don’t know. You can’t answer. Wooyoung chokes on a disbelieving laugh like this is the most diabolical thing he’s ever heard in his life. Shame bubbles up inside your gut, embarrassed that you stayed with him for so long, mortified that Wooyoung now knows all the nitty-gritty details.

“Not all of us fuck anything,” you snap, frustration boiling over. “At least I’ve never had chlamydia. Can you say the same?”

“I’ve never had sex without giving my partner at least one orgasm, can your ex say the fucking same?” he bites back, and every bit of anger behind the words is intentional. “Yes, I’ve had chlamydia, but I’ve been fucking for a long time and I’ve gotten so good at it, now everyone wants a piece. Is that my fault?”

“Not everyone,” you sneer, fingers curling into your stool. You can imagine it, right now, in your head, all the different ways he does it. If Unscripted were here, she’d be kicking that girl out of the bedroom and taking it for herself, experiencing in detail all the ways Jung Wooyoung makes his partners cum. She’d be fucking Wooyoung within seconds.

“And you’re some kind of saint because you don’t want to fuck me?” He laughs, and it’s coated in sarcasm. “Jesus, you wield the fact that I had chlamydia like it’s some kind of weapon against me. I took the medication, I’m clean, I’m safe.”

“Why are you trying to convince me?” You shoot your hand across the room again, damn near shouting. “Go tell the girl that’s waiting for you! Why do you give a fuck what I think about you?”

“Because you’re the one who can’t remember the last time she had an orgasm, and I can give one to you!” he finally shouts, in the same tone as you, and it renders you both quiet. He turns, running his hands through his hair like he was bringing himself back down to earth.

There’s butterflies in your stomach, static in your toes, your heart is banging against your chest. But the shame, the embarrassment, the anger, it’s all still there.

“What, is this some kind of pity offer?” you argue after a moment, and he starts laughing, but you can’t bring yourself to stop. “Look, it’s the girl who got cheated on, let me offer her a free orgasm since her cheating ex-boyfriend rarely made her cum, too.”

“It’s not about you,” Wooyoung grits out, his body only turned halfway toward you. “That’s like, a crime, not making your partner finish. A sin.” He finally turns, and the severity on his face kinda freaks you out. “I could teach a fucking master-class on eating pussy, it’s simple. It’s ridiculous to me that women go around fucking guys who won’t make them cum.”

A laugh cracks from your chest. It’s small, at first, but then it tumbles into loud, obnoxious laughter. “You actually have to be kidding me,” you snort, sinking into the stool as you laugh. “You want to make me cum in spite of all the guys on earth who don’t make women cum? Are you a feminist all of the sudden?”

He walks closer to you, his expression stone-cold serious. “I enjoy it, Virgin, like it’s a fucking hobby. When was the last time he ate you out, just to eat you out? Nothing expected afterward?”

“You expect me to believe you won’t want anything after?”

“Answer my question.”

“Probably never,” you answer honestly, amusement still lying in your tone, laughter still breaking up your words. “I don’t think he’s ever gone down on me just to do it.”

Wooyoung groans in disgust, turning away like he couldn’t bear the sight of you. “God, and you dated him for over a year? This is the type of shit I mean when I say I could never be in a relationship, I can’t wrap my mind around dating someone if you’re not having good sex.”

Your lips fall flat, “Well, he was saving it for Beomgyu. What do you want me to fucking say to that, Wooyoung?”

“I want you to tell me to do it,” he answers, so shamelessly it makes your skin prickle with sweat. “I want you to tell me to show you what I’m talking about, to prove that my words are true. That’s what I want.”

You don’t do hook ups, Wooyoung doesn’t do relationships. You want sex to be fully about you, he’s giving you an option he says isn’t about you at all. The proposition is everything you’re against, everything you don’t want, but in his eyes, you see he’s being truthful, that he means every word he says. Yeonjun is upstairs with Beomgyu, there’s a girl just behind that door waiting for Wooyoung, and he… wants to eat you out.

“I don’t do hookups,” you whisper, looking up at him from where you sit on the stool.

“It’s not a hookup,” he shakes his head. “It’s a favor. One you don’t have to pay back.”

“Sex is about love to me, Wooy–”

“It doesn’t have to be,” his voice is calmer now, steadier. “Sex is fun, an experience, it can be a hobby. It’s about pleasure, and who doesn’t want to be pleased?”

You, you guess. That’s all you’ve wanted these past few months, it’s what you’ve been fucking begging for and he’s handing it to you on a silver platter. His words sound like they’re straight out of your own podcast.

“And all you want to do is eat me out?” you ask, brows raised.

“Well, can we kiss a little?” He tilts his head. “You have to be comfortable to cum, you won’t be comfortable if we walk in there and I tear your little shorts off.” A rush of something racks through you, landing in the base of your gut. You shiver. He smiles. “It’s like the night we met, instead this time, you’re actually gonna cum in a random bedroom at a frat party.”

That makes a smile tug at your lips, and before you know it, you’re nodding. It has to be the vodka, the pregame, the drinks you had before going on the counter, the martini you just chugged down. There’s no other explanation for how giddy you feel jumping off the stool and following Wooyoung straight through the door beside the movie screen. 

masterlist 🍬

[taexual]

. . . e q u i l i b r i u m | 18

and you’re the only game that i like to lose /// sleep token, provider

pairing: yeonjun x fem!reader

summary: it takes a long time to fully explore the thin line between love and hate. but seven minutes is a good start.

genre: academic rival!yeonjun / college au / enemies to lovers au / fake dating au

warnings: slow burn, mutual pining, strong suggestive themes, ANGST, toxic parents, mentions of speeding, strong language, and some fluff too bc jjun can’t do it any other way and neither can i!!!

words: 12.6k

masterlist / read from the beginning

✦ • ─── MARCH 8, 2025. 11 AM (DAY 11)

You woke up before Yeonjun that Saturday morning. The room was stifling. It was a small miracle neither of you had suffocated in the night.

Your cheek was pressed to his as though you’d been welded together in your sleep. His arm lay heavy and warm over your waist. Your lungs felt tight.

You didn’t want to move.

Meek, tentative rays of early morning light slipped through the curtains, catching on the curve of Yeonjun’s lips and the mess of his hair.

It wouldn’t be a bright day, that was already clear. As much as the sun tried, the sky beyond the window was too crowded with clouds. And still, the morning fog seemed welcoming somehow, carrying a sweet, delicate scent. Apricots, perhaps. Or perhaps something else.

It was the eleventh day of your bet.

And you found yourself thinking that if it ended right now, you’d truly miss him.

You’d miss the unfocused look in his eyes when you swept his hair from his face. How he’d blink, disoriented, only then realising that the strands had been poking him in the eyes.

His restless energy and the spring in his step when he was happy, often followed by a cheerful slip on the icy pavement.

The way his cheeks stretched when he laughed (usually at his own joke), and how he always turned to see if you were laughing, too.

The way you usually were, if he was.

How his lips felt when he—

You inhaled sharply.

These weren’t good thoughts to have first thing in the morning. They wouldn’t stay put if you set them down.

Yeonjun stirred under your hand, your fingers half-numb where they rested on his chest. He blinked once, then again, before managing to pry one eye open.

“Mornin’, love,” he mumbled, his voice hoarse, and promptly let his eyes fall shut again.

“Morning,” you said, warmth flaring somewhere within. “Did I wake you?”

“No,” he murmured. “Wasn’t sleeping.”

You smiled as he fought to keep his eyes open. Eventually, he gave up and tugged you closer instead.

“I quite like this,” he said, the words dissolving into a soft yawn.

“What?” you asked, entirely breathless.

He traced an absentminded circle over your back. “Waking up with you.”

“Yeah?”

“And falling asleep with you.”

“Hmm.” You closed your eyes before he could catch their shade in the dim morning light. “I like this, too.”

The wind outside knocked on the window frames, attempting to disrupt the peaceful quiet of the room. Yeonjun hummed under his breath, and the wind seemed to quiet at once.

Your thoughts, you decided, really weren’t good at all.

“Have to ask, though,” he murmured.

“Hmm?”

“Did I snore again?”

You grinned, opening your eyes. “No idea, actually. I was out cold after lugging you up the stairs.”

He laughed weakly. The sound vibrated softly against your neck.

“Appreciate that,” he said. “But I bet you were out cold just ‘cause it’s comfortable here with me. Told you it would be.”

“Surprised you remember that,” you returned. “You were gone.”

Blinking up at you, he lifted a hand and brushed a strand of hair from your cheek.

“Hmm.” His thumb lingered on the side of your face for a second. “I haven’t forgotten a single moment with you.”

You swallowed the burst in your chest. “That so?”

“Yeah.” His voice tilted, curious now. “Think I’m lying, love?”

You lifted a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “Just asking.”

“Mhmm. Could test me on it.”

“I could.”

He shifted, settling with his back pressed to the wall. The bedframe creaked in protest, reminding you not to abuse the little room you had.

“Right, then,” he said, tugging at the sheets underneath him. “Quiz me. What will I get when I win?”

You snorted. “Always need a prize.”

“Of course. What’s the point otherwise?”

You attempted, naively, to turn on your back. Yeonjun objected at once, tightening his hold on you. He needed you pressed against him the same way your bedframe needed you both to stop fidgeting.

“Not going to let me move, then?” you asked, hooking your leg over his to get yourself a scrap more comfortable. The springs in the mattress had likely scarred every soft part of your skin.

“No,” Yeonjun said easily. “Tell me what I get when I win.”

“What do you want?”

“You.”

You gave him a look. “You already have me.”

His smirk dropped.

“I—oh.” Breath hitching, he dropped his gaze lower. “Alright. Yeah. Fuck the quiz, love.”

“Oh? Change your min—”

“Yeah,” he murmured, leaning in. “Just want you right now.”

He pressed his lips to yours in a gentle, questioning kiss.

You lifted your head to meet him halfway.

Satisfied, he pulled back an inch for a breath, then kissed you again—properly this time, with a decisiveness that made you forget the mattress digging into your hip.

Your already small bed seemed to shrink further out of spite for your indifference to its size. That was fine. You discovered you quite liked having no room to breathe.

His tongue brushed against yours, lazy but certain. He realised he still felt a fair bit drunk, though he suspected that had more to do with you than anything alcoholic.

You reached up, fingers curling into the smooth collar of his shirt, and pulled him closer. Yeonjun wouldn’t have had anywhere to go even if he’d wanted to—and he’d never wanted to. The wild thumping of his heart against yours already felt familiar.

His mouth grew fervent, eager, but never rough. Each kiss unleashed something bright and sparkling in your stomach.

The dark, rhubarb-coloured sheets bunched beneath you as he shifted, rolling you onto your back. His thigh came to rest between yours, elbows braced on either side of your head.

As soon as your spine relaxed at the easier angle, he kissed you with renewed ardour. The gentle friction of his jeans against your trousers made your pulse surge. The blood in your veins flowed faster, hurrying, like a stream spilling into something wider, something bigger than itself. You followed where it led you.

His hands scaled your sides. He felt it all: the tightening in your chest, the stumble of your breath, the pull of your mouth.

And, God, he wanted more.

Starry-eyed and panting, he kissed along your jaw, abandoning his earlier haste in order to relish the taste of your skin. Goosebumps rose where his mouth had been, and you tipped your chin without thinking, offering him your neck. He accepted gratefully and peppered entire constellations of small kisses down your throat before grazing his teeth over the tender skin.

Your muffled curse ignited his stomach.

His breath warmed your skin as he closed his mouth over a spot on your neck, sucking gently but deliberately. He left small, pulsing marks, then brought his tongue over them to soothe the burn.

You whispered his name. Before he could die in it, you gripped his collar tighter and pulled him back to you.

Your mouths collided in a messy, heated kiss. Your teeth clashed.

Gasping at the abrupt sting, you both pulled back.

“Shit—did I hurt you?” he asked, fingers feathering over the side of your face.

“No,” you said, clicking your teeth against each other. “Mouth seems intact.”

His tongue swept over his lower lip. “You sure? Let me check just in ca—”

Too impatient to finish the sentence, he pressed his lips back to yours. Your laughter was sugar against his tongue.

His thigh nudged your legs a fraction wider until he settled fully between them. Careful not to put too much of his weight on you, he tried to adjust his arms and grunted into the kiss, his hips meeting yours. Your amused smile melted into a breathless sigh at once.

The room filled with the slick sounds of your mouths moving together, your soft breaths, and the half-formed murmurs of something only the two of you could understand.

His hands dipped beneath your shirt, leaving ornaments of his fingerprints over your skin. His kisses mellowed into deep, heavy touches of his tongue against yours. You tasted like the dreams he’d been having all night.

Trying to shift closer still—to feel all of you against him—Yeonjun misjudged the distance and struck his elbow sharply against the wall.

“Shh—fuck,” he hissed, wrenching himself away.

You lifted yourself up to your elbows.

“Told you the bed’s too small,” you said, guiding him back onto the bed beside you. “You gonna live?”

Whining, he clutched his elbow, which now appeared to be conducting electricity, and dropped his head onto the pillow.

“Yeah, s’fine,” he said, voice shaking despite his desperate effort to appear heroic. “Barely felt it, really.”

Politely biting back your laughter, you reached out to trace the line from his cheek to his jaw.

Yeonjun could no longer feel the electric currents pulsating through his elbow.

Instead, he focused on the electric currents pulsating through his chest.

“I don’t get it, though,” he mumbled, pouting. “We seemed to fit fine here, the first time.”

You wondered if there would ever come a day when your stomach failed to heat at the memory of that first time.

“You’ve lost your flexibility,” you said.

He scoffed. “S’probably ‘cause of the positioning. I perform better when you’re on top.”

Clicking your tongue, you redirected your gaze to the wall behind him.

“Mhmm,” you said. “I perform better when Reina isn’t in the next room.”

“You underestimate how easily we could fix that problem, love.”

You glanced back at him. “Thought you’d sworn off stairs.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You want to do it on the stairs?”

“I—” Laughing, you shook your head against the pillow. “No. Not exactly what I meant.”

A lorry rattled by outside, its engine wheezing tumultuously right under your window.

Yeonjun watched your lingering smile and realised he’d have gladly struck a bargain with just about any Devil, if it meant this moment could last forever.

“I think,” he said, returning his arm to your waist, “this might be the nicest morning I’ve ever had.”

“Even after nearly losing your elbow?”

“Even so.”

You grinned. “Feel like the bar’s quite low anyway.”

“No, I’ve had good mornings,” he said. “But not with you. So they don’t count.”

Your fingers slid down the side of his neck, settling just below his collarbones. You focused on the steadfast beating in his chest, hoping it would drown out your own.

“It is a very nice morning,” you said.

He leaned in and pressed another kiss to your lips, to make the morning nicer still.

For a while, you both complied with the desperate requests of your bedframe and did not move. You lay facing each other, sheets coiled into careless knots around your legs. His hand moved through your hair, winding a strand around his finger, then letting it fall again.

“Do you want to eat?” he asked eventually.

You hadn’t, until he mentioned it.

“Maybe,” you said, weighing the suggestion. Eating would surely require moving from the position you were currently in.

“I could cook,” he offered. “Or we could go out.”

“We could.”

He was exceptionally pleased by how comfortably you stayed tucked against him.

“Okay.” He pushed your hair back, then momentarily lost the thread of the conversation when you blinked up at him. “W-we could get brunch. At that bistro on campus.”

“Yeah?” you said. “I’ve never been.”

“Bin and I went once. He takes Reina there when he’s not working.”

“Oh.”

A small pause followed. Yeonjun watched your features as though trying to memorise the exact shape of your face.

“We could,” he said carefully, “ask them to join us?”

The suggestion caught you off guard; he noticed it right away. He also noticed the way your gaze softened as the idea settled in your mind.

“Yeah,” you said. “Okay. Uh, I’ll check with Reina. Last night, she said she’d go see how Bin’s doing, but I didn’t hear her leave.”

“Okay,” he said, and made no move to let you go.

Instead, he held you tighter for one last second, as though you were about to embark on a long and perilous journey and he needed to give you the appropriate send-off.

When you laughed, patting his arm, he kissed you one last time and finally loosened his grasp. His mournful sigh as you slid off the bed drew another smile from you.

Behind you, he flipped onto his back and moaned, joints cracking loudly. When you glanced at him, brows raised, he gave a lighthearted wave and nodded for you to go on.

Reina’s room was dark, the door left slightly ajar. You knocked lightly and eased it open. The glow of her phone lit the pillows on her bed.

“Rei?” you whispered, uncertain. “You awake?”

A soft groan travelled through the covers. A moment later, Reina’s head emerged from her fortress of pillows.

“Depends on why you’re asking,” she said. Then, slightly more alert: “Hi.”

“Hi.” You rested a hand against the doorframe. “Jun and I were thinking about getting brunch at the bistro on campus. He says you and Soobin know the place. Do you want to come?”

Reina blinked. She realised she’d missed the moment when Yeonjun permanently became Jun to you.

Sitting up properly now, the duvet hitched around her shoulders, she fixed you with a long, assessing look.

“We do know it,” she said. “You—are you suggesting a double date?”

You paused, the implication hovering between you.

“I’m… suggesting we go out to eat,” you said.

A smile crept onto her drowsy features. “Right. You and me, and our boyfriends.”

“Our—okay.” You inhaled. She grinned openly. “Yeah. Sure.”

Feeling as though your acceptance of the label warranted some proper acknowledgement—a toast, at least—Reina almost considered suggesting the celebratory Merlot. (It differed from the emergency Merlot only in that you had emergencies far more often than you celebrated).

Unfortunately, she figured that’d sent you head-first out the window.

“Alright,” she said, collecting herself.  “I’ll text Bin. Saw he’s awake.”

“Okay,” you said. “I’ll get dressed.”

“Mhmm.” She eyed you for another moment. “Sleep at all last night, by the way?”

You turned at the threshold. “I did.”

Her grin now threatened to split her cheeks in two. “And this morning?”

You pressed your lips together and left without answering. Her bright laughter followed you down the corridor.

Back in your room, Yeonjun was sat on your bed, squinting suspiciously at his phone. His hair was sticking in all directions, catching the faint light from the window. His shirt was askew and sliding off one shoulder.

You swallowed and tried to remember why you’d come back.

He looked up and smiled at you in the doorway, his tired eyes a little brighter for it. You could see a sliver of his chest through the gap in his collar.

Whatever you’d remembered, you forgot again.

“It—Reina’s in,” you said, scratching your forehead. “She’s—yeah. We should get ready.”

Yeonjun watched you avoid his eyes for a moment and tried to compose his face into something humble. He could not.

Grinning with all the pride of a handsome peacock—the one he refused to associate himself with any longer—he stretched his hands above his head.

“Alright,” he said, yawning in utter bliss. “Can I use your bathroom? I still smell like the bar.”

“Yeah, go ahead,” you said, eyeing the cupboard with your clothes. You wondered if you had any turtlenecks that didn’t need washing left. “There should be a toothbrush in the cabinet, still in the packet.”

Yeonjun kicked the covers back and stood, swaying. His pride had paused at your words.

“Okay,” he said, feeling a little foolish all of a sudden. “Can I use it, then?”

“Yeah, s’why I mentioned it.”

He nodded, still a touch unsteady, and brushed a hand over your waist as he passed into the corridor.

Hungover despite his best efforts not to be, he wasn’t capable of many coherent thoughts. Still, he was thinking about what you’d said.

It was nothing, of course. You didn’t seem to think twice about it.

But now he’d have a toothbrush at your place.

Alright, then.

✦ • ─── MARCH 8, 2025. 12:30 PM (DAY 11)

An hour later, the four of you were standing at the entryway of the bistro.

You watched clouds drifting behind the large windows while Soobin negotiated seating with the hostess. The bistro wasn’t overly busy today. It was still too early on a Saturday for most of your peers. The space was filled instead with towering plants, colourful, patterned tiles, and people significantly older than you.

You’d barely taken three steps into the eating area when a middle-aged man in a black trilby brushed past. Then he suddenly stopped short beside you.

“Yeonjun?” A hand clamped onto his sleeve.

You all halted, then recognised your professor—Yeonjun’s thesis advisor. You’d never seen him outside an auditorium before, and your stomach knotted irrationally, as if he might assign extra coursework simply for catching you in public.

The professor asked Yeonjun for a word and guided him outside. Their conversation lasted barely a minute.

“Everything okay?” you asked when Yeonjun finally slid into the seat beside you.

“Yeah,” he said. “Fell a bit behind. He wants to discuss my non-existent progress.”

Across the table, Soobin sucked in a breath. “Told you it was time to email him something.”

“I’ll do it,” Yeonjun said with a prolonged yawn. “Eventually.”

You and Reina exchanged an old, very well-practised look—Yeonjun’s effort depended entirely on how much he cared; and he rarely cared—then turned to pull your phones out for the QR code glued to the edge of the table.

Yeonjun rubbed his temples absently as he scrolled down the menu on his phone. Soobin noticed it immediately.

“How’re you feeling?” he asked.

It took Yeonjun a moment to realise he was the recipient of the question.

“I’m good,” he said. “Head’s a bit—but I’m good. Why?”

“You were obliterated last night,” Soobin said, tapping his own temple.

Only then did Yeonjun realise where his hand was. He dropped it into his lap.

“M’fine,” he said again. “Didn’t even drink that much.”

You shook your head just as Soobin said, “that only makes it worse.”

Yeonjun had a vague recollection of you teasing him about his drinking skills, too, but certain details of last night lived behind a dense fog. He preferred to let them stay there.

“Speaking of drinking,” Reina said, setting her phone down. Her eyes sparkled. “Did you know Nara admitted she fancies Beomgyu last night?”

You nodded, causing the leaves of a nearby plant to quiver, equally as excited.

“To him?” Yeonjun asked, leaning over you.

“To us,” Reina said, pointing between you and herself. “But still. Progress.”

“Alright, yeah,” he said. He’d have preferred if those two had finally had the conversation everyone was waiting for them to have. “Was she drunk, then?”

“Not as bad as you,” you said with a pat on his knee, “but yeah.”

He gave you a look that was more pleased than offended and lowered his hand to yours to keep you near. You leaned over the table and didn’t pull away, fingers splayed over his thigh.

“Said she’s liked him for years,” Reina added.

That pulled Soobin out of his phone. “Didn’t she date someone last year?”

She sighed. “She did, yeah. Guess she tried to get over her crush. Gyu clearly liked her all through it, though.”

“That’s rough,” Yeonjun said, rubbing his thumb over yours. “Poor bloke.”

“Yeah,” Soobin agreed. “You’d know what that’s like.”

The phone in your hand briefly froze as you blinked up at Soobin, just in time to catch the meaningful drift of his gaze from Yeonjun to you.

Reina traced a finger over the contour of her lip, beaming. She was going to kiss Soobin right after this.

Yeonjun looked caught off guard, too, fingers tightening around yours on his knee. For just a second, though—he switched to the offensive immediately after.

“Oh,” he said, leaning back, “and you wouldn’t?”

Soobin pursed his lips. He didn’t mind speaking about his year-long pining over Reina with Reina. He minded doing it with Yeonjun.

“Alright,” Soobin said, theatrically turning his head to the side. “Fair enough.”

Yeonjun opened his mouth to defend his dignity further, but didn’t get a chance as the waitress approached to take your orders.

Once she’d disappeared back into the kitchen, you decided it was a great time to guide the conversation toward the dark shadows under Soobin’s eyes.

“So,” you said, lifting your hand from under Yeonjun’s. “How’s life behind the bar? Been on late shifts for a while, haven’t you?”

Reina shot you a glance. She’d hoped to dwell a tad longer on Yeonjun having a crush on you—just like she’d told you!—but she couldn’t argue with the change in subject, either.

She’d asked Soobin more times than she could count whether working closing shifts night after night was sensible. He’d answered the same way every time: someone’s got to do it.

“It’s been alright,” Soobin said. “Just trying to rack up the hours before I’ve got to slow down for my thesis. There’s really no other way.”

“There is,” Reina contested, ignoring his heavy sigh. “You’re just hard to talk out of things.”

“You really are,” Yeonjun agreed. “Stubborn as hell.”

“I’m focused,” Soobin replied.

“S’exactly what stubborn people say,” Yeonjun shot back.

Reina nodded, eager in her agreement—then stilled, mortified, as she realised she was agreeing with Yeonjun.

Soobin dropped his gaze and tapped on the screen of his phone to check the time. He and Reina were leaving to see her family this evening. He yearned to fast-forward to it right now.

When he looked up, the three of you were still watching him.

“Really, though,” Yeonjun said as soon as he caught his gaze. “Are you even sleeping?”

“Sure,” Soobin said, picking up the black napkin dispenser to give his hands something to do as his discomfort mounted. “I’m fine, honestly. What is this, an intervention?”

“We’re just worried,” you said. “Scared the bar’s going to replace us.”

Soobin snorted. “It won’t. I’d leave that place if I could.”

“Well,” you said, “can’t you?”

“No.” His eyes stayed on the table. “It’s good money. Flexible hours. Nothing else will give me that while I’m studying. And it’s only two months until graduation.”

“He’s lying,” Reina said, patting his shoulder. “Plenty of places would hire him with decent pay and flexible hours. He just likes the bar because it’s got good energy.”

Your brows lifted. Reina refused to meet Soobin’s pleading face.

To be fair, it wasn’t the bar he liked, or his boss, or even most of his co-workers. He liked the weekend crowd.

“Well, it has,” he insisted. “Where else would I get to hang out with my mates while I’m working?”

“The library,” you said.

“The li—” He stopped mid-protest. “You serious?”

“Yeah,” you said, sending Reina into another frenzy of nodding.

“They’re not strict at all,” she said. “I’m there all the time, and no one’s told her to kick me out yet. Haven’t even told her to kick Yeonjun out.”

Surprised to find himself in the line of fire again, Yeonjun looked up from the table. “Um—why even?”

“Well, I’m there to keep her company,” Reina explained, removing her hand from Soobin’s shoulder to place it on yours instead. “You’re there to distract her.”

You snorted, shooting a sidelong glance at Yeonjun.

He leaned back in his chair, proud instead of guilty, the corners of his lips lifting. He revelled in being a problem.

You turned back ahead before he started to gloat.

“Less workload at the library, too,” you told Soobin. “Archive duty’s pretty much the worst of it, ‘cause it’s freezing down there. And the books are heavy.”

“Right,” Soobin said. Then, as he always did when someone suggested he change careers, he began picking at every small detail. “But you haven’t got easy access to drinks.”

You resisted the urge to mention the secret champagne bottles hidden in the archives, stacked better than most bars managed. It was an excellent spot to keep them chilled year-round, for staff birthdays. Or just rough days when the managers were off.

“Well, okay,” you said. “But it’s not like you can drink on the job at the bar, either.”

Yeonjun and Soobin exchanged a look. Then they burst into sudden, boisterous laughter.

You and Reina frowned. Your confusion was interrupted by the waitress returning with your food. Everyone at the table paused to thank her and accept the plates.

“Hang on, then,” Reina said as a rich, salty steam enveloped the table. She glanced between the boys. “You can drink? You do?”

Soobin waved the question off with an incoherent grunt and reached for the wooden cutlery holder, handing Reina her utensils before taking his own.

“Can hardly call that drinking,” he said.

He and Yeonjun usually knocked back a few right before his shift started. So, technically, he wasn’t drinking on the job. Just seconds before it.

“Mhmm.” Reina ran a finger over the silver handle of her fork. “Built up an immunity to it already, have we, babe?”

“Alcoholism really is in the cards, then,” you agreed.

Yeonjun snorted beside you, poking his French toast with his knife to find the cleanest point of entry. Honey and berries trickled down the sides.

“I’ll be fine,” Soobin insisted. “Got a strong support system.”

“Aw.” Yeonjun raised his head, touched. He knew there was a reason Soobin picked him for his pre-shift drinks. “That’s sweet.”

“I meant Reina.”

Yeonjun clicked his tongue. “Could’ve let me have it.”

Snickering, Soobin cut into his omelette and didn’t reply. For a while, the four of you ate in companionable silence.

Then, about ten minutes into your meal, Yeonjun’s phone vibrated against the tabletop, the sound skittering across the aged wood and snapping all of you into attention.

He took half a glance at the screen and his face drained of all colour.

“Oh.” He set down his fork. “I-I’ve got to take this.”

You cast him a questioning glance, but he snatched up his phone without looking up and went off into the corridor at the back of the bistro.

When he returned five minutes later, he looked worse than when he’d left.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” he asked you, flicking an apologetic glance towards Reina and Soobin.

Reina nodded, indifferent.

Soobin, on the other hand, stiffened. He rested his fork against the edge of the plate and clasped his hands on the table. If Yeonjun couldn’t talk about this in front of others, Soobin was convinced something must’ve happened. Likely involving his parents.

You met Soobin’s gaze and felt your own unease grow at the sight of his.

Still, you stood and followed Yeonjun into the narrow corridor that led to the restrooms. The tiled walls reeked of soap, sharp enough to make your eyes water.

“I’ve got bad news,” Yeonjun said.

Your stomach dropped at once. “What happened?”

“It’s, uh—” he paused to step aside as a man squeezed past you into the men’s room.

You felt your impatience pulsing at your temples.

“Have you met my mum?” he asked finally.

You frowned. “Obviously not. Why?”

“She just called me,” he said, raising his phone. “Said she must meet you ‘properly.’”

Something snapped along your spine, and you straightened. “What?”

“Yeah. Sh-she knew your name and everything.”

Perplexed, you dropped your gaze to the floor. You remembered him mentioning that his mother had heard he was seeing someone. Remembered her assuming it was Amy.

“Does she know—” you tried.

“Yeah,” he said quickly. When you darted a look at him, his eyes were glassy. “Called you my girlfriend all through the call. To make her point clearer, I assume.”

Alain’s warning flashed back through your mind, abrupt and uninvited.

Immediately, your confusion morphed into outright dread and spread through your limbs.

“And h-how does she know who I am?” you asked.

“I’ve genuinely no idea.”

You considered that and decided you didn’t actually want to know how she’d found out about you. You suspected it hadn’t been difficult anyway. The university board kept track of all graduate students.

“Right,” you said. “Well, I don’t need to meet her. Properly or otherwise. I mean, we’re not—”

“No,” he cut in, his jaw tight. “You must, apparently. She was very firm on that.”

The absurdity of the situation felt comical.

Yeonjun was informing you that his mother—a prototype for a fairytale villain, the way he painted her—had learnt about you and demanded an audience. And a few metres away, the same guy exited the men’s room, hands dripping, whistling merrily as he passed by.

“Alright,” you said, trying to settle your watery insides. “Am I getting hanged, then?”

Yeonjun’s lips twitched. “Possibly.”

“Brilliant,” you said. “I was just thinking how much I wanted to avoid graduating.”

“She’ll feed you before you’re hanged, too,” he added, nodding with exaggerated empathy. “We’ve got excellent cooks.”

“You’ve got cooks,” you repeated. “Of course.”

“Of course,” he said. “Who do you think taught me everything about food? My mum, who saw me twice a year growing up? The one who’ll kill us both if we don’t visit? Who—”

“Alright,” you cut in, trailing your tongue over your parched lips. “I get it.”

The scent of soap seemed to solidify in your senses. You could practically taste the lavender.

You realised you could joke about his mother all day, but it still wouldn’t stop your bones from tensing.

“We’re not actually going to see her,” you said. “Right?”

Yeonjun exhaled slowly. The air seemed to cool around you, heavy and still.

“I really don’t want to,” he said, but the resignation in his voice made it sound like this was not a matter of wanting at all. “But it—it might not be so bad.”

Your brows rose. “Really? Now you’re optimistic?”

“I don’t know what else to do.”

“Not go!”

He dragged a hand over his face, fingers lingering at his jawline. His eyes stayed alert, as if the next person to come out of the men’s room might be his mother herself.

“I don’t know what she’ll do if we don’t go,” he admitted.

That was comforting to hear.

You lowered your gaze back to the murky grey floor tiles, tracing the grout lines. The rest of the bistro was a vibrant mix of colour. The corridor, as the anomaly, was oddly fitting.

“Did you tell her this isn’t serious?” you asked. “That we’re nowhere near meeting each other’s parents?”

“I did,” he said. “Also told her we’re not exclusive. Even tried to play it as though I’m thinking of breaking it off. Then I tried to imply she’d got your name wrong, and you had nothing to do with being my girlfriend.”

“Mhmm.”

“She still wants to meet you.”

An emptiness opened behind your eyes. “Alright. Maybe I’m not being hanged, after all.”

“Maybe not,” he said without much conviction.

“I’m being minced and tossed into a stew by your excellent cooks.”

Wincing, Yeonjun stroked a finger along his eyebrow.

“You’re not getting tossed in a stew,” he said. Then he cleared his throat, peering up at you. “Worst she’ll do is bury you out back.”

“Oh!” you said. “That’s lovely. Under something pretty.”

“Peonies.”

“I’d prefer hydrangeas.”

He finally smiled. “We can arrange that, I’m sure.”

“Good,” you said, folding your arms. “I feel better.”

He bit down on his lower lip, hard enough to sting, and didn’t let go. There was some solace in still being able to feel blood when he thought he couldn’t feel anything at all.

“We…” he began slowly, “could try not going.”

You glanced up. The uncertainty in his eyes was heavy, but there was a fragile—naïve—spark of hope threaded through it.

“You just said she’d kill us both, then,” you pointed out.

“Might be a better alternative, to be honest,” he said, shifting on his feet as he raked a hand through his hair. It promptly perked up in the familiar shape of cat ears.

You dug your fingernails into your arms. “You think so?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “She’s never—this has never happened.”

You shot him a dubious look.

If his mother had found you this easily, surely she’d been able to track down anyone else before you.

“Has it really not?” you asked.

“No,” he said, a little defensive despite himself. “I don’t—well, Amy helped for a while.”

“But not recently,” you said. “You can’t tell me your mum didn’t interrogate you about every date you’d gone on.”

“Well, I hadn’t in a long time,” he said.

You did not understand.

“You hadn’t gone out with anyone in a long time?” you clarified.

“No.”

You blinked. “What’s wrong with you?”

“You, actually,” he said.

You stared at him, your expression caught between immediate offence—still a knee-jerk response to anything cryptic he said—and genuine bewilderment.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked.

He turned his attention to the fire escape map bolted to the wall. “You think about that.”

Frowning, you leaned back until your shoulders met the wall, the cool of the plaster seeping through your turtleneck. Your heart beat violently against your ribs, each thud sharper than the one before.

You would not think about that. (Thud-thud, thud-thud).

You would think about what it would mean if the two of you went to have dinner with his parents.

“When does she want us to come?” you asked.

“Tonight.”

A shallow breath escaped your lips. “Oh, wow. She’s sure efficient.”

“Yeah.”

You ran through your options again, but found them all lacking.

If you didn’t go to this dinner, you’d merely delay what sounded like an inevitable catastrophe.

If you did go, you’d experience the catastrophe piping hot and likely with dessert, too—perhaps that dreadful, dry strawberry cake.

You decided you preferred not to sit and wait for it.

“Well,” you said, pushing off the wall. “Fuck it, then.”

Yeonjun looked up. “Hm?”

“You’ve briefed me enough to know what to expect.”

His eyes remained glued to yours. “So, will you—a-are we going?”

“Have we really got a choice?”

The heavy boulder inside of him shifted at your question. He’d wanted to give you a choice. He didn’t think he could.

“What do you think is the worst that could happen?” you asked before he found his words.

“Nothing,” he said, suddenly resolute. He blinked a few times, as if to convince himself. “We’re—we won’t stay long enough for anything bad to happen.”

You nodded slowly. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he echoed. “So. We’re doing this?”

You managed a nod. Then another one, more determined.

Yeonjun reached out to take your hand into his. Your touch didn’t manage to still the frantic drumming behind his ribs, but it helped him re-centre himself.

“Okay,” he said again, forcing brightness into his voice. “We’re doing this, then. Alright. That’s going to be so great. It’s absolutely not my worst nightmare coming to life at all.”

“You’re coping well.”

“Thank you, love, yeah. Years of practice.”

You snickered despite yourself, squeezing his hand. His chest felt a little lighter at once.

Back at your table, Yeonjun gave your friends a vague explanation about some unexpected plans for the evening, carefully omitting the part that those plans involved his parents.

Soobin, although still suspicious, didn’t push.

Reina didn’t, either. She patiently waited until you gave her the slightest nod: a promise to explain it all later.

She nodded back.

Hoping to help your eyes return to their usual colour, she steered the conversation toward her and Soobin’s weekend plans: her sister was christening her daughter tomorrow, and had asked Reina to be the godmother. They were going to have a celebratory dinner tonight.

Soobin was thrilled to return to Reina’s hometown. He’d only been there once before – charmed all the older women in the neighbourhood, ate enough jam to turn into a strawberry, and left very happy.

Smiling, finally, at their excitement, you returned to the food on your plate, the eggs a little cold now.

You almost wished you could join Reina and Soobin at church. If anything, just to snag a flask of holy water before you went to meet Yeonjun’s parents.

Then again, a part of you figured it wouldn’t help anyway.

✦ • ─── MARCH 8, 2025. 2:30 PM (DAY 11)

You split up once brunch ended.

The three of them went over to Yeonjun and Soobin’s house (Reina and Soobin had plans that required a 65-inch TV; Yeonjun had plans to stare at his ceiling for three hours before getting dressed), while you went home to distract yourself.

At first, you tried to focus on the literature review for your thesis. It worked for the first hour; rephrasing pompous academic jargon was rather therapeutic.

Once the hour was over, however, you found yourself thinking about Yeonjun again.

You’d never met a boyfriend’s parents before.

And you’d barely come to terms with Yeonjun being your boyfriend.

What even qualified as a real boyfriend nowadays? How many dates? Kisses? How many—

Finally, you tried to vacuum the flat.

Reina returned to grab her bags (most of which were just dirty clothes that she hoped her parents would sort out for her) while you were cleaning the freesia petals from the dust container.

Before leaving, she half-jokingly asked if you’d like to tag along with her and Soobin.

You smiled and shook your head.

“If you change your mind,” she said, “the Honda’s parked behind the building. You know where the keys are. Come anytime, yeah?”

You appreciated that. But there was an odd protective urge stirring inside you. You couldn’t leave Yeonjun to deal with this alone.

You didn’t know what that meant for you.

Or for the bet that the two of you hadn’t ended.

An hour before the scheduled dinner, Yeonjun rang your doorbell.

You’d warned him earlier that you had no idea about the dress code. He’d offered suggestions. Unfortunately, he had not anticipated you opening the door in black boots and a light blue dress.

The neckline curved into half a heart over your chest. The fabric skimmed your sides, cascading over your legs. The modest ruffles above your knees caught the light as you shifted in front of the door, the slit revealing your leather-covered calves.

Yeonjun stopped dead on the threshold, lungs still tight from the stairs, the freesias trembling slightly in his hands.

This, he thought distantly, was deeply inconvenient.

He was supposed to spend the evening focused on damage control with his parents. He was not supposed to fixate on the way your dress flowed as you breathed. The way it followed you at every turn.

“Hi,” you said once it became clear he had no plans to step inside.

“You’re beautiful,” he replied, gripping the flower stems tighter. Clearing the ball in his throat, he clarified, “I-I mean, tonight. You look—very nice.”

“Thank you, Jun,” you said. He watched as your smile illuminated the dress with a soft glow. “Come in, would you? There’s a draught.”

Half-deaf and convinced you’d called him daft, he blinked, then finally stepped into the flat.

He wore a black blazer and a crisp, white shirt, tucked into pressed slacks – his uniform when he was visiting his parents and had to dress down from his usual chains and trinkets. He thought he looked twelve years old—he did—and didn’t know how to behave.

At last, he remembered the flowers and offered them to you.

You accepted them with the appropriate sigh. Their delicate scent, stronger today somehow, joined the others and filled your flat.

When you looked up again, Yeonjun still hadn’t moved, his gaze fixed helplessly on your face. He looked like he’d left the hanger in when he put on the blazer.

“You look very nice, too,” you said, stifling your amusement at his posture. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a suit before.”

He averted his gaze the moment his cheeks flushed and ran a hand through his pushed-back hair. Scowling at his sticky fingers, he suddenly remembered the amount of gel he’d used.

“Don’t rub it in,” he muttered, wiping his hand on his trousers. “Feel like I’m going to a school dance.”

Your gaze flicked to his unbuttoned collar. “School dance with no tie?”

His hand dropped to his pocket. He’d spent a humiliating amount of time earlier wrestling with a tie. Even more humiliating was the number of times he’d smacked himself in the chin, trying to loop it through, then struggling to find his way out of the knot.

“I mean, I’ve got one,” he said, pulling it out. “I just didn’t—”

“Let me.”

He only understood your intention when you set the flowers on the armoire and held out your hand.

Swallowing, he passed you the tie. It was slightly creased from his pocket, but the silk had survived the indignity well. It smoothed under your palm.

You stepped closer and looped it around his neck, tucking it under the collar of his shirt. Yeonjun tried to memorise your movements for later. Instead, his attention stalled on your focused gaze and refused to budge.

“Where’d you learn to tie a tie?” he asked, a little winded all over again.

“I always do it for my grandad,” you said, folding the wider end back under itself. Yeonjun swallowed under your gentle touch. “My grandma used to do it, but her arthritis got worse. So I learned to take over.”

“Hmm.”

You could sense his gaze boring into you, but the tension curling in your stomach kept your eyes down. You slipped the tie through the front loop, then drew it snug around his neck, precise but not tight enough to leave him struggling for air.

He struggled for it anyway.

“Alright,” you said, stepping back. “Looks good. The colour complements your eyes.”

Yeonjun had to remind his brain to send signals to his legs, so he could move them. Then, more concerningly, he had to remind his brain he had legs to begin with.

“Uh—yeah,” he managed, turning toward the mirror and feeling a bit like a penguin learning to walk.

He didn’t know what had happened to him (you, in a blue dress), but he was grateful when you excused yourself to put the freesias into the bathtub. It gave him a moment to stand perfectly still and breathe.

From the corridor archway, he watched your dress ripple behind you. Watched your hair as it curled around your neck.

He wanted, fiercely, to cancel the dinner. Wanted to find out what the dress would do if he—

“Shall we, then?” you asked, shrugging into your coat and reaching for your handbag.

His gaze snagged on the silver necklace at your throat, a small, azure gemstone set into it.

“Love,” he said.

You looked up, arms halfway into your sleeves. “Hm?”

He retrieved his black scarf from its place on the hanger and wrapped it around your neck without waiting for your inevitable protests. You settled for a resigned sigh as he adjusted it, smoothing the fabric over your collarbones.

“Do you do this with everyone, then?” you asked. “Or am I special?”

He stepped back. “I don’t know what the right answer to that is.”

“It’s not a trick question,” you said, smiling. “Why the constant need to keep everyone warm?”

Shrugging, he passed you your keys from the armoire and followed you to the door.

“Don’t know,” he said. “My parents used to say it a lot when I was a kid. ‘Out on a business trip till Friday, stay warm.’ That sort of thing. Must’ve stuck with me.”

You hadn’t expected to summon his parents into your flat before you’d even met them.

Swallowing back your response, you managed a nod.

Yeonjun held the door open. A soft smile briefly touched his lips when he noticed you tighten the scarf before stepping out into the corridor.

✦ • ─── MARCH 8, 2025. 6:45 PM (DAY 11)

After a painfully quiet drive, you and Yeonjun ended up idling in his Mercedes, parked at the kerb outside his parents’ house. You needed a minute—or twenty—to brace yourself after he briefed you on what was likely to happen inside.

The building up ahead was a massive monument of pristine white stone. The windows were dark, the walls hiding in the shadows, save for the porch light by the entrance.

Despite the early spring, the garden looked immaculate: the hedges trimmed, the gravel raked into perfect, obedient lines. Even the trees still clung to most of their leaves, as though they’d learned not to let them fall without permission.

“What would you be doing right now,” Yeonjun asked quietly, sinking back into his seat, “if you didn’t have to come to this dinner with me?”

You looked down. His elbow lay on the console, fingers threaded through yours, your joined hands resting warmly on your lap. You hadn’t realised how firmly you’d been holding onto him until now.

“Don’t know,” you said, easing your grip. “Whatever you’d have insisted on doing.”

His lips quirked slightly. “Yeah? Just doing whatever I want, then?”

“You’re very difficult to say no to, you know.”

His smile lingered, but stopped short of his eyes. “Irresistible after all, then.”

“No,” you said, smirking. “Mostly just annoying.”

He scoffed softly.

“What about you, then?” you asked. “What would you be doing if you didn’t have to be here?”

“Would’ve been with you,” he said, his eyes distant. “For as long as I could.”

His index finger moved absently over your knuckles, tracing shapes you couldn’t read. You sensed the tension in him, sensed how used to it he was, and how much he wanted not to feel it anyway.

You searched for something to say that would reassure you both, but couldn’t find anything. Instead, you covered your intertwined fingers with your free hand.

Yeonjun looked down and released a slow breath.

“We could run away,” he said.

You looked up. “Where?”

“Anywhere,” he said, glancing back at the windscreen. “Somewhere warmer, maybe.”

The air around you seemed to heat up, as though the car itself approved of the suggestion.

“And what would we do there?” you asked.

“Well,” he said, “first, we’d find you a nice little library.”

“Oh, that’s thoughtful,” you said, lips stretching. “And for you?”

“Nothing for me,” he said. “I’d be your stay-at-home boyfriend.”

You laughed, and for a moment, the house before you dissolved, replaced instead by the salty tang of the sea and soft sand. A nice little library lingered in the distance.

“Would you actually stay at home?” you asked.

He considered it. Then gave a solemn nod.

“You’re right,” he said. “I’d be your follow-you-around boyfriend.”

“Ah, so not much would change.”

His chuckle sounded wistful, but thinned abruptly at the end. The sea waves in his mind crumbled back into the rustling trees outside.

“Not much would have to change,” he said. “Just… this.”

You exhaled, but even your breath seemed reluctant.

The house loomed in front of you again, the porch light deceptively warm. The clouds overhead looked like they escaped a del Toro film.

“You ready, love?” Yeonjun asked, turning to you again.

“No,” you said. “You?”

“No.”

You nodded anyway.

His fingers squeezed yours one more time.

Then, with a steadying breath, you released each other and opened the car doors.

The frigid night escorted you toward the gates. The gravel path crunched under your boots, loud and insistent, as though announcing your arrival.

The moment Yeonjun rang the doorbell, a man opened the door.

You noticed Yeonjun’s calmness, the relaxed slope of his shoulders, and understood instantly that this wasn’t his father.

The man took your coats with hardly a word and ushered you inside. He wore white gloves, you noticed, and cast one final glance at the front yard before he shut the door.

Following him inside, you kept your eyes on the pearl white marble floor, the polish reflecting the eager lights above. The bare walls caught each of your footsteps and returned them in a vacant echo.

It felt like you’d walked into a museum or a monastery.

Or, if you stayed long enough, a high-class prison.

The dining room expanded around you: ash-coloured walls, subdued lighting, an ivory table set with plates and glistening glasses, surrounded by enough chairs to seat half the neighbourhood. You felt underdressed in your very skin.

Yeonjun’s mother crossed the room towards you in a long, white knitted dress. Her steps appeared effortless despite the loud click of her heels against the floor.

She had impeccable posture and a perfectly welcoming smile. It was disarming enough that you almost missed the way her dark eyes fixed on you.

You had met her before. She was the woman outside Alain’s auditorium yesterday. The one who’d helped you with your coat and your scarf.

Yeonjun’s scarf.

Her gaze swept over you with unmistakable recognition. She took your hand and pressed fleeting kisses on both your cheeks that didn’t actually touch your skin. Your name rolled easily off her tongue.

Yeonjun’s father, by contrast, looked on the verge of pulling you into a hug, but he stopped himself short and kissed your cheeks the same way instead. His beige cardigan was soft when your hands brushed over it. Then he came to stand beside his wife, without touching her. Without looking at her.

You felt, immediately, like you’d been handed a script.

Yeonjun reached for your hand.

Sitting down at the table took a solid ten minutes. You had to exchange all the proper pleasantries first—“you have a lovely home”—and select your drinks—“oh, water is enough; right, wine would be great, too”—and pull out your chairs—“thank you so much”—before you could finally exhale and stretch out your legs.

The first course arrived almost immediately, in large, silver-coloured plates, carried by what you hoped were adequately-paid staff.

Hardly knowing how to find your way around the artistic sauce and arugula, you shot Yeonjun a glance. He gave you a faint shake of his head and stabbed his fork through the centre of his carpaccio without ceremony.

The food proved obscenely good: tender and perfectly seasoned. Frightfully expensive. You were acutely aware of every mouthful. Yeonjun, clearly, hadn’t overstated the excellence of the cooks.

Halfway through your third bite, his mother set her linen napkin aside.

“So,” she said, smiling directly at you, “what are your plans after graduation, dear?”

Your instinctive reaction, she observed, was to exchange a glance with her son before replying.

Then you gave her an answer that sounded practised and polished: postgraduate studies, perhaps with a year off to work first. She had expected as much.

“A good predoctoral position,” she said, “would make your PhD admission much smoother.”

“Yes,” you said. “That is what I’m considering.”

“Good.” Her smile did not waver. “I wish Yeonjun shared your enthusiasm for academia.”

Yeonjun, currently locked in a quiet war with his fork and a misbehaving shaving of parmesan, didn’t look up.

“We’ve discussed this, Mum,” he said evenly.

“Mm.” She let it pass and turned back to you. “Have you applied anywhere yet?”

“Not yet,” you said, trying to explain your reasons without using the words too and expensive. “I’m trying to be realistic about what I can commit to. And I haven’t settled on a specific area.”

Yeonjun’s father glanced up from his plate.

“Your Master’s thesis,” he said, “should help you decide on an area. No?”

“Well, it’s quite narrow,” you said with a small, self-conscious chuckle. “I’ve done most of what there is to do here. I’d like to pivot a bit for a PhD.”

“Very sensible,” his mother said. You were beginning to recognise her pattern of evaluating each of your responses and felt a reflexive flicker of pride at her approval. “Most predoc work applications close in two weeks, though. Don’t miss the window, dear. It’d be a shame.”

Yeonjun’s head jerked up. He hadn’t known about the deadline. Now, staring at his mother, he felt a suspicion that she meant it as a hint for him.

“Yes,” you said, hoping to keep your tone light. “That gives me thirteen days to make a decision.”

Yeonjun’s father regarded you for a minute with an almost clinical interest. His gaze followed the movements of your fork, the way your eyes drifted over the table as you chewed.

Yeonjun caught it and shrank further into his chair beside you. His parents, he thought, looked at you as if you were an exhibit at the zoo.

He shouldn’t have brought you here.

“I must say,” his mother went on, setting her wine glass down with a practised flick of her wrist, “it’s a relief to see Yeonjun in the company of someone who takes her future seriously. Perhaps you’ll even inspire him to do the same.”

“Mum,” Yeonjun warned.

“I’m only saying,” she replied. “You could do with a positive influence.”

“Right.”

“Am I wrong, darling?”

Yeonjun took a generous gulp of his wine. “You never are.”

Silence descended upon the lace swirls of the tablecloth.

You kept your gaze on your plate and focused on the warmth of his palm against yours under the table. The label on the wine bottle in front of you read Château d’Yquem in flowing golden letters. It smelled like sun-dried fruit—marmalade, even—in your glass.

Yeonjun’s father seamlessly took over the conversation, and you wondered if they hadn’t rehearsed this beforehand. Hadn’t sat down over tea and divided which questions each would ask.

“Tell us,” his father said, turning to you, “does Yeonjun still, er, go for those drives? With friends?”

You didn’t immediately understand what he meant.

“Yes, Dad,” Yeonjun said. “We still race.”

His mother sighed on the other side of the table.

“I’ve always believed it’s because you never found a suitable outlet for your creative energy,” she said. “Do you remember the piano lessons when you were younger? I really think you should consider them again.”

Yeonjun’s fingers tightened around yours under the table. He hadn’t even realised he was asking for your help until you leaned forward.

“I think,” you began—then paused suddenly, throat constricting as both of his parents turned their full attention towards you, “that racing can be beneficial. Not for the environment, obviously. But for the drivers.”

A polite pause followed. Yeonjun held his breath beside you.

“Really?” his father asked then. “You think so?”

“Yes,” you said, straightening. The chair didn’t even try to creak. “Driving at that level demands skill and intense focus. You’ve got to calculate distance and momentum in fractions of a second, all under immense duress.” His mother’s eyebrow lifted a fraction higher. You ran your tongue over your lips. “It looks reckless, but it isn’t simple. You can’t get good at it by being impulsive. Have to really train for it. Engage your mind, too, not just your body.”

Something cinched behind Yeonjun’s ribs, like a seatbelt locking across his chest. Suddenly, he found himself thinking of your blue dress again and picked up his glass.

“Huh,” his father said. Yeonjun nearly choked on his wine. He didn’t think he’d ever heard his father huh at anything. “That’s an interesting perspective.”

For the first time that evening, his parents exchanged a glance.

Yeonjun loosened his grip on your hand, but didn’t let go. He was thinking of all that he could do for you in exchange for all that you’d done for him.

You used the pause to take a long sip of your wine. It was rich and syrupy on your tongue, layered with flavours you didn’t think you’d ever tasted before. You understood a bit better why Yeonjun always made such a fuss about what truly qualified as a good wine.

“And what about you, dear?” his mother asked you. “What do you enjoy in your free time?”

The conversation moved on, but the undercurrents did not.

Every few minutes, one of his parents slipped in another remark that Yeonjun should be engaging in something productive: reading more, participating in more extracurriculars, giving up his spring holidays to focus on work. So that he would use his potential properly. So he’d become someone.

Yeonjun recognised this well. His parents were always worse about him when they had an audience. Guests gave them an excuse to put their disappointment on full display, fireworks included.

But he dreaded what came after the guests left.

That was why, when you excused yourself to use the restroom before the drive back to campus, Yeonjun strongly considered following you. Waiting outside the door. Standing guard. Anything to avoid being alone with his parents.

Instead, he was pinned to his chair by his mother’s stern gaze.

“Well,” she said lightly, the moment you disappeared down the corridor. “You look nice, son. New tie?”

“No,” he said.

“It complements your eyes.”

He didn’t answer.

He thought it a bad omen that his mother had repeated something you’d said to him first.

“This was nice, wasn’t it?” his father said, reclining in his chair. “Under the circumstances.”

Yeonjun looked up. His father was smiling at him—trying, in his subtle way, to let him know he was on his side. As much as he could be anyway.

Yeonjun lowered his gaze back to the table.

“Yes, well,” his mother added, lifting her napkin only to fold it neatly again. “One must manage expectations with such company. You’re classmates, then, darling?”

Yeonjun felt a feral urge to snarl at her. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth.

“Yes,” he said.

“Well.” She pulled one of her faces—a grimace she usually saved for offensive smells and other people. “That explains your absences, then. Why bother attending lectures if that’s the best they can offer? There’s nothing intellectually stimulating for you there.”

Clenching his teeth, Yeonjun refrained from announcing that the only classes he did attend were the ones he shared with you.

Meanwhile, his mother fixed her husband with an expectant look.

Draining his glass first, Yeonjun’s father shifted in the deeply uncomfortable chair. They were eighteenth-century, yes, and very expensive. But by God, they made his back feel like he’d gone through a lawnmower.

“I heard Amy’s been accepted for a fellowship in Italy,” he said mildly, as though discussing how it had been raining buckets lately. “Florence, I believe. Leaving after graduation. Isn’t that nice? Italy’s lovely.”

“Oh, very,” his mother agreed at once. She only ever agreed with her husband about Amy. “Florence is history itself.”

Yeonjun hardly resisted a snort.

She hated Florence, he knew. She’d gone there once and thought it crowded and foul and too full of people. She preferred small Tuscan villages where even the cicadas were afraid to make noise in her presence.

“Perhaps you should consider going too, Yeonjun,” his father went on, glancing up at him for barely a second. “Get away from all this.”

“Away from what, exactly, Dad?”

His father gestured vaguely at the half-cleared plates. “You know.”

At least, Yeonjun thought, he looked awkward saying it.

His mother did not.

“Honestly, son,” she said, her lip curling in a sneer that Yeonjun wished he hadn’t inherited, “what made you think this girl was worth bringing home?”

His teeth grated. “You insisted we come.”

“Well, you never tell us anything,” she said. “We had to know what you’re wasting your time on now. And it’s clear—”

“You already knew before I came.”

“But we didn’t know whether we should be worried.”

He shot her a sharp look. “And are you?”

She flicked her gaze to her husband again. He cleared his throat.

“Of course we are,” his father said. “You’re our son. It’s our responsibility to make sure you’re heading somewhere worthwhile.”

“And where’s that?” Yeonjun probed. “Florence with Amy?”

His father shrugged, standing to grab the wine bottle so he could refill his glass.

“Well, why not?” he said. “It’s a sensible option. Doesn’t have to mean anything straight away.”

Yeonjun swallowed. “I prefer this option.”

His mother laughed heartily.

It had been a while since she’d laughed at him like this. The last time he remembered was the summer a grey-striped kitten wandered into their back garden, scrawny and shaking, mewling at his feet. Eight years old and hardly braver than the kitten himself, Yeonjun had asked if he could keep it.

Of course not, darling, his mother had said, her laughter echoing around the patio. It’s filthy. It does not belong here.

He remembered feeling, even then, that he didn’t belong here, either.

“Darling,” his mother said, smiling at him the way she had years ago—like he’d brought home another stray. “This was never an option. Just someone you meet on your way to something better.”

His gaze stayed fixed on the plate in front of him, its surface reflecting a warped image of his face. He found himself counting down the seconds until you’d be back.

“You always do this,” he said, voice low and strained. “Always have to make my decisions for me.”

“We’re not making your decisions for you, son,” his father replied, too quickly, too automatically to have heard anything he’d said. “We’re only making sure you stay on the right path. That’s our job.”

Yeonjun finally looked up. He knew the challenge in his eyes was juvenile, but he clung to it anyway.

“How do you know what path is right for me?” he said.

“Well,” his mother said with a delicious scoff, “it certainly isn’t this one.”

Sometimes, Yeonjun thought they loved him, in whatever limited, skewed way they knew how.

Other times, he wondered why he bothered with such idiotic fucking thoughts.

“Just think about it, son,” his father added, resting his arm on the table, then changing his mind when he nearly yanked the tablecloth off. “You’d like Florence.”

“I’m not going,” he said. The refusal came easily. It was defending it that usually tied him up in knots.

His father reached across the table to place a hand over his wife’s. He knew she was about to launch into an onslaught of commands disguised as suggestions. He thought they could wait.

“I think,” his father said carefully, “it would be wise to give this decision some thought.”

His mother nodded, tight-lipped. She would’ve phrased herself differently.

“I’ve given it thought,” Yeonjun said. “I’m not going.”

She snatched her hand free with a quick, offended gesture. “Yeonjun—”

Footsteps echoed down the corridor, sharp against the marble. Yeonjun’s shoulders lifted as if to meet them.

You were coming back.

He surged to his feet immediately. The chair shrieked against the tiles, far too loud. His mother visibly winced.

You didn’t know what you were walking back into, but you felt the electricity humming in the air the moment you turned the corner. Yeonjun looked at you as if he’d been holding his breath for hours.

The moment your eyes met, he extended a hand, urgent and pleading.

Let me take you out of here, he asked wordlessly, so I don’t have to stay.

“Right,” he said to his parents once you reached him, your fingers locking around his. “We—we’re off now. It’s late. Thank you for dinner.”

The rushed goodbye didn’t surprise you. If anything, you were expecting it sooner.

“Thank you for having us,” you said, clinging to good manners. “It was lovely to meet you.”

His parents rose together, their expressions rearranged into flawless hospitality.

“You as well, dear,” his mother said. Her smile was bright and glossy. None of it reflected in her eyes.

Yeonjun didn’t wait for another word.

He turned, pulling you with him, and led you out of the dining room without looking back.

✦ • ─── MARCH 8, 2025. 9 PM (DAY 11)

The stillness on the drive home felt more oppressive than the silence on the way over. It crowded the car until it rang in your ears.

The glow of the streetlights outside painted Yeonjun’s features in quick slashes of light and shadow. His fingers gripped the steering wheel so tightly that the tendons in his wrists protruded sharply beneath his skin.

He realised, belatedly, the most maddening thing about tonight.

He hadn’t defended you.

All the speeches he’d meant for his parents had collapsed into the same tired narrative: you never let me choose. Never give me space. Never see me.

He defended himself.

“Fuck.”

You turned your head at the sound. Yeonjun swallowed, realising he’d spoken out loud.

“What’s wrong?” you asked.

“Nothing,” he breathed out, the word utterly exhausted. “Just… that fucking dinner.”

“It wasn’t all dreadful,” you said. “No bloodshed.”

Yeonjun chewed at his lip, his gaze fixed on the night stretching ahead.

“Right,” he said. “But it’s still dinner with my parents.”

You let your gaze drop to the dashboard and focused on the faint blue lines of the veins on his hands.

“Yesterday,” you said, “Alain warned me about them.”

Yeonjun glanced at you, then back at the road as the car drifted half a centimetre left. His correction was automatic; the Mercedes barely registered the stumble.

“What?” he said. “When?”

“When you stepped out. He told me to be careful.”

Oncoming headlights flared against the windscreen. Yeonjun blinked into the glare.

“Oh,” he said, the word small, but heavy.

Something inside him contorted. He understood. But it still hurt a little that Alain hadn’t said this in front of him. That you and Alain shared an understanding he could never be a part of.

“I guess I didn’t fully get what he meant until tonight,” you admitted.

Yeonjun released an uneven breath. He knew he was speeding, felt the low hum of the engine under his feet. But he didn’t slow down. He wanted the car to carry you away from that house as fast as it could.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his gaze lingering on you for a moment too long, given the numbers on the speedometer. “They—they’re bad people. I don’t know why they bother pretending otherwise.”

His apology felt misplaced. But then you remembered the look on his parents’ faces for that split second when you’d returned from the bathroom, before their masks snapped back into place.

You wondered what discussions they’d had while you were gone.

“Did they say something to you?” you asked.

“They always do.”

“About me?”

Yeonjun held his breath for a second. “Mostly about Amy.”

“Ah.” You leaned your head back against the cool leather of the seat. “Of course.”

“Don’t worry about any of that, though,” he added, his voice cracking slightly. “That’s just how they are. They meet someone I care about, wait until they’ve gone, and rip into them. Everything about them is fucking fake. Always has been.”

Clutching the edge of your coat, you thought of what he’d told you about Soobin meeting his parents for the first time. How they’d loved him immediately, even drunk off his face.

You felt the cruel seeds of envy taking root in your stomach.

Given Soobin’s pleasant, grounded character, it was easy to forget about the sort of family he’d come from. Easy to believe you were like him, too.

Yeonjun’s parents reminded you that you weren’t.

“They’re shit, okay?” Yeonjun repeated, glancing at you again. “I stopped trying to change them. They don’t listen anyway. Never have.” His lips pressed together, jaw tight. “They see how miserable it makes me, doing all the shit they want. And they still don’t care.”

He didn’t seem to notice how the conversation had returned to the gravity of his relationship with his parents. To his anger with them.

You didn’t try to pull him back from it.

“Actually,” you said after a careful breath, “maybe they don’t see it at all.”

His brows twitched. “How could they not? I’m obviously unhappy.”

“Some people only see what they want to see,” you said. “They might be too focused on having an obedient son to ever ask what that obedience costs you.”

A brief silence followed, punctuated by the first drops of rain clattering against the windscreen.

“Hmm.” Yeonjun flicked on the wipers. “I hate that.”

“Have you ever—” You paused to choose your words. “You don’t have to answer this. But have you ever really stood up to them before?”

He drew in a breath so deep it seemed to hollow him out.

“Yeah,” he said. “I mean, I tried. I was a nightmare as a teenager.”

You tilted your head. “Oh. Did you grow out of that, then?”

He snorted, the tension cracking just enough to let a trace of air in.

“Alright, funny.” His eyes were softer when he darted a look at you. “Anyway. Mum wanted me to study Languages. Philology. Follow in her footsteps and all that. I said no.”

He adjusted the wipers as the rain grew heavier, the blades sweeping faster across the glass.

“I went to study abroad,” he went on. “Had a go at IT for a while, nearly a thousand kilometres away. Mum called me every single fucking day. Started calling my professors, too. I-I figured that wouldn’t work. Figured I’d already refused her subject, so I had to give her something else. So I dropped out and moved back.”

The headlights of the Mercedes cleaved through the trees as you neared the camping grounds just outside campus. It was almost ironic, having to cross the racing track on the way from his parents’ house.

“So, she was upset that you didn’t study what she wanted,” you concluded.

“Yeah, she was disappointed,” he said. Then snorted. “Actually, no, that’s kind. She was devastated. Said I didn’t love her. Cried like I’d turned up dead.”

Your frown deepened. “Wow.”

“Yeah.” He exhaled sharply. “But I stood my ground. Sort of. I mean, I dropped out for her, yeah, but I applied here, and I didn’t budge on Sociology. I agreed to stay on her campus. That was enough.” He hardly blinked, focused on the empty road ahead. “If I hadn’t, though—I-I don’t know what she’d have done. Disowned me, maybe. Blacklisted me from other universities.”

“Would she—she could do that?”

Yeonjun found your outrage comforting. For him, these threats had almost become background noise.

“Of course,” he said. “She knows people everywhere. Once, in Year Twelve, my friends and I booked a weekend trip to Paris. Didn’t tell our parents. Thought we were being clever.” He huffed a humourless laugh. “Mum found out. She always does. And she knew someone at the… I don’t know. The airline? Fucking air-traffic control? Whatever. She made sure I didn’t get further than the airport.”

Your eyes widened. “You’re joking.”

He shook his head. “I didn’t even realise at first. Saw her calls, ignored all of them. And our flight kept getting delayed. Then I finally answered. She told me to come home and stop embarrassing her.” His mouth twisted as he tried to swallow, cringing at the metallic taste in his mouth. “I don’t know who she called. M’sure it had to be some bureaucratic shit that she used. Missing paperwork, I don’t know. But the plane never even left the gate.”

“Jesus Christ, Jun.” Genuine fear flickered across your features, and his stomach clenched painfully at the sight of it. “That’s horrifying.”

“Yeah, but—you know.” His smile surfaced briefly, fragile at the edges. He meant it to reassure you, but didn’t think it did. “So, um, anyway. I did stand up to my parents before, yeah. But it usually didn’t work out.”

You exhaled, thoughtful.

He had pushed back; that was true. But he sounded resigned. Sounded convinced he’d lose and end up dragged home by his hair before his resistance even had a chance to gain any meaning.

“Don’t worry, though,” he added, firmer now. “I’d never let them harm you. They can say whatever shit they want to me, but that’s where it ends. Okay?”

You swallowed. “Okay.”

He lifted a hand from the wheel and reached for yours. You let him intertwine your fingers, his palm warm, a little clammy. He raised your hand to his lips, pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles, then returned his attention to the road.

The sky hung low overhead as the rain came down in steady, rushing drops. There wasn’t a single star anywhere. All of them, he thought, had lodged inside his chest, warm but restless, while your hands remained entwined on the console.

For a minute after he parked in front of your building, you both sat motionless, gazes locked on your fingers.

You were relieved to be back. Felt like you’d survived a hurricane.

Yeonjun, on the other hand, felt like he was right in the middle of one.

“You’re going to dread seeing me again after this,” he said, turning to you with a wry smile, “aren’t you?”

You met his gaze, frowning. “Why would I?”

Your words caught in his lungs. He couldn’t reply.

You understood where his question had stemmed from. But he hadn’t dragged you into a bizarre cult. Hadn’t harboured any secret murderous intentions.

He merely had a fraught relationship with his family.

Your hand trembled lightly in his grip.

“You’re good, Jun,” you whispered. And this was not a bet anymore.

He exhaled slowly, forcing his shoulders to loosen. Then, he leaned across the console and kissed you.

He needed this more than anything, and hadn’t even realised the sheer hopelessness of his condition until you reached out to touch his cheek. Exhaling shakily, he pulled you closer, his thigh digging into the console.

Your lips tasted faintly of salt, and he kissed you until they didn’t. Until the night let go of you. Until you tasted more of him than anything else.

But the moment you pulled back, the moment you left the car and disappeared behind the door of your building, he realised he still couldn’t draw a full breath.

The silence rushed back into the car, wrapped around his neck, and pushed down.

Fuck.

His hands fumbled for his phone. The rain continued to hammer against the roof.

He wanted to call Soobin, but he knew he was busy. And he’d already expressed his opinion anyway. Yeonjun had listened, accepted his heated insults, and done nothing with his words.

But what could he do?

What could he do with the expanding pressure in his chest,

and the relentless pounding in his head,

and the—

Inhaling finally, he called Beomgyu.

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[minkieater]

there are many, many things in life you’ll never understand. but the things you're trying to figure out right now are choi yeonjun, why no one is smart enough to figure out that unscripted is you, and how the fuck jung wooyoung is always right.

🎤︎︎ wooyoung x fem!reader | college au, mini-series, part 3/? 8k words 🎤︎︎ 18+ reader is the host of a sex podcast, wooyoung is a frat boy whore, reader has a boyfriend who is choi yeonjun | smut minors dni

“HOW WAS THE PARTY ON TUESDAY?” Comes from Soobin, fully lounged out on the couch, his eyes on you the moment you step foot in his apartment. 

You close the door behind you softly, even if your heart is already racing in your chest. You ask, “What party?” 

Soobin sits up, a lazy grin on his cheeks, showing off his dimples. Not like San’s dimples, his are different, somehow, not as prominent. Not as damning. There’s something playing on the TV across from him, a cooking show, you think. 

His head tilts, eyes flaring like you both know what party he’s talking about. “I saw you there,” Soobin admits. “You were zip-tied to Jeong Yunho.” 

Heat spreads from your chest outward. You laugh, or try to, it comes out like a nervous sound of forced air, if anything. Tucking your hair behind your ear, you wonder, “I thought you were busy studying on Tuesday night.”

“Not busy enough to miss a handcuff party.” He sits up fully, leaning his chin into his elbows, arms hooked over the back edge of the couch. You creep closer after kicking off your shoes. 

“Is that what they’re called?” you ask, letting your purse fall from your shoulder to your fingers. “I’ve never been to one before.”

“They’re fun,” Soobin watches you carefully, like he’s reading your body language, or trying to. “If you’re tied to the right person.” 

“I was not,” you admit, pinning your arms behind your back, clasping your hands together. “Yunho made me shotgun, like, four beers. I don’t even like beer.” 

“Dirty martini, extra dirty, three olives,” Soobin recites from memory. “No, you’ve never been a Miller Lite kind of girl.” 

“Is Junie in his room?” You glance toward his closed bedroom door.

“He’s in there,” Soobin uncurls from the back of the couch, sinking into the plush leather again, focusing back on the cooking show. “He saw you with Yunho, too.” 

You took one step towards Yeonjun’s room before stopping in your tracks. Your neck snaps toward Soobin, “He was there?” 

“Weird, how you guys don’t talk when you’re in a relationship.” 

You don’t answer, already at Yeonjun’s door, pushing it open to see him exactly where you knew he’d be. At his desk, laptop open, headphones in his ears. Like he did to you Tuesday morning, you walk over to him and pluck one out of his ear. 

You skip greeting him. “So, I couldn’t come over Tuesday night because you were studying, but you could go to a frat party? That doesn’t interfere with your studying schedule?” 

He pushes his desk chair backward, looking up at you with a face that doesn’t read even the slightest bit of guilt. “I had been studying all day, I needed a break.” 

“And that involves frat parties, but not hanging out with your girlfriend?” You throw your purse onto his bed, hands landing on your hips. Anger brings your blood to a steady boil, skin steaming, a kettle ready to whistle. “Jesus Christ Yeonjun, you want to marry me but you can’t spend your Tuesday night with me?” 

“Hey,” he tries to soothe, eyebrows bent up in concern. He shakes his head before words can spill, “It was last minute, baby. I went with Soob and Gyu, I didn’t even drink.” 

“Did you get tied to anyone?”

“Did you?” he counters, and your mouth runs dry. He smiles, a small, soft grin, “I saw, but I’m not angry, am I?” 

Your lips bend downward in a frown, voice coming out quieter, like you didn’t want the answer as you ask, “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you talk to me at the party? We could’ve gone together, been tied together.”

“Come here,” he soothes, holding his arms out. You look at him for a second before moving an inch. Sweats on his legs, a loose tee on his torso, but his hair is still styled from class earlier today. Nothing out of the ordinary. Your Yeonjun. 

You take a step toward him, and his hands land on your hips, giving you the okay to crawl onto his lap, feet dangling off the back of the chair as you settle over his thighs. Hands landing on his shoulders, you pout further, “They made me drink beer.”

He moves your hair away from your face, pouting with you, “How could they be so cruel?”

“You really don’t care that I went?” you ask, voice still small, partially guilty. “I didn’t even tell you I was going.” 

“I figured you needed to blow off some steam,” Yeonjun’s hands land on your bare thighs, warm palms smearing smooth strokes across your skin. “I haven’t been the most attentive lately.” 

“No,” you’re quick to answer. “You haven’t.”

“My pretty girl,” he reaches up for your cheeks, pulling you down to kiss him. A light peck, a greeting in the press of your lips. “Stay over tonight.”

You’re supposed to record tonight, an hour length episode on bondage. You should send Yunho a fruit basket for the idea. 

You hum, keeping your lips close to his. “Maybe.”

He kisses you again, one of his hands falling to your jaw, your neck, your shoulder. He parts with your lips with his tongue, and you moan an almost silent noise into his mouth, a soft plea.

“Why maybe?” he whispers between kisses, teasing. “You’ve got a hot date? Choi San? Jeong Yunho?”

You smile, giggling into his mouth before pushing on his chest. “Shut up,” you press your forehead against his. “Your exam is tomorrow and I have a lot of shit to get done.”

You do, other than the podcast. His hands find your waist, slipping under your tee, warm against your skin. A shiver racks up your spine anyway, body giving into his touch, craving more, needing more. You don’t want to get your hopes up, even if he’s the one coming onto you. 

“Too much that you can’t make some time for me?” he’s smiling, voice too playful for the weight of his words. How did this get flipped on you?

Your response comes quickly. “That’s funny, coming from you.”

He frowns, voice suddenly sharp. “Do you think it’s easy? My classes? My assignments?”

“No,” you mumble, shameful. “I just think you can make more time than you let on.”

“So you think I’m a liar?” He sits back in the chair, leaving you with your hands on your thighs, disarmed. “You think that I enjoy spending all my time sitting at this desk, not doing the things you want me to do?”

Your cheeks feel hot, nails catching onto the skin of your thighs. “That’s not what I said, Junie.”

“You don’t have to say it,” he argues. “Do you think it felt good to see you tied to Jeong Yunho? Laughing with him? Smiling at him the way you smile at me?”

All the color drains from your face, leaving your skin feeling cold, your body stiff with discomfort and guilt. “I— you said you didn’t care that I went.”

“I don’t care,” he reiterates, voice still ridged with frustration. “I can’t care, because I know I’m not taking care of you the way I’m supposed to be. I was there to blow off steam, too, because all I can think about is cardiovascular hemodynamics when I should be thinking about you.”

You’re shaking your head before he finishes his sentence. “You don’t need to be thinking about me, focus on studying. I’m here, I’ll be here, I’m not going anywhere. I’m sorry.”

His lips bend in a small smile, hands landing on your thighs again, sliding his palms up and down reassuringly. “It’s okay, baby, I know, I just…” He glances at his laptop. “I need to finish this section.”

You swallow down your unease, mind drifting back to the party, to Wooyoung’s advice that you’ve refused to take for over a week now. Heat returns to your body, your hands landing over Yeonjun’s on your thighs. “Finish it in ten minutes.”

You can feel your heartbeat, moisture surfacing on your palms. You need this, you need him to lay you down, to remind you that he loves you. All of your questions from before the party have been answered: you clearly don’t respect him enough as a med student, you’re a shitty girlfriend for not giving him space, and you do fucking suck because all you can think about is still fucking sex. 

You pull your shirt over your head from the hem, throwing it to the floor beside you. Yeonjun watches, lips parting, eyes darkening to a moonless night.

“Ten minutes,” you whisper, voice coming out sultry, like a glass of red wine. Your right hand slides down your stomach until it passes the hem of your shorts, the only layer separating you. You hear Yeonjun’s breath catch in his throat. 

Two fingers find your clit, adding pressure, swirling a small, precise circle. You release a pleased sigh, head falling to the side, eyes locked on Yeonjun whose gaze is focused on between your legs. 

“Study me,” you whisper just as your hips rock into your own hand, fingers picking up speed between your legs. Yeonjun’s brows furrow, nails sinking into your thighs, body sinking into the chair, dazed. 

“Fuck,” he groans out, voice layered with arousal, deep and seductive. 

“I’m so wet,” you whine, like it’s a complaint. But it’s not, the relief is immediate, body thrumming with pleasure as he watches your knuckles through your shorts. “D’you wanna feel?”

Finally, he looks up, and you can’t believe there’s a full second of debate before he’s grabbing you by your thighs and standing on his feet. In one quick motion he has you on your back, on his bed, legs spread and back arched. 

He tugs both his sweatpants and his briefs down his legs at once, crawling over you, helping you get your shorts down your calves, over the heels of your feet.

“Fuck me,” you whisper as he settles between your legs, before his lips meet yours. Your tongue slides into his mouth as you reach for the hem of his tee, breaking the kiss only to pull it over his head. He presses his chest against yours, and you swear the feeling of his skin against yours brings you closer. 

You can feel him sliding between your thighs, spreading the arousal you’ve spent the last few minutes gathering, unsurprisingly slippery. “Junie,” you pant into his mouth, back arching up into him, “inside, please.” 

He grunts like he’s letting go of the last bit of his restraint. Looking between your bodies, he lines himself up, and you brace yourself for the stretch, sucking in a tight breath, limbs locking. 

He groans as he pushes inside, savoring every inch of your heat, slowly filling you until he reaches the hilt. He's slow at first, like he always is, rocking into you softly, letting you feel every inch, every vein, every ridge. 

“Feel so good,” your boyfriend grits out, chin tucked to his chest, watching himself pull out and fill you up over and over. You reach for his face, keeping your song of pleasure quiet, legs hooking around his back as you pull his lips to yours. 

He picks up the pace, fucking into you steadily, making your lips go slack against his, the two of you breathing into each others’ mouths, fighting to keep quiet.

“Not gonna last like this,” he mutters into your mouth, voice tight. You whimper, using your legs around his middle to lift your hips, angling him upward so his cock curves right into the spot you needed it to. 

“Fuck,” the curse is sharp, his hips stuttering. “So tight, ‘h my god—”

“Wait, wait,” you pant, nails clawing into his shoulders, ankles crossing over his back. You’re not close, you’re barely dipping your toes into the pool of pleasure. You thought it’d be easier to reach the finish line, so wound-up, you assumed after a few measly touches you’d be coming undone. 

“Can’t,” he whines, voice strained, pitched and tight like he was two strokes away from finishing. 

And he was, much to your dismay. 

His pace quickens, staggered, rough, chasing his release until he pulls away, pulling out, he takes his length in his hand until he’s painting the expanse of your stomach white. 

You lay there, catching your breath, hating yourself for being disappointed. Wooyoung’s voice rings in your mind as you watch Yeonjun run a hand through his hair— three minutes of missionary. Was that even three minutes?

Yeonjun hops off the bed, no doubt in search of a towel to clean you up. You should just be happy he finally fucked you, you could work on the specifics later. That was progress. That was sound advice you received, used, and it fucking worked. 

It worked. 

“Are you okay?” Yeonjun asks, wiping your stomach with a warm, damp towel. 

You nod, reminding yourself to smile, “Yeah, ‘m fine. Happy.” He grins, so wide and full it makes the guilt weighing on your chest feel ten times heavier. “Will you be upset if I go? I still have to work on my multimedia report, it’s due tomorrow.” 

He crawls over you, then drops himself on the bed beside you, planting a kiss on your lips as soon as he lands. “I could never be upset with you, baby. You’re gonna be a big-shot reporter one day, aren’t you?” 

“A big-shot journalist,” you correct, smiling before you kiss him again. 

“I couldn’t take time away from you reaching your goal,” he presses another kiss to your forehead, voice soft, even if the wording makes it feel like a dig. “Go.” 

Go, Virgin. 

You crawl off the bed quicker than you mean to, finding your tee, your shorts. Guilt, disappointment and despair are swimming in your gut, a cocktail for you losing your patience, your temper and your mind if you don’t leave his condo now. You should be grateful. You should be happy you’ve made progress. 

But fuck, your insides feel hollow. You don’t feel any better than you did before. 

He mutters something about seeing you tomorrow, and you smile, kiss him once again, then sling your purse over your shoulder and get the fuck out of there. You don’t speak to Soobin, you don’t look at Beomgyu on the opposite side of the couch, you keep your gaze straight ahead as you make for the front door. 

Once you’re outside under the sunset, you finally breathe, filling your diaphragm with air and hope. This can’t be forever. You can’t be one of those wives that men talk about under the AITA subreddit, the ones who won’t fuck their husband because he fucking sucks. 

You can’t be in a sexless marriage. 

You can’t marry him at all.  

S&M by Rihanna is blasting in Wooyoung’s headphones, and only God and Unscripted could possibly answer why. 

“Good morning, afternoon, or goodnight, whatever time you’re listening to this week’s episode of Unscripted. Today, we have an exciting topic that I cannot wait to dive into. Bondage. And I know what you’re thinking: am I secretly really kinky? Well, I guess it’s not much of a secret after over fifty episodes, is it?” 

“If you don’t know what bondage is, then I’ll give you the Merriam-Webster definition. Bondage is a sadomasochistic practice—hence S&M for the intro—that involves the physical restraint of your partner. Or of you, depending on what you’re into. I’d like to start off with a story, if that’s cool with you.” 

Wooyoung internally groans as he stares at the treadmill screen with a blank expression. He needs her to get to the juicy part and fast. 

“This weekend, I went to a frat party. I know, so sophisticated, but it was enlightening in a very physical way. My wrist was zip-tied to a random guy, someone I had barely even met, and it got me thinking— do we all have someone that we're zip-tied to, whether it’s a physical, or an emotional bond?”

Wooyoung almost trips over his feet. She was at his party this weekend? What other frat on campus could have had the same themed party on the same weekend?

“Even though I was physically tied to this beautiful, tall, random ass man I’ve never spoken a word to, there was someone else at the party who is tied to a vastly different part of me. By midnight, the alleged rules state that all couples are to finish a pack of alcohol together, and then you could get your zip-tie cut off your wrists, and enjoy the party. Six beers down, I was freed, and trust me, I enjoyed that tall man and the party. But now, a few days later, I’ve come to realize what was supposed to be such a simple party theme might have changed the trajectory of my life forever.” 

Wooyoung smacks his teeth. Boring. No one cares about hearing about her life if it’s not the sexy bits, especially him. He doesn’t reach for his phone.

“I didn’t even know he was there, the other guy, not the sexy one I was tied to with a strap of plastic. But now that I know, I’m wondering, was I really ever tied to Mister Tall? Did I even consider the fact that I could be tied to Mister Tall? Or was I tied to someone else the whole time, and I couldn’t even enjoy that I was physically attached to a tall, sexy ass man?” 

Wooyoung is confused. So many words, so many words repeated, he thinks he lost somewhere around strap of plastic.

“Do we all find ourselves, at some point in our lives, attached, bonded to someone we know we shouldn’t be, but we can’t do anything about it? We can’t stop because we’re scared of what it’s like to not have them in our lives, we’re scared of what it’s like to feel fully alone again.”

Wooyoung has never disagreed with anything more. 

“Sex should be fun. It should be filled with curiosity, comfort, laughter, and pleasure. You should try new things, like bringing zip-ties to the bedroom or having a woman on your face while another is between your legs.”

That's something Wooyoung can agree with. He loves it when it feels personal. 

“It shouldn’t be… it shouldn’t feel like a chore. Or like you’re a hole or something, sorry, that’s foul wording, but it’s the truth. Sex is between two people, and it should feel that way, whether you’re bonded to the person or not. If you’re a guy listening, please take everything I just said to heart, and if you’re thinking ‘is this about me?’ then it is.”

Damn. This isn’t the usual fun and flirty sex talk he usually hears from her podcast. He guesses women like Unscripted go through shit, too. And here he thought she was just as free-spirited as he was. Wooyoung guesses everyone goes through shit— he wonders if he’ll ever feel anything close to what she’s going through, or something like what you’re going through. 

He laughs under his breath at the idea. Or tries to, at least, his breath cleared from his goddamn chest thanks to the speed of the treadmill. 

“My bad, someone sent in a question asking if I’d ever experienced a situationship and I needed to let everyone know that even I get lonely sometimes, and sleep with a man more than once. But anyways, let’s move on to the good shit, right?” 

Wooyoung peels his headphones off his ears and cringes when he realizes they’re as sweaty as he is. Resting them around his neck, he turns the treadmill off, wipes it down, and throws his bag over his shoulder all while still trying to catch his breath. 

It didn’t feel like an hour running through podcast episodes, at the end of this one he’ll be all caught up, and by this point he feels like he knows her a little better. He relates to her, in a weird, hatred-filled way, it’s like she’s the female version of him, but he’d rather fall off the treadmill than admit that to someone else. 

Especially San. 

He feels even weirder now that he’s come to terms with relating to her, but knowing that even she’s felt a level of romance before when he’s never felt it at all, makes him feel like an oddball. He leaves it up to a strong case of FOMO, but in his soul he knows he doesn’t actually want to experience it. 

Everyone he knows that’s in a relationship hates it in one way or another. Or they’re too stubborn to admit it, like you, very obviously just showing up for your shift behind the gym counter. 

“Virgin,” Wooyoung says by way of greeting. You’re shoving your bag under the counter when he says it, and when you look up, Wooyoung nearly jumps where he stands on the opposite side of the black acrylic. You look like shit.

“Damn,” Wooyoung mumbles, taking in your dark circles, your zombie-fied, lifeless looking skin. “What the hell happened to you?”

“I don’t have the energy for you today,” you respond, voice curt. No playful tone, no sarcasm, just the honest-to-god truth. It kinda hurts his feelings. 

“What happened?” Wooyoung asks, his tone concerned, and it surprises him that he cares. Instinct, not choice. 

“Nothing,” you mutter, throwing your phone onto the acrylic, a little hard for someone who’s trying to play off their state as fine. “Go home, Wooyoung.”

Something tugs at his gut, telling him to go. Instinct tells him not to press, not to get involved, but by now he’s in too deep to not be intrigued. 

“Does it have to do with the husband?” He pries anyway, crossing his sweaty forearms over the counter. “You look like shit.” 

You deadpan, eyes pointed, jaw locked. “Oh, really?” you ask, sarcasm dripping from your tongue. Maybe the sarcastic part of you stays intact no matter what. “I had no idea, I guess running on no sleep and copious amounts of caffeine isn’t good for one’s appearance. Who woulda thought?”

“I’m serious,” he pushes, his front pressing up against the counter. He leans his cheek on his palm. “Are you sick or something? Why are you working?” 

“I’m not sick,” you mumble, changing directions, as if Wooyoung wouldn’t follow you. You should know him better than that by now. 

“Then what’s your deal?” He meets you at the opposite side, his sweaty arms leaving another mark on the acrylic. 

“God, Wooyoung, what if I’m just having a bad day?” Your voice is raised, basically shouting, sounding exasperated like he’s hit every single nerve he could reach. “And if something is wrong, maybe I don’t want to fucking talk to you about it!” 

His brows raise. Maybe he should have listened to his gut. It's never steered him wrong before, listening to his gut is how he hit his last personal record, six women in one day.

He can’t find it in himself to come up with a snarky response, so instead he taps the black acrylic twice in place of saying goodbye with his lips sealed tight, and carries himself back to his car like he never asked in the first place. He reminds himself he doesn’t care, not about you, not about your love life, he wouldn’t give a fuck if you never spoke to him again. 

He will admit that he kind of wants to know if his advice worked, though. A creeping thought has been breaching the walls of his mind lately, if he could really be the male version of Unscripted, if he started posting podcast episodes of himself talking about sex. Would he become as popular? Would he get as many listeners? Would people take his word as seriously as they take Unscripted’s?

The music playing from his speakers is a low hum all the way back to his house. His mind wanders, from you, the way you looked, to Unscripted, to himself. If sex is his singular, undeniable skill in this life, shouldn’t he do something with it?

“What’s wrong with you?” San asks from the kitchen as soon as Wooyoung closes the door behind him. Damn, did your shitty mood rub off on him?

“Nothing,” Wooyoung shrugs, crossing the living room. “I just left the gym. Did you know Virgin works there?”

“I feel like she appeared out of literally nowhere, and now she’s everywhere,” San indulges the topic while making a sandwich, which was really stuffing different meats and cheeses between two burger buns. Wooyoung thinks it’s Jongho’s turn to go to the grocery store. 

Wooyoung jingles his lanyard at his side, mindlessly listening to the keys playing a small tune. “She seemed weird,” Wooyoung mumbles, lost in thought again, staring at the makeshift sandwich like it's the most interesting thing in the world. 

Yunho walks in from the back door, eyes landing on San’s sandwich, too. “Ooh,” he perks up at the sight. “Can you make me one, too?” 

“Not enough bread,” San holds up the plastic bag that once held the burger buns, now empty. “Go yell at Jongho to go to the store.”

Yunho dips his chin toward Wooyoung, “Wanna go with me?” 

“Hell no,” Wooyoung makes a why-would-you-even-ask face. “It’s Jongho’s turn.” 

“He doesn’t follow the list,” Yunho walks to the fridge, peeling the blue sticky note from the stainless steel. Pinching it between two fingers, Yunho shows it to San and Wooyoung like it's a piece of treasure. “Do you see this list? We make this list for a reason.”

“We see the list,” San and Wooyoung respond as one, voices flat and monotonous. 

“You’re coming with me,” Yunho points at Wooyoung with his other hand. “You’re driving, let’s go.” 

He can’t even shower first? He still smells like sweat and whatever funk is left from your bad mood raining all over him. He doesn’t argue, though, Yunho’s a high-spirited guy and if there’s anyone who could fix Wooyoung’s attitude, it’s him. 

In the car, Yunho rambles about Tuesday’s party, the guy who warmed his bed that night. It's always been interesting to Wooyoung, how Yunho could play for both teams, how he never leaned toward one side over the other. If Wooyoung was honest with himself, he would have slept with a guy a long, long time ago. That day will come eventually. 

Somehow even that reminds him of you. Well, your possibly gay boyfriend, which isn’t doing great things for aforementioned eventually. He tips his head back until it’s leaning against the headrest, tuning Yunho out while he thinks about your sex life instead of his own. When he wonders if you’ve gotten the balls to suck his dick yet, he shivers, and decides to start listening to Yunho again. He fears eventually is nearing closer than he thought.

“Do you ever feel like that?” Oh shit, he wasn’t listening. “Like everything is already mapped out for you, but you don’t know if you’re following the steps? Or the road?”

“Like the yellow brick road?” Wooyoung quips with a sly grin. 

Yunho laughs, sinking further into the passenger seat, knees touching the glove compartment. He’s in workout clothes, sweatshorts, a loose tee, the same headband on his head he always wears. Wooyoung’s dressed in the same— perfect grocery store attire. 

“Why is everyone so deep today?” Wooyoung wonders out loud, turning into the parking lot of the grocery store. He needs to stop thinking so hard while he’s driving, he doesn’t remember getting here. 

“Who else? And deep in who?”

Wooyoung snorts at his lame joke. “I was listening to Unscripted earlier—”

“You hate Unscripted,” Yunho doesn’t let him finish, snapping his body sideways to look at Wooyoung. “Why the fuck were you listening to Unscripted?”

“I just was,” Wooyoung snaps. “And she was talking about the party on Tuesday, she was there.” 

“How many people away from her do you think we are?” Yunho asks, suddenly excited. “Do you think we know her already? Or do you think she’s a friend of a friend? Bro, you’ve probably fucked her.” 

“I have not fucked her,” Wooyoung argues while swiftly backing into a parking spot. The lot wasn’t too crowded for a Friday evening, everyone is probably out partying already. 

“How do you know?” Yunho unclips his seatbelt, folding his big ass to get out of Wooyoung’s low sports car. When they’re both out of the car and the door is locked, Yunho continues, “She doesn’t have an identity. She’s faceless, identity-less, she’s a sex ghost.”

“Sex ghost,” Wooyoung mumbles under his breath, and he’s reminded why the fuck he hates Unscripted so much. “That really bothers me, y’know, that you all listen to her and believe every word she says just because she’s a woman.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Yunho drags out. “I’ve heard it all already. You never mentioned how she got all deep.”

“She was supposed to talk about bondage, like cuffs and rope and tape and shit, but she started talking about this situationship she has, and how he was at the party, too. She seemed pissed or something.” 

Yunho hums, surprised. “I would have thought she was just like you, allergic to relationships of any kind.” 

“I thought that too,” Wooyoung nods while getting slapped across the face by the grocery store’s air conditioning. His nose crinkles, but maybe the air will wash off the rest of his Virgin funk. 

“That reminds me,” Yunho wonders out loud as he bee-lines toward the produce. Wooyoung grabs a basket and follows him. “That girl that almost passed out at the Penny, she was at the party, too.” 

“I know, she interrupted my threesome,” Wooyoung says, holding out the basket for Yunho to throw whatever was on the list inside. 

“So you’re friends,” Yunho turns, brows furrowed like it was a question. “Did you know her boyfriend doesn’t fuck her?”

“Unfortunately,” Wooyoung sighs. Is there no escaping you now? 

“She’s pretty,” Yunho turns again, holding up the blue sticky note, probably making sure he isn’t missing anything. “I’ll never understand staying in a relationship you aren’t happy in.” 

“She’s happy in her own strange way, I guess,” Wooyoung catches the vegetable Yunho throws into the basket. “I don't understand staying in a relationship, period. Could you imagine not having the opportunity to fuck two women at once, because you had a partner waiting for you at home?” 

“You’re twisted,” Yunho shakes his head. “Maybe it’s a good thing you’re getting your whore-ism out now. When you find a partner, you’re going to be more loyal than anyone else on the fucking planet, I guarantee it.” 

Wooyoung laughs, “Sure, and Virgin’s gonna break up with her boyfriend and blow through the frat like a fucking freight train.” 

When Yunho turns to look at him, there’s a twinkle in his eye, and Wooyoung swears it’s hope. There’s a part of him that doesn’t like it, that look, that glimmer. 

He doesn’t know what that says about him. 

You decided to put together a basket. A good job basket, or a be proud of your hard work basket, or a congratulations basket, even if you know Yeonjun doesn’t have his exam results yet. Maybe you’ll just call it an I love you basket. You raced to three different stores after your shift in a panic, worried about not only the episode you posted this morning, but also the fact that you kind of fucking hate your boyfriend.

Okay, you don’t hate him literally at all, but having sex with him didn’t feel right and it’s really freaking you the fuck out. So you need something to do, something tangible your hands can create, something that will help ease the tension in your spine because Yeonjun is supposed to be your forever and you don’t know if you can handle anything other than that.

Were you being too direct on the podcast? What if he somehow ends up listening to it, recognizes your voice, and realizes all the things you said were about him? You suppose if Yeonjun ends up listening to Unscripted, hearing himself in your words is the least of your problems.

You stuffed colorful highlighters, his favorite gel pens, trail mix, protein bars, gum, a brain-shaped stress ball and a handwritten note you wrote about fifteen minutes ago into a wicker basket you got for four bucks at the convenience store. You shift each gift in the basket, making sure each one is visible, then make sure the basket as a whole is visually appealing in height and color.

You’re stalling. It’s past eleven at night and you have no reason to go to Yeonjun’s condo other than to drop off this basket in hopes that Yeonjun feels your appreciation for all his hard work. You’re stalling because it’s not about the basket at all. 

“That’s cute.” You shriek, jumping off the carpeted floor you’re sitting on. Your roommate, Yunjin is standing in your doorway, staring at the basket you can’t seem to finish putting together. “Gift for Junie?”

Her hair, a pretty, chocolate brown, is curled up and pinned in different places, framing her face perfectly. She’s always so put together, even with a bare face, even in the middle of the night. You wish you could say the same, but you still haven’t slept, so you’re pretty sure you still resemble death itself.

“Yeah,” you smile, proud of your basket. You look up and over your shoulder at her, “Think he’ll like it?”

In her matching pink pajama set, she walks into your bedroom and crouches down into her legs beside you, ignoring all the wrappers and price tags you cut off of each gift strewn across your floor. “What’s it for? Are you telling him you’re pregnant or something?”

You choke on your own spit. “You think I’d get him colorful highlighters and a brain-shaped stress ball if I was pregnant?”

“Stress ball for him to use when he freaks out,” she points as she explains. “Then after he’s accepted it, highlighters to document each trimester and what symptoms you’re feeling.”

“That’s actually pretty accurate,” you sigh. “He had an exam today, this is congratulatory or something.” Then on a vulnerable note, you ask, “If I was pregnant, would you be happy for me?”

“Probably not at first,” she shrugs like that was the obvious answer. “You’re basically fresh out of the womb, your womb isn’t ready to have anything in it yet.”

“Stop saying womb,” you scrunch your face, amused. “He told me the other day that he wants to marry me as soon as we graduate, then he wants to get me pregnant.”

“Who cares what he wants?” She sits back on her butt, elbows landing on her bent knees. “You’re always worried about what he wants. What do you want?”

“Can I be honest?” you ask, then add, “can I also be really vulgar for a sec?” She nods with a grin, eyes flaring interest. Vulgar is her favorite. “I want good sex. Like, really good, world-shattering, it’s insane that I just survived sex.”

She doesn’t laugh. Her brows furrow, “You’ve been dating Yeonjun for over a year. Give a girl more context.”

You take your bottom lip between your teeth, unease and a little bit of embarrassment creeping up your spine. You don’t know why it feels so hard to say the words to her, when you can tell Wooyoung and half his frat with ease.

“We had sex last night,” you’re basically whispering, your voice is so low. “I’ve been asking– basically begging for… rougher sex, I don’t know. Sex where I actually feel like he wants me. Last night we had sex and it felt like I accidentally got him hard and he just needed to get off or something. It's always like that.”

“How long?” she asks, her face bent in concern, her already soft features somehow softer. You feel a weight lifted off your chest, maybe it’s because you’re finally confiding in one of your friends, maybe it’s because she’s a woman. You don’t know why you thought that she’d make fun of you.

“A long time,” your lips flatten, scrunching to one side. Then your chest feels tight, and you can feel the tears forming, but you refuse to let them spill. “He just told me he wants to marry me, to start a family with me, but I can’t even get him to have sex with me half the time, and the other half he’s finishing after legitimately four strokes.”

She frowns, reaching a hand out to land on your arm. “I’m sorry,” her voice is filled with pity. “Can you see yourself marrying him?”

“I did,” you blurt, then correct yourself, “I do. I can, I mean. Or I did until last night, and now I’m freaking out, so I made this basket.”

She glances at the basket again, everything inside it with cool, calculated eyes. “One more question, and then I’m done quizzing you, I swear. Is the basket for you, or is it for him?”

“For him,” you answer, but your brows furrow. Why would it be for you?

She hums. “You’re smart, babe. You’re good at seeing people who aren’t used to being seen, you’re good at making them feel special, because you have a big heart, and you care. Shitty sex aside, does he do that for you? Does he see you? Does he make you feel special?”

You swallow, face falling flat, eyes a little wider than they should be. You should be screaming yes, yes, yes at the top of your lungs, but he doesn’t. He hasn’t made you feel special since the six month mark, when the honeymoon phase was over and your relationship flipped overnight into seeing each other only when it was convenient, scheduled dates made weeks in advance, or the two of you coexisting in the same place but not together.

You don’t like how this feels. You don’t like how every sign seems to be pointing in the same direction, you won’t accept it. You can fix this, you can make it feel like the first few months again, you can bring back the spark you lost. 

You won’t give up on him. 

“I’m gonna bring him the basket,” you avert, quickly standing on your feet, not meeting Yunjin’s gaze. 

She doesn’t move, you can feel her eyes on you from the floor. “We could have a girl’s night instead, I have face masks in the fridge already. We can make popcorn and watch a movie, you don’t have to go there.” 

“I want to go there.” You pick up the basket from the floor and grab your purse from your desk, throwing it over your shoulder. 

Watching you cross the living room, she stays standing in your doorframe, arms crossed. When your fingers touch the door handle, she calls out, “You’re too young to be this stressed out over a man.” 

“He’s not just a man,” you look at her over your shoulder. “I’m committed to him.” 

You quickly turn away, you don’t want to see the disappointment in her eyes. You don’t know if this is the right choice, if your relationship is worth fighting for, if it should be this much of a battle. Yunjin seems to have the answer, and you don’t want to see it spelled out on her face. 

You keep your gaze straight ahead for the entire walk to Yeonjun’s condo, just in case the bushes along the sidewalk had some insight to add, too. It looks empty from the outside, all the lights are off, from where you stand it’s almost as if no one is home at all. Being a Friday night, three pre-med students should be home, asleep. You shouldn’t expect that of Tuesdays, though, you guess. You fish for your keyring from your purse before pushing the key to Yeonjun’s into the lock, turning it, then let yourself inside. 

The living room is dark. Eerily dark. The lights are off, even the corner lamp, the couch in pristine condition with the throw blanket folded perfectly over the back. You could see well enough from the moonlight pouring in through the windows, painting streaks of silver on the hardwood floor, on the furniture. The door beside Yeonjun’s opens, just enough for you to see Soobin’s dark eyes peeking through, then it opens halfway, and he leans up against the doorframe, his expression blank. No curiosity, no questions, as if he just wants to watch. 

It makes you panic. Blood surges through your veins, your breath picking up, you rush across the living room and open Yeonjun’s door, expecting to see anything but what was behind it. 

“No,” you whisper, taking in the sight before you, even under the blanket of night you could still make out both figures on the bed. The contents of your stomach fall to the floor, blood pounding beneath your skin, “No, no, this is a dream, I’m dreaming.” 

Beomgyu picks his head up first. Your name tumbles out of his mouth once in confusion, twice in panic, then he’s smacking Yeonjun’s bare back, his bare arms, pushing your naked boyfriend off of his own naked body like it’d somehow hide what you’ve already seen. 

“I’m dreaming, right?” you ask Beomgyu, who stares at you with terrified, wide eyes as Yeonjun blinks his eyes open. A little louder, your voice cracking on the word, you ask again, “Right?!”

“You’re cheating on me?” your voice cracks again on cheating. “You’re cheating on me with Beomgyu?”

Yeonjun sits up, confusion still sprinkled across his features, “Who? What are you doing here? What?” 

“Wake the fuck up,” you’re yelling now, and Beomgyu is scurrying off the sheets, trying to catch his footing on the floor. You point at him, “Don’t fucking move.”

Beomgyu stills like you froze him. Yeonjun comes to, glancing at you, then Beomgyu, then his face contorts in panic. “Baby, I can explain—”

“You can explain Beomgyu naked in your fucking bed?!” You’ve never yelled at him before. He’s never seen you truly angry. “You fucked me yesterday and Beomgyu’s naked in your fucking bed, Yeonjun?!” 

“You had sex with her yesterday?” Beomgyu interrupts, voice sharp, hurt laced into the question. 

Yeonjun sits up fully, pulling the sheets over his lap, and then he holds them over his obviously naked fucking body as he crawls toward the foot. “Baby, it’s not what it looks like— he’s just, we were studying, and then one thing led to another—”

You laugh, dropping the basket to the floor. Yeonjun stiffens, and you know it’s because he’s never heard that laugh before. “Studying for what? Did you even have an exam today?” You turn to Beomgyu who’s already looking at you, features still blown out with terror. “Answer me, you lying piece of shit.” 

Beomgyu’s head even stutters as he tries to shake it, “N-no.” 

“Gyu!” Yeonjun grits out under his breath, then he turns to you. “It’s not what it looks like, just let me explain.” 

You take a step closer to Beomgyu who’s hands are shaking as he covers his bare crotch. His chest is sinking and rising rapidly, you can smell the fear on him. “How long?” Beomgyu blinks. “How long have you been fucking my boyfriend, Beomgyu?!” 

“T-three months,” he stumbles over the words, taking a step away from you, his chest growing red in asymmetrical splotches. 

“Beomgyu!” Yeonjun is yelling now, panic ebbed in his tone, like he could have lied his way out of this. You think he might still try. “He’s lying, baby, listen to me. Listen to me, I’m your boyfriend.” 

“Is this why you won’t have sex with me?” you finally ask, reality becoming crystal clear. “Be honest, Yeonjun, I already fucking caught you, there’s no point in lying anymore. Is he why you won’t fuck me?”

Yeonjun’s face is beet red, color bleeding down onto his shoulders, his chest. Shame, panic, guilt, you couldn’t pinpoint what emotion has his clamped fingers shaking on the sheet. 

“Yes,” Yeonjun whispers. “But it’s just sex,” he defends,  “there’s no feelings involved. I love you, I want to marry you.” 

Beomgyu’s neck snaps, horror in his eyes, spilling from his dropped jaw. You would have already known he was lying even if you didn’t get the confirmation from Beomgyu. 

“I brought you this,” you pick up the basket from the floor, tossing it onto the bed, Yeonjun jumps backward as the contents spill across his baby blue sheets. His dark eyes turn glossy, a frown bending his lips as he glances at each gift. “You don’t deserve my effort or my kindness, you never deserved a second of the time I’ve wasted caring about you. Loving you.”

Your words come out even, almost practiced, as if you’ve been waiting a long, long time to say the words. Your chest aches, of course, but there’s a certain weightlessness to your body, something close to relief. You should be angrier. You should be tearing apart his bedroom, beating his ass and Beomgyu’s.

You can’t bring yourself to move an inch.You turn to the younger man, “I’ve known you since the day I met Yeonjun, you’ve been my friend all this time, Beomgyu. You’re just as guilty as he is.”

“I’m sorry,” Beomgyu squeaks out. “I’m sorry… I— I love him.” 

You give him a weak smile, “So do I.” Turning to Yeonjun again, silent tears stream down his cheeks now, his upper body slouched over, defeated. You keep your shoulders back, steady. “Don’t call me, don’t text me, don’t come to my apartment. Forget I ever existed.” 

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, his voice heavy from crying. He picks his head up, panic still webbed across his features, “I’m not— I’m not gay. It's just… Beomgyu. It’s just Beomgyu.”

Anger strikes, but instead it’s because Wooyoung was fucking right. Again. God— how the fuck are you gonna tell him? After you flipped the fuck out on him earlier, you don’t know if you’ll ever get the chance to tell him. You wouldn’t approach someone after they snapped at you, but it might be for the better, anyway.

“I don’t fucking care what you are,” you blurt, harshly. “I care that you cheated on me, especially after I've spent weeks trying to figure out what's wrong with us. I hope you two are happy together.”

“I’m sorry,” Yeonjun yells out when you turn on your heel. “I love you, I’ll call you— I’m going to fix this, please–” 

You close the door behind you, pushing out a staggered, broken breath from between your lips. Soobin stands across from you, leaning against the back of the couch, body slouched casually like he’s been listening to the entire ordeal. 

“He really thinks he can fix it,” Soobin says first. You can hear Yeonjun yelling at Beomgyu behind the door. “He’s been trying to stop sleeping with Gyu for the past month. Couldn’t bring himself to.”

“You knew,” you whisper your understanding, jaw locked. There’s venom on your tongue as you ask, “Was it entertaining for you, watching me try over and over?”

Soobin shakes his head. “Not necessarily,” he cranes his neck, sinking into his shoulders, fingers clamped over the back of the couch. “I didn’t think it’d take so long for you to figure it out. It wasn’t my place to say anything.” 

You push off the door, a laugh coated in sarcasm tumbling off your tongue. “Right,” you nod, “because your loyalty is to Yeonjun, not to me.” 

Soobin shrugs. “If a guy stops fucking a girl like you, there’s only one clear answer why.”

“You’re just as fucking guilty as they are,” you spit out, striding past Soobin, towards the front door. “I hope I never see the three of you ever again.” 

“I wouldn’t bet your money on it,” Soobin calls after you. “It’s a small campus.” 

masterlist 🍬

[taexual]

. . . e q u i l i b r i u m | 17

i went out searching for an angel, then you came to me, my darling /// chase atlantic, angels

pairing: yeonjun x fem!reader

summary: it takes a long time to fully explore the thin line between love and hate. but seven minutes is a good start.

genre: academic rival!yeonjun / college au / enemies to lovers au / fake dating au

warnings: slow burn, mutual pining, strong language, some angst, FLUFF (and lots of it!!!), suggestive themes, CLINGY!jjun, drinking & yeonjun being a lightweight

words: 11.5k

masterlist / read from the beginning

✦ • ─── MARCH 7, 2025. 8:30 AM (DAY 10)

Half-alive on two hours of sleep, you tried to revive yourself with two large mugs of coffee before your only lecture of the day. Aside from your numb tongue and shaking hands, the caffeine had barely made a blind bit of difference. The world still felt fractionally off, as though it tried to flip upside down but changed its mind halfway through.

Yeonjun had a different class today, which he planned to skip with the same devotion he applied to most Fridays. The two of you had settled on a vague plan to find Alain’s class once yours finished, filling the gap before your library shift.

As you walked downstairs that morning, you and Reina debated the structural differences between penne and ziti (the debate had, technically, started on the way home last night). The ridges, you insisted, were an advantage. Yawning, Reina shook her head and pushed open the front door of the building.

“The ridges,” she said, “are only an advantage if—”

You both halted abruptly.

Yeonjun was waiting at the entrance.

He was in a dark coat and grinning as if he’d been waiting for your surprised face for the past ten minutes (he had been). Another bouquet of freesias rested against his side.

This wasn’t part of your plan.

He thought it was.

“Hi,” he said, pushing off the column.

“Hi,” you said. “Wasn’t aware we were meeting here.”

He shrugged instead of replying, his gaze flitting over you. “Where’s your scarf?”

“My—” Your hand flew to your throat reflexively. “S’not cold today.”

“It’s windy.”

“I’ve got a high collar.”

He gave you a pointed look that effectively shut down any further arguments. It didn’t matter what you’d say; he’d push until you put on a scarf.

Reina watched the exchange with open delight. She appeared positively ecstatic when you rolled your eyes and spun around, your fingers curling around the door handle.

“Give me a minute?” you asked her.

“Oh, of course,” she said, glancing at Yeonjun. “Take him with you, maybe. For, uh, assistance.”

You pressed your lips together.

Yeonjun waited, one hand in his pocket, perfectly content to stand there all morning so long as you returned with sufficient neck insulation.

“Alright.” You nodded at the freesias in his hands. “Care to take those up for me, then?”

He cared very much.

Lighting up, he bounded into the building after you, his enthusiasm almost loud enough to drown out Reina’s laughter.

But by the third-floor landing, his joy had, as usual, transformed into raspy breaths.

“Right,” he huffed, “keep forgetting you live in a fuh—fucking lighthouse.”

“It amazes me,” you returned, not slowing, “how you said you enjoy walking, yet struggle on the stairs.”

“I do enjoy walking,” he managed. “Horr—horizontally.”

Snorting, you were forced to stop as Yeonjun gripped the bannister and let out a sharp, rather concerning wheeze.

“You alright down there?” you called, leaning over the gap in the railings.

“Fantastic, love,” he said hoarsely. “Having a quick word with my lungs.”

“Knew I should’ve left you downstai—”

“No!” He jolted, releasing the bannister. “No, m’fine. Just—in small doses. Can’t climb the whole thing in one go. S’not healthy.”

You disappeared from his field of vision, and that alone was enough to make him hurry after you.

Purely out of principle, he made it to your flat—completely breathless, but still absurdly pleased with himself. For the future, however, he considered pitching an old tent outside your door. Would definitely save him some dignity.

You dropped your bag and took the freesias from him, leaving him on the floor of the corridor. He was happy to stay put while he tried to rewind his entire respiratory system.

You left the flowers in the bathtub—there weren’t any other containers left in the flat; you were already eating cereal out of mugs—and returned. The moment you reached into the armoire and drew out a scarf, Yeonjun scowled and pushed himself to his feet.

“That one?” he asked, sceptical.

You turned, confused, but he was already moving. He reached past you, snatched the black scarf—the one he’d given you at his race and insisted you wear every time he saw you—from the hook by the mirror, and held it out.

“This one,” he said.

You reached for it. He lifted it higher.

Before you could object, he stepped closer and wrapped it around your neck himself. His excitement returned the moment you gave him a flat look.

“Be honest,” you said, your voice muffled as he worked, “you just want me to wear this because it’s got that massive Choi Yeonjun stitched into the edge, don’t you?”

He scoffed. “S’not massive.”

“Sure.”

“And it keeps you warm,” he added, pulling back to admire the three-way knot he’d fashioned. “Doesn’t it?”

“You don’t think my scarves do?” you countered, brushing your fingers over the coarse wool.

“Don’t know.” He bent to grab your bag. “You never wear any.”

“I wear them all the time.”

“Wear this all the time.”

You pursed your lips. “Why?”

He shrugged. “Looks good on you.”

“Or—or,” you raised a finger, “you don’t think my scarves are good enough. Not pricey enough. Wrong fabri—”

“It’s the other thing,” he cut in swiftly. “Having my name on it.”

“Right.” You wrestled your bag back from him in a brief but earnest struggle, then slung it over your shoulder. “Of course. Knew it.”

“I wanted to carry that for you, love,” he mumbled.

“Thanks. I’ve got it.” You eyed him for a second. “Unless you think I can’t manage anything on my—”

“Alright, listen,” he cut in, tone sharpening despite the stretch of his lips. “I’ll wear your scarf.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You will?”

“Yeah. Let’s swap,” he said. “Give me one of yours.”

“Don’t think I won’t.”

“Please do.”

You held his gaze for a moment longer, then turned back to the armoire where you kept your single pair of gloves and the hats you’d never worn before.

“I’d appreciate it if it had bows, by the way,” Yeonjun added, leaning against the wall beside you.

You found a dark red scarf buried at the back of the drawer and looped it around your hand, coaxing it free. The wool caught lightly against your sleeve, leaving a static prickle behind.

“It hasn’t,” you said.

“Shame.” He held out his hand. “Would’ve loved a brighter pop of colour.”

Ignoring his hand, you stepped closer and wound the scarf around his neck, the plush ends tickling his collarbone as you tucked them into place. He smiled, breathing in the lingering scent of your floral perfume.

He wondered what else he could do for you that would make you do it back to him out of spite.

“I’m very sorry,” you said, smoothing the fabric. “Will make sure to get you one with colourful bows for your birthday.”

“Yeah?” His grin spread instantly, then faltered when you tugged sharply on the knot. “I’ll hold you to it, you know.”

“I know.”

It was nice, the sentiment.

But you both knew his birthday fell beyond the time range of your bet. Six months seemed an entire lifetime away.

Yeonjun felt his throat itch with a question—will we still be doing this in September?—but he swallowed it before it could rise. He hadn’t yet determined if he wanted to hear your answer.

Downstairs, Reina was still by the entrance, thumbs flying across the screen of her phone. She barely glanced up as you emerged. Then she forced herself to do a double-take so she wouldn’t risk getting used to how close Yeonjun hovered beside you.

Finally, with Reina smirking, the three of you made your way towards campus.

The morning wind lashed out with relentless ferocity, piercing straight through the spaces behind your eyes, where your lack of sleep already lived. You tucked your hands into your sleeves and pretended not to notice Yeonjun’s glance at your missing gloves.

He’d won the scarf battle, but he should’ve pressed harder.

Then again, this wasn’t all bad.

He reached out and, pushing back your sleeve, intertwined his fingers with yours. You turned to look at him. The warmth of his palm immediately eased some heat back into your skin.

“What class have you two got today?” he asked, glancing at Reina.

She blinked, startled he’d addressed her when you were right there.

“Uh—Global Environmental Politics,” she said. “Thought it sounded interesting. Turns out it’s just reading.”

“Oh,” he said. “Think I took that one in undergrad.”

“You didn’t,” you said.

He looked at you, surprised. “No?”

“No.”

“How—how do you know that?”

“Because Reina and I were going to take it,” you said. “Then we found out you were enrolled and dropped it. Later, we found out you’d dropped it too.”

Trying to control his expression, Yeonjun kicked a pebble along the pavement as the three of you crossed the quad.

“It’s interesting,” Reina remarked, keeping a careful eye on him, “how this is probably the first class that you don’t share with us.”

You nodded. You had always marvelled—and despised—at how fate kept shoving you and him into the same auditoriums for five years straight.

Yeonjun made a throaty sound that was meant to be a hum. He knew the truth.

He’d spent the better part of every term selecting electives with your timetable open in another tab. At first, signing up for all the same lectures was a way to needle you. Somewhere along the way, it had become a habit. Then something else entirely.

It was only this year that your electives ruined his careful choreography for the very first time. You’d waited until the last minute to enrol, and he’d been too hungover to notice your updated timetable.

Still, he was thrilled. This clearly meant that you were paying as much attention to his schedule as he was to yours.

“Going to explain yourself?” Reina asked.

“Don’t know what you mean,” Yeonjun said.

“Yeah? Then what was that in undergrad?” she pressed. “Why’d you drop it right after we did?”

She clearly already knew the answer.

“No reason,” he said.

She hummed, entirely unconvinced.

A gust of wind tore down the street, impatient. You grappled with your scarf, trying to tighten it, and Yeonjun’s attention snapped to you, his hand rising, then hesitating on the offer to help.

“So,” Reina added lightly, “nothing to do with certain people not being in the class anymore?”

You let go of the scarf and frowned at her, then turned to Yeonjun. “That why you dropped it?”

Shrugging, he slid his free hand back into his coat pocket.

“Can’t remember. Might’ve been.” He paused deliberately, smug. “Gets quite dull if I’m the only intelligent person in the room.”

“Oh—right.” You grinned back at him. “Doubt it gets dull often, then.”

“Yeah,” Reina added. “Not many rooms like that, yeah?”

His grin collapsed into a scowl.

“Alright,” he said, tugging gently on your intertwined hands. “Feeling very ganged up on right now.”

You and Reina exchanged a glance, lips twitching.

“Well,” she said, hopping over an icy patch at the edge of the gravel, “if you want to stick around, you’ll have to get used to this.”

Yeonjun caught you smiling at the pebbles out of the corner of his eye.

His chest tightened with a sudden anticipation, the sort that demanded more. Demanded all of it.

He wanted to stick around.

✦ • ─── MARCH 7, 2025. 11:30 AM (DAY 10)

Yeonjun sat on a bench in the quad and went through three cups of coffee, waiting for your class to end. By the third, his fingers were numb and buzzing through the sleeve of the cup. The wind sliced straight through his coat, and he gripped the scarf you’d given him tighter.

Finally, he tossed his empty cup, then bent to retrieve the cardboard carrier with the tea he’d picked up for later. He was about to guzzle all of it himself.

Seeing you step out of the History building felt like a reprieve.

You emerged a few minutes before the rest of the class. If his head hadn’t been so crowded with everything he meant to say to Alain, he might’ve wondered if you’d left class early for him.

“Hey,” you said, stopping at his bench. Your gaze dropped to the three untouched cups of tea in his hands. “I see you’re ready to go, yeah?”

He wasn’t. But he’d spent years practising the art of doing things unready, so he nodded and stepped forward anyway.

You stopped him with a hand to his chest, firm enough to make him step back. Glancing at his dilated pupils, you took the carrier from his hands.

“Everything will be okay,” you said, as if you’d already checked.  “No matter what happens. Drink the tea.”

You took one cup out. He watched it for a moment, not moving.

It caught him off guard, how decisively you’d reassured him. How he hadn’t needed to ask you to.

“Yeah,” he said finally, accepting the cup. “Yeah. Thank you.”

Nodding, you shifted the carrier into one hand and reached for his with the other.

Your fingers laced through his, and something in his chest loosened before his mind had the time to argue about it. His breathing evened out.

So be it, then.

He’d find Alain.

He’d say what he needed to say.

Everything would be okay no matter what happened.

He gave you directions to Alain’s auditorium and walked half a step behind you, sipping the tea. The honey in it was more of a theoretical concept than a detectable flavour.

Passing through the Administration and into the Humanities courtyard, you felt his fingers tighten around yours.

“Hate this fucking place,” he murmured.

You glanced back at him. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” He lowered his voice as though the walls could hear. “S’my mum’s building. Always hated coming here.”

“Ah.” You glanced at the metal plaques lining the outer wall, the names of former professors etched in neat rows. “Well. Welcome home, then.”

Scoffing, he ducked his head. His breath fogged the air.

The Languages Department squatted at the edge of the courtyard, the five floors hostile as they shadowed over the empty garden. The stucco walls had sharpened to the colour of egg yolk in the faint sun, window frames marred by weather. The faint smell of chalk lingered in the stairwell as though baked into the very foundation of the building.

“I’ve checked,” Yeonjun said as you climbed up. “It’s just him and six other students in this class.”

“Okay,” you said. “Better odds of catching him alone.”

He nodded, then slowed at the top of the landing on the third floor to catch his breath. You both took off your coats in the lounge by the stairs. Yeonjun kept your scarf around his neck.

Down the corridor and to the left, right by the washrooms, the door of Alain’s auditorium stood open. Through the gap, you could see a guy sitting alone at the front, hunched over his phone.

You glanced at Yeonjun: him?

He nodded, breathless: him.

The two of you stopped at the threshold.

For a moment, you watched Alain in profile: a few loose strands of light brown hair fell into his eyes, the rest was tied neatly at his neck. He wore a loose navy shirt with the sleeves rolled up, thin lines of ink curling over his forearm.

As if sensing you, he looked up.

Recognition struck him first. Then something brittle and dark: shock, most likely, very poorly concealed.

“Oh,” was barely a word on his lips.

By the time Yeonjun found his voice, Alain was already on his feet.

“Hi,” Yeonjun said, the words scraping their way out of his throat. “Have you got a second?”

Alain looked at the clock, then down at the notebook on his desk. His fingers tapped twice against the cover.

“I—why?” he asked without looking up.

“I’d like to talk.”

The last time they’d talked, Yeonjun had been thirteen.

Not much in his life had changed since then, and the loss of Alain had never softened. It had settled into his bones instead and ached every time the weather changed.

Alain, on the other hand, lived through a whole new life since then. He’d found new cities, developed new routines. But now, with Yeonjun in the doorway, he felt twenty-three again.

Time was funny like that sometimes.

The clock above the blackboard ticked on.

“I’m late for my next class,” Alain said at last, sweeping his phone and notebook into his backpack with impressive speed. He did not know what else to do with himself.

Yeonjun turned to you. You squeezed his hand.

“You’re not,” he said quietly, facing forward again. “I asked a friend to check your timetable.”

Alain froze.

Slowly, his brows furrowed.

“Okay,” he said. The faint notes of his French accent surfaced under his discomfort. “Now I’m concerned about the privacy of my personal data.”

“It’s just me,” Yeonjun said. He sounded small now; thirteen again.

“Right,” Alain replied, pulling the strap of his backpack over his shoulder. “And you always get what you want.”

Yeonjun recoiled, shoulders sagging. His defeat settled fast.

That was it, then. He’d tried.

He was already thinking about the quickest route out of the building, while avoiding his mother’s office. About surviving the rest of the day without letting this settle too deep—

You stepped forward before you’d really decided to.

“Hi,” you said, positioning yourself between them without blocking Yeonjun from view. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

You offered only your first name, but Alain didn’t ask for more. His surprise disrupted his momentum.

After a second of hesitation, he finally shook your hand. His fingers were warm and solid.

“We’re sorry to ambush you,” you said, finding your footing as you went on. “Would you like some tea? We’ve got plenty.”

His gaze dropped to the carrier in your hands. You slid a cup free and held it out.

“So,” he said, taking it with visible suspicion, “you planned this.”

He took a careful sip. Behind you, Yeonjun felt his tongue tingle with the honey he thought he couldn’t taste.

“Sort of, yeah,” you admitted, glancing over your shoulder. “But Jun didn’t—it was my idea to look up your schedule. I’m the bad influence.”

A thin, sardonic smile touched Alain’s mouth. “You’ll have to forgive me for finding that hard to believe.”

You matched his look. “Well, Jun’s not much of a strategist. Things usually just fall into his lap. He’s not used to chasing them.”

Alain’s gaze slid past you to Yeonjun, who stood just inside the doorway, hopeful in a way that was a bit painful to witness. He didn’t bite back at the accusation. Didn’t jump in to defend himself.

Alain blinked, then took another sip of his tea.

“Right,” he said.

You rotated the lid of your cup between your fingers, feeling its sharp edge beneath your thumb.

“Yeah, but—see,” you said, “this whole thing—talking to you, I mean—is something he’s been trying to do for a while. This isn’t a random whim.” You lowered the cup. “I-I won’t pretend to know him the way you do, but I do know what he looks like when he doesn’t care. This isn’t that.”

Steam rose from your cups. Alain watched it curl, distort, and disappear.

“Right, well,” he said, and took another sip instead of continuing.

You could see that you’d cornered him, and your thoughts tried to protest: you must be nicer. Must be more respectful. But you gripped your cup tighter and held on, too focused on your goal to register how steadily you’d dropped your usual politeness for Yeonjun.

“You don’t have to forgive him,” you said, voice lower. “Don’t even have to trust him. But he’s got things he wants to say. Things he should’ve said years ago. And maybe hearing them won’t change anything, but it might stop this from following you both forever.”

Alain exhaled, his shoulders trembling slightly. This, clearly, weighed on him as heavily as it did on Yeonjun.

“This doesn’t have to mean anything after today,” you finished, softer. “It—it can always be the last time you talk to each other.”

Alain swallowed and turned the cup in his hands. Your words held a lot of weight. He tried to find a way to make them lose it.

It’s been over a decade, he told himself. Enough to let go. To move on from everything, further away with each passing year.

But then Yeonjun took a deep breath behind you and, driven by some old reflex, Alain looked up at him again.

It didn’t feel like it’s been a decade. And it hurt to no longer recognise the little kid that had been a big part of his life.

“Alright,” Alain said with a soft exhale. “Alright. I-I’ve got about twenty minutes.”

You nodded back, holding your breath, and stepped aside.

Yeonjun took a step forward and stopped directly in front of you. You were about to leave when you caught his urgent gaze.

“Stay,” he whispered. “Please.”

You stayed.

Yeonjun settled on the edge of a desk a few rows away from the door. You took the seat beside him, close enough to feel the tremors from his knee as it bounced relentlessly, almost against his will.

The auditorium felt smaller now, as though the desks had been pushed closer. The radiators clicked on the wall, then went quiet again.

It took Yeonjun a full minute to find his words.

“I’m sorry,” he began, fingers knotted together in his lap. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have got into your car that day. Shouldn’t have made you take me to your races or badgered you about—everything.”

Alain gave a restrained nod, not daring to move much more than that.

Yeonjun didn’t dare, either.

“And you deserved better than my family. My parents—” He swallowed, reconsidering. “All of us, actually. Especially me. We were awful to you.”

His voice wavered as his thoughts muddled together. Twelve years of thinking about what to say, and the words wanted to come out all at once.

“You were the closest thing I had to an older brother,” he said. “And I didn’t treat you like one. I know that now.”

Neither of them looked at the other.

It was contagious, that avoidance. You found yourself staring at anything that wouldn’t look back at you: the scuffed floorboards, the chipped corner of the desk, the faint wisp of steam rising from the tea cups. The entire room stilled.

When Alain didn’t interrupt, Yeonjun kept going—slow and careful, like stepping over an icy lake.

“My parents were looking for any excuse to get you out,” he said. “They were scared I’d listen to you instead of them. And I-I would have. I should have.” He dragged his hands slowly down his thighs. “But then I—I acted childish. And I didn’t push back when I—”

“You were a child,” Alain cut in, his steady voice nearly startling you and Yeonjun both.

Yeonjun swallowed, nodding once. He didn’t think that absolved him of his guilt. In fact, he thought that made it all a little worse.

His parents had kicked Alain out, not caring if he’d have a place to go. And now, with Alain standing so still—not yelling any accusations, not calling him any names—Yeonjun didn’t think he deserved to even be heard out.

Shuddering as he inhaled, he dropped his gaze to the floor. His hand fell onto the desk between you, and you covered it with your own. He glanced at you, exhaled softly, and turned back.

“I—I’m still sorry I couldn’t figure out how to stop it all,” he said to the desk. “And I hope—shit, I really hope you’ve been better since. Our house wasn’t… it’s not a good place to be. It has a way of wearing people down.” He risked a glance up, meeting Alain’s gaze for barely a heartbeat. “But I wish you’d left under different circumstances. I-I wish for a lot of things. Mostly that I hadn’t made it all worse.”

Several long, quiet minutes passed.

Alain wasn’t sure if Yeonjun was finished. Frankly, Yeonjun wasn’t sure, either. He didn’t think he’d said half of what he should have. And the things he had said hadn’t sounded like anything he’d wanted, either—too blunt in some places, too tangled in others.

But this was all he had.

“Thank you,” Alain said finally, the cup trembling in his hands, “for making the effort to talk to me.”

Yeonjun nodded, shoulders tensing.

“I should’ve done it sooner,” he said, fingers squeezing yours. “I, uh—I saw you last year. Skiing.”

Alain’s lips parted, then closed again. He set his tea down carefully and dropped his backpack from his shoulder.

Yeonjun released a fractured breath, not yet relieved.

“I saw you, too,” Alain said.

“I hoped to talk to you,” Yeonjun recalled. “But you were gone the next day. I get it, though. I don’t think I’d have stayed if our roles were—”

“Didn’t leave because of you, Yeonjun,” Alain interrupted, his tone softer now. Shivers ran down your spine as you registered the brotherly warmth in his words. “My wife and I had a Sunday morning flight. We left because our trip was over. Not because of you.”

Yeonjun blinked. “Your—oh, you’re married?”

“Yeah.” Alain smiled faintly, gaze falling to the golden band on his fourth finger. “Second time, actually.”

The twelve years between them washed over Yeonjun in one cold surge.

“Oh. Wow,” he breathed. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

Despite the sudden weight in the room, the quiet that followed didn’t feel so oppressive anymore. Sunlight slipped through the bare branches outside, tentatively scattering the dust motes in its path.

Yeonjun thought about the years he’d spent with his regret. Right now, he felt like it was holding onto him more than the other way around. He didn’t think it’d ever fully let go.

“You look good,” he said after a moment. “Grew your hair out.”

Alain’s hand rose instinctively, fingers brushing the hair tie at the nape of his neck. The ponytail was still modest.

“Yeah,” he said. “You, uh—cut yours.”

Yeonjun nodded. “Started going to an actual hairdresser.”

Alain’s lips quirked before he could stop them. Slowly, he allowed himself a small laugh.

There was history in their amusement—a joke you weren’t part of—but you smiled anyway. The auditorium felt lighter for it.

“What’re you preparing for?” Yeonjun asked, gesturing towards the blackboard. “With these classes?”

That was all it took.

The conversation began cautiously at first, then found its rhythm as they exchanged stories, apologised, compared timelines, and apologised again.

The twelve years turned out to be a mere interlude; they caught up in minutes. What they wanted, more than anything, was to remember.

As they reminisced, Yeonjun often paused to explain things you didn’t understand. Alain interrupted just as often to correct him, sparking familiar, lighthearted squabbles over who remembered what.

You learned about their late nights on the patio, with board games that always involved unreasonable bets (giving up apples for a month was the hardest on Yeonjun). They told you about the time they went on a trip to the sea and had to spend half the day at an observation tower because Yeonjun took an hour to climb it—then Alain laughed for a full minute when you mentioned how he wheezed up the stairs to your flat.

It was different, seeing Yeonjun with Alain.

You’d seen him relaxed before: joking with his friends, confident, magnetic, insufferable. But now there was relief in him, too. There was light and carelessness. The thirteen-year-old he’d once been shone through in the bright spill of his laughter, the eager sparkle in his eyes.

You liked him like this.

Eventually, all the morning coffee demanded its due.

Yeonjun excused himself with a sheepish grin and slipped out into the corridor. His footsteps faded fast. The door of the washroom creaked softly.

You and Alain were left alone in the auditorium.

Early afternoon light spilt across the desks. When you rested your palm against the wood, it was warm. The shadows on the floor flickered, attuned to the wind outside.

You offered Alain a courteous smile and finished the last of your tea. It had gone lukewarm now.

“So,” Alain said, tilting his chin towards the door to indicate Yeonjun’s absence, “how did you two meet?”

“Same undergrad,” you said. “Now we’re in the same grad programme.”

“And how long have you been together?”

You blinked awkwardly at the tall window behind him, where sunlight clung stubbornly to the worn brown frame, catching in old scratches.

“Not, uh—not long,” you said.

“Yeah?” The corners of his lips lifted, not unkindly. “Could’ve fooled me.”

A hesitant smile flickered across your lips, then stalled. Alain didn’t press. He rarely did, you were beginning to realise.

“I’m glad he has someone like you,” he said. “It’s obvious you’ve made a positive difference in him.”

Your fingers tapped once against the desk. “He—”

“But, um,” Alain continued, clearing his throat, “you must remember that people like you and I aren’t irreplaceable in his life.”

Surprised, your heart attempted something vaguely acrobatic and collapsed into a tight, breathless knot inside your chest. The old desk creaked as you pulled your hand away from it.

“What do you mean?” you asked, though you suspected you already knew.

His shoulders twitched, almost apologetically. He tried to meet your eyes, then changed his mind.

“I’m not trying to scare you,” he said. “Or warn you off somehow. I just… his family doesn’t play by the same rules we do. They never have. They’ll do whatever they believe is best for him. And he won’t—there’ll be nothing he can do about it.”

He was warning you, you realised, that history could repeat itself. Warning you that you could be where he was.

You tried to swallow, but your throat resisted. “Right.”

Footsteps echoed down the corridor, growing closer. Alain straightened at once.

“Be careful,” he said, suddenly brisk. “That’s all I’m saying. I—it really was nice meeting you today.”

“Yeah,” you said, just as Yeonjun reappeared in the doorway. “Likewise, Alain.”

Yeonjun glanced between you, missed whatever had passed, and dropped easily back into place beside you. His arm slid around your shoulders.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m back.”

You returned his smile. It held, somehow, despite the tightness in your chest.

Yeonjun turned to Alain, already leaning in again. He was intent on squeezing every remaining minute from their time together.

“I-I’ll give you two some time alone, yeah?” you said, nudging his arm gently as you stood. “I’ll be in the corridor.”

A flicker of disappointment crossed Yeonjun’s features when he looked up. Alain watched you too, wary all of a sudden. You gave them both a reassuring nod.

You weren’t going to say anything else.

“Okay,” Yeonjun said softly. “Thank you, love. I’ll just be a minute.”

You grabbed your bag and slipped out, easing the door shut behind you.

Then you finally exhaled.

The lounge by the stairwell smelled of overworked radiators. Flowerpots crowded the windowsills, leaves reaching for the light outside. A worn leather sofa sagged against the wall.

You and Yeonjun had left your coats here earlier. But now, a woman occupied the sofa, a phone pressed to her ear, and the coats were gone.

Alarmed, you approached her.

“Hi, sorry,” you said, quietly, so as not to interrupt her call. “I’d left my coat and my—”

She looked up slowly. Her dark eyes cut cleanly through the rest of your sentence.

“Oh,” she said, nodding towards the wall without taking her gaze off you. “I put them on the stand.”

You turned, relief immediately loosening your shoulders. The coat stand, crowded previously, now held only your coats.

“Thank you,” you whispered, grabbing them off the stand.

The woman on the sofa nodded and watched you slip your arms into your coat.

Then she watched you wrap her son’s scarf around your neck.

“Have a lovely day,” you added quickly, on your way back to the corridor.

“You too, dear,” she replied, hanging up the call as she stood. “Stay warm.”

✦ • ─── MARCH 7, 2025. 2 PM (DAY 10)

Yeonjun felt as weightless as a feather.

He spent your four-hour shift following you around the library: loitering between the shelves, dragging his fingers along the leather-bound spines, tugging at your sleeves each time you passed him with your cart.

Eventually, you accepted his help—so he’d stop distracting you—and had him haul dust-heavy books from the archives into the computer room. He was careful and uncharacteristically patient all through it. Didn’t even protest when you refused his offer to assist you with scanning the covers.

You couldn’t remember seeing him smile this much. Or linger this long. And it continued to startle you, how effortlessly he folded into your day, how comforting it felt to have him nearby. How enjoyable.

It was almost easy to forget all that Alain had said to you.

“You know what,” Yeonjun said, dropping another stack of hardcover volumes onto the desk. Dust billowed upwards in a soft, disgruntled cloud. “M’thinking I should start working here as well.”

You leaned back from the scanner, resting your hip against the desk. “Really? Have you read a single book in this building?”

“Why would I bother with books,” he said meaningfully, “when you’re right there, love?”

“Well,” you deadpanned, “you could hardly read me.”

He grinned. He remembered you saying something similar to him in his wardrobe room. Remembered the thin air, your defiant voice. The glint in your eyes.

He glanced around absently, half-searching for a secret cupboard—a Room of Requirement of sorts—to sneak you into.

“Sure,” he said, voice dropping. “Loads of other things I could do with you, though.”

You cut him a look as you flipped open the first book. “While you’re meant to be working, yeah?”

Yeonjun tapped the stack again, sending another offended puff of dust into the air. The scanner gave an impatient whirr next to you.

“Would be quite efficient, actually,” he said. “And you’d get paid to kiss me, too. Two birds, one stone, no?”

“Mhmm, good point. Should’ve discussed payment when we started the bet.”

Snickering, he reached for your ruler the exact moment you did. His fingers brushed yours, deliberate.

“Bit late,” he said, handing you the ruler. “You’ve got to do it for free now.”

“I know,” you said, trusting your hair to hide your smile. It did. Yeonjun wished it hadn’t. “Been thinking of filing a complaint about unjust working conditions, actually.”

“Financial misconduct, I think.”

“That, too.”

He laughed and waited whilst you aligned the book’s spine and slid it onto the glass of the scanner. The machine hummed, happy to finally be of use. The moment you leaned in to check your monitor, Yeonjun caught your waist.

Your breath escaped in a quiet, surprised huff as your chest met his. His grin stretched wider.

“You’re unbearable,” you said, the accusation too fond to sting as your hands found his shoulders.

“I could leave,” he offered, eyes dropping to your mouth, “if you want.”

“I don’t.”

That was all he needed.

His grin vanished into the kiss, slow but certain, lost to the hum of the scanner and the distant shuffle of footsteps.

He lifted a hand to the side of your face, careful and gentle. He realised he’d nearly forgotten the cherry taste of your gloss and rushed to restore his memory.

Your pulse lost itself in the soft touch of his lips, the distinct flavour of honey tea on his tongue. You were so exhausted that you could only focus on one thing at a time, and your mind decided to focus on this.

It mattered more than anything else anyway.

Kissing him back, you forgot your lack of sleep, your homework, and all you’d done today. Forgot the library, too, with dust now settling on the desk.

He broke the kiss for half a second, just to take a breath. Then he brought his lips back to yours, pulling you in, and—

The scanner beeped as it finished its task. You both pulled back, blinking.

“Have to—gotta get back to work,” you whispered, voice distant.

He brushed his thumb over your cheek. “You are working.”

“I meant,” you said, “back to being productive.”

“You are being—”

“Jun.”

He released a heartbroken whine and wrapped his arms around your waist tighter.

“One day,” he said, “you’ll stop choosing books over me.”

Clicking your tongue, you brushed your fingers along the back of his neck. “One day, you’ll let me focus on my work.”

He considered arguing. Technically, he wanted to say, you were letting him distract you from your work.

Then he found a far superior option and kissed you again—briefly, until his lips lingered between yours, unapologetic and thoroughly unhurried.

Laughing softly, you kissed him properly one last time and escaped his arms to return to the scanner.

Yeonjun remained at the desk, pouting and deliberately pulling the books just beyond your reach, so you’d lean over to get them back, and he could steal another kiss.

He was a terrible, terrible menace.

You were very happy to have him here.

Your phone buzzed insistently in your pocket throughout the afternoon. Drinks at Soobin’s bar, the group chat was saying. For no occasion other than it being Friday.

You’d planned to swing by for one drink at most—to keep Reina company; you were too tired otherwise—but Yeonjun had other ideas. He and Alain had exchanged numbers and floated the idea of meeting again, still vague and non-committal, but promising enough to make them both glow. Understandably, he wanted to commemorate the day.

You didn’t argue. This was worthy of a celebration.

So you went to the bar with him.

The moment you stepped inside, however, Reina seized your wrist. She insisted she bore critical news, and leaned in to whisper the revelation into your ear: Nara had admitted—admitted!—she had a crush on someone in your year.

A little thrown, you promised Yeonjun that you’d find him later. For a good minute, he held onto your other hand and whined. Ignoring him, Reina whisked you towards Nara and a cluster of other girls from your cohort.

Yeonjun continued to whine.

Finally, after receiving a soul-soothing slap on the back from Taehyun, he resigned and waved at you through the crowd.

He joined the boys at a booth in the back—Beomgyu and Kai were splitting a bowl of pistachios—and ordered a round of drinks. He didn’t take his eyes off you once.

Taehyun occupied everyone with a tale about Kai turning up to class, sporting a violent hangover. Apparently, when the professor asked him to share the progress of his research, Kai had shakily replied, now is not the right time.

Beomgyu laughed loudly enough to draw Soobin’s attention across the bar. Yeonjun only half-listened. He was too full of the day to think of anything other than how excited he was. And also of you.

Seated at the bar, you ordered your first drink—a Bramble that Nara insisted all of you tried, with enough crème de mûre to create a national blackberry shortage. As soon as Soobin placed the cocktail in front of you, your phone buzzed.

YEONJUN [9:01 PM] i miss you

You pursed your lips, dimmed your screen, and tapped out your response.

YOU [9:01 PM] simp

Then you slipped your phone back into your pocket and ignored it when it vibrated again. The girls around you leaned into each other around the bar.

“So, Nara,” Reina was saying, idly toying with the lemon slice on the edge of her glass, “what if we tried to guess who you’ve got that crush on?”

Nara’s eyes sparkled with noticeable enthusiasm. She did love games.

“I don’t know,” she demurred, but the mischievous curve of her smile had already decided for her. “I mean, you can try, I guess.”

Before you could respond to Reina’s delighted grin, your phone buzzed yet again.

You caved.

YEONJUN [9:02 PM] and??? did i tell you how nice you look today 😍😍

You had to force your lips back into a straight line again.

YOU [9:04 PM] thank you, jun

Taehyun stopped by the bar for another round, placing his hands on your shoulders as he waited for his drinks. He immediately figured out the game and helped Reina with her list of names, intentionally avoiding Beomgyu. Nara giggled and shook her head at every guess.

“At least tell us older or younger,” you joined in, leaning over the bar top.

“Hmm.” Nara flipped her hair over her shoulder, gaze sliding to the corner of the bar. “Younger.”

You exchanged another look with Reina. She took over the game, determined to hear Nara say Beomgyu’s name herself.

Distracted all of a sudden, Taehyun tapped your shoulder with his palm to point out Soobin. You didn’t immediately catch on. Then you saw his tender smile and understood.

You and Taehyun started another game of quietly counting Soobin’s furtive glances at Reina. Even two years into their relationship, he still had an unmistakable crush on her.

When you got to seven—one glance every eight and a half seconds—Yeonjun’s reply popped up on your screen. You left Taehyun to continue the count alone.

YEONJUN [9:06 PM] find me after, yeah? don’t leave without me

The words settled warmly in your stomach, and you took another sip from your glass. The sweet and sour mix now tasted slightly watery as the ice melted.

YOU [9:06 PM] of course

Your fingers continued to hover over the keyboard. You saw yourself typing out the words—I miss you, too—but the thought of meaning them too much made you hesitate. Clearing your throat, you returned your phone to your pocket.

When you looked up, Taehyun was watching you with a knowing grin. He’d asked you a question a minute ago.

“Sorry?” you said.

“Never mind,” he replied, picking up his tray of drinks. He already figured out the answer anyway.

Walking back to his table, he thought of a new game and counted Yeonjun’s glances at you, to see if the number compared to Soobin and Reina.

The number compared.

✦ • ─── MARCH 8, 2025. 1 AM (DAY 10)

Soon after midnight, Nara declared she’d had enough for one night. Between the overdue confessions about her feelings and her shaky voice, you and Reina agreed it was time to head home. Nara had already given you enough material to giggle about for the next two weeks anyway.

Soobin still had several hours left on his shift. He waved Reina off with a quiet affection he didn’t bother hiding, then turned back to the bar, sleeves rolled up, hands already reaching for the next glass to polish.

Yawning, you slipped on your coat and noticed Taehyun and Kai slipping out the side door. Beomgyu and Yeonjun were still at their table, voices rising and overlapping, Yeonjun’s louder than it needed to be. You heard him over the noise of the crowds.

Nara had managed to flag down a taxi—she even knew the driver, somehow—by the time Reina realised you weren’t beside her.

“I’ll, uh—” You nodded toward Yeonjun’s table. He looked thoroughly wrecked now: slack in his chair, one arm draped over the space where Kai had been sitting. “You go on ahead, yeah?”

Reina glanced back, too. “You sure?”

“Yeah—”

“We could ask Soobin to—”

“No, s’alright,” you said, tugging absently on your scarf. “He asked me to find him before I left. Could take a minute.”

Reina’s lips twitched. “Yeah. Alright. But text me if you need me, yeah?”

You hugged her quickly, breathing in her fresh perfume. “Yeah. Get home safe.”

“You too,” she said. “Tell Bin when you leave.”

You nodded. She watched you make your way past the haphazard elbows in the crowd. Then she stopped by the bar to kiss Soobin goodbye for the third time and finally followed Nara out into the cold.

Beomgyu looked relieved to see you approach.

“Thank God!” He stood in the middle of Yeonjun’s soliloquy about the trees in Middle-earth, clapping a hand on your shoulder. “I’m out.”

“Wh—” You blinked. “Okay?”

“He wants to go home and play LoL,” Yeonjun informed you, words already soft around the vowels.

“For your information,” Beomgyu said, glaring at him before turning back to you, “that is correct. I’m off now you’re here. He’s completely bladdered.”

“I see that,” you said.

“Am not,” Yeonjun said at the same time, petulant.

Beomgyu gave you another nod, then made for the exit. He didn’t want to linger a second longer than he had to, now that Nara wasn’t there for him to keep glancing at.

You slid into the booth, settling opposite Yeonjun. The table was sticky beneath your palms, with rings of condensation soaked into the wood.

Yeonjun watched you like the rest of the room had suddenly been muted. His pupils were glazed.

“I’m not drunk,” he reiterated, as if saying it again would make it more true. He finished what remained in his glass.

“Right,” you said. “So you don’t want to go home?”

“Not yet,” he said, missing the golden opportunity to say something charming about going home together. He clearly was drunk. “M’keeping an eye on Bin.”

You glanced toward the bar. Bodies pressed close at the counter, the air thick with the smell of citrus and booze. Soobin hadn’t stopped moving once.

“He’s exhausted,” you said.

“Yeah.” Yeonjun dragged his hands slowly down his face. “But he’s off next week.”

“Good. Reina said he sleeps about three hours a night.”

“If even that.”

Returning your gaze to Yeonjun, you watched him hunch forward, elbows on the table, head in his hands. His lashes fluttered when he blinked, growing heavier each time.

“You’re tired, too,” you said, suddenly very aware of your own heavy limbs.

“M’not,” he said. Then, softer: “Just missed you.”

The words tickled the back of your neck. “Yeah?”

He hummed, eyes closed. “Shouldn’t’ve sat here all night. Could’ve spent more time with you. Like yesterday. Was nice, wasn’t it?”

Nice was certainly one way to describe yesterday. You dropped your gaze to the scratched tabletop before you could think about the warmth of him pressed against you in your bed.

“It was,” you said. “Technically, the night isn’t over—”

Yeonjun straightened so abruptly that his empty glass nearly rolled off the edge of the table. You caught it on pure instinct and placed it well out of his reach.

“You’re right,” he said, eager and bright all of a sudden. “We’ve still got the night. I’m—I am—m’going to get us more drinks.”

You considered stopping him, fingers already flexing on the table. Then you realised you didn’t need to.

Yeonjun made an attempt to turn and climb out of the booth, only to discover that his limbs weren’t particularly interested in cooperating. He stopped, staring at his hands.

You gave him a long look, taking in the flush in his cheeks.

“How much have you already had?” you asked.

“Not much,” he said. “Think we should have more. We’re ss—celebrit—celebrating.”

“Maybe we’ve had enough.”

“No.” He shook his head with an almost manic enthusiasm and immediately grabbed the table to steady himself. “N-no.”

“Yes,” you said, while the bar continued to perform somersaults around him. “We should—”

“One more,” he insisted. “Just one.”

“You can’t handle one more, Jun.”

“I can!” He tried to nod, then aborted the plan and swallowed back whatever rebellion his stomach tried to stage. “S’just one drink.”

“Let’s go home,” you said.

“One more, then we’ll go.” Anticipating your refusal, he reached across the table and took your hand, his fingers warm over yours. “Please?”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes at his stubborn pout. “Jun—”

“Please, love,” he said, feeling the instinctive twitch of your fingers in his grip. “One more. Last one. Promise.”

You took a long breath and dragged your tongue along your bottom lip.

“Fine,” you said.

His face lit up.

“But,” you added calmly, “you’ve got to do a trick for me first.”

“A tr—a trick?” He squinted at you. “Love, you’re treating me a bit like a dog.”

“Said you’d have to earn your treats. So, prove you can handle one more drink.”

Groaning, he released your hand and collapsed back into the plush seat.

“Fine,” he said. “How?”

“Stand up for me,” you said.

He eyed you suspiciously. “That’s the trick?”

“That’s the trick.”

He clicked his tongue and braced his palms against the dark red leather of the settee.

“Alright,” he decided. “I’ll stand up f’you.”

What followed was a prolonged negotiation with his body.

Yeonjun slid forward. Then paused, trying to locate the centre of gravity he seemed to have dropped earlier in the evening. He pushed against the backrest. Raised one knee, then gave out. Clutched the table. Finally, he lifted himself—then dropped back down with a breathless huff.

For a moment, he considered asking whether hovering above the seat might count.

Eventually, red-faced and swaying, he dragged himself upright. His legs trembled beneath him like he’d borrowed them from someone else. He didn’t dare let go of the table.

“There,” he puffed, pride radiating from every painstaking word. “I’m—I’m up.”

You shook your head. “Took you three minutes, Jun.”

“Okay—” he initiated a step in your direction, which required another minute to execute, “—you didn’t say anything about a time limit.”

You snorted. “That was implied. You’re smashed.”

He swayed dangerously beside the table. You made no move to steady him.

“I had,” he said, blinking heavily, “like, three drinks.”

“Admitting that so proudly is embarrassing.”

Lips puckered in offence, he tried to retreat into the booth—forgetting, entirely, that walking backwards was an advanced skill. Walking forward, as luck would have it, was no easier.

It dawned on him, slowly, that he’d gone too far to make it back to his seat safely. Unfortunately, a loud, insistent impulse demanded he sit down immediately.

The result was unavoidable: he hurtled forward and collapsed onto the settee, landing half across your lap in a graceless sprawl.

“Fuck—” He attempted to right himself, but the booth had turned into an obstacle course.

You caught his head before it hit the edge of the table and steered him away.

“M’sorry… rr—‘re you okay?” he murmured.

“I’m fine,” you said, manoeuvring him into a position that resembled sitting. “I’m taking you ho—”

“No!” he protested, displaying remarkable fervour for someone moving at the speed of continental drift. “No, I did the trick for you. I stood up!”

“And then fell over while sitting down.”

He huffed. “You didn’t say I had to sit down, too.”

“That’s sort of a given.”

“It’s sort of not.”

You laughed while he finally settled properly beside you, his head swimming. He thought he could see his pulse dancing across the ceiling tiles.

“Come on,” you said, patting his thigh. “Let’s get you home.”

His focus locked onto your fingers, clinging to the warmth of your touch.

“You promised me a drink,” he mumbled stubbornly.

“You promised me a trick.”

Groaning, he tossed his head back. It fell against your shoulder in dramatic surrender. A few more half-hearted complaints followed until you reached over the back of the settee and threaded your fingers through his hair. He softened at once, his breath heavy against your neck.

The music swirled hazily around you. Your head felt full of cotton.

“Let me take you home, baby,” you whispered. “Come on.”

He hummed, outrageously content.

You tilted your head. “Hm?”

“Love it when you call me that,” he breathed, words melting together. He slid his hand lazily over your hip.

Your neck heated at the careless pet name, but your mind still refused to restore its full function. It was done for the night; you were on your own.

“Well,” you said, licking your lips, “you’re acting like a baby right now.”

He smiled weakly. “Knew it wouldn’t last.”

“Come on, baby.”

You nudged his shoulder. With a long sigh, Yeonjun pushed himself away from your side.

“Alright, then,” he said. “Take me home, love.”

He made it sound simple.

It was not.

You kept an arm looped through his, helping him stand. Then you steered him forward like a tall, clingy disaster. He could technically walk, though each step forward was countered by two back.

Three back once he put his coat on and decided he needed to sit down for a minute.

Halfway through your journey to the exit, you were fully awake again. And you realised he wouldn’t make it back to his house. He lived a good half an hour away and looked clearly ready to fall asleep waiting for a taxi.

That didn’t leave you many options.

You caught Soobin’s eye behind the bar and gave him a small nod.

“You can leave him here,” Soobin called. “I’m off in a couple of hours.”

You glanced at Yeonjun, who was humming quietly to himself, rocking on his feet. Then you turned your attention back to Soobin and the dark bags under his eyes.

Their sorry states left you even fewer options.

“It’s fine,” you decided. “Ten minutes to my place.”

Soobin froze, his composure faltering.

You could’ve suggested dropping Yeonjun on the icy grass outside the bar, Soobin would’ve laughed and waved you off. But now he didn’t know what to do.

“A-are you sure?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you said. “He can sleep there.”

“Oh,” Soobin said, realising he should’ve thwacked Yeonjun harder last night. “O—okay.”

You left Yeonjun clinging to the edge of the bar while you dragged a stool over to keep the door ajar.

During that minute alone, Yeonjun had managed to rotate upright, standing unsteadily on his own two feet and beaming. He blinked at Soobin, as if surprised to find him there.

“Sh-she likes me,” Yeonjun whispered urgently, leaning in so close he nearly tumbled over the bar top. He hiccupped and pulled back. “I think.”

“I think you’re properly drunk,” Soobin said, and swatted him affectionately over the hand with his towel.

“I am not,” Yeonjun asserted, removing his palm from the bar top. Then he reconsidered and placed it back for balance. “But if I was, it’d be your fault.”

Soobin was about to retort, but you reappeared at Yeonjun’s side, immediately drawing his attention.

“I missed you!” he bellowed, oblivious to his volume. “Where’ve you been?!”

You shot Soobin an apologetic look—which floored him further—and looped Yeonjun’s arm around your shoulders, coaxing him off the bar and toward the exit. His familiar weight pressed back against your side.

“Be careful!” Soobin called, already turning back to the taps.

You lifted a hand in farewell. Yeonjun attempted to do the same and leaned a little too enthusiastically into you. The motion nearly took you both down. Cursing under your breath, you ushered him out into the night.

Outside, the wind was still fierce, but not enough to cut through his alcohol mist.

He drifted in and out of awareness as you walked, humming the same melody under his breath. He didn’t need much help moving, just constant redirection away from lampposts, bins, and the occasional wall. You’d never realised what a hazard the edge of a pavement was.

Deep in his drunken haze, Yeonjun kept picturing the champagne stain in the corridor of Beomgyu and Kai’s house. Now that thoughts of Alain had receded, the heart-shaped stain seemed to grow larger in his memory.

He only realised where he was when your building appeared amid the bare trees, a few windows still lit. You tugged him across the road, mouthing apologies to drivers who had no business being out on the streets at two in the morning.

“This is your house,” Yeonjun announced, stopping dead.

“Yes,” you said. “Yours is too far.”

“I could’ve—I could drive us,” he said.

“You’re drunk.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t drive.”

“It does, actually.”

He offered no retort, but decided, for some reason, to cut through the playground. You kept a firm hand on his arm before he ended up face-down in the pebbles.

“You know,” he said, eyes glassy as the swings doubled and tripled pleasantly in front of him, “you’re very mean to me sometimes.”

You scoffed. “I’m taking you to my flat so you wouldn’t have to sleep at Bin’s bar.”

“Oh.” He smacked his lips appreciatively. “S’nice, that.”

Snorting, you pushed open the entrance door and headed for the stairwell. Yeonjun seemed to sober up considerably at the sight of it.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “Can I just—could I stay here? Have I got to go up?”

“Yes,” you said. “This is your punishment for drinking too much. Come on.”

The climb took a solid twenty-five minutes. Truthfully, it felt more like a punishment for you.

By the second floor, Yeonjun’s limbs had taken on a gelatinous quality, and your shoulders started to burn from hauling him upright. The last flight—a mere ten steps—nearly finished you both off.

By the time you reached your door, you were convinced you’d never have to work out again.

Completely deflated, Yeonjun slumped on the steps, his spine sagging against the cold railing. He shut his eyes while you dug through your bag for your keys, counting his breaths in case the stairs had finally beaten him.

“Don’t fall asleep on me,” you said, wrestling the key into the lock. Your fingers were clumsy with fatigue. “We’re nearly there.”

He mumbled something indistinct.

You shot him a glance. “What was that?”

“Stairs,” he snarled, dragging out the S into something terribly mournful. “M’not climbing any more.”

“You’ve already climbed enough, Jun,” you said, finally pulling the door open. “Come—”

“No, no.” His eyes fluttered open, unfocused. “I mean ever. Either there’s a lift, or I’m not—I won’t be going.”

“S’fine, then. You can jump from my window when you’re ready to leave. Should be alright.”

He lifted his head off the railing, ignoring the open door.

“Come sit with me,” he said, smacking his palm against the concrete step. The sound echoed. Hissing in pain, he cradled his hand into his lap. “Ow—shit.”

“Yeonjun,” you warned. “It’s already—”

“Whoa—” he gasped, “—excuse me?”

“What?”

He blinked up at you. “What did you just say?”

Realising you’d be here a while, you sighed and shut the door again. “I said Yeonjun—”

“Ah-ah.” He raised a solemn finger, promptly knocking his head against the railing. “Shit. It’s Jun to you. Or baby. Whichever you—whichever.”

“Right.” You folded your arms over your chest. “Let’s go, then.”

“No.” He leaned forward, realised he couldn’t reach your hand, and patted your trainer instead. “Let’s sit.”

You stared at him for a moment, lips pressed tight.

Then, with a groan, you lowered yourself onto the step beside him. “God, you’re the biggest nuisance in my life.”

He hummed, deeply satisfied, and dropped his warm hand onto your knee.

“Oh,” he murmured. “S’nice. I’m very happy.”

You bit back a reflexive smile and leaned closer, guiding his head onto your shoulder instead of the railing. He settled there easily, like he’d been waiting for it (he had been). The lights in the stairwell clicked off.

You wanted to go home the whole day, but felt your chest relax as you sat beside him just outside your door.

Up close, in the dim glow from the streetlights outside, Yeonjun looked entirely harmless: lips pulled into a lazy, pouting smile, his hair falling over his eyes. His cheeks were flushed from the drinks, the lack of sleep, and the climb.

If you touched him, you thought, the sky outside might blush pink at the edges, too—the way it did at half past three on summer mornings.

Sitting with him here felt dangerously like an early summer morning, too. It felt like the wind tickling your neck at your grandparents’ farm. Like lying in the grass and watching over the cows in the field. Like Violet, your favourite, wandering over to you and dropping her great head into your lap with a soft, barely audible moo.

It felt peaceful and familiar. A bit cold from the bare concrete.

Breathless, you lifted a hand and brushed his hair back from his face, your fingertips grazing his cheekbone. Yeonjun hummed low and content, leaning into your touch.

“You done resting now?” you asked quietly, hand lingering at his jaw.

“Maybe,” he said, nestling closer.

“Good. Stand up, please.”

He pulled back just enough to peer at you. “Please what?”

You watched his serene features for a long moment before you forced the words out.

“Please, baby.”

Grinning, Yeonjun planted his hands on the steps and pushed himself up. You stood and turned back to the door.

“Anything for you, love,” he said—and immediately slipped his hand between the railings, dumping himself back down on the step. “Oh—! On second thought, could you give me a hand?”

Shaking your head, you went back to him. “You’re such a baby.”

“Thank you,” he murmured as your fingers laced with his and hauled him to his feet. He lingered in your grip for a moment longer. “Hmmm.”

You kept a hand on his arm so gravity wouldn’t reintroduce itself and lead him to the door.

Finally inside, you clicked the lock with as little noise as possible, hoping not to wake Reina. Behind you, Yeonjun lingered by the mirror like a forgotten coat. The scent of liquor on his clothes had long drowned out his cologne.

“Go to my room,” you whispered. “Remember where that is, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he whispered back.

“Good,” you said. “Lie down. I’ll bring you water, so don’t fall asleep yet, alright?”

“Mhmm.”

Stumbling down the corridor, he passed Reina’s door without incident. Even stepped neatly over the vases of freesias. You were briefly impressed.

Then his sleeve caught on the bathroom door handle.

The sudden resistance yanked him back like a swatted moth. Yelping, he jolted into the wall, kicking two vases with his feet.

Calling on God under your breath, you ran over to steady the vases, then peeled him off the wall. “You alright?”

“I’ve—been attacked,” he mumbled, holding onto the handle to stay on his feet.

You freed his coat from the door and, reconsidering your earlier optimism, escorted him the rest of the way to your room.

Once he was past the threshold—upright, contained, and unlikely to injure himself or your flat—you returned to the kitchen. The tap gurgled as you filled a glass.

Ridiculously, you found yourself thinking about the water filter; it’d need changing soon. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d done it.

It was an odd thing to worry about, under the circumstances, and you felt your mind drift to other odd things that you’d been thinking about recently.

Alain, for example. And the way he’d warned you about—

Turning around, you nearly leapt into the sink. “Jesus—”

Reina stood in the doorway, arms crossed over her Eeyore pyjama top. She watched you slosh the water onto the floor in your surprise and tried not to smile. She found she quite enjoyed startling you at night.

“Sorry,” she said. “When did you get home?”

“Fuck—recently,” you said, reaching over the freesias to grab a paper towel from the windowsill. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” she said. “Came for an orange.”

With a quick glance at her, you returned to the table and tossed her a pair of oranges from the bowl.

“Thanks,” she said, eyes scanning your attire as you sopped up the spilt water. You hadn’t taken your coat off yet, and seemed unaware of the few freesia blossoms you’d picked up on your sleeves.

Just then, a series of dull, concerning bangs echoed from your bedroom.

Reina glanced over her shoulder. “That Yeonjun?”

“Yeah.” You swallowed. “He—he’s very drunk. Couldn’t leave him at the bar.”

Reina thought you certainly could have, but she bit her tongue and turned back to you.

A tad self-conscious now, you straightened. “Is that okay? That he’s here?”

She frowned. “It—babe, I’m not a prison warden. And how many times has Soobin crashed here?”

“Well, it’s not exactly the same situa—”

“It’s your boyfriend,” she cut in, nails digging into the rind of the orange. “You can do with him what you want. I’m fine.” Another violent thump. “Hope he hasn’t killed himself in there, though.”

You tossed out the paper towel and stepped back into the corridor. No further crashes came from your room, which was almost worse. Silence felt suspicious.

“Still,” you said, lowering your voice, “I’m sorry about the racket.”

“M’sorry, too!” Yeonjun called cheerfully from your bedroom, his voice carrying well over the quiet.

“Oh, he’s alive,” Reina said, arching a brow. “Good hearing, too.”

“That—thank you!” Yeonjun shouted back.

You snorted. Reina did, too. The scent of oranges spread slowly over the flat.

“I’ll go check on him,” you said, nodding at your door.

Her gaze dropped to the glass in your hand. “For him?”

You paused, following her eyes down. “Yeah.”

“Mhmm.” She nodded. “Night routine, yeah? Complete with a kiss on the forehead, I bet. And—”

You clicked your tongue, cutting her off. “I’m going to go now.”

“That’s right. Can’t keep your lover boy waiting!”

Glaring at her snickering face over your shoulder, you padded back to your room.

“Don’t stay up too late,” you added, raising your chin at the oranges in her hands.

“I won’t,” she said, “unless you two keep me up with your sounds of—”

You shut the door before she finished. Her laughter slithered into your bedroom through the gaps anyway.

The mystery noise, as it turned out, was Yeonjun’s shoes and phone, discarded on the floor beside the freesias. Yeonjun himself was stretched out across your bed, coat half-off, hair tousled. His eyes found yours in the dark of the room.

“Sit up for me,” you instructed, perching on the edge of the bed.

He groaned, then shushed himself.

“Sh—shit. Sorry,” he whispered, hauling himself upright. His coat tried to drag him back down until he extracted his hand from the clingy sleeve.

He accepted the glass and concentrated on swallowing. You wondered if he could even taste the water.

“Finish the whole thing,” you said.

He obeyed, murmuring a soft thank you into the rim. You picked up his phone and shrugged out of your coat.

Swallowing with a pleased sigh, Yeonjun slouched down to set the empty glass on the floor.

“Is it okay if I sleep here?” he asked.

“Yeah,” you said. “Get comfortable.”

He glanced down at the mattress. He’d grown quite fond of your small bed: from studying on it, to getting up to all other sorts with you.

Getting comfortable on it, however, didn’t seem particularly easy.

“I’ve noticed,” he said, then paused, trying to be polite, “you’ve got a—a not very big bed.”

You dropped your coat on the back of your chair and crouched to untie your trainers. “I know. You’ll fit.”

“M’not sleeping here without you.”

Your fingers stilled on the laces.

You had not planned to sleep in the same bed with him—again. Had not planned to think about sleeping with him either, and found yourself trying to reason with your chest.

You had a spongy folding bed that you and Reina kept in the corridor, hidden behind the armoire, so no one would spot the questionable stains on the mattress (mayonnaise, from Reina’s birthday last year). You could sleep there. That would be fine.

Your chest refused to listen.

“That’s not really an option,” you said, gathering both pairs of shoes and setting them by the door.

“It is,” Yeonjun said, scooting until his back met the wall. His coat dropped to the floor. “Lie down. I’ll show you.”

There still wasn’t enough space. Not in the bed. Not in the quiet of your flat, either.

“Do you want more water?” you asked.

“No,” he said, closing his eyes. Your room felt warm and pleasant, but it continued to spin around him. “I’d—I want you to lie down.”

Slowly, you sat down on the bed. His eyes shot open again as the mattress dipped. For a long minute, he watched you hesitate, your gaze tracing the narrow width of the bed, calculating the possible angles.

“Come here,” he murmured, fingers closing around your wrist. The gentle tug fully shut down your lungs.

The instant your head touched the pillow, he swung his leg over yours, nearly rolling you off the mattress. Then he draped his arm over your waist, locking you in his surprisingly determined grip.

“There,” he whispered. He shifted just enough to allow you to slip out your hand and place it on his arm. “Goodnight, love.”

“Don’t think I can breathe like this,” you murmured.

Yeonjun stilled and considered the meaning of your words.

“S’okay,” he decided. “I can’t, either.”

The room tilted around him as he felt you relax in his arms. His eyes found yours again.

Taking a slow breath, he angled his head and pressed his lips to yours. The kiss was heavy with sleep; his lips laced with gin. It stole what little air you still had and left a quiet ache behind—a reminder, or a promise.

When he pulled back, your uneven inhale against his mouth tightened his chest so much that he felt like he was choking. He wondered if kissing you again would help.

“Thank you,” he said, as his head settled back against the side of your neck. “For everything.”

He didn’t elaborate—he couldn’t. Half his mind was already slipping under.

You understood anyway.

“You’re welcome,” you whispered, tracing the line of his arm with your hand. “Glad if I could help.”

He started to say something—something Soobin had forced him to rehearse, then un-rehearse half the night—but the cosiness of your small bed, the rhythm in your chest, pressed against his, and the fact that you were still here forced the words right back down.

You’d stayed for so long.

Still, he wanted you to stay for so much longer.

“You did,” he murmured, pulling you closer. “You always do.”

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thank you for reading!!♡♡

[taexual]

. . . e q u i l i b r i u m | 16

i like the way you say you want me with your mouth closed. /// the maine, touch

pairing: yeonjun x fem!reader

summary: it takes a long time to fully explore the thin line between love and hate. but seven minutes is a good start.

genre: academic rival!yeonjun / college au / enemies to lovers au / fake dating au

warnings: slow burn, mutual pining, some angst & unstoppable yearning, strong language, illegal racing, drinking & drunk people, suggestive themes, relentless flirting, characters being lovable idiots <3

words: 12k

masterlist / read from the beginning

✦ • ─── MARCH 6, 2025. 11 PM (DAY 9)

The race was already in full swing when you and Yeonjun left your building. Smoke from the bonfire smudged the sky as you swung past his house for the cider he’d promised Beomgyu. The campus streets were deserted. Distant music echoed against the trees.

Twenty minutes later, you stepped out of his car in the muddy parking lot of the camping grounds, frost cracking under your trainers. The field around you resembled a festival more than a race. It seethed with bodies, all jumping to the pulse of a bass-heavy song that thudded through the air.

Warm weather had lured half the university—and everyone’s distant cousins, too, by the look of it—outside tonight.

Most of the strung-up lanterns had surrendered to the night, leaving strips of darkness for the car beams to cut through. Exhaust drifted in pale clouds. Petrol fumes tangled with the bitter reek of cheap beer and bonfire ash.

The fourth-years hosting the race looked half-feral when you passed them; their bloodstream was one-third beer by now. They’d only started the race half an hour ago.

Yeonjun, satisfied, insisted they must’ve delayed for him.

You clicked your tongue and forced your gaze away from his grin.

You noticed Taehyun hovering at the scoreboard, patting Kai’s back while Nara gestured at him with intense animation. Her gaze darted to the starting line every few seconds.

You saw why.

Beomgyu was already at the front, wrestling with the strap of his helmet. The headlights of his ageing Audi flickered as if they were nervous on his behalf.

You nudged Yeonjun’s arm. “Nara’s—”

“Your shoe’s untied,” he said.

Confused, you glanced down. “Oh—”

Before you could bend down, he was already kneeling in the wet grass. He pushed the hem of your jeans aside, startling a breath out of you, and tightened the laces with quick, deft fingers.

When he rose, his smile was warm enough to make you consider losing your coat.

“Thank you,” you thought you said. It might’ve remained a thought.

Nodding, Yeonjun took your hand—a habit by now.

“I’m next, by the way,” he said. “After Gyu. Unless I kill him first, of course.”

Smiling despite yourself, you glanced forward. Beomgyu was clambering into his car. He promptly hit the horn, and the resulting beep made half the crowd jump. You flinched, too, despite having expected this. Beomgyu’s seat, you knew, was stuck too close to the wheel.

“Leave him be,” you said. “And good luck. Do you need to get your car now?”

Yeonjun froze for a heartbeat, genuinely startled.

You noticed. The words had slipped out before you’d thought about them.

“Not yet,” he said. “Did you mean that?”

You cleared your throat. “What?”

“Good luck.”

Turning away, you ran your free hand over the edge of your coat. Yeonjun’s fingers tightened around yours.

“Don’t make me change my mind,” you said.

His grin returned. “Well, I need to know if you really mean it first.”

“Mhmm. Well, I’m stuck with you. Rather not mend any of your broken bones.”

“What would you prefer to be mending for me, love?”

You shot him a look. He basked in it with unadulterated joy, his thumb strumming over your hand in rhythm with the music. A group of students in front of you belted out the repetitive stutter in a The Weekend remix.

“Changing my stance on the bones,” you said. “Feeling up for breaking a few myself.”

Laughing, he leaned closer so you could hear him over the drunken chorus around you.

“Oh?” he said. “Which ones?”

You let your gaze trail down his face, deliberately slow. “Think I’ll start with your nose.”

“Mhmm.” He nodded, not watching where he was going. “And then?”

“Your jaw, perhaps.”

“My jaw. Lovely. What else?”

A guy stumbled into your path. Yeonjun steered you aside first, then followed. When you glanced back, he was still beaming.

“You might be genuinely unwell,” you informed him, which only invigorated the twinkle in his eyes. “Have you considered seeing a professional?”

Laughing again, he raised your joined hands to his chest. His leather jacket was cold under your knuckles. His hand, by contrast, was scorching.

“M’seeing you,” he said. “Got you diagnosing me every day.”

Your response faltered into a scoff. He heard the abandoned sentence anyway and resorted to skipping.

Tilting your head at him, you let him tow you through the crowd—the people parted without him having to ask—while your joined hands swung enthusiastically between you.

The plywood of the drinks table bowed under the graveyard of half-crushed cans, bottles, and paper cups. It even smelled sticky.

Yeonjun spent a minute searching for the non-alcoholic beer. Once he found it, he wedged a bottle between his knees and attempted to pry the cap off without releasing your hand.

After a moment of watching him struggle—looking a bit like a scene from a wildlife documentary—you slipped your fingers free. Snatching the bottle, you snapped the cap off against the edge of the table.

Impressed, Yeonjun bowed his head in gratitude, then immediately reached to open one for you. As soon as the cap clicked free, he reclaimed your hand.

The beer tasted like tin. His hand was obnoxiously warm against yours.

You felt very content.

Behind you, the engines revved. A siren shrieked, kicking off the next round. You turned to see Beomgyu’s Audi launch forward, screaming in its familiar mechanical protest.

Reina, Soobin, and Kai drifted towards you, the scent of ash clinging to their coats. All three of them were shaking their heads (they’d fled Taehyun’s monologue about the new painter at his theatre; apparently, he’d already told the story three times tonight).

Soobin and Reina immediately noticed your hand in Yeonjun’s grip. Reina smiled, having expected this. Soobin, on the other hand, raised his eyebrows—he couldn’t help it—but he didn’t say a word.

No one did.

And you realised that it felt bizarrely natural to stand here with Yeonjun: hand in hand, bickering.

Your heart did not know what to make of that.

“He’s not getting the last lap under a minute,” Kai said, tracking the blur of Beomgyu’s Audi as it slid past the trees. “Oil’s been leaking since last Friday. If he doesn’t pace himself, he’s out.”

“He’s got it,” Yeonjun said easily, glancing back to ensure you haven’t run out of beer. “Gyu could race on a horse and still come second.”

Soobin snorted. “Because, out of solidarity, you’d race on a horse too, and come first, yeah?”

“Of course,” Yeonjun said. “Never leaving a friend in need.”

Reina inhaled as if preparing to contribute to the conversation, then visibly reconsidered. She was trying to expand her tolerance for Yeonjun—she’d told you as much last night.

(I don’t blame you for struggling, you’d said. I had a hard time tolerating him, too.

Reckon kissing him helped, though, she’d fired back, effectively ending the conversation.)

As much as it shocked you to find yourself in this position, you still appreciated her effort.

Back on the track, Beomgyu shot over the finish line.

Yeonjun let out a victorious cry, lifting his bottle. “A solid three seconds ahead! That’s my boy!”

“Your boy’s lost a headlight,” you pointed out, just as Beomgyu whooped shrilly through his open window.

He veered into the field, carving doughnuts into the brittle grass. Dirt flung around him in perfect celebratory rings. The roar from the crowd egged him on.

Reina caught your eye over Soobin’s shoulder and shook her head, amused. Beomgyu celebrated every win as if Formula One were emailing him with his contract.

“Shit, though,” Soobin muttered. “The light casing could slash someone’s tyres.”

“Think it landed over there,” Kai said, pointing to the glint of shattered plastic in the grass by the road.

Before you could turn to look, Yeonjun pulled on your hand. He tilted his chin towards his car.

“Come with me for a bit?” he asked. His voice was quiet enough that no one else heard him. The invitation wasn’t for show, anyway. It was for you.

You nodded and brushed Reina’s hand in passing, letting Yeonjun guide you through the jubilant crowd. Reina followed you with her eyes, grinning.

The parking lot was so quiet that it almost felt deafening. You dropped your empty bottle into one of the makeshift bins by the wooden post, then followed Yeonjun to his Nissan.

“Right,” he said, slapping his palm against the roof of the car. “I’m up.”

“Right,” you echoed, trying to pull your hand free, assuming he’d need both for this. “Don’t kill anyone.”

He didn’t let go. “No stay safe?”

“Well, that’s implied,” you said. “I’m more concerned about your disregard for everyone else’s safety.”

“Oh, so if I crash, you’re not going to feel bad for me at all?”

“No, I’ll finally be free.”

“You’ll—oh.” Scoffing dramatically, he pulled you into him with a determined tug on your hand. “I’ll show you free.”

Your laughter drowned in the thunder behind you—Beomgyu’s friends were hoisting him overhead in raucous triumph.

You had to crane your neck to see Yeonjun’s face.

“Thought you were supposed to win this,” you said.

“Well, yeah—”

“It might be your only chance to win the bet, too.”

“Oh?” He raised his eyebrows. “That it, then? I win, and you’ll fall in love with me?”

“No,” you said, grinning when he gave an exaggerated sigh. “But it might improve your odds.”

“Hmm. And here I thought you were mostly into losers.”

“If I were, you and I would’ve got together years ago.”

He laughed and pulled on your joined hands again, drawing you close enough that the ends of his hair tickled your cheek. The wind picked up around you, thrilled by the increased beating in your chest.

Yeonjun wondered if you knew he hadn’t been kidding in his wardrobe room when he said he thought about you when he raced.

“I enjoy how funny you are,” he murmured, leaning in until the tip of his nose nudged yours. “Tell me to stay safe, love.”

You refused to let the corners of your lips lift any higher. He still hoped they would, and continued to stare at your mouth until your pulse snapped.

“Stay safe, Jun,” you said.

His tongue swept over his lower lip. “Tell me to win this one for you.”

“You already know you’ve got no other—”

“Tell me.”

Your exhale was a slow caress against his lips. His smile spread.

“Win this one for me,” you said.

Suddenly, Yeonjun found himself wondering whether he should be operating heavy machinery tonight. The look in your eyes made the camping grounds spin around him.

“Good girl,” he rasped—and pressed his lips to yours.

It was meant to be a fleeting kiss.

It never was.

His mouth lingered, soft against yours. His free hand slid up to cradle your face; the other one remained locked around yours. When he felt you smile against his lips, the crowd behind him dissolved into white noise.

His kisses turned frantic, breath coming in muffled, hot waves against your mouth. It was always a matter of time before he lost himself in the taste of you, in the way you melted into him, the captivating tilt of your mouth.

The siren at the starting line—five minutes to go—snapped you both back.

Straining, Yeonjun forced himself back a step, breath unsteady. One last look at your dazed eyes, and the memory of your flat punched him square in the ribs.

Once again, he considered abandoning the race entirely. Considered pulling you into his car and spending the rest of the night on the backseat.

But, God, he wanted to win for you.

Muttering curses under his breath, he raised your intertwined hands, pressed a kiss to your knuckles, and let go. His gaze stayed on yours as he circled the car, put on his helmet, and climbed inside, gripping the door firmly to suppress any change of heart.

You watched the Nissan as it sped off, the wind brushing back your hair. It took an embarrassingly long time for your stomach to settle back where it belonged—as though it, too, had driven off with Yeonjun.

“Hey.”

You jumped at the graze of fingers on your elbow.

The campsite was a muddle of shadows and dying lights. It took you a moment to recognise Jiyoung, Nara’s friend, swaying like a disoriented buoy in front of you.

“Sorry,” she blurted, recoiling at your flinch. “Didn’t mean to—I’m Jiyoung.”

“Yeah, I-I know,” you said, noting the glassy sheen in her eyes.

“I just wanted to ap-apologise.” She hiccupped, wobbling on her feet. “I sort of—made it sound like Yeonjun and Amy were a thing again, didn’t I? Amy said they’re not.”

You blinked.

Without waiting for you to respond, Jiyoung tilted precariously to one side. You caught her elbow before she folded in half and steered her towards a wooden post topped with a defunct lantern. Her arms felt limp under your touch.

“Why, um—why are you apologising to me?” you asked.

“Well, Nara—” She twisted to point somewhere behind her and completely misjudged her rotation. You caught her wrist, her bracelets snagging on the sleeve of your coat. “Shit—thanks.”

You followed the shaking line of her finger but couldn’t spot anything in the crowd. The muffled rumble of the bass suddenly seemed louder around you, reverberating through your skin.

“Nara said Yeonjun is actually with you,” Jiyoung explained.

Your gaze snapped back to her, fingers inadvertently squeezing her wrist.

“Oh.” The word was hardly louder than the pounding in your ears.

“I’m so—I didn’t mean to start anything,” she continued. “Just miss—misst—misunderstood. You’re a really—a lovely couple.”

No, a part of you wanted to protest in reflex. We’re not really a couple.

But another part of you—the one that glanced back at Yeonjun as he took his position at the starting line—hesitated. This part remembered the taste of his kiss. The careful touch of his hands over your spine.

If you said you weren’t together, people would fill the gaps. Start rumours about someone else Yeonjun was seeing.

The thought tightened something beneath your ribs.

“We—”

“Jesus Christ!” a shrill voice cut through the music.

Startled, you turned to see Nara storming across the field, hands clenched into fists. Even the wind seemed to get out of her way.

“Jiyoung,” she snapped. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

Giggling, Jiyoung escaped your grasp and flung her arms around Nara’s neck, nearly taking both of them down. “And you found me!”

Huffing, Nara steadied her, then glanced at you. Her gaze softened instantly.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, patting Jiyoung between her shoulder blades. “She said something stupid, didn’t she? She always does this when she drinks. Last year, she apologised to the bloke dressed as Santa at our Christmas party, because she thought she yanked on his fake beard a bit too hard.”

You smiled. “She’s fine. She, uh—well, she said some things.”

Nara’s wince indicated she understood exactly what things.

Jiyoung confirmed it by patting Nara’s cheeks. “S’about Amy. Said—”

“Alright,” Nara cut in, removing her hands from her face. She looked at you again. “I’m sorry. About Jiyoung, and about—well, about everything else. I-I mean, we’ve no idea what’s going on between you and Yeonjun. Or if anything is.”

She looked at you like she hoped you’d give her some idea.

“Right,” you said instead.

“Right,” she echoed. “Well, I just meant that we shouldn’t assume. I shouldn’t assume. And I’m sorry I keep doing it.”

The shifting wind cast a swirl of the bonfire smoke towards the three of you.

For a moment, you stared at each other’s shoes.

“You’re good, Nara,” you finally said. “It’s fine.”

She released a breath, then nodded.

“Okay,” she said. She hitched Jiyoung upright with a practised tug. “Good. And—I’m sorry. Really. I’ll shut up. Let me take care of this one, yeah?”

“Need a hand?”

“No, I’ve got her,” she said, half-dragging, half-guiding Jiyoung towards the parking lot. Jiyoung gave you a limp wave.

You nodded. Nara flashed you a final apologetic smile before the crowd of disjointed, dancing bodies swallowed them.

You drew in a slow breath. Ahead, dust spun in the beams of the headlights. The engines cooled in the distance. Laughter floated up from every direction.

You realised you felt fine.

As much as the campus loved gossip, nothing truly mattered to anyone unless it was about them. By tomorrow, Nara, Jiyoung, and everyone else would be talking about something new.

You looked towards the field just in time to see Beomgyu shredding the label off his beer bottle, staring after Nara’s fading silhouette as she disappeared into the dark.

You smiled. He was terribly transparent.

Then the siren split the field open again.

You spun around. Yeonjun’s blue Nissan hurtled down the road, headlights stretching into a smear of comet-light as he bullied the night out of his way. His opponent’s Honda followed in a wounded wobble, red and sleek, but piloted by someone without Yeonjun’s trademark death wish.

You rejoined Reina and Soobin on the trampled grass by the drinks table. The roar of the engines drowned out the electronic music but failed to stop the crowds from bouncing to the beat around you.

Soobin fretted about Yeonjun’s accelerator, and it struck you, rather inconveniently, that you weren’t merely waiting for the race to be over like you usually were. You were watching Yeonjun’s car. Following the line he took as the road snaked across the grounds. Rooting for him.

That was brilliant.

Perhaps he’d infected you with his disease.

Yeonjun drove like he’d been born missing the part of his brain that was responsible for his survival. His speed never dipped below two hundred, not even as the road twisted at angles that threatened to hurl him into the trees.

Somehow—through skill, defiance, and a phenomenal car—he navigated each curve cleanly, skimmed past Beomgyu’s abandoned headlight in the grass, and didn’t bump the Nissan against anything solid. Even the drag of his tyres against the asphalt sounded surprisingly pleasant.

He blasted across the finish line in a spray of dust.

The Nissan skidded to a breathless halt on the grass, its headlights blazing brighter. The other driver coasted by five seconds later, shouting something undoubtedly poetic out the window.

The bonfire crackled in exhilaration behind you. Kai had found Beomgyu and barrelled back into your group, shouting and jumping. Your spine tingled.

Across the field, Yeonjun got out of his car, caught your gaze, and waved. He lingered to cherish the congratulatory slaps on his shoulders, and only sobered when Taehyun pulled on his hand for a quick word—Taehyun’s bright orange Corvette was going to kick off the next heat.

Finally, Yeonjun reached you, face alive with adrenaline, breath clouding silver. Your lips stretched before you could control them.

“Three more,” he said, half-laughing, “and I’ve won the night.”

“Not sure if anyone’s told you,” you said, voice deceptively mild, “but most people slow down before a corner.”

His grin curled. “Brakes were invented by cowards.”

Beomgyu unleashed a passionate ‘fuck yeah!’ and nearly smacked you in the face trying to high-five him. Yeonjun met his palm without looking away from you.

“By engineers, actually,” you said. “Some British bloke, I think.”

You glanced at Soobin for confirmation. Once, in undergrad, the two of you had given a presentation on the automotive industry.

“Lanchester,” Soobin confirmed. “Though Renault’s disc brake was far superior. So, French.”

“Well, I drive a Nissan,” Yeonjun countered. “Japanese.”

“So no brakes in Japanese cars?” you challenged.

A smile ghosted over his lips, but Beomgyu thrust another bottle into his hands, distracting him from his argument.

Even drinking, Yeonjun refused to take his eyes off you.

And, you realised, you couldn’t stop staring at the faint lift of his lips, either.

✦ • ─── MARCH 7, 2025. 1 AM (DAY 9)

Three more rounds vanished in a cloud of exhaust fumes and hoarse, spirited cheers of the crowd.

Yeonjun claimed his fourth win and topped the scoreboard for the night, despite missing the first heat. Granted, Taehyun was only ten points behind (his Corvette nearly lost a tyre during the last run against Yeonjun), but a win was a win.

Naturally, Yeonjun couldn’t resist climbing onto the hood of his car and raising his hands into the sky, the adrenaline raw in his veins. The field broke open in screams, a tidal wave of bodies swarming his car.

Grinning, he jumped off the hood and slipped straight through the exuberant crowd, striding towards you.

You laughed, incredulous, and opened your arms just as he crashed into you. His embrace was less a hug and more a decisive capture, tight and impatient. You circled your arms around his shoulders, feeling the residual vibration of the engine still clinging to him.

“I’ve won,” he murmured into your hair.

You squeezed your arms around him. “I know.”

“For you.”

“I know.”

His lips stretched against your neck. “Got no choice but to fall in love with me now.”

Your laughter reverberated softly through his chest.

He eased back, leaving just enough space for a breath, but not for thoughts.

Then he leaned in and kissed you.

The camping grounds tilted, the bonfire smearing gold at the edges, and you nearly lost your footing, too. His hands tightened around your waist, steadying you with a gentle pull closer to him. His lips burned with adrenaline.

To your left, Soobin stared, genuinely convinced he was hallucinating.

Kai, on your right, made a strangled noise.

“Bleugh!” Beomgyu groaned, slapping his palms over Kai’s eyes. “Not in front of the children!”

Laughing, you and Yeonjun broke apart.

Kai was lamenting loudly about the cruelty inflicted on his eyes. Beomgyu was yelling. Reina was wheezing. Their noise rippled outwards, forcing heads to turn across the field.

It should’ve been mortifying.

Instead, it felt terminal.

Without a word, Yeonjun laced his cold fingers through yours. You met his excited gaze for just a second, then settled against his side and followed the crowd to the after-party.

The whole way there, your heart continued to skip in uneven little kicks.

✦ • ─── MARCH 7, 2025. 2 AM (DAY 9)

Beomgyu and Kai treated host duties as a suggestion. They’d invited half the campus into the living room of their rented house and left everyone to sort themselves out.

It was Nara—it usually was—who took charge and delegated tasks to everyone.

Soobin and Reina had been sent for booze (apparently, the only thing in the house was a milky-white bottle of something that smelled like a hospital room). Taehyun and Kai were off to clear space on the tables. Yeonjun was ordered to haul chairs and rearrange the room according to Nara’s personal feng shui.

Meanwhile, you were dispatched to the kitchen in case Beomgyu needed help with the snacks.

Beomgyu needed help.

He had somehow managed to cut himself multiple times while attempting to assemble a cheese platter. You confiscated the knife before he escalated from minor wounds to amputation.

“I wanted to offer more options,” he explained, wrapping a paper towel around his injured finger. “You know? If they want beer, they can drink it. But we’ve also got this wine and cider and cheese—thing.”

Humming, you followed Beomgyu’s instructions and retrieved a new chopping board—one that wasn’t bloodied—from the cabinet above the sink. The countertops were black marble, which concealed most of the crime scene, but you still ran a wet paper towel over them.

Then you resumed his previous task.

“Anyone special you’re catering to?” you asked, slicing the cheese into mostly acceptable shapes.

“No,” he said, gracefully turning away. “Why?”

As though summoned, Nara shouted something about bin bags from somewhere beyond the wall.

“No reason,” you said. “Just seems like a lot of effort. The usual snack at your parties is—I don’t know. Pretzels.”

“What’s wrong with pretzels?”

“Nothing. S’my point. Why go all out with your cheese, and, uh—” You frowned at the packet on the counter. It certainly wasn’t crackers. Looked a bit like the lurid pink biscuits Yeonjun enjoyed. “Right. Whatever these are.”

Beomgyu went to replace his increasingly red paper towel, muttering something unintelligible. You tried not to smile at his avoidance.

“I want it to be fancy,” he said finally. “Something different. You think it’s too much?”

“I don’t think it’s too much,” you said. “Just thought there might be a reason.”

He pushed himself off the counter with renewed purpose. “Should we get grapes, too? I’ll call Taehyun.”

You frowned. Taehyun, the last time you’ve seen him, was sitting cross-legged on the living room table.

“Reina and Soobin went to the shop—” you began, but Beomgyu cut you off with a vehement shake of his head.

“I don’t trust Soobin with grapes.”

Your knife hovered over the board. “Do I—should I ask why not?”

He clicked his tongue, fingers tapping against the counter. “He’s always stealing them.”

You stared, unsure whether laughter would offend him. You decided not to find out.

“Does he, then?” you murmured, returning to the cheese.

“Last time we had a party here,” Beomgyu explained gravely, “he was in charge of the food. He bought snacks and some fruit. And he hid the grapes. Later that night, I caught him eating them in the dark. With Yeonjun. Raccoons, the pair of them.”

Your lips twitched, and you ducked your head to hide your face behind your hair. “Hmm. How terrible.”

Beomgyu huffed indignantly.

“Well, why was Yeonjun with him, then?” he demanded, adjusting the paper towel. “Maybe I wanted some grapes, too. They didn’t even ask.”

That was fair enough, you supposed. And it wasn’t about the grapes at all. It was about Beomgyu’s long-held conviction that friendships were strictly monogamous, and his persistent disappointment that his friends were friends with other people, too.

“Well, then you should find someone to stand guard tonight,” you said. “In case he threatens your grapes again.”

Beomgyu raised his wounded finger in approval, as though you’d just provided the perfect strategy for his war council.

“I like your thinking,” he said, already unlocking his phone. “I’m ringing Taehyun.”

Grinning, you stepped past him to access the cupboard under the sink. He shifted aside while you tossed the cheese wrappers into the bin.

A voice cut in from the doorway: “Hey.”

You turned. Yeonjun stood there with his hands buried in his jean pockets, his gaze darting between you and Beomgyu.

“Been gone a while,” Yeonjun said. “What’re—what are you two doing?”

You returned to the chopping board and raised the block of Gouda. “Cheese.”

Beomgyu raised his towel-wrapped finger. “Blood.”

“Right.” Yeonjun wasn’t sure if that answered his question. “Can I—”

“What are you doing here?” Beomgyu interjected, placing his phone back on the counter. Taehyun hadn’t picked up.

“Checking in,” Yeonjun said, stepping inside. Even without looking at him, you heard the exaggerated lightness in his voice. “Done with the chairs. Thought I might help here.”

Beomgyu scoffed. “When have you ever helped?”

Offended, Yeonjun scoffed back. “When have I—always. When have I not helped?”

Beomgyu found his opening.

“Never,” he said. “Want to know why you’re really here?”

Sensing the change in his tone, you focused firmly on the aged Gouda as the edge crumbled under your knife.

Yeonjun crossed his arms. “Why am I really here?”

“You’re really here,” Beomgyu said, “because we were gone too long. And you have a hard time with the idea that she might hang out with someone who isn’t you.”

You tried not to scoff at the accusation. This was, clearly, a case of a very proud pot calling another proud kettle black.

“I don’t have a hard time with that idea,” Yeonjun said, gaze fixed intently on the wooden grain of the cabinets.

“You do,” Beomgyu retorted, drifting closer to your side.

You directed a warning glare at him, which he saw, and then decided he hadn’t. He was too excited. If he could, he hoped to bring up your kiss at the race, and the phone call from earlier – when you’d picked up, and Yeonjun told you to hang up. Busy, clearly, with something else entirely.

“We were having a perfectly pleasant conversation,” Beomgyu said, “before you barged in.”

Yeonjun’s gaze slid from the cabinet to the sink. “About?”

Clearing your throat, you raised your head.

“Grapes,” you said.

“Grapes?” Yeonjun repeated, hopeful.

“Oh, yes,” Beomgyu said before you could. He deliberately ran a hand through the ends of your hair.

You saw Yeonjun’s fists clench at his sides and glared at Beomgyu again. His laughter was a clear indication that he wasn’t finished; he’d keep going until he found out if you were really together or just insane.

Knowing better than to interrupt his performance, lest he direct it at you, you groaned and returned to the tray.

Pleased to get his stage back, Beomgyu continued. He glided across the tiles, hands gesturing with a grand flourish as if he were conducting an orchestra.

“You see,” he proclaimed, “I was suggesting a grape-sharing ritual. I find the idea—how to say—fascinating. Thought we’d give it a go. Just us two. A, uh—a mutual fruit experience. To deepen the connection.”

Yeonjun’s eyes flicked to you, hands gripping the edge of the counter.

You shook your head. His grip loosened.

“That so?” he said, dragging his attention back to Beomgyu.

“Yes,” Beomgyu replied, undeterred. He continued to hover at your side. “I also thought we might expand into strawberries. Though they’re not exactly in season—”

“I’m not seeing any grapes,” Yeonjun cut in, eyeing the cheese and the packet of intriguing biscuits. “Or strawberries.”

Beomgyu opened his mouth, then closed it. He gestured vaguely at his phone.

“I’m planning to get them,” he said. “Already called—oh! And maybe chocolate, too? That fountain thing—you know the one—”

The countertop buzzed violently, followed by an unholy remix of Maneater.

“Oh, that’ll be Taehyun,” Beomgyu said, delighted. He snatched up his phone. “He’ll get us grapes. And strawberries. Maybe the three of us could try them together—who knows! Anyway. Back in a sec.”

Winking, he breezed past Yeonjun and vanished down the corridor. You heard Taehyun’s voice booming through his phone speaker, echoing from somewhere behind the wall.

A cool, fresh silence settled in the kitchen.

You continued to sort the biscuits onto the wooden tray—strikingly pink against the muted shades of the cheese—while Yeonjun leaned against the counter, resolutely quiet. You counted the beats of silence in your head.

He lasted forty-six seconds.

“Were you really talking about—”

“Of course not,” you said. “He was telling me about Soobin stealing his grapes.”

The shadows unknotted in the room.

“Oh,” Yeonjun said, finally exhaling. “Yeah, that happened once. Beomgyu has never forgiven him.”

You snorted. “Yeah. I figured.”

He watched you for a moment longer. When you looked up, his brows were still drawn, teeth working lightly at his lower lip.

You looked away to open the second packet of biscuits.

“Did you know,” you said, “that your face gives away everything you’re thinking?”

He relaxed his eyebrows. “Everything, then?”

“Yes.”

“Alright. What am I thinking now?”

You spared him another half-glance, just enough to catch the tension clinging to his jaw despite his easy smile.

“You hated everything Beomgyu just suggested,” you said, setting the biscuits neatly onto the tray. “And you’re impatient. Can’t stand waiting around for booze and snacks. You want to leave already.”

He gave a slow, impressed nod.

“Alright,” he said. “S’not bad.”

“I know. You should work on your face.”

He snorted. “Maybe it isn’t my face. Maybe you just pay so much attention to me that you can read every little tell. Maybe it’s you. Know me a bit too well already, love.”

You pursed your lips as his words traced down your spine.

“Don’t be so smug,” you said. “That’d be dreadful for you, if true.”

“Why?”

“Would mean my theory about your ulterior motives is correct.”

Laughing, Yeonjun scooped up the empty biscuit packet and stepped around you, shoulder brushing yours as he tossed it into the bin.

“Fair point,” he said. “Never mind. You misread me nine times out of ten.”

“Got it right this time, though.”

On his way back, his hand skimmed your waist, brief but precise, as though testing the intensity of the current between you. You froze momentarily, fingers pressing into the edge of the tray.

“And why do you think I want to leave?” he asked.

“Because you’re bored,” you said.

He reached for a biscuit and managed to topple half of your carefully arranged cheese. Hissing through your teeth, you swatted his hand away.

He recoiled, affronted. “Alright—ow. And for the record, no. Boredom is the consequence of being stuck here, not the reason I want to leave.”

“Mm.” You nudged the cheese back into order. “Why do you want to leave, then?”

You brushed the crumbs from your fingers, tracking the murmur beyond the doorway. Yeonjun watched every movement of your face.

“Because I want you to myself,” he said.

His grin unfurled the moment your eyes snapped up, your lips parting before you caught them. He saw your surprise, your instinctive urge to play it off, the breath you swallowed back.

Beautiful. He realised he liked reading your face as much as he liked having his own face read.

“Have to celebrate my win,” he added. “Did all that for you, did I mention? Feel like I deserve a reward.”

You snorted, though your voice tilted somewhere else. “Very rude to leave after Beomgyu recruited Taehyun to fetch grapes, though.”

He loved that you didn’t look at him as you said that.

“Oh, very rude, yes,” he agreed, leaning in slightly. “But, um—there is an empty bathroom upstairs. Should be alright for ten minutes. Or, uh, you know. Seven.”

Clicking your tongue, you pulled back from the tray.

“Mhmm,” you said. “And what exactly would we do in an empty bathroom for seven minutes?”

“Not feed each other grapes, I can tell you that.”

Your lips tightened around a forming smile. “Well, of course not. We haven’t got any.”

He noted the way your fingers tugged at the hem of your pullover, smoothing Itachi’s skewed face at the front. He wondered if you could still feel his hands on you, just as he could still feel the warmth of your skin.

“We’ll think of something else,” he said, helping himself to a biscuit now that you were too distracted to stop him.

You tried to glare. “Yeah?”

He grinned into the bite. “Mhmm.”

When he lunged a second time—clearly preparing for further crimes against the biscuits—you pressed your palm to his chest. He stopped short.

“Right,” you said, voice lower than he’d anticipated. “Stop eating the biscuits.”

He dragged his tongue across his lower lip, collecting crumbs, and gave you a look that landed easily in your stomach.

“Gonna feed me instead, then, love?” he said.

You returned to fill the gap on the tray. “No. Gonna make you earn your treats, I think.”

His laughter was bright and proud. “Oh! Promise I’ll be very good to you, love. Earn them all.”

Your gaze stayed stubbornly focused on the cheese. Tremendously pleased about your efforts to ignore him, Yeonjun sidled up behind you. His fingertips brushed the back of your hair, trailing to the faint mark he’d left on your neck, just under your collar. He exhaled with a soft sort of adoration.

“Meet me in five,” he whispered.

Your chest tightened, too sharp, too eager.

You squeezed your fingers into your palm. “Give me ten. Need to help Gyu with this.”

“Hmm. This all for Nara, then?”

“I assume so.”

“Alright.” Smiling, he lingered a second longer, close enough for you to feel the warmth of him without touching. “Ten minutes, then. Upstairs. Second door on the right.”

“Okay.”

He dipped his head to press a quick kiss to your cheek in a fleeting burst of heat, then pulled back.

Beomgyu wandered in from the corridor as if on cue. On his way to the living room, Yeonjun tossed him a self-satisfied smirk and walked off, ignoring his baffled double-take.

“What happened?” Beomgyu asked you.

You looked up. “Nothing. He stole a biscuit. How’d your call go?”

“He stole my biscuit?!”

Once you convinced him that the entire party wasn’t conspiring to rob him of his food, Beomgyu announced that he and Taehyun had engineered a ‘flawless masterplan’ for smuggling grapes past Soobin.

Assuming, naively, that he was exaggerating, you made the grievous mistake of chuckling.

Beomgyu bristled immediately.

He launched into a full briefing on why grapes required armed supervision, complete with increasingly complex scenarios of decoy fruit, escape routes, and tactical retreats. You nodded along, marvelling at his passion—and wondering why he couldn’t save it for your group projects. This time, however, you learned from your blunder and stifled your amusement.

Approving of your effort, Beomgyu finally excused you with a solemn little nod.

Unfortunately, you didn’t really get to escape.

A cluster of your classmates intercepted you in the corridor, wide-eyed. They’d broken a lamp, they said, a nice one, and needed guidance on whom to confess to: Beomgyu or Kai.

It took another five minutes of parley to explain why Beomgyu, although louder and far more likely to deliver a eulogy for the lamp, was the safer option. Kai’s easy-going ‘forgive but never forget’ philosophy often resulted in quiet, lifelong bans from his house.

By the time you reached the second floor, you were half-convinced Yeonjun had perished.

The walls of the corridor hummed faintly with the bass of the music downstairs. The bathroom—second door on the right—was empty.

Puzzled, you stepped inside and reached for your phone.

You didn’t get to text him.

Yeonjun shoved the door open and caught you in the same breath, hair tousled, chest heaving with hurried breaths. He never ran, but he’d run here.

His hands found your face before you’d even lowered your phone, and then his mouth was on yours, urgent and ardent, as if he’d been barely holding himself together the whole night, and he couldn’t manage it any longer.

“Nearly forgot what you look like,” he blurted, breath trembling. “Fuck.”

“Wh—where were you?” you managed, the words stumbling against his mouth.

“Kai stopped me,” he said, “said he locked my—” his mouth pressed back to yours, “Cloud account. By accident.”

You remembered talking to Kai in the library earlier and pulled back slightly. “What, um—what are you going to do?”

“Nothing,” he said, and kissed you again with fresh impatience. “He can keep it. Don’t give a fuck.”

Ridiculously, then, Kai’s plan had worked.

And you found that you quite enjoyed being the reason Yeonjun didn’t give a fuck about anything else.

You leaned into him, reflexively, and he exhaled, relieved. He pressed you back against the door. His hands trailed down your sides, gripping your waist and pulling you flush against him.

You felt the beating of his heart against your chest, the quiet stumble of his breath when your fingers slid into his hair as your mouth met his with a matching zeal.

His lips tasted faintly of liquor. You could hardly resist getting drunk.

His fingers slipped beneath the hem of your pullover. His hands, cold against your bare skin, sent a ripple up your spine. It immediately conjured up every memory of what his touch had done to you at your flat.

You didn’t mind his newfound talent to elicit reactions from your skin. What you minded was how unfortunately composed he still seemed to be.

You hooked your fingers behind his neck and pulled him closer, grazing your teeth over his lower lip with a light, deliberate bite. His breath faltered into a faint whimper.

Your heart leapt at the sound, knocking dangerously into your ribs.

“God,” he breathed, resenting every particle of space between you. “You’re so—”

His words imploded the moment your hand glided down the soft fabric of his jumper and paused at the hem. His muscles tensed under your touch, bracing for it. Anticipating.

He kissed you again, pressing a depth into you that tightened your stomach. There was a hunger in him, the restless kind. The sort that lived in his bones. The gentle slide of your tongue eased it, though it could never fully tame it. Still, he hoped you’d keep trying.

Your fingers lifted the edge of his jumper, brushing the warm skin of his abdomen. Yeonjun let out a low, helpless hum of surrender.

Seconds ago, he’d thought he might die for your touch.

Now he thought he might die from it.

Your faint smile stretched against his lips, and his knees softened. He kissed you harder, fingers digging into your sides as you exhaled against the warmth of his tongue.

Pressed between the cool door and the solid heat of his chest, you felt the rest of the room dissolve. A paper background to the insistence of his kiss.

It was almost unfair how easily Yeonjun eclipsed everything else. How effortlessly he shrank the party, the entire fucking house, into this single room. Into just him.

He’d once teased you about seeing him in the shapes of the clouds.

You suspected you’d really started to.

His hands roamed over your back, thumbs tracing circles over your skin—a motion so familiar it lit your pulse. He left traces of warmth across your sides and sighed in content when you shivered. Then sighed again when you angled your face to deepen the kiss.

With you trembling slightly between his arms, Yeonjun was nothing more than instinct. And still, he knew he was the one trembling harder.

Burning brighter.

Losing faster.

The mirror behind you began to fog in respect for your privacy.

Your fingers slowed beneath his jumper, giving his breath a moment to stabilise. He didn’t want it to.

His hands dropped to the small of your back, drawing you in again. Your hands wound around his torso, forcing his jumper to ride up to his ribs. His lips trapped yours, each kiss flaming and inviting. Greedy for your taste.

He wanted you wrapped around him. Wanted to drown in your scent, your warmth, the soft pull of your mouth. Again, and again.

Really, he could’ve lived like this.

Could’ve died like this, too.

A shriek rose from below, followed immediately by a quake of laughter.

You both jolted, parting with a shared, ragged gasp.

“Shit,” you whispered, realising. “Everyone’s back together.”

Yeonjun gave a slow, disappointed exhale, his forehead dropping to yours. A strand of his hair clung to his cheek. His lips were red and swollen. The corners twitched.

Fuck, you thought. You’d never get used to the sight. But you’d really like to keep trying.

“Think they’ll notice we’re gone?” you breathed, fingers reaching up to his jaw.

He closed his eyes.

You both knew the answer – if everyone was back, then you or Yeonjun would be mentioned within two seconds. You and Yeonjun would be mentioned within three.

“Honestly, they probably already did,” he murmured. “No point rushing.”

You laughed softly. His lips brushed against yours again, languid and lingering.

The kiss pushed the rest of the house further away, delaying reality just for a minute—or seven—longer.

✦ • ─── MARCH 7, 2025. 3:30 AM (DAY 9)

Downstairs, the party was thriving. People lounged across the carpet, the sofa and chairs, their half-finished drinks littering the coffee table. Crumbs from Beomgyu’s biscuits glittered on the floor.

The music was louder than before, drowning out the sound of your steps on the stairs. Still, Beomgyu, always alert, jerked upright on the sofa and spun around. He grinned at the sight of your intertwined hands.

Alright, then, he thought. You were really together. Possibly insane, too.

He could work with that.

“Look who’s here!” he cried out.

Heads turned. A cheer rose, loud and ridiculous, as though you’d just returned from a ten-year journey home following your crucial contribution to the Trojan War.

Stomach lurching, you scanned the room for Reina. She caught your eye from her chair by the window and gave you a small, steadying nod.

“Where have you two disappeared to?” Nara asked as you and Yeonjun settled on the floor across the table from her.

“Just sorting out the snacks,” Yeonjun said with a proud, artful nonchalance.

You nodded, complicit. His knee brushed yours under the table.

“Really?” Taehyun leaned forward. Normally, he spared you when you looked embarrassed, but even he couldn’t resist stirring the pot just a bit. “Upstairs?”

Reina slapped him on the shoulder from behind. He turned around, grinning. He knew he deserved it.

Someone behind you whistled, delighted, and suddenly all three lamps in the room seemed to train on you. Yeonjun deliberately reached over you to grab a few biscuits off the table.

“Very crowded down here,” he explained, elbows propped on the table, blocking your view of the room.

“Oh, absolutely,” Taehyun said, reaching out to catch Reina’s disapproving smacks. “Dreadful with so many other people around, yeah?”

“Mhmm.” Beomgyu joined in, eyebrows waggling. “Needed some more time alone, is that it? Can’t blame you, really.”

You groaned under your breath. Yeonjun shot Beomgyu a scathing look, which only made him guffaw in childlike joy.

“Alright, enough,” Yeonjun said, crossing his legs. “What were you doing?”

Nara rose from the sofa to hand Kai a freshly opened bottle of beer. In her other hand was the red bottle of cider that Beomgyu had enlisted Yeonjun’s help to get. It was already half empty.

“Never Have I Ever,” she said. “Kai’s turn.”

You raised a brow. “What’s with you lot and these frat games?”

Reina snorted. “It’s becoming tradition.”

“Right?” Yeonjun said. “Always with the ‘Would You Rather’s and ‘Seven Minutes In—’”

Nara dropped back onto the sofa with an aggravated groan. The cider slushed in the bottle.

“Well, when else would you play them?” she snapped. “During corporate trips? With all your colleagues, suits ironed to hell, pouring champagne,” she jabbed a finger at Yeonjun, “the posh stuff you never shut up about—and talking about who you’ve never kissed? Don’t be daft. You do this now, or you’ll never do it.”

You would’ve preferred to never do it. But Drunk Nara, once she tipped over into Angry Nara, was not someone you wanted to argue with.

Shrugging, you eased back. “Alright. Didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Yeah,” Yeonjun concurred. “Carry on.”

“Get your drinks,” Nara commanded, nodding towards the table. “You’re playing.”

You leaned forward to scout for something that wasn’t half-finished yet. Soobin, acting on deeply ingrained bartending instincts, reached past Reina to hand you a bottle, then another to Yeonjun. The condensation on the glass chilled your palm.

Nara watched this like a teacher waiting for silence in her classroom.

“Bossy,” Yeonjun informed her when she caught his gaze.

She gave him a smile that suggested she’d strangled someone before. “Go ahead, Kai.”

Kai leaned back on his chair, drawing one knee up to rest his chin on it.

“Hmm.” He pondered, looking alarmingly like an ancient sculpture under the living room lights. “Never have I ever run out of gas on a road trip.”

At least three people drank. Satisfied, Nara leaned back against the sofa. Already tipsy on the cider, she was determined to get through the entire game without drinking once.

Someone from your cohort launched into a slurred tale about a trip to the conference with Professor Myers, who, apparently, drove an SUV with several canisters of gas in the back and still managed to run dry.

As soon as the story finished, Kai nodded for Reina to continue. She’d been waiting for her turn.

Her decisive voice sliced through the lingering laughter in the room: “Never have I ever broken the law.”

The laughter stopped.

Nearly every driver from the race raised their drinks, glaring. Beomgyu drained his beer as if on muscle memory, then threw his head back against the sofa. His hand rested on the cushion right next to Nara’s.

Yeonjun lifted his bottle halfway, then paused, glancing around the room.

“Hang on, though,” he said, matter-of-fact. “All of you are technically breaking the law by going to the races.”

You tilted your head in disagreement, but Reina beat you to it, shifting in her chair.

“Attendance is not a crime,” she said, resting a hand on Soobin’s knee for balance. He reached out to help her get more comfortable.

“Yeah,” Nara added from the sofa. “S’not against the law.”

“You’re witnessing a crime and doing nothing,” Yeonjun countered.

“That’s not universally illegal,” you said, sitting up a little straighter. His eyes gleamed at the pushback. “Depends on the jurisdiction.”

He leaned back beside you, thigh pressed to yours. Arguing with you felt like an old habit. It never failed to electrify him.

“Placing bets and blocking roads—honestly, helping in any capacity,” he said, “is aiding and abetting. Which is illegal.”

Half the room turned to you, hoping for your rescue. Some of them assisted with the logistics of the races. Most of them placed bets. None of them wanted to drink this round.

You lifted one shoulder in a helpless shrug. Yeonjun had a point.

Suppressing his satisfaction, Yeonjun returned his gaze to Reina. The decision was her call.

She noted the smirk spreading on his face and had to dig her nails into Soobin’s thigh to remain tolerant.

“Alright, fine,” she said. “If you want to get technical about it.”

The room groaned. Reina still didn’t drink, but Soobin was forced to take a long, resigned sip in honour of all the easy cash he’d won betting on Yeonjun. He’d half-expected this, actually. If Yeonjun had to drink, he usually took half the room down with him.

Poised to get his revenge, Soobin bent down to plant his empty bottle on the carpet next to his chair and rubbed his palms together.

“Never have I ever,” he said, “been busted for drag racing.”

Yeonjun and Beomgyu exchanged a long, loaded look.

You remembered the fence they’d smashed. The greenhouse they’d mowed. The police, Yeonjun’s parents, Beomgyu’s evening at the station.

Both of them took sluggish, reluctant sips—the only ones in the room. Everyone else leaned in closer, curious.

Kai perked up, too, eyebrows rising. “Together?”

Grumbling, Beomgyu supplied a rough summary of the cucumber he’d found on his dashboard as a result of their fateful drive. He blamed most of it on Yeonjun’s useless navigation skills.

“Technically,” Beomgyu finished, “racing wasn’t the main reason we got busted. It was only one part of it. And we were already quite far from the usual track—through no fault of my own, might I add.”

“Alright.” Yeonjun glared at him. “And who gave me the map upside down, then?”

“I—”

“I’ve heard whispers that the police are paid off here,” Nara cut in. “Since your races never get raided.”

Yeonjun settled back. Soobin passed him a new beer bottle.

“I heard that, too,” Taehyun said. He’d gone to change the insufferable Techno song that had come on the speakers. “Would be strange if no one was paying, though. The races have been going on for a while, and we’ve had no problems.”

Nara nodded. You noticed Yeonjun hanging his head, his jaw tight.

“Well,” Beomgyu said, leaning over to grab a handful of grapes from the table, “there’s actually a simple explanation.”

Nara leaned forward. “There is?”

Beomgyu didn’t answer and redirected his gaze to Yeonjun instead. A flicker of remorse flashed over his features when he registered the rigid set of Yeonjun’s shoulders.

Nara followed his gaze and narrowed her eyes.

“What’s the explanation?” she asked Yeonjun. Then widened her eyes. “Oh—your parents?”

Next to Nara, Beomgyu mouthed a quick sorry at him. Yeonjun groaned, stretching his legs under the table. His hand found yours on the carpet.

“Well,” he said, voice flat, “yeah. It’d be an awful nuisance for my parents if their son got caught street racing. So… they keep an eye on things. Make sure the authorities look the other way.”

Your heart didn’t dare drop. Just like Nara, you’d already suspected as much.

Yeonjun’s parents, prominent figures on the university board, clearly, got embarrassed easily. But their protection was conditional, of course. If Yeonjun stopped doing what they wanted, they’d take back their shields.

“So, as long as you’re racing,” another driver, the one from the red Honda earlier, chimed in, “we’re good?”

Yeonjun turned around to look at him, then shrugged. “Basically.”

Red Honda Guy sighed dreamily. “That’s so sick. Wish I had your parents.”

Your grip tightened around your bottle.

The room hummed in wistful agreement. Several people—Yeonjun’s fanclub, you realised—raised their bottles in a happy, grateful toast.

Yeonjun caught your disdain the moment you looked up. The corners of his lips lifted in appreciation.

“We can trade parents, if you want,” he offered the guy. “I’m open to negotiations.”

Soobin cleared his throat and effortlessly sent another bottle gliding across the table. “Taehyun. Your turn.”

Taehyun caught it just as expertly.

“Alright,” he said, settling back into the armchair. “Never have I ever lived in a dormitory.”

A collective groan flowed around the low table.

Nara immediately launched into a passionate debate on the metaphysics of dormitories. With each new loophole she conjured, her voice climbed a little higher. Beomgyu nodded along, so loyal that he looked prepared to drink on her behalf, too.

You found your attention drifting away from the laughter, the beer, the faint bass leaking from the speakers.

Instead, you focused on the subtle warmth of Yeonjun’s fingers intertwined with yours behind your backs. On his thigh, gently brushing against yours. On the woody edge of his cologne, only slightly subdued by the liquor.

He noticed your gaze fall to your hands and leaned in. “You tired, love?”

You looked up at him. “Kind of. Can’t leave mid-game, though.”

“Oh, of course not.” His eyes cut to Nara, who was defending her right not to drink for the third time in a row. “She’d have our heads.”

“I’m beginning to think that wouldn’t be the worst thing,” you murmured. “Would spare us from another round of this.”

He pulled back a little. “What? Are you not having fun?”

“Oh, heaps. Can’t you tell?”

Snorting, he rested his shoulder against yours, tracing the lines of your knuckles with his fingers.

“No,” he said. “You looked far happier upstairs with me.”

He couldn’t see the gentle smile on your lips as you leaned your head closer, your temple meeting his. He couldn’t see much of anything at all, to be fair.

“You want me to agree so I can stroke your ego?” you said.

“Oh, no need,” he said, humming. “Already know I’m your favourite part of tonight.”

“Hmm. Maybe Top Three—”

“Never have I ever!” Beomgyu bellowed, leaping to his feet. Startled, you turned to meet the mischief on his face. “Been so absorbed in the person next to me that I forgot all about my surroundings.”

The room stilled. Then immediately burst back into a chorus of whistles.

You straightened immediately.

“Drink up,” Beomgyu ordered, pointing at you, then at Yeonjun. “Both of you.”

Yeonjun glanced at you. He was prepared to fight Beomgyu on this if you needed him to.

You didn’t think you did.

Your discomfort, as you were learning tonight, was perfectly survivable.

Without a word—but with the background of raucous cheers—you and Yeonjun both drank. The tepid beer burned pleasantly down your throat.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Nara leaning closer to Beomgyu, whispering something into his ear. She laughed, low and conspiratorial.

Then she spoke:

“Never have I ever made out with someone and then rejoined my friends, pretending nothing happened.”

You pursed your lips, staring at the table in front of you.

That was bold; a part of you had to respect it.

“This is starting to feel awfully targeted,” Yeonjun observed, “if I’m honest.”

Nara shrugged, grinning. “Don’t know what you mean. I’ve personally never done that.”

“Drink!” Beomgyu chanted, rallying the room. “Drink! Drink!”

With an odd sense of déjà vu, you and Yeonjun both finished off your bottles.

Slowly, the alcohol softened your mind. It unhooked the little clasp that usually held your composure neat. Yeonjun sensed it immediately, even before you lowered your head to his shoulder.

Yeonjun grazed his thumb over the back of your hand. You leaned into him, welcoming his touch. Your hair brushed his neck. A little breathless, he closed his eyes and rested his head against yours.

The game went on around you.

You didn’t care much for it.

✦ • ─── MARCH 7, 2025. 5 AM (DAY 9)

Eventually, the game began to dissolve: conversations faded into half-answered questions as the alcohol settled heavily in everyone’s limbs.

At some point, you decided it was time to go home.

Naturally, leaving meant ten minutes of persuading Yeonjun not to follow you. He was energised and bright-eyed. He’d have liked to stay longer, but since you wouldn’t, he was determined to escort you home. You were determined not to let him.

Finally, Reina announced she wanted to leave, too. Soobin reluctantly agreed to stay back, and then Yeonjun—even more reluctantly—sat back down, too.

He’d hang about, then. For another few hours. Have another couple of drinks. Talk to someone.

He changed his mind almost immediately after you left. Twenty minutes was the best he could manage without you here.

Without saying a word, Yeonjun rose, stretched, and slipped into the dark corridor to fetch his shoes.

Soobin had been waiting for this the entire night and followed after him. Then his courage faltered. He watched Yeonjun’s silhouette move around the dark entryway for a moment.

“Can I talk to you?” he asked finally, lingering at the foot of the stairs.

Surprised, Yeonjun turned around. The weak wash of light from the living room illuminated a spiral of dust on the floor.

“Sure,” he said. He could only make out the outline of Soobin’s shoulders. “What’s up?”

“What are you doing?”

Yeonjun blinked. “Putting my shoes on.”

Soobin let out a scoff. “Not that. I mean with—with her.”

He did not say your name, but Yeonjun felt it all the same.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“You’re dating,” Soobin said.

Yeonjun felt his heart jump straight over a beat.

He was dating you. Hearing someone else say it was exhilarating.

“Yeah,” he said.

“For real?”

This, by contrast, was remarkably less exhilarating.

Yeonjun pulled his foot back out of the trainer and flicked the lights on. They both squinted immediately under the sudden glare.

“Well,” Yeonjun said. “Sort of.”

Soobin did not blink—which wouldn’t have been quite as unsettling if his jaw wasn’t so tense.

“What does that mean?” he asked.

“It’s complicated,” Yeonjun said, cringing at the word. “I mean, we—we’re working on it. It’s a whole thing.”

Behind them, the living room erupted into another wave of laughter, the sound echoing sharply around the tranquil corridor. Everyone seemed to have recovered from the initial wave of drowsiness.

Soobin folded his arms. “You’re going to have to translate that for me.”

Yeonjun glanced down. He remembered translating this to Taehyun, how easy that’d been with you beside him. How light it’d all sounded.

But now your taste was still on his lips, and nothing about it felt light.

“It’s sort of a game,” he said.

Soobin’s shoulders stiffened.

“A game?” he repeated.

“I know it sounds weird,” Yeonjun said, “but it—it’s a bet. To, you know—to see if I can prove a point.”

“What point?”

Clicking his tongue, Yeonjun mentally cursed himself for coming out into the corridor. Now, every question he answered led to another question.

“That—” He faltered, took a breath, then tried again. “That if we dated, she’d fall in love with me in two weeks.”

The words hung there, uncomfortable and entirely wrong.

“She agreed to it, by the way,” he added. “Before you accuse me of anything.”

Soobin wasn’t accusing. Instead, he was thinking about the suspicious little smiles he’d seen on Yeonjun’s face throughout the past couple of weeks.

“How’d you get to that timeframe?” he asked.

Yeonjun felt his muscles relax. He appreciated a question he could actually answer.

“Just felt good,” he said, scanning the shelves on the wall. There was a cactus on one of them, quite a lot like the one you had on your windowsill. “Two weeks. Spring break right after.”

“Mhmm.” Soobin’s voice was flat. “Alright. So you’ve got a bet.”

Said like that, Yeonjun thought it sounded less like a bet and more like a pact – as though the two of you had agreed to assist each other in a mutual suicide. Perhaps by walking into traffic while holding hands. Or perhaps something more Dazai-esque.

“Yes,” Yeonjun said.

“I’ll ask again, then,” Soobin said, stepping closer. “What are you doing?”

Yeonjun took a step back. “What I said. A bet.”

“Mhmm. Is this part of your scheme, then?”

Yeonjun stiffened. Every muscle on his face locked tight.

It’d been months since they’d talked about ‘the scheme.’ He’d hoped Soobin had forgotten.

“Fuck the scheme,” he said. “It’s not about that.”

“It’s not?”

“No.”

Soobin watched him avoid his eyes. Watched him fidget, shift his weight, tug uselessly at the sleeves of his jumper.

God, this was stupid.

“You like her,” Soobin said.

The words reverberated over the corridor, loud enough that Yeonjun almost forgot to breathe.

Soobin had accused him of liking you before. Tonight, it hadn’t sounded like an accusation.

“Right,” Yeonjun said, the word automatic. “Well, what’s that got to do with anything?”

“You like her,” Soobin repeated, twisting the knife, “and you’re playing a game where you try to prove she’ll fall in love with you.”

“Right.”

“You don’t see how that might be a problem?”

Yeonjun’s gaze lingered on the floorboards. He watched the old champagne stain that he and Kai had left on Beomgyu’s birthday last year. It was vaguely shaped like half of a heart, he realised now.

“I mean,” he said, “it’s a bit childish, I guess, but—”

“What happens after your two weeks?” Soobin cut in.

The question jabbed at his ribs.

Yeonjun had been doing impressive mental acrobatics for the past few days, trying to avoid every thought about what he’d do after two weeks. Soobin ruined all his cartwheels.

“Well,” Yeonjun said, voice growing thin, “either I win, or—”

“And what does it mean if you win?” Soobin pressed, voice stern. “If she falls in love with you?”

“We haven’t discussed that much. But I assume it’s fairly self-explanatory.”

Soobin paid no mind to his cold tone. He’d weathered Yeonjun’s prickly defensive flares before. He knew they were always a sign of guilt and insecurity.

“You stay together,” he concluded.

“Pretty much.”

“And if you lose?”

Yeonjun felt something churning in his gut again. He wished he’d drunk more tonight.

“Well, then that’s it,” he said. “The deal was, we never speak to each other again.”

Soobin pressed his lips into a thin line.

“Alright,” he said. “Sounds reasonable.”

“Yeah—”

“For a fucking brainless buffoon.” Lunging forward, Soobin flicked two fingers against Yeonjun’s forehead. “Did you forget how to think?!”

Yeonjun jerked upright. “What—?”

“You’re in love with her, you idiot!” Soobin smacked him on the shoulder for emphasis. “How’re you planning to never speak to her again?!”

“W-well, the same way I’ve done up until now!” Yeonjun sputtered, voice rising in pitch. “What’s with the hitting?!”

“The fuck does it mean ‘the same way,’ you absolute halfwit?” Soobin snapped. “You talk to her every time you’re in the same room. How’s that going to work after your two weeks, dumbass?”

“I’ll just stop, then!” Yeonjun returned, glancing uncertainly toward the living room. “Jesus.”

The mellow thump of the music and the tinkling of bottles seemed to have swallowed their argument, but Soobin still paused to lower his tone.

Yeonjun appreciated the brief respite. His thoughts were currently showing him a terrifying vision of campus: one where he called for you, and you didn’t answer. He needed a moment to find his way out of his head.

“And,” Soobin said, “what will you do instead?”

“Instead of what?”

“Instead of constantly pining for her attention, you complete nimrod!”

Instinctively, Yeonjun took a half-step back, sensing another wallop on the forehead.

“Alright,” he said. “I didn’t know you knew this many insults. S’genuinely impressive.”

Soobin stepped forward. “Don’t change the topic.”

“I don’t know!” Yeonjun said. “What d’you want me to say?”

“That you’ve got a plan for the situation you’ve put yourself in!”

Chewing on his lip, Yeonjun rummaged through his mind for something he could say that would soothe them both right now. He had a plan. He knew he had a plan. He could recall the vague outline of one.

“Well,” he ended up saying, “the two weeks aren’t over yet.”

Soobin narrowed his eyes. “How much time you got left?”

“Five—well, about four days now.”

Soobin threw his head back so violently that his neck cracked. Yeonjun winced, instinctively touching his own neck.

“And how’s it going, then?” Soobin asked.

Even if he hadn’t asked it in a way that suggested there was no right answer, Yeonjun still wouldn’t have known what to say.

“It,” he said, considering every word, “is going.”

“Mhmm.” Soobin still looked unimpressed. “And did it ever occur to you to just ask her out? Like a normal person?”

The suggestion sounded like an offer to swallow knives for a living, and Yeonjun scoffed.

“Right,” he said. “Did it ever occur to you that she’d never agree?”

The peach-coloured paint on the walls seemed to fade at his brittle voice, giving way to a useless grey underneath.

“Alright. Mhmm.” Soobin nodded his head for a good half a minute, as though determined to give himself whiplash. “Yeah—so starting a bet that’s only going to blow your heart apart was the way to do it, yeah?”

Yeonjun dropped his gaze to his black socks. “It won’t blow my heart apart.”

“How? You’ll magically fall out of love in four days?”

Yeonjun felt another pang in his side and wondered if he hadn’t abruptly developed a kidney stone.

He had previously believed his reasoning was relatively solid. But Soobin prodded at it once, and now all the bricks were shuddering.

“Why’re you so sure I’m going to lose?” he asked.

“Look at your odds,” Soobin said. “You couldn’t ask her out because you were afraid she’d say no. So, you invented a stupid bet instead. How do you think that’s likely to end?”

Yeonjun said nothing. He knew how this was likely to end.

Soobin could tell that he knew, and he found himself wishing that Reina was here. She usually had great judgment about how long to shake someone until they developed enough sense.

Rubbing a hand over his face, Soobin took a deep, bracing breath.

“Alright. Why don’t you talk to her about this now?” he suggested more calmly. “You’ve clearly made progress.”

Yeonjun gave a sharp, humourless scoff. “What would that accomplish?”

Soobin closed his eyes and counted to ten. He’d never considered himself the sort to need anger management classes. But right now, he would’ve appreciated at least the introduction.

“Well,” he said, tugging on the hem of his jeans, “if two weeks won’t be enough for her to develop feelings, you could give her more time. You know, like people do when they start real relationships.”

Yeonjun shook his head, jaw clenched. He didn’t think time was the problem.

“I already told her how I feel,” he said. “She didn’t believe me. Thinks I’ve got some secret motives.”

Soobin exhaled hard enough that his shoulders visibly slumped. “Right. And have you tried telling her you don’t want the bet? Might make it easier to believe you.”

Yeonjun’s gaze remained glued to the floorboards, as though searching for something he’d dropped.

“And what if she still won’t?” he said.

The music paused in the living room.

Both of them froze, then inhaled again as soon as the new song started.

“Right now,” Yeonjun continued, “we’re together for two weeks. But if there’s no bet keeping her here, then—well. Why would she stay?”

Soobin scratched his temple as he tried to curb the guilt rising in his stomach. He knew about Amy. Knew Yeonjun had never had a serious relationship before. Absurdly, this stupid bet was the closest he’d got to it.

And as proud as Yeonjun was, Soobin thought, this was clearly terrifying for him.

He had a lot more he wanted to ask—about Yeonjun’s parents, his heart, his general well-being—but didn’t know where to begin.

In the end, he decided not to ask anything.

“Your bet,” Soobin said. “That feels safe, yeah? If there’s no beginning, there’s no end. Right?”

Yeonjun swallowed. “Right.”

“Yeonjun,” Soobin said, hoping he’d look up.

Yeonjun didn’t look up. “Hm.”

“Do you honestly think she’s only humouring you because she’s obligated to? Because she’s sticking to the bet?”

The light in the corridor seemed very bright when Yeonjun glanced up. “Well—”

“She’s not stupid,” Soobin cut in. “She knows the bet’s childish. Odds are, she wanted to see what you’d do. And you must be doing something right, or she wouldn’t have stayed this long, bet or no bet.”

“But—”

“No—listen to me.” His voice sharpened again. “If she’d decided you were as terrible as she thought, she’d have dropped the whole thing.”

Yeonjun’s pulse had retreated somewhere he wasn’t allowed to follow. His arms felt numb.

He’d forgotten that Soobin was your friend as well.

“So,” he said slowly, “what’re you saying?”

“I’m saying,” Soobin replied, “you’ve got a real shot outside the bet.”

The walls exhaled around them. Yeonjun didn’t dare draw in a breath.

Watching him sag and struggle, Soobin felt the last of his anger dissolve. His guilt intensified instead.

“Look,” he said, softer now, “I’m not pushing you into anything. I get it. I just don’t want to see you get hurt, yeah? S’all.”

Yeonjun gave a small nod, not daring to will his body into moving too much. “Yeah. Thanks. I—I appreciate that.”

“Yeah.” Soobin took another staggering step back towards the stairs, one hand curling around the rough wood of the railing. “Just, uh—think about all that, okay?”

“Yeah.”

They lingered a few breaths longer.

Soobin watched Yeonjun until some colour returned to his eyes. Then he nodded to himself, scratched the back of his neck, and quietly returned to the living room.

Alone, Yeonjun dragged in a mechanical breath, shoved his feet into his trainers, grabbed his jacket, and finally stepped outside. The street around him was empty and silent, bathed in the watery glow of the streetlights. It was a minute before his muscles relaxed.

He wanted to text you, ask whether you’d got home safe. But he couldn’t.

Soobin was right; he needed to take a bigger risk.

You’d be helping him find Alain tomorrow. Depending on how that went, maybe—

His thoughts snapped clean the moment his phone lit up.

YOU [6:31 AM] going to sleep let me know if you got home or if beomgyu’s buried you in his yard for the grapes <3

He snorted, too loud for the quiet street around him. The streetlights flickered in disapproval.

YEONJUN [6:32 AM] omw home already, still alive didn’t touch the grapes

Your reply popped up almost instantly.

YOU [6:32 AM] good boy

Yeonjun stopped dead in the middle of the pavement.

The night wind skimmed over him, attempting to wring him dry, but he barely felt it. He drifted back until his spine connected with the concrete wall of a building behind him – a block of flats with a dentist’s office on the ground floor. He could almost smell it.

He closed his eyes.

After a minute, he typed out the truth:

think i might die before i see you again

Deleted.

don’t think i can breathe

Deleted.

i don’t want to fucking play anymore

Deleted.

Frustrated, he pushed off the wall and finally settled for the version that didn’t feel like it might split him open.

YEONJUN [6:35 AM] sleep well, love i’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?

Then, he went home.

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thank you for reading!!♡♡

[minkieater]

there are three things that are irritating you lately: choi yeonjun, choi san, and the fantasies in your head that you can't for the life of you make reality.

🎤︎︎ wooyoung x fem!reader | college au, mini-series, part 2/? 7.5k words 🎤︎︎ 18+ reader is the host of a sex podcast, wooyoung is a frat boy whore, reader has a boyfriend who is choi yeonjun | smut minors dni, threesome, drinking, banter, explicit content i can't tag for shit

“ALSO, I HAVE AN ANNOUNCEMENT: I’ve learned the ancient art of edging. Did anyone else know it was lowkey a religious-chastity thing in the Middle Ages? Or that it was mentioned in ancient, Hindu texts, the Kama Sutra, and Tantric scriptures? I was reading this essay about it, and they were even edging in the fucking Victorian era. We really haven’t come up with anything original, have we?” 

“This might seem tame for someone like me to have just discovered, but I swear I’m seeing the world in a whole different light. Yes, walk ‘em like a dog, sisters, but holy shit, have we all heard the sound of a man whimpering? How about begging? Have you ever seen tears streaming down a grown man’s cheeks because you won’t let him cum? I’m seeing the light, guys.” 

“I’ve never really given a fuck about a man’s pleasure before, I won’t lie. Their pleasure is guaranteed while we have to focus for ours, we really have to work for it, y’know? So why put that much effort into making a man finish, when he won’t do half as much for you? At least, if you asked me a week ago, that would’ve been my honest answer. Today, I still feel that way, but I’m a little more inclined to put in effort to make a man finish because a part of me is obsessed with seeing him suffer first.”

“And it’s not even just the edging. It's the persona, the character you’re letting yourself sink into before you even get started. I’ve been dominant in the bedroom before, and I know I was just telling you guys to not be afraid of it— but I think, maybe, the times I thought I was being dominant, I was just ensuring I got the same out of sex that my partner did. Now, today, I understand dominance. I understand the responsibility, the effort, the fact that someone is literally putting themself and their pleasure in your hands, and honestly, I don't understand why some men don’t solely get off on making their partner finish. What's hotter than that?” 

“Having someone beg for you, wanting you so carnally, so shamelessly. Tears streaming down their fuckin’ cheeks, guys, it was serious, I’m still recovering, if you can’t tell. Hopefully next episode I’ll have an update with the reverse side of things, and we’ll see if I’m as excited about it. Right now I’m fucking geeked. I hope you all enjoyed this week's episode, and now you know a little more about toys, for your pleasure, for his pleasure, for their pleasure. I hope your partner goes out and buys one just to use on you tonight. Catch you guys next week, unscripted, as always.” 

Damn, you hate hearing your voice recorded. You sound different than how your voice sounds in your head, somehow more nasally, annoying, even. You don’t understand why people listen to you, and continue to listen to you week after week, episode after episode. It’s not like you actually know what the fuck you’re talking about, even with the episode you uploaded last night, all of that information, stolen from a Reddit thread. 

But yet, never once have you actually felt like a fraud. To you, you’re playing a character, an unscripted version of you, but in the way that someone else is playing the character of you. Or, actually, you’re playing the character of you in a different universe, with a different personality, different confidence level, different relationship status. 

“What are you listening to, baby?” Yeonjun asks, climbing into his own bed behind you, stealing your headphone from your ear. Pressing his chest against your back, his head fits into the pocket between your neck and shoulder like it was meant to be. 

You slide down on your screen, lower your brightness, pause the podcast, and turn off bluetooth. “Nothing,” you murmur, backing into him, letting your body mold to his. “What were you doing?” 

“I went to the gym early,” he answers before planting a kiss on your cheek. “I have to study all day today, I have an exam on Friday.” 

You turn, throwing your arms over his shoulders, pulling him down to kiss you. Pink, plump and soft, your boyfriend’s lips, his kiss was your favorite, it’s comforting, home. But you don’t want to feel like you’re home. You kick the sheets off of your lower half, hooking one leg over his hip, splitting his lips with your tongue. “I want you,” you whisper.

He kisses you again, shifting his hips between your legs, one hand trailing down your hip, your thigh, just to hold your knee still. “I have to study,” he reminds you. “I wasn’t kidding. That’s why I got up so early, I need the day, baby.” 

“You can’t spare ten minutes?” you ask, but it comes out more like a whine. Your arms fall from his shoulders, landing on the sheets beneath you. “Skip the shower and fuck me instead. It won’t even take ten, Junie.” 

“I already showered,” he gives you an apologetic look, and then you smell his body wash, bright and citrus like lemon, herby like sage, hints of aloe. He places your headphone in the center of your chest before crawling off you, “I’m sorry.” 

You let out a sharp sigh, legs falling back down to the mattress, spread out like a shriveled fucking starfish. You stare at the ceiling while listening to him rummage around his bedroom, and after a minute or two, you sit up on your elbows, ready to argue. 

“You do understand that we have sex, like, once a week, right?” you ask, bitterness in your tone, clipping every word. 

At his desk, already sitting before his open laptop, he doesn’t even look at you as he responds, “I know, I look forward to it every week.”

Like it’s cheat day and you’re a fucking donut, as if he can only have you on the weekend or something. Anger bubbles up inside you, jaw locking, but instead of fighting for it, you climb off his bed. 

Everything in Yeonjun’s room is pristine. Pictures on his dresser never have a spec of dust, the wood of his furniture always shining, his bed always made. Clothes are never strewn on the floor, always hung up, in his hamper, he doesn’t even keep water on his nightstand. He will get up at two in the morning to fill up a glass for himself, then flip it over when he clears it, and let it dry on the rack in his sink. 

Even your clothes were folded up on the opposite nightstand, even if you know you threw them on the floor last night. Not that you had sex last night, but because you slept naked. He doesn’t even sleep naked. He must have folded them this morning, or maybe when he woke up at two for midnight hydration. 

“Where are you going?” he asks from the desk, brows in his hairline. You refuse to look at his feline features, the dark hair that’s no doubt drying perfectly in place, or even at his desk that has two notebooks, different colors for different purposes, a textbook, and a set of multicolored pens perfectly in a line beside his laptop. 

“Out,” you respond, tugging your jeans up your thighs. “Home, I don’t know. I’m leaving.” 

“Baby,” he tries, and his voice is soft, pleading. “Don’t be mad, are you mad?” 

“No,” you finally turn to him, your lips bent in a sad smile that takes every ounce of strength to force. “I’m not mad, I understand. I just want to give you space so you can study in a distraction-free environment.”

His lips spread in a smile, “Thank you, baby, you’re so thoughtful. C’mere.” He turns in his chair, holding out his arms for you. Standing in jeans and a bra, you cross his room, running your hands through his hair when you land between his knees. “I love you,” he whispers, then leans forward to press a kiss to your stomach. “You’re so good to me, don’t deserve you.” 

It’s you who doesn’t deserve him. Your hands fall to his cheeks, lifting his head to look at you, and you bend down to kiss him. Just one, soft peck, a singular kiss that has no intention of asking for more. You weren’t in the mood to get rejected twice before ten. 

You throw your headphones in your bag after pulling your shirt over your head, and make your way out to the living room, where Beomgyu and Soobin were surprisingly awake, at the kitchen counter eating breakfast. 

“Hey,” you greet, eyes already on the food between them. “Feed me, I’m starved.” In more ways than one. Beomgyu’s always been sexy. 

Beomgyu slides his plate over, “You’re leaving early.” 

Shaggy brown hair shooting in every direction sits atop his head, a short laugh tumbles through your lips at his disheveled appearance. “You’re up early. Too early to brush your hair, I guess.” 

“I have to put it back for class anyway,” Beomgyu shrugs. “I like to let it do what it wants before I put it in ponytail jail.” 

“You should just cut it like the rest of us do,” Soobin says like he’s said it a million times before. 

“I’m allowed to keep it long,” Beomgyu argues, like he’s also said it a million times before. “I just have to keep it neat, which it always is, hence why it looks like this at home.”

Chewing, your eyes bounce back and forth between them. “I seem to have hit a soft spot,” you interject. 

“Just cut it, and I won’t have to slick it back for you anymore,” Soobin’s hands land on the edge of the counter, his height looming over where Beomgyu sat across from him. 

Beomgyu leans back at the display of dominance, but his eyes thin, his shoulders squaring. “I slick it back myself. I asked you to do it one time, Soob.” 

Grabbing a few more pieces of bacon from his plate, you slip away from the counter, leaving them to their own argument that you accidentally instigated. “I’ll be leaving with this. Have fun studying today, boys.”

Soobin turns his head away from Beomgyu, landing on you, already halfway across the room. “Studying?” 

“Junie said you have an exam Friday,” your grip tightens on your bag, head nodding in the direction of Yeonjun’s bedroom. “So study up.” 

Soobin’s brows furrow, lips parting to speak, but Beomgyu cuts him off. “Thanks, girl,” he’s grinning ear to ear, gnawing on a piece of bacon. “Will you be back later?”

You shrug. “If he wants me to. We’ll see.” You wave before slipping through their front door, letting a long breath you didn’t know you were holding loose. 

Your chest hurts. No, maybe it’s your heart that aches, a tiny part of it still beating with underlying fear at the idea of feeling like this forever. It’s not even ten in the morning yet and you’ve felt enough emotion to last you three days. You don’t know why you didn’t listen to Wooyoung, you had yet another opportunity last night to… edge him, or whatever. You had the opportunity to bridge the gap, to fill in the blanks, to make your relationship feel whole again, and you didn’t take it. 

Why not? Unscripted would have edged him until he was a whimpering, blabbering, crying mess. Why is she so different from you? You’re still asking yourself the same question you asked yourself a thousand times while laying in Yeonjun’s bed last night. Starting your walk back into campus again, you curse yourself for promising Wooyoung an update. 

You curse yourself for asking Wooyoung’s advice in the first place. You don’t know what it is about him that’s so intriguing, that makes you feel so ambitious, maybe it’s because Unscripted is basically the girl version of him. Maybe a part of you is jealous, wants his confidence, his shamelessness, maybe part of you wants to be him entirely. You shake off the thoughts, you do not want to be Jung Wooyoung. He’s so careless that he caught an STD— and what about all the women he supposedly got pregnant?

You hate that he’s even on your fucking mind. It was mortifying having him catch you in his bedroom the night of his own goddamn party, and yet you went back to that very bedroom to ask him advice. You have to be losing your mind, or maybe you’re so fucking pent up you’d do just about anything to get your boyfriend to fuck you. 

Coming to the crosswalk that would bridge you over to your complex, you huff, waiting for the hand to turn into a little stick figure. Not anything— you wouldn’t do anything, clearly, because if that was true, you would have gotten fucked the night Wooyoung gave you advice. You would have gotten fucked a thousand times since. 

Instead of crossing over to your complex, you turn to the right, the crosswalk taking you to a strip mall that consists of a coffee shop, a hair salon, a nail salon, and the gym you work at. It was the perfect strip mall for college students, sitting just outside of campus, a quick walk no matter where you are. The coffee shop is bright; floor to ceiling windows, it somehow feels brighter than outside as you walk inside, bells over the glass doors chiming. 

You have class in two hours, and you don’t feel like napping beforehand, so coffee it is. A small shop, a coffee bar and a set of three different tables, all already occupied with students wearing headphones, laptops open in front of them. 

“Virgin!” Your head picks up to the register, and your eyes thin at the person standing behind it. Smiling, dimpled and muscled. 

“Biceps,” you respond, laced with annoyance at the newfound nickname now two people use. “Don’t call me that.” 

“Honestly, I don’t know your name,” he admits from behind the register. He wears an apron over his broad chest, a dark wine color against the black of his shirt, his name is printed on his right pec. San. 

“Good,” your smile is nothing short of sarcastic as you look up at the menu. You hum, lips folding into your mouth before you decide, “Medium vanilla latte, please.” 

“Got it,” he’s still smiling, dimples showing as he types on his screen. Turning to show you the total, he tilts his head as he looks you over, “I would have taken you for a black coffee kind of girl. You’re all hard and mad and serious and shit.” 

Your brows furrow as you tap your phone against the reader. “You very clearly do not know me at all,” you mutter, shaking your head.

His palms find the counter, shoulders meeting his ears as he leans forward, smirk playing on his lips. “You should let me get to know you, then.” 

“What?” It’s a natural reaction. “I— you were there— you know I have a boyfriend, Biceps.”

 “You were about to vomit at the idea of marrying him at the Penny,” he counters, brows high. “I wouldn’t say it’s all sunshine and rainbows in your relationship, would you?”

Your top lip lifts in pure disgust, and you guess it’s the straw that broke the camel’s back because immediately you’re blurting, “What are you proposing, then? Cheating on him? Leaving him, since that’s what everyone else thinks I should fucking do?” 

San doesn’t falter, everyone else means Wooyoung and you both know it. His smirk widens, a twinkle in his dark brown eyes, “No one said anything about cheating, Virgin. What are you thinking about, huh?”

“Are you going to make my fucking coffee or am I going to be stuck here all day waiting for it?” you snap, and not a single word comes out kind. He deserves it, for insinuating cheating on Yeonjun, insinuating that you thought about it first.

San eyes you, then keeps his eye on you as he saunters over to the bar, he only pulls his gaze away when he grabs the top plastic cup off the stack of thirty. You’re fuming, steam rising off your skin, fingertips clasped around your phone so hard you might crack the fucking screen. 

You let it boil down to a simmer before your drink is ready, and San calls your name out, leaving you dumbfounded. You walk up to the pick-up section of the coffee bar with a quirk in your brow, “Thought you didn’t know my name?”

“I lied,” he answers simply, sliding your drink toward you. “We’re throwing tonight, come.”

“You throw a party every other night.” You grab a straw from the container beside you, plucking it into the hole of your lid. “I’m banning myself from your parties. And Wooyoung’s bedroom.”

That gets a laugh out of him. “You know how many women are banned from Wooyoung’s bedroom? I think you might be first to ban yourself,” there’s humor in his voice now, a different kind of humor from the flirty banter he tried earlier. “Come. Leave the boyfriend at home.” 

Your lips tighten, uneasy. Curious, though, you ask, “Why should I leave him at home?” 

Biceps just smiles like a Cheshire fucking cat. “Just leave him at home, Virgin.” 

You can’t believe you’re back here.

You can believe it, because what the fuck else were you going to do, sit at home and sulk over Yeonjun not fucking you? Reread the last text he sent you that said not to come over because he’s still studying?

The text pissed you off, then you went through every stage of grief wondering if you were the problem. Do you not respect him enough as a med student? Are you a shitty girlfriend for not giving him the time he needs to study, so he can succeed in his future? Do you fucking suck because all you can think about is sex?

All signs seemed to point toward yes, and then that pissed you off, too. You’re no better than any of the frat guys inside the tall, two story house in front of you, all of which who will probably fuck the first person they lay eyes on tonight. That’s never been you. Serious boyfriend after serious boyfriend, since you were sixteen years old. Even in the short periods of time when you’ve single you didn’t do the casual sex thing, even though everyone around you seemed ecstatic to participate.

What if Yeonjun finds out you’re here? Will he be angry? Will he even care, or did it not matter because at least you weren’t bothering him?

The last question seemed to answer itself, so you stare at the devil’s mouth from the lawn in an outfit you put too much effort into, the beige door bleeding bass and techno music, reminding you that Biceps is inside, and he actually wants you here. You scratch at your arm that isn’t itchy, shifting your weight from foot to foot, watching as everyone else your age barrels through the front door like they owned the place.

Your feet want to move, but the thought of facing the horde of people inside alone, without a soul at your side, was starting to feel more mortifying than being caught trying to fuck your boyfriend–and failing–in someone else’s bedroom. You could have texted any of your friends to join you, but you didn’t want them to ask any questions, so you didn’t. You didn’t even tell your roommate you were going out, but Yunjin isn’t stupid. She took one look at your outfit and popped a brow, then asked if there was a change in the status of your relationship. You ignored the part of you that wanted to say yes, and told her it was for Yeonjun. 

For Yeonjun. 

Your feet start moving.

Last week, it was packed like sardines, there wasn’t room to do anything between sweaty bodies, and if you could move, you were slipping on the floor beneath you, the dark hardwood covered in a layer of beer, vodka and grime. This week, it was just as packed, the floor was just as slippery, but everyone seemed to be… tied up. 

Is this some kind of sick joke? Did San ask you to come here, tonight, on purpose?

Every person inside the house was a couple, and each couple you saw had a black zip-tie holding their wrists together. Some were holding hands, others didn’t look too happy about who they were tied to, you even spotted a girl making out with someone else, while zip-tied to another who did his best to look the other way. Witnessing that made you smile, just a little, because the lead in your stomach gets heavier when you realize that if you don’t leave right fucking now, you’re going to get zip-tied to someone, too.

“Virgin!”

You haven’t even made it past the fucking living room. You don’t look up, because maybe there’s an actual virgin here, and Biceps wasn’t calling for you from the edge of the kitchen. A second of reprieve goes by before he’s calling out your name, so you curse under your breath, and follow the direction of his voice.

Shirtless. So shirtless. So… lacking clothes, but only clothes, clothes is the only department Biceps is lacking in. Maybe you should just call him Body instead of Biceps, because every single inch of his upper half is sculpted, golden, gleaming with sweat. He doesn’t deserve a body so perfect. He calls you Virgin.

“Like what you see?” He wiggles his brows, a smirk already playing on his swollen, cherry-red lips. “One night without the boyfriend and she’s ready to risk it all.”

The girl he’s zip-tied to smacks her teeth. You didn’t even notice he was tied to anyone. She leans into his side, a pout on her lips, whining, “Sannie, when can we go upstairs? I’m bored.”

“Yeah, Sannie,” you can’t help but tease. “Take the girl upstairs, I’m leaving before anyone else sees me here.”

“Why? What? Don’t go,” San takes a step forward, dragging the girl with him. He transfers his beer to his tied hand before clamping his free one on your forearm, “You didn’t even get tied to anyone yet.”

You shake his hand off your forearm, “I don’t want to be tied to anyone.”

He grabs onto your forearm again with a straight face and turns on his heel. Skipping over your own feet, alarm bells pound in your chest, “San! I don’t want to be tied to anyone, I don’t even want to be here! Let me go.”

“No,” San answers, and for a second you think there might be more. An explanation, at least. He pulls you toward the kitchen, your shoulder bumping the blonde beside you, the girl whose wrist is tied to his. You shoot her an apologetic look, but she doesn’t seem to forgive you for the intrusion. 

“Here,” San announces as he comes to a stop, setting your forearm free when he places you across from an unnervingly tall guy with beige, blonde hair. “Virgin, this is Yunho, he brought beer. Where did the zip-ties go?”

Your lips go flat, an embarrassed flush kissing your cheeks. San is already off searching, leaving you alone with this… guy. Tall guy. Cute tall guy. 

“Do you like Miller?” Yunho asks, holding up the twelve pack in his other hand. He has a comforting look about him, hair softly unstyled, other than the nineties-style headband pushing his bangs back. His body language is nowhere near as uptight as your rigid spine, bent and relaxed, like the house was his. The tee hanging from his shoulders is loose, but leaves a sliver of skin between the hem and his jeans, sneakers on his feet dirtied and scuffed. 

“Um,” you blink, and then keep blinking, trying your hardest not to look at the pocket of skin between his shirt and jeans. You don’t know what to say. “No, but I shouldn’t be here, anyway. I should go–”

“I need a partner,” he offers. “We just have to finish the twelve-pack by midnight. And it’s,” he looks down at the invisible watch on his wrist, “probably really close to midnight. I already drank three, you drink five and I’ll drink four.”

San returns with a black zip-tie in hand, singing, “Wrists, ladies.”

The girl’s wrist is limp, her arm following San’s like she’s a puppet and he’s the puppeteer. You frown, “Biceps, I really don’t want to do this.” 

“You’re gonna leave Yunho hanging?” San’s body suddenly straightens out, brows tied together in a pout. “He needs your help, Virgin, he has nine beers to finish on his own.” 

When you look at Yunho, he’s nodding his agreement, looking at you like it would be the end of the world if you said no. You know you’re not going to get away with saying no, so you loose a defeated sigh, look away, and hold up your wrist for San to tie.

Yunho’s skin is soft against yours. His wrist is smaller than it seems, his arm smooth like he’s completely hairless. San ties the zip-tie just tight enough for you to be able to wiggle your wrist, like a bracelet that’s big enough to fit two wrists. 

“The second issue is that I don’t drink beer,” you muse after San drops your wrists, yours hanging, Yunho’s arm bent ever so slightly. Damn he’s tall. “I’m a dirty martini kind of girl.”

Yunho laughs under his breath, “Are you thirty years old? Where the fuck are you going, drinking dirty martinis? Is that what you were drinking at the Penny?”

“You were at Lucky Penny that night?” you ask before the memory resurfaces. He was at the Penny, sitting to your left, he was the one who asked Wooyoung what he did to you. As if you’d ever sleep with– where is he, anyway?

“Watched your skin get some color back into it as soon as you were away from the guy who’s trying to tradwife you,” Yunho responds, a glimmer in his chocolate brown eyes, a sly smirk on his lips. Your cheeks burn. “Clearly, that’s going well, since you’re here.”

“I’m only here because San told me to come.”

Yunho laughs to himself, “That’s what they all say.”

“Shut up and hand me a beer,” you gruff, holding your free palm out. Wordlessly, he reaches into the box of cans, using both of his hands and yours to crack open the beer. 

He hands it to you with a proud grin, “Only five more!”

“You said–” you stammer, “you said I only had to drink five!”

“I pre-gamed,” he shrugs without a glimpse of remorse. “The only way to get us untied is to finish all of them, so drink up, buttercup.”

At least it’s cold, you think as you bring the carbonated yeast up to your lips. It’s a mild beer, compared to something heavier with more taste, like a Guinness or a Yuengling. Those you certainly can’t get down, especially six of them, even if you were being forced to, like you were tonight. 

Force is still up for debate. You could have put your foot down, and the sentiment sits with you as Yunho takes you for a lap around the frat. The last time you were here, you barely had the patience to look around, your agenda was to get Yeonjun inside the house, and then inside a random bedroom. You didn’t miss much, as it seems, an old paint job on the flag-covered walls, a clearly thrifted, hand-me-down couch in the living room, the speaker system might be the only expensive thing in the house.

“So, tell me,” Yunho finally says after showing you the dirty bathroom that was already out of toilet paper. He cracks open your second beer for you before asking, “Where is your husband tonight?”

“At home,” you admit, “he has to study. He’s pre-med.” It’s easier to get the drink down now, easy enough that you suck down a gulp of it. “All he does is study.”

Yunho sucks in a breath through his teeth, and you know what it means. He explains anyway, “School is his whole life now, then work will be his whole life when he’s in a hospital. If he goes that route.”

“Tell me about it,” you find yourself agreeing. “I can’t even get him to fuck me half the time.” You gasp after it leaves your lips, covering your mouth with your can instead of your palm. Wide-eyed, you look up at Yunho, “Don’t repeat that.”

Yunho laughs, “I don’t have anyone to repeat it to. Can I ask you a question that you don’t have to answer?” Your nod is delayed. “Why are you dating him? If there’s no sex, and the future freaks you out?”

“There’s sex,” you correct him, kicking a crushed beer can out of your way. “Just not as much of it as I want. And it’s not the future that freaks me out, it’s the speed of it all, the way he’s expediting our future, that freaks me out. He wants me to graduate and pop out a baby.”

Yunho’s body shivers. He shivers. For you. “That’s too soon.”

“Thank you,” you nod along, taking another long sip of your beer. “I know it’s too soon, and I’m scared to bring it up again. Wooyoung said he probably already has a ring.”

Yunho’s brows furrow, “You told Wooyoung?”

Your lips flatten, “It was a series of unfortunate events that led me to telling Wooyoung. Is he here, by the way?”

You finally get back to the kitchen, the lights bright, a layer of smoke in the air, dimming them ever so slightly. “He’s here,” Yunho looks over the crowd, and you’re sure at his height, he could see everything. “He’s not big on themed parties. Knowing him, he’s probably already upstairs.”

“I would have thought being tied to a woman would be right up his alley.”

Yunho leans in close to say, “How’s he supposed to fuck her if his wrist is tied to hers?” When you turn to him, clearly taken aback by the notion, he laughs. “I think he’d much rather have her wrists tied together, if you know what I mean.”

You do know what he means, and god, it’s gotta be the beer that’s making your body heat like a fucking furnace. You wish Yeonjun would do something half as kinky as that. That’s a good idea for Unscripted. You laugh anyway, and even if it’s forced, it sounds breathy and natural. 

Yunho’s cool, probably the only normal one in the entire frat, if the other brothers are anything like Wooyoung or San. It’s nice, comfortable talking to him, he’s someone you aren’t scared to confide in, it’s easy to trust him, with his smooth words, playful demeanor, he seems like he’d be someone that everyone tells their secrets to because everyone knows he won’t share them. That’s your favorite kind of person.

“Have you ever shotgunned a beer before?”

Your neck snaps. “Do I look like a teenage boy?”

Yunho grins, ushering to the crowd around you, the people who seemed to have quieted. You think you just got engrossed in the conversation with Yunho. But as you take notice, there’s more and more people untied, drinking, moving freely.

“Oh shit, we’re late, aren’t we?” you ask, then turn to look up at him. 

“We can shotgun the rest back to back,” Yunho offers, nodding like you’ll agree. You’re sure he wants to be free of you, to go find someone to warm his own bed tonight.

“I’ve never done it,” you admit. “But I can definitely try.”

Yunho grins from ear to ear, “That’s what I like to hear. Let’s go on the back porch.”

It’s a quick walk through the kitchen, the crowd seemed to part for Yunho, he’s so tall that maybe the mass of people really are his red sea. The back door is already open, the wooden half pressed against what you can only assume is the pantry door, he pushes open the screen door and sets the box of beers down on a full, messy, glass table.

Ash trays filled with squished cigarette butts, the filters of joints, even a few airplane bottles of liquor have made their way into the glass trays. There’s less people on the porch, smokers, a few couples looking for a quieter place to talk. Deep wood, old and stained by sun, cracks in the floorboards, you have to assume their house is old. Really old.

Yunho doesn’t seem bothered by it as he sets the box of beers down, then pulls out two. “I’m gonna poke a hole at the bottom,” he holds up a beer can, your wrist limply mimicking his as he explains. “You’re gonna crack the can and chug it down as fast as you can. Okay?” 

You nod, too optimistic for the objective at hand, “Okay, I can do that, that’s easy. This is easy, right?”

“So easy,” he nods, clearly just as optimistic as you. You feel like he’s your coach right now, guiding you through gameplay or something. “Crack it, chug it, crush it.”

“Crack it, chug it, crush it,” you repeat under your breath as he grabs a set of keys from his back pocket. One silver and pointy, he uses it to poke a hole at the base of the beer can, then pushes it toward you. 

You suck in a breath before taking the can from his hands, and holding the hole up to your mouth. Yunho’s hand follows yours as you crack the lid, and then you start chugging. The carbonation makes it hard, heavy in your stomach, it’s still cold enough that it kinda hurts going down. Your brows furrow, but you keep going, you can hear him cheering for you or something, too focused on actually getting the bubbles down to listen. 

When you finish, you throw the can to the ground, and crush it with your foot. Yunho’s already clapping his (and your) hands, “You did it! You fucking did it!”

“Fuck, I have to do that three more times?” you ask, free hand flying to your stomach.

“You’re gonna burp,” Yunho’s lips tighten to the side in apology. “No judgment, I will too. But yeah, three more.”

You chug another, then Yunho shotguns his last two while you’re releasing all the fucking air in your gut, then you can finish chugging your last two. When the box is empty, he’s immediately racing you both into the kitchen, looking for whoever has the responsibility of carrying around scissors tonight.

You already know you’re fucking drunk. 

Wooyoung thinks he might have become one of God’s favorites.

Threesomes were usually hard to come by, a few and far between godsent activity. To have two threesomes in the timespan of one week, with two different sets of women, was unheard of. Insane behavior. Even for him.

He thought himself clever, zip-tying his wrist to another woman’s, then zip-tying his other wrist to another woman’s. He spent all of thirty minutes letting them get to know each other while they took turns feeding him liquor until he was suggesting they go upstairs, instead. 

He had a beautiful hour, a generous, orgasmic, sweat-filled hour of fucking until there were knocks at his door. Quick, hurried knocks, as if there were a fire outside and he needed to get the fuck out. Wooyoung quickly decided he would die there, with a redhead riding his face, and a pixie-cut bombshell between his legs, sucking the skin straight off his dick. The two women didn’t seem to share the sentiment, both of them stopping, going rigid as the door that was still being fucking knocked on.

“They’ll go away,” Wooyoung keeps his voice low, but assuring. His hands slide up the backs of the redhead’s thighs, squeezing her ass, he lands one encouraging smack before she lowers herself down again.

Bliss, pure fucking bliss. His eyes flutter closed, fingers sinking into her ass, moving her until she’s grinding against his tongue. He moans, but he’s not sure what he’s moaning at, the taste of the woman on his face or the woman who just took his cock down her throat until he reached the hilt.

“Hello?” is all he hears before there’s a pitched shriek sounding through the entire second floor of his home. “Oh my god!” He knows that voice. “Fuck, I can’t even get one and you get two? This is so unfair!”

Wooyoung genuinely can’t believe this is happening. The redhead jumps off his face, landing beside him, doing her best to cover herself up with his sheets. The girl between his legs pops her lips off his cock with a verbal noise, then turns her head toward the intruder.

You. Drunk, in his fucking bedroom. Wooyoung immediately barks out, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“I’m sorry!” you squeal, palms already over your eyes, backing yourself up into his wall. When you bump into it, one of your hands flies to catch yourself, and you shimmy to the side, clearly searching for your escape. 

Wooyoung sits up on his elbows, unphased, watching you. “To your right a little more.” You bump into his dresser. He snorts, “Oh shit, my bad. Your left, my right.”

You laugh a little, a tiny giggle that lets Wooyoung know how much you drank tonight. You turn around to face away from him in the doorway, complaining, “I have to pee, all the other bathrooms are out of toilet paper.”

“What are you even doing here?” he asks, and the girl between his legs smacks his thigh. He hisses, looking at her, and her face has fallen flat, as if to say get her the fuck out of here.

“Biceps invited me,” you respond, hands on your hips now, tone light like Wooyoung didn’t have two girls naked in his room right now. “Can I pee in your bathroom? I won’t look, you can continue.”

Wooyoung’s head tilts to the side. He notices your little skirt, short enough that it shows off the muscle in your legs, the tiny heels on your feet. The top you’re wearing doesn’t quite reach your skirt, your hair flowing across the dark fabric, a little messy and unkempt at the ends. If you weren’t drunk and your life wasn’t such a mess he might have asked you to join them.

“Are you checking her out?” the redhead accuses from behind him in a whisper-yell. 

Wooyoung’s head snaps, “No, what are you talking about?” His voice is too high. He’s a better liar than that. The redhead smacks her lips together, clearly offended, then rolls off his bed. 

Wooyoung, disappointed, tries to save face. “No, don’t go, you were close. She’s leaving.” He turns his head toward you, who’s stealing a glance over your shoulder. “You’re leaving.”

“But I have to pee,” you whine. Whine. You even tap your little fucking kitten heel against his floor. 

Wooyoung’s back hits his mattress, both of his hands roughly rubbing at his face, pushing a muddled groan through his lips. “This can’t be happening to me right now.”

“I’m sorry!” you repeat, then scurry across his bedroom like a fucking rat in the subway. “I’ll be quick!” you yell, closing his bathroom door behind you. 

The girl between his legs sits back on her calves and whispers, “Who the fuck is that?”

Wooyoung can’t believe she’s still here, he certainly would have left if he was her. He doesn’t even have an explanation. “She’s someone who needs serious fucking help.”

“And you’re helping her?” The girl asks, as if Wooyoung being the one to help was inconceivable. 

Wooyoung sits on his elbows again, and frowns at his cock that’s already falling limp. He glances upward at the girl with just his eyes, “I guess.”

“Shame,” the girl says, crawling off the bed. Wooyoung doesn’t even have it in him to argue when she starts pulling her clothes on. “I could have gone all night.”

“You and me both,” he mumbles, watching her leave. At least she closes the door behind her.

When you finally come out of his bathroom, you’re still pulling your shirt down. Or fixing it, Wooyoung thinks, because you lean your back into the doorframe of his bathroom, using it as leverage as you slide your top over, centering it over your torso. 

“Need help?” Wooyoung asks, and it’s genuine. You’re the last person he expected to see tonight, and to see you this drunk, stumbling across his bedroom? In no way could this be a good sign.

“No,” you mumble, chin tucked into your chest, still trying to slide your top over. Wooyoung watches you struggle with a flat, unimpressed face, the poster board for patience as your body slowly but surely starts sliding off the doorframe. At least you catch yourself with a, “Woah.”

When you finally get your top fixed, you look up at him, and there’s not a thought behind your eyes until you notice he’s still laying there butt-ass naked. “Wooyoung!” you screech, then turn around again, covering your eyes. “You had time to put some fucking clothes on.”

Good to know your personality is still intact. “It’s my bedroom,” his tone is dripping in nonchalance as he stretches on his sheets, sighing in delight. “You’re the one intruding.”

“I had to!” you shout, “there’s no toilet paper, I had no choice.”

Wooyoung decides to show you mercy by pulling the sheets over his lower half. “I’m covered, Virgin Mary,” he muses, sitting up until his back is pressed against the headboard. “You never updated me.”

“Oh!” you say as you turn around, all your features blown out, your voice high. “It went well, super well. It was a good idea, thank you–”

“You didn’t do it,” Wooyoung cuts you off.

Your face goes flat, “I didn’t do it.”

He smacks his teeth, “Why not, pussy? I gave you the step-by-step.”

You whine, walking around his bed, sitting at the foot like you did just a few days ago. “It’s hard,” your head tips back, “I don’t know how you do it, how you do all of this.”

“It’s just sex,” Wooyoung argues. “It’s not that hard.”

“You have enough sex for, like, fifty people,” you bite back. “Of course it’s not hard for you.”

“You’ve been dating him forever!” Wooyoung is amused now, because what the fuck is the point of a relationship if you aren’t trying new shit all the time? “You’re telling me you aren’t comfortable enough to suck his dick?”

Wooyoung can see the flush on your cheeks as you shyly mumble, “I am.”

“Why are you here, anyway? Other than San inviting you, there has to be another reason you’re here and not picking out wedding invitations or whatever the fuck.”

You whine again, a frustrated, dragged out annoying sound. “He told me not to come over because he’s studying.” Wooyoung thins his eyes. “I’m serious!” You sound defensive. “I even tried to have sex with him this morning and he rejected me. He has an exam on Friday.”

Wooyoung shakes his head, disappointed. “You’re gonna fuck the silicon off your dildo if you don’t get him inside you soon.”

You gasp, jaw on the floor as you whip your head around to look at him. “I don’t even own a dildo!”

“You need one,” Wooyoung quips. “Do you at least masturbate with your hand?”

“We should not be having this conversation,” you hiss. Quieter, almost under your breath, you answer, “Yes.”

“You should do that in front of him and see what happens,” Wooyoung is grinning now. “That shit is so sexy, if he doesn’t fuck you after that, then he plays for the other team.”

“Can’t he just be, like, not a super sexual guy?” you ask, shrugging. “Why is the immediate thought that he’s gay?”

“Because, objectively, you’re hot,” Wooyoung says, and judging by how your face contorts, he assumes that was the wrong thing to say. “I’m sorry, but it’s true. Anyone who’s into women would jump at the chance to fuck you.”

Your brows raise. “Like San?”

Wooyoung’s brows furrow. “San? I mean, yeah, probably.”

“What about Yunho?” you try, head tilting. Curious. 

“Virgin,” Wooyoung warns. “You’re drunk. Go home and go to bed.”

You smack your teeth, standing up from his bed to plant your hands on your hips. “Who are you, my father?”

“No, I’m a guy who wants his bed to not be empty anymore.” His arms fly outward, emphasizing his very empty queen-size bed. “You emptied it.”

“I had to pee!” you whine again, kitten heel tapping his floor again.

Wooyoung points to his bedroom door, “Go.”

“Fine,” you stomp all the way to his door. Opening it, you turn your head, “For the record–”

“Go, Virgin.”

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