keywords: (M) means mature work; (💌) means personal favorite
total fics: 42
warning: this contains spoilers of what the overall fic is about and what dynamic reader has with the member
note: credits to all the authors listed below
PARK JONGSEONG
taste of indulgence (ft. jake) 💌 by @mssishipi | series (5 parts) | 80k words | (M) strangers to fwb to lovers, university!au, fluff, angst, polyamory relationship, mean and soft dom!jay, switch!jake, sub!reader
i don’t like your girlfriend part 1 – part 2 💌 by @siyalogue | 42.3k words | (M) strangers to lovers, university!au, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, slow burn, betrayal, abandonment, insecurities, jealousy, toxic friendship, shy!reader, secret admirer!reader, popular!jay, guitarist!jay, best friend’s boyfriend!jay, soft dom!jay, sub!reader, slight sunghoon x reader, reader’s best friend is not a good friend, jay and sunghoon are sweethearts
just like heaven part 1 – part 2 💌 by @heejamas | 36k words | (M) childhood friends to lovers to exes to lovers, 80s!au, brother’s best friend!jay, guitarist!jay, song writer!jay, older!reader, younger brother!jungwon, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort, slow fucking burn, longing, yearning, lots of tension, jay is super sweet (the kind that makes you lose your mind)
chasing you by @enharcv | 32k words | rich boy!jay, smart!reader, rich kids!au, suggestive, romance, unrequited love, angst, slow burn
drunk-dazed (ft. sunghoon) by @siyalogue | 30k words | (M) fwb to lovers, friends to lovers, roommates!au, university!au, implied polyamory relationship, slight hoonjay, switch!jay, soft dom!sunghoon, sub!reader, weed usage, reader gets stalked and assaulted by a creep, minor fight scene
keep it between us by @taeghi | 29.3k words | (M) university!au, best friend’s ex-bf!jay, dom!jay, angst, morally grey characters
the hates everyone except you trope by @taeghi | 27.9k words | (M) friends to lovers, bad boy!jay, good girl!reader, tutor!reader, fluff, angst
fast forward by @asahicore | 26.6k words | kinda enemies to lovers, high school!au, kinda academic rivals, jay is annoying yet a sweetheart
playback error (ft. heeseung) by @nephynes | 25k words | (M) heeseung’s fiancee!reader, consensual non-monogamy, toxic friendship, sharing sex tapes (consensual), unresolved feelings, blurred boundaries, dominant behavior, yearning
signed, sealed, & undone part 1 – part 2 💌 by @enhaflixer | 24k words | (M) strangers to allies to lovers, billionaire!jay, journalist!reader, time travel!au, contract marriage!au, romance, angst, slow burn
baby sitter by @jaysbaefie | 22.4k words | (M) kinda enemies to lovers, age gap (35 and 23), lots of tension, rich!jay, younger bratty!reader, mean dom!jay, possessive!jay, bickering, forced submission
desire by @kbunzzi2oa | 21.5k words | (M) bodyguard!jay, hard dom!jay, sub!reader, dark romance, possessiveness, jealousy, slow burn
the marriage law 💌 by @enhaflixer | 20.5k words | (M) strangers to lovers, marriage law!au, harry potter!au, soft!jay, forced proximity, fluff, domesticity, mutual annoyance, emotional angst, hurt/comfort, sexual tension
the art & science of parenting 101 by @jakesimfromstatefarm | 20.5k words | enemies to lovers, fake parenting!au, college!au, he fell first but she fell harder, tension, fluff, crack
happy hotwifing (ft. sunghoon) by @simpjaes | 18.9k words | (M) open marriage, mention of cheating, threesome, husband!jay, dom!jay, bachelor!sunghoon, service top!sunghoon, sunghoon is shy
souvenir by @seosracha | 17.5k words | (M) strangers to lovers, power imbalance, age gap (38 and 20), daddy issues, rich lawyer!jay, dad’s best friend!jay
my boyfriend’s in a band 💌 by @mssishipi | 14.7k words | (M) strangers to lovers, fake dating!au, guitarist!jay, cheerleader!reader, fluff, slight angst, insecure thoughts
notoriously yours by @jakesimfromstatefarm | 14.7k words | enemies to lovers, fake dating!au, college!au, childhood best friends!au, slight suggestive, fluff, comedy, angst
the a-list 💌 by @jayflrt | 10.1k words | (M) friends to lovers, gossip girl!au, rich kid!au, fake dating!au, fluff, angst, chuck and blair dynamic
book smart? pussy smart 💌 by @simpjaes | 10k words | (M) minimal plot, inexperienced!jay, experienced!reader, tutor!jay, jay is a cute loser
hard cash, easy money by @simpjaes | 5.4k words | (M) minimal plot, rich!jay, stripper!reader
never have i ever by @jaylaxies | 4.1k words | (M) pure smut, brother’s best friend!jay, dom!jay
YANG JUNGWON
safe & sound 💌 by @thatfeelinwhenyou | series (7 parts) | 142k words | dystopian, post-apocalyptic survival, horror/thriller, slow burn, heart wrenching, heavy angst, brotherhood, morally grey characters, trauma bonding, reader is jungwon’s romantic interest, leader!jungwon, shooter!jay, negotiator!sunoo, medic!jake, fighter!sunghoon, planner!heeseung, mechanic!ni-ki
cherry trees 💌 by @enhaflixer | not stated | (M) strangers to lovers, arranged husband!jungwon, trophy wife!reader, old money!au, romance, angst, fluff, second chance, yearning
sweet talk part 1 – part 2 by @enhaflixer | 24k words | (M) strangers to lovers, dancer!jungwon, podcaster!reader, university!au, betting, emotional manipulation, hidden motive, reader has a crush on jungwon, fluff, angst
hope ur ok by @sundives | 22.6k words | (M) best friends to enemies to friends, university!au, drummer!jungwon, university journalist!reader, hard dom!jungwon, sub!reader, reader and jungwon are somewhat immature, jungwon is a dick, open ending, angst, hurt no comfort, betrayal
night changes by @heejamas | 22k words | strangers to lovers, stranger things!au, thriller, suspense, mystery, romcom, slowburn, 70s!au, paranormal
turbulence in heat by @kikidoul | 17.2k words | (M) strangers to lovers, omegaverse!au, alpha!jungwon, pilot!jungwon, mean dom!jungwon, alpha!reader, sub!reader, older brother!ni-ki, arranged marriage, angst with comfort, family drama, panic attack
bittersweet by @anixvl | 15.1k words | (M) enemies to lovers, boxer!jungwon, detective!reader, romance, angst, fluff, forbidden love, betrayal, open ending
in my head by @nwjws | 12.9k words | enemies to lovers, fluff, angst, crack, kissing, ravenclaw head boy!jungwon, slytherin head girl!reader, (modernized) hogwarts!au
truly madly deeply 💌 by @hoonjayke | 10.8k words | strangers to friends to lovers, good boy!jungwon, bad girl/troublemaker!reader, college!au, super suggestive, fluff, reader falls first but jungwon falls harder
say it again by @si3rren | 10k words | (M) strangers to lovers, korean language tutor!jungwon, academic romance, fluff, slow burn
not yours by @vampelic | 8.5k words | (M) bar owner!jungwon, bartender!reader, fwb!au, somewhat open ending
soulmarked rivalry by @elikajinnie | not stated | kinda enemies to lovers, harry potter!au, soulmate!au, slytherin prefect!jungwon, prefect!reader, forced proximity, jungwon loves teasing reader, fluff, hurt/comfort
little secret by @iznyangwoni | 6.5k words | friends to lovers, spiderman!jungwon, university student!au, suggestive, fluff, slight angst
the one he waited for by @cbeargyu | 5.3k words | (M) brother’s best friend!jungwon, younger!jungwon, older!reader, romance, 4 year age gap, angst, forbidden love, emotional tension
jealousy looks good on me by @jaylaxies | 4.3k words | (M) pure smut, fwb to lovers, dom!jungwon, jealousy
truth or dare by @enhaflixer | 4k words | (M) pure smut, dom!jungwon, they’re playing hard to get
so confusing by @pinkjellyz | 3.8k words | (M) best friends to lovers, weed usage, soft!jungwon, fluff, confessions
maybe the heat isn’t so bad after all by @duskjungwon | 3.4k words | (M) strangers to lovers, pure smut, they’re trapped in a broken elevator, catching feelings
ecstasy by @mssishipi | 3.3k words | (M) pure smut, boyfriend!jungwon, dom!jungwon, jungwon doesn’t know how to stop
what you don’t know by @simjakesgirl | not stated | (M) pure smut, boyfriend!jungwon, hard dom!jungwon, sub!reader, discipline, reader intentionally makes jungwon jealous
SYNOPSIS all you want is to be seen and loved by your future husband, two of the very things park jongseong has no idea about. but through unspoken protection and warm tension, jongseong lets himself love again.
OR, jongseong falls for you when a series of events pushes you both closer
GENRE arranged marriage au, angst, fluff, hurt & comfort, ‘she fell first but he fell harder’ vibe (?) slowburn-ish
PAIRING cold fiance! park jongseong x female! reader ( ft. other characters )
WARNINGS mention of bruises and fighting, alcohol, arguments, skinship, kissing, underlying misogyny ( not from jay ), crying, alcohol mention and use
WORDCOUNT 19.5k words / 19,557 words
AUTHORS NOTE hey precious readers! i would like to start this special message by an apology because one i am posting this a month late and two this is my first ever long fic. so you know the drill, i havent quite mastered to flow of long fics, so im sorry in advance if there is any type of mistakes in the story TT that being said, i chose a pretty easy topic to work with this time, so im hoping you guys will like it! arranged marriage aus and jay is definitely one of my fav combos, and i hope it delivered it well >< please enjoy and happy reading :3
FEEDBACKS AND REBLOGS ARE VERY APPRECIATED
PARK JONGSEONG HAS NEVER KISSED YOU.
Maybe you have never even felt his touch, the mere sensation of fingers brushing innocently against each other was unknown to you.
And as you realise it, your chest tightens, and you dig your fingernails way too deep into your palms until they form little red crescents which burn. You realise he’d never seen you shed your tears as well, so you keep them at bay, praying that it’ll be enough to hide the storm brewing inside you.
Park Jongseong is your fiancé, an arranged marriage. Bound to you by the weight of expectation, tradition, and a polished ring that sparkles mockingly on your finger.
To anyone else, you might seem like the perfect couple—well-dressed at formal dinners, walking side by side at events, exchanging polite smiles that barely reach your eyes. But behind closed doors, the gap between you feels insurmountable.
Sometimes during those boring and forced events, all you want to do is to pull Jongseong closer by his arm. You want him to look at you and smile, to hold you by the waist and kiss you, to at least, acknowledge your presence in a room.
But Park Jongseong is careful, too careful.
His words are measured, his actions restrained, as though every interaction is scripted. When he walks beside you, there’s always a polite distance, just enough to make it clear he’s near but never close enough to feel his warmth. Even when he hands you something—a pen, a glass of water—his fingers never brush yours.
It’s like he’s built an invisible wall between you, one that neither of you has dared to tear down.
“Ah—!” he winces in pain as you dab the medicated damp cotton a little too hard over his bruise on his cheeks.
“S-sorry, I had something on my mind,” you stutter, immediately discarding the cotton into a trashcan.
“Its fine,” Jongseong whispers.
“Wait let me see—” you reach your trembling, careful hand towards Jongseong’s bruise, in high hopes to cure it.
“Its okay I'm fine,” Jongseong reiterates, slapping your hand away in a hurried motion.
Ouch. Does he not want you touching him?
You gulp. The previous plaguing thoughts dawning over you once again. Doubt, insecurity and disturbance hurls at you at a threatening velocity once again, and you can feel yourself falling into a black void.
You gulp again, your throat suddenly dry, your fingers tightening around the edge of the bathroom sink. You wish you had something to hold onto, something solid or real. Because standing here, staring at your fiancé, you felt like you were slipping into something dark and unknown.
Jongseong sits on the marble countertop, his long legs spread apart, hands resting on either side of him like he was trying to keep himself steady. His crisp white dress shirt rumpled, the top buttons undone, revealing the faintest hint of a bruise blooming against his collarbone. His knuckles are scraped raw, his lip slightly swollen, and yet, god, yet he still looked unfairly handsome. Even now, even like this.
You wish he would just kiss you.
Just once.
Just so you could taste something other than this awful, gnawing suspicion twisting in your gut.
“How’d you hurt yourself?” you finally ask, your voice quiet but firm, pushing past the lump in your throat. The words feel too small in the vast space between you.
Jongseong exhales sharply through his nose, shifting where he sat, as if he suddenly found the countertop beneath him unbearably uncomfortable. He lifts a hand, raking it through his raven-black hair, the strands falling messily over his forehead. His dark eyes never met yours.
“Just fell first on my face,” he mutters, his voice tinged with forced nonchalance. “I was late to the office.”
The explanation is simple. Too simple. Like a script he had rehearsed and rewritten a thousand times before finally presenting it to you. His words echo in the cold, tiled room, but they lack weight. Lack of honesty.
Your fingers clench at the fabric of your sleeves as you nod slowly, pretending, for now, that you believed him. But the walls around you felt thinner, and the air between you was suffocating.
Because deep down, you know.
Jongseong is lying.
You nod slowly, trying to process his words, but they feel so hollow, so rehearsed. Jongseong doesn't even meet your eyes as he speaks, his gaze fixed on the tiled bathroom wall behind you.
“You should be more careful,” you sigh, ultimately rearranging all the medicines back to the first aid kit, with all your hopes of holding a long conversation with Jongseong slipping away into the trash can, “Its okay if you're late to office one day—”
“How'd you get this?” Jongseong mumbles, his hand was flying slowly towards you from your peripheral vision.
In a moment he stands up, easily towering over you. You can't dare to look in his eyes, so you settle yours at the loose buttons of his shirt. Your heart thumps faster as he moves in closer, a concerned yet bored tone in his voice.
And then it finally happens, the impact takes place. The rough, calloused yet gentle pads of his fingers touch the apple of your cheeks.
An electric shock runs through your veins— Park Jongseong touches your face.
“Uhm- I uh I was-” you stutter, unable to form a proper sentence.
“Weird,” Jongseong scoffs, retracting his hand. You wince at the absence of his touch, wishing it’d lasted longer. Jongseong continues, “we got hurt in the same place.”
Your breath hitches.
The warmth of his fingers lingered on your skin, even though the touch had been fleeting. Insignificant, maybe, to him. But to you? It was enough to leave your thoughts spiraling, to send your heart into a frenzied rhythm you couldn’t control.
Jongseong’s expression doesn’t change. It’s still composed, unreadable, but there was something else in his eyes now. Not warmth, not affection, but something bordering on curiosity. As if he were piecing together a puzzle, one he didn’t quite care enough to solve.
You force out a shaky breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “It’s just a coincidence,” you mutter, lying through your teeth. Because, just like him, you aren’t being honest either.
Because your bruise wasn’t an accident.
And neither was his.
For a second, just a brief second, the two of you stand there in silence. The space between you feels suffocating, but not because of proximity. It was the weight of everything left unsaid. The doubts, the unspoken questions, the invisible wall that had existed from the very start.
You want to reach for him, to bridge the gap. To ask him what had really happened, to tell him you weren’t as blind as he might think. But the words die in your throat when Jongseong took a step back, like he had just realized he’d gotten too close.
“I should go,” he says flatly, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off some invisible burden. His hand brushes over his lip, pressing lightly against the swelling before he turns toward the door.
“Jongseong—”
He pauses. Just barely. Not enough to turn around, not enough to give you hope.
You clench your fists at your sides. “Be careful next time,” you finish, your voice softer, weaker than you wanted it to be.
There was a moment where you thought—hoped—he might say something back. But instead, he simply nods once before slipping out of the bathroom, leaving you standing there, alone with your own reflection.
Your fingers reach up, tracing the ghost of his touch on your cheek.
Park Jongseong had never kissed you.
And at this rate, you aren't sure if he ever will.
THE EVENING AIR BUZZES WITH CONVERSATION AND CLINKING GLASSES.
You sit rigidly at the long aok dining table, forcing a smile.
Jongseong is beside you, distant even in proximity, his fingers lightly tapping against the stem of his wine glass. You steal glances at him when you think he’s not looking, searching for any crack in his polished mask.
Across the table, your cousin Daisy leans forward, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
“So…” she begins loudly enough to catch everyone’s attention, “how’s the arranged love story going? Still playing house or have we upgraded to actual feelings yet?”
The table erupts into laughter. You stiffen, your heart dropping into your stomach.
You try to laugh along, but it comes out awkward and brittle.
“You know, busy schedules. Hard to plan our fairy tale ending around board meetings and conference calls.”
The words taste sour in your mouth.
You glance sideways at Jongseong, silently begging him with your eyes— Say something. Tell them it’s more. Tell them I’m more to you.
He simply chuckles, a soft, detached sound, and lifts his glass. The knot in your stomach tightens.
“Work always comes first,” he says, voice smooth, almost rehearsed.
There’s a pause. A small, hollow space opens inside your chest, which Jongseong manages to disturb.
Daisy snickers. “So romantic. Truly the love story of the century.”
Someone else jokes about putting bets on how long the marriage will last. More laughter, even more jokes. Insensitive and overlooking.
You feel your face heating up, but it's not embarrassment, it’s humiliation. And Jongseong, just sits there. Smiling politely, like he’s miles away.
You press your lips together tightly, stabbing your fork into a piece of roasted vegetable.
The moment passes, conversation flowing into safer topics, but your appetite is gone. All you can taste is the bitter disappointment.
As dessert is served, Jongseong’s phone vibrates on the table. He glances at it quickly, then tucks it away without a word. The tiny movement feels monumental. Another reminder that there's always somewhere else he'd rather be.
Finally, after what feels like hours, people start gathering their things, pulling on coats, exchanging hugs and goodbyes.
You and Jongseong step out into the chilly night. The cold air slaps your cheeks, a stark contrast to the stifling warmth inside.
You walk side by side in silence towards the car.
You can't hold it in any longer.
“Why didn’t you say anything back there?” you blurt, voice trembling despite your best effort to stay calm.
Jongseong stops walking. Turns to you slowly. His face is unreadable under the dim porch lights.
“About what?” he asks, feigning innocence. Oh, how you hate that face.
“About us,” you snap, your voice cracking under the weight of it all. “When they joked, when they implied we’re just business partners?”
He shrugs. “It was just a joke. Why give them more to gossip about?”
You stare at him, blinking rapidly to keep the sting of tears at bay. “Because it’s not just a joke to me.”
He exhales, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. “You’re overthinking it, Y/n.”
You laugh bitterly. “Am I? Because it feels pretty real when you don’t even try to correct them. When you act like you’re fine with everyone believing this marriage is just some... some arrangement you’re tolerating.”
His jaw tightens. “What would you have wanted me to say? That we’re madly in love? That we’re inseparable? That I can’t breathe without you?” His voice is low, cutting. He snaps, “Would that have made you feel better? Lying to everyone?”
You flinch like he slapped you. The hurt pools behind your eyes.
“I don’t need you to lie,” you whisper. “I just—”
The words hang between you, heavy, fragile.
For a second, just a second, something flickers across his face. Regret? Guilt? You can't tell.
But just as quickly, he turns away, walking briskly to the car. “Let’s not do this here,” he says sharply. “It’s late.”
You stand there for a moment, heart pounding, watching his back retreat from you like a closing door.
When you finally move, your feet feel like lead. You climb into the passenger seat without a word. The ride back home is suffocating. Silent. A chasm grows wider with every passing streetlight.
You want to reach out, to grab his hand, to say something, anything, that will fix whatever's breaking between you.
But you’re too afraid you’re the only one who still wants to fix it.
So you stare out the window, watching your reflection blur against the passing night.
And beside you, Jongseong drives on, his hands tight on the wheel, his face carved in stone.
Park Jongseong is giving up, maybe you should too.
PARK JONGSEONG THOUGHT HIS TO BE WIFE HAD FORGOT HIS BIRTHDAY.
But then he reminds himself, all these months of carrying a diamond ring of mockery on his hand— a symbol of bondage, marriage —he had never felt the fleeting touch of his soon to be wife.
And so he doesn't bother to kiss her goodbye, maybe pull her closer by her waist, whisper something not so innocent in her ears to watch her face flush in enticement, and leave for work with the motivation to come back to his fiancé’s arms.
No. He does nothing.
Park Jongseong doesn't even take the day off and stays at home. He leaves in a hurry, first thing in the morning. He doesn’t like celebrating birthdays anyway, it’s just a year closer to his demise, nothing to like about it.
He packs his briefcase in silence as he steals one last glance of you, groaning lazily as you make your way to the washroom. Of course, you have your job too, and Jongseong expected even less. It’s just a birthday, nothing too much.
9:30 am, he reaches his office building.
The heir to the prestigious, Park Company. The weight of expectation hung in the air like a finely spun chandelier, too delicate to touch, too grand to ignore. After all, he wasn’t just any director. He was Park Jongseong. The upcoming CEO. The heir.
The revolving glass doors of the company building spun to a slow stop behind him. Jongseong adjusted the cuffs of his suit jacket, eyes half-lidded, movements precise. He could hear the echo of his polished shoes as he walked through the marble tiled lobby, his reflection following him in the towering glass panels.
“Good morning, Vice President,” several voices chorused as he passed, accompanied by clipped bows and tight smiles.
He gave them all the same nod. Unbothered. Distant.
The elevator doors open and steps out alone, the silence laying on him like a second skin. The floor is cool and quiet, save for the typical office noises. He reminds himself that it's just another day, just another date on the calendar which could be overlooked without any problem. His team gathers up to the front door, clapping and smiling at him. Some senior executives push a forced smile in front of their young boss, the juniors more enthusiastic about someone they fear athough Jongseong doesn’t know if theirs are forced or natural.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY JONGSEONG,” they all sing song as confetti pops out in the air and paper freckles of his least favourite colours flutter down on him.
A distant banner said: TO THE FUTURE CEO. He shrugs, a polite smile on his face.
Among the crowd he spots Sunghoon, his first cousin as he steps out with a jovial smile and hands still clapping. He was in line to be the CEO as well, before he put down the offer to be COO instead, saying he's not a natural leader like Jongseong is.
“To the youngest CEO our company has ever seen!” he exclaims to the crowd as he stands beside Jongseong, pulling him to an encouraging hug. “What?” he snickers, “don't like the celebration?”
“No, I love it,” Jongseong hopes his smile is not too fake looking as he faces his team, not all of them are happy to be here, some are bored and waiting for their shift to be over. He sighs, “thank you guys for this, it means a lot to me.”
A celebration follows, and Jongseong does what is needed. A polite tight lipped smile, respectful bows and a small speech. Said the expected words. Cut the cake, nodded through small talk, and endured hugs from coworkers who’d never even dared to speak to him before today.
When noon rolls around, someone chirps, “We ordered lunch in! Come eat with us, Vice President Park!”
But Jongseong shakes his head.
“I’ll stay in,” he says, voice as smooth as glass. “I have calls to take.”
He turns, walks into his office, and shuts the door behind him.
Silence falls like a blanket. The cheers and loud noises quickly fade as the second Jongseong pulls the door close to his office, making slow and steady steps to his chair. He sits down on it, sighing as he lets out a shaky breath.
Birthday.
The word still rolls bitterly in his mind, not festive, not celebratory—just sharp edged and cold. A reminder of time ticking forward, dragging him further into a life that never felt like his own. A year older, a year deeper into expectations that weren’t his to begin with. The title. The company. The marriage.
He remembers the uncomfortable tight-fitting tuxedos, blinding camera flashes, tight lipped smiles of relatives he didn’t know and as usual, a script.
A script he had to learn every year, which is now installed in his brain. Jongseong just has to open his mouth and utter the same, mechanical and monotonous words in front of everyone as his parents would reassure him after, of how well he did, how well he behaved. And before he even knew it, birthdays meant nothing to him.
But then again, it was made cold and unbearable to him by the world. By his parents.
“Whatever,” he sighs and shrugs his blazer off him. And just as he’s about to throw it on his desk, he notices something.
A lunch box, covered neatly in pink satin cloth. A small note on top.
Jongseong doesn’t want to make assumptions, but he does anyway. What if it's from you? What if you really remembered his birthday? With a gulp, he steers his chair closer to his desk and picks up the lunch box, opening his cloth and reading the note in his hands, holding it up close.
Hope you like it. Happy birthday Jongseong, from y/n.
His breath falters, you remember.
His name in your handwriting. A little crooked, like you were in a rush, or were nervous. His throat tightens as he peels the lid off the top container.
And the scent hits him instantly.
Curry.
Rich, warm, and spiced exactly the way he likes it. Not the kind served at expensive restaurants with dainty portions, but the real kind. Homemade. The kind that sticks to your ribs. The kind that reminds him of chilly weekends in Seattle when he was small enough to sit on the kitchen counter, swinging his legs while his grandmother stirred the pot.
Something coils in his chest.
Carefully, he lifts the second container. The rice is shaped into a perfect flat surface. Neatly pressed, fluffy, hot. And across it—seaweed sheet, hand-cut with meticulous patience—spells out three letters.
JAY
Jongseong feels his heartbeat faltering. He winces as his offices’ air conditioning hits the bruise on his cheeks. He carefully sets the curry down on his table, before gaping at the rice again.
It indeed spells, JAY.
He scoffs at this weird feeling. The more he stares at it the more his heart burns and coils.
Only his grandmother had ever called him that. Not his father. Not his mother. No one in the stiff, lacquered halls of his youth had bothered to learn the name that made him feel… human. Small. Loved.
And now here it was. Cut delicately in seaweed. Sitting quietly in a box on his birthday.
By you.
“You’re really not going to join us for lunch?” Sunghoon barges in his office, striding towards Jongseong's desk.
Jongseong hurriedly tries to close the lunchbox, but it’s too late. Sunghoon’s eyes have already zeroed in on it like a hawk spotting prey.
“Is that curry?” Sunghoon gasps, leaning over the desk like an excited child. “Oh my god, it smells amazing. Who got you that? Is it from that expensive place across the street? Is that seaweed spelling your name? That’s so cute—”
“Get your hands away from it,” Jongseong snaps, dragging the lunchbox closer to his chest like it’s a newborn baby he’s sworn to protect with his life.
Sunghoon’s hand freezes mid-reach. His eyebrows shoot up.
“Wow. Wow. Possessive much?”
“This is mine,” Jongseong mutters defensively, clutching the lunchbox tighter. “You guys have a whole lunch downstairs. Go eat that.”
“But that’s communal food,” Sunghoon whines, poking the air toward the lunchbox. “This looks special. Homemade. You should share. It’s what Grandma Jay would’ve wanted.”
Jongseong glares at him.
“Grandma Jay would’ve wanted you to mind your own business.”
Sunghoon snickers, undeterred, and tries to lunge for a bite. Jongseong immediately swivels his chair away, putting his entire body between Sunghoon and the precious lunch like a shield.
“Jesus, you’re like a dragon hoarding treasure,” Sunghoon laughs, hands on his hips. “You’re gonna die alone with that lunchbox in your arms.”
“Good,” Jongseong says without missing a beat. “But I'm not going to share.”
Sunghoon makes one last dramatic, fake sob attack at the lunchbox. Jongseong kicks at him under the desk until he stumbles back, defeated.
Grumbling, Sunghoon heads for the door, shooting Jongseong a betrayed look over his shoulder.
“You’ve changed, man,” he says dramatically. “Fame, fortune… personalized seaweed letters. You’re not the same Jongseong I knew.”
Jongseong just smirks to himself as the door swings shut again.
Finally, blessed peace.
He opens the lunchbox once more, the smell of curry filling the room, and the sight of your careful seaweed letters warming a space inside him he didn’t even know was still hollow.
A dull sting pulses along his cheek as he chews, and his hand drifts to the bruise you both pretended not to see. He clicks his tongue, annoyed. Coincidence, he tells himself. Nothing more. But the throbbing settles under his skin like a reminder—of you, of your quiet lies, of his own.
But this time, when he takes the first bite, he laughs under his breath.
YOU DESERVED A BETTER GRATITUDE THAN A JUST SIMPLE THANK YOU.
Park Jongseong sighs as he stares at the window of his car, watching the raindrops race against each other. His fingers drum restlessly against the steering wheel, the soft patter of rain against metal filling the silence inside the car.
He leans back against the headrest, staring at the road.
“thank you for the lunch, y/n.” he said last night, “it was so delicious.”
He remembers the tension between your brows, how they knotted up gently and relaxed a second after. Disappointment. He was offhand, rushed and sudden with his words, not even looking into your eyes as he said how warm the meal was. So why wouldn’t you be disappointed? Jongseong remembers the way you rolled your shoulders back, a small sigh escaping you as if you had to physically push the disappointment out of your body, tuck it somewhere he wouldn’t notice.
“you’re welcome,” you said simply, unmuting the ignored show playing on the tv with a soft clenched jaw, which Jongseong wished he wouldn’t notice.
He knew that your welcome wasn’t genuine. And maybe he could’ve tried to find the stars in your eyes to make things better, maybe he shouldn’t overthink.
But he also remembers the way you took a second glance of him when he stood there like a robot, holding his almost empty briefcase in his hands, wanting to say something else than just a thank you.
Your eyes were cold then. Faint traces of tears sticking to your lashes, catching the soft glow of the overhead light as you looked at him like you were trying to read him one last time. He thought you would say something, maybe shout or scoff at his posture.
But nothing came out of your mouth except a tired sigh as you abandoned your discomfort and disappointment on the cold couch as you made your way towards the shared bedroom, agonizingly slow.
Maybe you had that pace intentionally, for him to call you back and say something real. Cause fuck, you remember his beloved nickname which was lost, you remember how he liked his curry, you remember him.
Lost in own thoughts, something interesting catches Jongseong’s eyes.
Is that you?
Jongseong gets startled at the sight. You, in this heavy and cold rain, trying to cross the road with your blazer above your head, which does nothing to keep you dry.
“Shit,” he curses under his breath, quickly starting his car as he drives across the road, stopping just beside the pavement.
“Y/n!” He shouts your name clear in the heavy rain, loud enough for you to turn around to his voice, “get in, you’re going to get sick!”
You pause mid-step at his voice, blinking through the rain as you turn to face him. The car idles beside the curb, headlights casting a pale glow across the drenched street. His figure leans across the seat, the passenger door wide open like a quiet plea.
But you stay rooted where you are, water soaking through your shoes, the cold seeping deeper beneath your skin. Your hands clench at your sides.
“I’m fine,” you call out, loud enough for him to hear but it’s tough at the edge, shaking, “go home, Jongseong—”
“Y/n please,” he pleads, although it doesn’t sound like one, “you’re soaking wet, just shut up and get in!”
“I’m- I’m fine,” you snap. You don’t want to get in the car just because he happens to see you and is inviting you to stay dry. That’s the only case, isn’t it? Jongseong is here by coincidence, he wouldn’t deliberately check your location to pick you up in this awful weather. Would he?
“I can go by myself, the rain is not too bad.”
You can hear him sigh, as he gets out of his car, slamming the door behind him.
“Get in,” he steps into the rain, the downpour immediately plastering his shirt to his skin, darkening the fabric, “You will fall sick, y/n. Get in the car.”
He steps even closer, his hair now sticking to his forehead by this insufferable rain as he narrows his eyes. “If you want to be sick so bad, do this another day.”
Your throat tightens. You want to scream at him, shake him, ask him why he always waits until things fall apart before showing up. Why he only steps into the rain once you’re already drenched.
But instead you force your chin up, press your lips into a tight smile as you gather your blazer tighter around yourself.
“Don’t act like you care if i’m sick, Jongseong,” you didn't want to say that, but do anyways.
He blinks. For a second, his expression falters. Barely. “Why not?,” he says quietly, almost like he’s confessing something he hadn’t intended to say aloud. But then his gaze hardens again, guarded. “You’re freezing, Y/N. Stop being stubborn.”
The wind blows past you both, cold and biting. You shiver, teeth clattering as you try to recover whatever warmth the soaked blazer has to give.
“I won’t go—”
“As much as I would love to argue with you right now,” Jongseong cuts off, standing so close that your hands could meet, “I can't let you get sick.”
Your lips part, another protest rising, but before you can speak, Jongseong’s fingers curl around your wrist, not harsh, but firm. His brows draw together, rain sliding down his temples, his lips a tight line.
“I said get in the car,” he repeats, lower this time. His voice carries an edge, not pleading, not begging—commanding. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
You glare at him, heart wrenching in the cold rain as it seeps into your work clothes.
“You only come when it’s convenient for you,” you try to hold it together.
He steps closer, raindrops sliding down the sharp lines of his face. “You think this is convenient for me?” he says bitterly, tone low, controlled. “You think standing here like an idiot in the rain for you is easy?”
The proximity hits you suddenly. He’s standing close, too close, as the rain damps his shirt next. Jongseong’s grip around your wrist tightens, indicating he’s not going back home without you in his car.
And somehow that warms you a bit in this coldness.
His eyes are direct, confronting as they try to soften into yours. Try, you can see it, how his eyebrows lift and slowly fall, trying to find the ease in the situation to gently pull you into the car with no trouble, with no one getting sick.
“Y/n…” he whispers your name, as if for the last time when he finally eases his brows, “get in the car. Please.”
You gulp at his seriousness, a droplet of rain rolls from his chin to fall on your cheeks. It’s cold, making you flinch.
“And if i don’t go?” you test the waters, voice trembling as you watch him roll back his shoulders.
“Then I’ll carry you,” he says without hesitation, his gaze hardening. “Don’t test me right now.”
Something in his tone makes your breath hitch. He’s not bluffing—you know that.
You swallow, lips pressing into a thin line as you hesitate, your pride warring with the exhaustion creeping into your bones. But just as another gust of wind leaves you shivering, your resolution breaks.
You look away first, “You are a very bad liar—”
Jongseong doesn’t speak, doesn’t smile or smirk or gloat. He just scoops you up before you can finish the sentence.
Your breath leaves you in a sharp gasp as Jongseong’s arm slides under your knees and the other wraps firmly around your back, pulling you against him. Your soaked blazer slips uselessly from your shoulders, rain immediately lashing against your skin, but his body blocks most of it. He’s solid, unyielding, warm in a way that makes your chest ache.
“Jongseong—!” you protest, instinctively gripping the front of his damp shirt. His name tears out of you softer than you intended.
“I warned you,” he mutters, jaw clenched as he turns toward the car. His grip tightens reflexively when you shift, as if afraid you’ll fall or run. “Stop fighting me.”
He reaches the car and nudges the passenger door open with his knee, maneuvering you inside with careful precision.
When he slides back into his seat, drenched and stoic, he doesn’t look at you immediately. Just stares ahead as the engine hums softly beneath the rain. And with that, he pulls the car into drive, headlights cutting through the downpour, his hand steady on the wheel even if everything else between you trembles on the edge of falling apart.
“Take this,” he says, reaching towards the backseat and grabbing his dry blazer, “you’ll be cold.”
“T-thanks,” you don’t argue much as your teeth clatter together, quickly draping the blazer over your damp clothes.
“Y-your clothes are soaked too,” you gulp, voice soft and nervous. You glance at Jongseong’s side profile as he drives, “you’ll get sick—”
“I’ll be fine,” he says, his voice low and steady, almost too calm, “I’m not the one shivering. And it’s just a little rain.”
“So much for the guy who didn’t let me walk home in the rain,” you giggle softly, hoping to elevate his mood but his expressions remain stoic, indifferent.
You pull the blazer tighter around yourself. It smells like him. espresso, cologne and ironically, like home.
“Thank you for—” you clear your throat, taking time to rethink your gratitude towards him when he himself barely shows it. He’s always words, one or two, never sentences like you. But at the end of the day, someone has to express something.
“Thank you for the blazer, and for picking me up anyways. I know you didn’t mean to and I’m sorry for being a nuisance—”
“You’re not a nuisance,” he admits, eyes still on the road. Your heart stops. “I’m not that big of a jerk to let my fiance come home with a fever.”
There’s a silence that stretches long and sharp, the rain outside tapping impatient fingers against the windows. You sink deeper into the passenger seat, your hands curling in your lap. His words aren’t romantic. They aren’t sweet. But they tear through something inside you, a part that’s been holding itself together with hope and delusion.
It’s the bare minimum. It’s something, and something is better than nothing. Right?
“Really?” you whisper, unsure if you really heard that right.
He nods slightly, still focused on the road ahead. “What’s there to question? If you don’t want me picking you up next time, just say so.”
Your heart tugs, this is coming from him. You don’t need anything more than this quiet ride, the shared space between you, the knowledge that he’s here. Whether it’s out of obligation or something deeper.
Jongseong reaches forward, turning on the car’s heating system inside.
“You can keep the blazer,” he mumbles.
You leave it here for now, basking into the silence with his cologne around you, questioning whether or not you really have space in his heart.
RAIN ALWAYS MAKES HIM SOFT.
Not in the obvious way. Not the cinematic way where he confesses or reaches for you or lets himself be held. It makes him quiet first—eyes lingering on windows, fingers tapping restlessly, shoulders drawn tight like he’s bracing for something unseen. You notice it the moment you step onto the rooftop, the smell of wet concrete clinging to your coat, droplets sliding down the glass doors behind you.
It’s Sunghoon’s birthday, technically, though no one is really treating it like one. You almost didn’t come. Long days at work, the quiet tension waiting for you at home. But Sunghoon had called, cheerful and insistent, saying it would be “good for everyone,” which usually meant good for Jongseong.
You arrive later than Jongseong and spot him near the bar, surrounded by men in expensive suits. Business partners, maybe friends, you don’t linger long enough to figure it out. After greeting Sunghoon and handing him a gift you picked up last minute, you drift toward the railing instead, letting the city stretch beneath you.
The air is cold. Damp. The kind that creeps under your skin.
He doesn’t see you at first.
Or maybe he does, and pretends he doesn’t. He stands with a glass in his hand, ice melting faster than he drinks it, head tilted just enough to listen without really engaging.
You watch him from the corner of your eyes. Careful, as he would have been. You watch the way his jaw tightens when someone laughs too loudly, his thumb rubs the rim of his glass over and over—a nervous habit he probably doesn’t realize he has. His jacket is off, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms.
He looks up suddenly, eyes catching you the first thing he looks at besides his drink, as if rehearsed.
You look away quickly. Ever since he rescued you from the rain, he’s gotten quieter. Maybe shy. You notice how quickly he looks away from your eyes, how he hums shakily in response to your soft thank yous, how his cheeks filled with color when you wore his blazer home, rain soaked and cold.
You hope none of that was your imagination.
Sunghoon’s laughter rings behind you, bright and careless, and you force a smile as someone hands you a drink. The rooftop is warm, string lights overhead, music low and conversation easy. You lean against the railing.
That’s when someone steps beside you.
“Didn’t think you’d make it,” a familiar voice says.
You turn. Sim Jaeyun—coworker, colleague, friend, whatever fits best these days. Casual clothes, sleeves pushed up, hair slightly messy like he doesn't care. He smiles easily.
“Neither did I,” you admit. “Long week.”
“You look tired.”
“You have no idea.”
He says your name gently. He asks about work, complains about his boss, makes you laugh with a stupid story about getting lost. At some point, without thinking, he brushes a strand of hair away from your face, fingers grazing your temple.
You don’t pull away.
You don’t notice the shift in the room.
But Jongseong does.
He notices the untouched drink, the way your sleeve keeps slipping, and he sure as hell notices someone else standing in front of you. Touching you. Smiling with you.
The sound around him dulls, like someone turned the volume down. He sees the touch, the way you tilt your head, the smile he doesn’t think he’s ever earned. Something hot and sharp coils in his chest.
He downs his drink.
“Vice President Park, what are your thoughts—”
He doesn’t hear it.
Another glass appears in his hand. He gulps it down. His throat burns.
The weather crawls under his skin. Anger blurs into something uglier, something dangerously close to fear.
Why are you smiling like that?
He tells himself it’s none of his business. He has no claim. You’re his fiancée by contract, not by touch, not by confession.
And yet his feet move before his thoughts catch up.
He doesn’t storm. He detaches himself from the circle, sets his glass down with too much force, and walks. Slow. Measured.
You feel it before you see him.
The air tightens. Jaeyun is mid sentence when your gaze flickers past his shoulder and lands on Jongseong.
He’s coming toward you.
Tie loosened. Hair disheveled. Jaw set hard. Alcohol makes him tipsy, but his intentions are clear.
Your heart stutters.
You straighten, fingers curling around your glass. Jaeyun notices, glances back.
“Uh,” he clears his throat. “Is that—”
Jongseong stops beside you.
Too close.
Close enough that you smell him—whiskey, rain, something bitter underneath. Close enough that his presence redraws the space.
“Vice President Park,” Jaeyun replies, straightening.
Jongseong’s gaze slides back to you. Lingers on your face, the loose strand by your temple, the slipping sleeve.
“Didn’t know you were coming,” he says to you. You swallow. “I told you earlier.”
He blinks, like he’s replaying the memory too late. “You did.” A beat of silence.
Jaeyun shifts, uncomfortable. “I was just keeping her company,” he says lightly, attempting to diffuse. “Didn’t mean to intrude.”
Jongseong hums low. His eyes don’t leave you.
“You don’t have to,” he says. Then, softer, but sharper. “I’ve got her. She’s taken.”
Your breath catches.
Jaeyun hesitates, glancing at you. You open your mouth, but Jongseong’s hand lifts first.
Not entirely touching you.
Hovering at the small of your back, close enough that you feel the heat through your dress. A careful, controlled claim.
“I’ll… grab another drink,” Jaeyun says. “Nice seeing you.”
When he leaves, the space collapses.
You’re alone with Jongseong.
Silence stretches, heavy with everything unsaid. He looks away first, dragging a hand through his hair, fingers trembling.
“I can— can talk better than him,” he hiccups.
“Seriously, how much did you drink?” he basically reeks of alcohol and slightly sways side to side as you guide him down the stairs to the empty hallway.
“Are you—,” your sentence is left unfinished a Jongseong cages you against the wall, shaking hands on each side of your head.
He’s close, too close. His eyes are red, unfocused, flickering between your eyes and your lips. His breath is warm but reeking of whiskey. His hands stay planted on the wall, shaking, fingers flexing like he’s reminding himself not to touch.
“You shouldn’t let—” he starts, then hiccups softly, the sound almost humiliating in how it breaks his authority. He squeezes his eyes shut for a second, reopens them, tries again. “Let someone who is not your h-husband touch you like that.” The words come out crooked, slurred at the edges, but the intent behind them is painfully clear.
You stare at him, stunned, then a breathy laugh slips out despite yourself. “God,” you murmur, “you’re so drunk.” His brows knit together immediately, offended and wounded in the same breath.
“So what I’m— drunk?” he demands, swaying closer before catching himself, forehead knocking lightly against the wall beside your head. “Did I say something wrong?”
“Yes,” you say, heart thudding. “Jongseong. You did.” You lift your chin, meeting his gaze even as your voice trembles. “You’re not my husband. You’re only my fiancé. And I can have my own friends.”
For a second, something hollow flashes across his face. Then he laughs, short, disbelieving.
“Doesn’t matter,” he says, shaking his head too hard. “No one else w-would check the—” another hiccup, quieter this time, “—weather and deliberately get wet in the rain just to bring you home safe.”
The words hit you harder than you expect, sinking deep and slow, like cold seeping through fabric. For a moment, you can’t breathe properly. You remember the rain too well. The way you’d laughed it off, the way he hadn’t, how he’d checked the rain twice and still stepped outside without an umbrella, coat already darkening at the shoulders because you hated walking alone.
“I would do that,” he continues, voice lower now. “As your— fucking fiancé or husband. Not Jaeyun. Not— not anyone else.”
His hands leave the wall. They hover instead, uncertain, fingers twitching in the space near your waist like he’s begging himself for restraint. He leans in despite it, forehead nearly brushing yours, breath warm and unsteady against your cheek.
“I would do it in a heartbeat,” he whispers.
Your chest tightens, a quiet ache blooming behind your ribs, because no one else has ever noticed the weather for you, has ever overlooked their own comfort for yours, yet some voice in the back of your head insists that he's just drunk.
But the way he says it hurts worse than any confession.
“I didn’t like him,” he admits. “Near you.”
“Why?” you whisper.
He doesn’t answer right away. His hand comes up to his chest again, fingers pressing there like he’s trying to steady something beneath his ribs. His breathing is uneven now, shallow.
“Jongseong,” you say, alarm creeping in. “Are you okay?”
He nods too quickly. “I’m fine.”
“I’m fine,” he repeats.
But he isn’t.
You see it when you guide him to the parking lot, cold wind tugging at your hair. He leans too much on you, apologizing under his breath.
“Sorry—sorry, I’m— I’m heavy,” he mumbles, fumbling for the car keys before giving up and letting you take them from his shaking fingers.
“You’re drunk,” you say gently. “Not dying.” He huffs out a weak laugh. “Feels close enough.”
The drive home is quiet, wipers sweeping rhythmically. Jongseong slumps in the passenger seat, eyes fluttering close like he’s afraid of what happens if he lets them stay closed. His breathing evens out only when the car stops at red lights, like only motion keeps him awake.
At one point, he murmurs your name. Just once. Soft. Unconscious.
Your hands tighten on the steering wheel.
Getting him inside is harder than you expect. He insists he can walk, immediately proves he can’t, nearly folding until you hook an arm around his waist.
“Easy,” you murmur. “I’ve got you.”
“I know,” he says. “You always— always do.”
You ease him onto the bed. He collapses face first into the pillows. You tug off his shoes, straighten the blanket, careful not to linger.
When you turn away, it feels like stepping back from something fragile. You make it two steps toward the door.
His hand closes around your wrist. Not rough but enough to stop you.
“Don’t,” he murmurs, barely awake, eyes still closed. His grip tightens slightly, like his body knows what he wants even if his mind can’t form it. “Cold.”
He tugs again, weak but insistent, pulling you down to the edge of the bed. He shifts, arm draping around your waist, face pressing into your side like he’s searching for warmth.
“Rain,” he mumbles into your dress. “Hate it when you’re out in it.”
You freeze.
His words dissolve into half formed apologies, your name tangled with quiet plead. His breathing slows, forehead resting against your stomach like it’s the safest place he knows.
You don’t move.
Because for the first time, his softness isn’t guarded or conditional. It’s just him, clinging in his sleep like he trusts you not to disappear.
And you realize, with startling clarity, that rain doesn’t make him weak.
It makes him tell the truth.
YOU WONDER IF YOU CARE TOO MUCH SOMETIMES.
Because no matter what you do for Park Jongseong, it never feels like enough to quiet the ache that lives with you. Loving him feels like holding something fragile and priceless in your bare hands, knowing that even your gentlest grip might hurt him, knowing that letting go might destroy you both.
You care in a way that feels reckless. Although you do see the consequence of it, that has now finally for once, in your favour.
Jongseong doesn’t pull away after that night.
If anything, he does the opposite.
He lingers.
At first, it’s subtle enough that you convince yourself it’s coincidence. He waits for you in the mornings, jacket already in hand even when the forecast promises clear skies. He sits closer at the dining table, knee brushing yours beneath the polished surface, never once apologizing for the contact. When you move around the apartment, he follows. Not hovering, not watching, just present.
You tell yourself it’s temporary. That he doesn’t remember what he said. That the drunken softness was a one-time fracture.
After all, this whole thing is arranged, and you’ve managed to gaslight yourself into thinking this softness is just obligation wearing a kinder face. That this is him playing his part better now.
You repeat it like a rule. Like something that can keep you at bay.
But rules blur when he learns your steps.
He starts matching his pace to yours without realizing it. Slowing when you slow, pausing when you hesitate, turning back when you forget something even if it makes him late. When you sit on the couch, he chooses the space beside you instead of across the room. When you’re tired, he quietly rearranges his schedule around yours, meetings shifted, calls taken later, priorities subtly rewritten.
It’s never announced. Never even whispered.
It just happens.
And it scares you more than it comforts you. Because this is what you wanted, wasn’t it? For him to care, to notice, to stay. But now that it’s happening, it feels unfamiliar in your hands. It feels like obligation. Plain obligation.
Still, sometimes you catch him looking at you with something like relief. Other times, something closer to fear.
That’s when it starts to bleed through.
In the way his fingers tighten around your sleeve when you mention staying late at work. In the way his jaw sets when your phone lights up with unfamiliar names.
At night, he sleeps closer.
Not always touching, sometimes just angled toward you, arm thrown over the empty space between your bodies like he’s reserving it. Other nights, he curls into you without thinking, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breath steadying only once you’re there. When he stirs from whatever restless place his dreams take him, his hand finds you first. Barely there. But always you.
You start waking before him just to watch.
The way his brow smooths in sleep. The way his lips part slightly when he exhales. The faint tension that never fully leaves his body, even at rest. You notice the moments when his breathing stutters, when his hand presses briefly to his chest before settling again. So subtle you wonder if you imagined it.
You don’t ask, even when you know you should.
Instead, you slip out of bed quietly, careful not to disturb the way Jongseong’s arm lies over your hand, loose but deliberate, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. You peel his fingers away one by one, apologizing in your head for a crime you haven’t committed yet, and pad toward the kitchen.
The apartment is still. Morning light spills softly through the curtains, pale and forgiving. You make coffee the way he likes it now, without thinking about when you memorized that detail. The realization only hits after the mug is already warming your palms.
You’re setting plates on the counter when the bedroom door opens.
Jongseong stands there, hair mussed, shirt half-buttoned, eyes heavy but searching. He looks relieved when he finds you in the kitchen, like something in his chest loosens at the sight.
“You’re up,” he says, matter-of-fact.
“So are you,” you reply.
He hums and drifts closer, leaning his shoulder against the counter beside you. He doesn’t say anything, just watches you move, each small action tracked like he’s afraid to miss it.
Sunlight catches the faint shadows beneath his eyes.
“You didn’t sleep well,” you say without thinking.
He stiffens for half a second, then shrugs. “Didn’t want to wake you.”
That alone feels like a confession.
The moment lingers too long, fragile, exposed. Jongseong seems to realize it too, because his shoulders tense, his gaze drops, and the softness retracts all at once.
“Schedule’s tight this week,” he says abruptly, voice clipped. “Might come home late.”
You nod, even though you know that’s not the reason the air has cooled.
Breakfast is quiet after that.
He sits across from you instead of beside you, answers short, eyes fixed anywhere but your face. When you pass him the toast, your fingers brush, and he flinches.
It’s barely noticeable.
But you notice.
You lift your mug, letting the warmth settle your nerves. The coffee tastes familiar, comforting in a way that makes your chest ache. You don’t realize he’s staring until he turns back to the counter and starts brewing coffee again.
“You already have one,” you say.
“I know.”
He pours it into a different mug. A plain one. You ask, very confused, “Why are you using a different cup?”
He pauses, then nods toward your hands. “Because you’re holding mine.”
You freeze, eyes dropping to the mug. His mug. Heat rushes to your face.
“I— I’m sorry,” you say quickly, already standing. “I didn’t realize—”
“Hey.” His voice is gentle. He steps closer, stopping you with a light touch to your wrist. “It’s fine.”
You look up at him, still braced.
“It’s just a cup,” he adds, softer.
Something in your chest loosens. “Isn’t it your favorite?” you murmur.
He pours milk into his coffee, hesitates, then adds a little more—your preference, not his. When he notices you watching, he clears his throat.
“I can share,” he says.
You smile, small and careful. This time, he doesn’t look away.
But to your luck, softness doesn’t last.
It creeps into the days quietly, settles into routines, hides in shared cups and matching steps. Until one evening, it snaps under the weight of everything neither of you is saying.
Jongseong comes home late.
You know it the moment the door opens, not because of the time, but because of the way it opens. Sharper. With a thud.
You’re on the couch, half curled into the corner with your laptop abandoned beside you, the apartment lit only by a lamp you forgot to turn off. You look up instinctively.
He doesn’t greet.
His tie is loosened, jacket still on, hair slightly damp like he washed his hands too aggressively and dragged his fingers through it afterward. His expression is shut tight, jaw clenched in a way that makes something in your chest tighten in response.
“You’re late,” you say. Not accusing. Just stating.
“I know,” he replies, cold.
He doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t take his jacket off. Just stands there like he hasn’t decided whether to stay or leave.
Something prickles.
“You said you’d text,” you add, softer now.
His eyes flick to yours. There’s irritation there, not fully directed at you, but sharp enough to cut.
“I was busy.”
The way he says it feels deliberate.
You close your laptop slowly. “You’ve been busy every night this week.”
Silence.
You stand as if to confront him. The distance between you shrinks without either of you meaning it to.
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” you say, carefully. “But don’t shut me out either.”
His laugh is quiet. Humorless. “I’m not shutting you out.”
“You are,” you say, firmer now. “You come home exhausted, you won’t talk, you won’t let me ask if you’re okay—”
“I am okay,” he snaps.
The sharpness makes you flinch before you can stop yourself.
He sees it.
Something dark flashes across his face—regret, anger, fear, all tangled together.
“I didn’t mean—” He stops. Swallows. “You’re overthinking.”
The words land badly.
“You hate it when I watch you,” you say quietly. “But you hate it more when I stop.”
His hands curl into fists at his sides.
“You don’t get to psychoanalyze me,” he says. “You don’t know what it’s like—”
“Then tell me,” you cut in. Your voice shakes despite your effort. “Stop standing five steps away from me like I’m a stranger in my own house.”
That does it.
He crosses the space between you in three strides.
Too fast. Too close.
You barely have time to inhale before he’s there. Towering, breathing unevenly, the air between you charged and dangerous. His hands come up, bracing against the wall on either side of your head.
The sound it makes is soft.
The effect is not.
Your heart slams against your ribs. You can feel his warmth now, feel the tension vibrating off him, feel how hard he’s fighting himself. His face is inches from yours, so close you can see the faint pulse at his jaw, the way his eyes flicker down to your mouth before snapping back up.
“Don’t,” he says hoarsely. Not a command, but warning to himself.
“Don’t what?” you whisper, breath catching.
“Look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
He gulps, as if holding back very specific words. “Like I owe you something I can’t give.”
Your chest aches. “I’m not asking for anything.”
“Yes, you are,” he says, voice low, strained. “You ask just by standing there. By—” His breath stutters. “By caring.”
You don’t move.
You can feel his breath on your cheek. Warm. Unsteady. His lips are dangerously close now, close enough that the slightest tilt would end everything you’ve been holding apart.
“I can’t,” he whispers. “You don’t understand what you’re asking me to risk.”
“Then why are you here?” you ask, tears threatening. “Why do you come back to me every night if you’re so afraid?”
His eyes darken.
Because he wants to kiss you.
Because you can see it. The way his mouth softens, the way his body leans in despite his mind screaming no. His forehead dips, brushing yours. He gulps again, eyes glued to your lips. For half a second, you think he’s going to give in.
You think this is it.
Then he pulls back.
Abrupt. Violent in its restraint.
He steps away like he’s been burned, dragging a hand through his hair, breathing hard. He doesn’t look at you when he speaks again.
“I need air,” he says, voice rough. “I can’t do this tonight.”
He grabs his jacket off the chair, pauses at the door just long enough for you to think, hope, he might turn back.
He doesn’t.
The door closes behind him, leaving you alone in the charged silence, lips still tingling from a kiss that never happened, heart aching from how close he came.
And how far he ran.
PARK JONGSEONG SMOOTHENS HIS TIE IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR.
He does it twice. Then a third time. Slow, precise movements, like repetition might quiet the unease sitting low in his chest. The mirror reflects a version of him he knows how to wear, pose and pretend. The heir. The fiancé. The man who never falters.
Except his fingers hesitate at his collarbone.
Just for a fraction of a second.
He exhales, steadying himself, and reaches for his cufflinks. The room smells faintly of cologne and starch and something warmer beneath it. Home, he thinks, before he can stop himself.
The bedroom door opens softly behind him.
“Jongseong?”
Your voice.
He straightens instinctively, shoulders squaring before he turns around.
You stand there in the doorway, light spilling in behind you, and for a moment he forgets how to breathe.
The dress drapes over you like it was designed with patience, soft fabric, gentle lines, nothing loud. It doesn’t demand attention. It invites it. The kind that lingers. The kind that stays. Your hair falls neatly over your shoulders, collarbones catching the light, skin warm and real in a way that makes something twist uncomfortably in his chest.
You shift your weight, suddenly self conscious beneath his stare.
“So?” you ask, trying to sound casual. “How do I look?”
The question hangs between you.
Jongseong opens his mouth. But then closes it back.
His eyes trace you—too slow to be polite, too careful to be careless. He notices everything: the way the fabric settles at your waist, the slight dip at your collarbone, the way your hands fidget like you’re bracing for something. For him. Because of him.
Because the last thing he remembers clearly is your breath on his lips and the way he walked away like a coward.
“You look—” Jongseong gulps, the words getting stuck between his throat and his heart. His eyes dart away from your eyes and he opens his mouth again.
“You look—”
“Sir,” the driver’s voice cuts in from the hallway. Why, the perfect timing. “The car is ready.”
The moment collapses.
Jongseong nods once, grateful and irritated all at the same time. “We’ll be right there.”
The door closes again, leaving the words unsaid. You smile at him, understanding, and he hates himself for not being fast enough with his words
----
The family house is already alive when you arrive.
Laughter spills from the open doors. The clink of glasses. Familiar voices layered over one another in practiced warmth. Jongseong’s mother greets you first, eyes sharp and appraising, a practised smile.
“You look lovely,” she tells you, hands light on your shoulders. “Perfect.”
Jongseong’s father nods at him from across the room, just acknowledging his presence with his perfect wife. But he doesn’t come up to you both for once.
“Do you want to sit?” he asks quietly, leaning in just enough that no one else hears. His voice is neutral, but his shoulders are tense.
“I’m fine,” you reply. Then, after a beat, softer, “Are you?”
He exhales through his nose. “I will be.”
That’s not an answer.
You drift toward the window under the pretense of admiring the garden lights. Jongseong follows a moment later, stopping beside you.
“I didn’t mean what I said earlier,” he murmurs, leaning a little closer to your ears.
You keep your eyes forward. “Which part?”
His jaw ticks. “All of it.”
“That’s convenient,” you say, not unkindly, just bored.
He glances at you then, eyes dark. “This isn’t the place.”
“No,” you agree, nodding. “It never is.”
Dinner starts shortly after. What is meant to be a family gathering feels like business meeting soon.
Everyone takes their seats, chairs pulled back in unison, napkins folded just so. Jongseong sits beside you, close enough that his knee brushes yours beneath the table, a small anchor in a room that already feels too large.
Conversation starts harmless.
Someone comments on the weather. Another praises the dishes. Jongseong’s uncle talks about a recent business acquisition, his voice carrying authority. You nod when appropriate, smile when addressed, keep your posture perfect.
But then the atmosphere shifts.
“So,” one of his aunts says, swirling her wine, eyes flicking to you with something like curiosity, “have you settled into married life yet?”
Not yet married, you want to say, You know that.
Instead, you smile. “We’re adjusting.”
She hums. “That’s good. It’s important to learn flexibility early. Especially for women.”
Another voice joins in, you don’t recognizethe face. “You still plan on working after the wedding, right? Or is this just, a phase?”
You open your mouth, then hesitate. Choose your words carefully. “I enjoy my work.”
“Of course,” someone else laughs lightly. “But family should always come first. Jongseong’s responsibilities are already immense.”
The implication lands quietly. You are not one of them.
You glance down at your plate, appetite gone. Your hands curl slightly in your lap, nails pressing into skin just enough to ground you.
“But it must be nice,” his cousin adds, smiling sweetly, “to have everything taken care of. Some people don’t realize how fortunate they are.”
Fortunate.
The word lands softly, almost politely—and still, it sinks its teeth into you. It curls somewhere behind your ribs, sharp and humiliating, because you know exactly what they mean by it. Not lucky. Not loved. Arranged. Chosen for you. Your hands rest neatly in your lap, fingers folded just right, posture perfect, because this is what fortune looks like from the outside.
You smile because you’re supposed to, because anything else would be impolite. Your chest tightens anyway. They don’t see the waiting, the wanting, the nights spent staring at a ceiling beside a man who won’t touch you. They don’t see how much of yourself you’ve learned to shrink just to fit into this version of “enough.”
You’re just another asset for them. A doll beside Jongseong.
Your eyes burn, vision blurring just slightly, and you lower your gaze before anyone notices. Because crying here would be unforgivable.
Jongseong’s fork stops moving.
It doesn’t clatter. He doesn’t drop it. He simply stills and puts it down.
He looks at you. Really looks this time.
The way your shoulders have gone rigid. The way your smile hasn’t quite reached your eyes. The way your head tips lower, lashes casting shadows over cheeks that are just a little too flushed, eyes shining with something dangerously close to tears.
“That’s enough,” Jongseong says.
The words aren’t loud. They don’t need to be. They cut through the table cleanly, like a blade sliding between ribs.
Conversation falters. Glasses pause halfway to lips.
His aunt blinks. “Jongseong, we were just—”
“You were being disrespectful,” he interrupts, voice steady and controlled. His hand moves under the table, fingers brushing your knee once. “And you’re not going to continue.”
His cousin scoffs softly. “Oh, come on. We didn’t mean anything by it.”
“I know exactly what you meant,” he says. His glare flicks across the table, sharp and unyielding. “And you don’t get to talk about her like she’s a convenience. Or something handed to me.”
The silence thickens.
His mother opens her mouth, but hesitates.
His father clears his throat. “Jongseong,” he says carefully, in a warning tone. “That’s enough. This is a family dinner.”
Jongseong turns to him slowly.
For a moment, his expression falters. Not with doubt, but with something older and buried.
“Just because you never said anything to defend Mom,” he says, voice low and shaking, “doesn’t mean I’ll do the same for my—”
He stops. Breathes shakily.
“—my wife.”
The words lands heavy. Your head snaps up to Jongseong, tears almost running down.
“She is not fortunate,” he continues, eyes never leaving his father’s. “She is capable. She is intelligent. And she does not owe anyone gratitude for being here.”
A pause.
“If you can’t respect that,” he finishes, “then this dinner is over.”
Your throat tightens painfully.
You stand before anyone can respond, chair scraping softly against the floor.
“Excuse me,” you say, voice thin but steady. “I need some air.”
You move before anyone can stop you.
The chair scrapes softly against the floor as you stand, the sound far too loud in the thick silence Jongseong has carved open. Your hands tremble, but your spine stays straight.
No one stops you. No one knows how.
You walk out before the tears can fall.
The hallway feels endless. Too bright. Too quiet. Your heels click too fast against the marble as you head toward the garage, breath coming shallow, chest tight like it’s caving in. You tell yourself not to cry. You’ve done this long enough. You can do this too.
You don’t hear him at first.
“Y/n—!”
Jongseong’s voice cuts through the space, urgent in a way you’ve never heard before. You turn just as your foot slips, heel catching awkwardly on the edge of the concrete ramp.
You twist your ankle, pain shooting up.
You gasp, stumbling forward, but arms catch you.
Strong. Jongseong absorbs you without hesitation, one arm braced around your waist, the other gripping your forearm.
“Shit—” he breathes, crouching instantly. “Don’t move.”
Your ankle throbs, hot and pulsing. You bite your lip hard, tears finally spilling over.
“I’m fine,” you whisper.
“No,” he says, “You’re not.”
He doesn’t ask for permission.
Jongseong lifts you into his arms. Your face presses briefly into his shoulder, the scent of his cologne grounding you despite everything.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, voice low and steady. “I won’t drop you.”
He carries you to the car, sets you down gently, buckles you in himself with shaking hands. When he slides into the driver’s seat, his jaw is tight, eyes dark with something fierce and protective.
Neither of you speak as he pulls out of the driveway.
The house disappears behind you.
THE APARTMENT IS QUIET WHEN YOU GET THERE.
Muted, like it’s holding its breath with you. Jongseong helps you inside without a word, arm firm around your waist, movements careful in a way that feels practiced and panicked all at once. He sits you down on the couch, kneeling immediately in front of you, jacket discarded somewhere behind him.
“Let me see,” he says, voice low.
You hesitate. “It’s probably not that bad—”
“Please,” he cuts in, gentler now. “Just… let me.”
He slips off your heel slowly, like he’s afraid even the air might hurt you. His hands are warm, steady despite the tension still living in his shoulders. When his fingers brush your ankle, you flinch.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs instantly, retreating. “I’ll be careful.”
He fetches the first aid kit, crouches again, and wraps your ankle with slow precision. His brows knit together, jaw tight, focus unwavering.
The silence stretches.
“You didn’t have to say that,” you whisper suddenly. “Back there.”
He doesn’t look up. “I did.”
“I could defend myself—”
“I know.” His hands pause. Then he looks at you. Really looks at you. “But I wanted to.”
Something in his expression fractures then. Eyebrows relaxes, shoulder dropping. His thumb lingers at your ankle a second too long, like he’s forming words.
You swallow. “You didn’t have to,” you say, even though part of you aches because he did. “Not against your family like that—”
“Yes,” he replies immediately. Too quickly. “I did.”
Your gaze drops to his hands, still hovering around your ankle, fingers warm and careful. He exhales through his nose, steadies himself, and resumes wrapping the bandage, slower now, like he’s afraid any sudden movement might make something crack.
“Maybe they were right,” you murmur, fidgeting with your fingers, warm agaisnt your lap. “About me being fortunate.”
His looks up, immediately. “Don’t.”
“It’s fine,” you add quickly, reflexive. “I’m used to it.”
That makes him stop again.
“No,” he says, quieter. “You shouldn’t be. They were wrong about everything.”
You laugh under your breath, bitter. “Jongseong—”
His thumb presses lightly into your ankle, apologetic and voice soft. “Does it hurt?” he asks.
“A little.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, and you can’t tell what he’s apologizing for anymore.
“You didn’t push me,” you try. “I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
“I should’ve been there faster.”
You look at him then. “You caught me.”
“Still,” he insists, a crease forming between his brows. “I should’ve—” He cuts himself off, breath hitching slightly. His hand shifts, pressing briefly to his own chest before he seems to realize you’re watching.
His hand lingers at his chest for half a second longer than necessary.
Then Jongseong straightens.
The shift is subtle but unmistakable. He rises to his full height, standing between your knees, close enough that your breath catches. From where you’re sitting on the counter, he feels impossibly tall, shoulders tense, frame rigid like he’s holding himself together by force alone.
You tilt your head up to look at him.
His expression is unreadable at first. Guarded. Then something in it gives way, like a crack spreading through glass that was never meant to be unbreakable. His jaw clenches. His eyes soften, dark and conflicted, flicking over your face as if he’s memorizing you again.
“I’m okay,” he says quietly.
You don’t answer.
Jongseong finishes securing the bandage. The movement puts him directly in front of you, close enough that his knees brush yours, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes.
He reaches up hesitantly, knuckles brushing your cheek. His thumb wipes at the corner of your eye before you even realize tears have slipped free.
“You’re crying,” he murmurs, voice rough.
You laugh weakly, giving up. “I think it just… caught up to me.”
His gaze lingers on your face, your red rimmed eyes, the tension in your jaw, the way you’re trying so hard to stay composed even now. Something in him gives way.
“I hate that they made you feel small,” he says quietly. “I hate that you let them.”
You swallow, looking down as if it solves something. “I didn’t want to cause trouble.”
“You didn’t,” he says, “They did.”
His hand stays on your cheek, warmer now, more certain. He uses his other thumb to brush under your other eye. Your heart thumps loud, you hate it and yet you crave it.
“You shouldn’t have to be strong all the time,” he adds. “Not here. Not with me.”
Your chest tightens. “Then why do you keep pulling away?”
The question is soft. Careful. It lands anyway.
His jaw flexes. He looks down at you, then away, then back again.
“Because if I don’t,” he says, voice dropping, “I won’t know how to keep this… contained.”
“Contained from what?”
“From wanting more,” he admits, voice shaking at its edges. “From wanting you.”
“Do you really want me?” you whisper louder than you meant to.
That’s all it takes.
He leans in slowly, as if giving you every chance to change your mind. His forehead brushes yours first, breath warm against your lips. You can feel the trembling tension in him.
When his lips finally meet yours, it’s soft.
Almost reverent.
The kiss is hesitant at first, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he presses too hard. His lips move against yours slowly, learning, relearning. When you sigh into it, his control fractures.
He kisses you deeper then, still gentle but unmistakably desperate, like he’s been starving quietly for too long. His hand slides up your back, fingers spreading between your shoulder blades, pulling you closer until there’s no space left to doubt what this is.
He trails a hot line from your lips down your jaw, then to the hollow under your ear, and you arch without realizing, breath hitching.
“Jongseong—” you whisper, when his mouth finds the tender skin at your neck. The sound breaks somewhere between his teeth and the small gasp that slips out of you trembles against his chest.
“I—” he says, voice swallowed by another kiss. “I’ve wanted—”
“Don’t,” you whisper, pleading, yet a part of you wants him to finish the sentence.
Between his kisses, your thoughts scatter and then narrow to an aching truth—you had wanted this for so long it almost hurts to finally have it.
You don’t know why, because you have always yearned for Jongseong’s warm touch. But right now, you can only hope that you won’t wake up from this.
He pauses, forehead against your temple, eyes dark and vulnerable. “I don’t know if I have the right to want,” he admits, so quiet you almost miss it. Then, louder, “But I do.”
His mouth finds your pulse at the base of your throat and presses, the kiss wet and demanding. Your hands go up, tangling in his hair at the nape of his neck, fingers threading through his strands as he deepens the kiss.
He lifts you without fussing and carries you towards the bedroom. The movement is fluid, as if he’s imagined this a thousand times and finally stepped into it. You wrap your legs around his hips instinctively.
“Careful,” you murmur, breathless, face burning up with shyness.
“I am,” he answers, voice low. “Always.”
He lays you down gently, not breaking the kiss until his forehead rests against yours and you both are dizzy with it. He leans over you lips roaming—down your throat, to the soft slope between collarbone and shoulder—leaving a trail of heated kisses like a map.
“Say my name,” he murmurs against your skin, “Call me Jay, please.”
“Jay,” you answer.
He lifts his head, mouth quirking into something close to a smile. “Good,” he says, and it’s a laugh with no humor.
Jongseong feels himself fading quietly, the way a man does when he’s held something back for too long. Every brush of your lips against his reminds him how close he is to losing the careful distance he built to survive
He’s terrified by how easy it is to forget everything else when you sigh against him, by how instinctively his body leans closer to you and the guilt eats him alive because he never allowed himself to touch you.
“Why didn’t you kiss me earlier?,” you say at one point, trying not to cry, awkward under the weight of his closeness.
“I’m sorry” he simply says, voice hoarse. “I was... scared.”
“Of what?”
He doesn’t answer the question. Instead, he brings his soft, wet lips to yours again, capturing you into another kiss.
MORNING ARRIVES QUIETLY.
The morning light slips in through the opaque curtains and fills the space in the bedroom. The city outside is awake, but your apartment isn’t, not really. It’s suspended in that soft in between where the night hasn’t fully let go yet.
You wake first.
For a few seconds, you don’t move. You just register. The warmth at your back. The steady rise and fall of his chest against you. His arm draped over your waist, heavy and protective, with his face nuzzled deep in your neck.
Last night comes back to you in fragments rather than a rush—his mouth at your neck, the way he carried you like something precious, the way his voice broke when you said his name. The way he held you afterward, forehead pressed to yours, breathing uneven but calm, like he’d finally stopped being cold.
You turn slowly, careful not to wake him.
Jongseong looks different in sleep.
Softer. Younger. His brows aren’t drawn together like they usually are, his mouth slack, lashes resting against his cheeks. There’s no heir, no expectation, no weight in the way he rests right now. Just a man who looks tired in a way that makes your chest ache.
Jongseong stirs when you shift slightly, his arm tightening instinctively around you. He hums, drowsy and half audible, and presses his lips to your hair without opening his eyes.
“Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
You smile before you can stop yourself. “Morning.”
He opens his eyes slowly, dark lashes lifting, and for a split second you see it, his eye are actually soft this time. Then his expression even warms when he focuses on you.
“Did I wake you?” he asks quietly.
“No,” you whisper. “I was already up.”
He hums again, eyes drifting shut as he pulls you closer, forehead resting against yours. His breath is warm, steady. You can feel the way his body relaxes when you don’t pull away, when you fit into him like this is something practiced rather than new.
“Stay,” he murmurs, like it’s a reflex.
You smile, your hands resting against his chest, “I’m not going anywhere.”
That makes his eyes open again.
Something passes over his face. Relief, maybe, or something more fragile. His hand tightens at your waist just a little.
“You’re warm,” he says, almost distracted. “Did you sleep?”
“A little,” you admit. “You?”
He exhales softly, a sound that’s almost a laugh. “Better than I usually do.”
There’s a pause. Not an uncomfortable one. Just space.
He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, unhurried. It feels different in the daylight. His thumb brushes gently under your eye.
“You’re staring,” you tease quietly.
“Let me,” he replies. “I don’t do it enough.”
Its crazy to think how only just a week ago, this softness intimacy with your own fiance was just a dream, something that you could only imagine. Back then, his touch felt like a concept rather than a reality, his warmth something you imagined in quiet moments before sleep, never something you expected to wake up to, wrapped in it.
Now he’s here, breathing against you, holding you as if he always did, as if he was never any cold to you.
Your chest aches with a cautious kind of hope, the kind that blooms slowly, afraid of being noticed, because part of you is still bracing for him to pull away, for the walls to rise again.
He presses another kiss to your forehead, lingering, like he’s memorizing the shape of you.
“I’ll make coffee,” he says finally. “Don’t move.”
You laugh softly. “I won’t. Promise.”
He disappears into the kitchen, barefoot and rumpled, sleeves pushed up, hair still tousled from sleep. The sight of him like this, unguarded and domestic, fills you with a warmth that almost hurts.
You sit up on the bed, glancing around the bedroom as you wait.
As the duvet cover pools around you, you can’t help but wonder how he must have felt last night, after sleeping with his back turned to you for months, after restricting your touch for months. You remember the way his voice trembled when you said his name, the way his breathing finally evened out only when you were tucked against him, and you realize he must have been carrying something heavy for a long time.
Maybe, just maybe, he was yearning for you the same way you were yearning for him.
And you let yourself believe that. You believe that mornings will be like this from now on. Soft and domestic. Romantic, even.
You glance around the bedroom as you wait, trying to find to pull you out of your thoughts.
That’s when you notice the folder.
Tucked beneath the edge of the coffee table, partially hidden, beige and unassuming. You wouldn’t have paid it any attention if not for the bold hospital logo printed across the corner.
Your stomach twists.
You tell yourself not to touch it. You really do.
But something twists in your gut, sharp and familiar, the same feeling you had when he pressed his hand to his chest last night. The same unease that’s been following him like a shadow for months.
You stand.
Your bare feet barely make a sound against the floor as you walk over. The folder is thin. You hesitate with your fingers resting against it, heart already racing like it knows what’s coming.
You pull the paper free.
Your eyes skim at first, unfocused.
The papers inside are neatly stacked, clipped together. Medical reports. Test results. Dates. Charts.
You scan the first page. And then the words blur.
Diagnosis: Atherosclerosis.
Your breath leaves you all at once, like someone punched it out of your chest.
Atherosclerosis, a condition in which plaque builds up inside your arteries, which overtime hardens narrows the arteries.
You read the other pages. Slower this time. Clinical language. Risk factors. Progression. Treatment plans that sound too careful, too conditional. Phrases like advanced, monitor closely, high risk.
Your fingers tremble as you keep reading, as if slowing down might somehow soften the meaning.
But it doesn’t.
Is this why he always kept you at an arms' distance? Why he always left you wondering for his love? Never touched you, or held or kissed only until last night? He doesn’t actually have limited time, does he?
A quiet, broken sound leaves your throat before you even realize you’re crying. You clamp a hand over your mouth, but it doesn’t help. Tears spill freely now, dropping onto the papers in dark, blurry spots. Your shoulders shake as you try to breathe through it, try to make sense of the hurricane hurling towards you.
Footsteps sound behind you.
“Coffee will be ready in—”
The sentence dies in his throat.
You hear it. The way his voice stops, the way the air shifts. You don’t look up. You can’t. You’re staring at the paper like it might rearrange itself into something less devastating if you keep looking.
“Y/n…” Jongseong says carefully, slowing down at the threshold of the bedroom.
When you finally lift your eyes, he’s frozen near the doorway, mug in hand, color draining from his face. His gaze drops from your tear streaked cheeks to the papers in your hands.
“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he says quietly.
The words land softly, but they split something open inside you.
Your fingers tighten around the papers, knuckles white, the thin sheets trembling with you. Your throat burns the moment you try to speak, like your body already knows what your heart is refusing to accept.
“H-how long?” you ask, the question barely holding together. It comes out thin. Fragile. Like if you press any harder, you’ll shatter completely.
He doesn’t answer.
That silence is worse than anything he could have said. It stretches heavy, filling the space between you until your chest feels too tight to breathe.
“How long, Jongseong?” you ask again, louder this time, tears spilling down without restraint. Your voice cracks right down the middle. “How long have you known?”
He sets the mug down slowly on the counter, like even that small sound might break you further. The coffee sloshes dangerously close to the rim, unnoticed. His shoulders rise and fall once, a controlled breath that looks rehearsed. Like he’s done this alone, over and over.
“A while,” he admits.
The words feel vague on purpose. Cowardly.
“A while?” you echo, disbelief laced with hurt. Your laugh is short and broken, more like a sob caught in reverse. “What does that even mean, Jongseong? Weeks? Months?”
His jaw tightens. He drags a hand through his hair, fingers shaking just enough that you notice. He looks away from you—toward the window, the wall, anywhere but your face.
“Years.”
The word drops into the room like a blade.
For a moment, everything goes quiet. Not muted, but gone. Like your ears are ringing after an explosion.
“Years?” you whisper, the syllable barely surviving your lips.
Your knees feel weak. Your chest aches so sharply it almost feels physical, like something is crushing your ribs from the inside. You clutch the papers harder, as if they might anchor you to the floor.
“You’ve been—” Your voice gives out. You swallow, forcing the words through tears. “You’ve been sick this whole time?”
“Yes.”
The answer is immediate. Too immediate. Like he’s tired of lying, or maybe tired of carrying it alone.
“And you didn’t think to tell me?” The hurt finally spills into anger, your voice rising, shaking, raw. “You didn’t think I deserved to know?”
He turns back to you instantly, panic flashing across his face, all that carefully built composure cracking at the edges.
“That’s not—” he starts, stepping toward you.
“Then what was it?” you cut in, backing away without realizing it. Your chest heaves, every breath uneven. “What was all that distance? All those nights you wouldn’t touch me, wouldn’t even look at me?”
Your voice breaks again, softer now, more wounded than angry. Memories flood back uninvited, the cold space between you in bed, the way he always kept a careful inch of distance, the way his hands would clench like he wanted to reach for you and stopped himself.
“You made me feel unwanted,” you whisper. “Like I was asking for too much just by loving you.”
His face twists at that, pain cutting through his features so sharply it almost scares you.
“I was trying to protect you,” he says, voice strained. “I was trying to protect us.”
“By shutting me out?” you snap, tears blurring your vision. “By letting me think I wasn’t enough?”
“That’s not what it was,” he insists, stepping closer again. “I couldn’t— I didn’t know how to let you get attached when I don’t even know how long I—”
He stops himself.
Your heart stutters. “When you don’t know how long what?” you take a shaky breath in, “Why after all this time—”
“Because Im dying, okay?” Jongseong snaps.
The words don’t land right away.
They snatch the land away from right beneath your feet, and for a second you feel falling down. For a moment, all you can hear is your own heartbeat beating way too loud agaisnt your ribcage.
“What…?” Your lips move, but the sound barely comes out. “What did you say?”
He looks like he regrets it the instant the words leave him. Like they tore out of him without permission. His shoulders tense, jaw clenched so tightly you can see the muscle jump beneath his skin. His eyes are glossy. Hes not crying yet.
“I said I’m dying,” he repeats, quieter now. Hoarse, and you know that hurts him. “Eventually. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not this year. But it’s there. Hanging over everything.”
You shake your head slowly, as if that might undo it. As if disbelief alone could rewind time to ten minutes ago, when the world still made sense.
“No,” you whisper. “Don’t say that like it’s—like it’s already decided.”
He laughs under his breath, bitter and exhausted. “It kind of is.”
Your chest tightens painfully. “Then why are you standing here?” you demand, tears streaming freely now. “Why are you pretending this is just another argument we can talk through?”
“Because I didn’t want you living your life around a countdown,” he says, voice breaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “Because I didn’t want to be the reason you wake up one day alone, wondering why you stayed.”
You clutch the papers to your chest like they’re the only thing keeping you upright. “So you thought hurting me would be better?”
“I thought distancing myself would make it easier when I leave,” he says quietly.
“When you—” Your breath stutters. “When you what?”
“When I go away,” he admits. “Anytime, Y/n. My whole life is unsure. I don’t get guarantees. I don’t get to plan ten years ahead like everyone else.”
He drags a hand down his face, the movement slow, weary, like the mask is finally too heavy to hold up.
“I didn’t want this marriage,” he says suddenly, the confession sharp and honest. “I didn’t want a wife whom I can just leave behind.”
The words gut you.
“Then why did you agree?” you ask, voice small despite everything tearing through you. “Why stand there beside me, say vows you didn’t believe in?”
His eyes lift to yours then, and something raw breaks open in them.
“Because I didn’t know how not to,” he says. “Because everyone kept telling me it was the right thing. My family wanted stability. I—”
He stops. Swallows hard.
“Because part of me hoped I was wrong,” he finishes. “That maybe I’d get lucky. That maybe if I kept my distance, I could survive it without hurting you.”
Your chest feels like it’s caving in on itself.
You want to scream at him for keeping something this devastating from you, for deciding on your behalf what you could and couldn’t handle. You want to cry for the months you spent feeling unwanted, for the nights you lay beside him wondering what you’d done wrong, for every time you swallowed your need for affection because you thought you were asking for too much.
And beneath all of that, cutting deeper than the rest, is fear.
Your mind keeps replaying every small moment from the past days. The way he would sometimes pause mid-step, fingers pressing briefly to his chest before he noticed you watching. The exhaustion he tried to hide behind clipped answers and silence. He was living life on borrowed time. And now it all makes a horrifying kind of sense. The distance wasn’t indifference. It was fear. Fear of attachment. Fear of leaving you behind. Fear of loving you too much when he wasn’t sure how long he’d be allowed to.
Your hands shake as you clutch the papers, the thin sheets crumpling slightly under your grip. You don’t even notice. All you can feel is the way your chest feels too small for everything trying to live inside it at once.
Anger. Fear. Grief. Love.
Love, most of all.
You take a step toward him before you realize you’ve moved. Your legs feel unsteady, like they might give out at any second, but you keep going until you’re standing right in front of him. He looks braced, like he’s expecting you to push him away, to scream, to tell him you’re done.
Instead, your voice comes out broken and soft.
“So you decided for me,” you say. Not accusing. Just devastated. “You decided that I couldn’t love you through this. That I couldn’t stay.”
His jaw tightens. “I didn’t want you trapped.”
“I wasn’t trapped,” you whisper. “I was confused. I was lonely. I was wondering every day what I did wrong.”
That hits him harder than shouting ever could.
Jongseong’s shoulders sag, like something finally gives up holding itself together. He closes his eyes briefly, breath shuddering as it leaves him.
“I know,” he says hoarsely. “I know I hurt you.”
The word hangs in the air between you.
Dying.
It doesn’t sound real. It feels like a foreign language, like something meant for hospital rooms and strangers, not the man standing in front of you with his jaw clenched and his eyes shining like he’s trying not to break apart in front of you.
Your breath stutters. Your fingers loosen around the papers, and they slip from your grasp, fluttering to the floor.
“You—” Your voice comes out hoarse. You clear your throat, but it doesn’t help. “Don’t say it like that. Don’t say it so casually.”
Jongseong exhales sharply, like the word tore its way out of him. “I’m not being casual. I’m being honest for once.”
The room feels too small. The walls press in. You take a step toward him without even realizing it, your chest aching with something that feels too big to fit inside you.
“You really did decide a huge part of my life without asking me,” you whisper.
His gaze flickers to your lips and then back to your eyes, conflicted, raw. “Because it hurts more than anything to know I might leave you behind.”
The words knock the breath out of you.
“You already did,” you say softly. “Every time you made me doubt your love.”
His shoulders sag, like the fight drains out of him all at once. “I cared too much,” he admits. “That was the problem.”
You’re close enough now to feel the warmth of him, the tension vibrating through his body like a live wire. Your hand lifts on instinct, fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt at his chest. You feel his heart beneath it, beating hard and fast, like it’s trying to run from the truth too.
“You should’ve told me,” you say, your voice breaking. “I would’ve stayed. I would’ve chosen you anyway.”
His breath shudders. “I didn’t pity.”
“You really think that?” you say, tears blurring your vision. “It would’ve been love.”
That does it.
Something in his expression finally gives. The careful distance he’s kept for months collapses in a single moment. He reaches for you like he’s been holding himself back from doing it for far too long, one hand coming up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing under your eye where your tears spill over.
“Don’t say that,” he murmurs, voice low and unsteady. “If you say that, I won’t be able to pretend anymore.”
“Then don’t pretend,” you whisper. “Not with me.”
For a second, he just looks at you. Really looks at you. Like he’s memorizing every line of your face, every fragile breath you take.
Then he leans in.
The kiss isn’t gentle at first. It’s desperate, like all the words he’s swallowed are finally finding a way out through his mouth instead. His lips press into yours with a quiet, aching intensity, and you gasp against him before melting into it, your hands clutching at his shirt like you’re afraid he might disappear if you let go.
His breath mingles with yours, warm and uneven. The kiss deepens, not rushed but heavy, loaded with everything unsaid—regret, longing, fear, love. His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, pulling you closer until there’s barely any space left between your bodies.
“God,” he exhales against your lips, the word breaking like a confession. “I shouldn’t—”
You don’t let him finish. You kiss him again, softer this time, slower, like you’re grounding him, reminding him that you’re real, that this moment is real. Your forehead rests against his when you finally pull back, breaths mingling, your noses brushing.
“I don’t care about anything,” you whisper. “I only care about you.”
His eyes search yours, dark and vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen before. His thumb brushes over your lower lip, lingering, like he’s fighting the urge to kiss you again and losing.
“You make this so hard,” he murmurs.
“Sorry” you reply quietly.
He lets out a breath that sounds like surrender. His forehead drops to yours, his eyes closing briefly as if he’s bracing himself for the weight of what he’s about to say next.
He opens his eyes then, and they’re wet now, shining dangerously. “I didn’t think I’d survive watching you look at me like this every day. Like I was your future.”
Your heart twists painfully.
“You are my future,” you say without thinking.
The words hang in the air, fragile and terrifying.
He shakes his head immediately. “Don’t say that.”
“Why?” you demand, voice cracking. “Because it scares you?”
“I can’t promise you anything,” he says sharply, desperation bleeding through his restraint. “I can’t promise you years. I can’t promise you safety. I can’t even promise you tomorrow.”
He gestures vaguely to his chest, frustration and fear tangled together. “My body could fail me at any point. I live knowing that. I didn’t want you living like that too.”
You step closer, until there’s barely any space left between you.
“I would’ve chosen it,” you whisper. “If you’d told me, I would’ve chosen you anyway.”
His breath stutters.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” you say fiercely. “Because I already did. Every night you turned away, every morning I woke up hoping you’d look at me differently. I stayed even when I didn’t understand why you were pulling away.”
Your voice softens, trembling. “Do you know how much it hurts to feel unwanted by the person you love?”
He winces like you’ve struck him.
“I never didn’t want you,” he says immediately. “God, Y/n, that was the problem.”
Silence falls again, thick and heavy.
You wipe at your tears with the back of your hand, inhaling shakily. “Then say it,” you challenge quietly. “Say what you were so afraid to say.”
He stares at you, chest rising and falling unevenly, like he’s standing at the edge of something irreversible.
“I was afraid,” he admits finally. “Afraid that if I let myself love you the way I wanted to, it would destroy me when I leave.”
“When you die?” you whisper, hating the word even as it leaves your mouth.
His face tightens, but he nods once.
Your knees feel weak again. You reach out instinctively, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, grounding yourself against him.
“And the wedding?” you ask suddenly, voice trembling with the weight of the question. “Will you— will you not—”
He doesn’t let you finish.
“I will marry you, Y/n.”
The certainty in his voice steals your breath.
He cups your face gently, thumbs brushing your cheeks where tears keep falling, like he’s memorizing the shape of you, like he’s afraid this might be taken from him too.
“I will marry you,” he repeats, softer now. “Not because I have to. Not because anyone expects me to. But because I want to. Loving you is the one thing in my life that feels real.”
Your lips tremble. “Then why were you pushing me away?”
“I don’t know,” he admits, voice breaking. “maybe because I have limited time.”
Something inside you shatters completely at that.
You press your forehead to his chest, listening to his heartbeat, strong and terrifying and precious all at once. Your tears soak into his shirt as you sob quietly, fingers gripping him like if you let go, he might disappear.
Jongseong wraps his arms around you tightly, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other firm at your waist. He holds you like he’s afraid the world might steal you away too.
“I didn’t want to give you a life full of hospitals and waiting rooms,” he murmurs into your hair, his palms caressing your back slowly. “I didn’t want to be the reason you’re scared all the time.”
You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes red and swollen. And then press your face against him again.
His breath catches.
“If I miss someone the most in this world,” he says suddenly, voice thick with emotion, “then it is my grandma.”
You still, listening.
“She wanted to see me grow up. Be successful. Be happy.” His lips tremble as he speaks. “She wanted to share her blessings with my future wife.”
He swallows hard. “But she couldn’t. She didn’t get to see any of it.”
Your heart aches as he continues, voice barely holding together.
“If she’d be here, you would love you,” Jongseong’s voice cracks, but he lets out a melancholic laugh through it. It cracks, brings water to his eyes.
He lets out a shaky breath, eyes dropping to look at you.
“I...” His voice drops to a whisper. “I love you, Y/n.”
Your chest tightens painfully.
“I love you,” he repeats, like he needs to hear himself say it. You bring your head up to see him again. A tear slips past his cheeks, enhancing his now flushed features. Jongseong’s breath hitches, “I’m sorry for being a bad fiancé, I’m sorry I made you doubt. But I love you, god, I do.”
A broken laugh slips out of you through your tears.
“I love you enough that it hurts,” he continues, pressing his forehead to yours. “And I should have said this sooner to you.”
You cup his face with both hands, thumbs brushing away the tears he’s finally letting fall.
“It’s okay,” you whisper, smiling through tears, “Just don't love me halfway anymore.”
He nods slowly, eyes closing as he leans into your touch. “Then stay,” he murmurs. “Even if it’s scary.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” you say, echoing your words from this morning, but now they carry weight. Promise. Choice.
He kisses you then. Again. Not desperate like last night. Not restrained like before. But full and trembling and honest, like he’s finally stopped running from the truth.
And when he holds you afterward, arms tight and protective, you don’t care about anything else in this world.
Park Jongseong has finally kissed you, heck, he's even holding you. And even if he can't do that forever, it’s all that you ever wished for.
EPILOGUE
The wedding does not feel like how weddings are described in stories.
There is no loud music spilling into the street, no crowd pressing in on every side, no overwhelming spectacle. It is small, intimate to the point of fragility, held in the quiet hall of an old heritage house on the outskirts of the city, where the windows are tall and the light filters in pale and gentle, as if even the sun is careful not to intrude too loudly on something this delicate.
Both your families wanted a huge crowd, too many heads to feed in the wedding; but much to their bad luck, Jongseong had stood his ground. He’d said it calmly, without raising his voice, without the sharp edge he used when he was tired or in pain. He didn’t want a stage. He didn’t want a day that felt like it belonged to everyone except the two of you. He wanted something small enough to breathe in. Something that wouldn’t exhaust him before the vows were even spoken, that would feel like yours.
So here you are.
The guest list is trimmed down to the people who matter, the people who know—at least partly—what this day costs him and what it means. There are no distant relatives you barely recognize, no business acquaintances pretending this is a celebration more than a formality.
Except Sunghoon brought in his whole friend group back from his college days, to which Jongseong knew he couldn’t say no to.
Your mother had argued, of course. His family had too. There were expectations. But Jongseong had only said, “Y/n doesn’t want crowds, and I want us to live our wedding day and not rehearse it.” And that had been the end of it.
The hall is simple. Old wood floors that creak softly under careful steps. White fabric draped along the walls. A narrow aisle lined with lilies that smell clean and faintly sweet. The kind of place that feels more like a promise.
You stand at the far end of the aisle, hands folded in front of you, trying to steady your breathing.
Your dress is lighter than you expected it to be, the fabric falling in soft lines instead of stiff layers. You wanted something you could move in. Something that wouldn’t weigh you down. Something that felt like you. The veil brushes your shoulders, and for a moment you close your eyes, just to take it in.
This is real.
When you open them, you see him.
Jongseong is already at the front, standing beside the officiant, posture straight but not rigid. He looks.fragile, in a way that makes your chest tighten. The suit fits him perfectly, but you can see the faint signs of fatigue he never quite manages to hide. The slight hollowness beneath his eyes. The careful way he holds himself, like he’s measuring his energy even now.
And still, when he looks at you, everything else falls away.
His expression changes the moment your eyes meet. The tension in his shoulders eases, just a little. His lips part, like he forgot to breathe for a second. There’s something raw there. Something open. Something that makes your throat ache.
You start walking.
Each step feels slow, because your body seems to understand the weight of this moment better than your mind does. The quiet hum of the room wraps around you. You’re vaguely aware of people watching, of soft movements, of the way the light catches in the tall windows, but mostly, there’s just him.
With every step, memories rise up uninvited.
The distance that used to sit between you like a wall. The silence. The nights you lay awake wondering what you had done wrong. The day you found the papers. The way his voice broke when he said he was dying. The way he looked at you like he was both terrified and relieved that you knew.
And then the nights after that. The long talks. The quiet understanding. The way he started reaching for you again, slowly, like he was relearning how to trust himself with your heart.
You stop in front of him.
Up close, you can see the way his hands are clasped together, fingers tight, knuckles pale. You can see the faint tremor in his breath. But you can also see the way his eyes soften when he looks at you, like you are the only steady thing in a world that keeps shifting under his feet.
For a moment, neither of you speak.
The officiant clears their throat gently and begins, their voice low and respectful, as if they, too, understand that this is not a day for grand speeches. The words drift around you—about love, about commitment, about choosing each other not just when it’s easy, but when it’s hard.
“In sickness and in health” lands heavier than the rest.
Your fingers twitch at your sides, and Jongseong notices. His gaze flickers to your hands, then back to your face, and he gives you the smallest nod. Like he’s reminding you. Like he’s reminding himself. We’re here. We’re still here.
When it’s your turn to speak, your heart is hammering so hard you’re afraid your voice will shake.
But when you look at him, really look at him, the words come out steadier than you expect.
His eyes shine, but he doesn’t look away.
When it’s his turn, he swallows hard before speaking.
“I spent a long time trying not to want this,” he admits. “I thought distance would protect you. I thought if I didn’t let you get too close, it would hurt less when…” He stops, breath catching, then continues more softly. “When I leave. I was wrong. All I did was waste time I could have spent loving you properly.”
His voice steadies, just a little.
“I can’t promise you forever. I wish I could. But I can promise you honesty. I can promise you every day I’m given. I can promise you that as long as I’m here, you won’t face anything alone.”
Your eyes burn, but you don’t look away.
When the rings are exchanged, his fingers linger around yours, like he’s afraid of letting go even for a second. When he leans in to kiss you, it’s gentle, unhurried. Not a performance. Not for the room. Just for you.
And when the officiant declares you married, there’s no thunderous applause. Just soft clapping. Warm smiles. A quiet, collective exhale.
The room exhales around you, a collective softening now that the vows have been spoken and the weight of them has settled into something real. There’s a quiet shuffle of movement as people begin to rise from their seats, the soft murmur of congratulations beginning to bloom through the hall. The light shifts as a cloud passes outside, turning the windows briefly dimmer, then bright again.
Jongseong’s hand is still wrapped around yours.
His palm is warm, his grip a little too tight, like he’s anchoring himself to the reality of this moment. You squeeze back, a silent reassurance, and he looks down at you with something fragile and bright in his eyes. Relief, maybe. Or disbelief that he’s actually here, standing beside you, that the day did not break apart before it could begin.
“You okay?” you whisper, leaning in so only he can hear.
He nods. “Yeah. Just… give me a second.”
You recognize the tone. The carefulness. The way he’s learned to pace himself, even in moments meant to be joyful. You don’t press. You just stay close, your shoulder brushing his arm, your presence a quiet support rather than a demand.
The officiant steps aside, offering you both a small, gentle smile. Someone from the back laughs softly—Sunghoon, probably—trying to cut through the heaviness with something familiar. Your mother wipes at her eyes, her expression torn between pride and worry. His family watches him closely, too closely, like they’re counting his breaths without realizing it.
You and Jongseong take a step forward together.
The motion is small, but you feel the shift in his balance immediately. It’s subtle, you feel it in the way his fingers tighten around yours, in the way his shoulder brushes yours a little harder than before.
“Jongseong?” you murmur.
“I’m fine,” he says automatically, the words practiced. He gives you a faint smile, the kind he uses when he doesn’t want to worry you. “Just stood up too fast.”
You search his face. The color has drained a little, leaving him paler than before. There’s a sheen of sweat at his temple that wasn’t there moments ago. Your chest tightens with a familiar, creeping fear.
“Do you want to sit for a bit?” you ask quietly. “We can—”
“I don’t want to sit,” he replies, more firmly than you expect, though his voice is still gentle. “I want to walk out with you. Just… slow, okay?”
So you walk slowly.
Each step is measured, careful. The old wood floor creaks beneath your feet, a soft, grounding sound. The lilies lining the aisle blur in your peripheral vision. You keep your attention on him, on the steady rise and fall of his chest.
His inner world feels loud in a way you can almost sense without him saying anything. There’s a stubborn pride in him, a refusal to let this moment be overshadowed by his body’s limits. He has fought for this day. He has insisted on being here, standing, choosing this with you. The thought of needing help, of letting weakness show in front of everyone, presses against something old in him.
And yet, even as he tries to hold himself together, there is a quieter fear threading through him. A whisper that this might be too much. That joy, even when it is gentle, still costs him something.
Your own thoughts are no less tangled.
Part of you is floating, still wrapped in the soft glow of being married, of hearing him say vows that felt like a promise against the dark. Another part of you is coiled tight with worry, hyper-aware of every change in his breathing, every slight falter in his step. Loving him has taught you this strange duality, how joy and fear can exist side by side, neither fully eclipsing the other.
You reach the middle of the aisle.
There’s a soft ripple of applause, gentle and restrained, as people make space for you to pass. Someone murmurs congratulations. Someone else whispers his name, concern threading through the sound. The room feels warmer than before, or maybe that’s just your nerves making everything feel too close.
Jongseong exhales, long and slow.
“I’m glad we did it like this,” he says under his breath. “Small. Quiet.”
You smile up at him, though your heart is beating too fast. “Me too.”
His gaze lingers on you, something tender and aching in it, like he’s trying to hold onto this exact version of you in this exact moment. Married. Here. Alive in front of him.
“You look…” he trails off, then shakes his head slightly, eyes glues on yours. “You look like something I don’t deserve.”
You start to protest, but the words die in your throat when you feel his grip falter.
It’s subtle at first, the tension in his fingers loosening, his hand slipping slightly in yours. His step stutters. His breath catches.
“Jongseong?” you say, louder now.
The room seems to tilt.
For a second, he’s still standing, eyes unfocused, like he didn’t expect this to happen now, of all times. His inner world fractures in that moment.
“I’m okay,” he tries to say, but the words come out wrong, thin and unconvincing.
Then his knees buckle.
The world lurches forward in a rush of motion and sound. You feel his weight shift suddenly, too heavy, too fast. Your grip tightens instinctively as you reach for him, calling his name as the room erupts into startled gasps, chairs scraping back, someone shouting for help.
Your arms wrap around him as he falls, your body bracing against the impact, heart slamming painfully against your ribs.
“Jongseong—!”
The lilies blur into white streaks at the edge of your vision. The quiet hall fractures into chaos, voices overlapping, footsteps rushing closer. You sink to the floor with him, cradling his head against your chest, your hands trembling as you search his face.
His eyes are half-lidded, breath shallow but there, still there. His brow is drawn, like he’s fighting to stay with you.
“Stay with me, please,” you whisper, the words pouring out like a plea. “A-Always” Jongseong breaths out.
Around you, the room is a blur of motion and worry, but your world has narrowed to the feel of his weight in your arms, the fragile warmth of his skin against yours, the uncertain rhythm of his breathing.
AUTHORS NOTE hello hello again! thank you so so much for reading this all the way and making it through here 💗 i decided for the ending to be open because making jay pass away would be too sad and i couldnt think of any other endings 😞 so for my angst ending haters, you can just pretend that the epilogue never happened!!! phew, its finished and i definitely took way more time than i should've, but like i was sooo confused on this one. anyways, please let me know how it was and reblog to support! see you in my next long fic 😛
edit: and now to clear up some doubts about the ending, jay doesn't actually passes away in the ending! its just shown that he collapses to the ground, and whatever happens after that is left to your imagination, making this an open ending! once again, thank you for reading <3
pairing: bestfriend!jay x reserved!reader x boyfriend!jungwon
synopsis: you knew what you have been doing was wrong, but you could not stop nor did you want to. until he caught you.
genre: smut, angst
contains: profanity, unprotected sex, infidelity, no remorse for cheating, morally grey characters, unethical behavior, break up, emotional distress, reader for the first time feels just a little guilty, loverboy!jungwon, confrontation, possessiveness
smut warnings: threesome (mmf), meandom!jungwon x cockydom!jay x sub!reader, dry humping, dirty talk, humiliation, name calling, degradation, finger sucking, hair pulling, jungwon is super mad and hurt, rough sex, edging, clitoral stimulation, manhandling (lika a lot) , handjob (mxm), fight for dominance (mxm), power play dominance, dacryphilia, oral (f. & m. receiving), fingering, pet names, begging
NOT PROOFREAD! (english is not my first language)
MDNI!
The door wasn't supposed to open—but it was too late.
The handle turned slowly under Jungwon's grip, the quiet creak almost polite, almost gentle. He stood frozen in the doorway, fingers tightening around the metal as his eyes adjusted to the scene in front of him. Right on your bed. You bent over the edge, knees on the floor chest pressed against the mattress and Jay right behind you on his knees, clothed throbbing bulge against your covered centar, fully clothed but still the act so sinful and filthy.
Jay slowed down after the sound that broke the breathless and desperate atmosphere, your gasps subduing as you raised your forehead from the fluffy duvet. Jungwon's eyes flicked to the corner of your room, to the chair that had his hoodie and sweats resting on them that he just dropped by to pick up before they were back to the both of you.
For a second, he doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. His eyes travel slowly, carefully, like he's afraid of what they'll confirm if he looks too fast.
You.
Jay.
Your silk pyjama shorts riding up your thighs, bunching right at your hips exposing your red ass cheeks, his old zip up hoodie you claimed as yours when your two started dating exposing your shoulders, under which you so carelessly wore nothing. The shorts he bought you on his last summer trip with his parents. The hoodie he cuddled you in, laughed with you in, fucked you in. Jay was pressed against your ass, his bulge so obviously visible as his movements stopped, the hand that was between your shoulder blades slowly dropping to your hip.
Jungwon's grip on the handle tightened at the sight that he needed some time to process. His chest tightened, stomach flipped, mind blank. Jay doesn't pull away. He doesn't look guilty, doesn't look surprised. If anything, he looks mildly curious — head tilting just slightly, dark eyes steady on Jungwon like he's waiting to see how this plays out.
Jungwon loves you.
He loves you in the quiet ways. In remembering the things you forget. In the way he reaches for your hand absentmindedly when you're walking beside him. He loves you in patient ways. In futures planned in his head that he never pressured you into. He trusts you. He trusts you enough that walking in on this doesn't make him scream.
It makes him go still.
And that stillness is worse. Because while something in him is cracking, audible, visible, you feel nothing at all. No rush of panic. No desperate apology clawing its way up your throat.
Jay has always been there. Before Jungwon. During Jungwon. And maybe that's the real betrayal. You didn't choose one, you chose both.
That's what makes the silence so loud, because he isn't shouting. He isn't asking what this is. He's just standing there, something splintering behind his eyes so subtly it almost looks like confusion. Like he's trying to rearrange the scene into something that makes sense.
It doesn't.
You don't move. No fear, no guilt. Jay's gaze flicks from Jungwon back to you, then returns to him. Calm. Unapologetic. Their eyes met in a fiery battle, Jay's mischief ones holding something darker behind them as they bored into the doe confused glassy eyes of the other man. And that's when Jungwon's jaw tightened and his eyes locked with yours for the first time.
His gaze drags over you again — slower this time. Taking inventory. The hoodie. The shorts. The way you're still on your knees and bent over the same bed you two were spending the most of the time when he was over.
His hoodie.
His throat moves like he's trying to swallow something that won't go down, eyes going over your flushed face, ruined hair and the dazed eyes absentmindedly searching for regret. Something. Just something that proves that you are sorry, that you made a mistake.
That this has not been going on for as long as his friends told him to watch out for.
Nothing. Just a blank hazy stare.
He clenched his jaw, biting the inside of his cheek as his gaze moved over the both of you one more time. His chest filling up with sorrow, pain that threatened to burst out any second. He gulped, nodding to himself and slowly backed out of the doorway, pulling the door closed.
He wasted no time, his harsh steps already moving toward the front door, wanting nothing else then to just leave.
Leave this suffocating apartment.
———
It's been three days.
Three days since Jungwon walked in on you and Jay. Three days of silence so complete it almost feels intentional, like he decided the absence would hurt more than any words ever could. No messages. No missed calls. No late night paragraphs sent in anger. Just nothing. You expected something louder. Expected fury. Expected him to storm back in within hours, demanding explanations, demanding tears, demanding something from you. But Jungwon didn't do that. He left. And he stayed gone.
The evening settles heavy outside your apartment windows, the sky bleeding into muted orange and dull blue. The light stretches long across the hardwood floors, catching on the edges of furniture, making the place feel unfamiliar in its stillness. You've been sitting in it for a while now, letting the quiet press against you. You don't feel particularly guilty. Not devastated. If anything, you feel suspended — like you're waiting for the consequence to finally arrive.
When the knock comes, it's firm but controlled, not aggressive, not frantic. You know it's him before your body even reacts. For a moment, you stand there, staring at the door, considering how easy it would be not to answer. To let this stretch another day. Another hour. But avoidance has never really been your style. Neither has confrontation.
You open it.
He stands there, eyes are rimmed red, skin pale in the fading light of the hallway. His jaw is tight, like he's been clenching it for days, holding something back. His hands were in his pockets, grey sweats hung low on his hips and a black shirt cascaded over his shoulders and down his torso. The combo that would have made you go feral any other day and definitely in different circumstances.
"We need to talk." He says after a moment, his voice quiet but fierce, almost commanding. He doesn't ask if he can come in. He just steps past you slowly, like the threshold doesn't belong to either of you anymore. The door shuts behind him with a sharper click than before, like he didn't mean for it to slam but couldn't quite control the force and made his way towards your couch. You followed before he stopped.
For a second he just stands there in the living room space, chest heaving up and down harsher than it should. He slipped his hands form his pockets, palms flexing into fists like he didn't know what to do with them. You can see it — the effort it's taking for him to stay composed. "I've been trying..." He starts, voice low and strained. "I've been trying to figure out what to say without losing my mind."
You move past him, letting yourself lean against the counter, arms crossing over your chest. "Okay." You murmured, almost a whisper, eyes on the floor. That one word does it.
"Okay?" He repeats, incredulous. A sharp humorless laugh escaped him and your eyes flicked up to him. "That's it? That's all you have to say?" Jungwon's voice rose now, nothing controlled about it. It fills the apartment, bouncing off walls that have never heard him like this before. "You stood there..." He continues, stepping closer. The image of you bent over, grinded into by the one person you claimed to be your childhood best friend, a brother, flashed before his eyes. "You stood there with him and didn't even look shocked. Do you know what that does to someone?" He was losing it, the anger boiled in his chest, frustration getting the best of him.
Your gaze drops briefly, not out of guilt just because the intensity in his eyes is unfamiliar. Your gaze drifts somewhere over his shoulder, not meeting his eyes — not because you can't, but because the weight in the room feels foreign. In two years, it's never been like this. You and Jungwon were easy. Comfortable. Predictable in the best ways. This feels sharp. Wrong. Tense in a way your relationship never was.
"I don't know what you wanted me to say." It's the truth, but it sounds flat when you say it. Detached.
He lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh, except there's nothing amused about it. "Anything!" He says tone sharp as run a hand through his hair, pacing a few steps before stopping again and turning to you. "You could've said anything. Told me it wasn't what it looked like. Lied to me. At least that would've meant you cared enough to try! " His angry voice bounced off the walls again, making you flinch slightly.
He got closer, a feet away. "I kept thinking maybe I misunderstood. Maybe I walked in too fast. Maybe there was some explanation I was too angry to hear. But seeing you at the verge of being fucked right in front of me, in my fucking hoodie—!" His eyes were now glossy, throat dry as he pointed to his chest, eyes searching for yours as he was at the brink of getting in your face. "It fucking hurt."
The last word comes out raw. Not shouted — torn. His hand fists in his hair before dropping uselessly to his side. The anger burns out fast, too fast, leaving something raw underneath. He squeezes his eyes shut like he's physically trying to hold it together, but the emotion spills over anyway. A tear slips down before he can stop it. He swallows hard, breath hitching once, then again frustrated with himself for crying and unable to stop.
And then the anger drains.
It leaves him standing there looking stripped of something. Smaller. He runs a hand over his face and turns away from you abruptly, walking to the couch like his legs are suddenly heavier than they were seconds ago. He drops down onto it, elbows on his knees, hands covering his face as his shoulders rise and fall unevenly.
The apartment goes quiet except for his breathing.
You move without thinking, almost weightless. You cross the space slowly and lower yourself into the armchair beside the couch, angled toward him. Close enough to see the way his fingers press into his forehead. Not close enough to touch.
You sit there.
From the outside, you look composed. But your stomach feels tight. Embarrassment prickles under your skin — not because he caught you, but because you can see what it's doing to him. He drags his hands down his face slowly, eyes red, lashes clumped together. He doesn't look at you at first.
"I loved you." Jungwon says hoarsely. No shouting now, no fire, just pure wreckage. "I loved you so much."
Your chest tightens at his state—sitting here, ruined to the core as tears kept pouring from his always cheerful eyes, now making them appear dull and lost. No sound left him except the harsh breaths he took in. "And this?" He gestures vaguely, angrily. "This is what you've been doing behind my back?" His voice rose again, ricocheting off the dull walls that surrounded you both.
You open your mouth, but the words hesitate. "I…" You swallow. "I didn't mean for it to be like that.”
His head snaps toward you, eyes sharp and overwhelming. "Then what was it supposed to be?" You look down at your hands. Suddenly they're very interesting, very safe. "I-I don't kn—"
"How long?" He interrupted sharply. Your eyes flicked up to his but the way he was looking at you, completely different and filled with rage made you look down instead, eyes on his feet. You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Hesitation was pulling you back, not because you were sorry, not because you felt like it's the right thing to do—but because you knew it's going to ruin him to the rock bottom and saying it out loud feels humiliating now.
"How. Long." Jungwon spoke through gritted teeth, eyes burning as the silence made it hurt more than any answer could. His cheeks were stained and ruined, lashes wet and eyes filled with bitterness. "Since we were sixteen..." You said quietly, eyes back on your lap and the hands that rested there.
Jungwon goes still at that, not calm but just stunned. "Before me." He says, more statement than question.
"... Yes."
His head tilts back slightly as he exhales, eyes squeezing shut for a second. Another tear escapes, trailing down his temple into his hairline. He doesn't wipe this one away.
His. You were never actually his.
"It never stopped..." He adds again, no question mark intended.
"...No."
The word hangs between the two of you, heavy and relentless. He nods once, jaw ticking as he spoke back. "Why?" It came out raw, almost desperate beneath all the rage as his bottom lip trembled. "Was I not enough? Did I do something? Tell me what I did wrong."
"You were enough." You say quickly, finally looking at him fully. There's uncertainty in your voice now. Shame threading through it. "I do love you—" His hollow laugh made you stop, he shook his head as tears continued to fall. "You love me...?" He repeats bitterly. "That's what's insane. You love me and you still kept going back to him." You don't have a clean explanation. That's what embarrasses you now — not being caught, but not understanding yourself.
"I don't know why." You admit, quieter. "It was… familiar. It started before you. I thought I could just separate it and love you. I didn't think it would—" You stop, swallowing. "I didn't think you'd find out."
The second it leaves your mouth, you see the damage. His face tightens, anger surging back to the surface. "Do you know how fucking ridiculous and selfish you sound right now?!" He yelled in frustration, his vision becoming blurry again as he tried to compose himself, but the tug at his chest that he felt was too much. "So you were just going to keep doing it?" Jungwon asks as his voice lowered into something more dangerous, eyes narrowing with disbelief and pure mockery. "Just keep lying to me and let me be stupid."
You hesitate, a deep breath of yours cut through the tension. "Yes." The honesty slices clean. He inhales sharply, like the air burned on the way in. Tears spill freely now, but his posture straightens instead of collapsing. The anger doesn't fade it refines.
"You love me..." He says slowly, wiping his face roughly with the heel of his hand, almost as if to try to get to his head. His eyes are still wet, but they're sharper now. Harder. "And you still couldn't stop." You don't argue.
"You were never mine. Never." He spoke softly to himself, nodding and reaffirming as his muscles tensed at the thought. Something changes in him then, not the hurt, not the anger. The direction of it. He leans back against the couch, shoulders squaring as if he's made a decision. His breathing evens out, though his eyes are still rimmed red, cheeks still damp.
"Call him." He says.
You blink confused. "What?"
"Call Jay." His voice is steady now. Controlled. The tears are still there, but they don't soften him anymore. They just make him look more unhinged. "Tell him to come over." Your pulse jumps. "Why would I do that?" A bitter, almost cocky smile pulls at his mouth — broken at the edges, but real.
"Because if he was comfortable enough to touch you in my clothes..." He says, leaning forward slightly, gaze locking onto yours with something dark, wounded and furious all at once. "Then he can do it while I'm sitting right here."
He wipes at his face once more, not hiding the tears — just clearing them out of his way.
"Go on." He adds quietly, voice low and sharp. "Let's see how brave he is when I'm not walking away."
Your fingers feel colder when you reach for your phone on the table with accumulating hesitation. For a second you just stare at the screen, your reflection faint against the black glass. You can feel him watching you, not blinking nor moving. Tracking every small hesitation like it means something. You scroll to Jay's name thumb hovers over it.
"Put it on speaker." Jungwon says. You glance up at him instinctively. His jaw tightens. "Speaker."
You press the call button.
The ringing fills the apartment in slow, steady pulses. Each one feels louder than it should. You become hyper-aware of your breathing. Of Jungwon's. Of how close he's sitting.
Jay picks up on the fourth ring.
"Hey." He answers, voice warm and casual, like nothing in the world is wrong. "You okay?" You feel Jungwon's gaze sharpen. "I'm fine." You say, and you have to consciously steady your tone. Not too soft or too intimate. Just neutral.
There's a pause on the other end. Then a low chuckle. "You sure? You sound weird." Your throat tightens. Jungwon leans back slightly on the couch, arm stretching along the backrest, eyes never leaving you. He looks almost relaxed now. That scares you more than when he was pacing.
"Can you come over?" You ask and there's no explanation not any kind of buildup. Just your usual. Another pause. Longer this time. "Now?" Jay asks, tone shifting slightly. Curious. "Everything okay?"
"Yes." You answer too quickly. Then you correct yourself. "I just… want to see you." Jungwon's mouth twitches at that. Not a smile. Something sharper. His throat burning as he gulped down the lump, his Adams apple bobbing from the restraint.Jay hums softly on the other end. "Alright. I'll be there in fifteen."
"Okay."
"Door unlocked?"
"Yes."
"Good."
The line clicks dead and the silence that follows is thick and immediate. It presses against your ears. You lower the phone slowly, placing it on the coffee table like it might explode if you move too fast. Jungwon hasn't shifted. He's still watching you, eyes dark, unreadable now.
"Fifteen minutes." He repeats quietly. You nod once. He exhales through his nose and drags a hand down his face, not in distress this time — just thinking. Processing. His eyes flick around the apartment slowly, as if he's seeing it differently now. As if he's mapping it.
"Does he usually come that fast?" He asks calmly. You hesitate before gulping. "Sometimes." His jaw tightens slightly, but he nods like he expected that answer. His gaze doesn't leave your face. "And when you call him..." He continues, voice low, almost steady. "Is it usually like that? No explanation. Just 'come over'?"
There's no accusation in his tone — just something searching. Something that wants to understand the mechanics of it.
"Yes." You admit.
He presses his lips together for a moment, staring at the floor before looking back up at you. His composure is intact, but there's something fragile flickering underneath it. "Does he know what side of the bed you sleep on?" He asks, the question hits differently. "What?" You muttered, eyes narrowing in confusion.
"Does he know..." Jungwon repeats slowly, eyes fixed on yours. "That you curl toward the wall when you're stressed? That you steal the blanket even when you're the one who said you weren't cold?" Your throat tightens. Embarrassment creeps up your neck — not because he's accusing you, but because he sounds so sure. So certain of knowing you. Like Jay wasn't there your whole life.
Like he didn't know all that before him.
He swallows hard, Adam's apple shifting, and even though his tone remains controlled, his eyes gloss again. "Does he know you hate when the lights are completely off? That you leave the bathroom door cracked so there's some light coming in?" His voice wavers just slightly at the end, but he pushes through it. "Does he know you talk in your sleep sometimes?"
You don't answer right away.
That silence hurts him more than if you had. "I memorized those things." He says quietly. "I thought that meant something."
"It did." You say, softer now, less detached. He lets out a faint, broken breath. "Did it?" You don't know what to say to that. He inhales slowly, like he's trying to swallow something too big. "Was he there after we fought?" He asks suddenly. "When you'd leave my place upset. Did you go to him?"
You hesitate.
That's answer enough.
His lips part slightly. He looks away for a second, blinking hard. "Did he fuck you when you were still mad at me?" He asks bluntly, the word heavy, deliberate through gritted teeth. Words spat out with disgust. "Did you let him touch you just to forget me?"
"Yes." You admit, the confession almost a whisper but it still reached his ears. He nods once, slowly, like he expected it and still can't quite accept it. His lip curls slightly. "God."
"Still had my marks on you—" He continues, the words coming out sharp, almost vicious laced with disbelief. "And you let him touch you anyway?"
It usually was the other way around.
You wanted to say it, wanted to make it clear. That everytime his eyes lingered longer on the marks on the most intimate parts of your body, brows furrowing in recollection as you told him he was the one that left them in the midst of orgasm— in the heat of the moment, were actually not his. But you knew that it would only tear him down more, your mouth opened slowly;
"Yes."
He lets out a short, broken laugh that sounds more like something tearing. A tear rolled down his already ruined face, but it just makes the anger look worse. Jungwon studies you for a long moment, and you feel exposed in a way you haven't all night. Not because he's yelling. Not because he's crying.
Because he's calm now.
The seconds stretch.
You can almost hear the clock ticking somewhere in the apartment. Fifteen minutes suddenly feels like a lifetime. He stands abruptly. Not aggressive, just decisive. Your muscles tense anyway. He walks slowly toward the hallway that leads to your bedroom, pausing just before disappearing from your line of sight. He looks back at you once.
"This is where it usually happens, right?*
Your heart stutters. You don't answer.
He doesn't need you to because he already walks down the hall. For a moment you stay frozen in the armchair, staring at the empty doorway. The weight in your chest grows heavier, something closer to unease now. Not fear. Just the realization that you don't fully know what he's thinking anymore.
After a few seconds, you stand up steps fats enough following him. Because you don't want him alone in there. Because you don't want to see what he'll do with that silence. You stepped into your room and there he was, already on the edge of your bed. Sitting and waiting. His hands were supporting him as he leaned onto them, eyes skimming over each and every corner of your space. The one he thought he was the only one to know till the tiniest atom, till the most intimate edges.
A bitter smile raise itself on his lips as his eyes were stuck on the chair in the corner, his hoodie and sweats still there, the same as the other day. The one day he came to pick them up and saw his girlfriend and her supposed friend dryhumping each other into the mattress.
"Jungwon—"
"You know what's funny?"
He looked back at you, eyss meeting and cutting through you. A small smirk on his lips, but his eyes still red and glossy. "Everyone told me to actually watch out for your friendship with him..." You just stood there, still and stiff. "Each one of my friends." He said, forehead creasing in pure judgment. "But I did not listen to any of them. None." He mockingly shook his head slowly, eyes never leaving your bland ones. "Why? Because I wasn't an insecure piece of shit. Because I believed you, trusted you." His eyes flicked down your form. "Never ever have I even suspected you..."
You crossed your arms in front of your chest, again. Some kind of shield that you hoped would stop all the words he spilled to get through you. And it helped. Your face was cold, avoidant. His presence irking something in you that badly wanted to just tell him to get out. To finally leave you alone so you could breath in your own space freely.
His laugh was quiet at first. Not amused. Not even loud enough to fill the room. Just sharp enough to cut. He pushed himself up from his hands so he could sit straighter,His eyes wandered to the hoodie on the chair again, then back to you. "Was it exciting?" He asked casually. "Doing it in the same places we did it? On the same bed?" He leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on his thighs now. He sneered at your silence, rolling his eyes.
"In my clothes too? Disgusting." He spat out with venom, hands back behind him as he leaned back again, manspreading as his gaze moved again over you, over your crossed arms, evaluating. Jungwon's eyes dragged over the sheets around him like they disgusted him.
"God, you couldn't even change them?" He muttered. "Or was that part of it? Keeping everything the same so you didn't have to feel how easy it was to replace me?" His eyes flicked to your crossed arms again. "You look so calm. It's insane." He shook his head. "I walked in on you grinding on someone else and you're standing here like I'm the one making a scene."
Another breath. Ragged this time.
"I defended you. I told everyone you weren't that type of girl." His lips twisted. "Guess they knew you better than I did." You flinched at that. Subtly. But he noticed. His chest vibrated with a low chuckle. Then softer. Colder. "I was proud to call you mine."
A pause.
"Now I just feel stupid."
The uneasiness set low in your stomach, dipping beneath the feel of nerves that poked at you. Especially since you heard the front door. Your head looked over your shoulder toward the slightly opened door of your own room.
Your eyes snapped back toward the man in front of you, sitting and watching your every move. "Looks like your fuckbuddy is here." Jungwon's voice was low, a whisper as his brows flashed up. Your chest tightened at that. Nerves screaming and saying that you should not have called Jay, should not have let this happen.
Should not have even opened the door to Jungwon at the first place.
But now as Jay's steps echoed through the hallway, hand on the handle as he pushed the door open—there was no going back.
Jay's eyes scanned the scene, stopping for a second at the doorway before actually stepping in and pushing the door lightly closed behind him. His eyes furrowed, but when they locked with Jungwon's red ones, it all was clear. A corner of his mouth raised, gaze scanning the boy sitting leisurely on the edge of your bed. Your back was turned to him, but one second was enough for Jungwon to stand up abruptly, grab your upper arm harshly, fingers furiously digging into your muscle as he turned you around, pushed you into Jay's chest and spat out; "Kiss him."
"Woah dude! What the fuck is wrong with you?!"
Jay's hands grabbed you, steadying you against him as he took a step toward Jungwon, eyes furious at the way he pushed you carelessly. "Jay. Don't." But the moment your soft and low voice reached his eardrums he took a step back, eyes scanning your face.
And that broke Jungwon even more. The way you spoke, hands clutching Jay's shirt as he obeyed your words so carelessly—stopping the same second you opened your mouth to just listen what you had to say.
"Go on. Kiss." Jay didn't look at you when Jungwon said it, he looked at him. Slowly. Lazily. Like he had all the time in the world.
A smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth, not amused but entertained. "Relax." Jay muttered. "You sound desperate." Jungwon's jaw ticked, his lungs burning. Jay's eyes flicked to you then, briefly and assessing. Your tense shoulders. The way your fingers were slightly curled against his chest. The way you weren't moving.
Then he huffed a quiet laugh. "You really think you can order her around?" He asked mildly, tilting his head. "You don't get to do that." The air shifted making Jungwon take a step forward. "Don't act like you won something." Jay's smile widened — slow, sharp. "Didn't I?"
That did it. The tension in Jungwon's posture snapped tight, ready to lunge, but Jay didn't back down. If anything, he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "You walked in on us, right?" He said casually. "So you already know."
Your stomach twisted as you silently winced at that. Jungwon's hands clenched at his sides. Jay looked back at you properly this time and something in his expression softened for a split second. Not tender. Just certain.
"Go on." Jungwon repeated, voice harsher now. "Kiss." Jay didn't hesitate. His hand slid up to your jaw, not rough but firm enough to guide your face toward him. His thumb brushed along your cheek, slow and deliberate, eyes never leaving Jungwon's as he leaned down.
"Since you asked so nicely." He murmured and then kissed you. Not rushed and messy but calculated. His lips pressed against yours with slow confidence, tilting your face slightly to deepen it just enough to make it unmistakable. His other hand settled at your waist, steady and possessive, pulling you half a step closer into him.
The room went silent except for the faint sound of breath and your mouths smacking. Jay kept it slow, intentional. Like he was proving a point with his eyes never leaving Jungwon's over your shoulder. The room feels like it's shrinking. Jungwon's breathing turns uneven. "You think this makes you tough?" He snaps, but neither of you pull away. Jay hums softly against your lips, like he barely heard him.
And that's it.
That's the moment something in Jungwon snaps. He moves fast. His hand shoots forward, grabbing the back of your hair — not gently — fingers tangling and tightening at your scalp as he yanks you back toward him.
The kiss with Jay breaks abruptly.
"Jungwon—" You barely get out before he pulls you flush against him. His mouth crashes against yours, rough and desperate, nothing slow or controlled about it. It's not tender nor careful.
It's angry. Possessive.
His other hand grips your waist hard enough to drag you with him as he pushes forward — and Jay doesn't move fast enough. Jay's back slams into the door with a harsh thud, the wood rattling loudly behind him. The impact makes the door swing shut with a sharp bang that echoes through the room. Jay winced at the rough slam against the door and the weight of your back pressed against his chest. Jungwon's hand pressed on your waist, pushing you harshly against Jay. His front was flush against yours as they trapped you and his mouth moved against yours furiously. You moaned hands gripping his shirt, trying to pull him closer.
For a split second everything is just breath and tension and the sound of fabric shifting and your humms against your boyfriend's lips. Jungwon pulls back first, but only barely, his grip still fisted in your hair, chest rising hard.
Your lips are swollen, breath uneven, hands still tangled in his shirt. For a second, no one speaks. Jay exhales slowly behind you. Then he laughs. Low and breathless. "Jesus." He mutters, rolling his shoulders despite the door pressing into his back. "You're losing it." Jungwon's head snaps toward him, eyes blazing. "Shut up."
But Jay doesn't.
Instead, his hands slide from your waist to your hips, steadying you — not to pull you away, but to shift you slightly. Just enough so he can lean forward over your shoulder.
Close.
Too close.
"You that jealous?" Jay murmurs, voice taunting, lips inches from Jungwon's. Jungwon doesn't step back. He doesn't hesitate. Their foreheads almost knock before their mouths do.
It's not soft. It's not curious. It's violent.
A clash of teeth and breath and pride, anger pouring into it like fuel. Jungwon grabs Jay by the collar, shoving him harder into the door as their mouths press together in something that feels less like a kiss and more like a challenge. You're caught between them, back against Jay's chest, Jungwon's body still flush to yours, heat and tension caging you in as you registered what's going on.
Jay makes a low sound in his throat — not surprised. Not offended. Amused. He grabs Jungwon's jaw, fingers digging in just enough to tilt his head, kissing him back just as harshly, controlled and deliberate. Like he refuses to be the one overwhelmed. The door rattles again from the force of it. Breathing turns ragged and when Jay finally pulls back, it's only an inch.
His lips are slightly parted, gaze dropping briefly to Jungwon's mouth before returning to his eyes. "Didn't know you were into that, loverboy." He says, voice rough but cocky. The nickname felt like a jab at Jungwon's chest as it heavied uncontrollably.
You on the other hand felt the switch in the room. The two hot bodies pressed up against you, Jay's bulge against your ass, grazing your covered ass cheeks as Jungwon's hips pushed and pressed you back against the man behind you. Jay's hand slides up your side again, steadying you against him
Jungwon's hand pressed next to Jay's head, holding himself and bracing as his hips rutted against your front. You moaned out, spreading your thighs as you tried to connect your center's, your hands grabbing at Jay's hips behind you, trying to lean back and position yourself.
"Jungwon I—" You were interrupted when his palm trailed around your jaw, fingers digging into the bone before his digits entered your mouth. And you just took it. His two fingers thrusted into your warm cavity in synch with his hips that grinded against you. Jay's gaze flicked over to your head that leaned back onto his shoulder, sucking on fingers that you so wordlessly took—no protest. The tension doesn't break.
It mutates.
Jungwon's anger doesn:t cool — it burns hotter. Jay's smirk lingers just a second too long, and Jungwon's hand slides from the door to Jay's collar again, gripping tight. Not to shove him away this time. Not to separate.
To pull him closer again.
"You think this is funny?" Jungwon breathes, fury shaking through him. Jay doesn't look away.
That does it.
Jungwon kisses him again — not wild this time, not clumsy. Controlled rage. His hand stays twisted in Jay's shirt as their mouths meet, hard and deliberate, like neither of them is willing to lose ground.
You're losing it too. The fire in your belly consumed you as your tongue dances around his long digits, humming as he pressed down on your tongue, your warm muscle heavy against his fingertips. Your thighs felt weak, arousal pooling between them with each passing second.
This is bad. This is so bad.
What is happening is so wrong.
Jay's hand tightens at your waist, fingers flexing as if to steady himself — or you — and instead of pulling away, he deepens it. Matches Jungwon's force with his own. The door thuds softly from the pressure of their bodies shifting again. You feel it, the way they stop pretending this is just about you. It's about dominance, about pride.
It's about who folds first.
Jungwon breaks the kiss with a sharp inhale, chest heaving, eyes blazing. His fingers left your mouth, wet hand comes to your jaw, turning your face toward him, his thumb pressing firm against your cheek. "You like this?" He asks you, voice rough, furious. "You like watching us lose it over you?" Your breath stutters, fingers curling into the front of his shirt, pupils blown as you looked up at him, heart hammering inside your ribcage abnormally. You gulped, his nails leaving marks into your jaw.
Jay leans in behind you, lips grazing near your temple, not kissing — just close enough to be felt, and it made goosebumps arise on your skin. "She does." Jay says lowly and Jungwon's eyes snapped to him. "Shut the fuck up."
But he doesn't move away. Instead, he crowds closer again, pressing you tighter between them, like none of you are willing to be the first to step back. His anger is still there, sharp and unstable, but it's tangled now with something else. Something magnetic. Jay tilts his head, breath brushing Jungwon's mouth again. Teasingly. Jungwon's eyes were blazing, lashes wet as he gritted his teeth.
You were breathing hard, the closeness making you dizzy. Everything seemed to narrow down to just them. But still, the way your heart hammered in your ears made you actually pause, keeping you still tethered to the reality. You blinked, Jungwon's shirt squeezed into your hand as you tugged at it at an attempt to make him look down at you again. "Won... Please stop." You muttered, gaze searching for his own as he was not moving, eyes still blazing into Jay's, their faces just an inch apart. His chest was heaving under your hand, you could feel it, the way it was vibrating with every shaky breath he took.
Even if his emotions were concealed by anger, you knew he was still the soft and hurt boy you knew. You knew it with certainty, he just needed to snap out of it.
But you would lie if you said his current burst of rage didn't unsettle you. It was unfamiliar. It made you unsure, retract and let yourself suck the emotions and feelings he never let himself show in front of you, at least not this intense and eruptive. Still your hand tugged at the fabric of his shirt again, but the only reaction was a smirk. A smirk in Jay's face as his eyes went over his face, down to his lips before moving back to his eyes.
Jungwon's hand left your jaw as it traveled down to your arm. His nails dug into your flesh as you hissed and he moved back, finally letting you breath as he pulled you harshly over the room and toward the bed. He sat down on the edge, glaring at the man who stood leaned against the door with a lazy smirk on his face. Jungwon's muscles tensed with a surge of annoyance. "Jungwon what are you—"
You stumbled, barely catching yourself as he dragged you across the room. The distance to the bed felt longer than it was. He shoved you ahead of him and dropped down onto the edge of the mattress, shoulders tense, jaw locked tight. Across the room, Jay lazily crossed his arms, a slow infuriating smirk curling his lips. Like he was enjoying the show.
Jungwon's expression darkened.
"Please just—"
"On your knees."
The words were flat. Worse than if he had shouted as he cut you off. He spread his thighs, one hand still wrapped around your arm. He tugged once — sharp — pulling you closer. His eyes flicked up to yours, blazing, not loud anger but something colder. Your knees hit the plush carpet between his legs. The impact was soft, but the command behind it wasn't.
He didn't look at you again right away. Instead, his gaze locked back onto the man by the door. "You like watching?" Jungwon asked quietly, tilting his head just slightly. "Then watch." His fingers undid his sweatpants, hooking into the waistband and tugging them down together with his boxers. His other hand rested firmly at the back of your neck— not forcing, just there. A reminder.
Jungwon's hand moved fast enough around his semi-hard length, stroking with fast and urgent tugs. He let out a whimper, brows furrowing as he felt blood rush to his cock. His hand was dry, uncomfortablly dragging down his girth as he felt the heaviness against his palm, precum slowly oozing out the tip. You placed your hand on his knee, trying to steady him, snap him out of the seizure of frustration—trying to maybe cool him off. "Baby, just—"
"Don't fucking baby me now. Open your mouth." His hand moved from your neck and up, his digits tangling at the back of your hair. He gripped your roots, making you wince silently as your eyes flicked to his.
And when your eyes locked you knew he was not stopping.
Jungwon's felt his now fully hard cock pulse, tip raging for stimulation, hot precum leaking. Is this really happening? Are you really going to suck your boyfriend off in from of your best friend?
But your mouth still parted, eyes looking up at him through your lashes, face poker. Jungwon guided his head to your dry lips, his hips adjusting against the mattress, moving right onto the edge as he pushed his tip between your warm lips. He slid in with no sugarcoating, his length filling your mouth as he pushed your head down. You hollowed your cheeks, tongue flat at the bottom of your warm cavity as he filled it.
"She likes it when you get rough, doesn't she Wonnie?"
The nickname rolled teasingly off Jay's tongue—the nickname only you called him, only you uttered when you two were alone. Jungwon's teeth grinded against each other, eyes still down on you as his cock was slowly getting swallowed by your plush lips. He pushed you head down harshly, till your nose hit his abdomen and your throat constricted against his tip. You grabbed his thighs, nail digging into the fabric of his sweatpants.
Your eyes went shut tight, tearing up as you struggled to breath from the sudden feeling of pressure against your uvula. The words attempted to get out, to make him release his grip on your hair, but the sound only came out muffled and broken. "Was my dick not enough for you?" He spoke, feeling the vibrations against his head as the poor sounds left you. "So you had to always go back to him?"
He pulled your hair, making you glide up against his length, mouth still tightly shut around it, saliva dripping off the corners of your mouth. And you were again down his cock, the vein on the side pulsing against your warm cheek. "I didn't fuck you good enough?" He muttered, his abdomen flexing at each drag of your familiar warmth around him. "Or were you just a whore the whole time?"
His digits tightened as he kept on dragging you up and down with aggressive tugs. You peered up at him, eyes stinging with salty tears, ruined. Your body felt assaulted, just from the way he was handling you—strong forearms flexing as he made you blow him, his eyes dark and slanted, the look something you never ever saw. His moves were sharp and pent up, he kept on lowering you till your nose reached his pelvis, till his balls were covered in your saliva and his hot precum. You groaned against him each time he slammed against the back of your throat with no mercy, his hips slightly thrusting up to make it more painful.
It did hurt. But the way he was holding you, gazing down at you had the ache between your legs pulse, drool all over your underwear—slick and wet. You pressed your thighs together in endurement, fingers fisting his sweats at your sides as your eyes went tight shut with his hips meeting your head halfway.
Jungwon did not move his eyes from you, pants escaping him with every angry thrust he delivered to your mouth as you let him abuse it. He bit his lip, the image that flashed through his mind of you letting the man just a few meters away have you the same way made his blood boil, breath hitching as he groaned. "You like this?" He muttered darkly, voice low and venomous. "You like when I'm like this?"
His jaw flexed again, teeth grinding as he shot a glare toward the man by the door — daring him to speak again.
"Don't look at him." Jungwon snapped immediately at the feel of your resistance, fingers tightening just enough to force you harder down his pulsing cock, the pure action of you trying to get air triggering him as you wanting to go to Jay. "You don't get to look at him." Jungwon's hand stayed firm at the back of your head stopping, not forcing movement now—just holding you there like a display.
He tilted his head slightly as he scanned your face, lips curling in something colder than a smirk. "You really have no shame, do you?" He said quietly, his fingers tightened just enough to remind you who was in control. "Back straight. Knees apart." He ordered flatly, like he was correcting posture. "If you're going to suck my dick, at least do it properly." His eyes dragged slowly over you — not admiring. Assessing. Saliva was creating a mess, some of it trickling down your chin, some dripping down the underside of his cock, some clinging to your streched lips around him. You readjuated your knees on the floor, getting them away from one another as your pussy throbbed, the pulse in your clit making your thighs quiver.
"You always pretend you're hard to get." He continued, voice edged with mockery. "But you fold so easily. Each time." A low exhale left him, almost disappointed.
"Tell me..." He went on, tone deliberately humiliating as he guided you down, filling your mouth to the brim again with his hard girth. "Does it make you feel important? Being fought over when all you really are is… convenient?"
His fingers aggressively angled your face up, his tip hitting your mouth plate as he kept you there eyes glaring down at yours. Movement stopped again. You were ruined, all too fucked out and mouth tired. Your gaze almost begging him to stop—or destroy you. "You don't even look embarrassed." He muttered. "Is that because you enjoy this?"
The stare was overwhelming. One of your cramped hands went down his forearm that held you up. Fingers wrapped around his strong wrist before you moaned around him, vibrations sending waves of pleasure through him as he inhaled and closed his eyes. And you shamelessly urged him to push your head down, tugging at his wrist as you tried to move over his cock against his grip.
Jungwon's eyes snapped open the second he felt you tug at his wrist, urging him for more. For a moment he just stared down at you breathing hard, chest rising and falling like he was trying to contain something too big for his ribs. Then his expression shifted. Not softer. Not gentler.
Crueler.
"Shameless." He muttered under his breath, and he way he started thrusting into your mouth as he guided your head made you close your eyes shut again. Tears pricking at the corners of your lids, nails dug into his forearm, bracing as he hit the back of your throat repeatedly.
His grip tightened in your hair, not letting you guide anything, not letting you set the pace. You didn't get to control this. You didn't get to decide how far it went. Jungwon panted with each gag you suppressed, hissing at your nails as they marked his skin deeper even through the material. You cried out against his pulsing cock, tears rolling down your flushed face. Scalp felt like it was screaming in agony. Throat already bruised.
Jungwon's could feel the way your jaw slacked, surrendering as you try to keep up. But he felt the shake of your shoulders and the way you are crying around him now, tears streaming down your pretty face, saliva coating his cock more with each plunge as some dripped down onto the fluffy white carpet.
He moans at the tight feeling in his pelvis, hips meeting your mouth in harsh thrusts. He pants and grunts as he chases his high that was so close. Across the room, Jay had gone quiet.
Too quiet.
His lazy posture had disappeared. His arms weren't crossed anymore. His stare had sharpened, focused entirely on the way your body reacted, the way you trembled, the way you clung. And the way Jungwon handled you. He was watching now. Not smirking anymore. Not teasing.
Watching.
Your back faced him completely, your body framed between Jungwon's legs, every small movement visible from where he stood. The way your shoulders shook when Jungwon made you go down on his cock. The way you didn't pull away.
Like you knew Jungwon's rhythm by heart.
His pants felt too tight, the fabrics restraining his already hard member. Each whiff of air felt suffocating and flaming. His tongue ran slowly over his bottom lip as he shifted his weight forward. His gaze darkened, following the way Jungwon handled you — the roughness, the control, the claim.
Jay exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his own jaw, the lewd sounds you two let fill the room making his head spin. "God." He muttered under his breath at the way Jungwon's another moan resonated through the room, followed by your poor attempt to moan back.
Then he moved. Before Jungwon could react, Jay closed the distance in a few long strides. His hand shot forward, gripping your arm firmly, not gently. Jungwon's fingers loosened at the suddeness of Jay's movement as he pulled you away from him, snatching you harshly making your mouth separate from Jungwon's throbbing length, leaving him just at the brink of his orgasm.
Jungwon's eyes shot up to Jay, his chest heaving up and down as he panted, gaze cutting through the other man. Your knees barely steadied as he rose you on your feet before Jay's hand was at your waist, lifting you up and tossing you back onto the bed beside Jungwon. The mattress dipped under your weight. Jay glanced at Jungwon as he dropped his jacket down onto the floor, quick to grab the hem of his shirt and pull it over his head. "My turn." He said with cockiest smile on his face, letting the shirt meet the floor.
You raised yourself on your elbows, face ruined, throat feeling stuffed even if you had nothing in the way now. And Jay was over you, his weight pressing you onto the mattress as he smashed your lips together, your saliva and salty precum that clung to your lips make his hungry kisses messier and filthier. He tilted his head, letting his tongue drag against your swollen bottom lip before smashing your lips again. You moaned, one hand moving to his cheek, deeping the kiss, letting your tongues caress. His thumb brushed your chin as he kissed you, collecting the liquid before he pulled back just an inch, thumb raising to his mouth as he sucked off the obscene wetness that coated it.
Jay didn't hesitate.
His mouth trailed lower, slow and deliberate — not rushed, not clumsy. He kissed down your jaw, your throat, letting his teeth graze lightly over your skin before soothing it with his tongue. Every movement felt intentional. Like he knew he was being watched.
Your focus shifted completely.
The room narrowed until it was just the weight of him above you, the warmth of his hands sliding over your waist. His fingers hooked under the hem of your shirt, dragging it upward inch by inch, exposing more of you to the cool air and to Jungwon's stare.
He didn't rush pulling it off. He made a show of it. Fabric peeled away, discarded somewhere on the floor leaving you in your bra. Jay's eyes dragged slowly over your body before dipping his head again, pressing a kis over your decollete, lower… lower. His hands followed, thumbs brushing along your sides as if mapping you out.
Just centimeters away from your heated bodies, Jungwon sat rigid. Upper body turned to you both a palm supporting him against the duvet, cock throbbing and neglected, standing tall and pulsing. His jaw was clenched so tightly a muscle ticked near his temple. His hand curled into a fist against the bed, nails digging into his palms as he watched Jay' every move. And the thing that made him almost cry out in pure disappointment and rage. The necklace. The matching necklace you two had. A silver chain right around your neck, resting on the same chest Jay trailed his kisses over. The same one he is wearing right now under his shirt, the same one you chose.
It made his lips tighten, jaw hurting from all the pent up emotions as his eyes flicked back to the whole scene. Jay's fingers slid to the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down in one smooth motion. He didn't look back at Jungwon — but the corner of his mouth lifted slightly, like he could feel the fury burning into his side. Your breath hitched when Jay settled between your thighs, his knees meeting the carpet as he pulled you toward the edge.
He didn't touch you right away. He just looked at you, really looked, eyes dark, lips slightly parted, like he was savoring the sight of you undone. His eyes danced over the ruined underwear that stuck to your puffy folds, drenched and tempting him.
Your fingers tangled into the sheets as he leaned down, his mouth brushing over your inner thigh first. Not where you expected. Not yet. You shivered at the feeling of his wet lips against your trembling flesh. Your arousal spreading wildfire as your mind had only one task to conquer. To come.
Jungwon's breathing grew heavier. He saw the way your body arched slightly. The way your lips parted. The way your focus had completely shifted — locked onto Jay. His teeth ground together. Jay's hands slid up your thighs, spreading them wider as he lowered himself further, pressing slow kisses higher, closer, teasing without giving. Teasing you till your pussy burned in desire. Your elbows gave out, muscled trembling and head tipping back against the mattress. A soft sound left you before you could stop it. A whine.
That sound snapped something inside Jungwon.
His eyes darkened further, chest rising sharply as he watched the way you reacted, the way your hips moved instinctively toward Jay's mouth, dick twitching at the sight.
He didn't interrupt.
He didn't step in.
He just watched.
Every twitch. Every breath. Every quiet, needy sound.
Jay nuzzled his nose into your wetness, inhaling with delight your essence through the thin fabric. You purred, hands fisting the sheets by your sides as you rolled your hips up into his face. Jay let his tongue taste the mess you made, leaving a stripe form your hole and up to your covered clit. "Jay..." A whimper left you at his familiar touch that never failed to unravel you. He let his tongue glide over— up, down, up, down— enjoying the slick that coated his senses. "You taste amazing angel..." The nickname rolled of his tongue, a mocking tone underneath that made Jungwon stiff. Jay's eyes traveled to the man that had his eyes glued to your cunt and his mouth that kept running all over it. Jungwon's eyes flicked to Jay's. Jay smirked. "... like always."
The words made Jungwon's rage flair, but still he kept on observing. Jay's attention was back to you, hands traveled up your thighs evoking goosebumps as he grabbed the waistband of your underwear and pulled it off. The string of arousal snapping as he pulled them away from your slick folds. "A fucking mess, aren't you?" He chuckled as you whined with hips urging him to do something, anything.
His fingers dug into your thighs, right after throwing the panties over his shoulder, pushing them far apart and his mouth was against you. His jaw slack as he engulfed your slit in his warmth, sucking and teasing. You rose up on your elbows again, hands hurriedly finding the bra clip at your back and undoing it, throwing it somewhere on the messy floor and eyes back on Jay. He peered up at you, hair falling over his dark hungry eyes as he let his tongue circle your clit, flicking and rolling it just right. You took a sharp breath in, your hand down to move the hair from his forehead, digits tangling in it—not pushing him against you, just holding the hair out of the way.
"Fuck... Yes... Right there."
Your needy voice encouraged him, praising as you watched the way he played with your spread pussy. He knew the right pace, knew the right moves. His lips wrapped around your clit, pulling it with harsh suction that made your toes curl, teeth dig into your bottom lip and eyes fight to stay open. The wet sounds were echoing the room, slurping and lapping of his too obscene. Broken sounds left you, hands gripping his scalp as you threw your head back. Jay smirked against you, chin and nose drenched as he kept on assaulting your pulsing folds, toying with it the ways he only knew and wanted.
He pulled away for a second. You whined, head returning to look at him, face dazed. His eyes danced over your raw flesh, your hole that clenched around nothing, your puffy clit, your puffy lips. Everything was slick and messy, some of it dripping down onto the sheets from how embarrassingly wet you were.
And was there a better way to make it filthier than to let a glob of spit drop down from his lips and right onto your clit. And he licked it up right away, dragging the tip of his tongue through the slick mess before spitting again, this time lower, your pulsing entrance. He slurped it all up again. Messy.
Your musles trembled, eyes were heavy and wet as you tried to supress the sounds that were bubbling up right in your throat. You pressed your lips tight, face felt like it was on fire as he tongue fucked your cunt, tip of his warm muscle prodding at the entrace, feeling your gummy walls spasm.
Your arm gave out, your back flush against the mattress again as you lost the grip on his hair too. You whined and whimpered, eyes tight shut as you concentrated on the building pleasure. "Jay!" You cried out when his big palms found your breasts, calloused thumbs stroking your nipples as he sucked on your bundle of nerves feverishly.
Your back arched against his touches. You felt your body flare up, everything dulling. The know in your abdomen grew bigger with each flick of Jay's thumbs against your hard peaks, each drag and suck of his ravenous mouth against your slickness. Everything felt overwhelming, you arched against him—but in the midst of it, your head turned, eyes searching for the sad and angry ones.
Jungwon's.
His eyes moved from Jay's assault to your red face. Hair disheveled, body bare. And your almost hazy and lost gaze bored into his angry eyes. Your trembling hands reached for his wrist, a loose grip around it. "Jungwon..." You whimpered out, low and rough. Voice at the brink of giving out from the way the other man ate you out.
Jungwon stared back, face blank. The warmth from your burning body made his own skin burn. But he did not move yet. His mind was processing everything. You spread out just an inch away from him, letting Jay have you in the most filthy way he could imagine. If you let this happen right next to him on your bed, what did you let Jay do to you when you were alone?
The thought teared his chest in half, his breathing heaving. Everything seemed to narrow down to the image of you two before him. The way you moaned Jay's name. The way you moved his hair with care from his forehead as he lapped you up. The way your body was attuned to him, moving in synch and perfection disguised in familiarity. That tore him down.
Your nails dug hard into Jungwon's wrist, moans and gasps leaving your parted lips. It snapped his attention back to the man between your thighs that had no intention of stopping, only going at it more passionately a she made out with pussy. Spitting. Flicking. Sucking. So there was nothibg left.
Your arched harder against him, hips chasing his mouth in despair. You were close. Jay felt it. And Jungwon saw it. The way your muscles tremored, your chants of pleas escaping you with a need so insatiable. Your lower stomach flexed, eyes going shut tight as you gripped Jungwon's wrist with strength so messy but firm. Almost. You were almost there.
But suddenly the stimulation stopped, right at its peak. The heat dissappeared from your thighs, making you whine desperately as you raised your head, body sweaty and trembling. Slowly realizing you were not holding Jungwon anymore. "You are not making her cum." Jungwon spat out into Jay's face after he peeled him away from you. Jay sat on the floor, a cocky sneer making it's way out of him as he peered up at Jungwon who got into his face, still sitting on the edge of the bed.
Jay purposely let his tongue dart over his bottom lip, nose and chin stil drenched. He rose himself on his knees, shoulders rolled back as he spoke. "Says who?" His brow flashed up, teasing the other as he got slightly closer, their breaths mingling as Jungwon did not budge. "Me." Jungwon murmured, low and rough. The air was laced with greed. Jealousy. Possessiveness.
Jay scoffed, his grin widened as he got closer, knees dragging against the carpet. "Oh yeah?" Their gazes fought in unspoken silence, your harsh needy breathing steadying slowly as you observed. Legs still spread, sheets a mess and arousal pooling even more at the sight of them. You gulped, something actually uncertain growing in you with their overwhelming stare down, faces just centimeters away. The tension threatening to snap into fists or something far more questionable.
Jay wiped his mouth slowly with the back of his hand, eyes never leaving Jungwon's. That smirk didn't fade, it sharpened. "You're just jealous." He said quietly, almost amused. Jungwon's jaw flexed. In one swift motion the distance between them disappeared in a second—chests brushing, breaths mixing as theirs noses bumped. The fury in Jungwon's eyes met the challenge in Jay's, and neither of them pulled back.
It wasn't hesitation—it was collision. Jay grabbed Jungwon by the collar and pulled him in. Their mouths crashed together hungry and rough. It was teeth and heat and possession, like they were trying to swallow each other whole. Jungwon responded instantly, one hand gripping Jay's jaw hard enough to tilt his head, the other fisting into his shirt. The kiss deepened into something competitive, lips parting, breaths turning uneven.
You could still feel the echo of Jay's mouth between your thighs, your body trembling from being left right there. Almost there. And now they were devouring each other over you. Jay raised himself with force, grabbing Jungwon's knees as he pushed him until his back hit the mattress, Jay following immediately, caging him in.
Their mouths didn't separate.
Jay's hand slid into Jungwon's hair, tugging just enough to draw a low sound from him, pressing his covered painful bulge against Jungwon's leaking hard cock. He pulled back barely an inch, just enough for their lips to brush as he murmured, voice rough and taunting—
"You really think you can outplay me?"
A smirk ghosted over his mouth, and he let out a quiet, teasing moan, deliberate and slow as he rolled his hips against Jungwon's raging length that was harshly pressed against his shirt, precum staining the black fabric as Jay's sweats rubbed against it—just to see Jungwon's composure crack.
And it did.
Jungwon's eyes darkened instantly. His grip tightened. The teasing tone vanished from the air as he surged upward, flipping them over in one sharp motion. Jay's back hit the mattress now, and Jungwon was above him, breath hot, expression furious. The kiss that followed wasn't playful anymore, it was territorial. Jungwon's hand pinned Jay's wrist into the sheets as their mouths met again, deeper, rougher —like he was claiming something. Like he needed to prove something.
Jay didn't resist.
He grinned into it, hips bucking up in search of friction. You were still there beside them, chest rising fast, thighs tense, watching the way they fought for control over each other through nothing but mouths and hands and raw, heated pride. You felt the sudden sharp burn between your spread legs, throbbing that's seemed to worsen the more you stared at the scene right by you. You pressed your thighs together, the slickeness sticking and fusing your flesh together as you whimpered at the feel. You let your musles squeeze, rubbing the trembling legs together in search of a relief, eyes glued to the scene.
Jungwon finally pulled back just enough to look down at Jay, lips swollen, breath unsteady. "You really think I'd let you?" Jungwon hand teased the waistband of Jay's sweats. Jay's eyes flicked down and back to Jungwon's. "You are pretty bold. I'll give you that." Jungwon added, hand dipped in his underwear with no warning, fingers grazing Jay's hard cock. Jay shuddered at the touch but his attitude did not let down, he smirked and answered. "Please... If she wanted you that badly I wouldn't still be here."
Jungwon's fingers wrapped around the wet heavy length, harshly tugging it with fast strokes. Jay took a sharp inhale through his nose, eyes closing for a second as squelching noises filled the quiet room. Jungwon's hand glided with ease, the precum that kept oozing out Jay's pulsing tip drenched his hand in seconds. Jay's breathing changed, teeth gritted as he rose himself up on elbow in some kind of intended assertion. Jungwon kept on rapidly moving his hand, trying to get some kind of reaction from the other—reaction that showed surrender. Submissiveness. But Jay did not give any. His chest was moving erratically but no sound dared to make his way out through Jay's gritted teeth.
A thin layer of cold sweat emerged on his skin, gaze burning Jungwon's in a way too intense. Jungwon didn't slow. If anything, his movements stayed deliberate and punishingly steady —not frantic, not sloppy but controlled and intentional. His eyes never left Jay's.
Jay's breathing had changed heavier now but his smirk clung stubbornly to his face. "You're trying too hard." Jay muttered, voice strained but still edged with mockery, jaw threatening to go slack. "Is that what this is? Proving something?" Jungwon's eyes darkened at his breathy tone. "Proving?" He repeated, almost amused but there was no humor in it. "You think I need to prove anything to you?" Jungwon slightly squeezed Jay's cock as he kept his rhythm. Jay's composure faltered for half a second. A sharp inhale, flicker in his eyes. But he recovered quickly.
Jungwon's teeth ground together again, fury flashing bright and immediate. He could feel the heaviness of Jay's pulsing length. The way is was burning up, tip overly sensitive and leaking more and more with each glide that Jungwon provided. He leaned down, their foreheads almost touching. "She folds for whoever pushes hard enough." Jungwon snapped, twisting his wrist, the move that made Jay let out a groan before continuing. "That's the problem."
Jay's eyes flickered briefly toward you who was looking in awe, then back to Jungwon. "Yeah?" He said softly, breathing sped up, pelvis growing with pressure that threatened to snap any second. "Maybe if she wanted you that badly, you wouldn't be trying this hard to prove it." The air snapped. Jungwon's kept on stroking him fast. The furious moves made Jay close his eyes, abs flexing with unexplainable strength. He let out low whimpers, hips raising from the fluffy bed to fuck up into Jungwon's fist that kept assaulting his sensitive cock. His briefs were a mess, all sticky and wet. His balls felt full. Too full before he felt his body shudder. Jungwon did not stop. The white semen shot out of his tip, the warm liquid coating his cock and balls, Jungwon's palm ruined and stained with cum. Jay threw his head back, hips still working their way into Jungwon's moving hand till there was no more left.
He hissed at the last thrust, breathing steadying gradually and Jungwon's tired hand stopped all the work. Jay's breathing finally began to steady, chest rising and falling as he dragged a hand down his face. The cocky smirk was gone, replaced with something more dazed, more raw. Jungwon didn't look at him anymore. His gaze had already shifted to you. You were still there — lips parted, thighs pressed together, eyes wide in a way that only made something darker settle in his chest.
He released Jay's used cock, pulling out his hand from Jay's underwear, cum dripping from his fingers and palm as he crawled toward you. Weight of his stare made you completely enchanted eyes on his moving figure as he grabbed one of your ankles and pulled your thighs apart. You obeyed. You gawked at him kneeling tight between your calves, stills away but still so close. His grip on your ankle tight and steady. You trailed your gaze over his covered shoulders, down the fabric of his shirt before you stopped on his erect cock. It stood tall and throbbing, the painfully red head smearing the hot precum all over the black material, leaving small strings of wetnees. His sweats and briefs were still clinging to his hips, bunching right under his heavy balls.
Your folds burned. The sudden throb almost made your hips raise from the bed. Jungwon scanned all of it, catching each linger of your heavy eyes on him. He almost scoffed. Instead, he brought his stained hand over to your lower stomach, the thick liquid clinging more and more the longer it stayed on him. And before you could register what he was doing, he wiped his hand on your stomach. A sharp inhale entered through your nose, his nails dug into your ankle keeping you there. "There..." He started, making sure to clean all of his hand against your sweaty, warm skin. "Since you like his cum so much." Your breath hitched at that.
Jay shifted besides both of you, pushing himself up off the bed. He didn't interrupt and didn't speak. He just swung his legs over the edge and stood, still catching his breath. His boxers all ruined, he could feel the stickiness of his own release coating his skin. It felt too messy, his nose scrunching in sensitivity.
Jungwon's stared you down as he grabbed the hem of his shirt, finally pulling it off and throwing it somewhere on the floor, forgotten. His tense muscles felt finally free, pecks slightly flexing at the sudden feel of air against his heated flesh. He continued, his hands finding the waistband of his pants before he kicked them off too, together with his underwear ending up on the cute fluffy carpet.
Completely bare.
You two were now complete bare.
But your eyes flicked up to his neck. The small silver chain he always wore. The samr one you have around your neck. And you gulped. The perception was quickly pushed out of your senses since Jungwon's hands were already on you.
He turned you sharply, pushing you forward until your palms hit the mattress. He pressed between your shoulder blades, bending you down without hesitation as a gasp left you. Face down, ass up as your cheek meet the mattress. The mattress dipped as he positioned you, his grip firm at your hips, adjusting you exactly how he wanted.
Across the room, Jay moved slowly, deliberately.
He grabbed the desk chair at the side of the bed and dragged it out slightly, the sound scraping faintly against the floor. He turned it around toward you both before lowering himself into it, breath still uneven. He shifted in the chair, adjusting himself as he leaned back, elbows resting on the armrests. His eyes found the scene fast — not smirking, watching.
Jungwon's hands settled on your hips. He didn't grope. Didn't tease. He just held you there, fingers pressing into your skin hard enough to ground you in place. Your breath came out uneven.
He said nothing.
That was worse.
His thumb dragged slowly along your lower back, up your spine, then back down again. Measuring. Memorizing. Reclaiming without needing to announce it. From the chair, Jay exhaled softly. "Quiet now?" He muttered, voice low but edged, eyes stuck to your arched figure before flicking to Jungwon for a brief second.
Jungwon's shoulders tensed. Still no reply.
Instead, his grip tightened slightly on your hips, pulling you back an inch — a silent correction. A reminder of who was physically there. Your body reacted without thinking, arching subtly into his hold, a low moan of affirmation at his move left you.
Jay noticed — of course he did. A slow, almost taunting breath left him.
Jungwon's hand slid over your ass and down. Right there where you needed him the most. His thumb run through your slick folds harshly. You bit your lip, muscles tensing and toes curling in anticipation. The pad of his thick digit found your puffy bud and the moment he felt it pulse against his finger, he started leaving fast tight circles on it. Your fingers curled into the sheets, eyelids dropping. Your lips went agape, brows furrowing at the deliciously familiar pattern against your clit.
"Jungwon..." You breath out, followed by a gasp. The pace he rubbed you with so overwhelming that it made your throat dry, hips trying to meet his hand but also run. Jungwon's eyes were stuck to the way your wetness covered his hand. The way your puffy lips swallowed the tip of his thumb as he kept the pressure consistent and rhythm steady. The other hand on your hip, grounding you in place, fingers firm against your skin.
Whimpers left you with each roll of his fingertip. Rough and claiming. Possessive. You let out a low moan, hips moving back against his hand. Pleasure built, the stimulation hitting your nerves just right. Your mind turned fuzzy, only narrowing down to your clit and the way he played with it.
Until Jungwon stopped his movements, moving his hand down, lower. Fingertips grazing your stomach. Right where he smeared the remnants of the other man. The man that watched. Jungwon collected it, his thumb drenched in cum as he returned to your slit. You gasped again, the feel of it mixing with your arousal making you jolt. Jungwon rubbed your clit again, squelching sounds filled the room as he mixed the thick cum with your slimy wetness.
The sound of you gasping filled the space between all three of you. Jungwon didn't slow, his movements stayed firm, deliberate — controlled in a way that made it clear he wasn't losing himself.
He was choosing this. His fingers pressed harder, drawing another broken breath from your lips. Your body trembled beneath his hold, hips instinctively trying to chase the rhythm he set. "You don't even care whose it is, do you?" He muttered, voice low and edged with something raw.nHis thumb kept its steady pace, never faltering. "You just want it." He added, quieter, feeling your clit get too puffy. Too aroused. "Anything that makes you feel full."
Jungwon moved his thumb up to your clenching and pulsing entrance. Quickly filling your hole, thrusting in and out, making sure the cum is pushed inside. Your fingers twisted into the sheets at that, your walls clamping his digit that mercilessly entered your heated pussy.
Slightly away from the bed, Jay shifted in the chair. The faint creak of a seat reminding you he was still watching. Still there. Jungwon noticed the way your breathing hitched at the sound.His hand tightened on your hip immediately, finger possessively setting a pace. "Don't react to him." He said flatly. "You don't get to." You moaned out, forehead creasing and sweat emerging on your flushed skin.
"You're soaked." He continued, jealousy bleeding into every syllable, eyes tracing your face that was pressed cheek first into the bed. "From him. From me. Doesn't matter, right?"
Your thighs trembled harder. A whimper escaped you when he pulled his thumb out, your walls collapsing back against each other. Jungwon's eyes scanned your side once more. The messy hair sprawled on the bed. Your flushed cheek. Your nose that flared with each breath you took.
The necklace.
The necklace that was around your throat, a small white pearl pendant laying leisurely on the bed from your neck that was pressed against your mattress. A tug at his chest. Again. He gritted his teeth, eyes threatening to tear up. "Fucking bitch." He muttered, rage and hurt slipping through cracks of confidence. You heard it. The words made your eyelids slightly open, pants leaving your dry lips, drool slipping and damping the duvet.
And before you could actually process it, he pushed in, his hand guiding the head of his cock against your entrance and splitting you open. You cried out at the sudden intrusion, burying your face into the bed, eyes going tight shut. Jungwon's hand slid up to the back of your neck, fingers curling there and pressing hard. You swallowed him with ease, cock gliding with slickness as he set a pace right away. He gritted his teeth, hips slamming against your ass sending your body jolting against the bed. Your eyes teared up, moans muffled as your face nuzzled into the duvet deeper.
Jay could feel himself get hard again. A tent forming again in midst of all the mess. But for the first time he could not look away, not because it had him horny, not because he wanted to join. But because he felt like he was watching something he should not be apart of. His gaze stayed on both of you. The way Jungwon fucked into you with fury, the way you were at his mercy, at the verge of suffocating. He noticed earlier the way Jungwon looked at you, the way something in his expression cracked before he swore at you. He could see his eyes slightly tearing up before he slammed into you.
Jay simply stayed quiet by the side, ignoring the growing ache between his legs and not doing anything about it. Simply observing.
Your knuckles were white form all the gripping on the sheets. Jungwon rammed into you — your gummy walls taking it, every single angry thrust. His forehead dipped forward briefly, hovering near your shoulder but not touching. Jealousy radiated off him in waves — thick, suffocating, restrained only by sheer force of will.
He didn't need to speak. The tension in his hands said enough. The way he held you like something that was his, something that had slipped, said the rest. The way he fucked into you like you were never his, never something he cherished or cared for. Jungwon didn't slow.
He couldn't.
Every movement was sharp, controlled only by the thin thread of restraint he still had left. His hand stayed firm at the back of your neck, holding you down. Not to suffocate you, but to keep you there. To keep you with him. Your breath broke against the sheets beneath you, fingers twisting tighter into the fabric at each slide of his cock into your sopping hole. At every feel of his tip kiss your walls at is slid through with ease. Arousal dripped down your thighs, the back of them red from all the skin on skin contact.
He leaned forward, chest nearly flush with your back now, and for a moment his forehead almost touched your shoulder again. Almost. "You feel that?" He muttered, voice rough, strained as he felt you squeez him. "You feel how angry you make me?"
His hips didn't lose their rhythm. "You always liked when I was gentle." He went on, words slipping out harsher than he meant them to. "When I took my time. When I made sure you were okay." A bitter huff of air left him. "You don't get that now."
You made a broken sound beneath him—half pleasure, half protest—and it only made his jaw tighten more. "I looked at you like you were something special." He said, the hurt starting to bleed into his tone whether he wanted it to or not. "Like you were mine."
Another sharps thrusts. Controlled. Deliberate.
"And you still let him touch you."
There it was — the crack. His grip faltered for half a second before tightening again, as if he was angry at himself for even letting that slip. "Tell me..." He demanded quietly, breath hot against your skin. "Was I not enough?" Your body reacted instinctively to his pace, but your silence felt heavier than anything you could've said.
Jay sat frozen in the chair, watching. Not aroused now, just witnessing. He saw the way Jungwon's eyes glistened, even as he tried to blink it away. Saw how his mouth tightened every time you made a sound. How his anger wasn't just about pride—it was about loss.
Jungwon bent closer, voice dropping lower right by your ear. "I would've given you everything." He said, almost to himself with eyes teary. "Soft. Slow. All of it."
His pace didn't soften. "But you chose this instead." Your back arched beneath him again, not from pain or fear, just from the overwhelming mix of sensation and emotion crashing together.
He swallowed hard, jaw trembling for just a second. Jungwon knew it wasn't that deep. You were just for two years together, not like you were married or anything. He knew that he could just let it go, suffer in silence for a couple of days. Let his friends help him, have his fun at this young age. He is fucking twenty two, at the end of the day.
But he couldn't. He cared. He cared too much and that was the biggest flaw of his. The one that is his downfall.
"You don’t get to ruin me." He said quietly, the rage thinning around the edges as his fingers flexed around your nape, hips slamming frantically against yours. "And still expect me to hold you like you're fragile."
Another sharp breath left him. "I'm not the one who broke this." His hand at your neck loosened slightly—not enough to release you, but enough to show he was holding on for himself now, not just to control you.
By the side, Jay stayed silent. Because it didn't feel like a competition. It felt like watching someone fall apart in real time.
Jungwon raised himself, teeth gritted as he still held your neck down. His eyes went over your spine, over your trembling shoulders, fisted hands as you clawed at the sheets. Your arch that he would never get tired of seeing. And finally his gaze dropped to the way you took him. The way your folds drooled all over his length, walls sucking him in as he slammed hard. His cock was coated with your mixed essences. And Jay's.
And fucking Jay's cum from earlier.
He felt the sudden burst of anger inside him, the overwhelming feeling that overpowered the pleasure. He pressed your face harder into the mattress, angling his hips as he felt the pressure in his pelvis grow. He leaned forward, body hovering over yours as he fucked you into the bed. You couldn't do anything but take it, crying into the sheets as he brought you closer to your orgasm.
"Baby!" You raised your head, eyes ruined and teary as you called out to him, voice trembling and needy. "I'm close." You hiccuped, neck and cheeks all flushed and wet. The nickname made him groan, only fueling his anger. "Don't fucking call me that! You don't deserve to..." His voice trailed off, eyes spilling tears. They dropped down his lashes and warm cheeks, staining his skin with a burning path — and he let them. His other hand moved down over your hip and found your bud. He rubbed it aggressively, slick coating his hand as you gasped. "Fucking whore." The words left a bitter taste in his mouth. For the first time meaning it. An ache shot through him as tears dropped down his face.
Your ears started ringing, everything shutting down as you could feel the wave coming. His unrelenting thrusts and rubs on your clit pushed you further before it snapped inside of you. You screamed, burying your face into the wet sheets. Your hips tried to move back against his, but you couldn’t. Orgasm shook you to the core as you spasmed around his moving cock and against his rapid fingers.
He fucked you through it, thrusts never faltering as he let your clit rest as it throbbed with aftershocks. He finally released your neck moving to hold himself up over you as he grabbed your chin and turned your head to the side. He brought the stained hand to your lips, pushing it forcefully into your warm cavity. And you took it, mind hazy and mushy. You wrapped your lips around his digits, sucking off your arousal that coated them. Jungwon could feel his dick twitch inside you at the feel of your tongue dancing around his fingers.
He sniffled, eyes closing as he pulled them out supporting himself with the other hand too. Mattress deeped at the sides of your head as he was completely over you, hovering as his hips drilled you into overstimulation. You bit your lip, your pussy burning and aching as you endured. "Wonnie—" You whined, each drag of his against your walls felt too good but at the same time too much.
Jungwon's breathing turned uneven. His grip on the mattress tightened near your head, knuckles whitening as he hovered over you. His lashes were wet, clumped together when he blinked, but he didn't let himself slow.
Each thrust grew sharper at the end, not wild but desperate. Like he was chasing something that kept slipping just out of reach. "Don't say it like that." He muttered hoarsely when you whimpered his nickname. His jaw trembled for a second before he clenched it again. "Don't make it sound sweet." Your body trembled beneath him, overwhelmed, toes curling at the feel of him twitch again inside of you.
Jungwon felt it too, the way you responded to him no matter how angry he was. His brows pulled together harder, a broken breath escaping him as he drove into you again deeper and rougher. As if trying to erase the thought of anyone else ever being there.
"You're not mine." He rasped, voice cracking at the edges. "You don't deserve it." That was the last thing he managed before the control snapped. His hips stuttered, rhythm breaking as he pushed forward and held there, body tensing, a low moan leaving his throat as white ropes of seed shot deep into you.
He didn't pull away, he stayed inside you fucking everything deeper and deeper. Making sure not a drop gets out. The roughness at the end had been almost punishing, not to hurt you, but to claim something back. To fill you completely. To make sure there was no question about who had been there last. You moaned out at his rough punishing thrusts, spreading your knees more to let him have his way. Let him claim you.
Jay was stiff. His eyes sucking in everything that was going on in front of him. He just watched Jungwon's shoulders rise and fall, watched the way his fingers trembled slightly where they pressed into the mattress.
Jungwon swallowed hard, still hovering over you, his hips finally stilling. For a moment, the rage was gone. All that was left was the sound of his breathing and the quiet fragile aftermath of a jealousy that had finally burned itself out. He gulped, hand coming up to wipe his runny nose, tears already dry. With a heavy heart he pulled out, you hissed at the emptiness, body aching and too tired as you finally let your hips meet the bed. He got off the bed, back turned to your sleepy figure that was dozing off, eyelids too heavy. He grabbed his shirt, put it on. He grabbed his underwear and sweats, steadily getting them on, snapping the waistbands down on his hips.
Jay stayed quiet, watching Jungwon get dressed with no words, not daring to even readjust on the chair from the overwhelming silence that took place except your hard breathing. You somehow mustered the strength, turning yourself over and holding yourself on your trembling elbows. Glossy eyes went over Jungwon's back as he adjusted his sweats.
And when he turned around and your eyes met, for the first time he looked emotionless. You opened your mouth to say something. But no words escaped your dry throat. Your eyes flicked lower in shame. In compassion. Your chest felt tight for the first time tonight. He raised his hand up to his neck, fingers dug into his shirt as they hooked onto the silver chain. It snapped. The chain snapped as he snatched it off his neck. He threw it at the bed, the small pendant lending right by your feet.
"I hope he was worth it."
And he turned around and left. The door clicked shut behind him, steps echoing further and further before the click of the front door followed.
Silence.
You looked down at the small chain, eyes flicking to to the door. Your eyes turned glossy in seconds, tears gathering behind them threatening to fall any second.
You gulped in an attempt to swallow the lump in your throat but it only tightened. Your chest felt tight, overwhelmingly full of something you could not put a finger on. Your heart felt like it was going to burst any second, like it's about to die down. Your gaze flicked down to your lower stomach. The evidence of Jay right there. Smeared and stuck. The feel of Jungwon's release leaking out of you, made you grit your teeth. But you could not stop the hollow feeling that followed.
"He left..."
You whispered, voice strained and a little too quiet. Your bottom lip trembled slightly as you fought the tears that were scratching the back of your eyes, gaze boring through the door that he closed a minute before.
Jay stayed leaned in the chair.
He didn't look at you at first. Just stared at the floor, jaw tight, hands clasped loosely between his knees. The room felt different now. Heavy and wrong. The heat from earlier had burned out, leaving only the echo of the door shutting and the image of Jungwon walking away.
Jay's gaze flicked up once quick and almost hesitant, taking in the way you sat layed there staring at the door, small and shaken. Something in his chest shifted.
This didn't feel like a win. It felt like he'd stepped into something fragile and watched it break. He leaned his head back slowly in the chair, eyes drifting to the ceiling.
And for the first time since it started, he felt like he shouldn't be there at all.
———
! this is all work of fiction. in no way this is a representation of enhypen members nor do I believe this is how they behave in real life or condone these actions!
holy shit… this was made for me. let’s all get more jaywonpilled!!! anyways, she was so shameless what the fuck man????? so was jay. as what won said i hope he’s worth it 🙄
A MARRIAGE LAW HARRY POTTER AU SUNSHINE X GRUMPY 2 LOVERS FIC!! PART 2
wizard diplomat grumpy!sunghoon x witch healer sunshine f!reader
warnings: sex lol, hes emotionally unavailable and it hurts, he also might be a bit mean but its okay.
-
Park Sunghoon had never lost a diplomatic negotiation until today.
As Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, he'd built his career on careful strategy and perfect control. Foreign dignitaries feared his unflappable composure. Fellow department heads envied his meticulous preparation. Even the Minister himself sought Sunghoon's counsel on matters requiring delicate handling.
But against the Marriage Unity Act, all his diplomatic skills had proven worthless.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Park, but your final appeal has been denied," said Matilda Fairweather, the pinch-faced witch from the newly established Marriage Compliance Division. Her tone suggested she wasn't sorry at all. "The magical compatibility readings are among the highest we've recorded. The match stands."
Sunghoon's jaw tightened, the only visible sign of his fury. "Magical compatibility has nothing to do with personal compatibility. You're binding strangers together based on theoretical readings."
Fairweather's thin smile didn't reach her eyes. "The law is quite clear, Mr. Park. Magical compatibility is the primary consideration. Personal preferences are secondary to the greater good of wizarding society."
"And forcing strangers to marry serves the greater good how, exactly?" His voice remained low and controlled, but the edge in it could have cut glass.
"By creating magically powerful unions capable of producing the next generation of witches and wizards," she replied, the rote answer suggesting she'd delivered it dozens of times already. "The population numbers don't lie, Mr. Park. Without intervention, we face magical extinction within three generations."
Sunghoon knew the statistics. He'd studied them extensively during his three appeals. But statistics didn't justify stripping away individual autonomy—especially not his.
"I understand tomorrow is the deadline for your compliance," Fairweather continued, consulting a file. "Your match has already submitted her paperwork accepting the union. The ceremony is scheduled for nine o'clock tomorrow morning, after which you'll have twenty-four hours to establish cohabitation."
"Twenty-four hours," Sunghoon repeated flatly. "The original directive specified thirty days."
"The timeline has been... adjusted," Fairweather said with bureaucratic indifference. "Experience has shown that prolonged separation after matching leads to decreased compliance rates. Twenty-four hours ensures the bonding process begins promptly."
Bonding process. As if they were magical creatures being bred in captivity rather than human beings with established lives and careers.
"And if my residence isn't suitable for immediate cohabitation?" he asked, though he knew his immaculate home with its three bedrooms and precise organization was more than adequate.
"Then the Ministry has prepared standard accommodations for newly matched couples," Fairweather replied, producing a pamphlet depicting a depressingly bland apartment building. "Though given your position, I imagine your residence will meet requirements."
The implied threat was clear: comply or be relegated to Ministry housing, where monitoring would be even more invasive.
"Fine," Sunghoon said, rising from his chair with fluid grace that belied his inner tension. "If there's nothing else, I have work to do."
"Just one more thing," Fairweather said, handing him another pamphlet. This one depicted a smiling couple surrounded by animated text about "Building Marital Compatibility" and "Fulfilling Union Requirements." "The complete timeline for compliance milestones. Shared sleeping quarters by three months, consummation by one year, conception efforts beginning by year two. All subject to regular Ministry verification."
Sunghoon took the pamphlet between two fingers as if it might contaminate him. "Ministry verification of consummation? You can't be serious."
"Detection charms," Fairweather clarified with clinical detachment. "Non-invasive but highly accurate. The Privacy in Marriage Act of 1753 prevents direct observation, but magic leaves traces, Mr. Park. The charms merely detect those traces."
The casual way she discussed monitoring intimate acts made Sunghoon's skin crawl. "How reassuring," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm that seemed to pass entirely over Fairweather's head.
"Indeed. Many couples find the structure helpful in developing genuine bonds." She returned his file to a towering stack on her desk. "Nine o'clock tomorrow, Conference Room B. Your match has been notified. Do try to arrive on time."
Dismissed like a first-year clerk, Sunghoon exited the Marriage Compliance Office with his dignity intact but his future irrevocably altered. He'd known from the moment the Marriage Unity Act passed that he would likely be affected—single, magically powerful, and within the specified age range, he was an obvious candidate. But he'd believed his position and influence would secure him an exemption.
He'd been wrong.
Tomorrow, he would be legally bound to a virtual stranger. And not just any stranger, but the one person in wizarding Britain whose very existence seemed designed to disrupt everything he valued.
Y/N L/N. Pediatric Healer at St. Mungo's.
He'd encountered you exactly twice, and both meetings had left him with the unsettling feeling of having been caught in a hurricane of warmth and chaos. The first time had been at a Ministry function honoring medical innovation, where you'd received an award for your work with children suffering from unstable magic. Instead of the proper, reserved acceptance speech expected at such events, you'd told a story about a seven-year-old patient that had the entire room first laughing, then wiping away tears, and finally erupting into the kind of genuine applause rarely heard at Ministry functions.
Sunghoon had watched from the back of the room, increasingly uncomfortable with the emotional display. You'd broken every rule of formal Ministry presentations and somehow emerged triumphant, leaving the podium surrounded by people drawn to your genuine warmth like moths to a flame.
The second encounter had been at St. Mungo's, when he'd reluctantly accompanied the child of a visiting dignitary who'd been injured during an international portkey journey. You'd swept into the examination room in lime-green healer robes personalized with embroidered stars and moons, your whole being radiating such cheerful competence that the sobbing child had immediately quieted.
You'd barely acknowledged Sunghoon's presence, focused entirely on your small patient, kneeling to eye level and speaking in the kind of warm, engaging tone he associated with people who genuinely enjoyed children—a foreign concept to him. Your office, glimpsed through an open door, had been a riot of color and movement: animated drawings covered the walls, magical plants bloomed in every corner, and enchanted toys danced on any available surface.
Everything about you—from your bright laugh to your obvious comfort with disorder—represented the antithesis of Sunghoon's carefully structured existence. And now, by Ministry decree, you would be his wife.
The thought was so absurd that he might have laughed if he were the type of man who laughed at anything.
Conference Room B had been superficially transformed for its role as a wedding venue. Someone—presumably not the Ministry—had conjured garlands of flowers that draped the usually austere walls, and the harsh magical lighting had been softened to a warm glow. The effect was like putting a party hat on a troll: fundamentally incongruous but somehow endearing in its attempt.
Sunghoon arrived fifteen minutes early, as was his habit for all appointments. He was surprised to find the room already occupied—not by Ministry officials, but by you.
You stood by the window, adjusting a vase of wildflowers that certainly hadn't been provided by the Marriage Compliance Office. At the sound of the door, you turned, and your face bloomed into a smile so genuine it seemed to brighten the enchanted lighting.
"Good morning!" you greeted, as if this were a pleasant social gathering rather than a forced legal proceeding. "I hope you don't mind the flowers. I couldn't bear the thought of getting married in a room that looked like a place where people receive tax audits."
Your robes were a soft blue that complemented your complexion, with tiny embroidered stars at the cuffs and collar—similar to the ones you'd worn at the hospital, but more elegant. Your hair was styled simply but beautifully, and despite the circumstances, your eyes held a warmth that seemed to be your natural state rather than a cultivated expression.
Sunghoon, dressed in immaculate formal robes of deepest charcoal, felt suddenly severe in comparison. "This isn't a wedding," he said flatly. "It's a legal formality. Decorations just waste time."
Your smile dimmed slightly, but you rallied with visible determination. "Well, yes, but that doesn't mean it has to feel like signing a business merger in a dungeon, does it? It's still our wedding day, even if the circumstances are... unusual."
Our wedding day. The phrase made something in Sunghoon's chest constrict uncomfortably. This wasn't a wedding in any meaningful sense—it was a legal proceeding mandated by an overreaching government.
"I brought something for you," you said, reaching into a small bag to produce a boutonnière—a single blue flower with a sprig of greenery. "I know this isn't a traditional wedding, but I thought... well, it might make it feel a bit more special."
Sunghoon stared at the offering, momentarily at a loss. In his numerous appeals and countless mental preparations for this day, he had never once considered that you might approach the situation with such... sentimentality.
"No," he said simply, not bothering to soften his rejection.
Your hand, still extended with the boutonnière, faltered visibly. For the first time, uncertainty crept into your expression, the sunshine dimming behind gathering clouds.
"Oh," you said softly, withdrawing your hand. "Of course. I just thought..."
You didn't finish the sentence, but Sunghoon could read the disappointment in the slight slump of your shoulders, the way your smile became something practiced rather than natural. It was remarkable, really, how transparent your emotions were—like watching weather patterns move across an open sky.
He moved to speak, “Uh, I just-“
The Ministry official arrived then, saving him from having to respond. You quickly tucked the boutonnière back into your bag, straightening your robes and visibly composing yourself.
"Good morning," said the official, a harried-looking witch with ink-stained fingers. "Y/N L/N and Park Sunghoon?" At your nods, she continued briskly, "I'm Cordelia Figg, Marriage Registration Office. I'll be conducting your binding ceremony today."
She set a stack of parchments on the table, glancing around at the flowers with mild surprise. "Oh. Someone's made an effort."
"That would be me," you said, your smile returning, though it didn't quite reach your eyes. "I thought a few flowers might brighten things up."
"Very nice," Figg said, clearly indifferent. "Now, shall we begin? The Ministry has seventeen ceremonies scheduled today, and we're running behind already."
The ceremony was mercifully brief. Names confirmed, magical compatibility verified (with a begrudgingly impressed "Highest reading this week" from Figg), and binding vows recited—not traditional wedding vows of love and devotion, but Ministry-approved declarations of compliance with the Marriage Unity Act.
When it came time to sign the marriage certificate, you hesitated fractionally, your quill hovering above the parchment. Sunghoon, watching your profile, saw something like resignation pass across your face before you signed with a surprisingly elegant flourish.
He added his own signature beneath yours, the document glowing briefly as the magical binding took effect.
"Congratulations," Figg said with the enthusiasm of someone announcing a mandatory tax filing. "You are now legally bonded under the Marriage Unity Act." She handed each of you a copy of the certificate. "You have twenty-four hours to establish a shared residence and file your cohabitation notification. Failure to comply will result in immediate relocation to Ministry housing."
You tensed slightly at the timeline, though Sunghoon had expected it after yesterday's meeting.
"Additionally," Figg continued, consulting her notes, "your first compatibility assessment is scheduled in two weeks. A representative from the Marriage Compliance Office will visit your residence to verify appropriate cohabitation and evaluate initial bonding progress."
"Two weeks?" you asked, surprise evident in your voice. "I thought the first assessment wasn't until the one-month mark."
"The timeline has been adjusted," Figg replied, echoing Fairweather's words from yesterday. "Experience has shown that early intervention improves long-term compliance."
Sunghoon noted the tightening around your eyes—the first sign of genuine distress you'd shown. "What exactly are you looking for in this assessment?" he asked, his tone making it clear he expected a direct answer.
"Standard evaluation of living arrangements, observation of interaction patterns, basic questions about your developing relationship," Figg recited. "Nothing invasive at this stage. That comes later."
The casual acknowledgment of future invasions of privacy made your eyes widen slightly.
"Is that all?" Sunghoon asked, not bothering to hide his irritation.
"Just one more matter," Figg said, producing two small velvet boxes. "The Ministry provides standard binding rings. You're required to wear them at all times as visual indicators of your matched status."
She opened the boxes to reveal two plain gold bands. Nothing distinctive, nothing personal—just visible symbols of Ministry control.
"The rings are enchanted to monitor basic health status between matched pairs," Figg explained, "and contain locator charms that activate in emergencies. They also warm slightly when in proximity to each other, encouraging regular contact."
"So they're tracking devices," Sunghoon said, making no move to take the box.
Figg's expression hardened slightly. "Health and safety measures, Mr. Park. Standard for all matched pairs."
You reached for your box with visible reluctance, opening it fully to examine the ring inside. "It looks like a normal wedding band," you observed quietly.
"That's the intention," Figg replied. "To all external appearances, matched pairs should resemble traditional marriages. Public confidence in the program depends on perceived normalcy."
Sunghoon couldn't quite suppress a derisive sound at that, earning a sharp look from the official. He took the remaining box with precise movements that conveyed his displeasure without requiring words.
"The rings must be placed on each other," Figg instructed. "Part of the binding magic."
This, Sunghoon hadn't anticipated. The exchange of rings implied a level of personal involvement he'd expected to avoid. From your hesitation, he suspected you felt the same discomfort, though likely for different reasons.
"I can go first," you offered after a moment, removing the larger ring from its box. Your hand trembled slightly as you held it, and Sunghoon was struck by the realization that despite your attempts at cheerfulness, you were just as unsettled by this forced union as he was.
He extended his left hand, and you carefully slid the ring onto his fourth finger. The metal was cool for a moment, then warmed against his skin as the magic activated. He felt a curious sensation—like a door opening somewhere in his mind, creating an awareness of your presence that hadn't existed before.
"Your turn," you said softly, offering your own hand.
Sunghoon took the smaller ring from its box, noting the delicacy of the band compared to his own. Your fingers were slim but strong—healer's hands, steady in crisis but gentle with the vulnerable. He slid the ring into place with efficient movement, careful to maintain a professional distance despite the intimate gesture.
You inhaled sharply as the ring settled, your eyes widening slightly. He wondered if you felt the same strange awareness that he did—like a compass suddenly oriented toward magnetic north.
"The binding is complete," Figg announced, gathering her papers. "You'll receive an owl with the exact time of your first assessment. Remember, cohabitation must be established within twenty-four hours."
And with that anticlimactic conclusion, you were married.
Figg departed with brisk efficiency, leaving you and Sunghoon alone in the flower-decorated conference room, newly minted spouses with nothing to say to each other.
You were the first to break the silence. "So... twenty-four hours," you said, your voice determinedly bright despite the strain evident around your eyes. "That's not much time to arrange a move."
"No," Sunghoon agreed shortly, already thinking through logistics. "Where do you live?"
"Diagon Alley," you replied. "Above the apothecary. It's small but convenient for hospital shifts."
He nodded once, decision made. "We'll use my place. It's bigger, has three bedrooms, good security. Bring what you need today, the rest can come later."
The practicality of his response seemed to steady you somewhat. "That makes sense. Though I should warn you, I have a cat, Nyx. She's part of the non-negotiable package."
A cat. Of course there would be a pet. Sunghoon's jaw tightened again. "Just keep it off the furniture."
"She's very well-behaved," you assured him, though your expression suggested the cat might have opinions on the matter. "Thank you for offering your home. I know this isn't... well, what either of us would have chosen."
The simple acknowledgment of their shared predicament was unexpected. Sunghoon had prepared for tears, for anger, for manipulative emotional displays—not for this straightforward acceptance coupled with determined grace.
"Neither of us has much choice," he said, his tone less harsh than before. "We might as well make it workable."
You studied him for a moment, head tilted slightly as if trying to read something in his guarded expression. "You're taking this remarkably well," you observed. "I've been fluctuating between panic and hysterical laughter since I got the letter."
The candid admission surprised a nearly imperceptible quirk of the lips from Sunghoon—not quite a smile, but the closest approximation he'd shown all day. "Years of dealing with difficult diplomats," he said by way of explanation. "I've handled worse than this."
"I'm not sure whether to be relieved or offended by that comparison," you said, attempting a tentative smile. "Though I doubt your diplomatic training covered forced marriage."
"It did not," he confirmed, and if his tone held the faintest trace of dry humor, it was gone too quickly to be certain.
You glanced at the flowers you'd brought, now looking somewhat forlorn in the empty conference room. "I should clean these up before we go."
"Leave them," Sunghoon said, surprising himself slightly. "The next couple might need them more than we did."
Something in your expression brightened at this small consideration—disproportionately, in his view, to the minor gesture. "That's... surprisingly thoughtful."
Sunghoon shifted uncomfortably. He didn't do thoughtful. Practical, efficient, fair, but not thoughtful. "It's just efficient. Cleaning up would waste time we don't have."
"Right," you said, though your smile suggested you didn't entirely believe his explanation. "Efficient. Of course."
As you gathered your few belongings, Sunghoon found himself studying the ring now encircling his finger. The magic hummed just below his awareness, a constant reminder of the connection that had been forced upon him. When you moved toward the door, he felt a slight warmth from the metal—the proximity alert Figg had mentioned.
"Shall we?" you asked, pausing at the threshold.
Sunghoon nodded once, following you from the room. As the door closed behind them, he caught a final glimpse of the flowers brightening the sterile Ministry space—a small rebellion against institutional coldness that seemed to embody your approach to this entire situation.
It occurred to him, with unwelcome clarity, that navigating life with someone who met adversity with flowers and determined optimism would require reserves of patience he wasn't entirely sure he possessed.
This, he suspected, was going to be significantly more complicated than any international negotiation he'd ever handled.
Journal Entry: 14 March 2023
Day one of cohabitation with Y/N. Initial observations:
The woman is incapable of following basic organizational systems. I left a detailed orientation packet on her nightstand. Found it this morning with doodles in the margins. DOODLES. On a carefully prepared document.
Her belongings have already invaded common spaces. Colorful throw pillows appeared on my sofa. Books stacked at odd angles on the side table. Even the bathroom isn't safe. Potions bottles everywhere, none arranged by size or purpose.
The constant humming and talking to herself is worse than I anticipated. Also talks to the cat as if it understands English.
Speaking of the cat - it's staring at me. Constantly. Follows me from room to room. I've done nothing to encourage this behavior. Today it had the audacity to sit on my chair and stare until I gave it a treat. Not sure why I complied. Temporary lapse in judgment.
Sleep was difficult. The awareness of another person in the house is... distracting.
Y/N herself is less irritating than expected. She's handling the situation with surprising practicality, despite the excessive cheerfulness.
The Ministry assessment is in 13 days. Need to create the appearance of "bonding" without actually changing anything. Should be straightforward enough. Just need to ensure she doesn't rearrange anything else in the meantime.
Initial verdict: Not quite as bad as projected. Still completely unacceptable.
— S.
-
Three days into your cohabitation, and you'd already established that Park Sunghoon's morning routine was inflexible. He woke at exactly 5:30 AM, spent forty-five minutes in the bathroom, and left for the Ministry at 7:15 AM sharp. The presence of a new wife apparently didn't warrant any adjustments to his schedule.
Your own hours at St. Mungo's were far less predictable. As a pediatric healer, you worked rotating shifts across days, evenings, and occasional nights. This morning, you were due at the hospital by 8:00 AM, putting you on a collision course with Sunghoon's immovable morning ritual.
At 6:10 AM, you stood outside the bathroom door, shifting from foot to foot, your patience wearing thin.
"Sunghoon?" you called, knocking lightly. "I really need to get ready for work."
Silence. Either he couldn't hear you over the shower, or he was deliberately ignoring you.
You knocked again, louder this time. "Sunghoon, I have rounds at eight!"
The water shut off abruptly. A moment later, the door opened just enough to reveal Sunghoon's face, his hair still wet, eyes narrowed with obvious irritation.
"I'm not finished in here," he said flatly.
"I know that," you replied, trying to keep your voice even. "But unlike you, my schedule changes day to day, and I need to be at St. Mungo's by eight. Could you please finish up so I can get ready?"
Sunghoon stared at you for a long moment. "This disrupts my schedule."
"Yes, I'm aware," you said, your famous patience beginning to fray. "But unless you want me to show up for work in yesterday's robes with unbrushed teeth, we need to adjust."
Sunghoon's jaw tightened, but he gave a curt nod. "Five minutes." The door closed before you could respond.
True to his word, exactly five minutes later he emerged fully dressed in impeccable Ministry robes, not a hair out of place. How he managed to transform from shower-damp to completely presentable so quickly remained a mystery.
"Thank you," you said, genuinely grateful despite his obvious annoyance. "I promise we can work out a better schedule."
Sunghoon stepped aside with a grunt that might have been acknowledgment. "Figure out a system for the bathroom. This isn't working."
"Tonight?" you asked, already closing the bathroom door.
He nodded once, already walking away.
The bathroom, like the rest of Sunghoon's home, was impeccably organized. Everything was precisely arranged, from the towels to the toiletries. Despite his hasty exit, there was no evidence he'd been there—no steam on the mirror, no water drops, not even a damp towel.
You couldn't help comparing it to your old bathroom, with its cheerful clutter of hair potions and colorful healing salves. You'd tried to contain your "mess" (as Sunghoon had bluntly called it) to your designated spaces, but the bathroom was necessarily shared.
As you showered, you wondered how long before Sunghoon lost his mind completely at having to share his perfectly ordered world with someone who considered "sort of organized" a major achievement.
-
Sunghoon returned from work that evening to find his kitchen transformed. Cabinet doors stood open, cookware rearranged, and something simmered on the stove, filling the air with rich aromas.
You stood at the counter, chopping vegetables with practiced precision. Music played softly from a wireless on the windowsill, and Nyx sat on a kitchen chair—flagrantly violating his "no pets on furniture" rule—watching with obvious interest.
"Hi," you said, looking up with a warm smile. "I thought I'd make dinner for both of us. Seemed silly to cook separately."
Sunghoon's eyes narrowed as he took in the scene, gaze lingering on the kitchen timer that had been moved from its designated spot. "I eat at seven. Sharp."
"Perfect timing then," you replied, undeterred by his lack of enthusiasm. "That's exactly when this will be ready. Nothing fancy, just stew."
Before he could respond, Nyx jumped down and wound herself around his ankles, nearly tripping him.
"Your cat is trying to kill me," he muttered, regaining his balance with a scowl.
You laughed, the sound bright in his usually silent home. "She's saying hello. Though with cats, the line between greeting and attempted murder is admittedly thin."
Nyx continued circling his legs, purring loudly despite the minimal acknowledgment from Sunghoon.
"I have work to finish," he said, carefully stepping around the cat. "Let me know when dinner's ready."
"Of course," you agreed, turning back to your cooking. "Oh, Sunghoon?"
He paused in the doorway, looking back with obvious impatience.
"About this morning," you continued. "I made a schedule of my shifts for the next two weeks. Maybe we could coordinate so we're not fighting over the bathroom?"
You pointed to a colorful chart on the refrigerator, held up by a magnet shaped like a frog. You'd detailed all your shifts and bathroom times with different colors.
Sunghoon stared at it longer than necessary, clearly caught off-guard. He'd expected complaints or demands, not a practical solution that actually respected his need for routine.
"Fine," he said finally, though his tone was notably less harsh. "I'll look it over."
Your smile brightened, as if he'd offered high praise instead of grudging acceptance. "Great! I know neither of us wanted this arrangement, but we might as well make it work, right?"
Sunghoon just grunted in response and retreated to his study, unable to formulate a proper reply to your persistent optimism.
Once safely behind his desk, he found himself staring blankly at his work, distracted by the unfamiliar sounds and smells filtering through the house. Even here in his private sanctuary, your presence seemed to permeate everything. The house felt different—warmer, more alive somehow.
The Ministry ring warmed slightly on his finger, a constant reminder of your presence elsewhere in the home. The sensation wasn't entirely unpleasant, which was perhaps the most disturbing part of all.
-
Dinner proved surprisingly tolerable. The stew was excellent—rich and flavorful. Despite himself, Sunghoon finished his entire bowl, a fact that seemed to please you immensely.
"There's plenty more if you want seconds," you offered, your own bowl already empty.
"This is enough," Sunghoon replied, though he wouldn't have minded more. Taking seconds felt strangely like admitting defeat.
"So," you said after a moment, "how was your day?"
The question caught him off-guard. No one ever asked about his day. His evenings typically passed in complete silence, with no expectations of small talk or social niceties.
"Fine," he said finally. Then, after a brief internal debate: "The Bulgarians are being difficult about potion imports."
To his surprise, you didn't just nod politely and change the subject. "Is that the nightshade derivatives issue? I read about it last week."
Sunghoon looked up, reassessing you. "Yes. They've implemented restrictions that violate Section Seven of the International Trade Agreement."
"Because of the poisoning cases?" you asked, seeming genuinely interested. "We had a child on the ward who got sick from a poorly regulated Sleeping Draught from Eastern Europe. Really bad situation."
"Exactly why proper regulation matters," Sunghoon said, finding himself drawn into the conversation despite his intention to keep dinner brief. "Bulgaria's unilateral action undermines the existing framework without actually fixing the problem."
You nodded thoughtfully. "I can see both sides. As a healer, I want the strictest safety standards for potions. But I also understand why uniform international rules matter."
"The two aren't mutually exclusive," Sunghoon found himself explaining. "A coordinated approach gives both safety and consistency."
The conversation flowed with unexpected ease as you discussed the intersection of international policy and healing practices. Sunghoon was reluctantly impressed by your insights. This wasn't the mindless chatter he'd expected but an actual exchange he found... almost engaging.
He was so focused on explaining a particularly complex regulation that he didn't notice Nyx jump onto the table until she was approaching his plate with determined interest.
"Nyx!" you exclaimed, reaching for the cat. "No, we don't do that!"
Sunghoon had already moved his plate away from her investigative nose. "Your cat thinks rules don't apply to her."
"She's testing boundaries," you said, scooping her up and removing her from the table. "She does this with every new place. Sorry—I should have warned you she'd try to take over the dining area."
"Take over?" Sunghoon repeated, eyeing the cat with new understanding.
"She's checking if you'll enforce rules or if she can gradually claim the house as her domain," you explained with a smile. "Classic cat power move."
"So she's deliberately challenging my authority," Sunghoon said, a hint of grudging respect in his voice as he studied the cat's unrepentant face.
"Exactly," you laughed. "It's basically a hostile takeover attempt, just with more fur and purring."
To your surprise, the corner of Sunghoon's mouth twitched slightly. "Tell your cat that I don't negotiate with terrorists, regardless of how fluffy they are."
"I'll relay the message," you replied with mock seriousness, "but fair warning—she's been known to leave hairball 'presents' for those who resist her rule."
This time, Sunghoon's almost-smile was more visible. Something about your willingness to joke about the situation without mocking his need for order was strangely disarming.
The rest of dinner passed in conversation focused mainly on the upcoming Ministry assessment. You both agreed on minimal compliance—showing just enough "bonding" to satisfy the bureaucrats without crossing Sunghoon's carefully drawn boundaries.
"I should probably put a few more of my things in the living room," you suggested as you gathered the dishes. "Nothing overwhelming, just enough to show we're sharing space."
"Makes sense, although you already have," Sunghoon agreed, rising to help with cleanup—a small but notable departure from his usual habits. "They'll look for signs we're actually living together, not just occupying the same house."
"Maybe a couple of photos? One of my healing journals on the coffee table?"
"Fine," he said, the word less clipped than usual. The excellent meal had perhaps mellowed his typical resistance, or maybe he simply recognized that some concessions were necessary to keep the Ministry off their backs.
After dinner, you retreated to your room, leaving Sunghoon to his evening reading. The house settled into quiet, punctuated only by your occasional movements upstairs and Nyx's determined patrols of the hallways.
-
The morning that changed everything came on your fifth day together.
Despite your carefully coordinated bathroom schedule, an emergency at the hospital had disrupted everything. Called in at three AM, you hadn't returned until nearly dawn, forgetting that 5:15 was exactly when Sunghoon would be waking up.
You were halfway through your shower when the bathroom door opened.
Sunghoon, still half-asleep, was two steps into the room before registering the running water and steam.
"Shit—sorry," he said, suddenly alert. "Didn't know you were back."
"Emergency case," you called over the water. "Completely lost track of time!"
"I'll come back—" Sunghoon began, when his retreat was interrupted by Nyx darting between his legs, nearly knocking him off balance.
What happened next unfolded too quickly to prevent. Sunghoon stumbled against the sink, knocking your bottle of Madame Mimosa's Magnificent Moisture Potion to the floor. It shattered, immediately releasing both its contents and its powerful enchantment.
The bathroom instantly filled with fragrant mist smelling of honeysuckle and vanilla. The moisture-enhancing charm transformed the already steamy bathroom into a tropical greenhouse.
"What the—" you gasped, shutting off the water and grabbing a towel.
"Goddamn magical beauty products," Sunghoon muttered, already looking for something to clean up the mess.
You stepped forward to help when your foot hit a slick patch. With a startled yelp, you lost your balance as the towel began to slip.
Sunghoon moved with surprising speed and grace, catching you firmly by the arms before you could fall. The towel stayed in place, though precariously low.
For a breathless moment, you found yourself held securely in his grip, your face inches from his. Through the enchanted mist, you saw his eyes darken as he registered your proximity. Water droplets clung to your skin, and you became acutely aware of how little separated you—just a damp towel and his rapidly dampening clothes.
"Thanks," you said softly, suddenly very aware of how strong his hands felt.
Sunghoon seemed to realize he was still holding you. Rather than jerking away awkwardly, he released you with controlled deliberation, his hands sliding down your arms before dropping to his sides.
"I should let you finish," he said, his voice lower than usual. "We can deal with this mess later."
He left with surprising composure despite his now damp clothes and the way his normally perfect hair had started to curl against his forehead.
When you emerged thirty minutes later, the house was quiet. On the kitchen counter, you found a note in Sunghoon's precise handwriting:
Early meeting at the Ministry today. Back this evening. —S
Beneath it lay a small velvet pouch containing a vial of Madame Mimosa's Magnificent Moisture Potion—the exact product that had shattered.
He'd replaced your broken cosmetic. Such a small gesture, yet as you held the vial, you felt a warmth spreading through your chest that had nothing to do with moisture potions.
Somewhere beneath that grumpy exterior, Sunghoon had not only noticed what you used but gone out of his way to replace it without being asked.
Maybe there was hope for this arrangement after all.
-
That evening, Sunghoon returned to find dinner waiting—a peace offering of sorts for the morning's disruption. He entered the kitchen cautiously, as if expecting another magical mishap.
"I promise there are no moisture potions involved in tonight's dinner," you said with a smile that acknowledged the morning's awkwardness without dwelling on it.
"Good to know," Sunghoon replied, and if his voice sounded less irritated than usual, you chose not to comment.
"Thank you for replacing my potion," you said as you served the food. "You really didn't have to do that."
Sunghoon focused intently on arranging his napkin, clearly uncomfortable with gratitude. "It was my fault it broke."
"Still, it was thoughtful," you persisted, unwilling to let the kindness go unacknowledged.
Sunghoon just shrugged, visibly uncomfortable. "I updated the bathroom schedule to include emergency shifts," he said, obviously changing the subject. "There's a buffer period built in now."
"Perfect," you replied, allowing him the redirect. "I've also moved my potions to a safer spot. Though I can't promise Nyx won't continue her reign of terror."
As if summoned, the cat appeared in the doorway, yellow eyes fixed on Sunghoon with unusual interest.
"Your cat is staring at me again," he said, eyeing Nyx warily. "It's unnerving."
"She's decided you're interesting," you said with a smile. "I've never seen her take to anyone so quickly."
"I haven't done anything to encourage her," Sunghoon muttered, though he didn't object when Nyx jumped onto the empty chair beside him and settled in to watch the meal.
"Some people just have that effect on animals," you suggested, hiding a smile as you noticed how Sunghoon had shifted to accommodate the cat's presence.
"No, she's definitely plotting something," he replied, though without real heat. "She knows I don't like her on the furniture, so she does it more often. She's probably enjoying my irritation."
"That's... actually spot-on cat psychology," you admitted, impressed despite yourself.
Neither of you mentioned the morning's encounter directly, but something had shifted between you. As you cleared the dishes together—a small routine that had developed without discussion—you found yourself wondering if Sunghoon was as aware of you now as you suddenly were of him.
Because in that moment in the steamy bathroom, you'd noticed things about your Ministry-assigned husband you'd been ignoring: the strength in his hands, the heat of his skin through damp fabric, the way his eyes had darkened when they met yours.
Physical attraction. Exactly the complication neither of you needed.
But as you watched him methodically drying dishes, his movements controlled yet oddly graceful, you wondered if he'd noticed something too—something that had sent him to the Ministry for the day, something that had prompted him to replace your broken potion with such uncharacteristic thoughtfulness.
The Ministry ring warmed slightly on your finger, as it always did when you were near him. But for the first time, you wondered if the enchantment was merely enhancing something that might have developed naturally, given time and proximity.
A dangerous thought, and one you quickly dismissed. This wasn't a love match but a Ministry arrangement. Developing feelings for a man who clearly valued order and emotional distance above all else would only make an already challenging situation unbearable.
Still, as you bid Sunghoon goodnight and headed upstairs, you couldn't quite forget the look in his eyes through the enchanted mist, or the careful strength of his hands as they steadied you.
Some boundaries, it seemed, were proving more difficult to maintain than others.
-
Journal Entry: 18 March 2023
This morning's bathroom incident requires documentation before I forget the details.
Thanks to Y/N's emergency shift and that damn cat, we had a collision in the bathroom. A bottle broke, releasing some kind of moisture enchantment that turned the bathroom into a steam room. She slipped, I caught her, and for a moment things got...complicated.
She was wearing only a towel. Her skin was wet. I could smell honeysuckle everywhere. And for a few seconds, I couldn't think straight.
Basic attraction. Nothing more. Just biology responding to an objectively attractive woman in close proximity. Doesn't mean anything.
Replaced her broken potion on the way to work. Simple courtesy since I knocked it over. She's reading too much into it, calling it "thoughtful." It was just fixing a mistake.
I need to be more careful about maintaining distance. Too easy to slip into casual intimacy in a shared living space. The proximity is...distracting.
— S.
-
The notes began on your seventh day of cohabitation.
The first appeared on the kitchen counter:
Second cabinet from the left has tea. Purple tin is good for early shifts. —S
More notes followed, appearing with increasing frequency throughout the house:
Book on Eastern European healing techniques is on the third shelf. Might help with your case. —S
Chair by the east window has the best light for reading. —S
Each note was brief and practical, yet together they revealed something unexpected: Sunghoon was paying attention to the minute details of your habits, preferences, and needs.
"Your husband keeps leaving me instructions," you told Nyx as you discovered yet another note, this one attached to a vial of headache potion after a difficult shift. "As if I can't possibly function without his guidance."
Nyx, curled on your pillow, regarded you with knowing yellow eyes.
"Okay, fine," you conceded. "The headache potion is actually thoughtful."
The strangest part was that Sunghoon never mentioned the notes. Not when you used the recommended tea, not when you sat in the supposedly optimal reading chair. He merely inclined his head slightly when he noticed, acknowledging without actually having to talk about it.
It was as if the notes allowed him to be attentive without the discomfort of direct personal interaction—a buffer that let him care from a safe distance.
"The Ministry assessment is in three days," Sunghoon announced over dinner. "We need to discuss strategy."
"I've been leaving some of my things in the common areas," you offered. "Signs of shared space, like we talked about."
"Good," Sunghoon said. "That covers the basics. But they'll be looking for signs we're comfortable with each other."
"So we need to act like we don't hate each other," you summarized. "That shouldn't be too difficult. I don't actually hate you, despite your militant organization of spice jars."
Something that might have been amusement flickered in Sunghoon's eyes. "The spice system makes perfect sense. And I don't..." He paused, as if the words were difficult to form. "I don't mind having you here. As much as I thought I would."
Coming from Sunghoon, this was practically a declaration of fond attachment.
"For the assessment, we'll need to look comfortable with physical proximity," he continued. "They watch for casual contact."
"Casual contact?" you repeated, feeling inexplicably nervous. Since the bathroom incident, you'd both been careful to maintain personal space. The thought of deliberately breaching that boundary sent an unexpected flutter through your stomach.
"Hand touches. Sitting close. Basic couple things." His tone was matter-of-fact, but you noticed how his fingers tightened slightly around his water glass.
"Right," you agreed, trying to match his casual tone despite the warmth creeping up your neck. "Just normal married-people stuff."
An awkward silence fell, broken only when Nyx jumped onto the table and began examining Sunghoon's water glass.
"Your cat is still testing me," Sunghoon observed, making no move to remove her.
"She likes you," you said.
"Cats like people who ignore them," Sunghoon replied, though he unconsciously extended a finger to scratch behind Nyx's ear. "Perverse creatures."
"Is that why you leave notes instead of talking to me directly?" The question escaped before you could reconsider it.
Sunghoon looked up sharply. "The notes are practical. They avoid unnecessary conversation."
"They're about which chair gets the best light and which tea I might like," you pointed out gently. "Not exactly essential information."
"Writing is more direct."
"And less personal," you added. "You don't have to look at me or deal with my response if you just leave a note."
"The notes keep things simple," he said, his expression closing off. "The Ministry wants us to live together. They don't require us to be best friends."
The coldness in his voice stung more than it should have. After all, this was a Ministry arrangement, not a love match.
Still, when you climbed into bed that night, you were surprised to find a new note on your pillow:
Found an error in that healing text you're reading. Page 394 has wrong moonflower dosages for children under seven. I made a correction in the margin. —S
Below his usual initial was an additional line:
Your input on the Bulgarian negotiations was helpful. They accepted our proposal.
You stared at the note, reading and re-reading the second part. It wasn't exactly effusive praise, but coming from Sunghoon, it was practically a standing ovation.
In a note, of course—heaven forbid he mention it in person—but still.
As you placed the note on your bedside table, you noticed something else: your wand, which you'd left on the dresser as usual, had been moved to the bedside table exactly as Sunghoon had suggested in his earlier note.
You'd moved it without even thinking about it, automatically following his "more efficient" arrangement.
The realization made you smile despite your lingering hurt from dinner. Perhaps, in your own way, you were both adjusting to each other—his brief notes, your gradual adoption of his systems. Not a traditional foundation for a relationship, certainly, but a form of communication nonetheless.
With the Ministry assessment rapidly approaching, you supposed any form of connection, however peculiar, was better than none at all.
-
"We should adjust how we sit," Sunghoon announced the following evening as you both stood awkwardly in the living room, attempting to "practice" looking like a comfortable couple.
"What's wrong with how we sit?" you asked, looking at the sofa and chairs that had been in their precise positions since you moved in.
"We sit too far apart," he said bluntly. "You're always in the armchair, I'm at the opposite end of the sofa. Real couples sit closer."
You glanced between your preferred chair and Sunghoon's usual spot at the far end of the sofa. He wasn't wrong—you'd naturally established territories as far from each other as the room allowed.
"So we should sit closer together when they visit?" you suggested.
"We should practice now, so it looks natural," Sunghoon said, moving toward the sofa with visible reluctance. "Forced closeness will look just as suspicious as sitting across the room."
You fought back a smile at his serious approach to what was essentially "pretending to like each other." It was so very Sunghoon to treat casual affection as something that needed rehearsal.
"Alright then," you said, settling onto the sofa at what you judged to be a friendly but not intimate distance. "Like this?"
Sunghoon studied the space between you with a frown. "Still too formal." Before you could respond, he shifted closer, not quite touching but near enough that you could feel the warmth emanating from his body.
"Couples who are getting comfortable with each other sit about this far apart," he said. His tone was practical, but you noticed how carefully he was holding himself, as if afraid to relax into the sofa cushions.
"You've really researched this, haven't you?" you asked, unable to keep the amusement from your voice.
"I looked into what Ministry inspectors look for," Sunghoon said defensively. "I don't want to fail over something as simple as sitting arrangements."
"Of course," you murmured, suddenly very aware of how close he was. The scent of his cologne—something clean and subtle that you'd begun to associate with his presence—seemed more noticeable at this distance.
"We should practice casual touch too," Sunghoon continued, though you noticed the slight tension in his jaw. "Hand touches. Arms brushing. Normal couple things."
You nodded, your mouth suddenly dry. "That makes sense. Should we, um, go for it?"
For a moment, neither of you moved. Then, with what appeared to be forced casualness, Sunghoon extended his hand, palm up, between you.
"Hand holding is pretty basic," he said, his voice lower than usual. "Nothing complicated."
You placed your hand in his, expecting a brief, perfunctory touch. Instead, his fingers closed around yours with a gentle pressure, his palm warm and surprisingly soft against your skin.
"This is the kind of thing they'll expect to see," he explained, his eyes fixed on your joined hands. "Just casual touch."
"Right," you agreed, trying to ignore the way your pulse had quickened. "Casual."
You couldn't help but notice how neatly your hand fit in his, how the simple contact somehow felt both ordinary and intimate at once. Sunghoon's thumb moved slightly, a small brush against the side of your hand that might have been unconscious but sent a surprising tingle up your arm.
"How long do we need to practice this particular touch?" you asked, attempting humor to mask your unexpected reaction.
Sunghoon looked up, and for the first time you noticed the flecks of amber in his dark eyes. "A few seconds is enough for a casual touch," he said. "Any longer means something else."
"And what might that be?" The question slipped out before you could stop it, softer and more genuine than you'd intended.
Something shifted in Sunghoon's expression—a momentary crack in his carefully maintained armor. His eyes dropped briefly to your lips, then back to your eyes, the movement so quick you almost missed it.
Before he could answer, the front door wards chimed with an unfamiliar pattern.
Sunghoon dropped your hand and stood in one fluid motion, suddenly all business. "Ministry officials."
"But the assessment isn't until tomorrow," you said, rising as well.
"They do surprise visits," Sunghoon replied, straightening his already immaculate robes. "To catch couples off guard."
The wards chimed again, more insistently.
"Do we look okay?" you asked, smoothing your own robes nervously.
Sunghoon's eyes swept over you briefly. "You look fine. Just try to seem comfortable with me."
"That makes two of us," you murmured, earning a brief, startled glance from him before he moved to answer the door.
You settled back onto the sofa, trying to appear relaxed rather than like someone who had just been practicing hand-holding with her reluctant husband.
You heard the door open, Sunghoon's polite greeting, then he returned to the living room with a short witch with iron-gray hair. A clipboard hovered beside her with a self-writing quill poised above it.
"Mrs. Park," the witch said, her eyes sharp behind square spectacles. "I'm Inspector Howell from the Marriage Compliance Office. This is a standard preliminary assessment visit."
You rose, offering your hand with what you hoped looked like genuine welcome. "It's nice to meet you, Inspector. We were expecting you tomorrow."
"That's the official assessment," Howell replied, shaking your hand briefly. "This is a preliminary observation to establish baseline interaction patterns."
"I see," you said, though you didn't really. The Ministry's procedures seemed designed to maximize discomfort. "Would you like some tea?"
"No, thank you. This will be brief." Howell's gaze swept the living room, taking in the signs of cohabitation—your books on the side table, the colorful throw on the armchair, Sunghoon's journals now mingled with yours.
"You've established shared living space," she noted approvingly. "And you use the common areas together rather than separately."
"We were discussing some international trade regulations," Sunghoon said, moving to stand beside you—not touching, but close enough to signal connection. "Y/N's experience with imported potions has been valuable."
You glanced at him in surprise. It wasn't exactly what you'd been discussing, but it wasn't entirely false—you had spent several dinner conversations on that topic.
"Professional collaboration is a positive sign," Howell said, making a note. "The Ministry encourages pairs to find connections beyond mere cohabitation."
"We're finding we have more in common than we expected," you offered, unconsciously leaning slightly toward Sunghoon.
Howell observed you both with clinical assessment. "Your physical comfort indicators are minimal," she observed, making another note. "Body language suggests formality rather than developing intimacy."
Without thinking, you reached out and touched Sunghoon's arm—a light, casual contact that might look natural between a developing couple.
"We're still getting used to each other," you explained, your fingers resting on his sleeve. "But it's getting easier."
To your shock, Sunghoon's hand came up to cover yours, his touch warm and sure. The gesture was so unexpected you almost pulled away, but the gentle pressure of his fingers kept yours in place.
"We're making progress," he agreed, his voice perfectly steady despite the unexpected touch he'd initiated.
Something flickered in his eyes as he looked down at you—a brief, unguarded moment when the mask slipped and you glimpsed something that looked remarkably like genuine attraction before his diplomatic expression returned.
Howell watched this exchange with sharp eyes, her quill making rapid notes. After a moment, she gave a curt nod. "Acceptable for preliminary stages. You'll need to demonstrate further development at your official assessment."
"We understand," Sunghoon said smoothly, though his hand lingered on yours a moment longer than necessary before withdrawing.
"Good. Your official assessment remains scheduled for tomorrow at two o'clock." Howell consulted her clipboard one final time. "Be prepared for a more comprehensive evaluation."
With that, she departed as abruptly as she'd arrived, leaving you and Sunghoon in a suddenly charged silence.
"Well," you said, your skin still tingling where his fingers had pressed against yours. "That was unexpected."
"The Ministry likes surprise inspections," Sunghoon replied, moving away to put more distance between you. "It prevents couples from rehearsing."
You nodded, trying not to feel hurt by how quickly he'd reestablished space after the inspector left. "Quick thinking with the hand thing. Very convincing."
Sunghoon glanced at you, something flashing in his eyes that was gone too quickly to identify. "It was the logical response to her comment about formality."
"Right," you agreed, forcing a smile. "Logical."
An awkward silence fell, broken when Nyx sauntered into the room. With impeccable timing, she assessed the tension and promptly jumped onto Sunghoon's favorite chair.
"Your cat has the worst sense of boundaries I've ever seen," Sunghoon observed, though there was no real bite to his words.
"She's just letting you know who's really in charge here," you said, grateful for the tension breaker.
The corner of Sunghoon's mouth twitched upward. "Then she should be conducting our Ministry assessment. She'd have everyone properly trained in no time."
Your laugh filled the room, genuine and relieved. "She'd have the inspector bringing her treats within minutes."
Sunghoon's almost-smile lingered for a moment before he turned toward his study. "I need to finish some work. We should practice again tomorrow before the official assessment."
"Looking forward to it," you replied, surprised to realize you meant it. Despite the awkwardness, there had been something undeniably... intriguing about those moments of closeness.
Sunghoon paused at the doorway, his expression unreadable. "You did well today. Quick thinking."
Coming from him, it was high praise. You smiled, warmth spreading through your chest at the rare compliment. "We make a decent team when we try."
He nodded once—not quite agreement, but not denial either—before disappearing into his study.
Later that evening, you found a new note on your pillow:
Would like your thoughts on the childhood magical stabilization research for our Eastern European initiative. Your perspective would be valuable. —S
Below, in a less formal postscript:
You have good instincts for dealing with Ministry officials. The arm touch was effective.
You smiled, running your fingers over his neat handwriting. A professional consultation request and what might actually be a genuine compliment, all in one note. For Sunghoon, this was unprecedented.
As you settled into bed, Nyx claiming her usual spot by your pillow, you found yourself thinking about the moment Sunghoon's hand had covered yours—not the practiced touch during your rehearsal, but the instinctive way he'd reached for you during the inspection. There had been something natural in that gesture, something that felt less like performance and more like genuine connection.
And that brief, unguarded look in his eyes...
You pushed the thought away. This was a Ministry arrangement, not a romance. Developing feelings for a man who kept himself behind such carefully constructed walls would only lead to disappointment.
Still, as you drifted toward sleep, you couldn't help remembering the warmth of his palm against yours, the surprising gentleness of his touch, and the fleeting moment when his eyes had revealed something his words never would.
-
Journal Entry: 21 March 2023
We had a surprise Ministry inspection today. Howell called us out for looking "formal" with each other. Like we're supposed to be madly in love after two weeks of forced cohabitation.
Need to fix this before tomorrow's real assessment. Y/N has good instincts for this stuff - grabbed my arm at the perfect moment when Howell was watching. I covered her hand without thinking about it. Worked well - the inspector bought it.
The hand-holding practice earlier was... distracting. Shouldn't have been. It's just holding hands, for Merlin's sake. I've touched plenty of women before without losing focus. Something about Y/N's hand in mine made it hard to think straight. Probably just the stress of the situation.
Y/N keeps using the chair by the east window I mentioned in my note. She moved her wand to the bedside table too. At least one of us is listening to reasonable suggestions.
The cat has claimed my reading chair. Again. I don't have the energy to fight a territorial war with a cat while dealing with Ministry inspections. Pick your battles, as they say.
11 days until the three-month assessment with the sleeping arrangements check. We'll deal with that when we have to. One crisis at a time.
— S.
P.S. Her laugh makes the room feel different. Less empty somehow. Just an observation.
-
"Don't you think we're approaching this all wrong?" you asked, setting down your teacup.
It was the morning before your official Ministry assessment, and tension filled the living room. You'd spent three days awkwardly "practicing proximity" with mixed results.
"Wrong how?" Sunghoon looked up from the notes he was reviewing.
"This—" you gestured between you "—all this practicing and measuring. It feels forced. The inspector already noticed we seem too formal."
"We need more practice," Sunghoon said, though he sounded less convinced than usual.
"I don't think we can rehearse our way into looking comfortable with each other," you said. "That's not how this works."
"What do you suggest, then?" His tone held a challenge, but his eyes showed genuine curiosity.
"I think we need to actually get comfortable with each other," you said. "Not just pretend. Real couples don't measure the space between them or time how long they hold hands. They have inside jokes, nicknames, shared habits."
"Yes, nicknames! Or at least using first names consistently. You still introduce me as 'Y/N L/N' to colleagues, like I'm a stranger rather than your wife."
"It's your name," he pointed out, frowning.
"Think of it diplomatically," you countered. "What creates stronger alliances - formal state dinners or casual meetings where leaders use first names and make personal connections?"
Sunghoon's eyes narrowed slightly as he considered this. "The informal connections last longer," he admitted reluctantly.
"Exactly! We need to stop treating this like a performance and build some real connection."
Sunghoon studied you for a long moment. "Fine," he said finally. "What do you suggest beyond... nicknames?"
"For starters, you could actually look at me when we talk, instead of staring at the wall like you're afraid eye contact might kill you."
To your surprise, Sunghoon immediately shifted in his seat, turning to face you directly. His dark eyes met yours with unexpected intensity.
"Like this?" he asked, and there was something almost vulnerable in the question.
"Yes," you said softly, momentarily caught off-guard by the full force of his attention. "That's much better."
Nyx chose that moment to jump between you, settling possessively in Sunghoon's lap. For once, he didn't stiffen or push her away, his hands automatically adjusting to accommodate her.
"Your cat has no concept of personal space," he observed, though his fingers found the spot behind her ears that made her purr.
"She's shameless,your complaining holds no value to her," you agreed, watching with hidden delight as the cat nestled comfortably against him. "But she gets what she wants."
"Something you have in common," Sunghoon said, and you could have sworn the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
"Tell me something about yourself that's not in your Ministry file," you said, seizing the moment. "Something personal."
Sunghoon was quiet so long you thought he might refuse. "I like autumn best," he said finally. "The colors, the crispness. It's... predictable but beautiful."
"And you?" he asked, the question awkward but clearly deliberate.
"Spring," you answered with a smile. "New beginnings, surprises, flowers appearing in unexpected places."
"Our preferences match our personalities," Sunghoon observed, surprising you with the insight.
He hesitated, then added: "My family moved constantly when I was young. My father's diplomatic postings."
"That must have been hard," you said gently. "Always being the new kid."
"I learned to adapt," he said with a shrug that didn't quite hide the old hurt. "New places, new rules."
"But lonely?" you suggested.
Something flashed in his eyes—vulnerability quickly hidden. "I got used to being on my own," he said simply, which wasn't a denial.
Then later, you came downstairs to find a note on the counter:
Early meeting about Bulgaria. Back by 1:00 for assessment prep. —S
Below, in less formal handwriting:
This morning's conversation was good. We should do that more.
As you made your tea, you noticed a small vase containing three perfect autumn leaves, their colors brilliantly red and gold, sitting on the table.
No note, no explanation. You touched one leaf gently, knowing Sunghoon had placed them there as a reference to your conversation.
From a man who communicated primarily through efficiency and structure, the gesture felt like something significant—a wordless acknowledgment that perhaps he was beginning to see you as more than just an inconvenient Ministry assignment.
The warmth that spread through your chest at the thought was dangerous, but increasingly difficult to ignore.
-
The official Ministry assessment arrived with all the subtlety of a rampaging hippogriff.
At precisely two o'clock, your fireplace flared green, and not one but three Ministry officials stepped through. Inspector Howell led the group, accompanied by a thin wizard with a monocle and a young witch whose Quick-Quotes Quill was already scratching away before she'd fully emerged from the flames.
"Mr. and Mrs. Park," Howell announced, brushing soot from her severe gray robes. "As scheduled, we're here for your first formal compatibility assessment."
Sunghoon, who'd been pacing the living room for the past half hour, immediately straightened his already immaculate robes. "Inspector. We've been expecting you."
"Indeed." Howell's sharp eyes took in the room, cataloging the small changes you'd made since her preliminary visit. More of your books mingled with Sunghoon's on the shelves. One of your cardigans was draped over the back of a chair. A half-finished game of wizard's chess sat on the side table.
"This is Examiner Finch," she indicated the monocled wizard, "and Record-Keeper Wilby." The young witch nodded, her quill still moving frantically.
"Please, make yourselves comfortable," you offered, gesturing to the seating area where you and Sunghoon had spent the previous evening rehearsing.
"This won't be a comfortable assessment, Mrs. Park," Examiner Finch said, his monocle glinting. "The preliminary evaluation indicated minimal physical compatibility indicators. Today's assessment must provide evidence of progress."
Your stomach tightened. "Progress? It's only been two weeks—"
"Precisely the period when compatible matches typically demonstrate initial bonding behaviors," Finch interrupted. "The Marriage Unity Act is quite clear on expected timelines."
Sunghoon moved closer to you, his hand coming to rest lightly at the small of your back. The touch was so unexpected that you nearly jumped, but his steady pressure kept you in place.
"We understand the Ministry's expectations," he said, his voice even but with an edge of steel. "However, we believe in a measured approach to relationship development."
"Measured approaches rarely produce the magical bonding necessary for the program's success," Howell said, making a note on her clipboard. "We'll need to evaluate your physical compatibility more thoroughly today."
The assessment began with standard questions about living arrangements, daily routines, and shared activities. You described your coordinated bathroom schedule, joint dinners, and professional collaborations, carefully emphasizing the aspects of your lives that had genuinely begun to intertwine.
Throughout, Sunghoon kept his hand on your back or lightly touching your arm. Each contact sent a small shiver through you that had nothing to do with the Ministry's intimidating presence.
"Your living space shows adequate integration," Howell finally concluded. "However, we must now evaluate personal knowledge and physical comfort."
She nodded to Finch, who withdrew a small silver sphere from his pocket. "This is a Veridian Orb," he explained. "It measures truth and concordance between matched pairs."
He placed the orb on the coffee table, where it hovered slightly above the surface, pulsing with a soft blue light.
"You will be asked a series of questions about your partner," Finch continued. "The orb will measure your knowledge of each other and the authenticity of your responses."
Sunghoon's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but he gave a curt nod. "Proceed."
The questions started innocuously enough. Favorite colors, preferred foods, daily routines. Thanks to your conversation the previous evening and Sunghoon's surprisingly attentive note-taking habits, you both answered with reasonable accuracy. The orb maintained its calm blue pulse.
Then the questions grew more personal.
"Mr. Park," Howell said, "describe Mrs. Park's reaction when she's particularly pleased about something."
Sunghoon hesitated only briefly. "She smiles first with her eyes before her lips follow. When she's genuinely happy, she makes a small sound—not quite a laugh—just before she speaks."
The orb pulsed slightly brighter. You stared at Sunghoon, startled that he'd noticed such a detail.
"Mrs. Park," Finch continued, "where does Mr. Park touch when he's feeling tense?"
Heat crawled up your neck. "He... adjusts his left cuff. Three times, always three precise movements."
Sunghoon's eyes flickered to you, a flash of surprise crossing his usually composed features. The orb glowed slightly warmer.
The questions continued, each more intrusive than the last. How does your partner sleep? What physical gestures do they find comforting? Have you noticed changes in their behavior when you're in close proximity?
With each answer, the tension in the room grew thicker. You found yourself hyperaware of Sunghoon beside you, the warmth of his thigh an inch from yours, the subtle scent of his cologne, the way his fingers occasionally brushed yours when you both reached to adjust positions.
"The knowledge indicators are adequate," Howell finally announced. "However, physical comfort remains underdeveloped."
"What exactly are you expecting?" Sunghoon asked, a dangerous edge to his voice. "We've been married for two weeks."
"The most successful matches demonstrate natural physical affinity by this stage," Finch replied, adjusting his monocle. "Simple gestures of affection without hesitation or overthinking."
"I believe a practical demonstration is in order," Howell said, making another note. "Please show us how you typically interact when alone."
You froze. Beside you, Sunghoon went so still he might have been petrified.
"That's hardly appropriate," he said after a moment, his voice low.
"Mr. Park," Howell replied coldly, "nothing you do in your own home with your spouse is inappropriate. Unless, of course, there is no genuine interaction occurring, which would indicate non-compliance with the Marriage Unity Act's core requirements."
The threat hung in the air. Behind her, Record-Keeper Wilby's quill scratched ominously.
Sunghoon turned toward you, his expression unreadable. "May I?" he asked quietly, his voice pitched for your ears alone.
You nodded, heart hammering against your ribs. You'd expected perhaps a brief touch, maybe an arm around your shoulders.
Instead, Sunghoon's hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly across your cheekbone. The touch was so unexpectedly gentle that your breath caught.
"They're watching for authenticity," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "Follow my lead."
Before you could respond, he leaned in and kissed you.
It wasn't a passionate kiss, but neither was it the clinical peck you might have expected. His lips were warm and surprisingly soft against yours, the pressure light but lingering. His hand slid from your cheek to the nape of your neck, fingers threading through your hair with a sureness that suggested this wasn't the first time he'd done this.
You found yourself responding without conscious thought, your hand coming up to rest against his chest. Beneath your palm, his heart beat a rapid rhythm that belied his composed exterior.
When he pulled back, his eyes were darker than you'd ever seen them, pupils expanded to nearly swallow the brown. For a moment—just a moment—his careful mask slipped, revealing something raw and wanting beneath before he reconstructed his composed expression.
The orb on the table had changed from blue to a warm, pulsing gold.
"Well," Howell said, a note of surprise in her voice. "That's significantly more progress than your preliminary assessment indicated."
Finch cleared his throat, a faint color in his typically pallid cheeks. "Yes, quite. Physical compatibility appears to be developing appropriately."
Sunghoon's hand had returned to the small of your back, but there was a new tension in his touch. "Is there anything else, Inspector?" he asked, his voice remarkably steady.
"Just one more matter," Howell replied, consulting her clipboard. "Three-month milestone requirements. As you know, shared sleeping quarters will be required by that date. Our assessment then will include verification of appropriate accommodation arrangements."
"We're aware," Sunghoon said tersely.
"And the mandatory bonding retreat," Finch added. "All couples we see fit, in the program must attend the Ministry's three-day compatibility enhancement retreat at the three-month mark."
This was new information. You glanced at Sunghoon, whose jaw had tightened again.
"Compatibility enhancement retreat?" you repeated.
"A specialized program designed to accelerate the bonding process," Howell explained. "Under the supervision of marriage integration specialists, couples participate in therapeutic exercises to build natural physical and emotional connections."
Sunghoon's fingers pressed more firmly against your back. "And is this 'retreat' optional?"
"It's a mandatory component of the three-month compliance verification," Howell replied. "All couples we pick participate, no exceptions. You'll receive detailed information by owl next week."
The assessment concluded shortly after. As the green flames of the Floo died down behind the departing Ministry officials, an awkward silence fell over the living room.
Sunghoon had already moved away from you, putting his usual careful distance between you. His expression was closed, unreadable.
"So," you said finally, your voice not quite steady. "That was..."
"Intrusive," Sunghoon finished, his tone clipped. "But we passed. That's what matters."
You touched your lips, still feeling the phantom pressure of his. "About the... demonstration. I know that was just for show, but—"
"It was necessary," he interrupted, not meeting your eyes. "The orb measures genuine reactions. A clinical touch wouldn't have registered correctly."
"Right," you agreed, trying to ignore the twist of disappointment in your chest. "Smart thinking."
Sunghoon glanced at you briefly, something flickering in his eyes before he looked away. "I apologize if I overstepped."
"You didn't," you assured him quickly. "It was... convincing."
A heavy silence fell. The Veridian Orb still sat on the coffee table, its glow now faded to a dull bronze.
"This three-month retreat," you said finally. "That sounds..."
"Problematic," Sunghoon supplied, running a hand through his usually immaculate hair, mussing it slightly. "We'll deal with it when we have to."
He moved toward his study, clearly eager to escape the lingering tension between you. At the doorway, he paused, his back to you.
"You did well today," he said, his voice lower than usual. "The observation about my cuff adjustments... I didn't realize anyone had noticed that."
Before you could respond, he disappeared into his sanctuary, leaving you alone with the rapidly cooling orb and the persistent memory of his lips against yours.
You sank onto the sofa, trying to process what had just happened. The kiss had been for show, of course—a calculated move to pass the assessment. But there had been something in his eyes after, something unguarded and real that contradicted his dismissive words.
And now there was this "retreat" looming in the future. Three days of "therapeutic exercises" to build "natural physical connections." The very thought sent a flutter of both anxiety and something else—something you weren't quite ready to name—through your stomach.
Nyx jumped onto your lap, kneading your thighs with her paws as if sensing your turmoil.
"What am I getting myself into, Nyx?" you murmured, stroking her soft fur. "This was supposed to be simple. A paper marriage, minimum compliance, keeping our distance."
But nothing felt simple anymore. Not with the memory of Sunghoon's gentle hands and warm lips still so vivid. Not with the knowledge that he'd noticed tiny details about you that even you hadn't been aware of. Not with the Ministry pushing for even more intimacy in the coming months.
And certainly not with the realization that despite all your best intentions, you were beginning to want more than the careful distance Sunghoon insisted on maintaining.
As the afternoon light faded, you remained on the sofa, absentmindedly stroking Nyx while your thoughts circled around one unsettling truth: the Ministry might have forced you into this marriage, but they couldn't force the flutter in your chest when Sunghoon touched you. That had happened entirely on its own.
And judging by the way his heart had raced beneath your palm, you might not be the only one fighting an unwanted attraction.
-
The official Ministry assessment had gone better than expected. You'd passed, but something more significant had happened—something that changed everything between you and Sunghoon.
The following morning found Sunghoon in the back corner of the Leaky Cauldron, nursing a cup of tea while three of his oldest friends bickered over the last piece of treacle tart.
"It's mine by right of discovery," Jay insisted, his Ministry Legal Department badge slightly askew on robes that perpetually looked one charm away from respectability. "I saw it first."
"You've had two already," Jake countered, his Auror reflexes allowing him to snatch the plate before Jay could reach it. "Besides, Heeseung needs the sugar more than you do. Look at those eye bags—those magical bridge supports must be brutal."
Heeseung, who indeed looked exhausted from his latest Magical Construction project, just grinned and took advantage of their distraction to steal the tart for himself. "While you two were arguing, I was acting. Very Slytherin of me, wouldn't you say?"
Sunghoon watched this familiar chaos with the resigned expression of someone who'd endured it since their first year at Hogwarts. Fifteen years of friendship hadn't changed their dynamic—Jay still talked annoyingly, Jake still played peacekeeper while causing half the trouble, and Heeseung still quietly got his way while the others weren't looking.
"If you're done with the dessert theatrics," Sunghoon said, checking his watch, "I have fifteen minutes before I need to get back."
Jay rolled his eyes dramatically. "Still counting minutes, I see. Some things never change." He leaned forward, suddenly serious. "So, you finally cracked and asked for our help. Must be desperate."
"I didn't crack," Sunghoon replied, his tone defensive. "I just thought you might have some useful input."
"The great Park Sunghoon needs our advice on women that hate him," Jake grinned, leaning back in his chair. "Never thought I'd see the day."
"She doesn't hate him," Heeseung corrected, always the more tactful one. "She suggested nicknames, which means she's trying to make things work. That's encouraging."
Sunghoon's eyebrows rose slightly. "How did you know about the nicknames?"
"You literally started this conversation with 'Y/N suggested nicknames might help with the Ministry assessment,'" Jay reminded him. "We're not mind readers, you prat."
"So you want to know what to call her?" Jake asked, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Don't tell me the great Park Sunghoon is going to start saying 'sweetie' and 'darling' like a normal husband."
Sunghoon's expression suggested he'd rather drink bubotuber pus. "I just need to know what's standard. For the assessments."
The three friends exchanged a look Sunghoon had seen countless times—a silent "he's hopeless" communication that dated back to their Hogwarts days.
"What do you call your wife?" Heeseung asked Jay, steering the conversation toward actual help.
"Baby, mostly," Jay replied, grinning. "Or jagiya when I'm showing off my Korean."
"I use sweetheart with mine," Jake offered. "Sometimes baby when we're fucking and i’m really—"
"Just the name is fine," Sunghoon cut in before Jake could elaborate. Seven years of sharing a dormitory had taught him exactly where Jake's stories tended to go.
"I use 'angel' most of the time," Heeseung said, smiling fondly. "Sometimes 'doll' because of her collection. She can tell my mood by which one I use."
Sunghoon absorbed this information with a slight frown. The idea of using such terms still felt foreign.
"You don't have to force it," Heeseung added kindly, noticing his discomfort. "Maybe start with something simple. Her name, but said differently than you'd say a colleague's name."
"What's wrong with just using her name?" Sunghoon asked.
Jay snorted into his butterbeer. "Merlin's beard, Sunghoon. She's not a Ministry report you're filing."
"The assessment's over," Sunghoon said, redirecting the conversation. "What else am I missing?"
"Touch her," Jake said bluntly.
Sunghoon nearly choked on his tea. "What?"
"Not like that," Jake laughed. "Small things. Hand on her back when you walk together. Fingers brushing when you pass things. The little touches couples do without thinking."
"We've practiced appropriate proximity—"
"Practiced?" Jay interrupted, eyebrows shooting up. "Tell me you didn't schedule 'touching practice' like some kind of—"
Sunghoon's silence was damning.
"Bloody hell," Jay threw his hands up. "You can't schedule normal behavior. No wonder she suggested you try actually getting comfortable instead of pretending."
"How exactly am I supposed to develop 'comfort' on demand?" Sunghoon asked, frustration evident in his voice.
His three friends exchanged looks ranging from disbelief to pity.
"The same way you became friends with us," Jay said finally. "You spend time together. You pay attention to what she likes. You talk about things that aren't work."
"I pay attention," Sunghoon said defensively. "I know which tea she prefers after night shifts, which chair she likes to read in—"
"Do you tell her these things," Heeseung asked gently, "or just notice them?"
"I leave notes when relevant."
The collective groan from his friends turned heads at nearby tables.
"Notes," Jake repeated. "You leave your wife notes about her tea preferences."
"It's efficient."
"But not personal," Heeseung pointed out. "When's the last time you complimented her?"
The question caught Sunghoon off-guard. "What?"
"You know," Jake said slowly, "told her something nice about her. That she looks pretty. That she's smart. That you like her laugh. Anything."
Sunghoon frowned slightly. "I mentioned her bathroom schedule was well-designed."
Jay dropped his head to the table with a thunk. "We're all doomed."
"I also told her that her insights on Bulgarian potion regulations were useful," Sunghoon added, feeling oddly defensive.
"That's... something, at least," Heeseung conceded. "Professional respect is a start. But maybe try something more personal?"
"Like what?"
"Tell her she looks nice," Jake suggested. "Or that you like being around her. Small things."
Sunghoon considered this. There were, in fact, several qualities he'd noticed in you that deserved acknowledgment. Your persistent optimism despite difficult circumstances. The focused competence you showed when discussing healing cases. The way your entire face lit up when you laughed.
"I'll think about it," he said finally, checking his watch. "I need to go."
"Think fast," Jay advised, stealing the last bite of Heeseung's tart. "Connection isn't something you can plan like a diplomatic negotiation. Sometimes you just have to let yourself feel things."
"And Sunghoon," Heeseung added as they stood to leave, "we're giving you a hard time, but we're on your side. It's a terrible situation, but she sounds decent. Maybe it won't be as bad as you feared."
"Maybe," Sunghoon admitted, a rare moment of uncertainty crossing his features.
"Thanks for the advice," Sunghoon replied, his tone dry but not entirely ungrateful.
Back at the Ministry, Sunghoon found himself replaying his friends' advice while finalizing the Bulgarian trade agreement. Their suggestions, while buried in unnecessary teasing, weren't entirely without merit.
After sending the final draft to the Bulgarian liaison, he made a detour to the Ministry atrium's small conservatory. After checking no one was watching, he carefully selected three perfect lilac flowers from a charmed flower grove that cycled through seasons.
They weren't a traditional gift, but they were a reference to your conversation—a silent acknowledgment that he had listened and remembered what you'd shared.
As he arranged the lilacs in a small vase on the kitchen table that evening, Sunghoon admitted to himself that he actually wanted to see your reaction when you discovered them. Not just for the assessment. Not just for show.
A troubling realization, indeed.
-
Two days after the Ministry assessment, you noticed subtle but unmistakable changes in Sunghoon's behavior.
It began at breakfast. You'd come downstairs to find him already seated at the table, the Prophet open before him, a cup of tea steaming at his elbow. Nothing unusual there. But when you entered the kitchen, he looked up immediately—not the brief, perfunctory glance you were accustomed to, but an actual pause in his reading, his eyes meeting yours directly.
"Good morning," he said, his tone lacking its usual clipped efficiency.
"Morning," you replied, slightly thrown by the attention. "Sleep well?"
"Adequately," he answered, watching as you moved to prepare your tea. Then, with visible deliberation: "And you... angel?"
The endearment came out so awkwardly that you nearly dropped your mug. It sounded foreign in his mouth, as if he were attempting to speak a language he'd only read about in books. You turned slowly to find him looking faintly uncomfortable, a hint of color high on his cheekbones.
"What did you just call me?" you asked, certain you must have misheard.
Sunghoon cleared his throat, his discomfort visibly increasing. "I was attempting a term of... affection," he said stiffly. "If it's unwelcome, I won't repeat it."
The realization that Park Sunghoon was genuinely trying to use a pet name—and doing it so badly—created a warm bubble of amusement in your chest.
"It's not unwelcome," you assured him, hiding your smile by turning back to your tea preparation. "Just unexpected."
"Noted," he said, his usual crispness returning as he retreated behind his newspaper.
You thought that might be the end of it—a single awkward attempt never to be repeated. But that afternoon, as you sat in the living room reviewing patient files, Sunghoon surprised you again.
He entered from his study, a stack of parchment in hand, and paused by your chair. "I've been reviewing the childhood magical stabilization protocol you mentioned," he said. "Your approach is quite innovative... baby."
The endearment was even more stilted than the first, tacked onto the end of his sentence like an awkward afterthought. This time, you couldn't suppress your laugh.
Sunghoon's expression closed immediately. "You find it amusing."
"No—well, yes," you admitted, your smile softening the words. "But not in a bad way. It's just... very clearly not something you're comfortable with."
"Comfort develops with practice," he said defensively. "All skills require initial periods of inadequacy."
Understanding dawned. "Are you... practicing endearments on me?"
The color on his cheekbones deepened slightly. "The Ministry assessment demonstrated our need for increased displays of familiarity," he said, not quite meeting your eyes. "Verbal indicators of affection are standard components of marital communication."
You bit your lip, trying not to laugh again. It was so very Sunghoon to approach pet names as a skill to be mastered through deliberate practice.
"You don't have to force yourself," you told him gently. "The assessment went fine."
"It was adequate," he corrected, "but future evaluations will require deeper evidence of bonding. Advance preparation is practical."
Before you could respond, Nyx darted into the room, weaving between Sunghoon's legs with her typical disregard for personal space. To your surprise, rather than stiffening or stepping away, Sunghoon merely looked down at the cat with a slight frown.
"Your tactical timing remains impeccable," he told Nyx, who meowed back as if responding to the observation.
You watched in fascination as Sunghoon lowered himself to the sofa, still holding his parchments, and allowed Nyx to jump onto the cushion beside him without protest.
"She's really taken to you," you observed, pleased by the unexpected truce between your cat and your reluctant husband.
"She's persistent," Sunghoon replied, though there was no real annoyance in his tone. "I've determined that resistance requires more energy than accommodation."
"A diplomatic solution," you said, smiling. "Very on-brand for you."
Something that might have been the ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Effective negotiation often requires strategic concessions."
The conversation lapsed into comfortable silence as you both returned to your work, the only sounds the occasional rustle of parchment and Nyx's rumbling purr. It wasn't until you rose to make a fresh cup of tea that Sunghoon spoke again.
"Would you like me to prepare that... sweetheart?"
The third endearment was no less awkward than the previous two, but something about his determined persistence was oddly endearing.
"Thank you, but I've got it," you replied, fighting another smile. "You know, Sunghoon, you really don't have to keep doing this."
He looked up, his expression serious. "Is it objectionable?"
"No," you assured him. "Just unnecessary. And clearly uncomfortable for you."
"Discomfort is temporary," he said with characteristic stubbornness. "Adaptation requires consistent effort."
You studied him for a moment, a new understanding dawning. This wasn't just about Ministry assessments. In his own way, Sunghoon was genuinely trying to build something more comfortable between you—following the advice you'd given him about creating real connection rather than rehearsed proximity.
"Well, if you're determined to practice," you said lightly, "maybe focus on one or two that feel less unnatural to you. And perhaps use it when it actually fits the moment, not just randomly inserted into conversation."
Sunghoon considered this suggestion with the same gravity he might give an international treaty amendment. "A logical approach," he conceded. "Which would you recommend?"
The question caught you off guard. "It's not really about what I recommend," you explained. "It's about what feels natural to you when you look at me."
He studied you then, his dark eyes surprisingly intense. The scrutiny might have been uncomfortable if not for the genuine consideration behind it. After a moment, he nodded once, as if coming to a decision.
"Angel," he said simply. No sentence wrapped around it, no awkward placement—just the word itself, spoken with unexpected softness, “or Baby, I’m more determined to conquer that one.”
Something fluttered in your chest at the simple declaration. "Those ones definitely sound more natural," you managed, your voice not quite steady.
Sunghoon nodded again, apparently satisfied. "Angel," he repeated, testing the word. "Yes, that seems most appropriate."
The moment hung between you, charged with something neither of you was quite ready to name. Then Nyx broke the tension by standing abruptly, stretching, and deliberately knocking one of Sunghoon's parchments to the floor.
"Your cat requires remedial boundary training," Sunghoon observed, though there was a hint of something almost like humor in his voice.
And just like that, the unusual intensity dissolved, replaced by the comfortable routine of your shared domestic life. But something had shifted, however slightly. Sunghoon didn't use any more endearments that day, but his eyes lingered on you more often, and there was a new thoughtfulness in his expression when he caught you watching him.
That evening, as you prepared for bed, you found a note on your pillow:
Your suggestion regarding term selection was efficient. Implementation will continue at appropriate intervals. —S
Below, in what appeared to be a hastily added postscript:
Thank you for your patience with the process, angel.
You smiled, running your fingers over the carefully written endearment. It was such a small thing—a simple word that countless couples exchanged without thought. But from Sunghoon, with his carefully maintained walls and precise distance, it felt like a tiny miracle.
All you knew, in that moment, was that Park Sunghoon was trying—in his methodical, occasionally awkward way—to build something real with you. And for now, that was enough to fall asleep with a smile on your face and hope warming your chest.
-
You woke to the sound of Sunghoon's voice drifting up from downstairs. Curious about who he might be speaking to so early, you wrapped yourself in a robe and padded quietly toward the stairs.
What you heard made you pause, hand frozen on the banister.
"No, absolutely not there," Sunghoon was saying, his tone exasperated but lacking its usual edge. "That is designated working space, not a cat leisure area."
A plaintive meow followed.
"Your objection is noted but overruled," Sunghoon continued, as if having a perfectly normal conversation with your cat. "Previous concessions regarding the armchair do not constitute blanket permission for desk occupation."
Another meow, this one somehow sounding argumentative.
"Fine," Sunghoon sighed. "You may observe from the corner of the desk, provided you maintain a minimum six-inch clearance from active documents. Those are the terms."
You covered your mouth to stifle a laugh, hardly believing what you were hearing. Cautiously, you descended a few more steps until you could see into the living room, where Sunghoon sat at his writing desk with Nyx perched on the corner, exactly six inches from his paperwork, looking smugly satisfied.
"Your negotiation skills are improving," Sunghoon informed the cat, who began to purr loudly in response. "Though I maintain that emotional manipulation through sustained eye contact is a questionable tactic."
The sight of a stern, proper Sunghoon having a serious diplomatic negotiation with your cat was so unexpectedly charming that you couldn't help the small sound of delight that escaped you.
Sunghoon's head jerked up, genuine surprise crossing his features when he saw you on the stairs. For a moment, he looked almost embarrassed at being caught in such an unguarded moment.
"Good morning," you said, descending the rest of the stairs. "I see Nyx is expanding her territory again."
"We've reached a compromise," Sunghoon replied, recovering his composure with impressive speed. "Though I suspect her compliance will be temporary at best."
"She's very strategic," you agreed, moving into the kitchen to put the kettle on. "Always looking for weaknesses in the defense."
You heard Sunghoon's chair scrape back, followed by his measured footsteps as he joined you in the kitchen. When you turned from the stove, he was standing closer than expected, watching you with an expression you couldn't quite read.
"You have an early shift today," he said, and it wasn't a question.
"Until four," you confirmed. "Barring emergencies."
Something that might have been disappointment flickered across his face. "I had hoped we might discuss the Eastern European educational initiative this afternoon. Your research on childhood magical stabilization has direct applications."
"Tomorrow?" you suggested. "I'm free all day."
Sunghoon nodded, though the slight downturn at the corner of his mouth suggested genuine disappointment at the delay. "Tomorrow then."
As you prepared your tea, you were acutely aware of him watching you, his usual morning efficiency temporarily suspended.
"Is something wrong?" you asked finally.
"No," he said, then, with visible effort: "I simply find your presence... agreeable, My angel."
The endearment came more naturally now, less practiced but still careful. Combined with the unexpected compliment, it created a flutter of warmth in your chest.
"That's... thank you," you managed, oddly flustered by his direct gaze.
Sunghoon nodded once, as if confirming something to himself, then returned to his desk and a quietly smug Nyx, who had inched closer to his papers in his absence.
You finished your preparations for work, your mind replaying that quiet "angel" and the unusual intensity in Sunghoon's eyes. Something was shifting between you—something neither of you had anticipated when the Ministry had forced you together.
-
Your shift at St. Mungo's had run longer than expected. A seven-year-old with a case of magical hiccups that turned everything she touched temporarily invisible had required careful handling, especially when she'd accidentally made her little brother's left ear disappear. By the time you restored visibility to all affected body parts and calmed the panicking parents, you were running nearly an hour late.
You hurried through the hospital corridors, expecting to find an empty house and probably one of Sunghoon's notes about dinner being in the warming drawer. Instead, as you pushed through the doors into the reception area, you stopped short. Sunghoon himself stood near the welcome desk, his immaculate posture unmistakable even from behind. He appeared to be studying a display of educational pamphlets about magical childhood ailments with surprising interest.
"Sunghoon?" you called, still not quite believing he was actually there.
He turned, and for a moment—just a fleeting second—his expression softened with what looked remarkably like relief before his usual composed mask returned.
"Your shift ran late," he said, though his tone lacked its usual edge of criticism.
"Invisible ear emergency," you explained, still caught off guard by his unexpected presence. "What are you doing here?"
"I thought I'd meet you directly," he said, moving toward you. "I was in the area anyway."
You knew this was almost certainly untrue—Sunghoon's schedule was planned with such precision that spontaneous neighborhood visits were virtually nonexistent. But the fact that he'd chosen to wait for you rather than return home alone created a warm flutter in your chest.
"That was thoughtful," you said, genuinely touched. "Thank you."
A hint of color appeared high on his cheekbones. "It wasn't a problem," he replied, his eyes not quite meeting yours. "I thought we might try that new restaurant near Gringotts. Unless you're too tired, angel."
The endearment still sounded slightly practiced, but not as awkward as his previous attempts. Progress, it seemed.
"Dinner sounds lovely," you said, smiling. "Just let me grab my things."
As you collected your bag from the staff room, you couldn't help but marvel at this unexpected development. Sunghoon waiting at the hospital? Suggesting dinner out? Using endearments without Ministry officials watching? It was as if the carefully constructed walls between you were developing hairline cracks.
When you returned to the reception area, you found Sunghoon in conversation with Healer Matthews, one of the senior pediatric specialists. To your surprise, he didn't look uncomfortable or impatient—his usual response to unexpected social interaction. Instead, he appeared to be listening with genuine interest as Matthews gestured animatedly.
"—revolutionary approach, really," Matthews was saying. "The integration of emotional stabilization techniques with magical dampening is precisely what these cases need. Y/N's research could change our entire treatment protocol."
"She mentioned her work with the unstable core case," Sunghoon replied, his tone carrying a note of what sounded remarkably like pride. "The international applications are significant."
"Oh, absolutely! We're already documenting the methodology for the international healing journal. Your wife is quite the innovator." Matthews beamed at you as you approached. "Ah, speak of the devil! I was just telling your husband about the Mira case. Brilliant work, truly."
"Thank you," you said, slightly flustered both by the praise and by hearing Sunghoon referred to as your "husband" in a context unrelated to Ministry requirements.
"You two make quite the powerhouse couple," Matthews continued cheerfully, oblivious to your discomfort. "International magical cooperation and pediatric healing innovation under one roof! How long have you been married?"
"Three weeks," Sunghoon answered smoothly, surprising you with his hand coming to rest lightly at the small of your back. "Though it feels like we've known each other much longer."
You nearly choked at this uncharacteristic display of charm. Sunghoon was many things, but "smooth" had never been one of them.
"Newlyweds!" Matthews exclaimed delightedly. "Though you'd never know it from how in sync you two are. Young love is so refreshing to see these days."
You felt Sunghoon's hand tense slightly against your back but his expression remained pleasantly neutral. "If you'll excuse us," he said politely, "I've made dinner reservations."
"Of course, of course! Don't let me keep you lovebirds," Matthews winked. "Enjoy your evening!"
As you walked away, Sunghoon's hand remained at your back, guiding you through the evening crowd in the hospital lobby. The warmth of his palm through your robes created a distracting tingle up your spine.
"That was... unexpected," you said once you were outside. "You were very convincing."
"Practice makes perfect," Sunghoon replied, though his hand didn't withdraw from your back. "It seemed important to be consistent even outside the assessments."
"Right," you agreed, trying to ignore the twinge of disappointment. "For consistency."
Sunghoon glanced down at you, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. "The restaurant is just ahead, baby."
The second endearment caught you off guard, especially without any Ministry officials present to necessitate it. This one sounded less rehearsed than his previous attempts, almost natural despite the slight hesitation before it.
"I'm not used to hearing you call me that," you admitted as you approached the restaurant, a cozy establishment with warm golden lights visible through the windows.
"Do you mind it?" Sunghoon asked, a hint of uncertainty crossing his features.
"Not at all," you assured him quickly. "Just... different. Nice different."
Something that might have been relief relaxed his expression. "Good to know," he said simply.
The maître d' welcomed you, leading you to a quiet corner table partially screened by a decorative trellis covered in tiny fairy lights. It was, you couldn't help noticing, a notably romantic setting.
"This is lovely," you commented as Sunghoon held your chair—another unexpected courtesy.
"The Bulgarian ambassador recommended it," he replied, taking his own seat. "Apparently their seafood is exceptional."
Conversation flowed with surprising ease as you perused the menu. Sunghoon, typically so reserved about personal matters, spoke of his day at the Ministry with unexpected detail, describing the frustrating negotiations with a hint of dry humor you'd rarely witnessed. You shared stories from your hospital shift, including the invisible ear incident, which actually earned a small quirk of the lips that was the closest thing to a smile you'd seen from him.
When your hands accidentally brushed while reaching for the bread basket, Sunghoon didn't withdraw immediately as he might have done before. Instead, his fingers lingered briefly against yours, the contact brief but deliberate.
"You still haven't told me why you really came to the hospital," you said as your main courses arrived. "I know you didn't just happen to be in the area."
Sunghoon's fork paused halfway to his mouth, his expression shifting to something almost uncomfortable. "You caught me," he admitted after a moment. "I wasn't in the neighborhood."
"So why come wait for me?"
He set his fork down carefully, as if buying time to formulate his response. "I didn't particularly want to go back to an empty house," he said finally, the admission clearly difficult for him. "It's... quieter when you're not there."
"You missed me," you said, unable to keep the smile from your voice.
He frowned slightly. "I wouldn't go that far," he said, though the color in his cheeks suggested otherwise. "I've just gotten used to having you around."
"You missed me," you repeated, still smiling. "It's okay to admit it, Sunghoon. I'd miss you too if you were gone all day."
Something flickered in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, or something warmer. "You would?"
"Of course," you said simply. "We've gotten used to each other."
"We have," he agreed, his gaze dropping to his plate. "More than I expected, honestly."
The meal continued in this vein—moments of surprising warmth interspersed with Sunghoon's more familiar reserve. Yet something had undeniably shifted between you. His eyes found yours more frequently, lingering longer than necessary. His hand occasionally brushed yours when passing the salt or reaching for his wine glass, each touch seeming less accidental than the last.
By the time dessert arrived—a shared plate of tiny pastries filled with various magical creams that changed flavor with each bite—you found yourself genuinely enjoying not just the excellent food but Sunghoon's company as well.
"I found something for you today," he said as you sampled a pastry that tasted first of chocolate, then unexpectedly shifted to lemon. "It's at home."
"For me?" you asked, surprised. Sunghoon wasn't exactly the gift-giving type.
"It's nothing big," he said quickly, seeming almost embarrassed. "Just something I thought you might like."
Curiosity piqued, you finished dessert with perhaps more haste than the exquisite pastries deserved. Sunghoon paid the bill with characteristic efficiency, then surprised you by offering his arm as you left the restaurant.
"It might rain," he observed, glancing at the darkening sky as you walked toward the apparition point. "The forecast mentioned thunderstorms overnight."
"I've always liked storms," you commented, acutely aware of his arm beneath your hand. "They're so dramatic and unpredictable."
"You would like chaos," Sunghoon replied, though there was no criticism in his tone. "You and your disorganized filing system."
You laughed softly. "And you prefer everything orderly and planned. We're quite the opposite pair, aren't we?"
"Maybe that's not such a bad thing," he suggested, surprising you. "Different perspectives, working together."
Before you could respond to this unexpectedly thoughtful observation, you reached the apparition point. Sunghoon's arm tightened slightly around yours as he prepared to apparate you both home.
"Ready, angel?" he asked, the endearment now sounding almost natural on his lips.
The journey was brief, and moments later you found yourselves in the front garden of your shared home. The air felt heavy with approaching rain, the scent of ozone sharp in the twilight. Sunghoon's hand remained at your elbow as he guided you up the garden path, his touch light but steady.
Inside, the house felt different somehow—warmer, more inviting than the functional living space it had been when you first arrived. Your books now mingled with his on the shelves, your colorful throw blanket draped across one end of the sofa, Nyx's toys scattered across the rug. Somewhere along the way, it had become a home rather than just a house.
"Tea?" Sunghoon offered, removing his cloak.
"Please," you agreed, curious about his mentioned "something" but not wanting to seem too eager.
As Sunghoon moved to the kitchen, you wandered into the living room, drawn to a small vase on the side table that hadn't been there this morning. Inside were three perfect lilac flowers arranged with characteristic precision.
"Oh," you breathed, touching one petal gently. The texture was perfect, the colors vibrant despite being separated from their roots.
"They're from the Ministry conservatory," Sunghoon's voice came from behind you. "The groves there cycle through all four seasons weekly. These are from its spring phase."
You turned to find him watching you, his expression uncharacteristically uncertain. "They're beautiful," you said softly. "Is this what you meant?"
He nodded once, his posture almost stiff. "You mentioned liking spring. I thought... well, I thought you might like them."
The gesture touched you deeply. Not because the flowers themselves were particularly valuable or rare, but because they represented something precious—proof that Sunghoon had truly listened to you, remembered details of your conversation, and gone out of his way to bring you something personally meaningful.
"Thank you," you said, stepping closer to him. "I love them."
Something in his expression shifted, softened. "I'm glad."
"No one's ever given me autumn leaves before," you said, smiling up at him. "It's very thoughtful."
"It's nothing," he said, though he looked pleased at your reaction.
Standing on tiptoe, you pressed a quick kiss to his cheek—a gesture that would have been unthinkable just days ago. Sunghoon went very still, his eyes widening slightly at the unexpected contact. For a moment, you feared you'd crossed some invisible line, pushed too far too fast.
But then his hand came up to your waist, steadying you as you settled back on your heels. Instead of stepping away as you expected, he remained close, his eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your breath catch.
"Y/N," he said softly, your name almost a question.
In answer, you reached up, touching his cheek gently. His skin was warm beneath your fingertips, the slight stubble of late evening rough against your palm. For a heartbeat, neither of you moved, suspended in a moment of unspoken possibility.
Then, with a deliberateness that made your heart race, Sunghoon lowered his head and kissed you.
It wasn't the brief, almost clinical kiss he'd given you during the Ministry assessment. This was different—tentative at first, as if he was testing unfamiliar waters, but growing more certain as you responded. His lips were surprisingly soft against yours, the pressure gentle but unmistakably real.
Your hands found their way to his shoulders, feeling the surprising strength beneath his always-perfect robes. His own hands settled at your waist, holding you steady but not pulling you closer. Always so careful, even now.
When you finally broke apart, Sunghoon looked slightly dazed, his usual composure temporarily shaken. A strand of his always-perfect hair had fallen across his forehead, making him look younger, less severe.
"That was..." he began, then seemed at a loss for words—a rare occurrence for someone usually so precise in his speech.
"Unexpected?" you supplied, your own voice not entirely steady.
"But not unwelcome," he added quickly, his hands still resting lightly at your waist.
"Definitely not unwelcome," you agreed, smiling up at him.
For a moment, you simply looked at each other, something new and fragile hovering between you. Then, with a sureness that took your breath away, Sunghoon kissed you again.
This time, there was nothing tentative about it. His arms drew you closer, one hand sliding up your back to cradle the nape of your neck. You responded in kind, your fingers threading through his hair, disrupting its perfect arrangement in a way that felt quietly rebellious.
The kiss deepened, lips parting, breaths mingling. Sunghoon made a soft sound in the back of his throat—something between a sigh and a groan—that sent a shiver down your spine. Who knew that proper, composed Park Sunghoon could kiss like this?
You found yourself pressed against the bookshelf, the spines of ancient tomes digging into your back, but you hardly noticed. All that existed was Sunghoon—his mouth hot against yours, his hands now bolder in their exploration, the surprising heat of him through layers of formal robes.
When you finally broke apart, both breathing heavily, Sunghoon looked thoroughly disheveled. His hair stood up where your fingers had mussed it, his usually pale cheeks flushed, his perfect robes slightly askew. The sight of him so undone—because of you—created a flutter of something dangerously close to pride in your chest.
"I..." he began, then cleared his throat. "That was not what I had planned for this evening."
You couldn't help but laugh softly. "Do you always plan your evenings in such detail?"
"Usually," he admitted, a hint of something almost like humor in his eyes. "Though I'm finding that some deviations from schedule can be... acceptable."
"Just acceptable?" you teased, straightening his collar where your hands had disturbed it.
His expression softened, becoming almost vulnerable. "More than acceptable, baby."
The endearment, spoken in this context, created a warmth in your chest that had nothing to do with the lingering heat of your kiss. This was not a practiced performance for Ministry officials—this was something real, however unexpected.
"The tea must be getting cold," you said finally, though you made no move to step away from him.
"I believe you're right," Sunghoon agreed, though he seemed equally reluctant to break the moment. With visible effort, he stepped back, his hands lingering at your waist before finally falling away. "We should probably..."
"Yes," you agreed, though neither of you moved toward the kitchen.
A distant rumble of thunder broke the moment, reminding you of the approaching storm. As if on cue, Nyx appeared, winding her way between your legs with her usual disregard for personal space.
"Your cat has impeccable timing," Sunghoon observed, his composure gradually returning despite his still-mussed hair.
"She does have a talent for interruption," you agreed, bending to scoop her up. "Though she seems to approve of you."
"A dubious honor," Sunghoon replied dryly, though his hand came up to scratch behind Nyx's ears, earning a loud purr of appreciation.The tension of the moment eased, replaced by a new kind of comfort as you both moved to the kitchen for tea. Outside, the storm drew closer, occasional flashes of lightning now visible through the windows, followed by increasingly loud rumbles of thunder.
As you finished your tea, a comfortable silence fell between you, broken only by the sound of rain beginning to patter against the windows and Nyx's contented purring from her spot on the kitchen chair.
"It's getting late," Sunghoon said finally, his eyes meeting yours with lingering warmth. "You mentioned an early shift tomorrow."
"Six-thirty," you confirmed with a sigh. "The joys of pediatric emergency rotation."
Something that might have been disappointment flickered across his features, but he nodded. "You should get some rest."
As you both stood to clear the tea things, your fingers brushed again, the brief contact now charged with new meaning after your shared kisses. Sunghoon's hand caught yours, holding it gently for a moment.
"Thank you for dinner tonight," you said softly. "And for the flowers. It was... nice."
"It was," he agreed, his thumb tracing a small circle on the back of your hand. For a moment, he seemed on the verge of saying something more, but then simply nodded. "Sleep well, angel."
The endearment, now perfectly natural on his lips, created a warm flutter in your chest. "Goodnight, Sunghoon," you replied, reluctantly withdrawing your hand.
You both moved toward the stairs, the approaching storm casting dramatic shadows through the windows. At the landing where the hallway branched toward your separate bedrooms, you paused, suddenly reluctant to part.
Sunghoon hesitated as well, his usual decisive movements temporarily suspended. Then, with deliberate care, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your lips—gentle, brief, but unmistakably genuine.
"Goodnight," he said quietly, drawing back.
"Goodnight," you echoed, your voice not quite steady.
You turned toward your bedroom, feeling his eyes on you until you closed your door. Inside, you leaned against it for a moment, touching your lips where his had been, trying to process everything that had happened.
From casual dinner to heated kisses against a bookshelf to this new, tentative tenderness—it was a lot to absorb in one evening. As you prepared for bed, you could hear Sunghoon moving about in his own room across the hall, the familiar sounds somehow comforting despite the growing storm outside.
You slipped under your covers, Nyx jumping up to claim her usual spot at the foot of your bed. The approaching storm had intensified, lightning now flashing more frequently, thunder following in quicker succession. You'd always enjoyed storms, finding something soothing in their wild energy, and tonight the dramatic weather seemed to match the tumult of your thoughts.
Sleep came more easily than you expected, the day's events and emotional revelations having left you pleasantly exhausted. You couldn't know that in just a few hours, the storm raging outside would wake you both, creating an opportunity for the final barriers between you to fall completely.
❝ don't spin this on me. this is about you getting turned on by your best friend's sister, you freak. ❞
PAIRING ▸ jake sim x fem!reader
GENRES ▸ smut, crack, fluff, college au, brother's best friend au, academic rivals to lovers au
WARNINGS ▸ profanity, alcohol, weed, lots of banter, sexual tension, dry humping, dirty talk, teasing, unprotected sex, fingering, oral (m. receiving), semi public sex, jayhoon bullying jake
SUMMARY ▸ in which jake comes to the horrifying realization that he might have somewhat of a masochistic streak. case in point: he can't stop himself from getting turned on whenever you argue with him.
WORD COUNT ▸ 12,657 words
PLAYLIST ▸ sweet lies by exo • damn right by jennie, childish gambino, kali uchis • red angel by s.e.s. • thirsty by tinashe
AUTHOR’S NOTE ▸ this was written on a whim because of that weverse live clip of jake nerding out lol hope u like it!!
JAKE SIM WAS CURRENTLY EXPERIENCING A MAJOR PREDICAMENT THAT PROBABLY WOULDN’T SURVIVE MOST FRIENDSHIPS.
To preface, when it came down to it, he respected Lee Heeseung a whole lot (although he would rather die than admit this out loud). There was something special about having a childhood friend—someone who was there for him at the awkward stages of puberty and lowest points of his life—and Jake would’ve been a fool to ever take that for granted. For their tight-knit friendship to carry into university made their bond irreplaceable to Jake. He genuinely trusted that he and Heeseung would be friends even when they were old and cheating at bingo together in a retirement home.
That being said, the chances of that happening were looking bleak now that you, Heeseung’s younger sister, were constantly occupying a space in Jake’s head that was reserved for something more… impure.
It was strictly lust; however, that somehow made matters much worse because how could he possibly lust after his best friend’s sister? If it was some complicated emotion like love, then at least Jake could tuck his heart away and hide his feelings until the day he died.
Hiding a boner, though—that was difficult.
Even more so because you were in the same Engineering & Society seminar as Jake, and since the course was structured for small group debates, the two of you were often at each other’s throats in heated arguments. Of course, Jake tried to approach you as civilly as possible, so their professor believed the intense back-and-forth was simply a healthy dialogue, but neither of you would back down once it started.
The problem only made itself clear last month, despite how many excuses Jake made for himself to deny your involvement. It took him three more weeks to accept that his hard-ons were your doing and not simply a standing ovation out of respect for the debate (which was one of his worst possible reasons, to be honest).
And the cherry on top was that they always happened when you two were quarreling.
You two could be insults deep in what was supposed to be a casual discussion about greenwashing in product engineering, and Jake would, without fail, feel all the blood rush to his dick until it was uncomfortably stiff.
Unsexy thoughts, unsexy thoughts, unsexy thoughts, he kept chanting to himself, attempting to force an image in his head of Heeseung kicking his sorry ass. Unfortunately, it did very little to prove effective against the scarily overwhelming libido that tented his pants.
Jake was ashamed to admit that he was also mildly turned on by the idea of being caught, which made absolutely no sense because that was also his biggest fear.
So, to summarize, Jake now found himself horny in situations where:
he was pissed off
he was in the middle of a heated argument
he was potentially going to get beat up
It wasn’t looking good for him, to say the least.
Now, there was a justifiable reason as to why Jake was under the assumption that Heeseung was going to punch the living daylights out of him. Although you were only a year younger than your brother, he was awfully protective of you because a little sister was all he ever wanted.
Back when they were middle schoolers, running over to each other’s houses across the street to show each other their new comic books, Heeseung would always bring you around. Jake had nothing going on in his head but Spider-Man and legos back then, so he wasn’t very pleased with you constantly trailing behind them like a lost puppy. Naturally, that led to you and Jake often bickering about your annoying, lingering presence.
The last time Jake ever complained about you hanging around them was when he blew up on you for following them to the corner store. That place was practically their sanctuary back then. The 99 cent AriZona iced tea was like uncut cocaine to him. The fact that you, a mere fifth grader, encroached on their safe haven was an insult—a disgrace! The reputation of the fine establishment simply didn't allow for puny elementary kids to come and go as they pleased (in Jake’s head, at least).
“Quit following us, Y/N,” eleven-year-old Jake muttered back then, throwing you a glower over his shoulder. “Don’t you have other friends to bother?”
“Not really.”
“Yeah, I can tell, so stop trying to steal mine.”
Although you were all pigtails and Barbie dolls back then, you were surprisingly sharp-tongued for an elementary schooler. “Sure, Jake. You can have my brother and the rest of your imaginary friends.”
He wasn’t even the type to get angry. In fact, Jake had glowing reviews about his personality; moms loved him, the guys always picked him first for sports teams, and he even caught the attention of some of the girls at school. It wasn’t like him to get so riled up over something so small and petty, but he always happened to blow his top when it came to you.
It was rather unbecoming of him (considering Park Sunghoon later deemed him Mommy’s Little Misogynist for this one), but Jake was boiling with so much anger that he wound up chugging the rest of his iced tea in one go, crumpling up the aluminum into a disc, and throwing the empty can straight at your forehead. The force of his throw, normally reserved for intense sessions of Four Square on the playground, left behind an angry red mark that quickly brought you to tears.
Before Jake could even stutter out an apology, he was met with a blow to his gut that had him doubling over Heeseung’s fist. It was then that Jake realized that his friend did not take any disrespect toward his sister lightly.
This carried on into high school, too, where Jake got to witness Heeseung hunt down your first ever boyfriend for cheating on you. It was quite the scene, full of threats and rather creative insults, but Jake realized that he was only let off the hook because of his close friendship with Heeseung.
Over the years, he learned he could bicker with you all he wanted—Heeseung finally realized that you could stand up for yourself—but to lust after you so shamelessly was a death wish. It was the pinnacle of disrespect toward you. If your brother ever found out, Jake was a dead man.
That was why he was now fiercely determined to get through the rest of his seminar without having to cross his legs and hide the deplorable tension in his jeans.
Today, he prepared himself by starting his day off with a bowl of Corn Flakes, intended to curb sexual desires by John Harvey Kellogg himself. Then, he devoured a handful of graham crackers before class, which Jake wasn't quite sure would be useful as an anaphrodisiac, but it was worth a shot. Actually, he wasn't very confident with either of these options, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
The question they were tackling today was whether engineers were to be held accountable for how their inventions were used, such as facial recognition for surveillance or military drones. Thought-provoking, for sure. Jake made a mental note to discuss it with the professor at office hours—anything he could do to suck up to the guy to compensate for his crass behavior during discussions.
“You can’t just start something potentially dangerous and walk away from the consequences,” you claimed, that challenging look in your eyes daring anyone to speak against you.
Usually, no one other than Jake dared to oppose you, so the silence that followed after was thick with anticipation, stuck in their throats like honey. Your gaze met Jake’s for a split second, eyebrows lifting in mild surprise. He would usually be standing up by now, but he didn’t feel the need to. To be quite honest, Jake agreed with your point this time, so there was no reason for him to come up with some half-baked counterargument for the sake of participating. Plus, it was far too risky to argue with you; he was already determinedly set on making it through this class without his blood rushing to rather inappropriate regions.
Still, the way you were looking at him, waiting for him to argue back with those sickeningly adorable eyes, had him rising to his feet, anyway. What a weak-willed man he was. Sunghoon would laugh right in his face.
“But if someone misuses the technology, that’s on them, not the people who created it,” he countered, surprisingly convincing for someone who didn’t believe a word he was saying. “The engineers can’t control how their technology is used once it’s sold to whoever.”
“But don’t you see how technology’s being used? You really think mass surveillance keeps improving because engineers are just super passionate about innovation? It’s all about the money, isn’t it?” He could hear the emotion rising in your voice; you were just an overly-passionate person when it came to these things, but you sucked in a breath to collect yourself. “If they know the harm their inventions cause and keep going, they should be held accountable for what they make!”
This was honestly ridiculous. Jake fully agreed with you, yet here he was, scrambling to think of a rebuttal so that he could watch the irritation grow on your face.
“Then what about the ones built with good intentions? Should they be held responsible because their honest work was manipulated?”
“Impact over intent,” you replied with a firmness intended to shut him up. “Honest work only goes so far. Would you be okay with the vision for your product getting warped into something else entirely?”
“So, you think if someone designed tracking features on a health app or some shit, they should be held responsible if that data gets sold or used by the government?”
“Yes. That’s exactly what I think.”
Well, yeah, that checked out.
Jake raised a brow. “How are they supposed to know? Most engineers are working on small parts of these big projects.”
“Seriously? Look at Boeing! All these sloppy engineering decisions resulted in those plane crashes.” There was a hint of venom in your tone and your eyes were sharp. Jake could tell you were getting to that level of frustration that he couldn’t help but get excited over. “Over three hundred people died because of plain negligence. Who’s to blame, then?”
“I just wanna ask where you think the line should be drawn,” he said. “If we hold every single engineer accountable for how their work gets used, then no one’s gonna build anything. You just end up driving them all into a corner.”
“Are you trying to be an engineer for the money, or are you in it for meaningful work?”
“Uh… yeah, the meaningful work, of course.” And the six-figure starting salary. That was beside the point, though.
“Then shouldn’t you be approaching what you create with some more tact? You can’t just mindlessly build whatever without thinking beyond your creation.”
“Are we still talking about engineers here, or are you just coming for me now?”
“Well, if the shoe fits.”
“The most I’ve done is code a calculator. I don’t think the government’s interested.”
“I’m clearly not talking about that. I’m talking about—”
“This is a seminar, Y/N. We’re supposed to be talking about society here.”
“Are you not part of society anymore, Jake? I sincerely apologize for assuming.” There was nothing sincere about your tone, though. “What? You’ve got nothing else to say?”
And, like clockwork, there was that telltale strain once again as Jake felt his chest grow hot. He reached behind him to grab the head of his chair and sit back down, slowly crossing one leg over the other. You frowned as you watched him concede, and Jake felt rather pathetic that everyone was under the impression that he surrendered. There was a chill in the room—whether it was from a draft or the tension from the conversation, he couldn’t tell.
“I think I’m done, but I agree with you, by the way,” he said, a sly grin spreading across his face. “Just wanted to participate.”
A few snickers rose from some of their classmates. You scoffed, partly out of amusement and partly out of exasperation, and slumped back in your seat with your arms crossed. The seething look on your face wasn’t doing him any favors, nor did the Corn Flakes and graham crackers, apparently.
“Okay, good stuff, good stuff,” said Jay Park, Jake’s longtime friend and current TA for the semester. “Anyone who isn’t Y/N or Jake wanna give it a go? Hopefully without making the rest of us painfully uncomfortable.”
He unfortunately had to bear witness to every single one of the showdowns between you and Jake, but he always kept his mouth shut in front of Heeseung because, as Jay put it, the feud between the two was “too messy to escalate.” Jake was just glad he didn’t have to resort to blackmail to shut Jay up.
It turned out that people were, in fact, willing to participate as long as you and Jake weren’t involved. Jake got to sit back for the rest of class and grit his teeth, willing his hard-on to go away before they were all dismissed. What made that quite the feat was the fact that you kept watching him for the rest of class with calculating eyes, as if you were peering into his very soul.
By the time class ended, Jake felt relief flood his chest. He needed to get a mile away from you before your eye contact made his situation a whole lot worse. As he was zipping his backpack back up, Jake saw your perfectly manicured fingernail dragging across the grain of his desk through the corner of his eye.
You were standing right in front of him.
He looked up, alarmed. From behind you, Jay, who was about to approach him, was backing up slowly, shooting his friend a grimace and opting to duck out the door instead. As the last few people in the classroom were filing out, Jake realized he was now left alone with you.
Fuck.
Jake cleared his throat. “Can I help you?”
“You can start by explaining why you keep going out of your way to get on my bad side,” you said. “If you agreed with me that entire time, why were you purposely trying to piss me off?”
“Well, I wouldn’t call it going out of my way,” he retorted. “Class participation is a requirement. All I did was stand up.”
“And refute every single point you believed in?”
He clicked his tongue. “What can I say? I do it for the love of the game.”
“Uh-huh.” Completely unconvinced, you looked him up and down. Your demand was simple, yet downright mortifying: “Uncross your legs.”
Jake froze.
“Odd request, don’t you think?”
Your gaze dropped for a split second—not long enough for it to be obvious, but Jake caught it in time. “I don’t think so. We’ve known each other since, like, forever. I think we’re at the point where I can make odd requests.”
He felt his mouth going dry. What were you even on about? Sure, Jake was probably close to you in a forced proximity sort of way, but that didn’t mean you two were suddenly buddy-buddy. You two were close in the sense that Jake went to your high school graduation (as per Heeseung’s invite, of course) and drove you to your tennis practices whenever your brother was busy—not whatever this was.
But who was he kidding? Nothing about this conversation screamed buddy-buddy. You were clearly onto him, and all Jake could do was think of every sad movie he’d ever watched to get rid of the growing erection in his pants.
Jake swallowed thickly. “You want me to uncross my legs,” he stated matter-of-factly, and you snorted.
“What, didn’t hear it the first time?”
“Can’t do that,” was all could say in response—strained, like something was lodged in his throat.
“You can’t… move your leg?”
“Nope—arthritis.”
“Arthritis,” you repeated blankly.
“Yeah. Runs in my family.”
You shook your head, seeing right through his attempt to steer the conversation back into calmer waters. “You’re a terrible liar, Jake.”
“Really? I thought I was doing a pretty good job earlier.”
“Mmhm. A real Oscar-winning performance for someone arguing against his own opinion—truly,” you said. “Also, you’re stalling.”
“Here,” he bit out, and slowly—deliberately—Jake uncrossed his legs for you to see. The bulge in his pants had effectively gone down with much mental gymnastics, and you simply stared down at his groin with a frown settling on your lips. “Happy now, you pervert?”
All you did was look at him with a beady gaze, raising a perfectly arched brow before pulling your phone out of your bag. Jake could only return a look of absolute bewilderment as you flipped your hair over your shoulder and tapped away furiously, the glow from the screen illuminating your features just enough for you to look even more radiant.
“I see. So, uh… Heeseung’s gonna be out of town for his hockey tournament and I need a ride to Kazuha’s place tonight. She’s throwing this huge party, and I was planning on pregaming before I head over, but I’m not about to drunk drive, for obvious reasons.” You wouldn’t even look up as you spoke, keeping your eyes trained on the text messages that seemed to be delivering in a flurry. Notification after notification—Jesus, would it kill you to turn your ringer off? “Pick me up at eight?”
Jake blinked slowly—a few more times, for good measure. He couldn’t believe his ears. You just grilled him to a crisp, and now you were acting as if nothing happened? He was fighting his own blood from pumping to his dick, and you were just casually changing the topic?
But—whatever. As long as the attention wasn’t on his crotch anymore, he could roll with this.
He scowled. “Kazuha’s? Hey, I’m not your chauffeur.”
But you were already walking out the door. “Yeah, yeah. So, eight?”
A retired sigh fell from his lips. “Sure—fine, whatever. I’ll be there.”
In a happy world, Jake’s schedule was packed with classes all day so that he wouldn’t have to run into Heeseung right after that not-so-fun encounter with you.
In the real world, however, Jake’s schedule was specifically structured so that he and Heeseung had the same breaks between classes. They planned this out well in advance so that they could meet up once they were done with class. Of course, this didn't always work out because of overlapping course times, but the two of them happened to luck out this semester (although it wasn't exactly working in Jake’s favor right now). Just as he walked out of his classroom, his friend was making his way down the hallway to get to him.
“Yo,” Heeseung greeted. He had his hockey stick slung over his shoulder; for weekend tournaments like these, Heeseung would usually leave campus early so that he could commute before nightfall. “I thought you’d be at our table already. Jay isn’t with you?”
“I was hanging back for, uh… homework help,” he lied, hoping it came out smooth enough to convince his friend.
“Couldn’t you just ask Jay?”
Well, he had a point there. Jake settled for saying, “Nah. Fuck that guy.”
To his relief, Heeseung just laughed. “Yeah, true. That fucker goes on for hours if you get him to start explaining something. I asked him one question about my calc homework the other night, and I swear the sun was coming up by the time he was done.”
“That’s why you come to me first.”
“I tried. Your ass was knocked out, so all I had was Jay.” Then, Heeseung added, “By the way, since I’m gonna be out this weekend, I need you to do me a favor.”
“Yeah?”
“Y/N said she needed a ride to this… I don’t know—I guess Danielle’s sorority’s hosting something? A charity event or some shit like that. Anyway, I won’t be here, but she needs a ride. Are you free? It’s Saturday evening.”
“I’m already—” Jake stopped himself. Maybe he wasn’t supposed to disclose the minor detail that he was also going to be driving you to Kazuha’s party tonight. As hard as he racked his brain for an excuse, he couldn’t think of anything productive he’d be doing the next day. “Yeah, it’s no problem.”
“Appreciate it, man,” Heeseung said, thumping Jake’s chest with the back of his hand.
Their chatter continued out of the science building, pushing open the doors to be hit with a gust of cold wind. Heeseung then stopped dead in his tracks, looking down at his phone before throwing his head back in exasperation.
“Coach wants us to meet in the gym before we leave,” he told Jake with a resigned shrug. “I’ll see you on Monday, okay? Tell Sunghoon and Jay I said bye.”
The one thing Jake despised in the world was saying goodbye to people. He got far too emotional over a gesture that really wasn’t that dramatic, and he hated how seriously he took them. Still, acting as if he was a normal person who knew how to act normally about such matters, he clapped his friend on the back and wished him good luck before watching him walk off.
Seriously, he felt like a military wife sending off his husband.
When Jake found the table that Sunghoon and Jay were sitting at, scarfing down their sandwiches at record speed. Jake dropped his bag on the ground and collapsed into the seat next to Sunghoon. He reached over to grab one of Jay’s curly fries, twirling it around in his finger before he nibbled on it.
“Heeseung’s gone,” he told them.
“Oh. His tournament?” Jay took an obnoxiously loud sip from his drink. “You phrased that like he died.”
“He said bye.”
Sunghoon nodded wistfully. “He will be missed—mostly ‘cause he always does the dishes. Now we’re responsible. Ugh.”
With his elbow on the table and chin sunk into his palm, Jake nodded along to Sunghoon’s words, still stuck in some strange sort of daze.
Sunghoon shot him a questioning look before turning to Jay. “Okay, I'll bite: What’s up with Sadness?”
“Dunno.” Jay covered his mouth to finish chewing the rest of his bite. “He and Y/N were getting into it during class today.” He looked up from his food to turn back to Jake. “What happened after she cornered you after class?”
“Cornered?” Sunghoon asked with sudden intrigue.
To state his concerns as vaguely as possible, Jake groaned feebly into his hands and said, “I’m in deep shit, you guys.”
The two men were dumbfounded to hear Jake Sim, who had a shiny record of being a perfect son and perfect student all his life, make such a claim. (Well, perfect enough to make his parents proud; there were surely several imperfections that wouldn’t earn Jake his Perfect Son badge if they were ever to find out. Exhibit A: whatever was happening to him because of you.) Not once had he gotten a detention or even a warning. Jake was a poster child all his life, which was why he felt especially embarrassed that he was acting so shamefully when it came to you.
“You didn’t make her cry, right?” Jay asked.
“No!” he exclaimed. In fact, you almost made him cry. “I just…” He sighed and straightened up, his voice taking on an edge of seriousness. “You can’t tell Heeseung.”
Jay raised a brow. “What’d you do, throw a book at her?”
Sunghoon let out a low whistle. “Mommy’s Little Misogynist strikes again.”
“I got a boner, okay?” Jake blurted out, sick of their mindless assumptions, even though his confession was probably a one-way ticket to the deepest circle of Hell.
At first, there was silence. Then, a scream—an obnoxious, garbled sort of scream that Jake almost thought was a squawk. Sunghoon and Jay doubled over in laughter, dropping their sandwiches to swat at each other as they were unable to contain themselves. Jake sat there for a good two minutes, a deadpan expression on his face while he waited for them to calm down.
“A boner?” Sunghoon clarified, a Cheshire-like grin plastered across his face. “A stiffy? A hard-on? An erec—?”
“Okay, Merriam-Webster, I don’t need every single synonym,” Jake snapped. “But, yes, I’ve been getting hard during class because of her, it’s—”
Jay spluttered out, “Been—!” And then they exploded into a fit of laughter again, collapsing into each other and wheezing from the absolute joy of their friend’s humiliation. With tears now spilling from his waterline, Jay rose up and pointed a finger at Sunghoon in utter glee. “Multiple times!”
“Multiple times!” Sunghoon cried back, pounding his fist on the table.
Jake was not amused in the slightest. “Okay, I feel like you guys are just overreacting now.”
It took Sunghoon and Jay quite a few minutes to pull themselves together after laughing hysterically for what felt like forever, so Jake took it upon himself to steal a couple more of Jay’s fries as revenge.
“It’s fine, dude, seriously,” Sunghoon placated, as if he hadn’t been losing it moments earlier. He sucked in a deep breath to collect himself while Jay’s shoulders were still shaking.
“You guys were just making fun of me!”
“Did we laugh? Yes. Do we think you’re kind of a freak? Also yes.” Sunghoon shrugged. “But do we have your back? No.”
At that, Jay straightened up. “I think you messed that up.”
“I think so, too.”
“I’d assume we do have his back.”
“Should I change it to—”
“Okay! I get what you’re saying—very heartwarming, I think,” Jake interjected. “But am I seriously in the wrong here? No matter how much Y/N pisses me off sometimes, I’d never want to disrespect her. It feels weird, you know… getting hard over her, of all people. I mean, she’s Heeseung’s sister!”
“So you popped a boner over her—who cares?” Sunghoon placated. Jake fought back the urge to roll his eyes; they clearly cared when they were cackling like hyenas. “I’ve gotten hard in situations I probably shouldn’t get hard in. It happens to the best of us. It’s fine.”
“What kind of situations?” Jake questioned.
“Don’t spin this on me. This is about you get turned on by your best friend’s sister, you freak.”
“But you said it was fine!”
“That was before you pissed me off. Now I’ve changed my mind: Heeseung’s gonna kick your nasty ass straight to Hell.”
Frustrated, Jake tugged a hand through his dark hair. “Jay, do you have anything to contribute? Preferably anything that shuts Sunghoon up.”
“I knew this day would come.” Jay wiped the stray tears from under his eyes with his thumb. “See, Jake, when a man and a woman, or a man and a man, or a woman and a woman, or a person and a per—”
“Yes, I’m aware of all the possibilities on the spectrum,” Jake interjected. “Continue.”
“When a man and a woman love each other very much, they—”
“Oh my God,” Jake cut in once again, digging the heels of his palms into the hollows of his eyes. “I’m a grown man. I don’t need the sex talk—and I’m not gonna have sex with her, either!”
“You’re not?”
“No!”
“You don’t think she’s hot?”
“Well—I… I mean—that’s no reason—”
“You’re not getting a boner over someone you’re not physically attracted to, that’s for sure,” Jay said, clearly tired of his friend by now.
“I’m calling for plausible deniability,” Jake announced.
“Implausible. Vetoed.”
“Wait,” Sunghoon chimed in before looking at Jay, “how did you not notice?”
“Notice what?”
“His boner, dude.”
“Are you crazy? I have better things to do than stare at Jake’s dick all class,” Jay answered. Recollection seemed to hit him like a slap, his hand raising halfway to his mouth. “Actually… now that I think about it, I did think it was weird that you sat back down before you finished your debate… and your legs were crossed for the rest of class!”
(“So you did stare at Jake’s dick all class,” Sunghoon said.)
Jake threw him a withering look. “Yeah, I know. That’s probably why she caught me.”
Sunghoon’s jaw froze mid-bite, and without any respect to the onions that were falling off his bread, he dropped his sandwich and exclaimed, “She caught you?” Jay, who was equally as shocked, seemed to also be struggling to hide how gleeful he was about the drama.
“Well, almost,” he corrected. “It was more of a suspicion, but I didn’t give in—and I called her a pervert! It feels good to win.”
“Cool! What’d you win?” The unexpected voice nearly made Jake jump; thanks to years of working on a collected composure, though, chills ran up his spine instead. Sunghoon and Jay were both caught off guard, too, judging by their nearly imperceptible jolts that had them pulling their shoulders back.
He turned to see you with a hand on your hip, a curious smile on your lips. If his expression didn’t give it away, surely knocking over Jay’s curly fries was a sure sign of Jake’s nervousness.
“Uh… League? League match—nothing important—yeah, um… so—what’re you—what’re you doing here?”
Real smooth, Jake.
Jay, who looked as if the scene before him was physically painful to witness, valiantly chimed in to save Jake’s skin, “Are you looking for Heeseung? He already left for his tournament.”
“Nope,” you said, walking over to stand behind Jake so you could card your fingers through his hair. He remained frightfully still and tried not to think about your fingernails against his skin. Your sharp, manicured fingernails… dragging across his—okay, his mind really needed to stop wandering. “I have a quiz next class, so I came here to ask for a calculator. I'll return it ASAP—promise.”
Jake’s TI-83 was most definitely tucked away in his backpack, but he was reluctant to move with the way you were running your fingers through his hair. Albeit how he had to fight to keep his mind out of the gutter, Jake could also admit that this was rather… soothing. He could stay like this all afternoon and he wouldn’t mind at all.
Sunghoon started, “Oh, I’ve got—”
“I got it,” Jake, with a deep edge of unease, spoke over his friend. Sunghoon didn’t seem to look upset about being cut off, though; in fact, the senior was trying to hide a growing smirk that he had to cover with his hand. Jake dug into his backpack, sifting through each of the pockets haphazardly, before pulling out his graphing calculator and handing it to you. “You can just give it back to me later.”
“Oh, I’m sure I’ll find an opportunity,” you replied before turning on your heel. “See you guys later!”
After their goodbyes, the three boys lapsed into silence. Jake wondered if they were all thinking about that interaction with you and how strange it was. The three of them took high school graduation pictures with you, went over for Thanksgiving dinner at your house, and even awkwardly lingered about in Victoria’s Secret while you were trying on bras—but this? This change in behavior was something none of them would’ve ever expected from you.
Sunghoon was the first to break the silence, saying, “That was weird.”
“Indeed,” Jay agreed, perplexed.
“She was all over you,” Sunghoon observed. “Like, I’m almost convinced that Y/N was replaced with a horny clone last night.”
“Jake, at this rate, you might—”
“Don’t say it,” Jake pleaded. “Don’t say anything about me and her. I swear, I just need to get back on Tinder or something, and I’ll forget all about Y/N—probably.”
Jay gave his shoulder a weak punch. “Yeah, I believe you, man.”
He did not, however, sound like he believed in his friend at all.
Jake didn’t quite fit the partying archetype.
Heeseung was a social butterfly, Jay and Sunghoon could get by as long as they could slip away to recharge from time to time, but Jake always looked for a way to get out of such events. Whether it was a project or a supposed family emergency, he played any card he could—although it was usually a fruitless attempt. Plus, Jake was strictly herbal; he wasn’t a big drinker like his friends were, especially when it came to his mortal enemy (Everclear).
So, now, while he was watching you stumble down your driveway to get into the passenger seat of his car, Jake was already trying to do the math in his head to calculate when he’d be back in the comfort of his room.
Tonight, you were dressed up a little more than usual. Your strappy black stilettos were dangerously high, and paired with the little black skirt that stopped halfway down your thighs, Jake found it difficult to pull his gaze away from you.
“How’re you getting back home?” he asked as he pulled out of your driveway. Jake recalled several occasions where Heeseung had to do a U-turn to pick you up from Kazuha’s, so he was quite familiar with the route. “Uber?”
“—and he was trying to get with me, even though I know he has a girlfriend! Isn’t that crazy? I literally have the same lab section as her, like, I could walk up to her and tell her everything. Are men just stupid? Like, I can literally ruin his relationship—I mean, he pretty much did that on his own—but I could just expedite the process, you know? Ugh, and he wasn't even cute—so mid, like, not my type at all,” the lilting voice through your phone kept rattling on.
You shot Jake an apologetic look before you kept trying to calm down Hanni Pham, who he often saw you with. Well, he supposed small talk was out of the question now, which Jake didn’t mind one bit. Still, lowering the volume of Kendrick Lamar’s new album just to listen to Hanni’s incessant ranting for the rest of the ride was starting to drive Jake insane.
Finally, you made a quick excuse to Hanni before ending the call, and Jake waited a few more moments before he raised the volume again. He kept his eyes trained on the road, for if they wandered in your direction, Jake was sure he wouldn’t get away with crossing his legs in this situation.
“You didn’t have to hang up,” he said.
“I didn’t?” You gave him a knowing look. “You kept looking over at me like you were in agony, so I thought I’d put you out of your misery.”
A sheepish grin tugged at the corners of his lips. “Thanks for that. Who’s the guy she was talking about, anyway?”
“Wow, so now you wanna hear more?”
He shrugged. “You could at least repay me for the ride by entertaining me.”
“Entertaining you?” This time, you were grinning. Jake felt a bit nervous as you leaned over the center console. “If you want entertainment, then come to Kazuha’s with me.”
“Really?” Jake kept his tone light as he looked for street parking, and then he pulled over to the sidewalk to let you out. You had the door half-open, looking at him expectantly. “I’ll pass, then. Have fun.”
You leveled him with a glower. “You’re seriously not coming?”
“I’ve got, uh, homework.”
“Homework? It’s a Friday night, Jake. Just do it over the weekend.”
“Just get inside already, Y/N. It’s cold.”
“Fine,” you said, curt. There was little gratitude in your tone when you added, “Thanks for the ride,” and flung the door shut, too.
Jake sat back with a sigh, hoping that the solitude would aid in unclouding his judgement. He couldn’t just go to that party with you; things were weird between you two, and that was only putting it as simply as he could. But, on the other hand, maybe he should’ve just gone. There was no harm in showing face for a while, and it wasn't like Kazuha was a complete stranger, either.
He let one opportunity fall right through his fingers; another presented itself right in front of Jake.
Your phone.
You left it on the seat before you left, whether it was intentional or not. The polaroid of you, Hanni, and Danielle showed through the back of its clear case, and Jake stared at your (admittedly charming) smile before he unbuckled his seatbelt in defeat.
One hour. That was all he’d give himself in there.
He was sure the duration of his decision-making process wouldn’t keep him from catching up to you in time, but that wasn’t the case at all. Jake couldn’t spot you at all, not even after he did a lap around the first floor. You must’ve noticed your phone was missing by now, so where were you?
Cramped, narrow hallways. Blaring music. Flashing lights. Sweaty people packed together. The lingering stench of booze.
It was dreadful.
Jake had to take a break in the kitchen, leaning against the countertop where someone’s bluetooth speaker was blowing out his eardrums. To his knowledge, Kazuha was renting next to an elderly couple with low tolerance for noise. How she could get away with throwing parties like these was beyond Jake.
“Oh, shit,” a familiar voice called out. “You’re here, too? Thank fuck.”
Jake turned to see Choi Beomgyu walking over to him, cradling a red solo cup. Perfect. Jake was dreading the very idea of being sober right now, and he knew Beomgyu would have the fix he needed. Last time he saw Beomgyu, the guy was canisters deep in whippets; it would’ve been impossible to tell he was conscious if his hand didn’t keep inching inside of Jake’s bag of chips.
“I was supposed to sell Yeonjun some weed, but where the fuck is he?” Beomgyu went on to complain, setting his empty cup down and flicking it across the counter with little care. “When’d you get here? Just now?”
“Yeah, have you seen Y/N?” Jake shouted over the music. Beomgyu gave him a little shake of the head, and a weary breath escaped Jake’s lips. His eyebrows lifted as he then suggested, “Smoke break?”
“Hell yeah.”
It just so happened that Jake was already breaking his one hour rule. At one minute past his self-mandated curfew, he was not in a state to be driving at all.
All thanks to Beomgyu, he was blazed out of his mind now, moving through the house with an air of indifference this time. Normally, Jake felt like his brain was buzzing constantly, like a hurricane that never stopped raging. But when that sweet Mary Jane filled his lungs, he felt more in control of himself. It felt almost as if he was underwater, weightless and drifting along with the current. For someone who swam desperately his whole life, he liked that he could just float.
And, because the universe apparently decided that weed was the answer to all of Jake’s problems, he eventually wandered back into the kitchen and found you.
Minor problem: There was a man right next to you.
But Jake, floating about in a blissful daze, strolled right up to you without a second thought about interrupting your conversation.
“... fucked up how she curves, it’s usually—oh, what the hell?” You did a double-take when you saw Jake walk up beside you, noticing his red and glassy eyes almost instantly. Your attention was immediately pulled from the unmemorable man beside you, which was not good because this was a horrible time to stroke Jake’s ego, and you grabbed onto the sleeve of his leather jacket. He took a step back to avoid your drink sloshing onto his clothes. “I thought you went home!”
Another minor (or maybe major) problem that Jake forgot about prior to his smoke break: Weed only made it easier for him to get turned on.
That—coupled with standing so close to you—was sure to be disastrous.
“Had to return this,” he answered, holding up your phone, which you snatched at record speed. You were going on about how forgetful you were before Jake asked, “Were you two busy? I can leave.”
“Oh, uh, we were just talking,” you said, looking between Jake and the other dude (whose name still remained a mystery) a couple of times before clearing your throat. The guy, who earlier had a hopeful glint in his eyes, seemed to wilt a bit. In a more cheerful tone, you added, “He’s an old classmate. We both had Robbins for O-chem.”
Robbins for O-chem. Sounded like a cheap excuse to talk you up, was what Jake thought. Last year he had physics with Kim Minji, but he wasn’t cornering her in the living room to talk about the good old days of wave mechanics.
Jake gave you a smug look. “Robbins? What was that about the curve, then?”
“Someone scored a hundred and screwed the rest of us up.” You scoffed. “Always that one kid.”
“Ah. That was me.”
“What?!”
“Yeah, that’s why I didn’t show anyone my score—except Jay, but he said he felt sick looking at it.”
“I feel sick hearing about it. You should’ve just kept that to yourself forever.”
That was the plan, actually, but Jake strangely felt the need to impress you in comparison to Background Character #1 and his unremarkable presence. Well, considering all he achieved was pissing you off, he supposed it wasn’t going too well.
“That was the plan.” Slightly miffed, he leaned back against the counter with his arms folded over his chest. “But I earned that hundred. I didn’t sleep for three whole days to study for that final.”
“Oh, boo-hoo. I stayed up, too—and got a sixty.”
Jake simply shrugged. “You passed the class, didn’t you? That’s all that matters.”
“Easy for you to say! You got a perfect score!”
“I don’t think that—”
But you weren’t backing down, cutting Jake off to ask, “What’d you put for the cyclobutene question?”
Jake scowled at you. He thought one or two drinks in your system would calm you down, the same way weed did for him, but you were pushier than ever.
By now, he also realized that Guy-whose-face-he-now-forgot was long gone. He probably realized that there was no hope in trying to hit on you after seeing how your full attention was captivated by Jake. He wasn’t trying to boast—he was just calling it like he saw it.
“Seriously? That was a whole year ago, Y/N.”
He felt the weight of your incredulous stare. “But you remember your answer, don’t you?”
To be honest, he did.
“Conrotatory ring opening under thermal conditions,” he answered after a minute of spacing off to remember what he put down (and ignore your blatant staring). “Four pi electrons.”
“Wait, no, then it wouldn’t follow the Woodward-Hoffman rules. 4n would be antiaromatic in the transition state, so it would be forced to be a disrotatory mo—”
“Nope, the 4n system makes it conrotatory. Disrotatory would misalign the orbitals. Dude, I’m telling you, I remember it perfectly. I drew it out and everything.”
You opened and closed your mouth a few times, and Jake found great pleasure in watching you flounder for a response. Moreover, he was starting to imagine very dangerous things that involved his body pressed up against yours—preferably somewhere private, but he was almost tempted to pull you closer right now.
“But… but then the cis product—”
“Stays as is,” Jake finished for you. “I can even draw the diagram for you. I’m sure there’s a paper and pen somewhere.”
“Ugh, don’t bother. I’m pissed off.” You shook your head, frustrated, and a lazy smile stretched across Jake’s face. “Why are you so smart when…”
It took him a moment to even notice that you stopped in the middle of your sentence, dragging the syllabus an octave deeper than usual. Jake thought that he finally pushed you to your limit, that you were going to stop talking to him altogether, but the reality was much, much worse.
You jabbed your elbow sharply into his side, hard enough to make him wince in pain.
“Okay, ow. What’s—?” Then he looked down.
Oh.
Jake’s lips parted, framing an apology that he couldn’t bring himself to utter. He was caught somewhere between alarm and shame, hardly able to move as the cold reality sank in that you just saw his growing bulge.
It was dark enough so that only you were aware of it, but fuck, Jake couldn’t even get himself out of this one.
He looked down at you to say something—anything that would save him from this horrible situation, really—but there were no words to explain himself. Jake looked helplessly to the side for some escape route out of this situation, or perhaps even his Deus ex Machina: Beomgyu. Before he could open his mouth, you smoothly stepped in front of Jake, effectively cornering him in the kitchen and shielding him from onlookers.
Heroic, truly—except your thigh was now pressing firmly against the tent in his pants.
His blood ran cold when he saw the twinkle in your eyes, as if you were getting a kick out of this. Meanwhile, Jake made a mental apology to Jay and Sunghoon, who were going to be very disappointed that Jake didn’t take any steps toward forgetting all about you. It proved rather difficult when you were as intoxicating as the drugs in his system.
“I fucking knew it,” you whispered, triumph tugging your lips into a smirk. “You were hard during class today, too, weren’t you?”
This time, Jake was the one at a loss for words, flailing for any excuse that would defuse the tension, but he was already a lost cause. In less than twenty-four hours, Jake managed to expose his deepest, darkest secret to the one person who was never supposed to find out. All he could do now was accept slow, torturous suffering as the jaws of social suicide ripped into him.
“Y/N, p-please, I can—”
You threw your head back to laugh, delighted. “What? Are you trying to apologize for a boner?”
He stammered, “No—I mean, yes—but… I…” One more brush of your leg against his clothed cock had Jake holding onto your shoulders, trying to keep his lust at bay. “Y/N, stop. You’re Heeseung’s sister.”
“Excellent observation. Wouldn’t have figured that one out.”
“I mean, this”—he gestured between him and you—“isn’t gonna work out.”
You blinked. “Why not?”
“W-what do you mean, why not? Heeseung and I have been friends for years. I can’t just… I can’t do that to—”
“Oh, give it a rest. Why are you even bringing him up right now?” you asked in a snippy voice, waving his qualms off.
“Because—”
“Anyway, I’ve put together a little theory, and I think I’m right.”
Jake raised his brows at that, slightly intrigued to what you could’ve possibly pieced together in the past twelve hours. If it had anything to do with why he was getting turned on, he was certain that you would be completely off the mark.
“You get horny when we argue, don’t you?” you asked.
Oh, so you were spot on. Fantastic.
He let out a desperate, wanting breath, trying to cover it up as a sound of misery. The kitchen was mostly cleared out since everyone gathered in the living room to play beer pong, but Jake lowered his voice to speak, anyway.
“Pretty much. Nothing sexual—just attracted to the mind, is all. Debates can be stimulating, you know?”
“Nothing sexual about your dick getting hard?”
In a rather strangled voice, he answered, “Normal physiological reaction, really.”
He felt your hand smooth over his chest, your fingers splaying out before you dragged your hand lower and lower. He shivered as he felt your fingertips run across his abs, tracing each groove of muscle before your hand dipped to the front of his pants. Jake screwed his eyes shut when your palm pressed against his stiff, aching cock.
You simpered. “Really? So you don’t need my help getting you off?”
He suppressed a growl at the back of his throat, opting to loop his fingers in your belt loops and pull you closer instead. “Don’t.”
“Hm?”
“Not here. We’re in public.”
But your other hand was snaking around his neck, playing with the ends of his dark hair that fell to his nape. Jake could feel his body trembling as he restrained himself from holding you close and kissing you like his life depended on it.
I shouldn’t, he told himself, forcing the words to burn into his skull (and still, they would not stick). I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t—
But, fuck, the way you were looking at him. It was enough to drive a sane man to the brink of madness.
Well, Jake presumed he had always been a bit out of his mind when it came to you.
After an unsteady breath, Jake slid one hand up your waist, up your arm, and then across your shoulder to hold your neck. Your chest swelled before you leaned into his touch. Jake found his thumb straying from where his hand cradled your jaw. He traced the outline of your lips with careful precision, charting each curve and line in his course.
He kissed you once, light and fleeting—just enough to taste you.
The sweet second of contact lost its grace soon after. He wet his lips, chasing what was left of your lipstick. With one more look into your eyes, all the nerves that gripped him seemed to melt away in a breath. Jake held your gaze before reaching up to hold the sides of your face and pulling you in for a searing kiss. It had been merely one taste—one press of his lips against yours—and jagged splinters of desperation tore into him, burying deep in his flesh.
Jake, with a heavy heart, wished he could formally apologize to everyone who was bearing witness to their sloppy makeout session. He simply couldn’t help that you were both intoxicated, turned on, and extremely riled up from bickering. He shoved his tongue past your lips, messy and eager, sating a hunger that had him starved for longer than he thought.
It soon slipped Jake’s mind entirely that he was making out with you in the kitchen. His cock throbbed in his jeans, pulsating each time your hips made contact with his. You were slowly rolling your hips over his—subtle enough to go undetected, but it was driving him wild. Honestly, though, if Jake truly wanted to stop you from moving against him that way, he would’ve let go of your hip by now.
You were an insanely good kisser. Jake felt a small pang of jealousy upon recollecting all the times he witnessed you kissing someone before him—your first boyfriend, your senior prom date, your college situationships. He never thought too deeply about how he felt in the moment, but it was like he had locked up all those messy feelings bordering on jealousy. They were all spilling out now, like a crack in the dam, threatening to make Jake feel something for you that he hadn't felt before.
He broke from the kiss to leave gentle pecks along your jawline and down your neck, each one leaving you sighing happily. “Let’s go upstairs, yeah?” he whispered against the shell of your ear, leaving a featherlight kiss in its wake. His drawl was stronger when he lowered his voice to a murmur, “Don’t go shy on me now, sweetheart.”
“Shy? I’m not shy.”
“Oh, yeah? Look me in the eyes, then.”
“Shut… shut up—and follow behind me, unless you want everyone here seeing your di—”
“Okay, that’s enough.”
You, being his knight in shining armor now, led the way upstairs, allowing for Jake to stand directly behind you and hide his boner. He kept his arms wrapped loosely around your waist, trying to focus on anything but the nape of your neck. Having his bulge pressed up against your body was making his senses go haywire.
(Also—and he wasn’t quite brave enough to admit this to himself just yet—he kind of wanted to lace his fingers with yours.)
Jake hastily wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He was sure he must’ve looked like an absolute douchebag walking around like that, considering the amount of lipstick he had just rubbed off.
The first empty room was theirs for the taking. Jake sported a wolfish grin as he closed the door to whoever’s bedroom they locked themselves in. You, however, looked uncertain.
“I’d feel bad doing it on their bed,” you confessed.
Jake, who didn’t realize he was going to encounter a moral dilemma amidst getting his dick wet, blinked slowly.
“That’s true,” he agreed. Sure, yeah, he would probably kill his friends if any of them hooked up with someone in his bed. Jake made his way to you slowly; at first, you didn’t budge, but then you let him walk you backward once he grabbed your hips. “I wouldn’t feel as bad doing it against their wall, though.”
Your fingers tugged at the hem of his shirt, as if you were about to peel it right off him. “Then how about I suck you off first? Make up for all those debates?”
“Really?” he spluttered out, gawking at you as you turned him around so that his back was against the wall.
You hastily undid the buttons on his jeans, all the while maintaining eye contact with him. “You’re too cute. Don’t tell me you weren’t waiting for this.”
His gaze darkened slightly.
He joined you immediately in getting rid of his pants. Jake couldn’t help but let out a blissful sigh as he pulled his boxers down and his cock sprang up. Seeing you slide down to your knees to wrap your hands around his length nearly made his knees buckle under him. His hand moved to the back of your head, tangling his fingers through your hair.
Just like that, Jake Sim lost all willpower to keep himself away from Lee Heeseung’s sister.
“I don’t know if I can fit all of it in my mouth,” you told him, lips ghosting the tip of his cock.
“That’s okay, baby.” He tightened his grip in your hair. “Take however much you can.”
You started with a gentle kiss to his tip, and it was enough to make Jake shudder. He watched you in wonderment, eyes glued to your mouth and how his cock disappeared past your lips. With one hand holding onto his hip for leverage, you ducked your head to lick from base to tip, running your tongue along a rather thick vein that wrapped around the side.
Jake was thankful for the pounding music below; although he prided himself on his self-control (prior to Y/Ngate), he was never good at being quiet in the throes of pleasure. Slowly, you sucked on the tip, earning a drawn-out moan from Jake that he hardly bothered muffling.
And then, you were hollowing your cheeks to take more of him in, and a flicker of intensity flashed in his eyes when he felt his cock hit the back of your mouth. Jake had to hold onto the nearby dresser for support, his knuckles going white. You gagged a little as his head brushed against your uvula, and then a few tears sprang in your eyes.
Jake watched them pool at your waterline, and he wiped at them with his thumb, cooing at you sympathetically.
“Just like that, baby,” he murmured, stifling a groan. He closed his eyes and tightened his grip on the back of your head to thrust into your mouth—careful, experimental. “Ah—fuck, your mouth feels so fucking good.”
Despite the unbelievably erotic image of you blowing him, Jake could also detect some smugness. As you bobbed your head, each motion driving Jake closer and closer to a release, you could pick up on the effect you were having on him.
His eyes, glazed over with lust, were threatening to roll back, but he was determined to keep them on you now. He couldn’t get enough of watching how you were taking him in, how you were so quick to pleasure him.
Then, as Jake felt heat burning under his skin, he gently pulled back, holding your jaw securely to keep you from chasing his cock. You looked up at him with a frown, head cocked to the side.
“What’s wrong?” you asked as he wordlessly helped you back up to your feet.
Jake switched your positions, backing you into the wall again. He slid his hand under your thigh, pulling it up so that your leg wrapped around his hip.
“My turn,” he said. “I’d rather be inside you when I cum.”
A needy little moan escaped your lips, and suddenly the both of you were a mess of hands, clawing and tearing to get each other’s clothes off. You yanked at Jake’s shirt, shoving it up and over his head, and he didn’t let it go unnoticed that your gaze dropped to the lines of his chest. You didn’t get much time to ogle, though, because Jake was quick to get rid of your clothes next, even snapping your bra off in one go. Your underwear, however, was pulled down with slow reverence. Jake had to take a minute to admire your breathtaking body in all its glory.
He never imagined this. All this overwhelming passion. Your body pressed flush against his—no walls up between either of you.
Jake almost felt like all of this was dreamlike as his finger skimmed your folds, moving to rub your clit in a slow, languid motion. A shaky whine fell from your lips.
“You’re already soaked, sweetheart,” he said. He slipped a finger inside you as you were opening your mouth, and your words died on your tongue. “You’re just as filthy as me, aren’t you?”
All he got in response was another petulant whine, like music to his ears. Jake added another finger, pumping it inside you while his thumb pressed against your clit. You squirmed in his hold, but Jake held you steady, keeping you pinned to the wall as he fingered your cunt.
“I thought about this so many times,” you gasped out, much to Jake’s surprise. He raised a brow while speeding up his ministrations. This only made it harder for you to get your words out coherently, so it took you a while to add, “Thought about you fucking me after those stupid arguments, just like this.”
Jake, a simple man, wasn’t built to handle such words; he would’ve come on the spot, untouched, if he wasn’t so eager to bury his cock in you.
Jake guided his cock to your slit, and the two of you moaned simultaneously as he pushed inside you. The room went a little fuzzy for a moment—something high-pitched seemed to be ringing in his ears—and then Jake’s hips met yours, drawing shuddering breaths and whimpers from you two.
Shit. He felt like he was on fire and your every moan was ice.
Caging you in his grip, he gave a shallow thrust, rousing a gasp from you. In turn, your leg curled tighter around his hip. Jake had to bury his face in your neck to suppress his groans, his hot breath fanning your skin as he littered kisses and bites along your supple skin. He just hoped your makeup could conceal the marks that were blooming along the tender column of your neck.
Another thrust—deeper, this time. He seemed to hit a spot that sent stars glittering behind your eyelids, judging by the dazed look that clouded your expression.
“M-more,” you begged, your voice catching on the end of the sentence.
"More? You want more?"
Your response came out in a breath. "Please."
Your hand threaded into his hair, pulling him down for another kiss, like it was all you could hold onto. The position your leg was in was strained at this angle, but you didn’t seem to care, clawing at Jake’s back to keep him closer.
His tongue slipped into your mouth without hesitation, and he was pretty sure he was getting drunk off the liquor on your tongue. Slowly, like he was taking off the training wheels, Jake’s hips started to move at a steady rhythm—shallow thrusts going deeper and deeper.
As Jake relentlessly thrusted into you, he left no place untouched, each stroke dragging inside you a little longer. It drew out the prettiest whines from you, so he couldn’t help but tease you a little longer. His otherwise consistent rhythm, however, faltered as you clenched around him tightly.
“I-I’m close,” you gasped out, pulling from the kiss to watch where his cock disappeared inside you.
“I've got you, sweetheart,” he replied gently, honey dripping from his words, and Jake held you tightly in his arms as he sped up his pace to bring you closer to your orgasm.
He was getting there, too—real close, actually. Jake felt like he was unravelling, his nerve endings alight, skin buzzing, and his breath trapped in his lungs. With a couple more thrusts, you shattered with his name on your lips, crying over the music. Jake had to cover your mouth with his hand to keep you quiet, but he couldn’t deny that he was loving how responsive you were. He followed after you with a loud groan, making sure to pull out before his cum spilled all over his hands.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. Jake watched as your chest rose and fell for a couple of minutes. He tried to ground himself—convince himself that what just happened wasn’t a dream.
For the rest of the night, neither of you addressed how the next kiss held something deeper—something that reached beyond lust. Jake was sure you felt it, too, lingering like a secret between your lips, but he wouldn’t dare give that feeling a name just yet.
“Jake would be the type to catch feelings after hooking up.”
Park Sunghoon was the one to make this outrageous statement, effectively snapping Jake out of whatever dreamy daze he was in. Ever since he had sex with you hours ago, Jake couldn’t stop thinking about how you felt around him. He thought FaceTiming his friends would help clear his mind, but he was starting to believe that they were, in fact, the problem.
He didn’t return home immediately. Jake had to pretend like he didn’t just hook up with you when he went downstairs to talk to Kazuha and her very drunk roommates. One of them was so obviously flirting with Jake that you cornered him later to leave a prominent hickey on his collarbone. Then, after he sobered up enough to drive you home, you didn’t seem to have your heart set on getting back; you requested that Jake stop at a parking lot on two separate occasions (during a fifteen minute drive) so that he could eat you out in the backseat.
After that, there was a lot more kissing on the way to your doorstep, a lot of heavy petting as he carried you to your room, and you graciously offered to ride him before he drove back home.
When Jake recounted all of this to Jay and Sunghoon, he left to get himself a midnight snack because they were laughing their heads off for a record-breaking amount of time. It started to feel like a humiliation ritual.
At the end of the call, Jay spouted some bullshit like, “Heeseung won’t even care, trust me.”
Jake refused to even consider that as a possibility, but he vowed to keep his distance from you to make sure last night wouldn’t happen again. (It was important to note that he laughed right after because even he couldn’t believe that.)
Despite the shame that bubbled in Jake’s gut, he had to honor the commitment he made to Heeseung, even though it was a terrible idea to see you again. (No, it’s a wonderful idea! those feel-good neurotransmitters in his stupid, horny brain argued. Viagra in your future! Always prioritize sex! Get laid quick!) So, the next day, there he was—at 5:00 p.m. sharp—parked outside of your house with a sinking feeling that you were going to greet him in a way that would make your older brother faint on the spot.
The sky was splotched with peach and lavender, like a watercolor painting that dried into soft, muted hues. There was a dreamy glow out on the horizon, but when Jake turned to see you walking out of his house, there was the sun—ablaze with brilliant light.
Your eyes caught, and he felt suspended in time for a few seconds. Jake’s stupid, pathetic heart pumped out blood a bit too quickly.
Something was off, though.
You were wearing cotton shorts and an oversized t-shirt with Snoopy printed on the front—more fitting for a sleepover than a charity event, no offense. Jake understood that plenty of people prioritized comfort in their outfit choices; although he was quite surprised that you, of all people, would fall in that category. He recalled that blink-182 concert where he had to take turns with Sunghoon to give you a piggyback ride back to the parking lot because you were so damn adamant on wearing your death trap high heels. Your ankles, of course, suffered the consequences.
But maybe this was a good thing. Maybe this meant that you felt comfortable around him… and whoever else was going to be at that charity event, he supposed.
Would it be so wrong to ask for clarification on the event, though? But what if he came across like he was prying too deeply into your personal life?
No—he would not dare make one comment about it.
So he didn’t. Until he realized that he made a grave mistake.
“A Love Island watch party? Heeseung told me this was a charity event!” Jake exclaimed, utterly baffled.
“Yeah, the winners get a hundred grand,” you replied casually, as if you hadn’t been withholding crucial information that would’ve changed Jake’s mind about following you into the house. “Voting for your favorite couple is basically charity work, if you think about it.”
Jake groaned. This was a set-up, and he was not about to stay over at Danielle’s to watch Love Island, of all shows.
But then, you leaned over to press a chaste kiss to Jake’s cheek. “If you don’t vote for Nicolandria, you’re dead to me, by the way,” you whispered. Although your choice of words weren’t exactly tempting, Jake found himself unbuckling his seatbelt and following you into the house. The effect you had on him was absurd.
To his surprise, though, he was thoroughly entertained for the night. Sure, he was the only guy in a room full of girls that had enough Stanley cups to beat him to death, but Jake almost felt like he was in his element. When Kim Minji went on a five minute rant to explain why Nicolandria deserved to be the winning couple, Jake was so intrigued that he ended up agreeing to join their Love Island nights until the season ended.
(He later discovered that Love Island released a new episode five days a week, but that somehow didn't change his mind on attending.)
In a tangled mess of feelings and desire, Jake was now making plans to keep seeing you. He only hoped that he could muster up the courage to tell his friend everything before things got serious with you.
Heeseung’s return didn’t change much, to be honest.
Jake was under the impression that he’d be far too paranoid to be messing around with you once your brother was back, but it seemed to be the exact opposite. He couldn’t get enough of you these days. Although you two were keeping things under wraps for now, Jake found it hard to not reach for your hand and think about how it would be if he could keep you by his side for longer. Whenever he woke up in your bed, he wanted time to freeze so that he could hold you until the moon came out again.
Oh, and their seminars.
You ended up proposing a solution to Jake’s problem. It wasn’t anything very sophisticated, but as soon as class ended, you’d be dragging Jake somewhere private to ease the tension growing in his jeans.
Or, when he was really done for, Jake would be the one pulling you along.
“No way,” you mouthed once as Jake grabbed your wrist right as soon as you walked out of the classroom. A smirk was creeping up your lips as you kept your eyes trained on him, effectively cracking through his impassive facade. Jake’s eyes flitted away before you could see any color bloom on his face. “Horny already? And to think I was holding back…”
Jake, who was too busy looking for the closest enclosed space that offered enough privacy, was walking so fast that you were nearly stumbling to keep up with him. He flung open the door to an empty lab. It seemed too risky to simply close the blinds when there was no lock on the door, but there was, however, an equipment room in the back. He pulled you over by the wrist, ushering you inside.
“Yeah,” he finally replied, turning the lock on the handle, “I was holding back, too.”
And then he fucked you against the door with one hand bruising your waist and the other wrapped around your throat.
He truly didn’t think this would be the course of his love life. Not that Jake was complaining, but he wished that being with you didn’t involve the daunting feat of confronting Heeseung. Not only could the interaction go disastrously, but Jake was terrified that Heeseung would look at him differently for going after his sister. He didn’t want to be the guy that Heeseung should’ve watched out for.
Jake willed himself to break the news to Heeseung after spending a Friday night with you, curled up on your bed and catching up on the latest season of Love Island. Jake had to admit that he was too deeply invested in the contestants’ storylines.
While he played with your hair, he heard you ask, “Can you ever see us dating? Like, officially going out?”
“Yeah,” he murmured back. “That’s the plan, isn’t it?”
The first time you told Jake you wanted things to get serious, he outright told you no. However, his body betrayed him when he nodded enthusiastically along with his refusal, making you even more confused. Now, though, Jake was determined to get that conversation with Heeseung out of the way. Leading you on would break his heart more than not getting your brother’s approval.
When Jake decided to fess up to Heeseung, though, he made sure Jay and Sunghoon were right with him. They knew how honest Jake’s intentions were—kind of—and they would surely have his back when it came down to it.
Unfortunately, he forgot that Jay and Sunghoon were the two worst people for this sort of situation.
“This is the worst boba consistency I’ve ever had,” Sunghoon complained, stabbing at the last of the boba pearls in his taro milk tea. “Sorry, Heeseung, what were you saying? You made the basket or whatever.”
(“Oh, Heeseung, I need to tell you something,” Jake mumbled as quietly as possible, although the wind successfully drowned him out.)
“Close—that would be basketball,” Heeseung replied. “But, yeah, I made the winning goal. Whoever wants to ride my dick is going on a waitlist.”
(“Speaking of…”)
“Shit. Put me on the waitlist,” Sunghoon said. “Priority reservation, please.”
(“Heeseung…”)
“I’ll get to you eventually, Twenty-Six.”
(“Heeseung?”)
Jay pounded a fist on the table. “Jake has something to say!” After witnessing his friend moping about and mumbling for so long, it was only a matter of time before he snapped.
Heeseung looked alarmed for a moment before asking, “What’s up?”
Jake only had a few seconds to shoot Jay a death glare before he had to fix his face and explain, “Right, um… I kind of have to tell you something.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s really not that bad if you think about it.”
“Okay…”
“And, actually, it should be more reassuring that it’s me and not—”
Heeseung scratched the side of his head. “Uh, I’m still gonna need context.”
“I’m, uh… so, I’m…” Jake sucked in a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “So, I’m kinda seeing Y/N.”
There it was. The truth was out and Jake could stop skirting around it. He knew it would be near impossible to keep hiding it because Jake discovered that he was becoming far more endeared by you with each coming day. Absolutely terrifying, really, considering that he was already endeared at an incomprehensible level.
Heeseung’s eyes went as wide as saucers. “You and Y/N?”
As if the whole thing couldn’t get any more awkward, you walked right out of the boba shop that the four of them were just in. To be fair, Heeseung was the one that called you over because he put in a request for a breakfast wrap after stalking your location, but of course you had to come out right this minute.
“Damn,” you said, scrunching your nose up in distaste. “Garbage boba consistency.”
“Right?!” Sunghoon exclaimed. Jake was starting to think that he should’ve just met up with Heeseung on his own. “We should never go here again."
Jake was petrified as Heeseung, completely unfazed by your arrival, stared at Jake in utter disbelief. He couldn’t peel his eyes away, even after you dropped his breakfast wrap onto the table in front of him. “Wait, hold on—before anyone says anything else—did you just say that you’re seeing Y/N? Y/N, my sister?” He practically flung his arm to point at you. “Her?”
Jake swallowed thickly, but you casually answered for him, “Yeah, he is.”
The air around him thickened, pressing down on his chest like a weight. Jake’s thoughts were spiraling by now, imagining countless scenarios of Heeseung dropping him as a friend and forever plagued by his betrayal. Jake knew his friend deeply, and he knew that when Heeseung was hurt, he’d—
“Nice,” Heeseung drawled, raising his fist so that you could fist-bump it. “About time, too.”
What?
“You’re not mad?” Jake blurted out, floored by the response. Now this was a turn of events that he didn’t prepare for in the countless scenes he practiced in his head.
“I asked you to drive her to Danielle’s for a reason, dude. She could’ve just taken an Uber.”
“Wait… you were in on this?”
“I wouldn’t say I was in on anything, but I knew she had a thing for you. I was just glad she’s interested in you and not, like, Sunghoon.”
“Hey,” Sunghoon piped up, sounding stung, but he seemed to recover quickly. “I’m saving myself for you, Heeseung.”
“Twenty-six—remember that.”
“See? I told you, you had nothing to worry about,” you said as you slid into the bench next to Jake, reaching over to squeeze his hands. “Now you can stop denying that it’s perfectly fine for us to date.”
“Okay, maybe I was just a little in over my head.” Jake returned a sheepish—and frankly, lovesick—grin, wrapping an arm around your waist and pressing a kiss to your temple. Now that Jake had you, despite his friends cringing before him, he didn’t want to let you go.
He could probably also admit to himself that he had liked you all along.
That, he supposed, was what Jay meant about implausible deniability.
AUTHOR'S NOTE ▸ the jake brainrot really got to me this time 🚬 thank you for reading this if you made it all the way here !! i'm so so grateful if you chose to give this fic a chance so i hope you enjoyed :') also contrary to how the summary sounds, jake is too babygirl for me to not make him a loverboy <33 i swear something about him just screams Yearning
📌 Synopsis: Five years ago, Jake Sim walked away to chase his soccer dreams, never knowing he left more than just a broken heart behind. Now, he's back—unwittingly running a soccer clinic where his five-year-old daughter is signed up. The daughter he doesn’t know exists.
You tell yourself he won’t notice. You tell yourself he won’t put the pieces together.
Then she grins up at him, dimples flashing, and says: "We have the same last name! Maybe we're related!"
And just like that, your past collides with your present.
wc: 23.5K
cw (18+ MDNI) : Secret child trope (yes, we’re here for the drama), Second-chance romance (aka two emotionally constipated people trying to figure it out), Athlete romance (if you like your men sweaty & angsty, this is for you), Unresolved tension & emotional pining, Co-parenting struggles & parental guilt (aka "I should have been there" in HD), A man getting absolutely wrecked by the realization he has a kid, "Why didn't you tell me?" followed by "I should have been there.", Father-daughter bonding that will ruin you (he missed five years and he's making up for every single second), A child who is so excited to meet her new favorite person (aka the man whose entire worldview is shattering in real-time), Unresolved feelings, lingering touches, and the "we were supposed to be forever" tension, Fighting in kitchens, whispering in hallways, standing too close but not touching, "I never stopped loving you" but neither of them can say it yet, Sparks still burning, even after five years apart, "I’m still angry, but I don’t know how to stop wanting you." Explicit sexual content.
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"I'm making a list."
"Oh God, not this again," Tia's voice crackled through the speaker. "What is it this time? 'Top Ten Pizza Toppings Ranked by Emotional Stability'? 'Compelling Evidence That My Neighbor's Cat Is Plotting World Domination'?"
You snorted, balancing your phone between ear and shoulder as you scribbled on a notepad at the kitchen counter. The house was quiet for once—a rare moment of peace while Jade actually slept in after exhausting herself at soccer practice the night before.
"It's called 'Reasons Why Taking Jade to the Soccer Clinic is a Terrible Idea.' I'm already at number twelve."
"Only twelve? You're slipping. I remember the Great Ice Cream Debate of 2019 hit twenty-seven reasons why chocolate chip cookie dough is superior to mint chocolate chip."
"That's because you were wrong and I needed to be thorough."
"I stand by my controversial mint opinions," Tia said. Then her voice shifted. "Wait. Are you talking about the Jake Sim clinic? The Jake Sim? Your Jake?"
"He's not my Jake," you said automatically, though the words still stung five years later. You stared down at the list, tapping your pen against reason number four: His last name is literally on her registration form.
"Does he know?" Tia asked quietly. "About Jade?"
"Tia, Of course not," you sighed, glancing toward Jade's bedroom door, still safely closed. "We haven't spoken since he left. You know that."
"And you're actually considering taking her to this thing? Have you finally cracked? Do I need to stage an intervention? Because I've been practicing my concerned face in the mirror."
You circled reason number seven: Because YES, I am completely insane.
"Her teacher already told her about it. She's been talking about nothing else for days. You know how she gets about soccer." You drew a little soccer ball in the margin of your notepad. "If I suddenly say no, she'll be devastated."
"So make something up! Tell her you're sick. Tell her she's sick. Hell, tell her I'm sick and you need to come take care of Auntie Tia. I can be very convincing. Remember when I faked food poisoning to get us out of your ex-boss's wedding?"
"That's actually reason number nine," you admitted. "'Fake family emergency.'"
"See? This is why we're best friends. Same brain cell, just passing it back and forth since third grade."
You laughed despite yourself, getting up to refill your coffee. "But then what, Tia? Hide the fact that Jake is doing appearances all over the city this week? Keep her home from school so she doesn't hear about it from her friends? What about next time he comes back? She's obsessed with soccer. Our paths were bound to cross eventually."
There was a rustling sound on the other end, like Tia was sitting up in bed. "Okay, let's think worst-case scenario. You take her to this clinic. He sees her. Then what? You think he's just going to know she's his? Men are oblivious. My brother didn't notice when I dyed my hair purple for three weeks."
You let out a humorless laugh. "Have you seen my child lately? She's his clone. Same dimples. Same smile. Same way of running. She even does this thing with her hands when she's excited—" Your voice caught. "You've said it yourself a hundred times."
"Fine, so there's a resemblance. She could be a really dedicated fan who studied his goal celebrations on YouTube—"
"And her last name is Sim. It's on the registration form. There's going to be two hundred kids there, but how many five-year-old girls named Sim with his exact dimples and soccer style do you think he runs into?"
The silence on the other end confirmed your fears.
"I never should have given her his last name," you said quietly, adding it as reason number thirteen on your list.
"Hey, you were engaged. You were already using Sim yourself half the time. You thought he was coming back." Tia's voice softened. "You couldn't have known."
You closed your eyes, remembering those first few confusing months. The positive pregnancy test two weeks after Jake left. Your decision not to tell him while he was establishing himself with his new team—not wanting to be the reason he gave up his dream. Then the complication with your pregnancy that meant strict bed rest. By the time Jade was born, Jake was already becoming a household name in Europe, and the gulf between your worlds seemed impossible to bridge.
"Maybe I should just tell her we can't go," you said, staring at your list.
"After she's been talking about it for days? Good luck with that. You'll break her heart. And then I'll have to help you hide from a crying five-year-old, and honestly, my witness protection contact is on vacation this week."
You had already added that as reason number three: It would crush her if we don't go.
"I could come with you," Tia offered. "Moral support. Plus, I can create a diversion if necessary. I've always wanted to fake a medical emergency at a public event. I've been practicing my 'woman experiencing convenient fainting spell' face right after my 'concerned intervention' face."
Despite yourself, you smiled. "Thanks, but I think an ambulance might just draw more attention our way."
"You never let me have any fun," Tia pouted. "Fine, we'll go with Plan B. I have a blonde wig and three fake mustaches in my emergency kit."
"Absolutely not."
"Party pooper. So what are you going to do?"
Before you could answer, a bedroom door creaked open down the hall. A moment later, a small figure in soccer ball pajamas padded into the kitchen, dark hair sticking up in all directions, dimples already appearing despite being half-asleep.
"Mom? Who're you talking to?" Jade yawned, rubbing her eyes.
"It's Auntie Tia," you said, quickly flipping your notepad closed. "Want to say hi?"
Instantly, Jade was fully awake. She snatched the phone with surprising speed for someone who had been unconscious thirty seconds earlier.
"Auntie Tia! Guess what day it is! It's soccer clinic day! With a real pro player!" Jade jumped up and down, volume increasing with each word. "He plays in Europe! And he's going to teach us special moves!"
You watched your daughter's face light up, identical to the way Jake's used to when he talked about soccer. Same passion. Same uninhibited joy. Same ability to go from zero to one hundred in seconds flat.
"Uh-huh... uh-huh..." Jade nodded seriously into the phone. "Mom got me new cleats for today! They're blue! And they have special grippy things on the bottom!"
You could faintly hear Tia's animated responses. Your friend might be questioning your judgment, but she'd never let Jade down.
"I know! It's gonna be the best day ever!" Jade spun in an excited circle, nearly dropping the phone. "Auntie Tia wants to talk to you again," she said, thrusting the device back at you before racing off toward her room. "I gotta get ready!"
"She sounds thrilled," Tia said dryly when you put the phone back to your ear. "Ten bucks says she's wearing mismatched socks and her shirt inside out when she comes back."
"Yeah." You watched your daughter disappear around the corner, a tornado of energy and joy. "How am I supposed to take that away from her?"
"You're not," Tia sighed. "Which means you're going to the clinic, and I'm canceling my spa appointment to be on standby for emotional support ice cream and/or bail money."
You looked down at your list one more time before crumpling it into a ball.
"I guess I am."
"For what it's worth," Tia said, her voice serious now, "I think maybe it's time. Five years is a long time to keep a secret this big. And Jake deserves to know he has a daughter."
"I know," you admitted, the words barely audible. "That's the part that terrifies me."
From down the hall came the sounds of drawers being flung open and Jade's voice singing a made-up song about soccer balls.
"What if he hates me, Tia? For keeping her from him?"
"Then he's an idiot," Tia said firmly. "And I'll personally come over there and kick Europe's favorite striker right in his professionally-insured shins. You did what you thought was best at the time. That's all any of us can do."
You took a deep breath. "I better go help Hurricane Jade get ready before she tears her room apart."
"Call me the second anything happens," Tia ordered. "And I mean anything. If he so much as looks at you funny, I want details. And remember, the mustache offer stands."
"I will. The calling part, not the mustache part."
"And hey," Tia added before hanging up. "For what it's worth, I think Jade's lucky to have you as her mom. No matter what happens today."
You ended the call and stared at the crumpled list on your counter. With trembling fingers, you smoothed it out one more time and added a final line at the bottom:
Reason #14: Because it's time.
-
The community soccer field had been transformed into what could only be described as organized chaos. Hundreds of children in various neon-colored jerseys darted between exasperated parents, volunteer coaches with clipboards, and portable equipment stations. Massive banners featuring the logo of Jake's European team fluttered in the breeze, and a professional photography setup had been assembled near midfield.
You gripped Jade's tiny hand a little too tightly as you approached the registration table, your stomach performing Olympic-level gymnastics. Despite your best efforts to dress inconspicuously—baseball cap pulled low, oversized sunglasses, plain t-shirt—you felt like you were wearing a neon sign that flashed "HIDING A SECRET CHILD."
"Mom! Mom! You're squishing my hand!" Jade protested, trying to wriggle free. "I need that hand for high fives!"
"Sorry, sweetheart." You loosened your grip slightly, though every instinct screamed to hold on tighter. Just ahead, two women in matching polo shirts were checking in participants.
You'd spent the entire drive rehearsing what you'd say. Hi, yes, Jade Sim. No relation to Jake Sim. Just a bizarre coincidence. Like how there are probably lots of Smiths who aren't related to Will Smith. Or how all those Kardashians probably have no connection to each other...
"Next please!" called one of the registration volunteers, a perky blonde with a tournament-level cheerful smile.
You stepped forward, opening your mouth to speak, but Jade lunged ahead of you.
"I'm Jade Sim and I'm here to play soccer!" she announced at a volume that made several nearby parents turn. Your daughter had never mastered the concept of an "indoor voice," even when outdoors.
The volunteer's smile didn't falter as she scanned her list. "Sim... Sim... ah, here you are. Jade Sim, age five." She checked something off and reached for a smaller clipboard. "And we have your waiver form... perfect. Here's your name tag, and you'll be in Group C with Coach Marcus."
Jade accepted the sticker name tag with reverence usually reserved for Olympic medals, then immediately slapped it onto her jersey slightly crooked.
"Will the famous player see my group?" Jade asked, bouncing on her toes.
The volunteer's smile somehow brightened even further. "Jake will be rotating through all the groups today. Everyone gets a chance to meet him." She looked up at you. "You can drop her with Group C over by the yellow cones, and parents can watch from the sidelines. We'll have a photo and autograph session at the end."
You nodded, unable to find your voice. This was really happening.
"Come on, Mom!" Jade tugged you toward the field, her excitement generating enough energy to power a small city. "I wanna be first in line!"
As you made your way across the field, you scanned the area for any sign of Jake. There was a small crowd gathered near a tent at the far end—probably where he was waiting. You let out a shaky breath. Maybe you could just drop Jade off, blend in with the other parents, and somehow avoid—
"Look Mom! I see him! I see him!" Jade shrieked, jumping up and down while pointing wildly.
And there he was.
Five years hadn't changed him as much as you'd expected. Same athletic build, same confident stride as he emerged from the tent surrounded by handlers and field staff. He wore his team's training kit, the number 10 emblazoned on his back—the same number that had been on the jersey he'd given you years ago, the one now hidden in the back of your closet.
Even from a distance, you could see his smile—that devastating combination of boyish charm and movie-star charisma that had magazines calling him "soccer's newest heartthrob." The same smile Jade had flashed at you this morning over breakfast.
"He's so cool!" Jade whispered in what she clearly thought was a whisper but was actually at normal human speaking volume. "I bet he can do a bazillion tricks!"
You swallowed hard. "I'm sure he can. Come on, let's find your group."
As you guided Jade toward the yellow cones, you pulled your cap lower and angled your body away from Jake's direction. Group C was already forming, about twenty children ranging from four to six years old, all vibrating with similar levels of excitement to Jade.
"Hi there!" A young man with curly hair and a whistle approached. "I'm Coach Marcus. Who do we have here?"
"Jade Sim!" your daughter announced before you could speak, thrusting out her hand for an aggressive handshake like you'd taught her. "I can kick with both feet!"
Coach Marcus's eyebrows lifted a fraction as he heard the last name, his eyes darting quickly to you, then back to Jade. "That's... impressive. Both feet, huh? Well, we'll definitely put that to the test today." He crouched down to Jade's level. "Any relation to our special guest?"
Your heart stopped.
"Who's the special guest?" Jade asked, genuinely confused.
Relief washed over you. Of course—you'd been so careful never to mention Jake's name around her, never to let her see his games on TV. She had no idea that she shared a last name with the soccer star she was so excited to meet.
"Jake Sim," Coach Marcus said, looking between you and Jade with obvious curiosity. "The professional player who's running the clinic today?"
Jade's eyes went comically wide. "We have the same last name? That is so cool! Mom! Did you hear that? I have the same name as a famous soccer player! Maybe we're related!"
Several nearby parents turned to look. A few were now staring with undisguised interest.
"It's a common name," you said quickly, your voice higher than normal. "Very common. In certain... regions."
Coach Marcus didn't look convinced but thankfully didn't pursue it. "Right! Well, parents can wait over by those bleachers. We'll get started with some basic drills, and Jake will make his way to our group in about twenty minutes."
"Can I stay with her?" you asked, desperate not to leave Jade. "She's never done one of these before, and she might get nervous—"
"I don't get nervous!" Jade proclaimed, already backing away from you toward the other kids. "I'm going to show him my special kick!"
Coach Marcus smiled sympathetically. "Don't worry, we've got plenty of volunteers helping out. She'll be fine. Parents actually tend to be a bit distracting for the kids."
You had no choice. With a final reluctant wave to Jade, who was already introducing herself to every child in a five-foot radius, you retreated to the parent area.
The next fifteen minutes were torture. You sat rigid on the edge of the bleachers, alternating between watching Jade (who was currently demonstrating what appeared to be a dance move involving pretending to juggle invisible soccer balls) and nervously tracking Jake's progress through the groups.
He was currently with Group A, showing a technique for dribbling around cones. Even from a distance, you could see how natural he was with the kids—patient, encouraging, that infectious energy drawing them in. He high-fived a small boy who completed the drill, and the child looked like he might never wash that hand again.
Your phone buzzed with a text from Tia:
Has The Dimple Recognition Incident happened yet? Do I need to deploy the mustache?
Despite your anxiety, you smiled, typing back:
Not yet. He's working his way over. Jade just found out they have the same last name and announced it to everyone within earshot.
Three dots appeared immediately, then:
Of course she did. She's a mini nuclear reactor of chaos energy. Just like her dad.
The reminder made your stomach twist again.
You looked up just in time to see Jake finishing with Group B. Which meant he was heading to Group C next. To Jade.
Ten steps. He was ten steps away from discovering he had a daughter.
You couldn't breathe.
Jake jogged over to Group C, high-fiving Coach Marcus. Even from the distance, you could hear his laugh—that same warm sound that used to be the soundtrack to your happiest memories. The children immediately swarmed around him like excited puppies, and he knelt down to get on their level.
Jade, never one to wait her turn, pushed her way to the front of the group.
"Hi! I'm Jade Sim! We have the same last name! That's so cool! Can you show me how to do a bicycle kick? I've been practicing but I always fall on my butt!"
Time seemed to stop.
You watched as Jake's expression shifted from his standard friendly smile to puzzlement. He looked at Jade more closely, taking in her features. The dimples. The eyes. The way she couldn't stand still, shifting from foot to foot with excess energy.
"Sim?" he repeated, his voice carrying in the sudden quiet. "Your last name is Sim?"
"Yep!" Jade nodded vigorously. "Just like you! Mom says it's a common name, but I've never met another Sim before, so I think it's special!"
Jake seemed to forget the other children momentarily, his focus entirely on Jade now. "How old are you, Jade?"
"I'm five! Almost five and a half! My birthday is January 22nd!" She held up one hand, fingers splayed wide. "I've been playing soccer since I was three!"
January 22nd. Exactly five years and nine months after you and Jake had said goodbye at the airport.
You could see the math happening behind his eyes, the calendar flipping in his mind. The color drained from his face so quickly several nearby parents glanced at him in concern.
"And... what's your mom's name?" he asked, his voice cracking.
Before Jade could answer, Coach Marcus stepped in, clearly sensing something was off. "Hey, why don't we get started with some passing drills? Everyone line up behind the blue cone!"
The children scrambled to follow directions, but Jake remained frozen in place, his eyes now scanning the parent area. Searching.
You should have run. You should have hidden. You should have done anything except sit there like a deer in headlights.
His eyes found yours.
Recognition dawned instantly, followed by shock, confusion, and something else—something that made your heart squeeze painfully in your chest.
Five years evaporated in a second.
Without breaking eye contact with you, Jake stood slowly. All around him, children were lining up, coaches were arranging drills, parents were chatting—but between you and Jake, the world had gone silent.
Then Jade's voice cut through everything:
"That's my mom over there! Mom! Come meet Jake Sim! We have the same last name!"
Jake's gaze shifted from you to Jade, then back to you. And in that moment, you saw it happen—the connection being made, the pieces falling into place. His expression transformed into one of absolute shock.
He swayed slightly on his feet.
"Jake? You okay, man?" Coach Marcus asked, noticing how pale he'd become.
Jake's mouth opened and closed without sound. He looked at Jade again—really looked at her—taking in her dimples, her eyes, the way she bounced on her toes exactly like he did before a big match.
"She's..." he whispered, but couldn't finish the sentence.
Jade tugged on his jersey. "Are you going to teach us the special kick now? I've been practicing!"
Jake's knees buckled.
He tried to grab onto Coach Marcus for support, missed, and went down hard on the turf. Several children gasped. A whistle blew somewhere.
"We need a medic!" someone shouted.
You were on your feet in an instant, rushing across the field as a small crowd gathered around Jake's collapsed form. Jade stood over him, looking concerned but also a little excited by the drama.
"Mom!" she called when she saw you. "The famous soccer player fainted! Is he okay? Did I say something wrong?"
You pushed through the circle of onlookers to find Jake flat on his back, eyes closed. A staff member was fanning him while another called into a walkie-talkie for the on-site medical team.
"Give him some space!" Coach Marcus was saying, trying to herd the children back.
Jake's eyelids fluttered, then opened. His gaze immediately locked onto yours, standing above him.
"You..." he managed weakly. "She's... is she...?"
Before you could answer, medical staff arrived with a stretcher. Jake struggled to sit up, still staring at you and Jade.
"Sir, please stay down," a paramedic instructed. "You may have hit your head."
"I'm fine," Jake insisted, his voice stronger now as adrenaline kicked in. He couldn't take his eyes off Jade, who was watching the whole scene with fascination. "I just... I need to..."
He tried to stand again but swayed dangerously. Two staff members caught him by the arms.
"Let's get you to the medical tent," one said firmly.
As they began leading him away, Jake looked back over his shoulder at you, his expression a storm of emotions.
"Wait!" he called out. "I need to talk to—"
"You can talk after we make sure you're okay," the paramedic interrupted.
You stood frozen, Jade's hand in yours, as they escorted Jake toward the medical tent. All around you, parents and children were whispering, phones were out recording, and you knew this incident would be all over social media within minutes.
"Mom," Jade tugged at your hand. "Why did he faint? Is he sick?"
Your phone buzzed with an incoming call from Tia. You could almost hear her saying "I told you so" already.
"I think," you said quietly to Jade, "he was just very surprised about something."
"About what?" Jade asked, her face scrunched in confusion.
You looked toward the medical tent where Jake had disappeared, then down at your daughter—his daughter—with his dimples and his smile and his boundless energy.
"About you, sweetheart. About you."
-
The staff area behind the main tent was hardly private—just a cordoned-off section of the parking lot with a few folding tables and chairs—but at least there weren't two hundred people watching. The clinic had ended fifteen minutes ago, most families already dispersed to their cars, children clutching signed photographs and participation certificates.
You stood with Jade's hand firmly in yours, your heart hammering against your ribs. After Jake's collapse on the field, you'd nearly fled, grabbing Jade and making a run for your car. But a polite yet insistent man in an expensive suit had intercepted you, introducing himself as Jay Park, Jake's manager.
"Mr. Sim would like a moment of your time after the event," he'd said with practiced smoothness. "He was particularly impressed with your daughter's enthusiasm."
The look in his eyes told you he knew exactly who Jade was.
Now you waited, Jade bouncing on her toes beside you, completely oblivious to the life-altering moment that was about to unfold.
"Mom, did you see me score two goals?" she asked for the third time. "And the famous player said my kick was really good!"
"I saw, sweetheart," you managed, scanning the area nervously.
"But then he got sick and had to leave," Jade continued, her face scrunching with concern. "Is he feeling better now? Coach Marcus said sometimes grown-ups get too hot and need to rest."
Before you could answer, movement caught your eye. Jake was approaching, still in his training kit but with a team jacket thrown over it. Beside him walked Jay, whose expression wavered between professional detachment and barely contained curiosity as he glanced between Jake and Jade.
Five years evaporated in an instant. Jake looked both exactly the same and completely different—still the man you'd known, but with something harder in his eyes, something that spoke of stadiums and spotlights and a life lived very far from yours.
Jade noticed them at the same moment you did. "Look! It's him! He's better!" She tugged at your hand. "Can I go say hi? Please, please, please?"
You couldn't find your voice. Jake was close enough now that you could see the storm of emotions on his face as he looked at Jade—wonder, confusion, hurt, and something that might have been joy fighting through the shock.
As they reached you, Jay leaned in toward Jake, his voice low but not quite low enough to miss.
"Jade and Jake. Her name's literally yours with one letter different. How original."
Jake shot him a warning look before turning his attention fully to you and Jade.
"I'll be right over there if you need anything," Jay said, not specifying which of you he was addressing, before walking toward the main tent with a final curious glance at Jade.
And then it was just the three of you.
"Hi again!" Jade broke the silence, her natural exuberance undimmed by the tension crackling between the adults. "I'm really glad you're not sick anymore! Mom says sometimes people faint when they get a big surprise. Did you get a surprise?"
Jake's eyes darted to you, then back to Jade. He crouched down to her level, a movement so natural it made your chest ache.
"I did get a surprise," he said softly. His voice—that voice you'd tried so hard to forget—sounded thick with emotion. "A really big one."
"Was it a good surprise or a bad surprise?" Jade asked, head tilted with curiosity.
Jake's smile was immediate, genuine despite the circumstances. "It was a good surprise. The best surprise I've ever had, actually."
Jade beamed at him, dimples appearing in the exact same places as his. "I like surprises too! Especially birthday surprises. My birthday is in January and I'm going to be six!"
"January 22nd," Jake said automatically, then glanced up at you. "You mentioned that earlier."
You nodded silently, feeling like you might be sick.
"How did you know that?" Jade asked, eyes wide. "Are you psychic? My friend Emma says she's psychic but she can never guess what card I'm holding."
Jake looked at a loss for how to answer, his confident demeanor faltering. He glanced at you again, a silent question in his eyes.
"Jade, baby," you finally found your voice. "Why don't you go check out the snack table over there? I think they have cookies left."
"Cookies?" Jade's priorities immediately shifted. "Can I have two?"
"Just one for now," you said. "And stay where I can see you, okay?"
"Okay!" She started to race off, then stopped and turned back to Jake. "Thank you for teaching us cool soccer moves today! I'm going to practice every day until I can bend the ball just like you showed us!"
Jake looked like he might break apart right there. "You're welcome, Jade. And... you were really good out there. You're a natural."
She glowed at the praise before darting toward the snack table, already calling out to one of the volunteers about the promised cookies.
"Five years," Jake said quietly, once she was out of earshot. He stood to his full height, facing you directly for the first time. "Five years."
"Jake—"
"She's mine." It wasn't a question. "She's my daughter."
You nodded, your throat tight. "Yes."
"And you didn't think that was something I deserved to know?"
The hurt in his voice was worse than if he'd shouted. You'd rehearsed this conversation a thousand times in your head, prepared dozens of explanations, justifications. But now, faced with the reality of Jake standing before you, devastated by the secret you'd kept, all your carefully planned words abandoned you.
"I was going to tell you," you finally managed. "In the beginning. But you had just signed with the team in Europe. It was everything you'd ever wanted—"
"Not everything," he cut in. "Not by a long shot."
You pressed on. "I found out I was pregnant two weeks after you left. The long-distance thing was already so hard. We were already fighting about whether I would eventually join you or you would come back. I didn't want to add this pressure."
"So you decided not to tell me I was going to be a father? That was your solution?" The quiet control in his voice was slipping. "Did you think I wouldn't want to know?"
"I was going to tell you after you got settled," you continued, the words coming faster now. "But then there were complications with the pregnancy. The doctor put me on bed rest. I was scared, Jake. And you were so far away, already becoming this huge star, and I just... I didn't want to be the reason you gave everything up."
"That wasn't your decision to make." The muscle in his jaw ticked. "It should have been our decision. Together."
"I know that now," you admitted. "But by the time Jade was born, months had passed. You were all over the sports news, dating celebrities, living this life that seemed a universe away from midnight feedings and diaper changes. I convinced myself it was too late."
Jake ran both hands through his hair, a gesture so achingly familiar it made your heart twist. "So what was your plan? Never tell me? Let her grow up not knowing who her father is? What happens when she's older and sees me on TV? Or finds articles about me online?"
"I don't know," you confessed. "I've been figuring it out as I go. I never expected... this." You gestured vaguely at the soccer field. "When her school announced this clinic, I almost kept her home. But she was so excited, and I thought... what are the chances you'd even notice her among hundreds of kids?"
"Pretty good, apparently, when she has my face and my last name," Jake said with a mirthless laugh. "Why does she have my last name if you were never going to tell me about her?"
You looked away. "We were engaged, Jake. I was already using Sim half the time. And I guess... I wanted her to have that connection to you, even if she didn't know it."
Jake fell silent, his gaze drifting to where Jade was happily munching on a cookie, chatting with animated hand gestures to the volunteer. His expression softened instantly, the anger temporarily giving way to wonder.
"She's incredible," he said quietly.
"She is," you agreed. "She's smart and funny and kind. And she's obsessed with soccer, which I swear has nothing to do with me. That's all you. It's in her DNA or something."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "The way she moves on the field... even untrained, she has instincts."
"She practices every day in our backyard. Drives the neighbors crazy."
The moment of connection flickered between you, then faded as reality reasserted itself.
"What happens now?" Jake asked, his voice lower. "Because I need you to understand something. I'm not walking away. Not again. Not from her."
The certainty in his voice sent a chill down your spine. "What does that mean, exactly?"
"It means I'm her father, and I want to be part of her life."
"You live in Europe, Jake. Your life is press conferences and training sessions and traveling for matches. How exactly do you see this working?"
"I don't know yet," he admitted. "But we'll figure it out. Together. Like we should have five years ago."
Before you could respond, a small blur of energy crashed into Jake's legs.
"The cookies are so good!" Jade announced, beaming up at him. "Do you want one? I saved half for you because Mom says sharing is caring."
Jake looked momentarily stunned by the casual physical contact, by this child—his child—offering him a slightly mangled cookie with the same open-hearted generosity he remembered from you.
"I'd love one," he said, crouching down again to accept the offering. "Thank you, Jade."
"You're welcome!" She watched intently as he took a bite. "Good, right?"
"The best cookie I've ever had," he said seriously.
Jade nodded, satisfied with his assessment. "Mom, can we show Jake my trophy? The one I got at mini-league last month? I scored three goals in one game!"
Jake's eyes shot to you, another piece of his daughter's life he'd missed falling into place.
"Jade, honey," you began carefully. "Mr. Sim probably has to get going. He's very busy and—"
"Actually," Jake interrupted, "I'd really like to see that trophy sometime."
Jade's entire face lit up. "You could come over to our house! We have a soccer goal in the backyard and everything! Mom could make her special pasta! She only makes it for very important occasions."
The hopeful look on Jake's face was almost as hard to resist as Jade's. You felt cornered, events spiraling beyond your control.
"Maybe someday," you said vaguely.
"How about tomorrow?" Jake suggested, his eyes never leaving yours, challenge evident in them.
"Yes!" Jade bounced with excitement. "Tomorrow! Please, Mom? Please?"
You looked between them—the identical hopeful expressions, the same dimples, the same way of leaning forward slightly when anticipating something.
This was it. The moment your carefully constructed world collapsed. The moment your daughter's life changed forever. The moment you had to face the consequences of a decision made five years ago.
"Okay," you finally said. "Tomorrow."
Jake's expression was unreadable—a complex mix of triumph, hurt, anticipation, and lingering anger. "I'll bring dessert," he said simply.
Jade cheered, already firing questions at Jake about his favorite foods, favorite colors, whether he liked movies about talking animals. He answered each one with a patience and focus that belied the emotional tsunami he must be experiencing.
Over Jade's head, his eyes met yours—intense, determined, and filled with a silent promise that tomorrow would only be the beginning.
The fairy tale you'd told yourself—that you could keep Jade's paternity secret forever, that your paths would never cross with Jake's again—had crumbled in the space of a single afternoon.
Tomorrow, Jake Sim would walk back into your life.
And nothing would ever be the same again.
-
By the time the doorbell rang at 6:02 PM, you'd changed your outfit four times, cleaned the entire house twice, and nearly canceled the whole thing approximately seventeen times. Only the memory of Jade's excitement—she'd spent the morning making a welcome sign decorated with wobbly soccer balls—had stopped you from texting Jake with some hastily constructed emergency.
"He's HERE!" Jade shouted from the living room, where she'd been perched by the window for the last forty-five minutes. She raced to the door, skidding across the hardwood in her socks, her special occasion dress (chosen after trying on her entire wardrobe) fluttering behind her.
"Wait, Jade—" But she was already yanking the door open, your warnings about stranger danger apparently forgotten in her excitement.
"Hi Jake!" she beamed, bouncing on her toes. "You're right on time! Mom said you'd be here at six and it's six! I've been waiting forever!"
You rounded the corner from the kitchen to find Jake standing in your doorway, looking simultaneously at ease and completely out of place. He'd traded his athletic gear for dark jeans and a simple button-down shirt, but even dressed casually, there was something about him that screamed 'professional athlete.' Maybe it was the way he carried himself, or the watch that probably cost more than your car.
"I brought dessert," he said, holding up a bakery box. His eyes found yours over Jade's head, and the careful neutrality in his expression told you he was still processing everything. Still upset.
"And flowers!" Jade pointed out, noticing the bouquet in his other hand. "Are those for Mom? They're so pretty!"
"They are." Jake handed the bouquet to you with a formality that made your chest ache. Gone was the man who used to bring you wildflowers picked from the side of the road, who once filled your apartment with paper flowers he'd made himself when he was broke and couldn't afford real ones. "Thank you for having me over."
The subtext was clear: Thank you for finally allowing me into my daughter's life.
"Come in," you managed, stepping aside. "Dinner's almost ready."
"Jake, do you want to see my room?" Jade grabbed his hand without hesitation. "I have a whole wall of soccer stuff! And my trophy! And my cleats collection! And—"
"Jade," you interrupted gently. "Let's give Jake a minute to get settled first."
"It's okay," Jake said, his eyes softening as he looked at Jade. "I'd love to see your room."
"Yes!" Jade pumped her fist in victory, then tugged Jake down the hallway. "It's this way! The one with the stars on the door! Mom painted them for me because stars are my second favorite thing after soccer!"
You watched them go, Jake's tall frame following your daughter's bouncing form, and felt a wave of emotion so complex you couldn't even name it. Setting the flowers aside—you'd find a vase later—you retreated to the kitchen to finish dinner preparations and gather your thoughts.
Through the walls, you could hear Jade's excited chatter and Jake's deeper responses, though you couldn't make out the words. Five minutes stretched to ten, then fifteen. Just as you were about to call them for dinner, they reappeared in the kitchen doorway.
Jake's expression had changed. There was still a tightness around his eyes, but something else had softened. He was holding a small framed photo—the one from Jade's nightstand of her third birthday, blowing out candles on a soccer ball cake, her face lit with delight.
"Jade was just showing me her... everything," he said, his voice carefully controlled. "She's got quite the medal collection already."
"Mini league championships," you explained, busying yourself with the pasta. "Her team won last season."
"I showed him my scrapbook too!" Jade announced, climbing onto her usual chair at the kitchen table. "The one with all my important memories!"
Your stomach dropped. The scrapbook had photos from every stage of Jade's life—the hospital, her first steps, first day of preschool—all the moments Jake had missed.
"It was very impressive," Jake said, setting the photo down on the counter. His eyes never left yours. "Very thorough."
The tension between you was thick enough to cut with a knife, but Jade remained blissfully oblivious, swinging her legs and arranging her silverware just so.
"Dinner's ready," you announced, grateful for the distraction. "Jade, can you get the water pitcher from the fridge?"
The meal itself was painfully awkward, saved only by Jade's non-stop commentary. She told Jake about her teacher, her best friend Emma, how she wanted to be a professional soccer player and a veterinarian and maybe an astronaut. Jake listened attentively, asking questions, smiling at her jokes, even as you felt his attention split between Jade's stories and the questions he clearly wanted to ask you.
"—and that's why I'm not allowed to bring frogs in the house anymore," Jade concluded one particularly animated story that you'd only half-heard. "Right, Mom?"
"Right, honey," you confirmed automatically, though you'd missed most of the context.
"Speaking of rules," Jake said, seizing the opening, "I'd love to know more about Jade's routine. What time does she usually go to bed? What's her favorite subject in school? Is she allergic to anything? Does she have any medical conditions I should know about?"
The rapid-fire questions had an edge to them, reminding you that this pleasant dinner was just the surface. Underneath lay five years of absence he was determined to make up for in a single evening.
"I go to bed at eight on school nights and eight-thirty on weekends!" Jade answered before you could speak. "And my favorite subject is P.E., obviously. But I also like art because we get to use glitter sometimes."
"Any allergies?" Jake pressed, looking at you now.
"No allergies," you said quietly. "She had some respiratory issues as a baby—croup that turned into pneumonia when she was about eighteen months. She was hospitalized for three days. But she's been healthy since then."
Something flashed across Jake's face—pain, anger, maybe both. Another crisis he hadn't been there for.
"I was really sick," Jade confirmed solemnly. "Mom slept in the hospital with me and everything. But I don't remember it because I was too little."
"I see." Jake took a careful sip of water.
"I'll put together a file for you," you offered, trying to defuse the tension. "Medical records, school reports, everything."
"That would be... helpful," he acknowledged, though his tone suggested it was the bare minimum.
The conversation shifted to safer topics through the rest of dinner, though you caught Jake studying Jade's mannerisms with an intensity that suggested he was cataloguing every detail, making up for lost time. The way she talked with her hands when excited—just like him. The way she tilted her head when considering a question—also like him. The dimple that appeared on only one cheek when she gave a half-smile—unmistakably his.
After dinner, Jade insisted on showing Jake her soccer skills in the backyard. You watched from the kitchen window as she demonstrated her "special move," a surprisingly coordinated series of dribbles ending with a shot on the small goal set up against the fence. Jake crouched beside her, making subtle adjustments to her form, and you could see Jade soaking up every word like a sponge.
They were so alike it was almost painful to watch.
When they came back inside, you had dessert set out—the chocolate cake Jake had brought, sliced and plated.
"Jade, after dessert it's bath time," you reminded her.
"But Jake just got here!" she protested. "Can't I stay up extra late? It's a special occasion!"
"Actually," Jake interjected, "I was hoping I could talk to your mom alone for a bit after you go to bed."
The way he said it made your pulse quicken. The temporary truce established during dinner was about to end.
"Will you come back tomorrow?" Jade asked, looking up at Jake with chocolate-smeared cheeks and hopeful eyes. "You could teach me more soccer moves! And meet my stuffed animals! You only met half of them!"
Jake glanced at you, a challenge in his eyes. "That depends on what your mom and I discuss tonight."
"Please, Mom?" Jade turned those same hopeful eyes on you. "Can Jake come back tomorrow? And the next day? And the next day?"
"We'll see, sweetheart," you said, avoiding both their gazes. "Let's finish dessert first."
An hour later, after Jade's bath, two bedtime stories (one read by Jake at Jade's insistence), and finally getting her to sleep (complicated by the excitement of having a visitor), you returned to the living room to find Jake standing by your bookshelf, examining the framed photos.
"She's finally asleep," you said, hovering uncertainly in the doorway. "Can I get you anything? Coffee?"
"Answers," Jake replied without turning around. "I want answers."
You sank onto the couch, suddenly exhausted. "Ask whatever you want to know."
Now he did turn, fixing you with a stare that pinned you in place. "Why didn't you tell me? The real reason. Not what you think I want to hear, not what you've told yourself. The truth."
You took a deep breath. "I was scared."
"Of what?"
"Of everything. Of telling you and having you resent us for complicating your new life. Of telling you and having you give up your dream to come back. Of raising a child with someone living on another continent. Of what would happen to Jade if we tried and failed at making it work."
Jake crossed his arms. "So you decided the best solution was to just cut me out entirely? Not even give me the chance?"
"I told myself I was waiting for the right time," you admitted. "But the longer I waited, the harder it became to imagine how that conversation would go. Weeks turned into months, months into years. And then..."
"And then what? Five years passed and you thought, 'Well, too late now'?"
"It wasn't like that," you protested, though part of you knew he wasn't entirely wrong. "Every birthday, every milestone, I thought about telling you. I almost did, countless times."
"But you didn't." His voice was flat. "Instead, you named her after me, gave her my last name, and kept her a secret. Do you have any idea what that feels like? To discover you have a five-year-old daughter who knows every Disney movie by heart but doesn't know who her father is?"
"I'm sorry," you whispered, tears threatening. "I know that doesn't fix anything, but I am."
Jake ran a hand through his hair, a gesture so achingly familiar it made your heart twist. "She has a whole life I know nothing about. First words, first steps, first day of school—all of it, gone. I can never get that back."
"I know," you said, your voice small. "And that's on me."
He paced across the living room, energy radiating off him in waves. "What have you told her about me? About her father?"
"Not much," you admitted. "That her dad is a soccer player who lives far away. That he's not part of our lives. She started asking more questions recently, but I've... deflected."
"So when were you planning to tell her the truth? When she's ten? Fifteen? When she googles me one day and puts it together herself?"
The question hit you like a physical blow because you had never had a good answer for it, even in your own mind. "I don't know," you confessed. "I should have had a plan, but I didn't. I just kept pushing it off."
Jake stopped pacing and fixed you with a stare. "Well, time's up. Because I want to be in her life—fully, completely in her life. I want joint custody."
Your heart dropped. "Jake, you live in Europe. Your schedule is insane. How would that even work?"
"I'll figure it out," he said, with the same determination that had taken him from local soccer star to international phenomenon. "My contract has a clause about family emergencies. I can get time now, and when the season's over in three months, I'll have more flexibility."
"And then what? She shuttles back and forth between continents? That's not stability, Jake."
"And growing up without her father is?" he countered. "I missed five years. I won't miss any more."
"I'm not saying you can't be in her life," you clarified. "I'm saying we need to be realistic about what that looks like."
"Realistic," he repeated, the word sharp with disdain. "Was it 'realistic' when you decided not to tell me I had a daughter?"
You had no good answer for that.
"I want everything," Jake continued, his voice calmer but no less intense. "School records, medical history, photos, videos—everything from the last five years. I want to know her favorite foods, her fears, what makes her laugh, what comforts her when she's upset. I want to know what she was like as a baby, as a toddler, every stage I missed."
"Okay," you agreed quietly. "You can have all of that."
"And I want to tell her I'm her father. Soon. Not some vague 'someday' that never comes."
This made your chest tighten with anxiety. "Jake, we need to be careful about that. She's five. This is a lot for her to process."
"And whose fault is that?" The words hung in the air between you, sharp with accusation.
"Mine," you acknowledged. "But that doesn't change the fact that we need to handle this carefully for her sake."
Jake was silent for a long moment, conflict playing across his features. Finally, he let out a long breath. "Fine. We'll talk to a child psychologist, get professional advice on how to tell her. But it happens within the next month. I won't be a stranger to my own daughter any longer than necessary."
You nodded, relieved at this small concession. "That's fair."
"And in the meantime, I want to see her regularly. Every day while I'm in town, and we'll figure out video calls when I go back. I want to be at her games, her school events, everything I can possibly make."
"Of course," you said. "She'd love that."
Jake's expression softened marginally. "She's amazing," he said, almost to himself. "When she was showing me her room, the way she explained everything with such... enthusiasm. She's got this incredible energy."
"Gets that from you," you said without thinking. "She's been like that since she could crawl. Always moving, always excited about something."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "The soccer obsession too?"
"One hundred percent you. I swear I never pushed it. She picked up a ball when she was two and that was it. Love at first kick."
For a moment, the tension between you eased, replaced by the shared wonder of the person you'd created together. Then reality reasserted itself.
"I'm still angry," Jake said quietly. "I don't know if or when that will change."
"I understand," you said, meaning it. "You have every right to be."
He checked his watch. "It's getting late. I should go. But I'll be back tomorrow afternoon, like I promised Jade."
"Okay."
Jake moved toward the door, then paused. "One more thing. I haven't told my parents yet. About Jade."
Your stomach dropped. Jake's parents had loved you once. You'd been planning a life together, marriage, family. How would they react to knowing you'd kept their grandchild from them for five years?
"When are you going to tell them?" you asked.
"Soon. They're flying in next week. I wanted to meet Jade first, to..." he trailed off, then finished, "to see for myself."
The implication stung, though you couldn't blame him. Of course he'd needed to confirm for himself that Jade was his.
"They'll want to meet her," he continued. "They have a right to know their granddaughter."
"Of course," you agreed, though the prospect filled you with dread.
Jake opened the door, then looked back at you one last time. "For what it's worth, you've done an amazing job with her. She's... perfect."
Before you could respond, he was gone, the door closing quietly behind him.
You sank back onto the couch, emotional exhaustion washing over you in waves. Through the half-open door of Jade's bedroom, you could see her sleeping peacefully, unaware that her world had just fundamentally changed.
Tomorrow, Jake would be back. He would continue piecing together the life of his daughter. And sooner than you'd ever planned, Jade would learn the truth: that the professional soccer player she'd been so excited to meet was her father.
The carefully constructed life you'd built was falling apart.
Or perhaps, a small voice in your mind suggested, it was finally coming together the way it should have been all along.
-
"Higher! You have to kick it higher!" Jade called from the backyard, hands on her hips in a pose of exaggerated exasperation that made her look startlingly like a miniature coach.
Jake laughed, adjusting his technique to send the soccer ball sailing high into the air. "Like this?"
"Perfect!" Jade's face lit up as she positioned herself beneath the descending ball, calculating its trajectory with surprising precision for a five-year-old.
You watched from the kitchen window, coffee mug clutched between your hands, as Jade attempted to trap the ball with her chest like she'd seen professional players do. Instead, it bounced off her head and rolled away, sending her into peals of laughter.
The day had started early—too early, with Jade bouncing into your room at 6:15 AM asking if it was "Jake time yet." When he'd arrived promptly at ten, she'd practically dragged him through the house to show him her new soccer cleats, her collection of medals ("Some of them are just for participating but these three are for winning"), and the scrapbook of soccer cards she'd been collecting.
Jake had brought a gift—a professional-grade junior soccer ball with the logo of his European team—which had immediately cemented his status as Jade's new favorite person.
"Mom!" Jade's voice pulled you from your thoughts as she raced toward the back door, Jake following at a more measured pace. "Jake says I have natural talent! That's a real thing that real coaches say!"
"Is that so?" you asked, unable to hold back a smile at her enthusiasm.
"It is," Jake confirmed, ducking slightly to enter through the back door. There was a light sheen of sweat on his forehead, and his hair was charmingly disheveled from chasing after Jade for the past hour. "She has great instincts. Her spatial awareness is excellent for her age."
"I have special awareness," Jade repeated proudly, though clearly not understanding what it meant.
"Spatial," Jake corrected gently.
"That's what I said! Special!" Jade zipped past you to the refrigerator. "I need a juice box because athletes need to stay hydrated. Jake told me that's very important. Do you want one too, Jake? We have apple and grape and the gross one with vegetables that Mom thinks I don't know about."
Jake caught your eye over Jade's head, amusement dancing in his expression. "I'll take apple, thanks."
You'd expected today to be awkward, tense—a continuation of last night's emotional confrontation. Instead, Jade's presence had created a buffer, her boundless energy requiring both adults to focus on her rather than the complicated emotions between them.
"I was thinking we could all go to the park after lunch," you suggested, pulling sandwich ingredients from the refrigerator. "They have a bigger field there."
"Can we get ice cream after?" Jade asked immediately, strategic as always.
"We'll see," you answered automatically.
"That means yes," Jade stage-whispered to Jake. "It always means yes."
Jake's laugh was genuine, unguarded in a way it hadn't been since he'd discovered Jade was his daughter. "Good to know your negotiation tactics."
"What's nego... that word you said?"
"Negotiation. It means figuring out how to get what you want."
Jade nodded solemnly. "I'm very good at that. Mom says I should be a lawyer because I never stop arguing."
"I can see that," Jake said, accepting the juice box Jade thrust into his hands. "You make a strong case for ice cream."
"What's your favorite flavor?" Jade asked, climbing onto her chair at the kitchen table. "Mine's chocolate with the rainbow sprinkles. Sometimes I get it in a cone but that's messier."
Jake shook his head with a small smile. "I don't really eat ice cream much anymore. Sweet things aren't really my thing these days."
Jade looked absolutely horrified, as if he'd just admitted to not believing in gravity. "You don't like ice cream? But everybody likes ice cream!"
"My nutritionist has me on a pretty strict diet," Jake explained, clearly amused by her reaction. "Professional athletes have to be careful about what they eat."
"That sounds terrible," Jade declared with the dramatic conviction only a five-year-old could muster. "When I'm a professional athlete, I'm still going to eat ice cream. And cake. And cookies."
"That's exactly what your mom used to say about diets," Jake said before he could catch himself, glancing at you with sudden uncertainty.
But Jade just nodded enthusiastically. "Mom's really smart about desserts. We have the same taste buds."
You busied yourself making sandwiches, aware of Jake's eyes on you but not ready to meet his gaze. The ease with which he and Jade interacted was both heartwarming and painful—a glimpse of what should have been all along.
"Peanut butter and banana for Jade," you announced, setting a plate in front of her. "Turkey and cheese for the adults."
"Did you cut it in triangles?" Jade asked suspiciously, examining her sandwich.
"Would I dare serve it any other way?" You mock-gasped, hand over your heart.
Jade giggled. "You forgot once."
"And I'll never live it down, apparently," you said to Jake with an eye roll.
"Triangles taste better," Jade explained to Jake with the conviction of someone stating an irrefutable scientific fact. "Rectangles are just wrong."
"I'll keep that in mind," Jake said solemnly, though his eyes sparkled with amusement.
Lunch passed with Jade dominating the conversation, jumping from topic to topic with the frenetic energy that characterized everything she did. She told Jake about her best friend Emma, her teacher Ms. Rivera, the class pet frog she wasn't allowed to bring home ("Mom has a no amphibians rule, which is so unfair"), and her upcoming soccer tournament.
"Will you come to my game?" she asked Jake suddenly, mid-bite. "It's next Saturday. I'm number ten, just like your jersey! Mom got me that number special."
Your eyes met Jake's across the table, a silent exchange passing between you. That number hadn't been a coincidence, and you both knew it.
"I'd love to come to your game," Jake said, his voice warm but with an undertone only you would recognize—the weight of a father being invited to his daughter's game for the first time.
"Yes!" Jade pumped her fist victoriously. "You can meet my coach and my team and show them some of your special moves!"
"We'll see about that," you interjected gently. "Jake might want to just watch."
Jade looked scandalized. "But he's famous! Everyone will think it's so cool if he shows us stuff!"
"Let's talk about that later," you suggested, seeing Jake's expression grow more complex. Neither of you had discussed how to handle his public presence in relation to Jade—not to mention the questions that would inevitably arise if Europe's star striker started showing up at a five-year-old's soccer games.
After lunch, you all headed to the park as planned. Jade insisted on bringing her new soccer ball, clutching it to her chest the entire car ride while peppering Jake with questions from the back seat.
"Do you know how to do a rainbow kick? Can you teach me? How many goals have you scored? Have you ever broken a bone? My friend Tyler broke his arm falling out of a tree but I would never fall out of a tree because I'm a good climber, right Mom?"
You caught Jake's eye as he turned slightly in the passenger seat, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. She never stops, you mouthed silently.
Just like me, he mouthed back, and something warm unfurled in your chest at the easy acknowledgment of the traits Jade had inherited from him.
At the park, Jade immediately dragged Jake to the open field, demanding he show her "professional tricks." A few other children gravitated toward them, drawn by Jade's enthusiasm and Jake's obvious skill as he demonstrated simple footwork patterns.
You settled on a nearby bench, allowing yourself a moment to simply observe. Jake was patient, breaking down movements into steps Jade could follow, praising her efforts even when she stumbled. When she finally managed a basic step-over move, his genuine pride matched her excitement.
"Mom! Did you see that? I did it just like Jake!"
"I saw, sweetheart! That was amazing!"
As the afternoon progressed, more children joined their impromptu clinic. Jake seemed in his element, guiding each child with the same attention he gave Jade. You noticed a few parents doing double-takes as they recognized him, whispering to each other and discreetly taking photos with their phones.
Eventually, Jade ran over to you, cheeks flushed with exertion and happiness. "This is the best day ever! Jake knows everything about soccer! And he likes all the same things I like! He even does the victory dance the same way I do! Watch!"
She demonstrated an elaborate celebratory move involving a spin and fist pump that was, indeed, eerily similar to Jake's signature goal celebration.
"That's amazing, honey."
"I didn't even show it to him, Mom! He just does it the same! Isn't that cool?"
"Very cool," you agreed, smoothing back her sweaty hair. "Are you ready for that ice cream now?"
"Yes! Jake, we're getting ice cream!" she called over her shoulder.
Jake joined you, slightly out of breath but looking more relaxed than you'd seen him since his return. "Ice cream sounds perfect."
"Can I go on the swings first?" Jade asked, already edging toward the playground. "Just for five minutes?"
"Okay, but only five," you agreed, knowing full well it would be at least fifteen minutes before you'd successfully extract her.
As Jade raced off, you and Jake were left alone for the first time that day.
"She's incredible," he said, eyes following her across the playground. "I know I keep saying that, but..."
"She is," you agreed. "And she's completely taken with you."
Jake sat beside you on the bench, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him but with a careful space between you.
"Thank you for today," he said quietly. "For letting me spend time with her."
"Of course. She's your—" You stopped, glancing around to make sure no little ears could overhear. "She's your daughter. You have every right to know her."
Jake's expression softened. "I was prepared to be angry today. To keep fighting about the past." He watched Jade swinging higher and higher, fearless as always. "But it's hard to stay angry when she's so... full of life."
"She has that effect on people," you said with a small smile. "It's impossible to be in a bad mood around Hurricane Jade."
"Wonder where she gets that from," Jake said, a hint of his old teasing tone returning.
"Oh, that's all you. The energy, the charm, the inability to sit still for more than thirty seconds—pure Sim genetics."
He laughed, and for a moment it was almost like before—before Europe, before the breakup, before five years of silence and secrets.
"I meant what I said earlier, about her having natural talent," Jake said, shifting the conversation back to safer territory. "With the right coaching, she could go far."
"I've tried to encourage it," you admitted. "Signed her up for every age-appropriate program I could find. But there's only so much I know about proper technique."
"I could help with that," Jake offered cautiously. "If you're okay with it."
"I'd like that," you said softly. "She would too, obviously."
A comfortable silence settled between you, both watching Jade as she abandoned the swings for the climbing structure.
"About last night," Jake began.
"I have all the photos and videos organized," you said quickly. "After Jade goes to bed, I can show you everything. Her first steps, first words, birthdays—all of it."
Jake studied your face for a moment before nodding. "I'd like that."
"MOM! JAKE! WATCH THIS!" Jade shouted from the top of the playground, preparing to slide down a pole firefighter-style.
You both instinctively tensed, ready to rush forward if needed, but she executed the move with practiced ease, landing triumphantly at the bottom.
"Your heart stops a dozen times a day with her," you murmured.
"I can see that," Jake said with a mixture of pride and newfound parental concern.
"Ice cream time," you confirmed, standing from the bench.
"Can I get sprinkles and chocolate sauce?" Jade asked, slipping her small hand into Jake's automatically, as if she'd been doing it her whole life.
You saw Jake freeze for just a moment, staring down at their joined hands with an expression of wonder, before he gently squeezed her fingers in response.
"I think this counts as a special occasion," he said, looking to you for confirmation.
"A very special occasion," you agreed, your voice catching slightly as you watched your daughter walking hand-in-hand with her father for the first time.
Jade looked up at Jake with pure adoration. "I've had so much fun with you today! You're really good at everything I like to do. Mom says I'm picky about people, but I think you're the best."
"Well, that's quite a compliment," Jake said, his voice thick with emotion. "I think you're pretty great too."
"Can you come over again tomorrow? And the next day? And maybe forever?"
"Jade," you cautioned gently, seeing Jake's expression.
"I'll definitely come back tomorrow," Jake promised. "We still have a lot of soccer moves to practice."
"And then Mom can show you my baby pictures!" Jade said brightly. "I was super cute."
"Still are," Jake said, swinging their joined hands playfully.
As you walked behind them toward the ice cream stand, you watched Jake bend down to listen intently to whatever world-changing observation Jade was now sharing. Their matching profiles, the same animated way of speaking, the identical dimples when they smiled—it was like seeing double across a generation.
These were the moments you'd imagined in your quietest thoughts over the years, the ones you'd convinced yourself would never happen. Now that they were unfolding before your eyes, you found yourself fighting back unexpected tears.
Whatever happened between you and Jake, however complicated your own relationship might be, today had made one thing clear: Jade had found her father. And despite everything, he was already proving to be exactly what she needed.
The rest would have to be figured out one day at a time.
-
"Higher! Throw it higher!"
Jade's delighted squeals had faded an hour ago, replaced by the peaceful quiet of evening as you sat on your living room floor surrounded by photo albums, memory boxes, and a laptop open to years of digital archives. After a full day of Jake and Jade's energetic bonding, she'd finally crashed, falling asleep mid-sentence during her second bedtime story.
Now, in the hushed stillness, Jake sat across from you, cross-legged on the carpet, holding Jade's first pair of soccer cleats—tiny pink things she'd insisted on wearing everywhere, even to bed.
"She was two and a half when she got these," you explained, sorting through a box of keepsakes. "Saw them at the store and had an absolute meltdown until I bought them. They were two sizes too big."
Jake turned the miniature cleats over in his hands, his expression softening in a way it hadn't when discussing the more difficult aspects of your past. "She was walking by then. Running?"
"Running, jumping, climbing everything in sight. She was an early walker—ten months. Never crawled much." You hesitated before adding, "Just like you."
His eyes met yours, a flash of something—surprise, connection, hurt that he hadn't known this parallel—before returning to the cleats.
"I found it," you said, pulling out an external hard drive. "All the videos. I had everything digitized last year."
You connected it to your laptop, acutely aware of Jake moving closer, his shoulder nearly touching yours as he positioned himself to see the screen. The faint scent of his cologne—different from what he'd worn five years ago, but with the same underlying notes—stirred memories you'd tried hard to suppress.
"I organized it chronologically," you said, opening the earliest folder. "These are from the hospital."
Jake leaned forward, his breath catching as the first image filled the screen: a newborn Jade, red-faced and wrinkled, wrapped in a pink blanket.
"She was so small," he whispered.
"Six pounds, four ounces. Smaller than the doctors expected." You clicked to the next image. "Twenty hours of labor, and then she just... arrived. Changed everything in an instant."
Jake was silent, eyes fixed on the screen as you cycled through those first photos—Jade sleeping, Jade crying, Jade with eyes barely open. You in a hospital bed, looking exhausted but radiant. Every image seemed to hit him like a physical blow.
"I wasn't there," he said quietly.
The accusation from before was gone, replaced by simple grief. You didn't know what to say, so you kept clicking through photos.
"Did you... was anyone with you? During the birth?"
"Tia," you answered. "She held my hand through the whole thing. Called me every name in the book when I refused the epidural at first."
A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Sounds like Tia."
You opened the video folder, hesitating over the first one. "This is her first day home. I was a mess, hadn't slept in days. It's not exactly America's Funniest Home Videos material."
"I want to see it," Jake said. "All of it."
You pressed play. The video showed your apartment—your old place, before you'd moved to the house—with baby items scattered everywhere. The camera shakily focused on a bassinet where Jade slept, then panned to you curled up on the couch, half-asleep yourself.
Tia's voice came from behind the camera: "And here we have the natural habitat of the New Mom, surrounded by burp cloths and takeout containers. Note the attractive milk stains on her shirt and the distinctive dark circles under her eyes."
In the video, you flipped off the camera without opening your eyes. "I will murder you in your sleep if you don't let me nap while she's napping."
"Just documenting the miracle of motherhood for posterity," Tia's voice singsonged. The camera moved back to Jade, who was beginning to squirm. "Uh oh, the tiny dictator awakens. Your public demands an audience, Your Majesty."
Present-day you cringed, reaching to skip ahead, but Jake gently caught your wrist. "Don't. I want to see."
On screen, you dragged yourself off the couch, hair a mess, wearing what were clearly Jake's old sweatpants and a stained t-shirt. You scooped up Jade, who immediately quieted against your chest.
"She knows her mama," Tia's voice said softly.
Video-you looked directly at the camera, eyes tired but determined. "We're figuring it out, aren't we, little one? Just you and me."
Jake's hand was still on your wrist, his touch burning against your skin. You felt him inhale sharply at your words in the video, felt the subtle tension through his shoulders.
"I should have been there," he said again, but the anger from before had transformed into something more complex—regret, loss, a quiet ache.
"You didn't know," you said softly, no longer defending yourself but simply stating a fact.
He let go of your wrist, his fingers lingering just a moment too long, sending an unexpected flutter through your stomach. You clicked through more videos: Jade's first real smile, her first laugh, her determined attempts to roll over. Jake watched them all with fierce concentration, as if trying to absorb every moment he'd missed. He asked questions about each milestone—when, where, how—creating a mental timeline of his daughter's life.
"Wait—go back," he said suddenly when you clicked past a video thumbnail. "Was that...?"
You returned to the previous screen. "Ah. Her first birthday."
Jake pointed to the image. "Is that my jersey?"
Your cheeks warmed. The thumbnail clearly showed Jade sitting in a high chair, cake smeared across her face, wearing a tiny replica of Jake's national team jersey.
"She was going through a phase where she'd only wear red," you explained weakly. "It was the only red thing I could find in her size."
Jake gave you a look that said he didn't believe you for a second. "You kept track of my career."
It wasn't a question. You sighed, knowing there was no point in denying it.
"Yes. I followed your games when I could. Jade was too young to understand, but... I thought someday she should know what her father accomplished." You hesitated. "After you made the national team, I bought the jersey. She loved it—wouldn't take it off for days."
Something shifted in Jake's expression—a softening around the eyes, the faintest hint of the smile that used to make your heart race. Before he could respond, you quickly pressed play on the video.
Your living room filled with the sounds of "Happy Birthday" being sung off-key, followed by Jade smashing both hands into her birthday cake with wild abandon. The camera panned to show a small gathering—Tia, your parents, a couple of friends—but focused primarily on Jade, who was now wearing more cake than she'd eaten.
Jake leaned forward, transfixed by the sight of his daughter's joy. When the video ended, he didn't immediately speak, just stared at the frozen final frame of Jade grinning with chocolate-covered dimples.
"She looks exactly like you," you said without thinking.
"She has your eyes," he countered quietly. "Your laugh, too."
The observation surprised you. "You think so? Everyone always says she's your mini-me."
"There's a lot of you in her." Jake turned slightly, studying your face with an intensity that made your pulse quicken. "The way she tilts her head when she's considering something seriously. The little crease between her eyebrows when she concentrates. That's all you."
You hadn't expected him to notice such details about you, let alone remember them after five years. The fact that he had been paying such close attention—not just to Jade, but to you—stirred something you'd long tried to suppress.
"I have more videos," you said, breaking the moment before it became too charged. "Her first steps are somewhere in here."
As you scrolled through folders, Jake reached for one of the photo albums on the floor. "What's this one?"
"Preschool years," you said, recognizing the cover. "Ages two to four."
He opened it carefully, turning pages with a gentleness that contrasted with his athletic build. Each new image seemed to fascinate him—Jade at the beach, Jade finger-painting, Jade dressed as a lion for Halloween.
"She's fearless," he observed, pausing on a photo of three-year-old Jade at the top of a playground structure clearly designed for older children.
"Terrifyingly so," you agreed. "I've gotten more gray hairs from her daredevil stunts than from anything else in my life."
Jake's finger traced the outline of Jade's face in the photo. "I used to drive my mom crazy climbing trees. The higher, the better."
"She does the same thing! Last summer, I found her three branches up in the neighbor's oak tree. Nearly had a heart attack."
He laughed, a genuine sound that caught you both by surprise. For a moment, the weight of the past five years seemed to lift slightly. Your eyes met, and for a heartbeat, you were back in your old apartment, planning weekend hikes and arguing over movie choices—before contracts and continents and complications.
"Here it is," you said, finding the video you'd been searching for. "First steps, thirteen months old."
Jake shifted closer as the video began playing. On screen, a wobbly Jade stood holding onto the edge of the coffee table, determination written across her tiny face.
Your voice came from behind the camera: "Come on, sweetheart. Come to Mama."
Jade looked directly at the camera, grinned her already mischievous grin, and took one tentative step away from the table. Then another. Three shaky steps before plopping down on her diaper-padded bottom.
"You did it!" your voice exclaimed as the camera shook with excitement. "Oh my god, you did it!"
The video captured you setting down the camera (showing a sideways view of the living room) and rushing to scoop up Jade, spinning her around as she giggled uncontrollably.
"We have to call Auntie Tia," your voice said. "She's not going to believe—" You stopped abruptly, and even in the awkwardly angled footage, your expression was clear: for a brief moment, you'd forgotten you couldn't share this milestone with Jake.
Present-day Jake noticed it too. His eyes shifted from the screen to your face, questioning.
"I almost called you," you admitted quietly. "So many times. Especially for the big moments."
"Why didn't you?" There was no accusation in his voice now, just a genuine need to understand.
You stared at the laptop screen, where the video had ended on a frame of you holding Jade close. "At first, it was all the reasons I told you before. Then... time passed, and it got harder to imagine how that conversation would go. 'Hi, remember me? Surprise, you have a one-year-old.'" You shook your head. "And then you became this massive star, and the gap between our worlds just seemed... unbridgeable."
Jake was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was different—less the angry man demanding answers, more the person you'd once known better than anyone.
"I would have come back. If I'd known."
"That's exactly why I didn't tell you," you said softly. "You would have given up everything you'd worked for. I couldn't do that to you."
"It wasn't your choice to make," he said, but the harsh edge from before was gone.
"No, it wasn't," you acknowledged. "And I can't change that now, no matter how much I wish I could."
Jake closed the photo album, his fingers lingering on the cover. "I've missed so much."
"You're here now," you offered. "And Jade already adores you."
"She doesn't even know who I really am to her."
"She will. Soon." You hesitated, then added, "For what it's worth, I think she's sensed something was missing. The last few months, she's been asking more questions about her father. It's like she knew something was about to change."
Jake's expression shifted as he processed this. "Kids are more perceptive than we give them credit for."
You nodded, thinking of how Jade had instantly connected with Jake, how natural they seemed together despite having just met.
A comfortable silence fell between you as Jake reached for another photo album, this one more recent. As he opened it, something slipped from between the pages—a small ultrasound image, creased from being handled many times.
Jake picked it up, staring at the grainy black and white image of Jade before she was Jade—just a tiny bean-shaped blob with the promise of a future.
"This was the first picture of her," you said, voice barely above a whisper. "Twelve weeks."
Jake ran his thumb over the image. "I should have been there."
"I know."
"No, I mean—" He looked up, meeting your eyes directly. "I should have been there regardless. I shouldn't have left in the first place, pregnancy or not."
The admission hung in the air between you, heavy with implications.
"Jake—"
"I made a choice five years ago," he continued, his voice steady but vulnerable in a way you hadn't heard since the night before he left. "And even before I knew about Jade, I've questioned that choice more times than I can count."
Your heart stuttered in your chest. "You never said anything."
"What was I supposed to say? 'Hey, I know we broke up and haven't spoken in years, but I think I made a mistake'?" He shook his head. "You'd moved on. At least, I thought you had."
"I had a child to raise," you said carefully. "That doesn't mean I moved on."
The air between you felt charged, years of unspoken words and feelings suddenly pressing close. Jake's eyes held yours, searching for something that made your breath catch.
"I used to check your social media," he admitted, looking away. "Not in a stalker way, just... I wanted to make sure you were okay. When I didn't see any posts about dating or... anyone new, I assumed you were just private about it."
"There wasn't anyone to be private about," you said quietly. "Between work and Jade, there wasn't time. At least, that's what I told myself."
Jake's eyes returned to yours, a question in them. "And the real reason?"
The honesty of the moment demanded truth in return. "No one compared. To what we had."
The space between you seemed to shrink, the ultrasound photo still held in Jake's hand—tangible evidence of everything that had been lost and found.
He reached out slowly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your cheek. A gesture so achingly familiar it made your chest hurt.
"I've missed you," he said simply. "Not just as Jade's mother. As you."
The words unlocked something you'd kept carefully guarded. You leaned forward slightly, drawn by a gravity that had never fully released its hold on you.
Jake's gaze dropped to your lips, and for a moment, you thought he might close the remaining distance between you. Instead, he drew back, though his eyes betrayed how much it cost him to do so.
"We should take this slow," he said, voice rough. "There's a lot we need to figure out first."
"I know," you said, both disappointed and relieved. "Jade comes first."
Jake nodded, though his eyes still held yours with an intensity that made your skin warm. "We need to get the father thing right before we complicate it with... anything else."
"Anything else," you repeated, the phrase heavy with possibility.
He smiled then, a real smile that reached his eyes and made him look more like the Jake you'd fallen in love with years ago.
"I should go," he said, setting the ultrasound photo carefully back in the album. "It's getting late, and I promised Jade I'd come watch her practice tomorrow."
"Of course," you said, standing up as he did.
At the door, he paused, his hand on the knob. "Thank you for tonight. For sharing all of that with me."
"It's only the beginning," you said. "There's a lot more to show you."
"I'm counting on it," he replied, his voice low with a promise that wasn't just about baby photos.
After he left, you stood in the hallway, heart racing with the realization that whatever had been between you and Jake might not be as buried in the past as you'd thought.
It would be complicated. There were a thousand reasons to be cautious.
But for the first time in five years, there was also hope.Chapter Seven: Soccer Practice
"And that's why the inside of your foot is better for passing," Jake explained patiently, kneeling beside Jade on the sidelines of the community soccer field. "It gives you more control."
"But power shots are with your laces, right?" Jade asked, examining her cleats as if they might hold the secrets of professional soccer.
"Right," Jake confirmed with a smile. "Laces for power, inside for accuracy."
You watched from the bleachers, pretending to focus on your phone while actually stealing glances at father and daughter. Jake had arrived at your house exactly as promised—fifteen minutes before Jade's practice—dressed casually in jeans and a plain t-shirt that somehow still managed to hint at the athletic build beneath.
The way your heart had jumped when you opened the door was concerning. Last night's almost-moment had shifted something between you, created an awareness that buzzed like electricity whenever you made eye contact.
"Jake!" Coach Russell called from the center of the field. "Would you mind demonstrating that passing drill we talked about?"
You tensed slightly. Jake had been recognized immediately upon arrival—of course he had, he was almost a household name in soccer circles—but so far he'd been treated with surprising normalcy by the coaching staff. You suspected they were professionals enough to contain their excitement for the sake of the children.
"Sure thing," Jake called back, giving Jade's shoulder a quick squeeze before jogging onto the field.
Several parents around you whispered excitedly, phones emerging from pockets and purses.
"That's really Jake Sim, right?" asked a mom to your left, leaning closer with conspiratorial eagerness. "I didn't want to make a big deal about it, but my husband is going to freak when I tell him."
"Um, yes," you confirmed, unsure how much to say. You and Jake hadn't discussed how to handle public interactions yet.
"Is he..." the woman hesitated, clearly fishing, "...scouting the team or something?"
Before you could form a response, another parent jumped in. "He's here with the Sim girl." He nodded toward Jade, who was watching Jake with undisguised adoration as he demonstrated proper passing technique to the team. "Same last name. Must be related."
Your stomach tightened. Of course people would make the connection. You should have prepared for this.
"I heard he's her uncle," a third parent contributed helpfully.
You nearly choked on your coffee.
"He's a... family friend," you managed, the half-truth feeling strange on your tongue. You'd been careful never to lie to Jade about Jake being her father, just... selective with details. But these were strangers, and you weren't ready for the inevitable questions that would follow the truth.
Thankfully, the parents seemed satisfied with this explanation and returned their attention to the field, where Jake was now lining up the children for passing practice. Jade bounced on her toes at the front of the line, practically vibrating with excitement.
"My daughter says Jade talks about him non-stop," the first mom said, eyes still on the field. "Since the clinic on Saturday, it's all been 'Jake showed me this' and 'Jake can do that.'"
You smiled despite your nerves. "She's pretty taken with him."
"I can see why," the woman said with a laugh. "If I were twenty years younger and single..." She trailed off, fanning herself dramatically.
You felt a strange flash of something that felt suspiciously like possessiveness.
On the field, Jake was crouching next to Jade, adjusting her stance with gentle hands as she prepared to demonstrate the drill. He said something that made her giggle, then stepped back as she perfectly executed the pass, earning cheers from her teammates.
The pure joy on both their faces made your chest ache.
For so long, you'd carried the weight of your decision alone, convinced you were protecting both Jake and Jade. Now, seeing them together, you wondered how much your fear had cost them both.
"He's great with kids," the mom beside you observed. "Does he have any of his own?"
The question hit like a physical blow. "I... I'm not sure," you stammered, the lie bitter on your tongue.
You were saved from further conversation by the coach blowing his whistle, signaling a water break. Jade immediately raced over, Jake following at a more measured pace.
"Mom! Did you see? I did the pass perfectly! Jake showed me how to position my foot and everything!"
"I saw, honey," you said, handing her a water bottle. "You looked like a pro out there."
Jade beamed, gulping down water with the same intensity she applied to everything.
"She's a quick learner," Jake said, approaching the bleachers. He kept a careful distance, but his eyes held the same intimate awareness that had charged the air between you last night. "Coach Russell says she's one of his most promising players."
"Is that why he asked her to demonstrate?" you asked. "I thought he was just being nice because..."
You trailed off, conscious of curious parents within earshot.
"Because I'm here?" Jake finished, lowering his voice. "No, he told me he'd already pegged her as a natural. Said she has better instincts than most kids twice her age."
Pride washed over you, along with the bittersweet realization that Jake was finally getting to experience these parental moments—the simple joy of hearing someone else praise your child.
"Jake! Are you going to stay for the whole practice?" Jade asked, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Coach says we're doing shooting drills next!"
"I wouldn't miss it," Jake promised.
"And then can we get ice cream again? You didn't get any yesterday because you said sweet things aren't your thing, but maybe today you could try just a little bit?"
Jake laughed, that full, unguarded sound that had been so rare in recent days. "We'll see what your mom says."
"Mom always says yes to ice cream," Jade stated confidently.
"That's not true," you protested, though all evidence was certainly against you.
Jade gave you a skeptical look that was pure Jake, down to the slightly raised eyebrow.
"Two minutes, everyone!" Coach Russell called. "Back to positions!"
"Gotta go!" Jade handed back her water bottle and raced off, nearly colliding with two teammates in her enthusiasm.
Jake took a step toward the bleachers, then hesitated, as if unsure whether he should join you or return to the sidelines. The moment stretched, charged with all the things left unspoken between you.
"You can sit," you said finally, patting the space beside you. "If you want."
He climbed up and settled next to you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him but with a careful inch of space between you. Neither of you spoke for a moment, watching as the children lined up for shooting practice, Jade bouncing impatiently in the middle of the queue.
"About last night—" you both started simultaneously, then stopped.
Jake gestured for you to continue.
You took a deep breath. "I just... wanted to say that I appreciate how you are with her. How quickly you've adjusted to all of this."
It wasn't what you'd been planning to say at all. You'd meant to address the almost-kiss, the charged moment that had fundamentally shifted something between you. But the words wouldn't come.
"She makes it easy," Jake said, his eyes following Jade as she moved up in line. "She's so open. So accepting."
"She gets that from you," you said softly. "I was always the cautious one, remember?"
Jake's lips curved into a half-smile. "Is that how you remember it? Because I recall someone climbing onto the roof of my apartment building at midnight because they wanted to see the meteor shower from the 'perfect angle.'"
You felt warmth rush to your cheeks. "That was different. Astronomy requires commitment."
"Uh-huh." His smile widened, eyes still on the field but clearly seeing a different time, a different you. "What about the time you decided we should go cliff diving even though neither of us had ever done it before?"
"You didn't have to follow me," you pointed out, falling easily into the familiar rhythm of your old banter.
"Yes, I did." His voice turned serious, though the smile remained. "Always."
The simple word hung between you, heavy with meaning.
Before you could respond, a cheer went up from the field. Jade had just sent the ball sailing past the junior goalkeeper, then immediately launched into a celebration that was eerily similar to Jake's signature move.
"She watches your games," you admitted, the confession slipping out before you could stop it. "I saved them—the important ones. She doesn't know... who you are to her, but she's seen you play. I thought she should know what her father can do."
Jake turned to you, surprise and something softer in his expression. "Thank you," he said simply. "For that."
The moment stretched between you, fragile and significant.
"Mom! Jake! Did you see that?" Jade shouted from the field, breaking the spell. "I scored!"
"We saw!" you both called back in unison, then exchanged a quick smile at the synchronicity.
As practice continued, you found yourself relaxing into Jake's presence beside you. The conversation shifted to safer topics—Jade's school, her friends, her other activities—but beneath it ran a current of shared history and newly acknowledged feelings that neither of you seemed ready to fully address.
When practice ended, Jade ran to you both, sweaty and triumphant.
"Coach says I did really good today!" she announced, dropping her water bottle in her excitement. "Can we go for ice cream now? Please?"
Jake bent to retrieve the bottle, his shoulder brushing yours as he straightened. "I think you've earned it," he said, looking to you for confirmation. "If it's okay with your mom."
"Ice cream sounds perfect," you agreed, hyperaware of how close he stood, how domestic this moment felt—the three of you, a family for anyone watching.
And people were watching. Several parents were openly staring now, clearly trying to puzzle out the exact nature of your relationship to the famous soccer player who had spent the last hour focused exclusively on your daughter.
"Can Jake come back to our house after?" Jade asked, grabbing both your hand and Jake's without hesitation. "I want to show him my new library books. They're about space!"
The easy way she connected you physically, standing between you like a bridge, made your heart stumble.
"I'd like that," Jake said, his eyes meeting yours over Jade's head. "If your mom doesn't mind."
There was a question in his gaze, one that went beyond library books and ice cream.
"I don't mind," you said quietly, answering both the spoken and unspoken.
As the three of you walked toward the parking lot, Jade swinging your joined hands and chattering about which ice cream flavor best represented each planet in the solar system, you couldn't help but notice how right it felt.
How, despite five years of separation and secrets, you, Jake, and Jade had somehow fallen into the family rhythm that might have been yours all along.
It terrified you.
It exhilarated you.
And you weren't sure which feeling scared you more.
-
"Is she finally asleep?" Jake asked as you returned to the living room, wineglass in hand.
After ice cream and an enthusiastic tour of Jade's library books, your daughter had lobbied hard for Jake to stay for dinner. One homemade pasta later, he'd somehow been roped into bedtime story duty—a task he'd approached with the same focused determination he brought to professional matches.
"Three stories, two glasses of water, and one lengthy debate about why the moon doesn't fall out of the sky later—yes, she's out," you confirmed, sinking onto the couch beside him. "I'm pretty sure she was just trying to keep you here as long as possible."
"I don't mind," Jake said, accepting the glass of wine you offered. The soft lamplight caught the angles of his face, softening the features that had graced so many magazine covers. "Today was... good."
"It was."
A comfortable silence fell between you, punctuated only by the distant sound of crickets through the open window. The evening was unseasonably warm, and you'd kept the windows open to catch the spring breeze. Jake had discarded his jacket hours ago, his sleeves now rolled up to reveal forearms that spoke of years of athletic conditioning.
You took a careful sip of wine, hyperaware of his presence just inches away on the couch. Something had been building between you all day—a tension that simmered beneath every glance, every accidental touch.
"I should probably head out soon," Jake said, though he made no move to leave. "I've got a team call early tomorrow."
"Right," you nodded. "The charity match. How long until you have to..."
"Go back?" He finished your thought. "Ten days. Then the European tour picks up again."
The knowledge settled like a weight between you. Ten days before he returned to his other life—the stadiums, the fans, the world that had taken him away five years ago.
"Jade's going to miss you," you said, staring into your wine.
"Just Jade?"
You looked up to find him watching you, his expression open in a way it hadn't been since he'd discovered Jade's existence. The guarded anger had faded, replaced by something warm and familiar that made your heart skip.
"I think I might miss you too," you admitted quietly. "Which is probably a terrible idea."
Jake set his glass down, turning to face you more fully. "Why is that?"
"Because you're leaving in ten days. Because we have a five-year-old who's already getting attached to you. Because we haven't figured out what any of this means yet." You gestured vaguely between you. "Take your pick."
"What if I said I've been thinking about this—about us—since last night? Actually, if I'm being honest, longer than that."
Your pulse quickened. "Jake..."
"I know it's complicated," he continued, his voice low and earnest. "I know we have a lot to figure out. But I can't stop thinking about what you said—that no one compared. Because it's been the same for me."
The confession hung in the air between you, impossible to take back.
"You dated," you pointed out weakly. "I saw the tabloids."
A rueful smile crossed his lips. "Dating isn't the same as connecting. Trust me, Jay tried his best to set me up with everyone from models to athletes. Nothing stuck."
"Why not?"
His eyes met yours, dark and intent. "Because none of them were you."
The simplicity of the statement stole your breath.
"That's not fair," you whispered. "You can't just say things like that."
"Why not?" Jake shifted closer, the distance between you shrinking to mere inches. "It's the truth."
"Because we're supposed to be focusing on Jade. On being co-parents. On not complicating things further."
"And how's that working out for you?" he asked, his voice gentle but knowing.
You couldn't answer, caught in the gravity of his gaze. The truth was, from the moment he'd walked back into your life, all your careful boundaries had begun crumbling. Every smile, every shared look over Jade's head, every brush of fingers had been dismantling the walls you'd built around your heart.
"I haven't stopped thinking about last night," Jake said, his voice dropping lower. "About what almost happened."
Your eyes dropped involuntarily to his lips. "We agreed to take it slow."
"We did," he acknowledged. "And we should. But slow doesn't mean not at all."
He reached out, fingers trailing lightly along your arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. The simple touch ignited something that had been dormant for five years.
"Tell me to stop," Jake murmured, leaning closer. "Tell me this isn't what you want, and I'll back off. We'll focus solely on Jade. Nothing more."
You should say it. You should establish clear boundaries, keep things simple, protect yourself from the inevitable pain when he returned to his life across the ocean.
Instead, you found yourself leaning toward him, drawn by a pull that had never truly released its hold.
"I can't," you whispered. "I've tried, but I can't."
His hand came up to cup your cheek, thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip in a gesture so achingly familiar it made your chest tight. "Then don't try."
The first brush of his lips against yours was tentative, questioning. A heartbeat passed where you both hesitated on the precipice of something that couldn't be undone. Then, with a soft sound that might have been surrender, you leaned in, closing the final distance.
Five years evaporated in an instant.
His lips were as you remembered—firm, confident—but there was an edge of desperation that hadn't been there before. Your hands found their way to his shoulders, then his neck, fingers threading through the short hair at his nape. He groaned softly, deepening the kiss as his arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer.
You'd forgotten how perfectly you fit together, how easily your body remembered his. The kiss intensified, years of separation and longing transforming into a physical need that threatened to consume you both. His hand slid up your back, tangling in your hair as he angled your head to deepen the connection.
"I've missed you," he breathed against your lips. "So much."
The words broke something open inside you—a dam of emotion you'd held back for Jade's sake, for your own protection. You responded by pressing closer, trying to convey through touch what you couldn't yet put into words.
Jake's hands were everywhere, relearning the curves and planes of your body with reverent attention. When his fingers skimmed the bare skin at your waist where your shirt had ridden up, you shivered, heat pooling low in your abdomen.
"Is this okay?" he murmured, pausing despite the obvious desire in his eyes.
You nodded, beyond words, and pulled him back to you. The kiss turned hungrier, more urgent. His body shifted, guiding you backward until you were half-lying on the couch, his weight a delicious pressure above you. The feeling of being surrounded by him—his scent, his warmth, his strength—was intoxicating.
His lips left yours to trace a path along your jaw, down the column of your throat. You arched into him, a soft gasp escaping when he found that sensitive spot just below your ear that he'd always known. He still remembered. After all this time, he still knew exactly how to unravel you.
Your hands slipped beneath his shirt, palms flat against the warm skin of his back. You could feel the new topography of his body—harder, more defined than before, testament to years of professional training. Yet underneath the changes was the same Jake, the man whose heartbeat you'd once fallen asleep to countless nights.
"You're even more beautiful," he whispered against your skin. "How is that possible?"
Before you could respond, a distant thump from down the hall froze you both. You listened, hearts racing for a different reason now, until the house settled back into silence. No patter of small feet, no curious voice calling out.
Jake pressed his forehead to yours, both of you breathing heavily. "That was..."
"Close," you finished, reality crashing back in. "Too close."
Reluctantly, he shifted his weight, helping you sit up though his hand remained intertwined with yours. The loss of contact left you feeling oddly bereft, your body still humming with unfulfilled desire.
"I should probably go," Jake said, though his eyes told a different story.
"Probably," you agreed, equally unconvincing.
Neither of you moved, caught in the aftermath of what had just happened and what had almost followed.
"This complicates things," you finally said, stating the obvious.
Jake's thumb traced circles on the inside of your wrist, sending renewed shivers up your arm. "I think things were already complicated. We're just admitting it now."
You couldn't argue with that. From the moment he'd locked eyes with you across that soccer field, something inevitable had been set in motion.
"What happens now?" you asked, the question encompassing far more than just the remainder of the evening.
"Now," Jake said, raising your joined hands to press a kiss to your knuckles, "I'm going to leave before I lose the willpower to do so. But not because I want to."
The restraint in his eyes, the obvious tension in his body, sent another wave of heat through you. The knowledge that he wanted you as badly as you wanted him was both thrilling and terrifying.
"And tomorrow?" you pressed.
"Tomorrow I pick up Jade for the park like we planned. We keep building this—whatever this is—one day at a time." His eyes held yours, serious now. "I meant what I said about taking it slow, about doing this right. Jade comes first."
You nodded, grateful for his understanding despite the frustration still thrumming through your veins. "Jade comes first."
He stood, reluctantly releasing your hand. You followed him to the door, hyperaware of every movement, every glance. At the threshold, he turned back to you, his expression a mix of desire and something deeper, more profound.
"For the record," he said quietly, "I've never regretted anything more than walking away from you five years ago. And I don't intend to make the same mistake twice."
He forced himself to step back, putting a responsible distance between you.
"Goodnight," he said, the word carrying far more weight than its two syllables should allow.
"Goodnight," you echoed, leaning against the doorframe as he turned to leave.
He made it halfway down the front walk before stopping abruptly. You watched, confused, as he spun around and marched back to you with sudden determination. Before you could ask what he was doing, he leaned in quickly and pressed a soft kiss to your cheek, his lips lingering just a second longer than necessary.
When he pulled back, his expression was different—lighter, almost boyish, a glimpse of the Jake who existed before world tours and professional pressures. His eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, looking strangely pleased with himself.
"I forgot something," he said, his voice carrying a playful quality you hadn't heard in years.
"What was that?" you asked, unable to keep the smile from your own voice.
He shrugged, walking backward toward his car while maintaining eye contact. "Just making sure you don't forget about me before tomorrow."
The gesture was so unexpectedly sweet, so contrary to his usual composed demeanor, that you found yourself laughing—a genuine, surprised sound that seemed to delight him. In that moment, he wasn't international soccer star Jake Sim, but just Jake, the boy who used to leave silly notes in your textbooks and race you to the corner store for ice cream.
"As if that were possible," you called after him, feeling a rush of something light and warm in your chest.
He flashed you one more smile before getting into his car, and you remained in the doorway until his taillights disappeared down the street. Only then did you close the door, pressing your back against it, fingers touching your cheek where the innocent kiss still seemed to tingle.
The gesture had shifted something—added a dimension to the complicated tangle of desire, regret, and hope between you. Somehow, that simple kiss on the cheek felt more intimate than the passionate ones you'd shared earlier, a reminder of the many facets of the man you'd once known so well.
Ten days until he returned to Europe.
Ten days to figure out if what you'd just rekindled was strong enough to withstand the distance that had broken you before.
Ten days to decide if you were brave enough to risk your heart a second time.
-
"Dr. Winters thinks we should be straightforward but gentle," you explained, pacing the length of your kitchen. "No elaborate metaphors or complicated explanations."
Jake nodded, his fingers drumming nervously against the countertop. "Simple truth. I can do that."
A week had passed since that night on your couch—a week of soccer practices, ice cream trips, bedtime stories, and carefully controlled moments between you and Jake after Jade fell asleep. The tension between you had only grown, tempered by the mutual understanding that Jade's well-being came first.
Yesterday, you'd both met with Dr. Winters, a child psychologist who specialized in family transitions. She'd been reassuring, explaining that five was actually a good age for this revelation—young enough that Jade would adapt quickly, old enough to understand the basics of what it meant.
"She already adores you," you said, stopping your pacing to look at Jake. "That's half the battle."
"But what if knowing changes things?" Jake's concern was evident, the confidence he showed on the soccer field nowhere to be found. "What if she's angry we didn't tell her sooner?"
You crossed the kitchen to stand before him, surprised to find yourself in the position of reassuring Jake rather than the other way around. "She's five, not fifteen. And Dr. Winters said children this age are remarkably adaptable."
Jake took a deep breath, reaching for your hand. "I just don't want to mess this up."
"You won't," you said softly, squeezing his fingers. "We won't."
The sound of cartoons from the living room suddenly ceased. Jade had been given special permission for morning TV while the adults "talked about boring grown-up stuff" in the kitchen.
"Mom? Jake? Are you done with your meeting yet?" Jade called. "The show ended and I'm starving!"
You exchanged one final look with Jake—equal parts determination and terror—before calling back, "We're done, honey. Come on in. We want to talk to you about something."
Jade appeared in the doorway, still in her pajamas despite it being nearly noon. You'd deliberately kept the morning relaxed, following Dr. Winters' advice to have the conversation during a calm, unhurried time.
"Are we having pancakes?" she asked hopefully, climbing onto one of the kitchen chairs. "Because it's Sunday, and Sunday is sometimes pancake day."
"We can have pancakes," you agreed, taking the seat across from her while Jake settled beside you. "But first, we wanted to talk to you about something important."
Jade's expression immediately turned serious, her eyes darting between you and Jake with unexpected perception. "Is it about why Jake comes over all the time now?"
You blinked, surprised by her intuition. "Actually, yes. It is."
"I knew it," Jade said, nodding sagely. "Emma says when grown-ups have special friends, they spend lots of time together. Is Jake your special friend, Mom?"
Jake coughed, clearly trying not to laugh despite the gravity of the moment. You felt your cheeks flush.
"Jake is special to both of us," you said carefully, "but not exactly in the way Emma means."
"Jade," Jake began, his voice gentler than you'd ever heard it. "Do you remember asking your mom about your dad? About where he was?"
Jade's eyes widened slightly, her full attention shifting to Jake. "Yeah. Mom said he's a soccer player who lives really far away. That's why he can't visit."
Jake glanced at you, a silent confirmation passing between you before he continued. "I've been living far away, in Europe. Playing soccer professionally."
Jade stared at him, her brow furrowed in concentration as her quick mind worked through the implications. The moment stretched, unbearably tense, until—
"Are you my dad?" she asked directly, her voice small but steady.
Jake's breath caught audibly. "Yes, Jade. I am."
For a heartbeat, Jade was perfectly still—an unusual state for her perpetually moving body. Then her eyes began to shine with tears. "Really? For real and true?"
"Really," Jake confirmed, his own eyes glistening. "For real and true."
"But... but why didn't you visit me before?" The question held curiosity rather than accusation, and it broke your heart nonetheless.
"Because I didn't know about you," Jake explained simply, just as you'd rehearsed. "When your mom found out she was going to have you, I had already moved to Europe to play soccer. She didn't tell me about you until we met at the soccer clinic."
Jade turned to you, her expression confused. "Why didn't you tell him about me, Mom?"
You'd prepared for this question, knew it was coming, but it still felt like a knife to the heart. "I thought I was doing the right thing," you said carefully. "Your dad had just started his big career, and I didn't want to make things harder for him. But I was wrong not to tell him, and I'm very sorry for that. To both of you."
Jade considered this with the serious contemplation of a judge weighing evidence. "So when you saw me at the soccer clinic," she said, turning back to Jake, "that's why you fainted? Because you were surprised that I was your daughter?"
"That's exactly why," Jake admitted with a self-deprecating smile. "Finding out I had such an amazing daughter was the biggest surprise of my life."
Jade's face suddenly lit up with realization. "That's why we have the same last name! And the same dimples! And do the same victory dance! Emma says she looks like her dad too. She has his nose."
The mood in the room shifted, the tension giving way to something lighter as Jade began connecting dots with infectious enthusiasm.
"And that's why I'm so good at soccer!" she continued, practically vibrating in her seat. "Because you're good at soccer too! It's in my DNA! Mrs. Rivera taught us about DNA—it's the stuff inside you that makes you who you are!"
"That's right," Jake said, relief evident in his voice. "You got your soccer skills from me. But you got your brains from your mom."
Jade beamed at this, then suddenly her expression turned serious again. "Are you going to live with us now? Because Emma's dad lives in a different house. He comes on weekends and Wednesdays."
You and Jake exchanged glances. This part you'd deliberately left flexible, knowing that Jade's reaction would guide your next steps.
"I have to go back to Europe in a few days for work," Jake explained gently. "But I'll be coming back to visit as often as I can. And we can video call every day if you want."
"And when my soccer season ends in a few months," he continued, his eyes meeting yours briefly, "we'll figure out a more permanent arrangement. But no matter where I live, I'll always be your dad."
Jade seemed to process this, her legs swinging rhythmically under the chair. "But you'll come to my soccer games when you're here? And my school play? I'm going to be a star in the sky. I only have three lines but they're very important lines."
"I wouldn't miss it for anything," Jake promised, and you could see the emotion he was struggling to contain.
Jade slid off her chair suddenly, coming around the table to stand in front of Jake. With the directness of a child who hadn't yet learned social hesitation, she asked, "Can I hug you now? Since you're my dad?"
Jake's composure finally broke. "Yes," he said, voice thick. "I would really like that."
Jade threw her arms around his neck with the same wholehearted enthusiasm she brought to everything. Jake's arms wrapped carefully around her small frame, and over Jade's shoulder, his eyes met yours, filled with wonder and gratitude.
You felt tears streaming down your own cheeks as you watched your daughter and her father embrace for the first time—at least, the first time with both of them knowing what they were to each other.
After a long moment, Jade pulled back, studying Jake's face with new interest. "I think I'll call you Dad now, not Jake. Is that okay?"
"That's more than okay," Jake managed, gently tucking a strand of hair behind Jade's ear—the same gesture he'd used with you so many times.
"And can we still have pancakes?" Jade asked, switching gears with the fluid adaptability of childhood. "Because I'm stillstarving. Maybe Dad can help make them? I bet he makes good pancakes."
"I make excellent pancakes," Jake confirmed, the new title bringing a fresh sheen of tears to his eyes. "It's another thing you inherited from me."
"Along with your inability to sit still for more than thirty seconds," you added, wiping away your own tears.
Jade grinned, looking between you with a satisfaction that suggested, in her five-year-old mind, things were exactly as they should be. "This is the best day. I got a dad and I'm getting pancakes!"
As the three of you moved around the kitchen, falling into a surprisingly natural rhythm of pancake preparation, you caught Jake's eye over Jade's head. The gratitude in his expression mirrored your own feeling of relief—relief that amidst all the complications of your adult relationship, this most important revelation had gone better than either of you had dared to hope.
There were still countless details to figure out—custody arrangements, Jake's travel schedule, what would happen after his season ended, and not least, the undefined something that had been rekindling between you. But for now, watching Jake teach Jade the "perfect pancake flip" while she giggled uncontrollably, it was enough to know that your daughter finally had her father.
And maybe, just maybe, you had found your way back to each other too.
-
The last golden light of evening stretched across your backyard, casting long shadows as Jade chased fireflies in her pajamas, giggling each time one of the glowing insects landed briefly in her cupped hands.
"Five more minutes, then bedtime!" you called, though you were reluctant to end this perfect moment. Jake's departure for Europe loomed tomorrow morning, casting a bittersweet shadow over what had been an extraordinary week.
Since telling Jade the truth, everything had shifted. She'd taken to calling Jake "Dad" with the natural ease of a child who'd simply been waiting for permission to use the title. Her friends at school had been informed with five-year-old directness ("My dad is back from Europe and he's REALLY good at soccer!"), and Coach Russell had gently handled the sudden flurry of interest from other parents when Jake attended her final practice before leaving.
Now you sat beside Jake on the back porch steps, your shoulders touching as you watched your daughter—your shared creation—dart across the lawn with boundless energy despite the late hour.
"She's never going to sleep tonight," you murmured, sipping from a glass of wine.
"It's a special occasion," Jake replied, his voice carrying a hint of melancholy. "Last night before..."
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. Tomorrow morning, he'd board a plane back to his team, his contract, his other life.
The past three days had been a whirlwind of lawyers and paperwork—establishing formal acknowledgment of paternity, setting up emergency travel provisions, discussing international custody considerations. All of it driven by Jake's determination to have everything properly in place before he left.
In private moments after Jade was asleep, you'd found yourselves drawn together with increasing intensity, as if trying to store up enough connection to last through the coming separation. But you'd been careful to keep things from progressing too far, both acutely aware of Jade just down the hall, both hesitant to define exactly what was happening between you.
"Have you told her what time your flight leaves?" you asked, watching Jade attempt to do a cartwheel she'd been practicing all week.
"I told her I'd be gone when she wakes up," Jake said. "I thought that might be easier. No drawn-out goodbyes at the airport."
You nodded, remembering how hard airport goodbyes could be. Five years ago, you'd stood at a similar departure gate, forcing a smile as Jake headed toward his new life, neither of you knowing you carried the beginning of another life inside you.
"She made you something," you said, reaching for a folded paper on the step beside you. "She wanted me to give it to you after she went to bed. For the plane."
Jake accepted the slightly crumpled drawing, unfolding it carefully. In Jade's distinctive artistic style—which meant lots of color and minimal adherence to proportion—she'd drawn three figures holding hands: a small one in the middle with pigtails, and two larger ones on either side. "ME," "DAD," and "MOM" were labeled with painstaking capital letters, and across the top, "MY FAMILY" had been written with evident pride.
"She worked on it all afternoon," you said softly. "I think she wanted you to have something to take with you."
Jake stared at the drawing, his throat working as he swallowed hard. "I'm going to miss so much being there instead of here."
The weight of that statement hung between you. Three months until his season ended. Three months of video calls, of Jade asking when Dad was coming back, of navigating a relationship across continents.
"We'll make it work," you said, though the exact shape of that "work" remained undefined.
"Mom! Dad! Look how many I caught!" Jade called, running toward you with cupped hands. She opened them carefully to reveal a single firefly crawling across her palm.
"That's a good one," Jake said, his voice impressively steady despite the emotion you'd seen in his eyes moments before. "But it's probably time to let him go home to his family now."
Jade nodded solemnly, walking a few steps away to release the insect. "Bye, Mr. Firefly!" she called as it flew away, then turned back to you both. "Is it bedtime?"
"I think so, sweetheart," you confirmed.
Usually, this would trigger negotiations for more time, more stories, more anything to delay the inevitable. But tonight, Jade simply nodded again. "Okay. But Dad has to read the bedtime story."
"Deal," Jake agreed, standing and offering his hands to both you and Jade, pulling you up from the steps.
Bedtime routine passed in a blur of toothbrushing, pajama straightening, and the promised story—which became three stories, each with different voices that Jake performed with theatrical commitment, drawing delighted giggles from Jade.
When the final story ended, Jade looked up at Jake from her pillow, suddenly serious. "You won't forget about me when you're in Europe, right?"
"That would be impossible," Jake said firmly, smoothing her hair back from her forehead. "I've spent five years not knowing about you, and I'm not missing another minute that I can help. I'll call every day I can, and before you know it, I'll be back."
"Promise?" Jade asked, holding up her pinky finger.
"Promise," Jake confirmed, linking his pinky with hers. "Dad promises."
Satisfied, Jade reached for the stuffed soccer ball that had become her favorite bedtime companion. "G'night, Mom. G'night, Dad."
"Goodnight, sweetheart," you both answered in near-perfect unison, a synchronicity that was becoming increasingly common.
Jake lingered a moment longer by her bedside, seeming to memorize every detail of her face before reluctantly following you out of the room, leaving the door slightly ajar as Jade preferred.
In the hallway, the weight of his impending departure descended fully. Tomorrow he would be gone, and the precarious balance you'd found over the past week would need to be recalibrated across time zones and international borders.
"Drink?" you offered, hoping to postpone the inevitable goodnight that would follow.
"Please," Jake nodded, following you to the kitchen.
You poured two glasses of wine in silence, hyperaware of the ticking clock, of moments slipping away. When you handed him his glass, your fingers brushed, and the simple contact sent a now-familiar current up your arm.
"I've been thinking," Jake said abruptly, staring into his wine rather than meeting your eyes.
"That sounds dangerous," you attempted to joke, earning a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"These past ten days..." he began, then paused, seeming to reconsider his words. "When I came back, I was angry. Hurt. I couldn't understand how you'd kept Jade from me all these years."
You nodded, accepting the pain you'd caused. "I know."
"But now," he continued, finally looking up at you, "I understand better. Not completely—I still wish you'd told me—but I understand you were trying to protect something you thought was important. My career. My dream."
"I was wrong," you said softly. "I should have let you decide."
"Yes," Jake agreed. "But I also made choices that brought us here. I left. I chose a contract overseas over what we had. I put distance between us that made it harder for you to reach out when you found out about Jade."
The honesty of his words caught you off guard. In all your guilt about keeping Jade secret, you'd rarely considered how Jake's initial departure had shaped everything that followed.
"So where does that leave us?" you asked, the question encompassing far more than just this conversation.
Jake set down his glass, closing the distance between you with deliberate steps. "That's what I've been thinking about. What happens after tonight."
Your heart quickened. "And?"
"I don't want to leave you again," he said simply. "Either of you."
"You have to," you reminded him gently. "Your contract—"
"I know I have to go back tomorrow," he clarified. "But I don't want it to be like last time. A goodbye that turns into five years of silence and separate lives."
He took your hands in his, his touch warm and steady. "I want you both to come to Europe. Not tomorrow—I know that's impossible. But soon. When the school year ends. For the summer, at least."
Your breath caught. This wasn't what you'd expected. "Jake—"
"Just hear me out," he pressed. "Jade could see where I live, where I play. You both could experience that part of my world. And I'd look for opportunities closer to home for next season. There are teams that have been interested."
"You'd consider leaving your European team?" The magnitude of what he was suggesting stunned you. "But you've worked so hard to get there."
Jake's expression softened. "Five years ago, playing in Europe was all I ever wanted. Now..." he glanced toward Jade's bedroom, "now my priorities have changed."
The implications of his words hung between you, heavy with possibility.
"And us?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. "What are we in this scenario?"
Jake's hands tightened slightly around yours. "I think you know how I feel about you. How I've always felt, even when I tried to convince myself otherwise."
"Say it anyway," you urged, needing to hear the words.
"I love you," he said without hesitation. "I never stopped. Not when I left for Europe, not during five years apart, and certainly not now, seeing you as Jade's mother—seeing how amazing you are with her, how you've built this life."
Tears filled your eyes, the simple truth of his words unlocking everything you'd held back. "I love you too. I tried not to, tried to move on, but..."
"But no one compared," Jake finished, echoing your words from days earlier, his smile reaching his eyes this time.
"No one compared," you confirmed.
He released your hands only to frame your face gently between his palms. "So, what do you say? Will you and Jade come to Europe this summer? Give us a chance to figure out what our family looks like going forward?"
The question was enormous, encompassing practical concerns about Jade's schooling, your work, living arrangements—a thousand logistical details you'd need to consider. But underneath all that was a simpler choice: forward together, or back to separate lives?
"Yes," you heard yourself say, the certainty of it surprising even you. "We'll come."
The joy that transformed Jake's face was worth any uncertainty the future might hold. He pulled you close, his kiss conveying everything words couldn't—relief, gratitude, love, promise.
When you finally separated, both slightly breathless, Jake pressed his forehead to yours. "I'll call every day until you get there. And I've already told Jay to start looking at teams back here for next season."
"You were that confident I'd say yes?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.
Jake laughed softly. "Not confident. Hopeful."
A small noise from the hallway made you both turn. Jade stood in her doorway, stuffed soccer ball clutched to her chest, looking sheepish at being caught out of bed.
"I had a question," she said, though her sly expression suggested eavesdropping had been at least partly intentional.
"What's your question, sweetheart?" you asked, stepping back from Jake slightly, though his arm remained around your waist.
"Are we really going to where Dad lives? In Europe?" Her eyes were wide with excitement that told you she'd heard more than just that part of the conversation.
Jake looked to you, clearly unsure whether to confirm what she'd overheard. You nodded slightly, and he crouched down to Jade's level.
"Would you like that?" he asked carefully. "To come visit me in Europe this summer? To see where I play soccer?"
"Will I get to see a REAL game? With a REAL stadium?" Jade was practically vibrating with excitement now.
"Several games," Jake promised. "And maybe you could even help me practice sometimes."
"YES!" Jade pumped her fist in victory. "Can we go tomorrow?"
You laughed, moving to join them. "Not tomorrow, honey. Dad has to go back first, and we have some things to figure out here. But soon, after school ends."
"How many days is that?" Jade demanded.
"Forty-three," Jake answered promptly, earning surprised looks from both you and Jade. "I counted."
The simple admission—that he'd been counting the days until he could potentially see you both again—made your heart swell.
"That's a LOT of days," Jade observed with a dramatic sigh.
"We'll count them together," you promised. "And Dad will call us every day."
"And then we'll be a real family? All together?" Jade asked, her perceptiveness once again catching you off guard.
You and Jake exchanged a look over her head—a look full of promise, determination, and shared understanding of all that had been lost and found.
"We're already a real family," Jake said softly. "We're just figuring out the details."
Jade considered this, then nodded with the solemn acceptance only a child could manage. "Okay. But can I sleep in your room tonight?" she asked, turning to you. "Since Dad's leaving tomorrow?"
You recognized the request for what it was—not just a child's desire to delay bedtime, but a need for closeness on this night of transition. "Just for tonight," you agreed.
Later, as Jade slept peacefully between you in your bed, Jake's hand found yours in the darkness, fingers intertwining above your daughter's sleeping form.
"Forty-three days," he whispered.
"Forty-three days," you confirmed.
Tomorrow would bring separation, challenges, logistics to navigate. But for the first time in five years, you weren't facing the future alone. The family that had begun by accident, been divided by circumstance, and reunited by chance now had a direction—forward, together.
Whatever form that took, it would be enough.
It would be everything.
-
Epilogue: Three Years Later
"But WHY can't I have a baby brother RIGHT NOW?"
Jade's question echoed through the kitchen with the dramatic flair of an eight-year-old who had recently discovered the power of logical debate. She stood with hands on her hips, soccer uniform still grass-stained from her Saturday morning game, her expression a perfect mirror of Jake's determination.
"Because that's not how it works, sweetheart," you explained, exchanging an amused glance with Jake across the kitchen island. "Even if we decided to have another baby, it takes time."
"Emma's mom had a baby and she said it took NINE WHOLE MONTHS. That's FOREVER!" Jade flopped dramatically onto a chair. "I'll be practically a TEENAGER by then."
Jake choked back a laugh, disguising it as a cough when Jade shot him a suspicious look. Three years of fatherhood had taught him that showing amusement during one of her serious discussions was a tactical error.
"Nine months isn't quite that long," he said, maintaining an impressively straight face. "But your mom's right. These things take time and planning."
Jade narrowed her eyes, a look that had become increasingly effective as she grew older. "Are you guys planning it? Because I heard you talking in your room last night."
Now it was your turn to choke slightly. You and Jake had indeed been discussing the possibility, late at night, after assuming Jade was sound asleep. Apparently, her soccer-enhanced hearing had other ideas.
"It's something we've been thinking about," you admitted carefully. "But it's a big decision."
"I think you should decide YES," Jade stated with the absolute confidence only children possess. "I'd be an AMAZING big sister. I already know how to change diapers from when we babysit Emma's brother."
"You held the wipes once," Jake pointed out.
"That's an IMPORTANT job!" Jade protested. "And I could teach a baby all about soccer and stars and dinosaurs."
"All essential life skills," you agreed, unable to keep from smiling.
The conversation was interrupted by the doorbell, followed by the sound of the front door opening.
"Where's my favorite soccer superstar?" Tia's voice called from the entryway.
"AUNTIE TIA!" Jade abandoned the sibling discussion instantly, racing toward the sound. "I scored TWO GOALS today!"
"Is that all? I thought we were working on a hat trick," Tia teased as she appeared in the kitchen doorway, Jade already attached to her side like a barnacle.
"Coach said my second goal was good enough to count as TWO," Jade explained seriously.
"Ah, well, if Coach said so." Tia winked at you and Jake. "Speaking of coaches, I believe I was promised brunch with famous people in exchange for helping with yesterday's team pizza party. Twenty second-graders hopped up on cheese and soda is not something I do for free, you know."
"Reservations at Westfield in twenty minutes," Jake confirmed. "Though I dispute the 'famous' part."
Tia snorted. "Your face is literally on a billboard downtown right now."
"It's for a charity event," Jake protested, the same way he'd been downplaying his celebrity status for three years now. The transfer to the stateside team had somehow only increased his profile, especially after leading them to the championship in his second season.
"Dad, can I wear my medal to brunch?" Jade asked, already halfway to her room.
"Of course," Jake called after her. "But grab a clean shirt first!"
When Jade disappeared down the hall, Tia raised an eyebrow at both of you. "So... baby brother discussions? Is there something you two want to share?"
You shook your head. "Just Jade lobbying for a sibling. Though I think she'd be equally happy with a puppy at this point."
"Don't let her hear you make that comparison," Jake warned. "We'll end up with both."
"Considering how she has you wrapped around her finger? I'd say that's inevitable," Tia said, helping herself to coffee. "Remember when she convinced you a trampoline was an essential training tool for soccer footwork?"
"It improved her agility," Jake defended, though his smile acknowledged the weakness of his position.
"Face it, Sim. You're a pushover where that child is concerned."
"Like you're any better," you pointed out. "Who bought her professional-grade astronomical telescope for Christmas?"
"That was educational!" Tia protested.
The comfortable banter flowed naturally, a rhythm established through years of Sunday brunches and family dinners. Tia had remained Jade's favorite aunt and your closest confidante, seamlessly incorporating Jake into her circle of merciless teasing and unwavering support.
Jade reappeared wearing a clean shirt, her medal from the recent junior tournament proudly displayed on her chest, and a soccer ball tucked under her arm just in case an impromptu game broke out during brunch.
"Ready!" she announced. "Can we take the CONVERTIBLE?"
Jake glanced out the window at the perfect blue sky. "I think that can be arranged." The sports car—his one concession to professional athlete stereotypes—was reserved for special occasions and particularly good weather.
As you collected your things, Jade sidled up to Tia with the exaggerated casualness of a child with an agenda. "Auntie Tia, did you know that babies take NINE MONTHS to come? That's almost a YEAR. I could have a baby brother or sister for next Christmas if Mom and Dad would HURRY UP."
Tia's eyebrows shot up toward her hairline as she looked between you and Jake. "Is that so? Well, maybe your parents are waiting for the right time."
"NOW is the right time," Jade insisted. "I'm already EIGHT. Soon I'll be too old to teach them important things."
"What important things are those?" Jake asked, unable to resist.
Jade rolled her eyes with the supreme exasperation only a pre-tween could muster. "How to do a RAINBOW KICK, obviously. And how to win at Monopoly, and which dinosaurs could beat other dinosaurs in a fight."
"All crucial life skills," you agreed solemnly, catching Jake's eye over her head.
The silent communication between you had only grown stronger over the years—the ability to have entire conversations with just a look, a small nod, a smile. This particular exchange carried the weight of late-night discussions, of quiet hopes, of "maybe it's time" whispered in the darkness.
At the restaurant, seated at your regular table on the patio, Jade regaled Tia with a play-by-play of her morning's soccer triumph while simultaneously stealing Jake's french fries. The spring sunshine caught the wedding rings on your and Jake's left hands—simple, matching bands that you'd exchanged in a small ceremony two years ago, with Jade proudly serving as both flower girl and "best daughter."
The path to this moment hadn't always been smooth. Jake's travel schedule, though less demanding than his European days, still required adjustments. Your careers had needed careful balancing, boundaries had been drawn and redrawn, and you'd both had to learn to parent together after years of you doing it alone. There had been arguments about discipline (Jake was indeed the softer touch), disagreements about schools, and the occasional clash about handling Jake's public profile.
But through it all, the foundation remained solid. The family that had formed in those first chaotic weeks had only grown stronger, more certain of its shape.
"Dad," Jade said suddenly, turning her focus from Tia to Jake, "do you want another kid? Mom said you guys have to BOTH want it."
Jake nearly choked on his water at the direct question. He caught your eye, seeking permission or guidance, but you simply raised an eyebrow, curious yourself about his unfiltered response.
"I do," he said finally, his voice softer than usual. "I think about it a lot, actually."
"See, Mom?" Jade turned to you triumphantly. "Dad wants one TOO."
"It's not quite that simple, Jade," you began, but Jake's hand reached for yours across the table.
"Maybe it is," he said quietly. "Maybe we're overthinking it."
A current passed between you—three years of building a life together, of watching Jade grow, of creating something stable and beautiful from what had once been broken.
"Maybe we are," you admitted, a slow smile spreading across your face.
"So it's DECIDED!" Jade declared, pumping her fist in a celebration move inherited directly from Jake. "I'm getting a sibling!"
"Hold on there, soccer star," Tia laughed. "These things take time, remember?"
"Well, they should start RIGHT AWAY then!" Jade insisted with impeccable eight-year-old logic. "Can we go home after brunch so they can get started?"
Tia burst out laughing as both you and Jake turned interesting shades of red.
"I think," Jake said carefully, finding his composure first, "that your mom and I will need to have some grown-up conversations about this."
"More conversations?" Jade sighed dramatically. "Grown-ups talk WAY too much."
"Sometimes talking is important," you explained, squeezing Jake's hand. "But I promise we won't talk forever."
Jake's eyes met yours, warm with promise and possibility. So much had changed since that day at the soccer clinic—since the moment he'd looked at Jade and seen himself reflected back. The anger and hurt of those first days had long since transformed into something you couldn't have imagined then: a partnership deeper than before, tempered by separation and stronger for having been tested.
"So if you have a baby," Jade said, her mind already racing ahead as usual, "can I name it? Because I have some REALLY good dinosaur names picked out."
"Absolutely not," you and Jake responded in perfect unison, then broke into laughter at your synchronicity.
Some things never changed. Some things never would.
Later that night, after Jade had finally surrendered to sleep (following three bedtime stories and one "very important" discussion about what makes a good big sister), you found Jake on the back porch, gazing up at the stars that had become a shared fascination between him and Jade.
"She's persistent," you said, settling beside him on the porch swing. "Wonder where she gets that from."
Jake smiled, drawing you closer. "No idea. Must be from your side."
You sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the gentle rhythm of the swing matching your synchronized breaths.
"Did you mean what you said at brunch?" you finally asked. "About wanting another child?"
"I did," Jake said, his arm tightening around you. "I missed everything with Jade—the pregnancy, the birth, those first years. The idea of experiencing all that with you this time..." He trailed off, emotion making his voice rough. "But only if you want it too."
You leaned your head against his shoulder, thinking of the past three years—the challenges, the joy, the family you'd built together. "I do want it," you said softly. "I've been thinking about it more lately. Seeing you with Jade, how natural you are as a father... I keep imagining you with a baby."
Jake pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "So we're really considering this?"
"I think we're past considering," you admitted with a smile. "I think we're deciding."
Jake shifted to face you, his expression a mix of hope and certainty that reminded you of the night he'd asked you and Jade to come to Europe, the moment everything had changed. "Then let's decide," he said simply. "Let's expand our team."
You laughed at the soccer metaphor, so perfectly Jake. "Does this mean I should stop taking my birth control?"
His answer was a kiss that held the promise of the future you were choosing together—a family that had begun with a secret and a soccer clinic, with mistakes and courage, with finding each other again across years and continents.
"I love you," Jake murmured against your lips. "More than I did three years ago, more than I did yesterday."
"I love you too," you whispered back. "Always have. Always will."
Inside the house, your daughter slept peacefully, dreaming perhaps of soccer glory or dinosaur battles or the sibling she'd soon begin waiting impatiently for. And on the porch, wrapped in starlight and each other, you and Jake made the decision to grow the family that had fought so hard to find its way together.
Nine months might be forever in eight-year-old time.
But in the grand scheme of your lives together, it was just the beginning of a new chapter.
Chaebol Husband!Sunghoon | Queen of Tears AU FULL FIC
📌 summary: your marriage to park sunghoon was supposed to be a fairytale—until it wasn’t.
now it’s cold stares across the dinner table, separate bedrooms in a mansion too big for the both of you, and divorce papers waiting to be signed. you were ready to walk away. he let you.
so why does he look at you like he’s the one who lost everything?
word count: 20K
genre: angst | slow burn | second chance romance | marriage in crisis | Queen of Tears AU | SMUT ANGST FLUFF (in that order)
content warnings (explicit, minors dni!): a marriage falling apart but neither of you can let go, divorce papers as a weapon but neither of you sign them first, staring at an empty side of the bed and pretending it doesn’t hurt, pregnancy, watching him struggle alone but being too proud to help, , high society pressure, and pretending everything is fine when it’s not, angst-heavy sex (sex while crying, sex while angry, sex while pretending it doesn’t mean anything) "we’re supposed to be over, so why are you still fucking me like you love me?" breathless, mentions of a miscarriage, desperate sunghoon (bc when he breaks, he breaks) sunghoon is sick, weak, exhausted—but still strong enough to pin you down "i don’t love you anymore." // "then stop moaning my name.", luxury penthouse sex but it’s tragic, a hand around your throat but it’s not just about control—it’s about possession, he fucks you like he’s trying to remind you who you belong to, aftercare that isn’t really aftercare bc he still won’t say he loves you,
The room is filled with laughter, delicate clinks of fine china and crystal flutes, and the low hum of a jazz quartet playing something elegant and forgettable in the background. The city’s elite have gathered here tonight—not just business moguls, but socialites, investors, and politicians, all dressed in designer labels, all engaged in carefully curated conversations.
The air is thick with power and wealth, a reminder of the world you and Sunghoon exist in. A world where appearances matter more than emotions, where a marriage is not just about love, but about status, about alliances.
You’re used to this now—the expectations, the smiles, the weight of scrutiny disguised as admiration. You’ve mastered the art of being Park Sunghoon’s wife.
Sunghoon stands beside you, dressed in a sleek black suit, looking every bit the composed, untouchable CEO that people admire and envy in equal measure. His features are as sharp as ever, but there’s something distant in his gaze, something almost clinical in the way his hand rests lightly against the small of your back.
To an outsider, it’s a gesture of affection. A claim. A reminder that you belong to each other.
To you, it’s just for show.
"Smile."
His voice is low, quiet enough that no one else hears. It’s not a request. It’s a command.
Your lips curl into something effortless, something practiced. It’s not real, but it doesn’t need to be.
"Ah, our favorite couple has arrived," a familiar voice calls from across the room.
Turning toward the source, you’re met with the warm but calculating gaze of Chairman Park, Sunghoon’s father. His mother stands beside him, dressed immaculately as always, a refined smile on her lips.
"We were wondering when you two would make your grand entrance," she says smoothly, reaching out to take your hands in hers.
Her grip is light, delicate. Deceptive.
"You look beautiful, dear," she adds, her sharp eyes scanning you from head to toe.
You already know she’s assessing. Cataloging. Comparing you to the polished, obedient daughter-in-law she expected you to be.
Sunghoon’s father, however, has other interests.
"You’re glowing tonight," Chairman Park remarks, taking a sip of his whiskey. His eyes crinkle slightly at the edges. "It must be a sign that we’ll be hearing good news soon."
You barely have time to process his words before another voice chimes in—one of Sunghoon’s aunts, a woman who has made it her life’s mission to interrogate you at every family gathering.
"Yes, yes!" she gushes, already leaning in as if she’s about to hear a confession. "It’s been what? three years since the wedding? We were just saying the other day how we still haven’t heard any news!"
There it is. The question that always comes, in one form or another.
The polite, well-mannered, socially acceptable way of asking: Why haven’t you given him a child yet?
You see it before you hear it—the way Sunghoon’s fingers tighten around his champagne flute, the subtle twitch in his jaw. But he doesn’t say anything.
Of course, he doesn’t.
So you do what you always do. You smile. You deflect. You play your part.
"Work keeps us busy," you say smoothly, taking a slow sip of champagne. "There’s still so much we want to accomplish first."
The aunt clicks her tongue, shaking her head. "Ah, but what’s all this success without a family to share it with?"
You feel it then—the weight of your in-laws’ eyes on you, the expectation pressing against your ribs like an iron cage.
Sunghoon’s mother hums, a soft, carefully measured sound. "Children bring a different kind of happiness," she says, voice light but laced with meaning. "Of course, it’s ultimately your decision… but I do hope you aren’t waiting too long."
Another aunt leans in, faux sympathy dripping from her tone. "There aren’t any problems, are there?"
It’s a dagger cloaked in silk. The insinuation. The unspoken judgment.
You don’t have to look at Sunghoon to know he’s bristling beside you. You can feel the tension in his silence.
Still, he says nothing.
The moment stretches, uncomfortable and suffocating. And then—
A soft laugh. Controlled. Collected.
Sunghoon turns his head slightly, his expression unreadable as he finally speaks.
"We appreciate your concern," he says, voice smooth as glass. "But when we have something to share, you’ll be the first to know."
There’s nothing in his tone that suggests anger, but the way his mother’s lips press together ever so slightly tells you she’s caught the warning beneath his words.
The conversation shifts, flowing into another topic, but you no longer hear it. You’re still holding your champagne flute, fingers gripping the stem a little too tightly.
Sunghoon doesn’t look at you. Not even once.
The meal is extravagant, an elaborate showcase of wealth and refinement. Each course is served with meticulous precision, arriving in waves of delicate flavors and carefully plated masterpieces. Crystal glasses remain full, refilled before they ever have the chance to empty, while waitstaff glide through the room with the kind of quiet efficiency that only comes from years of training. Around you, conversation flows as smoothly as the wine, punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter from tables where people have had just enough to drink to let their guard down.
The atmosphere is lively, engaging. A room filled with the kind of people who measure success in numbers and influence rather than in anything tangible like love or happiness.
You and Sunghoon don’t speak.
It isn’t new.
It’s been months—maybe even longer—since you’ve had a real conversation. These events used to be something you faced together, an exhausting but necessary part of maintaining appearances in your world. There was a time when he would lean in close, whisper something wry against the shell of your ear just to make you laugh, his hand resting on your thigh beneath the table as a silent reminder that, no matter how long the evening stretched, you would leave together.
Now, his presence beside you feels like nothing more than habit. The weight of expectation.
To everyone else, you are still Park Sunghoon’s wife—flawless and poised, an extension of his success, the perfect image of a woman who belongs at his side. But to each other, you are barely anything at all.
You watch as he listens intently to the conversation at hand, nodding along as one of his board members drones on about upcoming market trends. His features remain unreadable, his fingers steady as he lifts his glass to his lips, sipping at his wine without a second thought. His ability to be present yet completely unreachable is something you once admired about him. Now, it’s something that drives you insane.
At some point during the meal, while the conversation has drifted toward a discussion on recent company acquisitions, a new voice cuts through the air.
"You remember Soojin, don’t you?"
It’s not a question so much as a strategic opening, delivered with the practiced ease of a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing.
You shift slightly, already knowing where this is going before you even turn your head. Sunghoon’s mother is smiling, her expression warm and pleasant in the way that only someone raised in high society can master. It is a look that has fooled many, but not you. You’ve spent too many years in her presence to mistake it for anything but a well-placed maneuver.
Her gaze flickers toward a table across the room, drawing your attention to the woman seated there. Soojin.
She is beautiful in the way that women in your world are expected to be—polished, refined, her makeup flawless, her hair styled to perfection. The kind of woman who commands attention without even trying.
The kind of woman Sunghoon’s mother would have preferred as her daughter-in-law.
"Her father’s company just finalized a deal with ours," she continues, lifting her glass to her lips. "It’s an impressive partnership."
You say nothing.
She doesn’t need you to.
"She’s always been such a sweet girl," she adds, her smile never faltering. "Smart. Beautiful. And her family is so well-connected."
The words are light, conversational, but the weight of them is suffocating.
She doesn’t say it outright, but the message is clear.
You are not the only option.
There are women who would make the perfect Mrs. Park—women who would be better suited for the role, who would know how to uphold the family name, who would understand the responsibilities that come with being married to someone like Sunghoon.
Women who would not have made the mistakes you did.
Your grip tightens around your fork.
You keep your expression neutral, refusing to react. You won’t give her the satisfaction. You won’t let her see that the words sting in a way they shouldn’t, that they burrow beneath your skin, scraping against wounds that never quite healed.
"I’m aware," Sunghoon says, finally setting his wine glass down with deliberate ease.
Two words. Nothing more.
His mother studies him for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she smiles again, as if the moment never happened.
The conversation moves forward.
You exhale slowly, setting your glass down, your fingers still curled around the delicate stem. No reassurance. No defense. No effort to correct what was just implied.
I’m aware.
A bitter taste lingers on your tongue, but you swallow it down, lifting your chin slightly as you redirect your attention to the meal in front of you.
You already know how this night will end. The same way it always does. With silence.
-
The moment you step inside the penthouse, the carefully constructed facade of the evening begins to crumble. The sterile glow of the overhead lights does little to ease the weight pressing against your chest, the silence between you and Sunghoon thick with something sharp, something unsaid.
You hear the quiet rustle of fabric as he shrugs off his suit jacket, draping it over the arm of a chair before undoing the first few buttons of his dress shirt. His movements are methodical, controlled, as if he’s following a script that no longer holds any meaning.
You should keep walking. You should disappear into the bathroom, wash the night off your skin, lock yourself behind a door like you have so many nights before. But instead, you linger, fingers still curled around the strap of your bag, your gaze tracing the familiar lines of his back, the tension in his shoulders.
"You didn’t say anything."
The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. Your voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it, a challenge buried beneath the exhaustion.
Sunghoon doesn’t turn. "About what?"
You exhale sharply, shaking your head. "About what?" you repeat, laughter bubbling up, bitter and humorless. "About your mother. About your aunts. About all of them sitting there, questioning me like I’m some failed investment."
A pause.
Then, finally, he glances over his shoulder. "What did you want me to say?"
The way he says it—steady, detached, devoid of any real curiosity—makes your stomach twist.
"Anything," you say, because that’s the truth of it. You just wanted something.
His lips press together briefly before he turns back toward the dresser, rolling up his sleeves. "It wouldn’t have changed anything."
And there it is.
That unbearable indifference.
The quiet, unshaken finality of a man who has already made peace with his own silence.
It shouldn’t feel like a slap to the face, but it does.
"You never fight for anything," you whisper, voice barely audible over the hum of the city outside.
He doesn’t say a word, but you can feel it—the way his gaze trails over your bare skin, the way his fingers twitch at his sides, like he’s holding himself back.
It only takes a step. One step forward, and everything snaps.
His hands are on you before you can think—gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him, the heat of his body bleeding into yours. His mouth crashes against yours, rough, unyielding, a kiss that isn’t sweet or tender, but desperate, punishing. You gasp against him, your fingers tangling in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp as he presses you back against the dresser.
"You always do this," he mutters against your lips, his breath hot, his voice sharp. "Come to me when you need to forget."
You don’t answer.
You don’t need to.
His hands slide up your thighs, pushing them apart with ease. He’s impatient, reckless, fingers slipping beneath the lace of your panties, dragging them down before you can protest. A sharp inhale leaves your lips as he presses two fingers against your clit, circling slow, teasing, just enough to make your hips jerk forward.
"Already wet," he muses, dragging his fingers through your slick folds. His tone is mocking, but his voice is hoarse, strained. "That desperate for me?"
You bite down on your lower lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response. But your body betrays you, hips rolling against his hand, chasing the friction that he’s refusing to give.
Sunghoon chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. Just something bitter, something dark.
Without warning, he presses two fingers inside you, stretching you open with a slow, deliberate pace. Your breath hitches, nails digging into his shoulders as he curls his fingers, stroking the spot that makes your knees tremble.
"You can pretend all you want," he murmurs against your throat, his lips trailing down, teeth scraping against your skin. "But your body knows who it belongs to."
His free hand moves to your chest, fingers tweaking your nipple, rolling it between his fingers before his mouth replaces them, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin. You arch into him, a whimper slipping past your lips, your thighs tightening around his wrist.
"Sunghoon," you gasp, a plea or a warning—you’re not sure.
He pulls away, his fingers slipping from you, leaving you empty and aching. Before you can protest, he turns you around, pressing your front against the cool surface of the dresser, his body crowding you from behind. His hands roam your body, over the swell of your ass, down to your thighs, spreading them apart as he presses the hard length of his cock against your heat.
You exhale sharply as he grips your hips, dragging the tip of his cock through your folds, coating himself in your slick before pressing forward. The stretch is sharp, deep, and you gasp, gripping the edge of the dresser as he sinks into you, inch by inch, filling you completely.
"Fuck," he groans, his fingers tightening against your hips, like he’s barely holding himself together.
He gives you a second—just one—before he pulls back and thrusts into you again, setting a brutal, relentless pace. Each movement is rough, deliberate, the sound of skin against skin mixing with the soft, breathy moans slipping past your lips.
The dresser rattles beneath you, your body rocking with each thrust, and you can do nothing but take it, the pleasure sharp and consuming. Sunghoon grips your hair, pulling your head back as he leans in, his breath hot against your ear.
"Let them keep talking," he mutters, voice ragged, punctuated by the snap of his hips.
Your breath catches, your walls clenching around him at his words.
Sunghoon lets out a low groan, his thrusts growing deeper, sharper, his fingers moving back to your clit, rubbing slow, torturous circles. The tension coils tighter, your body burning, unraveling beneath him.
"Cum," he murmurs, his voice softer now, breathless.
And you do—pleasure washing over you in waves, your thighs shaking, your moan muffled as he presses a hand against your mouth, keeping you from making too much noise.
He follows soon after, his grip tightening, his cock pulsing inside you as he groans low against your shoulder, spilling into you with a shudder.
For a moment, there is only silence.
Then, just as expected, he pulls away.
Rolls onto his back.
Says nothing.
You stare at the reflection of yourself in the dresser mirror—flushed skin, swollen lips, empty eyes. You should leave. You should.
But you don’t.
Instead, you slip beneath the covers, curling away from him, pressing your knuckles against your mouth to keep yourself from shaking.
Because tonight, at least, you don’t want to feel alone.
-
The morning is quiet.
You wake up to an empty bed, the sheets beside you already cold. The absence of warmth shouldn’t bother you—it hasn’t in months—but today, it does. The ache in your body from the night before lingers, a dull, throbbing reminder of something you wish you could forget.
For a moment, you stay still, staring up at the ceiling, tracing the patterns of light and shadow that spill through the curtains. The penthouse is bathed in soft gold from the rising sun, a warmth that contrasts the cold emptiness beside you.
There was a time when mornings like these meant something. When you’d wake up tangled in Sunghoon’s limbs, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns along your back, his lips pressing lazy kisses against your shoulder. When the weight of his body against yours felt grounding instead of suffocating.
Now, there’s nothing but space.
You take a slow breath, blinking against the dryness in your eyes before finally sitting up. The silence is deafening, the type that only exists in places too large for two people who no longer belong to each other.
When you step out of bed, your legs feel unsteady, soreness creeping up your spine. You ignore it. You move toward the bathroom, turning on the sink, splashing cold water on your face as if it’ll rinse away the heaviness in your chest. It doesn’t.
Your reflection stares back at you, eyes slightly swollen, lips faintly bruised from the way he kissed you last night. You press your fingers against them, swallowing down the memory of his touch, of the way his hands had held you so tightly as if he could keep you from slipping away.
But he didn’t.
He never could.
By the time you make your way downstairs, the smell of freshly brewed coffee lingers in the air. The sight of Sunghoon sitting at the dining table shouldn’t make your stomach tighten the way it does. He looks like he always does—effortlessly composed, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand while his other scrolls through his phone.
Like nothing happened.
Like last night was just another night.
The illusion of normalcy almost makes you hesitate. Almost.
Instead, you step forward, setting the folder down on the glass surface of the table with a deliberate thud. The sound cuts through the silence, drawing Sunghoon’s attention as his eyes flicker up to meet yours.
He doesn’t speak, doesn’t react, just studies you for a moment before his gaze drifts downward to the document between you.
Divorce Agreement.
His fingers pause against the rim of his coffee cup.
"Where were you?," you say, your voice steady, carefully controlled.
"Work," he replies, taking a slow sip of his coffee.
You cross your arms, exhaling through your nose. "You knew this was coming." Your voice is measured, even, despite the tightness in your throat.
Sunghoon finally sets his mug down with a soft clink, his expression unreadable. "I did."
"Then sign them."
A long silence stretches between you. You hold your ground, standing tall, watching as he leans back slightly in his chair, his fingers idly tapping against the surface of the table. He doesn’t look at the papers, just at you.
"You really want this?"
The words are simple. Too simple.
You hate the way they make your stomach twist. Hate the way your throat tightens because this shouldn’t be hard. This shouldn’t be something that makes your hands curl into fists at your sides.
"Yes."
His lips press together briefly before he exhales through his nose. Without another word, he pulls the folder toward him, flipping it open, skimming the terms with the same impassive ease he applies to every contract he reviews at work.
For a second, your breath catches.
You almost expect him to argue, to fight, to say something—anything.
But he doesn’t.
Not when he turns the page. Not when his eyes flicker across the fine print. Not when he reaches for the pen beside him.
And then—
He stops.
His fingers hover over the paper, the tip of the pen barely touching the page. Then, instead of signing, he clicks the pen shut and sets it down.
The air in the room shifts. Your stomach twists.
"Not tonight." His voice is smooth, final.
You blink. "What?"
He leans back, crossing his arms over his chest, his expression completely unreadable. "I’ll think about it."
Something in your chest tightens, frustration curling in your throat. "Think about what?" You gesture to the papers between you. "This isn’t something that needs consideration, Sunghoon. This is happening. It’s already over."
His gaze darkens slightly, but his face remains composed. "Then why are you still here?"
Your breath catches.
Because you haven’t left yet. Because some part of you still needs this conversation. Because some part of you is waiting for him to say something that changes everything.
The silence stretches, heavy and unbearable. His fingers drum against the glass once, twice, before he reaches for his whiskey glass instead, taking a slow sip. His lips part slightly, as if he’s about to say something, but then he just shakes his head.
"You’ll have them back tomorrow."
But you already know—he won’t sign.
Not tomorrow. Not the next day. Maybe not ever.
-
Park Enterprises runs on three things: money, power, and the ability to avoid Park Sunghoon and his soon-to-be-ex-wife in the same room at all costs.
This isn’t an official company policy, but if you asked anyone—from the executives to the janitorial staff—they’d all agree: keeping their two highest-ranking officials away from each other is the best way to ensure the company doesn’t collapse in on itself.
This is why, over the past few months, a silent, unofficial, yet highly efficient system has developed.
It begins every morning.
6:45 AM: Sunghoon arrives, coffee in hand, barely glancing at the receptionist before disappearing into his office. If he sighs immediately upon entering? Bad day. If he slams his office door? Get the emergency evacuation plan ready.
7:15 AM: You arrive, headphones in, already on a call, looking like you’re mentally preparing for battle. If you greet anyone? Good day. If you walk straight to your office without making eye contact? Avoid, avoid, avoid.
7:30 AM: Your PA, Nishimura Riki, updates the "Safe Zones" list. Any floor occupied by both you and Sunghoon is immediately deemed a no-go area.
By 9 AM, the "Daily Avoidance Protocol" is in full effect.
Incoming text: 📲 [Riki → Legal Team] 🚨 Sunghoon spotted near the finance department. Legal team, take the back elevators. DO NOT, I REPEAT, DO NOT TAKE THE MAIN LOBBY.
Incoming text: 📲 [Sunoo → Executive Team] 🛑 Your boss is stomping through the 18th floor like a woman on a mission. She just told an intern to "never, ever look that stressed in front of her again" and I don’t think she was joking.
Incoming text: 📲 [Riki → Sunoo] i heard ur boss threw his pen at the wall this morning lol wtf did u do to him
[Sunoo]: nothing yet but im about to stir the pot for fun.
[Riki]: bet.
And then, of course, there’s lunch.
There used to be a time—back when things were different, when things were better—when you and Sunghoon would eat together. Now?
Now, entire lunch routes are planned out in advance to make sure the two of you never end up in the same restaurant, let alone the same hallway.
Incoming text: 📲 [Sunoo → Riki] Depressed male boss is heading toward the rooftop restaurant. tell ur people to evacuate the 10th floor cafe IMMEDIATELY.
Incoming text: 📲 [Riki → Legal Team] 🚨 ABORT. ABORT. DO NOT GO TO THE CAFÉ. I REPEAT, DO NOT GO TO THE CAFÉ.
By 3 PM, most employees think they’ve made it through the day safely. Until they check the meeting schedule. And realize. There’s a joint executive-legal meeting scheduled at 4:30 PM. Which means.
They have to be in the same room.
-
The boardroom at Park Enterprises is a high-stakes battlefield.
The executives and legal team are already seated, carefully keeping their faces neutral, their eyes trained on the reports in front of them. No one dares to speak. Everyone is pretending to be busy, flipping through documents they’ve already memorized just to avoid being caught in the crossfire of what is about to happen.
At one end of the table, Sunoo twirls his pen lazily between his fingers, a small, knowing smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. Across from him, Riki updates the betting pool on his phone, typing at lightning speed while shooting occasional glances toward the door.
It’s only a matter of time before the two storm fronts collide.
The first arrival is you.
You stride in with effortless confidence, shoulders squared, back straight, file in hand. Your heels click sharply against the polished floors, announcing your presence before you even reach your seat.
You don’t acknowledge Sunghoon’s presence.
Your team watches as you settle into your chair, flipping open your folder with a level of precision that makes it very, very clear you are not in the mood for incompetence today.
Riki immediately clocks the stiffness in your posture. He subtly pulls out his phone under the table, fingers flying over the screen.
📲 Incoming text: [Riki → Legal Team] boss lady is MAD mad. don’t make eye contact, stay low, survive.
Barely thirty seconds later, Sunghoon walks in.
He doesn’t look at you.
Instead, he exhales sharply as he takes his seat, flipping open his laptop with measured ease, his expression unreadable. The sound of his pen clicking open is the only thing that breaks the silence.
he just sighed. that’s a bad sign. let’s all start praying now.
For the first ten minutes, everything is fine.
Reports are reviewed, revenue projections are discussed, and for a fleeting moment, there’s the illusion of normalcy. You make your points with cool efficiency, and Sunghoon listens without interruption.
"The merger contract," one of the executives finally says, carefully glancing between the two of you like he’s about to light a match in a room full of gasoline.
You don’t hesitate. You already know where this is going.
"The terms still require legal review," you state, flipping to the necessary section in your file. "The current liability clauses remain too vague for approval."
Sunghoon doesn’t even look up from his laptop. "The legal team has had two weeks to finalize those clauses."
Your brows lift slightly. "And yet, they’re still a problem. Imagine that."
The temperature in the room drops.
Sunoo, who had been casually taking notes, suddenly stops writing. His eyes flicker between you and Sunghoon, realization dawning.
Riki, seated to your right, visibly winces. His grip on his pen tightens before it slips from his fingers and rolls off the table.
Sunghoon finally looks up, his dark eyes meeting yours with quiet intensity. "You’re delaying a time-sensitive deal over minor details."
Your lips curl, the faintest hint of amusement playing at the edges. "Minor details? You mean, like, the ones that could potentially cost us millions in damages?"
His jaw tightens. "There’s a deadline for a reason."
"And there’s a reason you need my approval before proceeding," you counter, tone perfectly composed. "Which, let me remind you, you don’t have yet."
The silence that follows is deafening.
Sunoo leans back in his chair, murmuring to Riki under his breath. "They’re fighting in full sentences today."
Riki nods slowly, still typing. "This is worse than last week’s passive-aggressive email exchange."
Sunghoon exhales sharply, sitting back in his chair. His fingers drum once—just once—against the table before he speaks again.
"Fine," he says smoothly, but his tone is sharp. "Take another day. No more than that."
You hum thoughtfully, feigning consideration as you flip another page in your file. "I’ll let you know if that’s feasible."
Sunoo, who is now openly grinning, tilts his phone toward Riki.
📲 Incoming text: [Riki → Legal Team] the CEO looks like he wants to kill someone but is trying to stay professional. ten bucks says he slams his laptop shut first.
📲 Incoming text: [Sunoo → Executive Team] LMFAO he just clenched his jaw so hard I think he cracked a tooth.
-
Your heels click against the polished floor as you walk further in the penthouse, but you don’t call out for him. You don’t need to. You already know where he is.
The scent of whiskey lingers in the air—subtle, but unmistakable. Your eyes land on Park Sunghoon, sitting on the couch in the dim light of the living room, his posture relaxed, one arm draped over the back of the cushions, his other hand resting near the glass of amber liquid on the coffee table. His tie is loose, the first few buttons of his dress shirt undone, his sleeves rolled up as if he’s been here for a while, waiting.
But that isn’t what catches your attention.
The divorce papers sit between you on the glass surface.
Untouched.
Your throat tightens as something bitter and exhausted coils low in your stomach. You set your bag down near the door with more force than necessary, the sound sharp against the silence. You’re tired—of the fights, of the push and pull, of this thing between you that refuses to die no matter how much you try to smother it.
"You haven’t signed them." Your voice is level, controlled, giving away nothing. But inside, your pulse is unsteady, your fingers curling into fists at your sides.
Sunghoon doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he reaches for his whiskey, taking a slow sip, his movements measured, deliberate. When he sets the glass back down, the faint clink against the glass table feels deafening in the quiet room. His gaze lifts to yours, dark and unreadable, his expression betraying nothing.
"No."
The single word lands between you like a gunshot.
Your fingers twitch at your sides, nails pressing into your palms as frustration flares up in your chest. "Sunghoon—"
"Say it."
His voice is quiet, but the weight of it cuts through the space between you with an edge sharper than steel.
You frown slightly, tilting your head in question. "Say what?"
His eyes remain steady on yours, holding you there, unrelenting. There’s no coldness in them, not like there usually is, but something deeper, heavier, more dangerous.
"Say you don’t love me anymore."
The air in the room thickens, growing heavy with something suffocating, unbearable.
It should be easy.
You should be able to say it, to lie through your teeth and tear the last fraying thread between you. You’ve spent months trying to unlove him, convincing yourself that walking away is the only choice left.
But the way he’s looking at you now—the way his fingers ghost over the edge of the divorce papers but never actually touch them—it makes something sink deep in your chest, twisting into something that feels like regret.
Your jaw tightens, shoulders drawing stiff, as you inhale slowly through your nose. "Don’t do this," you murmur, voice quieter now.
Sunghoon leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees, the corner of his mouth curling into something resembling a smirk, but there’s no amusement behind it. "Do what?"
Your pulse hammers against your ribs as anger rises in your throat, sharp and bitter. "Pretend to care when you never did."
Something snaps.
Fast. Brutal.
Before you can react, you’re on the couch, pinned beneath him, Sunghoon’s hand wrapped around your throat.
Your breath catches as your back presses into the cushions, your pulse stuttering beneath his fingers. The grip isn’t tight—not enough to hurt—but just enough to hold you there, to remind you exactly who he is.
His face is close, too close, his breath warm against your lips, his jaw clenched so tight you can see the tension in every muscle. His gaze flickers between your eyes, searching, burning, filled with something dark and raw.
"You think I never cared?" His voice is low, rough, dangerous in a way that sends heat curling through your stomach.
Your body tenses, then melts, as his other hand trails up your thigh, fingers barely skimming your skin, teasing, not touching where you need him to.
"You think I don’t want you?" His breath is uneven now, his fingers tightening just slightly around your throat before loosening again. His thumb brushes along the side of your neck, slow, deliberate. His body is pressed against yours, solid and warm, every inch of him so close, too close, not close enough.
Your fingers wrap around his wrist, nails pressing lightly into his skin, grounding yourself, grounding him. Your breath is shaky when you speak, barely above a whisper. "I think you don’t know how to want me without ruining me."
A muscle in his jaw ticks.
For a second—just a second—he looks wrecked.
Then, his grip tightens.
Your breath stutters, a soft gasp slipping past your lips as heat pools low in your stomach. His lips brush against your ear, his voice lower now, rough, a quiet warning.
"Tell me to stop."
You should.
Sunghoon waits, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths, his fingers tightening around your waist, his grip flexing against your throat just enough to make your pulse quicken.
"You won’t, will you?" His tone is almost amused, but there’s something darker underneath, something that sounds almost like relief.
You shake your head.
And then his lips crash into yours.
The kiss is deep, hungry, filled with everything you’ve both been pretending doesn’t exist. His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your sides, pulling you closer like he wants to memorize the shape of you all over again.
Your fingers tangle into his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp, and he groans into your mouth, his body pressing you further into the couch, his knee parting your thighs. His hands slide under your dress, rough palms trailing against your skin, teasing, making you ache.
"Still wet for me," he mutters, voice dark, breathless. His fingers slip beneath your panties, dragging over your soaked folds, slow and deliberate, just to prove his point.
You whimper against his mouth, thighs trembling as he strokes you, not giving you what you need, just teasing, just pushing you closer to the edge.
"Sunghoon," you gasp, a plea, a warning.
He smirks against your skin, lips pressing against your throat, sucking at the sensitive skin before sinking two fingers into you, curling just right.
"You hate me, remember?" His voice is taunting, wicked.
Your back arches, hips rocking against his fingers, chasing more, chasing him.
Your breath comes out in shuddering gasps as you whisper the only thing you can manage. "I hate you."
Sunghoon lets out a breathless, bitter laugh.
"Liar."
-
"That’s not how we do things at Park Enterprises, Mrs. Park," Sunghoon muses.
He leans back in his office chair, fingers tapping against the polished surface of the table. The way he says it is deliberate, lazy, like he’s testing you.
The meeting room is as usual, closer to World War 3 (total destruction edition) than a collaborative good-vibes-only space.
You still, fingers curling slightly against the stack of legal briefs in front of you. The flicker of heat that rushes through you isn’t fondness—it’s pure irritation.
"Don’t call me that." Your tone is measured, sharp.
Sunghoon’s lips twitch, but there’s no humor in his smirk. "Habit."
Your gaze hardens, your nails pressing into the contract as you slam it down in front of him.
"Then break it."
The entire room freezes.
Sunoo, seated two chairs down, makes a sound that might be a laugh but immediately covers it with a cough. Across from him, Riki subtly slides his phone out to update the betting pool on how long this fight is going to last.
The tension only thickens when Sunghoon reaches for the contract, flipping through the pages like he isn’t remotely affected. His expression is smooth, almost bored, but you don’t miss the way his jaw tightens just slightly.
"You seem invested in this," he muses, signing his name on the margin like he’s humoring you. "Why? Worried about my financial well-being?"
You exhale slowly, forcing down the irritation curling in your chest. "No. I just don’t like being dragged into your reckless decisions when you know I’ll have to clean up your mess later."
Sunghoon’s eyes flick up to yours. There’s something there, something sharp, dark, something that makes your stomach twist.
"You always do," he murmurs. "Clean up after me."
You refuse to react, refuse to let him see that he’s getting under your skin. Instead, you push back your chair, standing with a level of poise that takes effort.
"I don’t work for you, Sunghoon," you remind him, voice cold. "I work for the company."
His lips press together, but he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t tell you you’re wrong.
Because you aren’t.
📲 Incoming text: [Sunoo → Riki] he just flexed his fingers like he wanted to throw the pen LMFAO
ur boss literally just called him reckless in front of the entire room. this is peak entertainment.
📲 Incoming text: [Riki → Legal Team] ceo looks ready to commit murder. we might need security.
📲 Incoming text: [Sunoo → Executive Team] he just sighed through his nose. we are in DANGER.
-
The morning sun spills into Park Enterprises, painting streaks of gold across the marble floors of the top executive offices. Everything looks pristine, polished—exactly the way Sunghoon keeps it. But today, something is off.
You push open the heavy glass door to his office without knocking, a thick stack of contracts tucked under your arm. Your heels click against the floor with precise, deliberate steps, each one punctuating the tension lingering between you.
Without hesitation, you slam the folder onto his desk.
“You’re going to sign this,” you declare, arms crossing over your chest, voice clipped, firm.
Sunghoon doesn’t respond right away.
You expect the usual pushback—some sarcastic remark, a knowing smirk, the casual dismissal of your concerns—but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he stays where he is, leaning against the edge of his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened just enough to suggest exhaustion. His fingers press lightly against the smooth wood surface behind him, as if steadying himself.
He looks off.
Not tired—Sunghoon is always tired. But off.
You narrow your eyes. “What, no argument?”
He blinks at you, slowly, like it takes more effort than it should. His grip on the desk tightens briefly before he exhales, dragging a hand through his already tousled hair.
"Are you okay?" The question leaves your lips before you can stop it.
Sunghoon finally reacts, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips—small, forced. “Worried about me now?”
You scoff, rolling your eyes. “I just don’t want you dying in my office.”
He chuckles, but the sound is weak, quieter than usual. He straightens up, shifts his weight slightly, but the way he moves is wrong—like he’s trying too hard to make it look effortless.
"If I did," he murmurs, "I’d haunt you."
Normally, that would be enough to pull an eye roll out of you. Maybe even a snarky remark. But something about the way he says it makes your stomach tighten.
You watch him carefully. The way his fingers flex against the desk. The slight tension in his shoulders. The way his smirk falters at the edges.
Sunghoon has always carried himself with control—measured, deliberate, never showing a single crack in the façade. But right now, standing in front of you, he looks off balance.
The last time he looked like this, the last time he held himself together just a little too well, something had been wrong then too.
Something you didn’t realize until it was too late.
The memory presses at the edges of your thoughts, but you push it down.
“Maybe you should sit down before you do something stupid,” you mutter.
Sunghoon raises an eyebrow, clearly amused, but he does exactly that. He sinks into his chair, rolling his shoulders, letting out a slow breath before picking up the contract.
“Relax,” he says, flipping through the pages. “I’ll sign your stupid paperwork. No need to get sentimental.”
Your jaw tightens, irritation curling at the edges of your concern. “I’m not being sentimental. I just don’t want to deal with the PR disaster when you inevitably collapse.”
Sunghoon lets out a quiet huff of laughter, but the way his fingers drift to his temple, pressing lightly, does not go unnoticed. He rubs at the tension there, eyes briefly fluttering shut before he shakes his head, pushing through whatever is bothering him.
“I’m fine.”
You don’t believe him. But you don’t push. Because the last time you did, you lost.
It had been late.
Past midnight. The city outside your bedroom window was still awake, alive with light and movement, but inside, the world had gone silent.
You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, exhaustion pressing into your chest like a weight you couldn’t lift. You weren’t crying. You had already done that. There was nothing left inside you except emptiness.
Sunghoon lay beside you.
Awake. Motionless. Silent.
His back was turned to you.
And the worst part, the part that haunted you even now, wasn’t that he hadn’t said anything.
It was that when you had reached for his hand, he had let you hold it.
But he hadn’t held yours back.
The memory lingers even as you push it away.
You watch Sunghoon as he picks up the contract, flipping through the pages with minimal interest. His fingers tighten slightly when he turns each page, like he’s holding back something.
Pain. Fatigue. Something worse.
"You look like shit," you say finally, leaning against his desk, arms crossed.
Sunghoon hums, barely glancing up. “Charming as always.”
"You should get checked out."
He snorts, shaking his head. “If I wanted medical advice, I wouldn’t take it from my ex-wife.”
"Not ex yet."
And for some reason, as you turn to leave, you can’t shake the feeling that you just missed something important.
-
The Park family never asks for favors.
Not officially, at least.
It’s always subtle, always wrapped in polite smiles and casual requests, laced with just enough manipulation to make refusal feel impossible.
Which is why you’re seated in the Park family’s private lounge, sipping tea that’s gone cold, listening to Sunghoon’s mother and his uncle discuss the delicate legal situation that has suddenly become your responsibility.
“It’s just a small thing,” his mother insists, waving a dismissive hand as though corporate fraud allegations against one of their subsidiary partners are a minor inconvenience rather than a full-blown lawsuit waiting to happen.
You keep your expression neutral, fingers laced neatly over your knee. “It’s not a small thing,” you correct evenly. “You’re looking at a serious case of financial misrepresentation, and if this isn’t handled properly, it could affect all of Park Enterprises. This isn’t something I can just sweep under the rug.”
His uncle chuckles like you’ve just told a particularly amusing joke. “Oh, we know that, dear. That’s why we’re bringing it to you.”
Dear.
You resist the urge to tense, keeping your posture composed.
Because this is what you’ve become to them.
Not a daughter-in-law. Not family.
A lawyer first, a liability second.
“You’ve always been so good at handling these sorts of things,” his mother adds, smiling that elegant, carefully practiced smile that never quite reaches her eyes. “And with your position at the company, it only makes sense for you to oversee it personally.”
Of course. Personally.
They won’t trust this kind of thing to an outsider. But they also won’t officially involve you, because that would mean compensation, responsibility, accountability.
Instead, they’ll let you handle it just enough to clean up their mess. They’ll let you do the work, bear the stress, and take the fall if things go wrong.
And Sunghoon?
Sunghoon won’t say a word.
You glance to your left, where he’s seated quietly, fingers tapping lightly against the rim of his coffee cup. He hasn’t spoken once since this conversation began.
Not to defend you. Not to refuse. Not to say anything at all.
Just… silent.
Your fingers tighten around the folder in your lap.
“I’ll review the case,” you say finally, voice clipped, controlled. “But I won’t guarantee anything.”
His mother beams, reaching forward to squeeze your hand like you’ve just agreed to Sunday brunch, not to clean up yet another one of their family’s legal disasters.
“I knew we could count on you,” she says sweetly.
Sunghoon still says nothing.
Not when his mother praises you.
Not when his uncle jokes about how lucky Sunghoon is to have married such a “resourceful” woman.
Not when the conversation finally ends, and they rise from their seats, leaving you with a stack of documents, a heavier workload, and a headache that has nothing to do with legal strategy.
It isn’t until you’re alone with him in the car, on the drive back home, that you finally let your frustration boil over.
“So that’s how this works now?” Your voice is flat, gaze fixed on the city lights outside the window. “Your family gets into trouble, and I’m the free labor you offer up to fix it?”
Sunghoon exhales, tilting his head back against the seat. “It’s not like that.”
You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “No? Because from where I’m sitting, it sure as hell feels like it.”
His fingers flex against the steering wheel. “You’re the best lawyer they know,” he says after a beat, like that somehow makes it better. Like that somehow makes this okay.
You turn to look at him, eyes narrowing. “And that’s all I am, isn’t it?”
-
He went back after dropping you off.
His mother had barely glanced up from her tea. “She’s always been so difficult,” she sighed, setting the cup down with a delicate clink. “It would be easier if she simply cooperated without arguing every little point.”
Sunghoon’s jaw had clenched at that.
His uncle had smirked, shaking his head. “Women like her are sharp, but they forget that they’re meant to—”
“Don’t finish that sentence.”
The room had gone silent.
His uncle blinked, raising a brow. “Excuse me?”
Sunghoon had leaned forward slightly, voice measured but laced with something dangerous. “You don’t get to talk about her like that.”
His mother frowned slightly, but the warning in his expression kept her from speaking.
His uncle, however, wasn’t as quick to read the room. “She’s my niece-in-law, I can—”
“She’s not yours anything,” Sunghoon cut in, tone sharp. “And the next time you speak about her like that, you won’t like how I respond.”
His uncle had scoffed, muttering something under his breath about being too soft on a woman who clearly didn’t respect her place, but the discussion didn’t go any further.
Because Sunghoon had stood up, buttoning his suit jacket, gaze level.
“You wanted her help?” he had said coldly. “You’ll take what she’s willing to give. And if she decides she’s done dealing with your bullshit, you won’t push her. Understood?”
-
The first sign that something is wrong comes in the form of silence.
For the past few days, Sunghoon has been more irritable than usual. Not outright angry, not obviously upset, just… distant. He works longer hours, avoids unnecessary conversations, and brushes off every single instance you or his team ask if he’s okay. It’s nothing new—he’s always had a habit of overworking himself into exhaustion, pushing himself too hard, acting invincible even when he’s clearly not.
You’re used to it.
But today, something feels different.
Maybe it’s the way he barely acknowledged you in the morning meeting, his focus wavering during discussions where he’s usually sharp. Maybe it’s the way his grip tightened just slightly around his pen, like he needed to steady himself. Maybe it’s the way he looked at you—like he wanted to say something, but chose not to.
Or maybe it’s the way his entire office is empty when you pass by hours later, and his assistant, Sunoo, is nowhere to be found.
You stop in your tracks.
"Where is he?"
Riki looks up from his phone, startled by your sudden appearance at the executive floor. “Uh—meeting with finance, I think?”
You frown. “No, that ended an hour ago.”
Riki hesitates. He knows better than to lie to you. “He wasn’t looking too good earlier.”
Your stomach twists.
He’s been pushing himself too hard. You knew this would happen.
You spin on your heel, already moving before you can second-guess yourself.
When you find him, he’s exactly where you feared he’d be.
Collapsed on the floor of his office.
Sunghoon is slumped against the base of his desk, one hand still loosely gripping his chair, as if he had tried to stop himself from falling. His usually sharp, polished composure is completely gone—his dress shirt is slightly undone, his face pale, sweat beading along his brow. His breathing is shallow, his eyes half-lidded like he’s barely clinging to consciousness.
The sight of him like this—weak, vulnerable, not in control—makes something in your chest tighten painfully.
"Sunghoon," you breathe out, dropping to your knees beside him. Your hands hover over him for a second, uncertain, before you press against his shoulders, shaking him lightly. “Hey. Hey, look at me.”
His head tilts slightly, his gaze flickering to you, but it’s unfocused.
“…What are you doing here?” His voice is quiet, hoarse, like he’s barely holding onto himself.
Your heart pounds in your ears. “Shut up.” You tilt his chin up, searching his face, trying to assess just how bad this is. He’s too pale, too warm, and his breathing is far from steady.
"I’m fine," he murmurs, trying to push himself up, but his body betrays him. His limbs shake, his strength is gone, and before he can fall again, you catch him.
That’s when panic sinks in.
You barely register the way your arms tighten around him as you yell for help, your voice sharp, commanding. Within moments, Riki and Sunoo are rushing in, Sunoo already pulling out his phone to call an ambulance.
"Sunghoon, stay awake," you demand, your fingers brushing against his cheek. “Do you hear me? Stay awake.”
His lips curve slightly. Even now, he’s trying to smile.
“Bossy,” he mutters.
Your throat tightens. “Shut up and breathe.”
-
The hospital smells like antiseptic and exhaustion.
The waiting room is too bright, too cold, too suffocating. The dull hum of fluorescent lights buzzes overhead, mixing with the distant beeping of heart monitors and the low murmur of voices at the nurse’s station. You sit motionless, staring at the tiled floor, your arms crossed so tightly that your nails press crescents into your palms.
It’s been hours since they rushed Sunghoon in.
Riki and Sunoo are still here, but neither of them speaks. They hover nearby, their presence a quiet weight in the room, but they know better than to say anything. Everyone knows better than to say anything.
Finally, footsteps approach. A doctor stops in front of you, flipping through a clipboard. “Are you here for Park Sunghoon?”
Your breath catches. You rise immediately, ignoring the stiffness in your limbs. “Yes.”
“He’s stable for now,” the doctor says, voice calm and professional. “We ran some tests, but given his symptoms, this isn’t just exhaustion. He’s been dealing with this for a while, hasn’t he?”
Your stomach twists.
He’s been hiding this.
The doctor’s gaze softens slightly. “Are you his wife?”
The word cuts through you like a blade.
You swallow. Legally, yes. Emotionally? You don’t know anymore.
“Yes,” you say, the word tasting strange on your tongue.
The doctor nods. “Then I need to speak with you privately.”
-
The hospital room is suffocating.
It smells sterile, like antiseptic and something cold, something lifeless. The overhead lights cast a dim glow over everything—too bright, too harsh, too unforgiving. The heart monitor beside the bed beeps in slow, steady intervals, but Sunghoon’s breathing is anything but steady.
He looks wrecked.
His skin is too pale, washed out under the fluorescent glow. His lips are dry, colorless. There’s sweat clinging to his hairline, dampening the strands against his forehead. His fingers tremble where they rest against the blanket, curling slightly like even the fabric is too much to hold onto.
And yet, despite all of it, despite the exhaustion weighing down his body and the fever burning beneath his skin, he still looks at you with something sharp, something unyielding, when you demand the truth.
“How long have you known?”
Your voice is stretched too thin, raw from exhaustion and something deeper, something you don’t want to name.
Sunghoon exhales, closing his eyes for a second like it physically pains him to answer. When he finally does, his voice is quiet, hoarse from fatigue.
“Six months.”
The words sink into you like stones.
Your hands tighten around the metal bedrail, your grip so tight your knuckles go white. Your chest constricts, something ugly twisting inside of you, something that makes your stomach curl in on itself.
“Six fucking months?”
Sunghoon drags a trembling hand down his face, but even that looks like it takes too much effort. His body is failing him, but his voice is still there, still cutting, when he lets out a soft, bitter laugh.
“Would it have changed anything?”
Your breath catches, something sharp and painful ripping through your chest.
You let out a short, humorless laugh, something hollow and unfamiliar.
“Yes.”
Sunghoon finally looks at you, but there’s something haunted in his gaze. A long, unbearable silence stretches between you before his jaw tightens, his voice lowering, turning quiet, cutting like a blade against your skin.
“Did it change anything when I tried to hold you after we lost them?”
The air leaves your lungs.
You freeze, your entire body locking up, the grip you have on the bedrail so tight it screeches beneath your fingertips.
Sunghoon watches you carefully, but there’s no fight in his face, no anger, no bitterness.
Just exhaustion.
And pain.
Your voice barely makes it out. “You never tried.”
His breath catches.
“I did,” he murmurs, voice raw.
Your throat tightens.
“No, you didn’t.” You take a step forward, your pulse hammering, hands shaking. “You shut down. You let me—” Your breath hitches, your voice unsteady. “You let me go through it alone.”
Sunghoon doesn’t argue. He just looks away.
And that’s somehow worse.
“You acted like it never happened,” you whisper, the words barely holding themselves together. “Like they never happened.”
Sunghoon’s chest rises sharply, his fingers twitching, his breathing growing uneven again. His entire body stiffens, but he doesn’t push back.
And then, voice hoarse, shaking, wrecked,
“You think I didn’t care?”
Your hands curl into fists, but before you can say anything, before you can even process what’s happening—
Sunghoon moves too fast.
He tries to stand up, tries to close the space between you, but his body betrays him.
His IV yanks painfully, the needle shifting against his arm, and the wires attached to the monitor tangle around his wrist, pulling tighter when he moves. His breath stutters in pain, his fingers weakly gripping the sheets, but he doesn’t stop.
“Sunghoon,” you snap, eyes widening in alarm. “Sit the fuck down.”
But he doesn’t listen. He tries again to push himself up, stumbling slightly, and this time, his knees give out.
You barely catch him in time.
“Jesus Christ,” you hiss, gripping his arms as his entire weight collapses against you. His body burns under your touch, too warm, feverish, his breathing erratic. His head nearly falls against your shoulder, his body too weak to hold itself up.
His fingers clutch at the fabric of your blazer, something weak, something desperate.
And then—voice wrecked, hoarse, shaking—
“I named them.”
Your entire world tilts.
You go still.
Sunghoon doesn’t move, his forehead nearly pressed against your collarbone, his breath warm and shaky against your skin. His grip tightens, even as his body trembles.
“What?” Your voice barely makes it out, caught somewhere between disbelief and something worse.
“Every night while you were asleep next to me, I whispered their names silently. I prayed for them.”
Sunghoon exhales shakily. His legs shake beneath him, his chest heaving, his entire body drained. He’s burning up, sweat sticking to his temple, his breath shallow.
You grab him by the arms, shaking him slightly. “Say their names.”
Sunghoon winces, he shakes his head ‘no’ his face twisting like the words are physically painful to say. He exhales sharply, breath ragged.
“Say their names, Sunghoon.”
His fingers tighten around your sleeve, his whole body trembling under your touch. For a moment, he just stares at you, like saying it out loud will finally break him.
Then, barely above a whisper, like it’s being torn from him—
“Eunha and June.”
Your stomach drops.
Sunghoon exhales sharply, his entire body slumping like he just let go of something he’s been carrying for years.
“I used to imagine who they’d look like more,” he whispers, his voice so thin, so hollow. “If Eunha would have had your eyes. If June would have had my smile.”
Your throat tightens painfully.
“I wondered if they would have fought like us,” he exhales shakily, his fingers flexing around the fabric of your sleeve. “If they would have been close. If they would have had your fire. If I would have been able to protect them.”
His next breath is ragged, breaking.
“They were my girls.”
Your stomach twists.
His voice isn’t just sad. It’s grief-stricken. It’s empty.
“Mine,” he murmurs. His fingers twitch at his sides, the life draining from his voice as his chest rises and falls too quickly. “Mine and yours and no one else’s.”
A sob breaks past your lips, full and desperate and wrecked.
Before you even realize what you’re doing, you pull him in.
Sunghoon immediately folds into you, his arms wrapping around your waist weakly, his face burying itself into the crook of your neck.
Your hands press into his back, feeling the too-thin frame of him, the exhaustion pulling at his body, the heat radiating off him in waves.
Neither of you speak.
For the first time in years, there is nothing left to say.
-
You wake up feeling… off.
Your neck aches, your back is stiff, and there’s a strange, rhythmic beeping that’s far too loud for this early in the morning.
It takes a second to register where you are.
The hospital.
Sunghoon.
The entire night before crashes into you all at once. The fight. His fever. The names. The fact that you never left.
Your stomach tightens. You should have left. You should have walked out the second he fell asleep. That was the plan.
And yet, somehow—you didn’t.
Before you can sit up, the door swings open.
“Well, this is unexpected.”
You jump, blinking blearily as Sunoo steps inside, two cups of coffee in hand, his eyes scanning the room with just a little too much interest.
He doesn’t immediately say something annoying, which means he’s definitely about to.
You shift in your chair, sitting up straighter, clearing your throat. “Morning.”
Sunoo doesn’t move, just looks at you. Then at Sunghoon, still asleep in the bed. Then back at you.
Finally—he lets out a small hum. “You stayed.”
It’s not judgmental. It’s not even teasing, really—just surprised. But for some reason, it makes you feel weirdly defensive.
“He had a fever,” you mutter, shifting under his gaze. “It was high. I didn’t think he should be alone.”
Sunoo nods. “Right.”
You hate how knowing he sounds.
Before you can scowl at him, Sunghoon groans, shifting slightly in the bed. His brow furrows, his body tensing for a brief moment before his eyes crack open.
And you know the exact moment he registers Sunoo’s presence—because instead of groaning in pain like a normal sick person, he exhales sharply, eyes barely open but already full of irritation.
“The fuck are you doing here?” His voice is rough, hoarse from sleep, but still so unmistakably Sunghoon that it’s almost impressive.
Sunoo lets out a small laugh, shaking his head as he grabs his own coffee. “Ah, there he is. Same old personality, even after nearly dying.”
Sunghoon barely cracks an eye open before exhaling sharply, pressing his head back against the pillow. “Go away.”
Sunoo, wisely, does not go away.
Instead, he takes a slow sip of his coffee. “I mean, technically, I work here. It’s my job to check on the CEO.” His gaze flickers toward you. “But wow. Look at this. The dedicated wife, staying by his side all night. It’s like something out of a drama.”
You groan, pressing your fingers to your temple. “Sunoo—”
“Oh, don’t worry,” he says, setting Sunghoon’s coffee on the bedside table. “I won’t tell the office too much. But, you know… people talk. Betting pools exist.”
Sunghoon slowly turns his head toward Sunoo.
And in the flattest, most deadpan voice imaginable, he says—
“You’re fired.”
Sunoo chokes on his coffee. “What?”
Sunghoon doesn’t even blink. “Pack your shit.”
“You wouldn’t survive a week without me,” Sunoo mutters, taking another sip.
Sunghoon closes his eyes, like he’s physically holding himself back from committing a crime.
You watch this exchange, unimpressed. “Are you two done?”
Sunoo gestures at Sunghoon. “Tell him. He’s the one being dramatic.”
Sunghoon’s eyes flick open again. “You barged in here at eight in the morning.”
“Nine,” Sunoo corrects. “And technically, I knocked.”
Neither of you remembers a knock.
Sunghoon takes a long, deep breath. “I still feel like shit. And the very first thing I see when I wake up is you. Running your mouth.”
Sunoo hums. “Okay, grumpy.”
Sunghoon glares.
Sunoo clears his throat, wisely changing the subject. “Anyway. You have the day off, obviously, but I have your morning reports whenever you’re—”
“I don’t care.”
Sunoo nods slowly. “Right. Well. I also have—”
“I still don’t care.”
Sunoo pauses. “…Okay, then.”
For the first time, he seems to sense that he’s overstayed his welcome. He takes a slow step toward the door, glancing between the two of you.
Then, mildly—“Try not to murder each other before lunch.”
And with that, he’s gone..
-
Sunghoon exhales sharply as he sinks into the passenger seat, eyes shut, head tilted back against the headrest. His body is still weak, and you know the car ride is taking more out of him than he’d ever admit. He doesn’t complain, though—he never does.
You keep your eyes on the road, both hands gripping the steering wheel, knuckles pressing just a little too hard against the leather. The silence stretches between you, filling the space inside the car, thick but not suffocating. Just there.
It’s not hostile. Not like before. But it’s not comfortable either.
For a while, neither of you say anything. The city blurs past in streaks of yellow streetlights and neon reflections, casting flickering shadows across Sunghoon’s face. His breathing is slow, controlled, like he’s trying not to let the exhaustion show.
But you see it.
You see the way his fingers twitch slightly against his thigh, how his jaw tenses every time you hit the smallest bump in the road. You see the way his chest rises and falls, slower than usual, deeper like he’s trying to regulate himself.
And then, finally—his voice breaks the silence.
“You don’t have to babysit me.”
It’s not sharp, not a challenge. Just… a test.
You inhale, eyes flickering toward him briefly before returning to the road. “I know.”
A pause. Then, quieter this time, a little more uncertain—“You don’t have to stay in the same house anymore.”
Your fingers tighten around the wheel, your stomach twisting in a way you don’t like.
“I know,” you say again, but this time, it sounds different. Less sure. Less like something you actually believe.
Sunghoon turns his head slightly, watching you from the corner of his eye. His expression remains unreadable, his voice careful.
“Then why are you still here?”
The traffic light ahead flicks to red. The car slows, the tires rolling to a smooth stop, but inside, everything still feels like it’s moving too fast.
You could answer honestly. You could tell him that you don’t know how to walk away from him yet, that you don’t know what the hell you’re still holding onto but you’re holding onto it anyway.
Instead, you let out a slow breath and shift slightly in your seat. “You wouldn’t last a week without me.”
Sunghoon huffs, gaze drifting back toward the windshield. “I’d last at least two.”
The corners of your lips twitch, but you press them together before the expression fully forms.
“Wanna bet?”
The breath he lets out is something close to a laugh—short, barely there, but real.
“Not really,” he mutters, exhaling through his nose.
Neither of you say anything after that.
But the silence that follows doesn’t feel as heavy as before.
-
The house is dimly lit, the soft glow from the hallway casting long shadows across the walls. The familiar scent of wood and clean linen lingers in the air, settling around you like something almost comforting, almost safe.
Sunghoon moves carefully, slower than he normally would, his fingers brushing against the wall for balance as he toes off his shoes. He doesn’t stumble, doesn’t sway, but you see the way his body holds tension—too stiff, too controlled, like he’s bracing himself.
You don’t say anything.
Not until he lowers himself onto the couch, exhaling as if just the act of standing had drained him.
“You should sit down,” you say after a moment, arms crossing over your chest.
Sunghoon huffs a quiet breath, shaking his head. “You just watched me sit down.”
You roll your eyes, stepping into the kitchen without another word. He’s impossible. He always has been. The worst part is, you let yourself care anyway.
You fill a glass with water and bring it back to the living room, setting it down in front of him before dropping into the armchair across from the couch.
Sunghoon glances at the glass, then up at you.
“You’re not gonna make me drink it, are you?” His voice is hoarse, rough from exhaustion.
“I will if you keep being difficult.”
Sunghoon exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face before finally—finally—grabbing the glass. He takes a slow sip, sets it back down, and leans back into the cushions.
The silence that follows is heavy, but not the kind that threatens to break.
For a few minutes, neither of you speak. The tension sits between you, waiting, stretching until you finally say—
“You need to take time off.”
Sunghoon’s brow furrows slightly, eyes still closed.
“I already did,” he mutters.
You scoff. “No, you were hospitalized. That’s not ‘time off,’ that’s your body shutting down because you refuse to take care of yourself.”
He doesn’t react at first, but you see the way his fingers flex slightly against his knee.
“I can manage,” he says, and this time, there’s an edge there.
You lean forward, resting your elbows on your knees, voice sharper now. “That’s exactly the problem, Sunghoon. You think you can manage. You think you can push through it, that it’s just something you can ignore and work around. But you can’t.”
His jaw tightens.
You exhale through your nose, hands pressing together. “The doctors literally told you what happens if you don’t take care of yourself. You might get better quickly, but if you push too hard, it’s going to get worse even faster. You don’t have the luxury of acting like this is a minor thing.”
Sunghoon shifts slightly, dragging a hand through his hair before resting his forearm against his knee. His voice is quieter when he finally speaks.
“…I know my limits.”
The words hit something raw inside you, something that has been aching for too long.
“No, you obviously don’t,” you snap, and this time, you don’t bother holding back. “You never do. You push and push until you hit a wall, and then you act surprised when your body gives out.”
Sunghoon’s fingers tighten against his knee. “I don’t need you to—”
“To what?” you interrupt, eyes burning. “To remind you? To be here because someone has to make sure you actually listen to the doctor’s advice?”
His breath catches slightly, and you hate how sickly he looks under the dim light. You hate how tired his shoulders are, how his fingers are trembling slightly against his knee, how his skin is still too pale, too warm from the fever that hasn’t fully faded yet. But most of all, you hate that he won’t just let himself rest.
You inhale, voice calmer now, but still firm. “They told you that you can’t just ‘push through’ this, Sunghoon. You’re not invincible. The whole reason you ended up in the hospital is because you ignored the symptoms for months.”
Sunghoon drags a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. “I don’t need you to remind me of what I already know.”
“Then act like you know it.”
Sunghoon leans back against the couch, his body tense, hands resting on his thighs. His gaze flickers toward the ceiling, expression unreadable.
You watch him, watch the way his shoulders rise and fall with each slow breath, the way his throat bobs slightly when he swallows.
“Are you staying in my room?”
The words are soft. Careful. Testing.
Your fingers tighten slightly against your knee. You should say no.
You should get up, go to your own room, create distance before this turns into something neither of you know how to handle.
“Just until you’re better.”
A lie. And Sunghoon knows it too. But neither of you say anything about it.
-
The room is still dark when you stir awake, the faintest trace of early morning filtering through the curtains. The air is cool, the kind of stillness that comes right before dawn, when everything feels softer—quieter.
You shift slightly under the blankets, your body slow to wake, your mind still caught in the haze of sleep.
And that’s when you feel it.
The warmth. The weight. The quiet, steady presence behind you.
Sunghoon.
Your breath catches, your body freezing for a moment as reality sets in. His arm—heavy, warm, familiar—draped loosely around your waist.
Not tight. Not pulling. Just there.
Your mind races, but your body remembers.
For a second—just a second—you don’t move.
Sunghoon’s breathing is even, deep and slow. His chest rises and falls against your back, steady, the faint warmth of his breath skimming the back of your neck.
Your stomach twists.
It’s been years since you’ve woken up like this—since you’ve felt his presence this close, this natural. And for a fleeting, dangerous moment, you let yourself sink into it, let yourself feel the way his fingers twitch slightly against the fabric of your shirt, like he’s still dreaming.
Then, suddenly—he shifts.
His body stirs, his breath hitching slightly, and you realize he’s waking up.
Panic flickers up your spine, but you keep still, barely breathing, waiting—waiting to see if he’ll pull away first.
But he doesn’t.
Sunghoon exhales softly, his fingers twitching again before his hand tightens ever so slightly around your waist.
Not intentional. Not forceful. Just… like he doesn’t want to let go yet.
Your throat tightens. It lasts a second. Maybe two.
His body tenses slightly. His fingers flex. His breath catches.
He’s awake now.
Neither of you move. Neither of you breathe too loudly.
And then, carefully—too carefully—he pulls away.
His arm lifts from your waist, the warmth of him retreating as he shifts slightly onto his back. You hear him exhale quietly, controlled.
You wait, counting the seconds, waiting for him to say something, for him to make a joke, for him to act like this didn’t just happen.
But he doesn’t. He just stays there, quiet.
And after a moment, you let out a breath of your own and shift to sit up, pulling the blanket back just enough to swing your legs over the edge of the bed.
Neither of you acknowledge it. Neither of you turn to look at each other.
It’s like it never happened. And that’s the problem.
Because it did.
And for the rest of the morning, you can still feel the lingering warmth where his arm had been.
-
You knew this was going to happen.
You knew the moment you caught a glimpse of his laptop open on the coffee table this morning, saw the unread emails stacking up, the subtle tension in his shoulders as he read through them like he wasn’t supposed to be working in the first place.
You ignored it. You let it go, for a while. But now?
Now, it’s ten at night, and Sunghoon is still sitting on the damn couch, his laptop open, fingers typing slowly, deliberately, like he’s trying to pretend he’s not as exhausted as he actually is.
You don’t let it go this time.
“You’re working.”
It’s not a question.
Sunghoon doesn’t look up. His gaze stays fixed on the screen, his fingers still tapping against the keyboard.
“It’s just an email.” His voice is calm. Too calm.
You cross your arms, leaning against the doorway, your eyes sharp.
“Didn’t we already have this argument?”
Sunghoon sighs through his nose, his jaw tightening slightly. “And yet, here we are.”
You hate how steady he sounds, how he knows exactly how to say things just to piss you off.
Your arms tighten across your chest. “We’re not doing this again.”
“Then don’t start it,” he mutters, still not looking at you.
Your patience snaps.
You step forward, standing right in front of him, blocking his view of the laptop. “Sunghoon.”
His fingers pause over the keys. His gaze lifts to yours. And the air changes.
It happens too fast, that shift in the atmosphere. The frustration, the exhaustion, the sheer stubbornness—blending into something else.
Something tense.
His eyes flicker over your face, your mouth, your throat. His voice is lower when he speaks this time. Slower. More deliberate.
“You keep saying you’re not going to argue with me.”
His fingers curl slightly against the armrest.
“And yet, you’re still here.”
Your stomach twists—not in anger, not in frustration, but in something darker, something hotter, something that you don’t want to name.
Your eyes narrow slightly, your voice sharp when you say—“Because you don’t fucking listen.”
Sunghoon tilts his head, his expression unreadable. His gaze dips, lingering on your lips for half a second too long.
Your breath comes in shorter now.
And then—slowly, carefully—he shuts his laptop. The sound of it clicking shut feels too loud in the quiet.
He leans back against the couch, arms resting on the cushions, his legs spreading just slightly, just enough to make the space between you feel smaller.
“Go on, then.”
Your pulse hammers.
Sunghoon watches you, his gaze steady, his body too relaxed, too effortless—like he’s waiting for something.
Like he wants to see what you’ll do next.
You inhale sharply, trying not to notice the way his sweatpants ride low on his hips, the way his shirt is loose enough to show a sliver of his collarbone, the way he looks completely unaffected when you’re burning.
You hate him.
You hate how good he is at this.
You take a step forward, planting your hands on the armrest, leaning in, forcing his attention back to your face.
“If you’re not going to take care of yourself,” you murmur, “then I will.”
Sunghoon exhales slowly, his jaw flexing slightly.
The tension between you pulls tighter.
He doesn’t move away. He doesn’t blink. He just sits there, waiting.
You don’t know if it’s waiting for the fight, or waiting for something else. You don’t know which one you want more.
For a second—just a second—your eyes flicker to his mouth. And you swear—you swear—his do the same.
Before either of you can do something you can’t take back—
Your phone buzzes from across the room. The moment shatters.
You inhale sharply, stepping back, hands dropping from the armrest. Sunghoon’s eyes flicker, his breath just slightly uneven now, but he doesn’t say anything.
You turn away first. You pretend your hands aren’t shaking.
You don’t look at him when you grab your phone off the counter, checking the notification even though you didn’t read a single word of it.
The moment is over. But neither of you breathe the same after that.
-
You hadn't planned for this.
You hadn't planned on seeing Sunghoon in the hallway, hadn't planned on him looking at you like that—like he was about to ruin you, like he needed to.
But the moment he stepped into your space, the moment his breath ghosted over your skin, you felt the air shift. It was thick, weighted with something that neither of you had the energy to resist anymore.
"Tell me you don’t want this." His voice is low, quiet but firm, laced with something deeper than just lust—something closer to desperation.
Instead of answering, your fingers twist into the front of his shirt and you pull him in.
Sunghoon exhales sharply, his restraint snapping the second your mouth meets his. He moves fast—too fast, like he's been starving for this, like he's afraid it'll slip through his fingers if he hesitates. His hands are on your waist, then your back, gripping at you like he's trying to memorize every inch.
The kiss is messy, uncoordinated, filled with teeth and tongues and frustration. Months of pent-up tension, of silent longing, of unsaid words spill into every movement. He presses you into the wall, hips flush against yours, and you feel it—how hard he is, how much he's holding back, how badly he wants this.
"You drive me fucking crazy," he mutters against your lips, his breath ragged.
"Then do something about it."
He groans, low and wrecked, before lifting you effortlessly, hands gripping under your thighs as he carries you through the house. He doesn’t stop kissing you—not when he stumbles slightly into a wall, not when he nearly knocks over a lamp.
You barely make it to the couch before he’s pushing you down, hovering over you, eyes dark with something too raw to name.
His hands move fast—too fast—pulling at your clothes, impatient, frantic. His fingers tremble slightly as he drags your shirt over your head, his lips instantly finding the newly exposed skin, teeth grazing, biting, soothing with his tongue.
"Fuck—" he exhales, hands gripping at your hips, his forehead pressing against your shoulder for a second. Like he's catching his breath. Like this is overwhelming him.
You tilt his chin up, forcing him to look at you.
"Sunghoon."
His eyes flicker to yours, something wrecked flashing across his face before he swallows hard, his fingers tightening on your skin.
"Say it again."
His lips ghost over your collarbone, his breath unsteady. You shudder.
"Sunghoon."
That’s all it takes. Then—his mouth is on you, his hands everywhere, his body pressing against yours like he’s trying to crawl inside your skin.
He whispers your name over and over, between gasps and curses, between kisses that feel too much like confessions.
And when he finally pushes inside you, his forehead drops to yours, his breath heavy, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I missed you. You were my life, you were my life."
It’s not just sex. It never was. It’s him finally admitting what neither of you have said out loud. And you don't stop him.
Because you missed him too.
-
The air is warm, thick with the scent of sweat and skin and something distinctly Sunghoon. His body is still pressed against yours, not with the desperation of before but with something softer, something that lingers.
Your fingers trace absentminded patterns over his back, your body still humming from him, from this, from everything.
His hand is still resting against your hip, fingers brushing against your skin, like he’s memorizing the feeling, like he’s making sure it doesn’t disappear.
You let your eyes flutter shut for a moment, exhaling slowly. You could stay like this. You could let yourself be comfortable in this silence, in the warmth of his body, in the knowledge that—for once—you both stopped fighting.
But then, he shifts slightly, pressing his forehead against your shoulder before mumbling, “We should slow down.”
Your brows pull together slightly.
Did you hear that right? You open your eyes, tilting your head to glance down at him.
"What?"
Sunghoon exhales, leaning up on one elbow, his free hand still resting on your waist, thumb rubbing lazy circles against your skin.
"I mean, we don’t have to rush this," he says, voice quieter now, more careful. His eyes flicker over your face, something unreadable in them. "I don’t want to fuck this up again."
Your breath catches slightly.
He doesn’t want this to be just about sex. He doesn’t want to let himself have you only to lose you again. He wants to be careful with you.
But you nod anyway, pretending that the way your chest tightens isn’t real. "Okay."
Sunghoon raises an eyebrow. "Okay?"
"Mhm."
Then, slowly, you shift, straddling his waist, your fingers resting lightly on his chest.
Sunghoon stills immediately.
"What are you doing?" he asks, voice cautious, his hands instinctively coming to rest on your thighs.
Sunghoon’s head falls back against the couch, his jaw clenching. He wants to argue, you can tell, but the second you grind down again, all he manages is a sharp inhale, his fingers digging into your skin.
You smirk, tilting your head.
"I thought you wanted to take things slow."
His breath shudders. His grip on you tightens. Then he laughs—low, rough, almost amazed.
"You’re a fucking menace."
You barely have time to grin before he’s flipping you over, pressing you down into the cushions, his body caging you in.
"Slow?" he repeats, voice dropping, his lips hovering over your throat.
You try to keep up the act, but your breathing is already uneven, your body reacting to him before you can think.
"Isn’t that what you wanted?" you whisper, deliberately tilting your chin up in challenge.
Sunghoon exhales sharply, his lips barely ghosting over yours.
"I changed my mind."
You barely have time to react before his hands slide down your thighs, gripping, tugging, parting you for him again.
Your breath catches.
"Sunghoon–"
"No." He shakes his head, his mouth pressing against your jaw as he smirks. "No more talking."
His fingers move lower, teasing, pressing just enough to make you gasp. And that’s when you remember—he’s still recovering. Your hand shoots out, pressing against his chest.
"Wait."
Sunghoon stills, his brow furrowing slightly, his breathing uneven.
"You’re sick," you murmur, your lips brushing against his jaw. "Let me work for it instead."
His entire body tenses.
Your hands trail down his stomach, your fingers ghosting over the waistband of his sweatpants.
"You—" he tries, but his voice is hoarse now, breathless, wrecked.
You hum, tilting your head. "What?"
His jaw flexes.
Then, without another word, he lets himself fall back against the couch. His breath comes out shaky, his head tilting back, eyes fluttering shut.
"Then work for it."
-
It’s been a month since then and Sunghoon has finally fully returned to work.
He’s doing much better now. His energy is back, his balance has improved, and for the first time in what feels like forever, he actually looks like himself again.
You’re not sure what you expected when he came back. Maybe for things to go back to the way they were before, full of sharp remarks and tension that could snap a room in half. Or maybe for things to be awkward, unspoken things lingering between you in ways that made your employees suffer secondhand stress.
But instead? No one knows what the hell is happening anymore.
Because while you and Sunghoon aren’t exactly different, something has… shifted.
The first sign of something weird happening was the lack of fighting.
A month ago, meetings with both of you in the same room meant employees visibly sweating, taking deep breaths beforehand, and updating their wills in secret.
Now?
Now, Sunghoon pulls out a chair for you before sitting down. Now, you ask his opinion instead of shutting it down immediately. Now, he actually listens when you talk.
People are concerned.
📲 [Executive Team Group Chat] 👥 Sunoo, Riki, Jungwon, Misc. Employees
🐧 Sunoo: guys. wtf is going on.🐥 Jungwon: ???
🐧 Sunoo: i just saw boss lady n ceo actually agree on something in a meeting. no insults. no glaring. NO ONE DIED.🐱 Riki: LIAR.🐧 Sunoo: i have receipts.
(Sunoo sends a screenshot of the meeting notes. The section labeled 'Conflict Resolution' is EMPTY. Unedited. No bloodshed.)
🐥 Jungwon: I mean. That’s… good? Right?
🐱 Riki: NO IT’S NOT GOOD. THIS IS LIKE WATCHING PARENTS WHO USED TO HATE EACH OTHER BE WEIRDLY FLIRTY. I’M TRAUMATIZED.
🐧 Sunoo: EXACTLY.
📲 [Legal Team Group Chat] 👥 You, Your Team
⚖️ Paralegal #1: So uh. Boss.⚖️ Paralegal #2: What the hell is going on with you and CEO Park?⚖️ Paralegal #3: Did we miss a memo? Is this a prank? Are you sedated?
You roll your eyes, already regretting checking your messages.
📲 [You → Legal Team]: What are you talking about?
⚖️ Paralegal #2: You didn’t threaten to resign after he questioned your contract amendments today. You just. Smiled??⚖️ Paralegal #3: YOU AGREED WITH HIM ON SOMETHING. WE ALL SAW IT.⚖️ Paralegal #1: YOU LAUGHED AT SOMETHING HE SAID.⚖️ Paralegal #2: YOU LAUGHED, BOSS. AT HIS JOKE.⚖️ Paralegal #3: Do we need to call HR? Blink if you’re in danger.
📲 [You → Legal Team]: Go do your jobs.
It happens after a late meeting. You and Sunghoon are the last ones leaving, walking toward the elevators. Everyone else is pretending to be busy, but they’re totally watching.
The elevator doors slide open. You step inside first, then turn slightly—instinctively holding out your hand. Sunghoon takes it.
Casually. Like it’s normal. Like you always do this. And then—he laces your fingers together.
The doors slide shut.
Riki visibly short-circuits.
📲 [Executive Team Group Chat]
🐱 Riki: GUYS I JUST SAW THEM HOLD HANDS. IN THE ELEVATOR. IN PUBLIC. I NEED TO LIE DOWN.
🐧 Sunoo: Riki. Riki are you there.
🐥 Jungwon: Someone sedate him before he starts screaming.
🐧 Sunoo: THAT’S IT I’M STARTING A BETTING POOL. HOW LONG BEFORE THEY GET MARRIED (AGAIN).
🐱 Riki: I CAN’T BREATHE.
-
The company gala had been suffocating. Hours of pretending, of schmoozing, of wearing polite smiles while the weight of Sunghoon’s gaze burned against your skin the entire night. He hadn’t touched you once. Not in front of the board members, not during the champagne toast, not even when his fingers brushed against yours as he handed you a drink.
But he was watching.
And now, in the backseat of his car, that restraint is gone.
The moment the driver pulls away from the curb, Sunghoon’s hand is on your thigh, gripping—hard. His palm is warm against the skin exposed by the slit of your dress, fingers flexing like he’s holding himself back, like he’s trying to decide how far he’ll let himself go.
He doesn’t speak.
You don’t either.
Because you both know where this is going.
The city blurs past the windows, streetlights flickering across his sharp jawline, his loosened tie, the slight rise and fall of his chest as he exhales.
And then—his hand slides higher.
Your breath catches.
"You knew exactly what you were doing tonight." His voice is low, almost amused, but there’s a sharp edge to it, something dark and controlled.
You shift slightly, not moving away, letting his fingers graze the crease of your inner thigh. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."
Sunghoon exhales a short laugh, but there’s no humor in it.
His hand tightens.
"You wanted me like this, didn’t you?" His fingers ghost over your clothed core, pressing just enough to make your legs twitch. "Parading around all night in this dress, pretending you weren’t soaking through your panties while you smiled at those executives."
Your stomach flips.
You don’t respond.
Sunghoon doesn’t need you to.
Because the moment you shift your legs slightly wider—silent permission—he knows.
And that’s when he loses it.
The car jerks to a sudden stop.
The driver turns slightly. “We’re at the—”
"We won’t be long," Sunghoon interrupts smoothly, his fingers already curling around your wrist.
Then, he yanks you into his lap.
You gasp at the sudden movement, hands bracing against his chest, but he doesn’t give you a second to adjust. His mouth is on yours before you can speak, rough and claiming, all tongue and teeth.
"You’re mine," he breathes against your lips, his hands gripping your ass as he pulls you flush against him. You can feel how hard he is beneath you, his cock straining against his pants, pressing against your clothed core.
"Say it."
You bite your lip, pretending to consider, just to piss him off. "Make me."
Sunghoon growls, his fingers twisting into your hair as he yanks your head back, exposing your throat. His mouth is on you immediately, biting, sucking, marking.
"My wife thinks she’s a fucking tease." His lips drag against your pulse, his voice dark, edged with something dangerous. "That’s cute."
His hands slide up your thighs, bunching your dress up to your hips. When his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, he doesn’t bother taking them off. He just pulls, fabric tearing effortlessly in his grip.
"Sunghoon—"
"Shut up."
His hand moves between your legs, fingers dragging through your slick folds. He groans, his forehead pressing against your shoulder for half a second, like he’s barely holding himself together.
"You’re fucking soaked." His fingers circle your clit, slow, teasing, deliberate. "You really get off on being treated like a brat, don’t you?"
Your breath stutters. You hate how much his words affect you.
But Sunghoon notices.
He always does.
His free hand slides up your back, gripping the back of your neck before wrapping around your throat. He squeezes—not enough to cut off your air, but enough to make your pulse stutter beneath his fingers.
"Answer me."
You swallow, the pressure of his grip making your head spin.
"I—" Your voice catches when he presses down on your clit at the same time, two fingers slipping inside you. Your body jolts at the stretch, at the pressure, at the way he fills you without hesitation.
"That’s what I thought," he murmurs, his mouth brushing against your ear. "Always such a fucking mess for me."
His fingers work you open too fast, too rough, curling against the spot that makes you see stars. Your hips roll against his hand, chasing it, and Sunghoon laughs—low and wrecked.
"That desperate already?"
You don’t get a chance to respond before he’s flipping you onto your back, pressing you down against the leather seat.
Your head spins.
His hands are everywhere—gripping your thighs, spreading you open, dragging his cock through your slick folds before he presses against your entrance.
"You want it?" His voice is strained, his jaw tight.
"Yes—"
But he doesn’t give you time to beg.
Because in the next second—he’s inside you, all at once, filling you to the hilt.
Your back arches off the seat, a choked sound escaping your throat.
Sunghoon groans, his head dropping forward, his grip bruising where he holds your hips down. "Fuck—look at you. Taking my cock so fucking well."
You barely have time to breathe before he starts moving.
No easing into it. No gentleness.
Just rough, deep thrusts that knock the air from your lungs.
"You feel that?" His hand wraps around your throat again, squeezing just enough to make your vision blur at the edges. "This is what you wanted, wasn’t it? My wife acting like a whore all night just so I could fuck her stupid in the back of a car”
You moan, the humiliation making your skin burn in the best way.
"That’s right," he grits out, snapping his hips harder, his other hand gripping your thigh, pushing it higher. "Let me hear you."
The car rocks with the force of it, every thrust sending pleasure shooting through your spine. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your body shaking, your release already close, already—
"Come on, baby," he murmurs, his breath ragged, his forehead pressing against yours. "Come on my cock. Be a good fucking girl for me."
And you do.
You shatter beneath him, your body tensing, your thighs trembling as your orgasm crashes through you.
Sunghoon follows right after, his rhythm stuttering before he buries himself deep, his groan breaking into something almost desperate. His fingers flex against your throat before finally, finally, he lets go.
The car is silent except for your uneven breaths.
Sunghoon leans forward, pressing his lips to your forehead, softer now, his breathing still shaky. His fingers trail down your side, slow, absentminded, like he’s grounding himself.
The only sound in the car is the rhythmic rise and fall of your breathing, the occasional rustling of fabric as Sunghoon shifts slightly against you. The intensity of what just happened lingers between you, crackling in the air like an aftershock, leaving both of you too warm, too tangled, too unwilling to move just yet.
He’s still inside you, still pressed close, his body a solid weight over yours, grounding, steadying. Neither of you speak, and for a while, you simply let the quiet settle, let your fingers drift absently over his back, tracing slow, lazy shapes.His forehead is against yours, his breath deep and uneven, warm against your lips.
Eventually, he exhales, the sound low, almost satisfied, before tilting his head to press a slow, lingering kiss to your temple. His hand shifts from where it had been gripping your thigh, his touch gentler now, a stark contrast to how he had held you earlier—fierce, possessive, unwilling to let you go. Now, his fingers just rest against your skin, smoothing over the curve of your waist, the warmth of his palm familiar.
"You okay?" His voice is rough from exertion, still heavy with something raw and unspoken.
You hum, nodding slightly, your cheek brushing against his. You can’t quite find the words yet—your body still feels like it’s floating, caught between exhaustion and bliss.
Sunghoon shifts just slightly, pulling back just enough to look at you. His gaze sweeps over your face, studying you carefully, before his lips curve into a small, amused smile.
"I’ll take that as a yes." His fingers trace slow circles against your hip, his touch absentminded but deliberate, like he doesn’t quite want to stop touching you yet.
You blink up at him, still dazed, your limbs pleasantly heavy, your skin oversensitive in the best way. His words barely register before he shifts, withdrawing from you slowly. A quiet whimper catches in your throat at the loss, your body instinctively tightening around nothing.
Sunghoon notices.
His gaze darkens again, his jaw flexing slightly before he exhales through his nose, visibly restraining himself. He tilts his head, one brow raising ever so slightly, smug in a way that makes your stomach twist.
"Look at you," he murmurs, voice low, watching as his release slowly drips out of you, glistening on your inner thighs.His fingers trace your swollen entrance, dragging along the slick mess he’s made, spreading it just to watch you squirm.
"So messy," he muses, voice teasing but full of something heavier, more possessive.
Heat spreads across your cheeks, embarrassment creeping in at how wrecked you must look, your thighs still trembling, your breath uneven. You turn your head slightly, muttering under your breath, "Shut up."
Sunghoon chuckles, clearly too pleased with himself. His fingers move to tilt your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze again.
"Don’t do that," he murmurs, his voice quieter now, lower, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip.
You frown slightly, not quite understanding. "Do what?"
His thumb presses just slightly harder, a silent reprimand, a reminder that he’s still in control.
"Act shy now," he says, watching you too closely, too knowingly. His smirk is slow, deliberate, confident in a way that makes your stomach flip. "You just let me fuck you stupid in the back of my car."
Your cheeks burn hotter, mortification creeping in. You scoff, shoving at his chest halfheartedly, but he doesn’t budge."I hate you."
His laughter is soft, low, a rumble against your skin as he presses another kiss—this time to your jaw, then lower, trailing lazily toward your throat.
"No, you love me."
You take a deep breath “I do.”
He looks surprised, shocked almost, “You– you do?”
You nod. “I do, ” you look at him expectantly, “You love me?”
He laughs deep and loud, a real laugh, grabs your face in his hands forcing you closer, “Baby, when did I ever stop?”
Before you can dwell on it, there’s a knock on the window.
You freeze.
Sunghoon sighs, clearly unfazed, barely even reacting before he reaches over to roll down the window slightly.
Outside, the driver stands with an expression so perfectly neutral it’s almost comedic, like this is just another Tuesday night for him.
"Mr. Park," he says, his tone entirely professional, unaffected. "Should I… call another car for you two?"
You bury your face in Sunghoon’s shoulder, mortified.
Sunghoon, as expected, looks completely unbothered.
"No need," he replies smoothly, his fingers absently stroking your thigh as if nothing had just happened. "We’ll be heading home in a bit."
The driver nods curtly, not even blinking. "I’ll be outside."
And then, just like that, he walks away.
You groan, still refusing to lift your head. "I can never face him again."
Sunghoon laughs softly, his hand sliding up to rub slow, soothing circles against your back.
"You’ll live, you love me." he murmurs, his voice warm, teasing, but laced with something softer. His fingers thread into your hair, tilting your head up just slightly. His lips brush against yours, slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring the moment.
"Let me clean you up."
You blink up at him, your chest tightening for reasons entirely unrelated to sex.
"You don’t have to—"
His hand tightens in your hair, not to hurt, just to keep you still. He shakes his head slightly, cutting you off before you can finish the thought.
"I want to," he murmurs, his lips brushing against yours again, softer this time. "I take care of what’s mine. Of what I love."
Something invisible but heavy lodges itself in your throat.
Because he means it. Because this isn’t just sex, or routine, or an easy way to pass the time. This is him showing you, in the quietest way possible, that he loves you.
And when he kisses you again, when he reaches for a tissue to carefully clean the mess between your thighs, when he murmurs something under his breath about how ‘his wife shouldn’t be walking around with his cum dripping down her legs’
You don’t ever want to lose this again.
EPILOGUE
It starts the same way it did last time.
The nausea creeps in slowly—subtle at first, nothing out of the ordinary. You assume it’s from overworking yourself, the stress of handling legal negotiations, or maybe even just the exhaustion of being married to a man who refuses to listen when you tell him to take breaks.
Sunghoon notices before you do.
At first, it’s little things—the way you lean against the counter a little longer in the mornings, the way your appetite fluctuates, the way you pause mid-sentence with a sudden grimace, like something doesn’t sit right in your stomach. He watches you closer than usual, his sharp eyes following you whenever you touch your lower abdomen absentmindedly, whenever you shake your head at food that you normally love.
And then, one morning, you feel it.
The moment you stand up from bed, a wave of nausea crashes into you so violently that you barely make it to the bathroom in time.
You hear him before you see him—footsteps, the rustling of sheets, the quiet, urgent sound of his voice calling your name as he reaches for you.
"Hey—what’s wrong?" Sunghoon is kneeling beside you in seconds, his hand warm and steady against your back, rubbing slow, grounding circles as you try to catch your breath. His fingers stroke through your hair gently, not rushing you, not asking anything else yet.
You grip the edge of the sink, exhaling shakily, your heartbeat too loud, your pulse erratic.
Because this feels familiar. Too familiar. And that’s when you know. Sunghoon stills when you don’t answer right away.
"Baby." His voice is softer now, careful. "Look at me."
Something unreadable flickers across his face—shock, realization, something dangerously close to hope.
He doesn’t ask. He doesn’t need to. Because he knows, too.
And that’s how you find yourself sitting on the bathroom floor minutes later, staring at the test clutched in your hands, the two pink lines undeniable.
Sunghoon sits beside you, his knee brushing against yours, his breathing measured but uneven. He doesn’t reach for it. He doesn’t take it from your hands.
Instead, he just looks at you.
"Are we...?" His voice is barely above a whisper, raw in a way you rarely hear.
Your fingers tighten around the test, your throat thick with emotion. You nod, swallowing hard before murmuring, "Yeah."
Sunghoon exhales, slow and unsteady, like he’s been holding his breath for years. His head tilts forward slightly, his eyes squeezing shut for a second before he lifts them back to you. His gaze is so full of something it knocks the air from your lungs.
"How do you feel?" he asks quietly.
You let out a soft, breathless laugh, part relief, part disbelief. "Like I might throw up again."
A short chuckle escapes him—not out of amusement, but out of something else, something lighter.
Then, slowly, he reaches for you.
His hands slide over your cheeks, fingertips pressing just slightly, like he’s trying to make sure you’re real, like he’s trying to ground himself in this moment. His thumb strokes over your cheekbone, his breath fanning against your lips as he leans in, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, close enough that you can feel the slight tremble in his touch.
The positive test sits between you both, abandoned on the bathroom counter, but neither of you look at it anymore. You don’t need to.
Because all you can focus on is him—the way his chest rises and falls unsteadily, the way his lips part like he wants to say something but doesn’t quite know how.
And then, finally, he does.
"I won’t fail you this time."
His voice is rough, barely above a whisper, but it hits you harder than anything else.
Your breath catches in your throat, your fingers tightening slightly where they rest against his shoulders. His eyes are so unbearably soft when they meet yours, but there’s something else there, too—something raw, something desperate.
"I won’t lose you. I won’t lose them," he murmurs, his hands sliding to your waist, pulling you fully against him, like he can shield you from anything and everything that might try to take this from him again.
A lump forms in your throat, because this is what he’s been carrying.
This is what he never let himself say out loud.
"You never failed me, Sunghoon," you whisper, your fingers moving to cup his face, "We lost them together."
Sunghoon swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
"I should have held you. I should have been better. I should have—" His breath stumbles, and for the first time, you see it—the way his control wavers, the way the guilt still lingers, thick and unbearable.
"Hey." You press a hand against his chest, feeling the unsteady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palm. "You don’t have to do this alone anymore."
Sunghoon exhales sharply, his forehead pressing against yours.
"I don’t deserve this," he murmurs, his grip tightening around you.
"You do." You don’t hesitate. "And we’re going to do this right this time."
His breath shudders. And then—he kisses you.
It’s not like before. It’s not desperate, or punishing, or laced with frustration. It’s slow, deep, lingering. It’s an apology, a vow, a promise.
When he pulls away, his lips hover just above yours, his eyes searching, waiting for something.
"Stay," he whispers. "Stay with me. Stay here. Always."
Summary: Survival should have been the only goal. But for you, no matter how hard you fight, you can't outrun biology and law. So when the Apex's of the sky claim you as their vessel, you wonder-Will surrender finally bring the safety you crave?
Warnings: dystopian au! ,poly relationship, heavy smut, enemies to lovers, pregnancy(I know a lot aren't big on this trope but give it a shot), hurt/comfort, forced proximity, Jay and Jake are like married. (Each chapter will have their own warnings)
[Masterlist]
Header by me// MINORS DNI
CHAPTER 1- THE EXTRACTION
—Life in Sector 7 is dirt, rust, and survival. Life in Sector 1 is silk, ozone, and suffocation. When Jay Park and Jake Sim drag you from the gutter to the clouds, you expect a prison. What you get is a cage made of gold, a charming tech genius who wants to play dress-up, and a his cold husband who wants to break you. You can try to run, but the air is thin up here.
[READ HERE]
CHAPTER 2 - THE CORRECTION
—You thought you could run. You thought you could hide. But Jay Park doesn't lose his investments. Locked in the dark, stripped of your rebellion, you have to decide what matters more: your pride, or the warmth of the men who want to own you. Punishment has never felt so confusing, and forgiveness comes with a heavy price.
[READ HERE]
CHAPTER 3 - THE PROTOCOL
—The rules have changed. No more fighting. Now, it's just biology, chemistry, and heat. With the timeline tieking down and the things blurring your edges, the line between captive and lover disappears completely. They want an heir, but as the nights blur into days of pleasure and need, they might just be keeping you.
[READ HERE]
CHAPTER 4 - THE LEGACY
—The baby is coming. The walls are down. But as the pain sets in and new life enters the world, the final question remains: Are you just a vessel, of are you the Queen of the Spire? A birth, a realization, and a promise written in black diamonds. The cage is open, but you're not leaving.
synopsis: A Marriage Law was the last thing you expected to dictate your future, let alone shackle you to Park Jongseong. A pureblood heir, painfully composed, infuriatingly good at everything, and—unfortunately—now your husband.
What starts as reluctant cohabitation, filled with awkward silences and sharp words, slowly unravels into something neither of you can ignore. Stolen glances, fleeting touches, and the illusion of normalcy turn into a dangerous game neither of you meant to play. Is it all for show? Or has the line between pretend and real already disappeared?
But love alone isn’t enough to erase the past—or the law that forced you together. As the Ministry looms over your every move, and whispers of rebellion grow louder, you and Jay must decide: fight the law, or fight for each other.
wc: around 20.5K
warnings: Marriage Law AU, Harry Potter AU, forced marriage, government control, slow burn, forced proximity, awkward domesticity, enemies to lovers, bickering, rivalry, mutual annoyance, emotional angst, hurt/comfort, doubt, insecurities, fear of the future, eventual smut, explicit sexual content, sexual tension, intense intimacy, fear of love, conflicted feelings, vulnerability, mentions of pregnancy, future parenthood, domesticity, soft Jay, pining, repressed feelings, denial, yearning, lingering touches, stolen glances, smut, sexual content, F! receiving.
A/N: PLEASE TELL ME WHAT YOU GUYS THINK I'D REALLY APPRECIATE THE FEEDBACK!!!!!
You woke to the sharp tap, tap, tap against your window, the early morning light bleeding through the tattered curtains of your London flat. Sleep still clung to your body, but the incessant tapping forced you upright, rubbing the remnants of last night’s exhaustion from your eyes. You recognized the Ministry’s wax seal before your fingers even touched the envelope. Your stomach dropped.
It was here.
The letter you had been dreading for months. The whispers of the Marriage Law had been circulating for nearly a year, rumors passed between hushed conversations at pubs, in hidden corners of Diagon Alley, and among former classmates who refused to believe that the government could enforce such a thing. But deep down, you had known it was only a matter of time. The Ministry had already been heading in this direction for years, pushing for more control under the guise of restoration.
With a deep breath, you slid your nail under the seal, breaking it with a snap. The parchment unfurled in your hands, the ink dark against the crisp paper.
Dear Miss Y/N,
By decree of the Magical Unity Act, you have been assigned a partner as part of the Ministry’s initiative to preserve and strengthen magical bloodlines.
Your assigned match: Park Jongseong. Pureblood.
You are required to present yourself at the Ministry within 48 hours for the formalization of your union. Failure to comply will result in consequences deemed necessary by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. We trust you will uphold your duty to preserve our magical world.
Sincerely,
Matilda Greengrass
Head of the Magical Unity Office
Park Jongseong. Of all the people in the world, it had to be him.
You weren’t sure what to think. You had never hated Jongseong—not really. He had always been there in the background, a constant presence in your classes, a name that lingered on the top of exam scores just above yours. He was the type of person who excelled quietly, never rubbing his victories in your face, but still managing to be infuriating simply by existing. You had no idea what he thought of you. If he had any feelings about your academic rivalry, he had never shown it.
And now, he was going to be your husband.
You hadn’t even processed the letter properly before you found yourself in a booth at The Leaky Cauldron, sitting across from Riki. You had sent an urgent owl the moment you had read the letter, needing to talk to someone—anyone—who might understand.
Riki was younger than you by only a couple of years, but you had always seen him as something of a younger brother—mischievous, quick-witted, and annoyingly perceptive when it came to your emotions. He was the kind of friend who teased you relentlessly but would hex anyone who dared to cross you. If there was anyone you could turn to in a moment like this, it was him.
“You got him?” Riki’s eyebrows shot up when you showed him the parchment. “That’s...sure, yeah.”
You groaned, letting your head fall into your hands. “Don’t say it like that.”
“Well, I mean—it could be worse, " Riki shrugged, taking a sip of his Butterbeer, “He’s not, like, awful. He’s just...Jongseong. A bit awkward, not much of a talker, but not the worst person to be tied to for life.”
You groaned again. “That’s supposed to be comforting?”
He grinned. “A little,”
You shook your head, trying to focus. “I don’t even know how I’m going to tell my parents. They’re barely involved in my life as it is, and now I have to explain to them that I’ve been legally bound to someone they don’t even know?”
Riki’s face softened. He knew how complicated your relationship with your parents was—how they had never truly accepted the magical world, even after you got your Hogwarts letter. “You don’t have to tell them right away,” he said gently. “Focus on getting through this first.”
The Ministry of Magic smelled like ink, parchment, and old magic. The weight of history pressed down upon you as you walked through its grand halls, flanked by Aurors ensuring that every witch and wizard assigned under the Magical Unity Act appeared for their mandated marriage registrations. The building was colder than you remembered, or maybe it was the weight of what was about to happen that made you shiver.
Jongseong was already waiting when you arrived, standing stiffly in the corridor outside the registration chamber. His posture was impeccable, shoulders squared, his hands buried in the pockets of his finely tailored robes. The deep green fabric complimented his sharp features, accentuating the strong lines of his jaw and the dark intensity of his eyes. There was always something enigmatic about Jongseong—he was the type of person who carried an air of quiet authority, a man who never wasted unnecessary words. He rarely let his emotions show, but now, even beneath his composed expression, you could see the subtle signs of tension—the way his fingers tapped idly against the parchment he held, the way his lips pressed together a little too firmly.
You swallowed hard, gripping your own letter tightly. His eyes flickered toward you, assessing.
“Y/N.” His voice was steady, but there was something unreadable beneath it. He gave you a small nod, nothing overly familiar, yet not entirely cold.
The Ministry official cleared his throat, pulling you both out of the awkward moment.
”Park Jongseong and Y/N L/N,” he announced, his voice devoid of emotion, as if he had done this a hundred times before. He motioned toward the chamber doors. “Step inside. We will begin the legal binding process.”
Your breath hitched as you stepped forward, feeling the heat of Jongseong’s presence beside you.
The chamber was larger than you had expected, with high ceilings adorned with ancient runes glowing faintly in the dim light. At the center of the room stood a grand mahogany desk, where stacks of parchment were neatly arranged. Hovering above it was a blood-binding quill, pulsing faintly, attuned to the magic that would soon seal your fates.
“Please, be seated.”
You and Jongseong sat across from each other, the tension between you thick, though neither of you acknowledged it. The official took his place behind the desk, flipping open a massive leather-bound ledger.
“Before we proceed, it is my duty to inform you of the terms and expectations set forth by the Ministry under the Magical Unity Act. This marriage is legally binding under magical law, and both parties are required to uphold their roles as husband and wife.”
Your stomach twisted. You knew this was coming, but hearing it laid out so plainly made it harder to ignore.
“First, you will be required to cohabitate within the next twenty-four hours. The Ministry has provided accommodations, though should you choose to relocate, you must inform the Department of Magical Law Enforcement within seven days.”
Jongseong’s fingers drummed lightly against the desk, his gaze unreadable. He was listening carefully, though he gave nothing away.
“Second,” the official continued, flipping to another section of the document, “you will be required to consummate the marriage within one year. This will be monitored magically, and failure to do so may result in penalties.”
Your breath caught. You forced yourself to keep your expression neutral, but you couldn’t help the way your fingers curled slightly against your lap.
Jongseong’s face remained calm, though you thought you saw the faintest flicker of tension in his jaw.
“Third,” the official continued, “as part of the act’s goal to maintain the magical bloodline, you are expected to conceive a child within two years. Failure to comply will result in further legal interventions. Exceptions will only be granted under rare circumstances, such as medically confirmed infertility.”
You exhaled slowly, heart pounding. This was the part that had haunted you the most. It wasn’t just about being forced into marriage—it was about being forced to give up control over the future you had always imagined for yourself.
You had wanted children, eventually. You had imagined raising them in a world where they could make choices freely, where they could love and marry without being told when and how. But now, that dream had been reduced to a cold deadline set by the Ministry.
Jongseong finally spoke. “What are our rights in terms of autonomy?” His voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it.
The official barely looked up. “You are granted limited autonomy. While you may maintain employment and personal activities, your primary duty remains fulfilling the obligations of the act. Any attempt to break the contract is considered an act of defiance against the Ministry.”
Jongseong gave a slow nod, as if he had expected that answer but wanted it spoken aloud regardless. The official placed two scrolls of parchment in front of you, followed by the hovering blood-binding quill.
“By signing this document, you are agreeing to all conditions and responsibilities dictated by the Magical Unity Act. Once signed, the bond is sealed permanently under wizarding law. Any attempts to nullify it without Ministry approval will result in severe consequences.”
Jongseong’s eyes met yours then, and for the first time, there was something there—a quiet understanding, a shared reluctance. Neither of you wanted this. But there was no choice.
With a deep breath, you reached for the quill. The moment your fingers touched it, a sharp, warm sensation prickled against your skin, and the magic within it stirred in response. You watched as your name etched itself onto the parchment in deep crimson ink.
Across from you, Jongseong did the same.
The moment his signature was completed, the parchment glowed gold, sealing the contract. A faint hum of magic filled the air as the binding took effect.
It was done. You were married.
The official gave a brisk nod, gathering the signed documents. “The bond is sealed. You are now husband and wife under magical law.” He closed the ledger with a dull thud before standing. “Congratulations.”
The word felt hollow.
The moment you stepped into the apartment the Ministry had assigned, the full weight of your situation slammed into you. This wasn’t just a bureaucratic nightmare anymore. It was real. It was your life.
The space was larger than you expected, a sleek, magically expanded flat that felt caught between two worlds—modern and traditional, functional and intimate, impersonal yet unsettlingly designed for romance. It was clear that whoever had designed these living quarters had done so with the idea of a happily married couple in mind.
The open-concept living space had softly enchanted lighting, walls painted in neutral, calming tones that could be adjusted to fit the residents' “mood.” A fireplace sat in the center of the lounge, with a plush sofa curved just enough to suggest cozy nights spent tangled together. The kitchen was fully stocked, fitted with both Muggle and magical appliances, making it impossible to avoid the domestic intimacy the Ministry seemed so determined to impose.
Two bedrooms were set at opposite ends of the flat, though one was clearly meant to be temporary. The master bedroom, which you tried to ignore, was the worst of it. The king-sized bed was too large, too luxurious, the silk sheets far too inviting. The enchanted wardrobes had already been merged, both your belongings stored together, blending lives you hadn’t chosen to entwine.
Even the bathroom was designed for two people meant to share everything. The tub was massive, the type built for indulgent baths, fitted with potion-infused oils meant to relax muscles—meant to encourage closeness. The sinks, the mirrors, the counter space—everything was structured with a life of intimacy in mind.
Jongseong was standing stiffly just inside the doorway, his hands still shoved into the pockets of his dark robes. He looked as out of place as you felt. His eyes flickered over the surroundings, lingering on the details, his expression betraying nothing.
“Well,” he said, finally breaking the silence. “This is… something.”
You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Yeah.”
An awkward pause stretched between you. Neither of you moved.
You cleared your throat. “So… Do you want to set some ground rules?”
Jongseong finally looked at you, his head tilting slightly. “Ground rules?”
You shifted uncomfortably. “For… coexisting.”
A flicker of amusement crossed his face, but it disappeared just as quickly. “Fair enough.” He nodded toward the hallway. “You can take the bedroom on the left.”
You hesitated. “The Ministry expects us to share one eventually.”
His jaw tightened slightly, but his voice remained calm. “We don’t have to rush into that.”
You let out a breath of relief. “Good.”
Another silence settled. This was going to be excruciating.
You thought the first night would be easier because you had separate rooms. It wasn’t.
The walls were too thin. Every tiny shift, every creak of the floorboards, every sigh of the bed linens as one of you turned over—it was impossible to forget that you weren’t alone. That there was someone else here, just a few steps away, existing in the same space, adjusting to the same forced reality.
You lay awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, feeling every inch of the strangeness that had settled into your life. The silence of the apartment was deafening. Somewhere beyond your door, Jongseong was doing the same. Not sleeping. Not moving. Just existing in this same, uncomfortable limbo.
You weren’t sure how long you lay there before you heard it—
A soft, almost hesitant knock on your door.
You sat up immediately, heart stammering in your chest. “…Yeah?”
You moved toward the coffee pot, pretending not to notice how he was gripping his quill a little too tightly. The sight of him already reading the regulations booklet made your stomach twist. You weren’t sure if you wanted to know what new absurdities the Ministry had included.
“What’s that?” you asked warily.
Jongseong turned the booklet toward you so you could see the bold title stamped on the front.
A Guide to Magical Marital Expectations: Understanding the Unity Act.
You stared at him. “You’re actually reading that?”
He shrugged, flipping to the next page. “Figured it might be useful to know what we’re legally bound to.”
You sighed, sinking into the chair across from him. “And? What’s in it?”
Jongseong skimmed a few lines before speaking. “Mostly just reinforcing what we were already told. Cohabitation, marital duties, legal ramifications if we break the contract.” He hesitated, his fingers pausing on the page. His jaw tensed slightly, and that was when you knew whatever he had just read wasn’t going to be pleasant.
A beat of silence.
Bravely, you cleared your throat. “What else are you working on?”
Jongseong’s eyes flickered up briefly before he tapped the page with his quill. “Just organizing my work schedule. Trying to figure out how to balance—” He gestured vaguely between the two of you. “All of this.”
Right. Work. You hadn’t even thought about how this new life would affect your schedules. You needed to figure out yours, his, how to exist in this space without stepping on each other’s toes.
“I have a morning shift at Flourish and Blotts starting tomorrow,” you said after a pause. “And I have an evening class twice a week.”
Jongseong nodded slowly. “I start work at the Ministry at eight every morning. Sometimes later, depending on meetings. But I’m usually back by seven.”
You absorbed that. That meant you’d have the mornings mostly to yourself, but the evenings… “So we’ll see each other mostly at night.”
“Yeah.” His expression didn’t change, but there was something unreadable in his gaze. Maybe he was just as wary of that realization as you were.
You stirred your coffee absentmindedly. “And, uh… weekends?”
He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t usually work on weekends, but I study. And sometimes I meet up with friends.”
Right. Friends. You almost forgot that, despite everything, he had a life outside of this.
That thought stuck with you longer than it should have. Maybe because you were realizing that your life, your freedom, had been traded in for something else. For something you didn’t get to choose.
“Oh,” he said flatly. “Also.” He looked up at you, his dark eyes unreadable. “The shared bed rule.”
You grimaced. “I was hoping they’d forgotten about that part.”
Jongseong sighed, setting the booklet down with more force than necessary. “Unfortunately, the Ministry doesn’t forget anything.”
The booklet sat between you on the table, the pages filled with carefully worded regulations, all designed to ensure that the couples formed under the Magical Unity Act fulfilled their “duties.” The words seemed too sharp, too final, as if they carried an unspoken command beneath them.
Your fingers curled around the edge of your mug as you read the clause for yourself.
Clause 7.3 - Marital CohabitationIn order to promote a natural and successful union, married partners must reside within a shared living space and engage in consistent physical proximity.
It is required that both parties sleep within the same quarters by the third month of marriage.
Noncompliance will result in Ministry intervention.
You exhaled sharply, closing your eyes for a moment. “They’re really monitoring everything.”
Jongseong tapped his fingers against the table, his expression carefully neutral. “We have three months to figure that part out.”
You rubbed your temples. “Three months is… not a lot of time.”
He looked at you for a long moment before setting the booklet aside. “We’ll deal with it when we have to.”
And for some reason, that stuck with you.
Jongseong—or Jay, as his closest friends called him—was totally unamused by his morning conversation.
He sat at his desk in the Ministry, flipping through paperwork as Jake lounged against the opposite desk, watching him with a knowing look. The blond Auror had a casual ease about him, one leg stretched out, a quill spinning between his fingers as he regarded Jay with mild amusement.
“So,” Jake finally said, dragging out the word. “How’s married life?”
Jay didn’t look up. “It’s fine.”
His friend snorted, adjusting his robes as he leaned in. “Oh, come on. I know you better than that.”
Jay set his quill down with a sigh. “What do you want me to say?”
Jake tilted his head, considering. “I don’t know. That she’s unbearable? That she’s the love of your life? That you’ve realized you actually have a thing for arranged marriages?”
Unamused, Jay shot him a flat look. “None of the above.”
But the blond was relentless, he leaned forward, arms resting on the desk. “So, what? You guys are just awkwardly existing in the same space?”
Jay hesitated, fingers tapping against the parchment in front of him. “…Something like that.”
“Is she at least decent company?”
Jay exhaled, stretching his arms before finally looking up. “She’s normal. It’s awkward. We’re trying to figure out how to coexist without making it worse.”
“Makes sense. I mean, you didn’t exactly get a say in this. Neither of you did.”
Jay appreciated that Jake wasn’t trying to force humor into the situation, not like their other friends probably would. Jake had a way of knowing when to joke and when to actually listen, which was why he was one of the few people Jay actually talked to about things that mattered.
the Australian smirked. “Alright, I’ll leave it alone. But tell me one thing.”
Jay raised an eyebrow. “What?”
The blond's grin was slow and knowing. “Do you find her attractive?”
Jay’s hand froze mid-page turn.
Jake caught it immediately. “Ohhh. That’s interesting.”
rolling his eyes, setting the file aside a little too forcefully, the married man in question responds. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Jay pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re insufferable.”
Jake laughed, standing up and stretching. “Well, I’d say welcome to married life, but…” He gave his friend a mockingly sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “I’m sure you’ve already figured out it’s a mess.”
Jay shoved his hand away. “Get out of my office.”
“See you at lunch, hubby.”
Jay groaned as Jake walked away, already regretting every life decision that had led to this conversation.
Jongseong was a morning person. You learned that quickly.
He was always the first to wake up, moving around the apartment with an effortless ease that was frankly annoying to someone like you, who preferred to cling to sleep for as long as possible. You often woke to the sound of the shower running, the smell of coffee brewing, and the faint rustling of parchment as he read through Ministry documents while waiting for breakfast.
This morning was no different a few weeks later.
By the time you groggily dragged yourself out of bed, Jongseong was already fresh out of the shower, hair still damp, a towel slung low around his waist. His toned chest and broad shoulders glowed slightly in the morning light, water droplets still clinging to his skin as he casually walked toward his dresser, seemingly unaware—or unbothered—by your presence.
You immediately averted your eyes, heart stammering in your chest. But you could still feel him, still sense the heat radiating off his skin, and the way the air seemed thicker in his presence.
“Morning,” he greeted smoothly, voice still slightly hoarse from sleep.
Your throat felt impossibly dry. “Yeah. Morning.”
He smirked slightly, as if noticing your discomfort, and continued dressing—slowly. The deliberate way he pulled his shirt over his head before taking it off again, deciding he wanted a different one, the flex of his muscles, the way he pushed his damp hair back… it was infuriatingly distracting.
You turned toward the kitchen in desperation, fingers gripping the edge of the counter as you tried to steady yourself. You were not going to be affected by this.
But then he walked past you, his bare arm brushing against yours, the heat of his skin searing through the fabric of your sleeve. You felt the breath hitch in your throat, a sudden rush of awareness sparking along your spine.
You had just taken your first sip of coffee, finally feeling somewhat human, when a loud knock echoed through the apartment. You and Jongseong exchanged a glance.
“Expecting someone?” you asked.
He sighed, setting his mug down. “No. But I have a bad feeling about it.”
The moment Jongseong opened the door, a tall, severe-looking woman in a charcoal robe strode in without invitation. She introduced herself as Ms. Alderton, her expression a mixture of polite authority and thinly veiled scrutiny.
“We’re conducting routine compliance inspections under the Magical Unity Act,” she said, flipping through her clipboard. “It’s a simple process, really. Just verifying that the two of you are… adjusting well to married life.”
Your stomach dropped.
Jongseong had not finished dressing.
He was still only wearing a towel around his waist.
You saw the exact moment Ms. Alderton’s eyes flickered downward—not in a scandalized way, but in a very obvious assessment of the situation.
“Oh.” She blinked, arching an eyebrow. “I see I’ve caught you at a… private moment.”
Jongseong’s entire body tensed. You scrambled to grab his shirt off the chair and shove it at him.
“Right, um, we weren’t expecting company,” you said quickly, willing your face not to burn.
Jongseong took the shirt, clearing his throat as he pulled it on, but not before you saw the way his abs tightened under the scrutiny, the way his fingers twitched as he buttoned his shirt with forced composure.
Ms. Alderton hummed, clearly unimpressed. She began the inspection, moving through the apartment with cold efficiency.
She examined your living quarters, asked too many questions about how often you and Jay were together in the same space, and, of course, dropped the expected question:
“And how are you finding the transition into… intimacy?”
You nearly choked on your tea.
Jongseong, to his credit, didn’t flinch. “We’re taking our time with that,” he said evenly. “As I’m sure the Ministry is aware, not all couples move at the same pace.”
Ms. Alderton gave him a knowing look, scribbling something onto her parchment. “Well, as you both know, there are expectations to be met. We’ll check in again soon.”
And with that, she was gone, leaving the weight of her unspoken warnings hanging in the air.
You let out a long breath, still feeling the residual heat of the morning’s tension clinging to your skin.
At work, Jongseong barely had time to sit at his desk before Jake was on him.
“Alright, listen, I’ve been patient, but you’re dodging, man,” the blond Auror said, plopping down in the chair across from Jay’s desk. “We need to meet her.”
Jay sighed, rubbing his temple. “It’s really not that big of a deal.”
Jake gave him a pointed look. “You’ve been married for weeks and we haven’t even met your wife. Sunghoon’s convinced you made her up.”
“We’re fine. We’re adjusting. That’s all you need to know.”
Jake smirked. “See, the more you say it’s fine, the less I believe it.”
“You’re impossible.”
Jake shrugged. “That’s why you love me. So, what do you say? A small get-together. Nothing crazy.”
Jay sighed again, but this time, he hesitated. He knew the Blond wouldn’t let this go.
“I’ll… think about it.”
When Jay got home that evening, you could immediately tell something was on his mind.
“What is it?” you asked, watching as he loosened his tie.
“Jake keeps pushing for us to meet up with him and the guys,” Jay admitted, running a hand through his hair. “I told him we were fine, but he wasn’t buying it.”
You thought about it for a moment before shrugging. “Maybe we should.”
Jay raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
You nodded. “I mean, we’re supposed to be building a life together, right? It might help to actually know the people in it. And… if something ever happens, it’d be good to have them as a support system.”
Jay studied you for a moment, then sighed. “Alright. But there’s an issue,” You arched your brow in response, “ They think we’re like them, you know, more settled into our married life”
“Ah, I see.”
He chuckled dryly, “And I haven’t had the chance to correct them.”
And that was how you found yourself getting ready to put on a show.
You weren’t sure why you felt so on edge. It was just a night out with his friends—people who, by all accounts, had no real expectations of you beyond existing at Jongseong’s side. But still, as you stood in front of the mirror, adjusting your outfit for what felt like the tenth time, something in your chest felt tight.
Jongseong passed by behind you, fastening the cuff of his crisp, navy button-up. The color complemented his complexion unfairly well, the sleeves neatly rolled up to his forearms, just casual enough to look effortless.
His reflection met yours in the mirror. “Are you ready yet?” he asked, smoothing a hand through his hair.
You exhaled through your nose. “You act like getting ready is as simple as putting on a shirt.”
He smirked. “It is, actually.”
You rolled your eyes but didn’t push it. Instead, you turned slightly, watching as he undid the top two buttons of his shirt, exposing just the faintest sliver of his collarbone. It wasn’t intentional, but it made something stir deep in your stomach.
The silence stretched between you as you turned back toward the mirror. He lingered behind you, close enough that the warmth of his body made the air feel heavier.
His voice came softer this time. “You look fine.”
Fine. Not breathtaking, not beautiful—just fine.
You scoffed lightly, shaking your head. “Your enthusiasm is overwhelming.”
Jongseong’s gaze flickered over you, his brows drawing together slightly like he wanted to say something else but thought better of it. Instead, he just let out a short exhale and reached for his wand. “Let’s go before Jake tracks me down and drags us there himself.”
As he stepped closer, brushing past you to grab his jacket, your breath caught in your throat. The scent of his cologne—clean, warm, just faintly spiced—wrapped around you before you could react. Your skin prickled as he leaned past you, his fingers grazing the dresser beside you.
You didn’t move until he pulled back, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve with practiced ease. Jongseong glanced at you once more, amusement dancing in his dark eyes, before he disappeared into the Floo Network.
You stepped into the Floo Network, watching as Jongseong disappeared in a swirl of green flames before following suit. The familiar tug of magic sent you tumbling through the space between, and in the next moment, you landed just behind him in the bustling pub.
The scent of warm ale, roasted meat, and burning firewood wrapped around you, the low murmur of conversation filling the air. The pub was lively but not overly packed—just busy enough to feel comfortably distracting.
Jongseong placed a hand on the small of your back, guiding you through the crowd. His touch was light, but it lingered, a silent reminder that this was part of the act.
Jake spotted you first, grinning. “There they are!” He leaned back in his chair, tilting his glass toward you both. “The happy couple.”
You tried not to stiffen at the word. Happy. That was the goal, right?
Jongseong slipped into the role easily, his arm around your waist a little firmer now. “You make it sound like we’ve been in hiding.”
Jake clapped him on the back as everyone scooted over to make space. “Well, you have! We needed proof you didn’t just run away.”
The conversation flowed smoothly, the group’s laughter blending into the warm, buzzing atmosphere. But you couldn’t help noticing the way Jongseong’s hand lingered on your waist, the way his thumb traced lazy circles over the fabric of your dress. It was subtle—just enough to be convincing, just enough to make your pulse jump.
Sunghoon smirked, raising a brow. “So, how’s married life? Are you two still in the honeymoon phase?”
Jake chuckled. “Yeah, Jay keeps insisting they’re doing just great.”
You felt Jongseong’s hand tighten slightly on your hip as he hummed in agreement. “We are.”
And then, before you could react, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your temple.
It was brief, chaste, and yet… oddly intimate. His lips lingered just long enough to make your skin prickle with awareness.
The table burst into cheers.
As the night went on, the conversation shifted from teasing to storytelling. Jake leaned back in his seat, shaking his head fondly. “You know, I still don’t know how the hell Jay managed to get through Hogwarts without completely embarrassing himself.”
Sunghoon chuckled. “That’s because he had us covering for him.”
Jongseong scoffed. “You mean causing more problems than helping?”
Jake smirked. “Call it whatever you want, mate. But let’s not forget that one time you tried to impress a girl by showing off on the Quidditch pitch and almost broke your arm.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Now this sounds like a story I need to hear.”
Jake grinned. “See, back in school, Jay was all business, all the time. But one day, some girl in Ravenclaw was watching him practice, and he got it in his head that he should show off—flew higher than necessary, tried a fancy dive, and nearly knocked himself unconscious.”
Heeseung chuckled, shaking his head. “Ah, young love.”
Sunghoon leaned in. “Speaking of, we should all introduce our wives one day. Maybe have a proper dinner.”
Jongseong stiffened slightly, and you felt it. But before he could say anything, you jumped in.
“That would be nice,” you said, smiling. “Though, I’ll admit, I’d probably be terrible at hosting.”
Jake waved a hand. “Nah, don’t worry about that. Besides, I heard you’re friends with Riki?”
Your brows lifted. “Yeah, I basically treat him like my little brother.”
Jake laughed. “Figures. We were both in the Gryffindor Quidditch Team. He was a Seeker, I was a Chaser—best duo ever.”
Sunghoon snorted. “And yet, somehow, Jay was the one always getting all the attention.”
Jake groaned. “Don’t remind me.”
The banter continued, light and warm, and despite yourself, you found that you were enjoying it. The illusion of normalcy was beginning to feel real.
Jongseong wasn’t just your forced husband tonight—he was someone who had a past, who had friends that truly cared about him. And maybe, you were starting to see why people cared about him, too.
The moment the Floo Network spit you both out into the apartment, the spell of the night started to break. Gone was the warm, buzzing atmosphere of the pub. Now, there was only quiet, filled with nothing but the ticking of the enchanted clock on the wall and the soft rustle of Jongseong adjusting his sleeves.
You expected him to make some dry remark about the night, maybe joke about Jake’s relentless teasing. But instead, he just stood there, staring at you with an expression you couldn’t quite place.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
You blinked, taken aback. “I—yeah. Why?”
He exhaled through his nose, running a hand through his hair. “You were… different tonight.”
Your throat felt dry. “We were both acting.”
“Yeah.” His voice was quiet, unreadable. “I know.”
Neither of you moved. Neither of you quite knew what to do now.
The next few days were… different. Not drastic, not obvious, but something had changed. You noticed it in the way Jongseong lingered in rooms a little longer than before, the way his gaze flickered to you more often, the way silence between you no longer felt so hostile—just heavy.
Even the small moments carried weight. The way he passed you a cup of coffee in the mornings without needing to ask how you took it. The way he let his hand linger just a fraction longer than necessary when handing you something. The way your name sounded softer when he spoke it.
It was nothing. It was everything.
And then came the first real break in the routine.
You hadn’t expected to see Jongseong standing outside your workplace that evening. His presence was striking against the backdrop of hurried Ministry employees, his sleeves rolled up, arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against a lamppost.
For a moment, you just stared, thrown by the sight of him waiting for you.
It felt unnatural—this wasn’t part of your unspoken agreement. You met in shared spaces at home, interacted when necessary, but waiting for each other? That was… different.
You hesitated before approaching. “What are you doing here?”
Jongseong glanced up, his dark eyes flickering over you before he straightened. “Picking you up.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “Since when do we do that?”
Jongseong exhaled, shifting his weight. “Since now.”
You studied him, waiting for an explanation that never came. Instead, he pushed off the lamppost and nodded toward the street. “Come on.”
A flicker of uncertainty settled in your stomach as you fell into step beside him. You weren’t used to this—him reaching out first.
As you walked, the sounds of Diagon Alley surrounded you—shopkeepers closing up for the night, the faint hum of distant chatter, the flickering glow of enchanted street lamps. But the quiet between you was louder.
At some point, he spoke again. “You get along with them.”
You glanced at him. “With who?”
“My friends.”
You hummed. “They’re easy to like.”
Jongseong nodded, his hands tucked into his pockets. His steps were measured, like he was choosing his words carefully.
“They like you too.”
Your fingers tightened slightly around your bag strap. Was that what this was about?
“You fit in well,” he added, his voice lower.
Something warm unfurled in your stomach. “Would it have been a problem if I didn’t?”
Jongseong smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Jake would’ve grilled you until you caved.”
You laughed, and for a moment, things felt effortless.
But as you reached the entrance of your shared home, a thought lingered at the back of your mind.
Why did he come to get you in the first place?
It was well past midnight when you shuffled into the kitchen, craving nothing more than a glass of water. You weren’t expecting to see Jongseong standing there, already by the counter, a mug in his hands.
He turned at the sound of your footsteps, his gaze flickering down your figure.
It wasn’t until you followed his line of sight that you realized exactly what you were wearing.
A nightshirt. Just a nightshirt. One that barely skimmed the tops of your thighs.
You hadn’t thought about it before leaving your room, but now, under his scrutiny, it suddenly felt like the single most scandalous thing you could’ve worn.
Jongseong cleared his throat. “Couldn’t sleep?”
You nodded, stepping closer, reaching for a glass. His presence felt larger in the quiet, like it filled the room in ways you weren’t prepared for. Like he was waiting for something neither of you had the words for.
After a moment, you sighed, staring into your mug as if the swirling liquid inside had all the answers. “I texted my parents about… this,” you finally admitted, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “Two weeks ago.”
Jongseong’s eyes flickered with something unreadable, but he didn’t interrupt.
“They never replied,” you continued, voice carefully even. “Not that I was expecting them to.”
Jongseongs fingers tapped lightly against the table, a thoughtful rhythm. “They’re Muggles, right?”
You nodded, forcing a small smile. “Yeah. I didn’t exactly have the best relationship with them before this. But I thought—” You paused, exhaling sharply. “I thought they’d at least say something.”
He was quiet for a long moment before he spoke again, his voice softer than before. “Maybe they just… don’t know how to respond.”
You scoffed, shaking your head. “Or maybe they just don’t care.”
Jongseong shifted in his seat, glancing down at his hands. He looked like he wanted to say something, to reach for the right words, but he hesitated. Instead, he settled for a careful, almost reluctant, “I’m sorry.”
You lifted a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “It’s fine.”
The silence stretched. The air felt thick. Too thick.
He exhaled through his nose, eyes flickering up to yours. And for the first time, you didn’t look away.
His fingers twitched. His jaw tensed. His eyes darkened, just slightly. And then, he took a step back. A deliberate one.
You swallowed. “I should—”
“Yeah.” His voice was lower than before. Rougher. “Me too.”
Neither of you moved for a long moment. And then you did.
The next morning, the reminder came. A letter, crisp and official, waiting for both of you on the breakfast table.
Jongseong opened it first, scanning the words, his jaw tightening. You peered over.
Ministry of Magic Directive 492-B: Cohabitation Progress Assessment
As part of your continued marital integration, you are required to submit a Cohabitation Progress Report detailing shared living arrangements and physical proximity. As per Clause 7.3 of the Unity Act, proof of continued cohabitation will be assessed in the next Ministry visit.
Failure to comply with expectations may result in reassessment and intervention.
You let out a slow breath. “They’re watching us closer now.”
Jongseong scoffed, tossing the letter aside. “Of course they are.”
Your fingers curled around the edge of the table. Something about the wording unsettled you.
“Physical proximity,” you murmured. “They’re pushing for more.”
Jongseong ran a hand through his hair, looking anywhere but at you. “Yeah.”
Silence.
The weight of the words hung in the air between you, heavy and suffocating.
“We need to practice.”
You looked up from your book, momentarily caught off guard. “Practice what?”
He closed his own book, exhaling like he had already anticipated your reaction. “Being more… natural with each other. The Ministry is expecting real signs of a relationship, not just two people coexisting in the same space.”
You swallowed, shifting slightly. “You mean touching, kissing, all of that?”
He nodded, meeting your gaze with a calmness that only made your stomach tighten further. He wasn’t wrong, of course. If anything, you should have expected this conversation to happen sooner. But something about the way he said it—so practical, so unaffected—sent a nervous flicker through your chest.
“How do you want to start?” you asked, your voice steadier than you felt.
Jongseong hesitated for only a moment before he pushed himself off the couch and extended a hand. “Come here.”
You stared at his outstretched fingers, debating, before finally placing your hand in his. His palm was warm, steady, and as he gently pulled you up, you felt your breath catch slightly at how close he was now.
“Hugging first,” he murmured, like he was giving instructions.
You exhaled softly before stepping forward, wrapping your arms around his waist. It felt awkward at first—stiff, calculated—but then, as his arms circled around you in response, something shifted. He was warm, solid, and despite the tension in your shoulders, there was a comfort in the closeness. You felt the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers rested lightly against your back.
“This isn’t terrible,” he muttered, voice lower than usual.
You huffed a small laugh, eyes still pressed against his chest. “High praise.”
He chuckled, a small vibration against your body. The silence stretched between you, no longer heavy with hesitation but something else—something unspoken. You weren’t sure how long you stood like that before he finally murmured, “Next.”
You swallowed, stepping back slightly. His hands lingered a second longer than necessary before dropping away.
“Kissing?” you asked, trying to sound casual.
Jongseong nodded, something unreadable flickering in his gaze. “We should get used to it.”
You inhaled, forcing yourself to meet his gaze head-on. “Alright.”
His fingers reached for your chin, tilting it up slightly, and the air in the room seemed to shift. He didn’t move immediately, as if gauging your reaction, waiting for the tension to settle before he finally leaned in.
The first brush of his lips was light, cautious. Testing.
Your breath caught. It was such a simple touch, barely there, and yet it sent a strange warmth curling in your stomach. His lips were soft, warm, lingering just a moment longer than necessary before he pressed in again—this time firmer, deeper.
A slow, deliberate slide of lips.
Your fingers curled involuntarily into his shirt, as if steadying yourself, as his lips moved against yours with a patience that sent your pulse hammering in your ears. He wasn’t rushing, wasn’t merely going through the motions. He was learning you.
There was something unbearably intimate about it, something in the way he lingered, in the way his fingers flexed slightly against your waist. Like he wasn’t sure where to place his hands, but he knew he didn’t want to let go.
Your own breath had turned uneven, the warmth between you making your skin prickle. You weren’t supposed to feel this. It was just practice. Just a test.
And yet, your heart betrayed you with every second he refused to pull away.
Just when you thought he was done, his lips barely parted from yours, he hesitated—and then he pressed a featherlight kiss to the corner of your lips, softer than the first, but somehow infinitely more dangerous.
Your eyes snapped open, breath stalling in your throat.
Jongseong didn’t move for a second, his gaze locked on yours as if waiting for a reaction. Then, he took a small step back, clearing his throat. “See? Not so hard.”
You exhaled shakily, forcing a smirk. “Speak for yourself.”
He smiled slightly, but there was something else there now. Something neither of you were quite ready to address.
That night, long after you had gone to bed, you lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The feel of his lips hadn’t left you. The warmth of his touch still clung to your skin, lingering in a way that made sleep impossible.
The first morning after the kiss, you had been unsure what to expect. Would he pretend it hadn’t happened? Would the air be awkward between you?
You walked into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from your eyes, and saw him standing by the stove, making coffee like he always did. The difference was how he looked at you.
"Morning," he said, and before you could respond, he reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear with an ease that made your stomach turn over. The touch was fleeting, barely there, yet entirely intentional.
By the second day, it was a hand at your waist when he passed by you in the hallway, fingers lingering as if testing his boundaries. You weren’t sure when it started feeling natural, but you knew that by the third day, when Jongseong pressed a small peck to your temple as he handed you your morning coffee, you didn’t freeze.
You accepted it.
Maybe even welcomed it.
By then, you had decided that if he could do it so easily, so could you. That morning, before leaving for work, you turned back to him just as you reached the door.
"See you later," you murmured, before pressing a quick peck to his cheek.
It was supposed to be casual, unthinking, but as soon as you stepped back, you caught the slight widening of his eyes before he composed himself. You had caught him off guard.
You swallowed, feigning nonchalance, before leaving quickly. You were the one initiating now.
It was the second evening when Jongseong offered to pick you up from work again.
"If people see us together more often, it might help with the whole convincing thing," he had reasoned.
Logical. Sensible. Everything Jongseong was.
Except when he showed up outside your building, leaning against the stone wall with his hands in his coat pockets, looking entirely unbothered while your coworkers noticed.
"Your husband’s here again," one of them teased as they nudged you.
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the heat crawling up your neck as you stepped outside. He looked good under the streetlights, the cool air turning his skin slightly pink. His gaze met yours, and something flickered in his eyes before he pushed off the wall and walked toward you.
"Long day?" he asked as he fell into step beside you.
"Exhausting," you murmured. "Thanks for picking me up."
He glanced at you, then, as if on impulse, reached for your hand. Not a performance. Just instinct. His fingers laced through yours with the same steadiness he always carried, and even though you told yourself it was just for show, your pulse didn’t get the memo.
Halfway down the street, you spotted a familiar figure across the road—Jake. He caught sight of you at the same time, waving enthusiastically.
Without thinking, you smiled and waved back. "Jake!"
Jongseong’s grip on your hand tightened slightly, just barely noticeable, but he didn’t say anything.
Jake grinned, giving a knowing look before disappearing into the crowd. You cleared your throat, hoping Jongseong didn’t read into anything. But of course, he had noticed.
The morning of the visit felt different. Heavier.
You woke up to the quiet sounds of Jongseong moving around the flat, the faint scent of coffee drifting through the air. The weight of the upcoming meeting sat in your chest like a stone—there was no ignoring the fact that today, the Ministry would scrutinize everything you and Jongseong had been working toward.
You lingered in bed for a moment longer than usual, staring at the ceiling, feeling the heat of your own overactive thoughts. Had you practiced enough? Would they believe you? Would they catch on that some of these moments had started feeling far too real?
You sighed, forcing yourself up, and padded into the kitchen. Jongseong was leaning against the counter, arms crossed as he sipped from his mug. His hair was still damp from his shower, sticking to his forehead slightly, and—
You blinked. He wasn’t wearing a shirt.
Again.
Jongseong barely acknowledged you as he took another sip of coffee, then set the mug down with an exhale. “We should go over a few things before they get here.”
You were still staring at his bare chest, lips slightly parted. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen him like this—Merlin, you lived together now—but something about it felt different today.
“Uh,” you said eloquently. “You’re—”
“I know,” he replied, completely unbothered. “I forgot to grab my shirt from the other room.”
Before you could respond, a loud knock at the door shattered the moment.
Panic seized your chest.
“They’re early?” you hissed.
Jongseong swore under his breath, grabbing for the nearest thing—your cardigan, which had been draped over a chair. He threw it at you before sprinting toward the bedroom, leaving you standing there, gripping the fabric uselessly as another knock sounded.
Forcing down your nerves, you rushed to the door, opening it just enough to see the official standing there, a clipboard in hand.
“Mrs. Park?” the man asked in a clipped tone.
“Yes,” you said, trying to sound composed.
“We’re here for the cohabitation assessment,” he continued, adjusting his glasses as he glanced down at his paperwork. “May we come in?”
You stepped aside, letting them in, just as Jongseong reappeared—this time fully dressed, but slightly breathless. The Ministry official’s gaze flickered between you both, already taking notes.
The official took a seat at the dining table, motioning for both of you to do the same. His assistant, a younger witch with keen eyes, remained standing near the bookshelf, observing.
“We’ll start with some basic questions,” the man said, clicking his quill against the parchment. “How has married life been treating you both?”
Jongseong leaned back slightly, arm draping over the back of your chair in a practiced motion. “It’s been an adjustment,” he said smoothly, glancing at you with what looked like amusement. “But we’re settling in well.”
The official hummed, eyes narrowing. “What would you say has been the biggest change since getting married?”
You hesitated, heart pounding. What was a normal answer?
Jongseong, of course, had no problem answering. “Waking up to each other in the house.”
You nearly choked on air.
The official scribbled something down. “And how do you usually spend your evenings together?”
Your mind raced. Jongseong was the first to respond, again, far too at ease with all of this. “Dinner, talking about our days, sometimes reading together on the couch.”
That was true. But the way he was selling it so smoothly made heat creep up your neck.
The assistant tilted her head. “And your sleeping arrangements?”
The air in the room thickened.
Jongseong barely hesitated. “We have separate rooms for now, but we’re adjusting.”
The official’s quill paused. A bad sign.
“That will need to change,” he said briskly. “As you know, starting next week, it will be mandatory for all married couples under this law to share a bedroom. The Ministry will have enchantments in place to verify compliance. Any deviation from this could result in a reevaluation of your union.”
Your stomach twisted. They were going to monitor your sleeping arrangements?
The assistant added, “It’s a common concern among couples who haven’t previously lived together, but physical closeness is a necessary step toward a successful marriage.”
Your hands clenched beneath the table. Necessary? Successful? What did that even mean in a marriage you hadn’t chosen?
The official leaned forward slightly. “Are you prepared for that transition?”
Jongseong’s grip on the back of your chair tightened just slightly before he nodded. “Of course.”
The official’s gaze flickered between you two, scrutinizing every reaction, every hesitation. “Then we will expect that adjustment to be complete by the next check-in.”
The assistant cleared her throat. “One last thing. We need to verify your comfort with one another.”
You barely had time to process before Jongseong’s fingers curled under your chin, tilting your face toward him.
You should’ve seen it coming.
His lips brushed against yours softly, gently at first. But the moment your breath caught, the moment he felt your fingers instinctively tighten around his, he pressed in just a little more—lingering, deepening, turning what should have been just for show into something you didn’t know how to categorize.
By the time he pulled away, your pulse was hammering.
The official seemed satisfied. “That will do.”
Jongseong didn’t let go of your hand.
The Ministry left shortly after, having seen enough. The moment the door shut behind them, you turned to Jongseong, heart still racing.
“That was—”
“Convincing?” he supplied, arching an eyebrow. He still hadn’t let go of your hand.
You swallowed. “You didn’t have to—”
He cut you off, voice lower. “Would you rather I hadn’t?”
You had no answer to that.
Because the truth was, you weren’t sure anymore.
And, worse still, in just a few days, you wouldn’t be able to avoid the reality of what the Ministry expected from you.
You weren’t just playing house anymore. You were about to start living in it.
You remained standing by the door, arms crossed, still feeling the weight of their scrutiny on your skin. The words lingered between you and Jongseong like an unspoken curse.
You must share a bedroom. You must be physically close. The Ministry will verify.
You turned slowly, eyes meeting Jongseong’s. He was still standing near the table, fingers drumming against the wood. He looked composed—too composed, like he hadn’t just promised the officials something neither of you had fully prepared for.
“You said it so easily,” you muttered.
Jongseong raised a brow. “Would you rather I had hesitated?”
Your arms tightened around yourself. “I don’t know.”
His expression remained impassive, but something in the air shifted—thick, charged with something unspoken.
You swallowed. “We have a week.”
“Six days.”
Your gaze snapped up. “You’re counting?”
He shrugged. “It’s important.”
You exhaled sharply and turned toward the hallway. The flat wasn’t huge, but it had two bedrooms. Your bedroom and his. The safe distance you had clung to was suddenly about to vanish.
You crossed your arms tighter over your chest. “We need to figure out how to do this.”
Jongseong ran a hand through his hair, considering. “We should start by deciding how to—”
“Who’s moving?” you interrupted. “You or me?”
He blinked. You hadn’t even let him finish.
For some reason, the question flustered him more than he expected. He looked toward his room, then toward yours, then back at you. “I… I guess it makes sense for one of us to move into the other’s space.”
You rolled your eyes. “That’s obvious.”
His jaw tensed. “Then why do you sound upset?”
You inhaled sharply. “Because this isn’t normal. None of this is normal.”
Silence. The tension was razor-thin, tight enough to snap, but just as the air felt like it might crack open with unspoken frustration, Jongseong suddenly stepped forward.
Your breath hitched as he reached up, fingers brushing lightly against your hair, tucking a loose strand behind your ear. His touch was barely there—soft, lingering, as if grounding you before the moment could spiral too far.
Your stomach flipped. The anger, the frustration—it melted in an instant, leaving something quieter in its place.
“I know,” he murmured. “But we don’t have a choice.”
He hesitated for a beat before his thumb brushed lightly over your cheek, his fingers barely ghosting your jawline.
“Baby,” he murmured softly, testing the word, letting it hang between you. His eyes searched yours. “Is that okay?”
Your lips parted, but no words came. You weren’t sure what shocked you more—the nickname, or the fact that you didn’t mind it.
You swallowed, heart hammering in your chest, but eventually, you nodded.
Jongseong held your gaze for a second longer before his hand dropped, tension breaking just enough for you to exhale again.
You cleared your throat, stepping back slightly. “I suppose it doesn’t matter, does it?”
“It matters,” he murmured again. His gaze flickered with something unreadable before he turned and walked toward his room. He pushed the door open, revealing a clean and modern space—a bed that somehow seemed too big, a desk neatly arranged, shelves lined with things you hadn’t paid attention to before.
“This will work,” he said simply, like it was nothing. Like moving you into his space wasn’t going to alter everything.
You stepped into the room cautiously, running your fingers along the edge of his desk. This was real now.
Jongseong moved beside you, hands slipping into his pockets. “You’ll take the bed, obviously.”
Your head snapped toward him. “Where are you going to sleep?”
“The couch.”
“No.” The word left you before you could think about it. Because that would be too obvious. Too much space. Too much defiance against what they were expecting.
Jongseong tilted his head. “No?”
You swallowed. “If they’re monitoring, we can’t make it look fake.”
His expression was unreadable. Then, after a long silence, he said, “We’ll take sides.”
You nodded slowly. “Sides.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
Neither of you moved.
The weight of the agreement pressed in around you. You would share a bed. You would be inches apart at night. The pretense of distance was officially gone.
Jongseong finally sighed. “I’ll move your things in tomorrow.”
You nodded. Then, after a pause, you took a small step toward him. “This isn’t going to be easy, is it?”
He smirked faintly. “Nothing about this has been.”
You exhaled slowly. “Then we should make it look real.”
Jongseong’s smirk faded slightly. He tilted his head, his gaze flickering between your eyes and your lips. That look. That tension.
Without thinking, you reached for his wrist, fingers curling around it just briefly before pulling away. Something about touching him first felt necessary.
Jongseong didn’t pull back. Instead, he lifted a hand, his fingers brushing against yours before he murmured, “We’ll figure it out.”
You nodded, stepping back. “We have six days.”
His lips quirked. “Five and a half.”
You huffed a laugh despite yourself. Then, before you could change your mind, you turned and left the room, your pulse still unsteady in your chest.
The first night in the same room felt heavier than you had expected. You sat at the edge of the bed, fingers gripping the sheets as the reality of the situation fully settled over you.
Jay was in the bathroom, the faint sound of running water filling the silence of the bedroom. Your bedroom now. Your bed, which was suddenly meant for two.
When he stepped out, towel drying his hair, you didn’t look up immediately. Instead, you focused on the shifting space around you—the way your books now lined part of his shelf, your blanket was folded at the foot of the bed beside his, your perfume lingered in the air now.
The room was no longer just his. It was becoming yours, too.
Jay let out a slow exhale as he tossed his towel over a chair. When you finally looked up, your gaze caught on the fact that he was shirtless. He had no intention of sleeping in one, it seemed.
“I don’t sleep with a shirt on,” he said casually, noticing your stare.
You swallowed and cleared your throat. “Can you—just for tonight?”
Jay’s brows lifted slightly before he let out a quiet chuckle. “You really think a shirt’s gonna make a difference, baby?”
Your stomach flipped at the nickname, the casual way it rolled off his tongue. The second time tonight.
You forced yourself to hold his gaze. “Just for tonight.”
He sighed, but didn’t argue, grabbing a t-shirt from the dresser and slipping it on before climbing into bed. “Happy?”
You ignored the warmth creeping up your neck and nodded.
“You okay?” he asked after a beat, watching you.
You blinked. That was the first time he’d asked you that all night.
“Yeah,” you said, voice quieter than intended. “Just… adjusting.”
He hummed, turning onto his back. “You’ll get used to it.”
Would you?
You inhaled deeply, then exhaled. “We should set some ground rules.”
He nodded, shifting to get comfortable. “Okay. Like what?”
You hesitated, chewing on your bottom lip. “No unnecessary touching while sleeping.”
Jay smirked. “You think I’m gonna be all over you in my sleep?”
Your stomach flipped at the teasing edge in his voice. “I think accidents happen,” you countered, narrowing your eyes.
He lifted his hands in surrender. “Fine. No unnecessary touching.”
You nodded, though the warmth in your cheeks refused to fade.
“Anything else?” he asked, glancing toward you as he adjusted the pillows.
You hesitated again. “What if, what if one of us wakes up first?”
Jay raised a brow. “Then the other keeps sleeping? That’s usually how waking up works.”
You glared. “I mean, do we pretend to still be asleep? Do we—do we greet each other? What’s the etiquette here?”
Jay let out a soft chuckle, clearly amused. “I dunno. Do you want me to say good morning all soft and sweet? Maybe kiss your forehead while I’m at it?”
You shot him a look, but the mental image sent something warm curling in your stomach.
He grinned. “I’ll just say ‘morning’ and get out of bed. Sound good?”
You nodded. “Okay. That works.”
Jay leaned back against the headboard, watching you for a moment before tilting his head. "By the way," he murmured, "you don’t have to keep calling me Jongseong. Jay is fine."
You hesitated. "Are you sure?"
He smirked slightly. "Yeah. Sounds better when you say it."
Your stomach did an odd little flip at that, but you masked it with a nod. "Alright. Jay."
“You sure you’re comfortable?”
You hesitated before nodding. “Yeah.”
He hummed again, like he didn’t fully believe you, but didn’t push.
Then, just as you were about to shift under the covers, he reached over and brushed a stray strand of hair from your face.
Your breath hitched slightly at the unexpected softness of the gesture. It was casual, like something natural, something instinctive.
“Relax,” he murmured, voice lower now, almost drowsy. “It’s just me.”
Just him.
The realization settled somewhere deep in your chest as you nodded slowly. You lay back, facing the ceiling for a long moment, listening to the quiet rhythm of the room. Eventually, Jay flicked the bedside lamp off, and darkness swallowed the space between you both.
After a long stretch of silence, you swallowed and, almost in a whisper, asked, "Are you already used to it?"
There was a pause before Jay shifted slightly beside you. His voice was softer than before when he finally answered. "Not yet."
Everything that could go wrong had gone wrong. You had spilled coffee on your only clean work shirt, and barely made it to your job on time. Meetings ran over, projects piled up, and no matter how much you tried to get ahead, the day kept dragging you down.
Then, to top it all off, the train home was delayed, and your wand flickered weakly when you tried to summon your keys at the door. By the time you finally stepped inside the apartment, exhaustion clung to your bones, irritation simmering beneath your skin.
You kicked off your shoes with more force than necessary, throwing your bag onto the chair with a frustrated huff. Everything sucked. Absolutely everything.
Then you looked toward the bed.
Jay was already there, half-asleep, his head turned toward the door as if he had been waiting for you. His hair was messy, his bare shoulders peeking out from beneath the covers. The dim lighting made his features softer, relaxed in a way that nearly made you forget how awful your day had been.
“Took you long enough,” he mumbled sleepily.
Your frustration flickered, the sharp edges of it dulling almost instantly. You sighed, running a hand over your face. “Yeah. Today was hell.”
Jay hummed, eyes barely open as he shifted, making just enough space for you. “C’mere, baby.”
Your heart clenched at the way he said it, voice thick with sleep, laced with a quiet warmth that had no right making you feel better.
You sighed again, but this time it wasn’t frustration—it was something softer, something that melted under the weight of his tired gaze.
You moved toward the closet to change, but Jay groaned softly, burying his face in the pillow. “No, just talk to me. I wanna hear about your day.”
You shook your head, exhaling as you unbuttoned your shirt. “You’re barely awake.”
“So?” he muttered, voice muffled. “Still wanna hear you.”
His insistence chipped away at whatever was left of your bad mood. As you moved through your night routine, you found yourself telling him everything—the stupid meetings, the unbearable commute, the way your boss kept mispronouncing your name even after working together for months.
Jay hummed occasionally, nodding in half-conscious agreement, eyes drifting shut between your sentences. But every time you stopped, thinking he had finally fallen asleep, his voice would break the silence.
“What happened after that?”
“Did you tell them off?”
“Bet you rolled your eyes at least five times.”
By the time you finally crawled into bed, most of the weight from the day had lifted, replaced by a quiet comfort that settled deep in your bones. As you exhaled, sinking into the sheets, Jay shifted beside you. His eyes were barely open, sleep pressing heavy against him, but he still reached out, fingers brushing against your cheek.
Without thinking, he murmured, "C’mere," and before you could register what was happening, he pulled you in, pressing a firm, lingering kiss against your lips. It was warm, slow, edged with sleep and something softer, something that made your chest tighten.
By the time he pulled away, his lips barely ghosting against yours, he was already halfway asleep again. "Better?" he mumbled, his voice slurred.
You swallowed, your pulse unsteady. "Yeah," you whispered. Jay’s fingers brushed against your arm as he exhaled a long, satisfied sigh. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”
You huffed, shaking your head. “Me talking about my day was more for your entertainment than comfort, wasn’t it?”
Jay’s lips curled lazily. “Maybe.”
You rolled your eyes, shifting under the covers. But then Jay mumbled, “No shirt, no pants? I know you don’t like to wear your pants to sleep.”
You exhaled, already feeling the exhaustion tug at your limbs. “Fine.”
His fingers flexed against the sheets, satisfied. “Good. Together, we make one whole pajama set.”
You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”
Jay hummed in agreement, already drifting off. Only when you settled beside him, feeling the shared warmth beneath the blankets, did he finally stop fighting sleep. But before he did, his hand found your cheek, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin.
Without thinking, he leaned in again, this time pressing a softer, lingering kiss against your jaw. You exhaled slowly, your hands hesitating for only a moment before one of them lifted, fingers grazing the bare skin of his chest, feeling the warmth beneath your touch. His breath hitched slightly, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, he shifted closer, his lips trailing down to brush a barely-there kiss against the curve of your neck, his hand moving up to cradle the side of your face.
"Sleep," he mumbled against your skin, voice fading into exhaustion, before finally letting go.
You woke up to warmth. A slow, steady heat radiating from beside you, the blankets feeling heavier than usual.
Your eyes blinked open to see him still asleep, lying on his stomach, one arm tucked under his pillow, the other stretched out lazily, fingers grazing your side. His breathing was even, his face completely relaxed in sleep.
You hesitated, watching him for just a moment longer than necessary, before attempting to shift away.
The second you moved, Jay groaned low in his throat. “Stay,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. His fingers flexed against your hip before retracting as if he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch you yet.
You swallowed, trying to ignore the way your stomach flipped at his drowsy tone. “I need coffee.”
Jay cracked one eye open. “You always need coffee.”
You huffed. “And you always wake up in a good mood. How?”
He smirked sleepily, rolling onto his back with a slow stretch, his toned stomach peeking out from under the sheets. “It’s a gift, baby.”
The nickname sent a rush of heat to your cheeks, and you pushed the covers off before he could catch your expression. “I’m making coffee.”
Jay hummed, still blinking away sleep. “You’re really just gonna get up and leave me like this?”
You paused, turning to glance at him. “Like what?”
He grinned lazily. “Cold and abandoned.”
You scoffed but couldn’t help the small smile tugging at your lips. “You’re so dramatic in the morning.”
Jay only smirked as you made your way to the kitchen, the comfortable ease between you lingering even as you started your morning routine.
Moments later, he joined you, still shirtless, hair a mess, moving to grab a mug from the cupboard. As you handed him his coffee, he leaned in absentmindedly, pressing a soft kiss against your shoulder before taking the cup. The motion was so casual, so natural, that it took you a second to process.
You blinked, turning to face him. "Aren’t you kissing me too much?"
Jay stiffened slightly, eyes flicking up to meet yours. But then his lips quirked, and he leaned back against the counter, sipping his coffee.
You watched him for a beat before setting your mug down. "Fine."
Before he could ask what you meant, you leaned in, arms lifting to loosely wrap around his neck as you pressed a soft kiss just beneath his jaw, your lips grazing the warm skin of his neck. You felt the slight shudder run through him, the way his grip on his coffee mug tightened just a fraction. Jay's breath hitched slightly, his fingers tightening around his mug.
When you pulled back, you smirked at the way his ears had turned red. "Happy now?"
"You should kiss me more," he teased.
You shot him a look, passing him a cup of coffee. “You’re lucky I made extra.”
Jay took a sip, sighing in content. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks, baby.”
You pretended not to react to the name, but the warmth stayed with you longer than your coffee did.
As you took another sip of your coffee, the quiet hum of the morning was interrupted by the sound of fluttering wings. An owl swooped in through the open kitchen window, landing gracefully on the counter, a neatly tied envelope clutched in its beak.
Jay sighed, setting his mug down as he reached for the letter. "That'll be from my parents."
You watched as he untied the parchment, unfolding it with a slight frown. The owl hooted softly, waiting for a response.
Jay's eyes scanned the page, his expression unreadable at first. Then, with a small exhale, he muttered, "They want to see us."
Your fingers tightened slightly around your mug. Us.
“You’re staring at it like it’s gonna bite,” he mused, taking a sip of his coffee.
You huffed. “I just don’t know what to expect.”
Jay exhaled through his nose, setting his mug down. “My parents… they’re not bad. Just… traditional. They’ll expect things to look a certain way.”
Your fingers curled around your cup. “And what if they don’t?”
He tilted his head slightly, watching you. “Then we make sure they do.”
There was something unreadable in his expression, something both reassuring and unsettling all at once. He was taking this seriously—not just the Ministry part, but the part where you both had to convince his family, too.
You bit your lip. “One thing at a time?”
Jay smirked slightly, tapping his fingers against the counter. “One thing at a time.”
You weren’t sure why the thought made your stomach twist, but something about meeting Jay’s parents, about having to present this marriage as real to them, felt heavier than anything you had prepared for.
Jay looked at you then, tilting his head slightly. "I can write back later. No rush. Honestly, let’s just get through the last Ministry visit for a while first—then we can deal with my parents."
You swallowed, nodding. "Right. No rush."
The owl flapped its wings, as if impatient, but Jay simply placed the letter aside, returning his focus to his coffee. The weight of the letter lingered in the air between you, unspoken but present.
The morning had started normally enough. Work had been relatively uneventful, save for your coworker Mina pulling you aside as you both sorted through some files in the break room. She leaned against the counter, stirring sugar into her tea with a knowing look in her eyes.
"So," she drawled, "how's married life treating you?"
You blinked. "It’s… an adjustment."
Mina scoffed, taking a sip of her tea. "Adjustment? That’s a diplomatic way of putting it. You barely look married. No ring marks on your fingers, no swooning over your husband’s lunch visits."
You huffed. "He doesn’t visit me at work, but he does pick me up after. And we do kiss and stuff."
Mina’s brows shot up, interest piqued. "Kiss and stuff? So, what, like a peck on the lips? A lingering moment? You making out against the nearest wall?"
Your face burned. "Not making out. Just… normal kissing."
Mina gave you a deadpan look before taking another sip of her tea. "Okay, listen. Make out. Suck his dick. Get laid. In that order."
You nearly choked. "Mina!"
She smirked, unbothered. "What? Jongseong is a total hottie, you’re stressed, and all this weird tension you’re feeling will go away the moment you two start properly acting like husband and wife."
You groaned, rubbing your temples. "You are actually the worst."
Mina shrugged, grinning. "I’m just saying, sweetheart, at some point, you’re gonna have to stop pretending this is a polite roommate situation. Might as well enjoy yourself in the process."
She only laughed, patting your shoulder. "I’m just saying, if you’re already forced to live together, might as well enjoy the perks, right? Bet he’s not bad in bed either."
Mina shrugged, clearly unfazed. "I’m the realist. You’re the one making this more complicated than it needs to be."
You rolled your eyes but couldn't fully shake her words from your mind as the day went on.
Jay had suggested going out for lunch—something about fresh air being good for you, but you had a sneaking suspicion he was trying to get you out of your own head. The tension of the upcoming dinner with his parents had been lingering between you both, and he was trying to shift the focus.
The café was cozy, tucked into a quiet corner of the city, the kind of place that blurred the line between magical and Muggle. Small, levitating candles hovered above each table, but there was also a very prominent espresso machine steaming in the background, giving the place a strange but warm blend of both worlds.
Jay was different today. More touchy.
The first time he reached for your hand, it caught you off guard. You had been gesturing while explaining something, only to have his fingers wrap around yours mid-sentence, lacing them together as if it was the most natural thing in the world. You blinked down at your joined hands, but he only smirked, continuing to listen as if nothing had changed.
Jay tilted his head slightly. "By the way, you always talk about Niki, but what about your other friends? Jungwon, right?"
You blinked. "Yeah. Jungwon and I have been friends for a while now."
Jay hummed. "Funny. I actually tutored him for like a week back in school."
Your eyes widened. "You? Tutoring Jungwon?"
He smirked. "Yeah. He was struggling with Charms. Thought he could figure everything out by himself, but he kept botching the spellwork."
You laughed. "That does sound like him. How did it go?"
Jay shrugged. "He quit after a week. Said he learned better by messing up on his own."
You snorted. "That sounds even more like him."
Jay smirked, leaning back in his chair. "Guess we’ve had more overlapping connections than I thought."
It wasn’t until later that evening, back at the apartment, that you realized just how much more comfortable Jay had gotten with you.
You were sitting on the couch, legs curled up beneath you as you skimmed through a book, when Jay walked in, plopping down beside you with absolutely no regard for personal space. Without hesitation, he reached for your arm and tugged gently, signaling for you to shift.
You raised a brow. “What?”
Jay smirked. “Come here.”
You scoffed. “Why?”
He sighed, as if you were exhausting, before simply pulling you toward him. You barely had time to react before you were settled against his chest, your back pressed against him as he stretched his legs out comfortably. His arms caged you in, warm and steady.
“Jay,” you muttered, stiffening slightly. “What are you doing?”
“Relaxing.” His voice was easy, like this was normal. Like you hadn’t just settled directly into his lap.
You swallowed, unsure of what to do with yourself. “I—”
“You’re warm,” he murmured, voice dropping slightly.
Your heartbeat stuttered.
The worst part was that he was warm too.
After a few seconds, you exhaled, finally allowing yourself to relax into him. Jay hummed in approval, his lips grazing against the shell of your ear as he shifted slightly, adjusting his grip around you. The touch was fleeting but intentional.
“You really don’t mind all this?” you asked quietly.
Jay chuckled, his breath warm against your skin. “Mind it? I’m starting to think I like it too much.”
You sucked in a breath, but before you could respond, he nuzzled against your shoulder, his teeth grazing your ear before closing lightly around it in a teasing nibble. Your breath hitched, and your fingers instinctively gripped his arm.
"Jay—"
He didn't pull back. Instead, his arms tightened around you, and his lips moved lower, pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to the curve of your neck. The warmth of it sent a sharp jolt through your spine, and before you could second-guess yourself, you turned slightly in his lap, tilting your head toward him.
It happened naturally—his mouth met yours in a kiss that was slower, deeper than either of you had intended. The shift in energy was unmistakable, tension curling between you like an unspoken understanding neither of you wanted to break.
Jay's hands splayed against your back, pulling you closer as your fingers curled into his shirt, anchoring yourself. When he bit at your bottom lip, a quiet noise escaped you, and he responded by deepening the kiss, tilting his head as if he couldn't get enough.
By the time you finally pulled away, breath uneven, his forehead rested against yours, his lips just barely brushing over yours again in a lingering tease. Your heart was still racing, your hands still lightly curled against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
Jay's breath was still uneven against your skin, his hands resting against your lower back, keeping you close. You could still feel the warmth of his lips, the lingering tension settling between you both like an unspoken acknowledgment.
His arms tightened slightly, and he nuzzled against your cheek, pressing a barely-there kiss against your temple. "You feel safe," he murmured, his voice lower, softer.
Your breath hitched. "What?"
Jay exhaled slowly, as if grounding himself in your presence. "With you. I feel safe with you."
The confession sent a warmth through your chest that you weren’t prepared for. Your fingers twitched slightly against his shirt, caught between the instinct to pull away and the need to stay exactly where you were.
Jay tilted his head, his nose brushing against your cheek. "You like taking care of me, don’t you?" he mused, teasing but sincere.
You swallowed, trying to steady yourself. "You’re impossible."
His smirk returned, albeit softer this time. "Maybe. But I think you like me this way."
You huffed, shaking your head, but you didn’t pull away. Instead, you let yourself sink just a little further into his embrace, knowing—deep down—you weren’t quite ready to let go yet.
"Told you you'd get used to it," he murmured, his voice husky.
“Jay,” you warned, though your voice came out softer than intended.
He only smirked, resting his chin on your shoulder like he hadn’t just sent your heart into overdrive. “You’re overthinking again, baby.”
And you hated that he was right.
You had been dreading the Ministry’s visit from the moment the letter arrived, confirming the final scheduled check-in before a long evaluation period. It was supposed to be a relief—this was the last time, for a while at least, that an official would come snooping around, dissecting your marriage like it was an experiment instead of your actual life.
But relief was the last thing you felt.
There was something suffocating about the expectation of passing. You and Jay had gotten good at playing your roles, good at the casual touches, the familiarity, the easy, teasing back-and-forth that had started feeling more real than pretend. But today, something felt… off.
Maybe it was because the words still echoed in your mind.
You should kiss me more.
You feel safe.
Jay had said it so easily, as if it was second nature to him now, to be comfortable around you. But comfort didn’t mean security, and today, everything felt like it was hanging by a thread.
The Ministry official, a stern-looking woman with wire-rimmed glasses, sat across from you both in the living room. A notepad in her hands, quill poised. Watching. Always watching.
“So,” she said, adjusting her glasses. “We’ve received positive reports so far on your integration as a married couple. How has the transition been?”
Jay, as always, was calm, composed, charming. “It’s been good. We’ve built a routine, settled into daily life together.”
Her eyes flickered to you. “And you?”
You swallowed. “It’s… an adjustment, but I think we’re getting there.”
The Ministry woman nodded, making a note. “Good, good. And the cohabitation aspect? Shared space, sleeping arrangements?”
Jay didn’t even hesitate. “Of course.”
You nodded, feeling the walls close in around you. You wondered if she could sense the strange weight in the air, the tension neither of you had fully addressed.
She glanced down at the file in her lap. “As you know, by the next evaluation period, the Ministry will be monitoring this aspect through magical verification. We must ensure that your union progresses naturally.”
Naturally. As if any of this had been natural from the start.
Her gaze sharpened. “And, of course, I must remind you that by the second year of marriage, procreation is expected. The Ministry understands that adjustments take time, but ultimately, your union is meant to strengthen the magical bloodlines.”
Your stomach clenched. Jay’s jaw tensed.
“Understood,” Jay finally said, his tone even.
You managed a nod, even though your heart was pounding in your ears. The official studied you both for a moment longer before standing, closing her folder.
“I believe that will be all for now,” she said, giving a tight smile. “We will check in again at the next scheduled period. Until then, I suggest you continue settling into your roles as husband and wife.”
And just like that, she was gone. But her words lingered, thick like smoke in the room.
Neither of you spoke for a long moment.
Then, Jay let out a sharp breath and ran a hand through his hair. “Well, that was fun.”
Your jaw clenched. “Fun.”
He glanced at you, sensing the shift in your tone. “What?”
You stood abruptly, pacing toward the kitchen, needing space. “Nothing.”
Jay sighed, rubbing at his temple. “Come on, baby, just say it.”
And maybe it was the way he said it—so effortlessly, so casually, as if nothing had just happened—that made something in you snap.
“Say what, Jay?” You whirled around, frustration bubbling over. “That I hate this? That I hate how the Ministry talks about children like we’re required to breed for them? That I hate how we have to act like our lives are some scripted performance?”
Jay exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You think I don’t hate it too?”
“Do you?” The words were out before you could stop them, sharp, biting. “Because sometimes it feels like you’re perfectly fine pretending.”
Jay’s expression darkened. "I’m trying to make the best of this, but you act like I’m the enemy. We’re in this together, or have you forgotten that?"
You let out a bitter laugh. "Together? Jay, sometimes it feels like you don't even care. Like you're just rolling with this because it's easier for you."
Jay’s eyes flashed with something unreadable, his posture stiffening. "What do you mean I don't care? Do you think I wanted this? Do you think I wake up every morning thrilled about the fact that my life got rewritten by some Ministry law?"
You exhaled sharply. "I never said that."
"No, but you sure as hell act like I’m the one who forced you into this." His voice was sharper now, frustration laced into every word. "I’ve been trying, okay? Trying to make this livable, trying to make it easier for both of us. But every time I do, you push back like you’d rather pretend I don’t exist."
You crossed your arms, hating the way his words stung. "I don’t pretend you don’t exist, Jay. I just—" You swallowed hard. "I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to balance what’s real and what’s not," Your heart pounded, "I haven’t forgotten that we're in this together. But maybe I wish we weren’t."
Jay’s entire body went rigid. His jaw clenched, and when he spoke, his voice was quieter, but no less sharp. "What do you mean, you wish we weren’t?"
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out at first. "Jay—"
"No, say it," he pressed, his voice laced with something raw. "Has this all just been an inconvenience to you? Have I just been another part of the mess?"
You inhaled shakily. "That’s not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean?" His eyes bore into yours, frustration and something else—something closer to hurt—bleeding into his gaze.
You hesitated. "I just meant… I don’t know what’s real and what’s not anymore."
Jay’s expression darkened further, his frustration spilling over. "It’s all real, because this is our life now! This isn’t some fantasy, or some nightmare you can wake up from. This is it. We’re here, together, and no amount of wishing it away is going to change that."
Jay let out a harsh breath, running a hand through his hair. "Maybe it isn’t normal, but it’s ours. And if we keep tearing it apart every time something doesn’t go the way we want, then what the hell are we even doing?"
Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. Neither of you willing to be the first to break it.
The silence that followed was deafening. Jay’s face didn’t change, but something behind his eyes did. A flicker of something that looked like hurt.
And then, just like that, the moment passed.
His jaw clenched, his voice measured. “We have dinner with my parents tonight.”
You inhaled sharply, your stomach twisting. You had completely forgotten in the middle of the chaos.
“Great,” you muttered. “Can’t wait.”
Jay exhaled, stepping back. “Just… get ready. We’ll deal with this later.”
The carriage ride to Jay’s family estate was quiet, tense. You barely spoke, both still reeling from the heated argument earlier. Jay’s gaze was fixed outside the window, jaw tight, and though you knew this dinner was important, you couldn’t shake the unease crawling under your skin.
By the time you arrived, the grandeur of the Park estate was impossible to ignore. The house—no, the manor—was a striking example of old magic, the kind of wealth that had been passed down for generations.
Tall wrought-iron gates opened with a soft creak, revealing sprawling courtyards lined with lantern-lit pathways, their glow flickering in the cool evening air. The mansion itself was regal, its high stone walls blanketed in ivy, windows aglow with warm golden light.
Jay straightened the moment the carriage stopped, his usual relaxed demeanor replaced by something practiced. Reserved. This was his world, and you were only stepping into it.
A house-elf opened the massive front doors before either of you could knock, ushering you into a vast foyer lined with polished marble floors and an intricately carved staircase leading to the upper levels. The walls were adorned with enchanted portraits, all featuring past generations of the Park family—stoic figures in rich robes watching you with unsettling scrutiny.
Jay’s mother was waiting in the grand entrance hall, regal as ever. Her dark hair was elegantly styled, her robes immaculate, her presence exuding the effortless grace of someone accustomed to being obeyed.
"Jongseong," she greeted, her voice smooth but edged with expectation. "It’s been too long."
Jay nodded, a polite smile barely reaching his eyes. "You know how it is."
His father stood just behind her, taller than Jay, his presence commanding even in silence. His features were sharp, his stare assessing, but there was a flicker of curiosity when he glanced at you.
His mother’s gaze shifted toward you, scanning with the precision of someone accustomed to weighing worth. "And you must be my daughter-in-law."
The title landed heavily. Daughter-in-law. It sounded more binding coming from her than it ever had from a Ministry official.
You dipped your head slightly. "It’s lovely to meet you."
She studied you for a long moment before giving a small nod. "Come in. Dinner is ready."
The dining room was ornate and intimidating, the kind of place where silence held weight. A long, polished table stretched across the room, set with fine china and gleaming silverware. Floating candles hovered overhead, casting a warm but almost oppressive glow on the deep mahogany walls lined with more ancestral portraits.
Dinner was served in meticulously timed courses, each plate appearing at the perfect moment as house-elves moved soundlessly through the space. The food was exquisite, but you barely tasted it—your mind too occupied with the undercurrent of tension between you and Jay.
His parents, though polite, were assessing you, their questions carefully crafted to evaluate rather than genuinely get to know you.
"Tell me," his mother finally said, dabbing her lips with a pristine napkin, "how have you been adjusting to married life?"
You forced a smile. "It’s been an adjustment, but we’re finding our way."
Jay’s father hummed, swirling his wine glass. "Finding your way?" His sharp eyes flickered between the two of you. "That’s an interesting choice of words."
You felt Jay tense beside you. "We’re managing just fine."
His mother tilted her head slightly, her gaze sharper than before. "Did you two have a fight?"
Your breath caught in your throat. The room felt smaller. Had they already noticed?
Jay let out a measured sigh, fingers tightening slightly around his fork. "It’s nothing. Just—" he exhaled, sparing you a quick glance, "a disagreement."
His mother hummed thoughtfully, setting her napkin down beside her plate. "Marriage isn’t about never fighting. It’s about how you handle the fights."
His father nodded, his deep voice breaking the tense silence. "A marriage built on avoidance will always crumble. Disagreements are inevitable, but how you choose to move forward from them is what matters."
The weight of their words settled heavily between you and Jay, a third presence at the table. It wasn’t accusatory, nor was it particularly comforting—it was simply fact. And it left you feeling exposed.
His mother’s gaze lingered on Jay for a moment longer before softening just a fraction as she turned back to you. "It will take time, but if you are both willing to build something real from this, then you must learn to meet each other halfway."
You swallowed, nodding slowly. Halfway.
After dinner, as the plates vanished and the dining room emptied, Jay’s mother turned to you with a calm, knowing expression. "Come," she said, rising gracefully from her seat. "Let’s wash our hands before dessert."
You hesitated for only a moment before following her, feeling Jay’s gaze linger on you as you exited the room. The air in the corridor was cool, laced with the scent of fresh linen and aged parchment. You expected her to lead you directly to the washroom, but instead, after you rinsed your hands, she gestured toward a side door that opened into a moonlit garden.
"A walk will do us both some good," she murmured, stepping outside.
The estate grounds were vast, illuminated by the soft glow of floating lanterns. The paths were lined with perfectly trimmed hedges and arching trellises of enchanted flowers that bloomed faintly in the evening air. It was quiet, serene, the opposite of the tension you had felt all night.
She walked beside you in silence for a few moments before speaking. "I can see the weight you’re carrying, dear. You don’t need to hide it from me."
You exhaled slowly. "It’s just… a lot. Adjusting, trying to understand what all of this means, what’s expected of me… and Jay."
Her lips curled slightly, not unkindly. "My son is… difficult at times. But I know him well."
You glanced at her, uncertain. "You seem to know a lot about us already."
She chuckled. "I know marriage is not easy, especially one like yours. But I also know that my son is not as indifferent as he pretends to be. He may act as though he’s handling everything well, but I see the way he looks at you. And I see the way you look at him, even when you don’t realize it."
You swallowed. "I don’t know how to make this work."
She stopped walking, turning to you. In the dim light, her gaze was softer than before. "Then start by meeting him where he is. And let him meet you there, too."
You nodded slowly, her words settling deep within you.
Then, as if sensing your next question, she offered a small smile. "If I know my son—and I do—he’s waiting for you upstairs. In his old bedroom. He may be stubborn, but he won’t go to sleep without trying to fix things."
The warmth in her voice was unexpected, and when she placed a gentle hand on your arm, she added, "Call me Mom. Family is built over time, but you’re part of ours now."
Something in your chest tightened, but you found yourself nodding, feeling the smallest bit lighter.
"Go to him," she murmured, stepping back toward the house. "The night is long, but love is patient."
The hallways of the Park estate were quiet, dimly lit by sconces casting soft, flickering light. The house smelled like old parchment, polished mahogany, and something herbal—like a potion left brewing long enough to become part of the walls. The weight of history pressed in on you as you followed the familiar path to Jay’s childhood bedroom.
Your fingers curled into fists at your sides as you stood outside his door, slightly ajar, warm lamplight spilling onto the dark floorboards. Your heart was a riot in your chest, each beat slamming against your ribs.
You pushed the door open.
Jay was there. Waiting.
He sat on the edge of his bed, one elbow propped on his knee, fingers pressed to his temple like he had the beginnings of a headache. His sleeves were still rolled up, exposing the lean muscle of his forearms, and his shirt hung loosely over his frame, collar slightly undone like he’d been tugging at it in frustration. His hair was tousled—from his hands, or maybe from the weight of the night.
He looked up as you entered. His expression was unreadable, but his shoulders tensed.
The room was suffocatingly personal. The bed, bigger than you expected, was covered in dark gray sheets that had long lost their crispness. The walls, lined with old Quidditch posters and bookshelves crammed with textbooks and novels, spoke of a younger, more ambitious Jay—one you had never known.
Your throat tightened. This was his space. His past. And now you were stepping into it.
You shut the door behind you, your breath unsteady.
“Your mom told me you’d be here,” you said softly.
Jay scoffed under his breath, shaking his head. "Of course, she did."
The silence that stretched between you was thick with unspoken things. You shifted on your feet, nerves crawling up your spine. It shouldn’t be this hard to talk to him.
You exhaled. "She also told me to call her Mom."
That got his attention. His brow furrowed slightly, his gaze flickering over you like he was trying to decide if you were serious. "Yeah?"
You nodded. "She gave me some advice, too. About meeting halfway."
Jay inhaled deeply, rubbing at his temple before looking at you fully. "Sounds like her."
More silence. It wasn’t cold anymore, but it wasn’t comfortable either. Just hesitant. Fragile.
Finally, he sighed. "I don’t like fighting with you."
The words hit you harder than they should have. A lump formed in your throat. "Me neither."
Jay’s eyes softened just slightly, his posture relaxing the smallest bit. "I meant what I said earlier. This… us. It’s real, whether we wanted it to be or not."
You swallowed against the sudden sting behind your eyes. Real. That word lodged itself deep in your chest, making it hard to breathe.
You took a slow step forward. Then another. And another, until you were standing between his knees.
Jay’s hands twitched at his sides, like he wanted to reach for you but wasn’t sure if he should.
"I don’t know how to do this," you whispered, voice tight.
Jay’s throat bobbed as he exhaled, and this time, he didn’t hesitate. His hands slid up your hips, fingers digging into your waist just enough to make you feel it.
“Then let’s figure it out together,” he murmured.
A small, broken sound escaped you before you could stop it. His grip tightened.
Tears slipped past your lashes, and Jay’s entire expression shifted. His fingers brushed up, cradling your face, wiping them away.
"Baby, hey—" his voice dropped lower, raw. "Why are you crying?"
You let out a watery laugh, shaking your head. "I don’t know. I just—" You sucked in a breath. "You call me baby like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like we’re normal. And I don’t know what to do with that."
Jay studied you for a long moment, then tilted his head forward, pressing his forehead to yours.
His warmth seeped into your skin, anchoring you. He smelled like home.
"You don’t have to do anything with it," he murmured. "Just let me hold you."
You let out another shaky breath before you did something you hadn’t done before.
You settled into his lap.
Jay’s entire body stiffened, but he didn’t stop you. His arms came up instinctively, wrapping around your waist, holding you tighter, like he was afraid you’d disappear.
Your fingers toyed with the edges of his collar, trailing along the warm skin just beneath it. His pulse thrummed under your fingertips, fast but steady.
Then, without thinking, you leaned in and kissed him.
It was soft at first, hesitant—a brush of lips meant to test the waters. But when Jay sighed against your mouth and pulled you flush against him, the hesitation melted away.
He kissed you deeper.
You could feel everything in the way he held you—his hands sliding up your spine, his fingers tracing your ribs, the weight of every moment leading up to this one.
By the time you pulled away, you were breathless. Your forehead rested against his, lips still tingling.
Then, in a hushed, teasing voice, you whispered, "I love it when you smother me with yourself. It makes me feel beautiful."
Jay froze.
Then—a deep, rich laugh rumbled in his chest. He tipped his head back, grinning. "What?"
Your cheeks burned. "It sounded better in my head."
Jay’s arms tightened around you, his lips brushing over your temple as he chuckled. "God, you’re ridiculous."
You hummed, tracing absent patterns over his chest. "But you love it."
Jay exhaled, nuzzling into the crook of your neck as if he belonged there. "Yeah, baby," he murmured against your skin. "I do."
For the first time that night, everything felt right.
The morning sun poured through the windows the next morning, casting golden streaks across the bedroom floor. You stirred slightly, feeling warmth wrapped around you—solid, firm, undeniably Jay.
His arm was draped over your waist, his breath hot against the back of your neck, slow and steady. His entire body was flush against yours, the weight of his leg thrown over yours, as if he had unconsciously tangled himself around you in the night.
You froze, hyper-aware of every point of contact. His hand splayed low on your stomach, fingers curled just barely under the hem of your shirt. His breath fanned over the shell of your ear, sending shivers racing down your spine.
Then, he tightened his grip.
You sucked in a breath as his fingers flexed against your skin, pulling you back against him. A low hum rumbled in his chest, deep and sleepy.
"Mmm. Stay," he muttered, voice thick with sleep, gravelly in a way that made your stomach flip.
You should move. You should pull away. But you don’t.
Instead, you let yourself sink into the warmth of him, just for a second. The feel of him—his bare skin against yours, the solid press of his body—had your mind spiraling into dangerous places. He was so warm, so strong, so impossibly close.
Your breath stuttered as you felt his fingers slide just a little lower, his palm pressing just a little firmer.
And then, realization hit.
You jerked away, heart hammering, but Jay barely reacted. He let out a tired groan, stretching his arm over his head before blinking at you through half-lidded eyes.
"What’s wrong?" His voice was hoarse, his gaze still heavy with sleep.
You cleared your throat, forcing your voice to stay even. "Nothing. Just… we should get up."
Jay smirked, lazy and knowing.
"If you say so, baby."
The walk home was silent, but thick. Every brush of your arms, every accidental glance, every moment of quiet between you carried an unbearable weight.
You weren’t sure when it had started—this undercurrent of something more, something dangerous. But you could feel it burning beneath the surface.
When you stepped inside the apartment, the air changed.
Jay lingered near the kitchen, arms crossed as he leaned against the counter. He watched you, gaze heavy, unreadable. You could feel it—the tension crackling between you like a live wire.
Finally, he broke the silence. "You’re different."
You glanced at him. "So are you."
His lips quirked. "That a bad thing?"
You didn’t answer. Because no, it wasn’t. And that was the problem.
It started small. A test. A game.
You began pushing his buttons—on purpose.
Brushing past him with too much force. Leaning in just a little too close when speaking. Letting your fingers trail over his wrist absentmindedly, just to see if he’d react.
And Jay? He played back.
His palm ghosting over the small of your back when he passed behind you. His lips brushing your ear as he murmured something teasing. His fingers trailing down your spine for just a second too long.
Then came the moment when he finally called you out.
One night, as you passed him in the hallway, his hand shot out, catching your wrist.
He turned to face you, his eyes dark, smirk sharp.
"What’s this, baby? Trying to get my attention?"
Your breath caught in your throat. You had been. But you weren’t about to admit it.
You scoffed. "In your dreams."
Jay chuckled, but there was something dangerous in his expression now.
"Oh, I think you’ve been in my dreams, too."
Your heart slammed against your ribs. He was winning. And you couldn’t have that.
So, you did something reckless.
As you moved past him, you let your fingers drag over his stomach, just barely skimming the skin exposed by his loose shirt.
Jay stiffened.
For the first time, he looked affected. His jaw clenched, fingers twitching at his sides.
Then, he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "You keep playing with fire, baby."
You turned, eyes locking onto his. "And what if I am?"
His lips parted. His fingers curled into fists.
He was so, so close to losing it.
It happened in the smallest, most ridiculous way.
You were reaching for something on the top shelf in the kitchen when Jay stepped behind you, his body pressing up against yours, his hand effortlessly grabbing it before you could.
"Let me," he murmured, his voice low and deep in your ear.
You froze. Every inch of him was against you. His chest, his hips, his hands.
Then, you pressed back against him.
Jay let out a quiet, shaky breath. His fingers dug into your waist.
"You don’t know what you’re doing to me," he whispered. His lips brushed your ear, his breath warm.
You turned slightly, your lips just barely grazing his.
"Then show me."
And that was it. That was the moment. Jay grabbed you, spun you, backed you against the counter.
His mouth crashed against yours—needy, desperate, hungry. A gasp escaped you, swallowed instantly by his lips. His hands gripped your thighs, lifting you onto the counter with ease.
You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him closer, so, so close.
Jay broke the kiss, panting, pressing his forehead against yours. His hands shook as they held onto you. "Tell me to stop."
You shook your head. "Don’t you dare.".
The air between you and Jay was electric, charged with unspoken desire that had been simmering for far too long. It was too much now, a weight pressing down on you both, demanding to be released. When his lips finally claimed yours, it was with urgency, with hunger, as if he had been holding back for months.
The kitchen—such a normal, mundane setting—was suddenly transformed into something far more intimate, more dangerous. The cool granite countertop pressed into your back as Jay’s lips crushed against yours, sending shockwaves through your body.
At first, your lips parted in surprise, but the moment you surrendered, it was over. His kiss was hungry, his mouth moving fervently against yours, tasting, exploring, claiming. His tongue swept inside, demanding, possessive, like he was marking you as his own.
A soft moan escaped you, a sound of surrender, of need.
It seemed to unleash something in him.
His hands, which had been resting gently on your thighs, tightened with fierce intensity. His long fingers dug into the soft flesh, leaving imprints as he pushed you further into the counter, molding you against him. Your back arched instinctively, pressing your body closer, craving more of the heat between you.
The kiss deepened, turning hotter, messier. A whimper slipped from your lips, and Jay responded with a deep, primal growl, his mouth leaving yours to trail fire along your jaw, your neck.
“God, baby,” he rasped, his voice hoarse, wrecked. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.” His breath was hot against your skin, sending shivers down your spine, curling in your stomach. “You drive me fucking crazy.”
Your thoughts were incoherent, lost in the sheer intensity of him.
Your hands, which had been resting against his broad shoulders, now tangled in his dark hair, tugging, pulling him closer. You needed more, needed to be consumed by him, needed to drown in the way he was touching, kissing, ruining you.
"Do something about it," you whispered, your voice thick with want, raw with need.
It was a challenge, a dare—one that Jay was more than willing to accept.
With a feral grin, he pulled back, his eyes dark with pure desire. “Oh, I will.” His voice was low, dripping with promise.
In a swift motion, his hands gripped your waist, strong fingers spanning your sides as he lifted you effortlessly. Your legs wrapped around his hips on instinct, as if you had done this dance with him a thousand times before.
And then, you felt it.
His hardness pressing against you, just enough to make your breath hitch, just enough to send a delicious thrill racing down your spine.
Jay devoured your mouth as he carried you out of the kitchen, his footsteps unsteady, his grip unrelenting. You clung to him, fingers digging into his shoulders, matching his fervor with your own.
The urgency between you both was palpable, nearly unbearable.
By the time Jay kicked open the bedroom door, his lips never leaving yours, his hands never loosening their grip on you, your entire body felt like it was burning from the inside out.
He stumbled inside, kicked the door shut with his foot, and suddenly, everything blurred.
You barely had time to register the bed before you were falling onto it, your body sinking into the mattress as he followed, covering you, pressing you down, making sure you felt every inch of him.
“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he growled, his voice thick, rough with need. “Every fucking day, I’ve fantasized about having you, about claiming you like this.”
Your fingers traced the strong lines of his jaw, relishing the roughness of his unshaven skin.
"Then take me," you whispered, a boldness you didn’t even know you possessed. “Make me yours.”
Jay’s response was immediate.
His fingers wrapped around your wrists, pinning them above your head, his grip firm but careful. His free hand roamed, tracing your curves, exploring, memorizing.
His thumb brushed over the peak of your nipple, eliciting a sharp gasp from you, your body arching instinctively.
“I want to see you,” he murmured, his voice like gravel, heavy with restraint. “All of you.”
Your heart pounded as you sat up, pulling your shirt over your head, revealing the delicate black lace beneath.
Jay’s eyes darkened. His breath hitched.
Releasing your wrists, his hands moved to cup your breasts, thumbs teasing the hardened peaks, rolling, stroking, watching you squirm beneath him.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, his lips finding yours again, a searing, devastating kiss.
His mouth trailed down, down, down, leaving a path of kisses, nipping, sucking, making you tremble beneath him.
His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your pants, and you arched into him, desperate.
"Please, Jay," you begged, your voice a breathless plea. "I need you."
He let out a dark chuckle, the sound vibrating against your skin. "Oh, you’ll have me, baby. But first… I want to taste you."
And then, he did.
His lips, his tongue, his fingers—all of him, taking his time, taking you apart.
You were a trembling, gasping mess beneath him, gripping the sheets, crying out his name.
And when you finally shattered, when he pulled every last moan from your lips, he moved back over you, watching you, waiting, drinking in the sight of you undone beneath him.
You reached for him, pulling him down, wrapping yourself around him, whispering his name.
And when he finally slid into you, deep and slow, filling you in one smooth stroke, you knew. This wasn’t just need. This wasn’t just hunger.
This was everything.
Jay buried his face in the crook of your neck, groaning as your body clenched around him, gripping him perfectly. He moved slow, deep, deliberate. Like he wanted to make sure you felt everything. Like he wanted to ruin you.
And he did. He whispered your name against your skin.
And when you both tumbled over the edge together, it wasn’t just ecstasy. It was something more.
Something terrifying, something dangerous, something neither of you were ready to name. Afterward, Jay didn’t move.
He just held you, his lips pressing absentminded kisses against your temple, your jaw.
The sheets were a tangled mess beneath you, the room still thick with the remnants of last night—the heat, the whispered names, the overwhelming need.
But morning had arrived, and with it, clarity.
You lay still, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding, stomach twisting. You could feel him beside you, the warmth of his body still clinging to yours, the weight of his arm draped lazily over your waist.
You should move. You should get up.
Instead, you stayed still, afraid to break the moment. Afraid of what came next.
Then, Jay stirred.
A slow inhale. A shift of weight. Then, his hold on you tightened.
“Baby, you know I'm in love with you right?” he murmured, his voice thick, raspy from sleep.
Your stomach flipped, heat rising to your cheeks at the way the word slipped so effortlessly from his lips.
Then, he pressed a lazy kiss to the back of your shoulder.
Something inside you clenched at the tenderness of it. The way his lips lingered, soft and warm, like he was memorizing you, grounding himself in the feel of you.
It was so different from last night. Last night had been fire, hunger, pure desire. But this? This was something else entirely.
Something terrifying.
You swallowed hard, your body going stiff beneath his touch. He noticed.
Jay let out a quiet exhale, his fingers tracing soothing circles over your hip. Then, finally, he spoke.
“I meant what I said.”
Your breath caught in your throat. His words. The confession you hadn’t acknowledged.
“I know,” you whispered.
He shifted, his grip tightening just slightly, as if afraid you’d slip away. His lips found your bare shoulder again, pressing another slow, lingering kiss.
“My Doll,” he murmured, his voice softer this time, but still weighted with emotion. “You don’t have to say anything. Not yet.”
You turned your head slightly, eyes meeting his for the first time that morning. He looked different.
Softer. More open. But just as intense. Your lips parted, but no words came. Because what could you say? You weren’t ready. You weren’t sure what this was.
But Jay just smiled, small and knowing, like he understood anyway.
“You don’t have to figure it out right now,” he murmured, reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Just… let me be here with you.”
Your chest tightened. That was the problem. He was already here. Closer than he had ever been. You didn’t know if you had it in you to push him away.
It took days. Maybe longer. But it was always there, lingering between you.
Jay never said it again, but you could feel it in everything he did.
The way he pulled you close when he thought you weren’t paying attention. The way he touched you—not just with heat, but with reverence. The way he whispered "Baby" like it was the most natural thing in the world.
But the moment it finally hit you, it was almost embarrassing how obvious it had been all along.
It wasn’t in the quiet nights, or the way he held you in his sleep.
It was something as simple as Jay waiting for you outside of work.
It had been a rough day. One of those days where everything felt heavy. And when you stepped outside, seeing him leaning against the lamppost, hands in his pockets, waiting for you like it was the most natural thing in the world—
It hit you like a train.
He smiled the second he saw you, pushing off the post and walking over like he couldn’t get to you fast enough. “Hey, babe. You okay?”
And instead of answering, you just stood there, staring at him—this man who had somehow become everything.
Jay frowned slightly, reaching out to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
You let out a breath, and before you could stop yourself, the words just slipped out “I love you.”
Jay stilled. His fingers twitched against your cheek, his expression unreadable.
Then, his lips parted. “Y/N…”
You panicked. “I—I mean it too I-”
But before you could take it back, Jay was already moving, already kissing you like he’d been waiting his whole life to hear you say those words.
And when he finally pulled back, breathless, a little dazed, he just grinned.
“You can say it again, you know.”
You rolled your eyes, but when he leaned in and whispered, “Say it again, baby,” you did.
Because you meant it.
Months later, the apartment felt different. Warmer. More like a home than a place you had been forced into.
The nursery had been Jay’s latest obsession. He had spent the entire day painting the walls, rearranging furniture, making sure everything was perfect. And now, he was sprawled across your bed, half-asleep, waiting for you.
You stood in the doorway, hand resting on your six-months-pregnant belly, watching him with amusement. His shirtless form was stretched across the mattress, hair still messy from the day’s work, an arm thrown over his eyes.
“Babe,” you called softly.
He groaned. “Mmm.”
You stepped forward, nudging his foot with yours. “You’re hogging the bed.”
Jay cracked one eye open, a slow, sleepy grin spreading across his lips. “And you’re glowing, mama.”
You rolled your eyes, crawling into bed beside him, letting out a relieved sigh as you sank into his warmth. Jay turned onto his side, one large hand coming to rest on your belly, thumb rubbing slow circles over the fabric of your shirt.
“Tired?” you asked.
“Exhausted,” he muttered, pressing a lazy kiss to your temple. “But you’re worth it.”
You smiled, letting your fingers trace the ridges of his forearm. “You’ve been working too hard.”
Jay hummed, shifting closer, his lips grazing your jaw, your cheek. “You’re carrying my kid. I’d build a whole damn castle if you wanted one.”
You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”
He nuzzled against your cheek, voice growing drowsy. “Only for you, my Doll”
You turned your head slightly, pressing a kiss to the corner of his lips.
Jay smiled into it, whispering, “Can’t wait to meet them.”
Your heart squeezed, warmth flooding through you.
“Me too,” you whispered, letting yourself sink into him. “Me too.”
Then, in his half-asleep state, he muttered, “But if they have your stubborn streak, we’re doomed.”
You snorted. “Then you better start preparing now.”
He pulled you in tighter, his lips brushing your forehead. “I already have everything I need.”
You yawned, stretching your fingers along his bare chest before whispering, “Come here, baby.”
Jay let out a pleased hum, shifting fully into your arms, resting his head against your shoulder. His strong arms wrapped around you, careful yet firm, his warmth seeping into your skin as he melted into you.
“Mm, I like it when you call me that,” he murmured, voice thick with exhaustion.
You smirked, running a hand through his messy hair. “Good. Because I’m not stopping.”
As sleep began to claim you both, Jay murmured, “You know, I hated every second of that damn law.”
You sighed, your fingers tightening against his chest. “Me too.”
“But…” he continued, his voice soft and full of something deep, something real, “I’ve loved every second with you.”
You smiled, pressing a final kiss to his skin. “Me too, Jay. Me too."
the way it took me 2 days to finish this because i didn’t want it to end fast 😭😭😭 i love this so much (in fact i love most of your fics). they’re so cute, jay’s literally perfect here i fucking want him so bad like… it’s really bad for me 😫
One second, you were telling a little lie to impress the cheerleaders, and the next, the whole school thought you were dating Park Jongseong—the cold, untouchable, and ridiculously hot guitarist. What started as a desperate move to boost your reputation took a wild turn when Jay decided to go along with it. Now, you’re caught up in nonstop gossip, awkward moments, and a fake relationship that feels a little too real—especially with Jay showing a surprisingly sweet side that no one, including you, saw coming.
content tags: fake dating, lots of fluffs, comedy, slight angst, strangers to lovers, reader is in 11th grade while jay is in 12th, (but both of them are over the age of 18) reader is short, jay smokes vape in the middle of the story, jay hates everyone lol. warning: profanities, mentions of sex, mild smut. WC: 14.7k
song used: same ground by kitchie nadal
note: thank you for the 95 followers!
You were a simple girl.
Simple, average, ordinary. Not the type to snag straight A's in every class, but not failing either. You were the kind of girl teachers barely noticed—just another name on the roll call, another face in the crowd.
You liked pink—just enough to keep it cute, but not the over-the-top glittery kind.
You didn't obsess over fandoms or have bags covered in pins and but you have figurines. Your style wasn't edgy or pastel chic or anything that made you stand out. You were... balanced. Plain. Normal.
Your high school life reflected that. Simple. Average. No exciting detours.
You weren't a sports star who got their name chanted in the bleachers. You weren't a science geek impressing everyone with your brainpower. You weren't a mean girl, a party kid, or a cheerleader.
Oh, but you wanted to be a cheerleader.
You wanted to wear that uniform, flip through the air, feel the rush of the crowd. You wanted the applause, the way everyone's eyes followed them when they walked the halls.
But no one cared about a normal girl trying out.
Reputation was everything in high school, and yours? Too simple. Too... forgettable.
You could cheer. You could dance. You could pull off a backflip, a split, the whole routine. You had the skills. What you didn't have was the image.
"Do you have a boyfriend?" one of the cheerleaders asked, her voice dismissive as you landed your final jump during tryouts. You stood there, panting, sweat dripping down your face after nailing the routine.
"A boyfriend?" you repeated, blinking, stunned. What did that have to do with anything?
"From football? Hockey? Maybe Math Olympiad?" she continued, her smirk curling like she already knew the answer.
You froze. Of course you didn't have a boyfriend. You were an NBSB—No Boyfriend Since Birth kind of girl. But how was that even relevant? You were here to cheer, not audition for a dating show.
"We'll let you know if you're accepted... or not," another cheerleader chimed in, her voice dripping with boredom. She wasn't even pretending to care about your performance.
You stood there for a moment, trying to steady your breathing, gripping your bag so tight your knuckles turned white. The sting of their indifference burned in your chest as you turned and walked out of the gym, sweaty and defeated.
Reputation doesn't matter, they always said. What a joke. High school was all about reputation—who you dated, who you were seen with, who you weren't.
And being a simple, average, normal girl? That just wasn't good enough.
It was a warm afternoon when you found yourself face-to-face with them again—the cheerleader tryouts.
So, before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out:
"My boyfriend is Park Jongseong."
The world seemed to stop for a second. All the cheerleaders froze, wide-eyed, jaws dropping like a scene from a poorly-scripted teen drama.
"Wait—Park Jongseong?!" one of them shrieked, her voice climbing several octaves. "The hot guitarist in the band?"
You nodded, keeping your expression sweet and innocent, careful not to let your fabricated lie crumble.
"Oh my god!" Another cheerleader nearly jumped out of her skin. "He's, like, the hottest guy in school! And so... mysterious."
"He's so cold, though," another chimed in, tilting her head suspiciously. "How did you even—"
You cut her off, spinning your web of lies before she could unravel it. "Oh, it just... happened," you said with a casual shrug, as if it were no big deal.
"We met at this café off campus. He asked me about my drink order, and, well..." You let out a dreamy sigh, painting a picture so vivid you could almost convince yourself it was real.
"He's so sweet. He cares about me so much. Like, he cooks for me when I'm tired, aftercare after sex, kisses me goodbye every morning, and—" You leaned in conspiratorially, lowering your voice to a whisper. "He even lets me touch his guitar."
The gasps that followed were almost deafening.
"No way!" one of them shrieked, clutching her chest in disbelief. "Park Jongseong doesn't let anyone touch his guitar!"
You nodded solemnly, as if sharing a sacred truth. "Well, he lets me."
For a moment, you thought you'd pulled it off. You were a star in their eyes, a girl who'd managed to capture the unattainable Park Jongseong's heart.
But deep down, you knew the truth.
Park Jongseong hate everyone, especially you. And honestly? You didn't blame him.
The first time you'd crossed paths, it had been a disaster.
You'd been drinking water at your locker when he appeared out of nowhere, walking right past you. Startled by his sudden presence, you'd choked, spraying water directly into his face.
His jaw had clenched, his eyes shutting as he took a deep breath, clearly fighting the urge to lose his temper.
"Sorry!" you'd squeaked, your face burning with humiliation.
And then, like the socially awkward creature you were, you'd bolted down the hallway, leaving him dripping and furious.
Then there was the incident in the music room.
You'd been poking around the instruments out of boredom, your fingers grazing the strings of a random guitar when—CRASH. Your foot caught on something, and the stand holding his prized guitar tipped over, sending it sprawling to the floor.
Right at that moment, the door swung open, and in walked Park Jongseong.
You froze like a deer in headlights, your heart dropping to your stomach as his gaze landed on his guitar, then on you. His face was unreadable, but the tightness in his jaw told you everything you needed to know.
"Uh... sorry?" you muttered, holding up your hands in a weak peace sign. Before he could say anything, you darted out of the room. You ran away, again.
And who could forget the volleyball incident?
You'd been practicing serves in the gym when he and his friends walked in. Your focus wavered for a split second, and the ball sailed in the wrong direction—straight into his face.
You gasped as blood began dripping from his nose. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" you stammered, panicking as he grabbed his face, clearly in pain.
Without thinking (or, honestly, with too much thinking), you did what you always did. You ran, again.
And now, standing here, spinning lies about a romance that didn't exist, you had to fight to keep your composure.
"Wow," one of the cheerleaders gushed. "I can't believe you and Jongseong are, like... a thing!"
"Yeah," you said with a forced laugh, clutching your bag tightly to hide how sweaty your palms were. "He's... amazing."
But in the back of your mind, all you could think about was how Park Jongseong would react if he ever found out about this.
And...The story spread faster than you could have ever imagined.
One second, you were fabricating a harmless little lie to impress the cheerleaders, and the next, the entire school seemed to think you and Park Jongseong were soulmates—or worse, a thing.
And not just any kind of "thing." No. The rumors had grown legs, arms, and a whole personality.
"Is it true that Park Jongseong is... like, huge in bed?" one girl whispered as you passed her in the hallway, her eyes wide with curiosity.
You choked on absolutely nothing, gripping your bag as if it might save you from spontaneously combusting.
Another girl caught up to you, practically skipping alongside you. "Oh my God, how was it? You know, with him? Is he all intense and broody like he looks, or does he have a soft side?"
You stared at her, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
"He's... uh... great?" you stammered, mentally slapping yourself for sounding so unconvincing.
Her jaw dropped, and before you knew it, a crowd of girls—yes, the famous girls—was swarming you, each one louder and more persistent than the last.
"I can't believe you got him to date you!"
"Wait, wait, wait—did he really let you touch his guitar? Because I heard he doesn't even let his bandmates touch it."
"What's his favorite food? Does he let you steal his hoodies? Is he ticklish?"
"Is he actually the silent-in-public, wild-in-private type? Tell us everything!"
Your head was spinning. They were everywhere, and you couldn't escape. You tried smiling naturally, nodding here and there, but the panic bubbling inside you was threatening to explode.
"Oh my God, you're not even in the cheerleading pep squad yet? How dare they still not accept you!" one girl exclaimed dramatically. She flipped her hair with a loud scoff. "I mean, I saw your audition, and it was fucking amazing."
You blinked. She definitely had not seen your audition.
"Y-yeah, um... thanks," you muttered, clutching your bag tighter and taking a deep breath to steady yourself.
It was still early, but the hallway was packed. The questions kept coming, the voices growing louder, and you were just about ready to melt into the floor.
And then it happened.
You let out a tiny squeak as someone grabbed your arm, yanking you out of the circle of girls. You stumbled, blinking in shock, and turned to see who your savior—or captor—was.
Your heart nearly stopped.
It was him.
Park Jongseong!
Jaw sharp enough to cut glass, eyes darker than your worst nightmares, and hair falling messily across his forehead like he just stepped out of a photoshoot.
Except he didn't look like a model. No. He looked angry.
Like, furious.
Oh, you were so, so dead.
"S-see you later, girls!" you called out, your voice cracking as you tried to sound cheerful. You gripped his arm like your life depended on it, forcing a smile as he dragged you through the hallway.
The crowd erupted behind you.
"Oh my God, they're really together!"
"I knew it!"
"They're so cute! Look at how she holds onto him!"
Your face felt like it was on fire. You could feel every pair of eyes in the hallway locked on you as Jongseong stormed forward, his grip firm but not painful. You tried to match his pace, but his legs were longer, and you were practically jogging to keep up.
You tried to focus on breathing, but the more they talked, the more you wanted to just curl up and disappear.
Meanwhile, Jongseong hadn't said a single word. His jaw clenched, his eyes fixed straight ahead.
"Uh, Jongseong—"
Before you could finish, he yanked open the door to a small storage room, pulling you inside and shutting the door behind you with a loud click.
"Hey—what are you—"
"Shut up," he muttered, his voice low and sharp.
You blinked, startled. The room was small, cramped, and dimly lit by a single flickering bulb. Shelves stacked with cleaning supplies and dusty boxes surrounded you, and the air smelled faintly of bleach.
Jongseong leaned against the door, running a hand through his messy hair and letting out a frustrated sigh.
"What the hell?" he said finally, his voice laced with irritation.
You swallowed hard, gripping your bag like a shield. "I... I can explain?"
"Yeah, you'd better," he snapped, crossing his arms over his chest. His eyes locked onto yours, and the intensity of his gaze made your knees feel like jelly.
"Why is everyone in this school convinced we're dating? And why," his voice dropped lower, "did I just hear someone asking if I'm good in bed?"
You winced. "Okay, so... it might've gotten a little out of hand."
He let out a bitter laugh, raising an eyebrow. "A little?"
You hesitated, trying to find the right words. "Look, I was just trying to impress the cheerleaders! They don't think I'm cool enough to make the squad, so I might've... um... made up a story."
His jaw tightened. "A story? About me?"
You gave him a weak, apologetic smile. "I didn't think it would blow up like this! I thought they'd just forget about it after tryouts!"
"Oh, yeah, because rumors about me always disappear quietly," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
You bit your lip, your embarrassment growing by the second. "I'm really sorry. I'll fix it. I promise."
He scoffed, shaking his head. "How exactly do you plan to fix this? Everyone already thinks we're a couple. You should've thought about that before you opened your mouth."
"I know, I know!" you said, your voice rising slightly. "But I didn't think people would actually believe me! I mean, look at you! You're, like... you, and I'm just... me."
He stared at you, one eyebrow twitching. "What does that even mean?"
"It means no one would ever think you would date someone like me!" you blurted out.
There was a brief silence, Jongseong blinked, his expression unreadable.
"Wow," he said finally, his tone flat. "That's... depressing."
You buried your face in your hands, groaning. "I'm making this worse, aren't I?"
"Yeah," he said bluntly.
You peeked at him through your fingers, your voice small. "Can you... just not kill me, though?"
He rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath. For a moment, he looked like he was considering throwing you out the door, but instead, he leaned back against it, running a hand down his face.
"Here's what's going to happen," he said finally. "You're going to go out there, tell everyone you lied, and make sure my name is out of their mouths by the end of the day."
Your eyes widened. "I can't do that! If I tell them the truth, I'll look like a total loser! They'll never let me on the squad!"
"Not my problem," he shot back.
"Please!" you pleaded, grabbing his arm in desperation. "Just... let me ride this out a little longer. I'll figure out a way to fix it without dragging your name through the mud, I promise!"
He stared at you for a long moment. He let out a long sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Do whatever you want," he said finally.
Your eyes lit up. "Really?"
"Don't make me regret this," he added,
"I'll do anything!" you said quickly, your relief overwhelming your sense of pride.
His eyes flicked back to yours, and you swore you saw a flicker of amusement in his expression. "Anything?"
You hesitated. "Uh... within reason?"
He smirked, shaking his head. "Unbelievable," he muttered, pushing off the door and opening it.
"Wait, where are you going?" you asked, panicked.
"Class," he said simply, walking out and leaving you standing there, still clutching your bag like it might protect you from the fallout.
"Oh my God, they just came out of the storage room together!" someone squealed.
Your blood froze as a wave of gasps and murmurs rippled down the hallway.
"No way! They're so freaky!"
"They couldn't even wait until after school? A quickie in the storage room?!"
"That's so wild!"
You bolted out of the storage room, your face burning so hot it was probably visible from space. "It's not what you think!" you stammered, waving your hands frantically. "Nothing happened! I swear!"
But your protests only seemed to make things worse.
"Did you see her face? She's totally guilty!"
"God, no wonder he's so obsessed with her. She's probably insane in bed."
"Wait, so does this mean she's, like, not lying about them being a couple?"
The crowd erupted into a chorus of giggles, whispers, and scandalized gasps, and you felt your soul leave your body.
At the end of the day, you got the news: you were officially part of the cheerleading pep squad.
This wasn't exactly how you pictured it, but hey, you'd finally made it. You thought practice would be all about jumps, flips, and cheers, but instead, it was questions. Endless questions.
All about your "boyfriend."
By the time practice ended, you were convinced the squad cared more about Park Jongseong than they cared about cheerleading. It was exhausting. They made him your whole personality.
Now, you stood outside the music room, foot tapping nervously as you psyched yourself up. You needed to talk to him. Jongseong—Jay—walked out with his guitar slung over his back, his expression colder than a freezer. His eyes landed on you, sharp and annoyed.
"Why are you here?" he asked, as blunt as ever.
You forced an awkward smile. "Hi! Because... you're my boyfriend?"
Jay scoffed, walking past you like you didn't exist. Panicked, you scrambled to catch up, nearly tripping over your own feet.
"H-hey! Wait!" you called, gripping the edge of his jacket. "I'm Y/N! Please, for the second time, just hear me out!"
He stopped, turned, and stared at you with the kind of look that could burn holes in concrete. "What do you want now?"
You fumbled with your bag, your cheeks burning. "I just... I wanted to talk about—"
"Fuck off," he snapped, making you flinch and throw your hands up like you were bracing for impact.
"I'm sorry!" you squeaked, your voice small.
Jay sighed, running a hand through his hair as he shifted his weight. For a second, his eyes softened—but not enough to let you relax.
"I already let you use my name. What else do you want from me?" he asked, voice low and sharp.
You bit your lip, tapping your foot nervously. You'd practiced this speech in your head a hundred times, but the words suddenly felt scrambled.
"I just... I got into the cheerleading squad, but they keep asking me questions about you, and—"
His glare deepened. "After you spilled water on me, crashed my guitar, and hit me in the face with a volleyball, what more do you want?"
You gasped, offended. "E-excuse me?! Those were accidents!" you said, emphasizing the word with dramatic hand gestures.
"I didn't spill water on you on purpose! And I didn't crash your guitar—it fell! And your nose? Total accident!"
He turned to leave, but you panicked again, grabbing his arm and walking beside him as fast as your shorter legs could go.
"Please, just help me for a little while longer!" you pleaded.
He glanced at your hand on his arm, then at you, looking like he wanted to throw himself into the nearest trash can. "You got what you wanted. Tell them we broke up or something."
You shook your head frantically. "No, no, no! I know I'm a loser for using your name, but I need to keep this up for a few more months!"
Jay's jaw tightened. "What now?"
"I just... need some information about you," you said, your voice small. "Like, your favorite color, or your hobbies, or—"
He cut you off with a groan. "Just make something up. You're good at that."
"But it sounds fake!" you whined, stomping a little like a frustrated child.
Jay stopped walking and turned to glare at you again. "And the story about the café and me being good in bed doesn't sound fake?"
Your cheeks turned crimson. "I-I didn't say anything about you being good in bed!" you squeaked, waving your hands defensively. "I just said you were good at, uh, aftercare! They're the ones who assumed the rest!"
Jay stared at you, his face unreadable, but the way his lips twitched told you he was this close to laughing.
"So, you want more information about me so you can answer their next stupid questions?" he asked.
You nodded eagerly. "Yes! Exactly!"
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "Like if I'm huge?"
Your brain short-circuited. "N-no!" you squealed, stepping back as your cheeks burned even hotter. "It's not like that!"
Jay smirked, adjusting the strap of his guitar as he stood up straight again. "Right," he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Good luck with your cheerleading squad, girlfriend."
And with that, he totally walked away, leaving you standing there, red-faced and humiliated. But you weren't about to give up.
No way. You'd come too far and sacrificed too much pride to back down now. If groveling got you this far, then maybe going lower would get you what you needed.
So, you became... everywhere.
After his chemistry class, there you were, waiting outside the door with a bright smile and an awkward wave. "Hi! How was class? Did you learn anything interesting?"
He barely looked at you as he walked past, muttering, "I don't know, did you?"
At his band practice, you somehow sweet-talked your way in. His bandmates, thinking you were his girlfriend, welcomed you with open arms.
"Jay never told us you were so supportive," one of them said, grinning.
"Y-yeah! That's me! Super supportive!" you laughed nervously, while Jay sat in the corner, tuning his guitar, looking like he was plotting your demise.
But you stayed anyway, sitting cross-legged on the floor, watching him play with stars in your eyes. He was good—like, really good—and for a second, you almost forgot how much he hated you.
After practice, you walked out with him, chatting non-stop about your cheerleading routine. "So then Karina said I should try a - "
Jay, walking ahead of you, sighed heavily. "Do you ever stop talking?"
You froze for half a second before jogging to catch up. "Not really!" you said cheerfully, ignoring the withering glare he shot you.
During break time, you plopped down beside him in the cafeteria, chatting away about your practice. You didn't even realize you were rambling until he looked at you, his expression blank.
"Do you ever run out of words?" he asked, deadpan.
You blinked. "Uh... no?"
He groaned, rubbing his temples.
It wasn't long before your cheer squad started noticing things, too.
During one break, Yunjin leaned over, lazily plucking at her nails. "Your relationship seems so... one-sided," she said casually, enough to make your stomach drop.
"Eh?" you squeaked, your chest tightening with nerves. "W-what do you mean?"
Yunjin shrugged. "We never see you guys together. And when we do, he looks like he's about murdering someone."
You forced a laugh, your hands sweaty. "W-well, he's just... had a lot of bad days lately!"
"Jay's always having bad days when he's with you?" she shot back, raising an eyebrow.
"And you two don't even kiss in public," Karina added, leaning her chin on her hand.
Your throat went dry. "Uh, well, he doesn't like PDA," you said quickly.
The two of them exchanged looks but eventually shrugged, letting it go. You let out a quiet breath of relief, only to freeze when Karina clapped her hands.
"Y/N, you said you can do back handsprings, right?"
You nodded eagerly. "Yes! Do you need me to—"
"Great!" Karina stood, surveying the gym with a critical eye. "We need you to cover the entire formation during lifting. Can you do five in a row?"
Your eyes widened. "F-five?"
"Yeah, starting from over there." Karina gestured to the far side of the gym.
You forced a smile and walked to the starting position, nerves rattling in your chest. Everyone's eyes were on you.
You took a deep breath and started your back handsprings, nailing five in a row. When you landed, slightly dizzy, you raised your arms triumphantly.
"Hmm... it doesn't cover the right side," Karina said, tapping her chin. "Y/N, try seven this time."
Your smile faltered. "S-seven?"
They nodded.
You did as they asked, pushing through the dizziness, only to hear them call for more.
By the fourth round, you were practically collapsing mid-air. Ten was far too much, and by the end, your knees hit the floor hard, sending pain shooting up your legs.
"Oh, perfect!" Karina said, clapping her hands. "That covered the whole area. Great job, Y/N! But you need to work on your posture."
You winced, clutching your bruised knee as you shuffled to sit beside the others. The pain was sharp, and tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you forced a smile, trying to keep it together.
"I'm kind of craving boba tea," Karina said suddenly, standing up. "Who wants some?"
"Oh, me too!" Giselle chimed in, followed by the rest of the squad eagerly raising their hands.
"Perfect!" Karina said, pulling out a notepad. "Let's make a list."
A moment later, she shoved the list into your hands. "Here. And here's the money. You can go get it for us."
You stared at the list, dumbfounded. "Wait... me?"
"Yeah! Thanks, Y/N!" she said brightly, already turning to talk to Giselle about something else.
You blinked, standing stiffly as pain radiated from your knees. You didn't even have the energy to argue. Instead, you hobbled to the restroom first, tears spilling over as you washed your knees.
Violet bruises were already forming, and the cold water stung as it ran over the tender skin.
This wasn't what you'd imagined when you dreamed of joining the cheer squad.
You thought it would be glamorous—flipping in the air, cheering under bright lights, and finally belonging to something cool.
Instead, here you were, limping to a nearby boba shop with bruised knees and teary eyes.
Still, you told yourself it was okay. You were part of them now. You weren't just a simple girl anymore—you were a cheerleader. Their friend. It was normal to run errands and do things for your friends, right?
So why did it feel so awful?
As you stood in line, you checked the money Karina had handed you earlier, only to realize it was short. Way short.
You panicked for a moment, but what could you do? You had no choice but to pay for the rest out of your own pocket, all while swallowing the lump in your throat.
By the time you were walking back to school, holding a bunch of boba cups in flimsy plastic bags, you were crying. Pathetically.
Tears streaked your face, and your lips wobbled as you sniffled, trying not to let the world see how pitiful you looked.
But it wasn't their fault, you told yourself. They weren't bullying you. You were just having a sensitive day. Your knees hurt from all that back handspring practice, and the money situation had just been bad luck.
That's all.
You furiously wiped at your cheeks, determined to look normal before you made it back to the gym. But then, a voice startled you out of your thoughts.
"What happened to you?"
You nearly dropped the boba.
"Jay!" you yelped, turning to see him standing there with his guitar case slung over his back, his sharp gaze flicking from your tear-streaked face to the plastic bags in your hands—and then to your bruised, purple knees.
"I—uh—hi!" you stammered, forcing an awkward smile.
He didn't return it. "You didn't visit the music room today."
"Oh!" you exclaimed, caught off guard. "I was busy with practice. I completely forgot! I'm sorry!"
He didn't respond, just reached over and took the plastic boba bags from your hands.
You blinked at him, muttering a quiet "thank you" as he carried them down the hallway beside you.
"What happened to you?" he asked again, his tone firmer this time.
You scratched the back of your head, feigning cluelessness. "Uh, what do you mean?"
He gave you a look, and his voice dropped. "Why were you crying? And why do you have bruises all over your knees?"
Your lips parted, but no sound came out. He was staring at you like he could see right through every lie you'd prepared.
"Oh, that?" You waved a hand as if it were nothing. "They made me practice back handsprings today. I just, uh, had a bad landing. But I'm totally fine! See?" You gave him a shaky thumbs-up, forcing another smile.
Jay didn't look convinced. His gaze flickered back to your knees, then to your face.
"Why? Do you care about me?" you teased, lightly bumping his shoulder with yours.
He rolled his eyes, but you swore you saw the corner of his mouth twitch. Without a word, he gestured toward the gym door.
"You first."
You laughed nervously, pushing the door open and walking inside.
"Oh, Y/N," Karina called out from across the gym. "Coach said we're not allowed to have boba anymore since she's strict about our diet. Did you already buy it?"
Your face fell. "Yes..."
"Oh crap!" Giselle smacked her forehead. "I texted you, but I guess it didn't go through!"
"But the boba? The money?" one of the girls asked, holding out her hand expectantly.
You hesitated, your voice caught in your throat. "I already bought it," you said quietly, glancing nervously at Jay.
Before you could say anything else, he walked past you, heading toward the bleachers. Without a word, he dropped the bags of boba onto the bench—hard. The cups jostled, some of the liquid spilling over the edges.
"J-Jongseong?!" Karina stammered, her confident tone faltering as she gulped nervously.
Jay stood there, his sharp glare slicing through the room. "Are you serious right now?" he said, his voice calm but dangerous.
Karina shifted uncomfortably, swallowing a lump in her throat. "W-we didn't mean for her to actually buy them—"
"Yeah?" he cut her off. "Because it looks like you had her running errands like your personal delivery service."
"Jay, it's not like that!" you blurted, defending them instinctively, though your voice wavered.
The room went silent. None of the girls dared to speak as Jay's gaze swept over them, so sharp.
"Is your practice over or something?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Because none of you look like you're doing any cheers anymore."
Giselle quickly nodded, her voice high and nervous. "W-we're on a break!"
Jay's eyes narrowed slightly, making Giselle shrink under his gaze.
Finally, he turned to you, and his expression softened just enough to make your chest feel weird—like relief, or maybe something you couldn't quite place.
"Come on," he said, nodding toward the door.
"H-huh?" you stammered, blinking up at him.
"Let's go," he repeated, already turning away.
Before you could argue, he noticed the way you hesitated, the way you winced with every step. His eyes flicked down to your knees, bruised and swollen, and without a word, he leaned down and effortlessly scooped you up into his arms.
"W-what are you doing?!" you gasped, your face burning red as you scrambled to hold onto him.
The squad collectively let out a series of audible gasps behind you.
"Oh my God, she's not like, totally lying," Karina whispered, her voice tinged with disbelief.
Jay didn't acknowledge them. His jaw was tight, his gaze fixed ahead as he carried you out of the gym.
"Jay, I can walk!" you protested weakly, even though your knees were very much not in walking condition.
"Yeah, you're doing a great job of that," he muttered, his tone dripping with sarcasm as he adjusted his grip on you.
You clung to him in stunned silence, trying to ignore the burning stares from the squad still watching as the door swung shut behind you.
Your heart raced, and whether it was from embarrassment or something else entirely, you didn't want to think about it.
"You're going to stop running around like this," Jay said firmly as he walked. "If they want boba, they can get it themselves."
"But I'm part of the team now," you mumbled, your voice small.
"You're not their errand girl," he shot back, his eyes flicking down to you.
You shut your mouth, letting him carry you to the clinic as the nurse tended to your bruised knees.
He leaned casually against the wall, watching the whole process like he was supervising. Every time you dared to glance his way, he raised an eyebrow, silently daring you to say something stupid. You wisely kept quiet.
The next day at practice, things hadn't gotten much better.
The girls were still bombarding you with questions—except now, Jay had inadvertently raised your popularity to new heights.
"He's sweet but terrifying," one of them whispered, watching you stretch. "Maybe you should get him to smile for once. He's always glaring."
"Yeah, but it's kind of hot," another one added, fanning herself dramatically. "It's like he hates everyone except her."
You snorted at that, almost choking on your own air. If only they knew the truth. But you couldn't even laugh properly because someone tapped your shoulder, pointing toward the gym doors.
"Y/N, look!"
You turned and nearly choked on your own spit. There he was—Jay—walking toward you.
The girls squealed, whispering loudly as they quickly backed away to give you "privacy."
Your stomach flipped as he approached, his dark eyes scanning the gym before locking on you. "What are you doing here?" you whispered, gripping the edge of the bleachers.
He ignored your question, dropping his bag and kneeling in front of you.
"How's your knee?" he asked, his tone softer this time as his eyes flicked to your legs.
"I'm fine! What are you doing here?" you repeated, feeling heat crawl up your neck as the gym filled with the sound of squeals and whispers.
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he rummaged through his bag and pulled out something.
"I bought you knee pads," he said simply, holding them up.
Your jaw dropped. "What—why?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he gently took your leg, his hands warm as he began securing the knee pad in place.
"He's so sweet!" one of the girls whispered loudly.
You tried to ignore the growing crowd of gossipers, your face burning as you stared down at him. "You really didn't have to—"
"Stop moving," he interrupted, his focus entirely on your knee as he adjusted the strap.
You sighed, crossing your arms. "Jay, seriously, what are you doing here?"
"I'll watch your routine," he said casually, moving to your other knee.
"What? No!" you exclaimed, flailing slightly. "What do you mean, you'll watch?"
He glanced up at you, a small, almost mischievous smile tugging at his lips. "You watch me practice at the music room. It's only fair I watch yours."
"That's different!" you sputtered, your face heating further.
"How is it different?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Because—because I'm not good at this yet!" you said, flustered. "What's your deal?"
"What do you mean?" he said, his voice light with amusement. "I just want to support my girlfriend."
You froze. Your brain short-circuited. Did he just—
"W-what did you just say?" you stammered, your voice cracking.
"Girlfriend," he repeated smoothly, standing up and slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Isn't that what you keep telling everyone I am?"
You wanted to crawl into a hole and die. The giggles and gasps around you didn't help, either.
"You can't just—" you started, but he cut you off.
"Relax," he said, smirking as he turned to walk away. "Good luck with practice, babe. I'll be watching."
You watched him head toward the bleachers, still reeling from the fact that Park Jongseong, the untouchable cold Jay, just called you his girlfriend in front of everyone.
If you hadn't been blushing before, you were definitely on fire now.
The routine begins with a burst of synchronized cheers, the squad moving in perfect unison. You jump, spin, and dance, throwing in a split and a clean back handspring. When the lifting section comes, you step onto their hands with, you stick the landing, holding your pose as they lower you carefully.
You finish the routine without letting your bruised knees slow you down, your chest heaving as sweat drips down your temples.
The coach claps, giving feedback to the squad, but all you can think about is sitting down and catching your breath.
Unconsciously, you find yourself collapsing onto the bleachers—right next to Jay. He doesn't say anything, just pulls a water bottle and towel out of his bag, as if he'd been expecting you to need them.
"Here," he mutters, handing them over.
"Thanks," you say, too exhausted to overthink it. You take a long sip of water before draping the towel over your shoulders.
"How's the performance?" you ask him, still catching your breath.
"You're good," he replies simply.
You pause, blinking at him. "No, like... us. The cheering squad. How did we look?"
Jay shrugs, leaning back slightly on the bleachers, his gaze fixed ahead. "I don't know," he says, his tone casual. "I only had my eyes on you."
The water bottle in your hand almost slips from your grasp.
"W-what?" you stammer, turning to look at him.
He doesn't meet your gaze, his expression cool and indifferent, but there's a small twitch at the corner of his lips. "You heard me," he says, his voice even.
Your face heats up, and you're not sure if it's from the workout or his words. Before you can respond, one of your squadmates calls your name, pulling you back to reality.
"I—uh, thanks," you mumble, scrambling to stand.
"Don't fall," Jay says, glancing at your knees briefly before leaning back and pulling out his phone, as if he hadn't just dropped a bomb on you.
Your heart races as you jog back to the squad, Jay's words replaying in your mind. "I only had my eyes on you."
What was that supposed to mean?
Over the following weeks, something shifted. Jay did seem to like you—no, that would be too strong—but he definitely didn't hate you anymore. If anything, it felt like he had resigned himself to your presence.
Your schedules matched perfectly: you'd stop by the music room before your cheer practice, watching him play with quiet awe. After his practice ended, you'd walk together to the gym, where he'd drop you off with a gruff nod.
And during those walks, you talked. A lot.
Jay didn't interrupt or roll his eyes at your endless stream of words, but he didn't say much either. He'd let you ramble about random things—your favorite stories, songs, foods, or some obscure fact you'd read online.
One day, while rifling through your bag in frustration, you whined, "Crap, I always forget to bring an extra shirt!"
Jay didn't respond, just kept walking. You assumed he wasn't even listening.
But the next day, when you showed up for your routine walk to the gym, he handed you a neatly folded shirt.
"Here," he said, his tone flat, as though it wasn't a big deal.
You blinked, staring at it. "Wait, is this for me?"
"No, it's for the bench," he replied dryly. Then, seeing your expression, added, "You said you forget yours. Just take it."
Your heart skipped as you took the shirt, muttering a soft "thank you."
On another day, after practice, you grinned at him. "I really want a spicy ramen—like, with crab sticks and shrimp! Let's go get some!"
He raised an eyebrow. "That's a one-way ticket to high blood pressure," he deadpanned.
You pouted, whining dramatically. "Come on, Jay!"
Yet not long after, you found yourselves seated at a small ramen shop. You happily slurped your noodles, your feet swinging slightly under the table. Jay glanced down at your feet before looking up at you, finding you smiling as you focused on your bowl.
"What?" you asked, catching his gaze.
"Nothing," he muttered, shaking his head as he went back to his own noodles.
Spending time with Jay made you lose your guard in the best way.
You weren't as self-conscious anymore, and little things just felt... natural. Like the time you were walking together, mid-laugh, and he suddenly pulled your arm to stop you.
"Look both ways," he mumbled, his hand lingering on your arm as you gripped it instinctively.
You giggled, wrapping your hand around his. "Okay, Dad."
He didn't respond, but his lips twitched ever so slightly.
Another habit of his? Waiting for you after practice, leaning against his motorcycle with his usual nonchalant expression. He'd nod for you to hop on, offering you his spare helmet.
It felt normal now—holding onto him as he drove, the wind whipping around you as the city lights blurred by.
Sometimes, Jay and you didn't even talk. Like when you'd share a cup of ice cream on a bench after practice, the two of you just staring at nothing. He'd sit beside you, watching as you bit down on your spoon absentmindedly.
"You look dumb," he'd say eventually, breaking the silence.
You'd laugh and stick your tongue out at him. "Thanks, Jay. Love the confidence boost."
Jay's attention to small things surprised you most when it came to your ketchup obsession.
It started when you were both sitting at your usual fast-food joint—a chain with a bright red logo and the smell of fries and fried chicken wafting through the air.
You'd always order the same thing: chicken nuggets and fries. But what made you stand out (to Jay, at least) was how you hoarded ketchup packets.
You never even used them at the restaurant. Instead, you'd stuff them into your bag, mumbling something about "saving them for later." Jay didn't ask at first, but the mystery was solved when he saw you in their practice one day, pulling out one of those packets.
You ripped it open quietly, then tipped the packet to your mouth and slurped the ketchup straight out of it.
A week later, during a break, Jay casually handed you a small stack of ketchup packets.
"Where did you get these?" you squealed, your eyes sparkling as you grabbed them from his hand.
"My bandmates ordered fries," he said with a shrug. "They don't like ketchup, so I took them."
You stared at him, your heart doing an annoying little flip. "Jay, you get me," you said dramatically, clutching the packets to your chest like they were a bouquet of roses.
"Don't make this weird," he muttered, already turning away.
You ripped one open immediately, slurping the sweet and tangy ketchup with a grin. "Thanks, Jay!"
He rolled his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitched again—his almost-smile.
Then there was the time in the cafeteria when he handed you a tissue.
You stared at him, confused. "What's this for?"
"Your lip gloss," he said simply, his tone so casual it made your brain short-circuit.
You blinked, dumbfounded, as heat rose to your cheeks. How did he even notice that you always wiped off your lip gloss before eating?
You muttered a shy "thanks," taking the tissue as your heart thumped in your chest.
And then there were even smaller things.
Like how he bent down to tie your shoelaces without a word when they came undone during your walk.
Or how he fixed your hair once, brushing a stray strand behind your ear with a quick, almost annoyed motion.
Or how he straightened your uniform when it got wrinkled after a particularly rough practice, muttering something about how you looked like "a mess."
They weren't grand gestures. Jay wasn't the type for big declarations or sweeping acts of romance. But it was always the small things that left you breathless—the way he noticed you, the way he cared without saying much.
And maybe, just maybe, the cold, untouchable guitarist didn't hate you as much as he let on.
"That's Park Jongseong's girlfriend!"
"Park Jongseong's girl is so pretty!"
"I didn't know Park Jongseong's girlfriend is so good at dancing!"
But honestly? You weren't sure how to feel about it anymore.
People didn't want to know you. They wanted to know him. Even when someone started a conversation with you, it always led back to Jay.
"How did you two meet?"
"What does he do when he's bored?"
"Does he even smile around you?"
You started noticing how Jay wasn't immune, either. People would corner him in the halls, asking invasive questions about your "relationship," and he'd glare at them in that trademark way of his until they got the hint and left. He never complained, never said anything about it to you, but you could see it in the way his jaw clenched tighter these days.
You weren't cool. You weren't special.
You were just someone who had made a stupid, selfish decision to drag his name into your mess. And now? You weren't sure if you could keep it up any longer.
It was a quiet afternoon in the music room. Jay sat across from you, strumming his guitar in the golden light of sunset. Normally, this was when you'd ramble on about whatever random topic popped into your head, but today, the words felt too heavy to come out.
Instead, you pulled your knees to your chest, hugging them as you stared at the floor.
"I'm sorry if I always bother you," you said suddenly, your voice barely audible.
Jay's fingers stilled on the strings, his head tilting slightly as he glanced at you.
"I... I really don't have any friends," you admitted, resting your chin on your knees. "I think I'm too crazy for the good girls in my class, too dumb for the nerds, and way too soft for the mean girls."
He didn't say anything, but you felt his eyes on you.
"But, you know," you continued, your voice shaky, "you're the first person who's ever... tolerated me. And I really appreciate that."
You laughed weakly, even though it wasn't funny. "Thank you, Park Jongseong, for listening to me go on and on about dystopian movies. For putting up with me when I get loud and excited. For not judging my weird ketchup obsession."
Jay leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable, as you let out a long sigh.
"I thought dragging your name into the cheer squad thing would make me feel like I belonged somewhere," you said, your voice breaking. "But it hasn't. If anything, it's just made me feel worse. Like I'm not enough for them. Like I'll never be enough."
Your chest tightened as you fiddled with the hem of your shirt, unable to meet his gaze. "And... I feel like I've dumped all these responsibilities on you because of one stupid little lie I told. It's not fair to you."
Jay stayed silent, but you could feel his presence, heavy and quiet.
You swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "I think... I think it's time we break up."
Jay's hands froze on the guitar, his entire body going still. His gaze sharpened.
"Break up?" he repeated, his tone even but taut, like he was holding something back.
You nodded, your throat closing up. "Yeah. I've caused you enough trouble already. I think... I think it's better if we just end it. It'll be easier for you."
Jay's jaw tightened, his fingers gripping the edge of the guitar as he stared at you. "Is that what you want?" he asked, his tone calm but laced with something you couldn't place.
Your chest felt like it was caving in. You couldn't look at him, couldn't bring yourself to say what you really wanted to say. So instead, you nodded.
"Yes," you whispered, barely audible.
The silence that followed was unbearable. You expected him to agree, to maybe sigh in relief or tell you that you were right. But instead, he just stared at you, his gaze unreadable.
Finally, he exhaled through his nose, his voice low. "Alright."
Your heart sank at the word, even though it was what you'd asked for. You forced yourself to stand, forcing a shaky "thank you" past your lips as you made your way toward the door.
But just as you reached it, his voice stopped you in your tracks.
"But you should know," he said, "that if you think you're not enough, you're wrong."
You froze, your breath hitching. Slowly, you turned to face him.
He wasn't looking at you anymore. His gaze was fixed on his guitar, his fingers idly plucking at the strings, but there was a softness in his voice that you weren't used to.
"You don't have to try so hard to fit into their world," he said quietly. "You already stand out. You don't see it, but you do."
Your throat tightened as tears pricked at your eyes. "Jay..."
He looked up at you then, his dark eyes piercing but calm. "If you want to end it, I'll let you go," he said, his voice steady. "But don't do it because you think you're causing me trouble. That's just you overthinking, as usual."
The ache in your chest grew unbearable, and for a moment, you thought about staying.
But the weight of your emotions felt too heavy, and you bolted, muttering a weak "thanks" as you ran out of the room, tears already spilling down your cheeks.
You didn't look back, but as you closed the door behind you, you swore you heard the faint sound of his guitar strings—soft, steady, and full of something you didn't quite understand.
By the time you reached the bathroom, you were a mess.
You locked yourself in a stall and let it all out, tears streaming down your cheeks as you tried—and failed—to convince yourself this was what you wanted.
"It's not even real," you muttered, your voice cracking. "We're not a thing. We were never a thing. Why am I crying like an idiot?"
But no amount of reasoning stopped the ugly sobs from wracking your chest. You clutched some toilet paper, blowing your nose dramatically and telling yourself to get it together.
When you showed up to practice later, your eyes were swollen and red, your nose a little too pink to hide what had happened.
"Y/N, are you okay?" Karina asked, looking concerned.
You forced a shaky smile. "I'm fine! Totally fine! Oh, by the way..." You paused, sniffling slightly. "Jay and I broke up."
The words felt like ripping off a Band-Aid, but you didn't have time to process them before the room erupted.
"What?!" Giselle gasped, clutching her water bottle.
"No way!" Yunjin exclaimed, already pulling out her phone.
Within hours, the news spread across the school faster than you thought possible. Everywhere you went, you could hear whispers and murmurs about the "breakup."
And Park Jongseong?
He was still Park Jongseong.
You spotted him in the hallway, his face set in stone, his jaw tight, his eyes sharp as ever.
He walked like he was on his way to commit murder, every step filled with tension. People gave him a wide berth, whispering things like, "He's even scarier than usual," and, "God, she must've really broken his heart."
But when your eyes met his for a split second, he looked away, his expression you can't read.
Your chest ached painfully every time you passed him. And when you were finally alone at night, you curled up in bed and cried yourself to sleep, the pain in your chest refusing to fade.
By the time your classmates dragged you to karaoke, you were on emotional autopilot. You didn't want to be there, but they'd insisted.
"It'll help you get over him!" Sunoo had said, practically shoving you into the room.
It wasn't helping. At all.
Sunoo grabbed the mic, singing passionately as the lyrics flashed across the screen. "That's why I don't understand... why I'm feeling so bad now, when I know it was my idea."
You froze, staring at the lyrics like they'd personally attacked you. Your lips twitched, but you refused to let the tears fall.
Ni-ki leaned forward, grabbing the mic dramatically. "I could've just denied the truth and lied... why am I the only one, standing, stranded on the same ground?!"
You let out a choked laugh, trying to brush off your growing emotions, but then Sunoo turned to you with wide, knowing eyes. "Oh my God, what happened to you?!"
"Shut up," you muttered, pulling your cardigan over your face to hide the tears forming in your eyes.
The room erupted as Ni-ki wrestled the mic away from Sunoo. "My love, it's been a long time since I cried and left you out of the blue." Ni-ki sang into the microphone.
You couldn't help it—the tears started spilling as you wiped them furiously with your sleeve, hoping no one would notice.
"It's hard leaving you that way... when I never wanted to!"
Your classmates were belting out the lyrics, screaming into the mic with way too much passion. And somehow, the chaos made it worse.
"Self-denial is a game!" Ni-ki shouted, practically falling to his knees. "It's strange, I never would've wanted it until there was you!"
You sniffled, wiping your cheeks again, but the tears wouldn't stop.
"Y/N, are you crying?!" Sunoo gasped dramatically, leaning closer, his voice high-pitched enough to rival a whistle.
"No!" you wailed, burying your face deeper into your cardigan. "It's just—the lyrics are so stupid!"
Jungwon, ever the responsible one, grabbed the remote and immediately switched the song. "Okay, we need a vibe shift. No more heartbreak songs."
The opening beat of Apple Bottom Jeans blasted through the room, and everyone burst into cheers and laughter.
You couldn't help but laugh, sniffing back the last of your tears as Ni-ki grabbed the mic and jumped onto the couch.
You felt a little lighter. Sure, your heart was still aching, but at least now, you now had friends who made it a little easier to breathe.
The next day, you were required to attend the university baseball game. Every student was, but as part of the cheerleading pep squad, you had absolutely no excuse to skip.
The stadium was packed with thousands of students from your university and the rival school, the energy buzzing in the air. You tugged at the hem of your uniform skirt, your face burning with embarrassment. "Is it really this short?!" you whined, glaring at Giselle.
She shushed you with a wave of her pom-poms. "Relax. It's normal!"
"You don't have to be awkward about it," Karina added, flipping her hair. "Your legs look great!"
Your coach, however, was far less delicate. "We're making it look longer because your legs are short," she said bluntly, not even looking up from her clipboard.
You gasped, utterly dumbfounded. "I—should I be offended, or...?"
The coach just shrugged, moving on with her notes.
Before the game officially began, your squad performed a short routine to hype up the crowd. The music blared through the speakers as you stepped forward, executing a clean front handspring. The crowd roared with approval, but your face burned as your skirt rode up mid-flip.
When the routine ended, you cringed, tugging your skirt back down as you returned to your seat at the front. You waved your pom-poms enthusiastically, shouting the university yell every time your team scored, even if you were still mortified from earlier.
When the game finally ended and the crowd began to thin out, you found yourself standing near the bleachers, clutching your pom-poms and phone. The cheer squad was preparing to take pictures, but you hung back for a moment, trying to catch your breath.
That's when someone approached you.
"Hi," a voice said, warm and slightly out of breath.
You turned to see a guy standing in front of you, wearing his baseball uniform. His dark hair was damp with sweat, his cheeks flushed from the game, and his smile was boyish and shy.
"I'm Heeseung," he introduced himself, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "I just wanted to say your routine was really cool. And, uh... I was wondering if I could get your number?"
You blinked, your brain stalling. Wait, what?
You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could say anything, a loud voice called out from across the field.
"Y/N! Hurry up!" Sunoo waved his arms dramatically, yelling over the crowd. "We're taking pictures!"
Your face turned even redder as you looked between Heeseung and Sunoo. Panicking, you muttered a quick, "Sorry, I've gotta go!" before rushing off toward your squad, clutching your pom-poms.
By the time you reached your squad, you were out of breath and flustered, feeling like the world's biggest idiot.
You grabbed your bag, rummaging through it in search of a shirt to change into. The crowd had mostly cleared out, and the stadium lights were dimming, but you were too busy muttering to yourself to notice.
Of course, you didn't have a spare shirt. Why would you?
You sighed heavily, dropping your pom-poms into the bag and staring at the empty space inside. Without thinking, you mumbled, "I miss Jay."
The words hung in the air, surprising even you. You froze for a second, realizing what you'd just said out loud.
It had been months since you'd ended things—or whatever it was you'd had—with Jay. And somehow, instead of feeling lighter, you felt worse.
The more you saw him in passing, the more you missed him. The more you craved him. The ache in your chest refused to fade, no matter how much time passed.
Sometimes, you still cried yourself to sleep, clutching your pillow as memories of him flooded your mind.
You hated how much you missed him.
And then there were moments when your body moved on its own, as if drawn to him.
You'd find yourself standing outside the music room, staring at the door like you were waiting for something—or someone—to pull you inside.
But you never went in. You just stood there, your heart heavy, before walking away again.
Or you'd sit at your favorite bench, the one where you used to share ice cream with him after practice. You'd sit there alone, biting the spoon absentmindedly and staring at nothing, replaying old conversations in your head.
It was during one of those quiet moments, as you sat with a half-melted scoop of vanilla in your hand, that the truth finally hit you.
You liked Jay.
No, you more than liked him. You missed him so much it hurt. And the worst part? You had no idea if he missed you, too.
You bit down harder on your spoon, frustration bubbling in your chest.
Why had you been so stupid? Why had you pushed him away when, deep down, he'd been the only one who ever made you feel seen?
Maybe you were too late. Maybe you'd ruined whatever connection you had with him.
But one thought kept circling in your mind, no matter how much you tried to shake it off.
What if you weren't too late?
"Do you party?" Sunoo asked casually, flopping onto your bed like it was his own.
You raised an eyebrow, not bothering to hide your skepticism. "Not really. I mean, I've been to a few, but it's not my thing. Why?"
"Let's go to a party this weekend! You know Sunghoon, right? The baseball player? He's hosting!"
You laughed, waving him off. "I'll think about it, but probably not."
Sunoo narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but you brushed him off, fully intending to stay home.
But when the weekend came, your plans to stay curled up in bed went out the window.
Sunoo, Jungwon, and Ni-ki just barged into your house.
"Why aren't you dressed?!" Sunoo exclaimed, throwing open your closet as Jungwon inspected your makeup drawer.
"What are you doing?!" you shrieked, clutching a pillow like it was a weapon.
"You are going to this party," Ni-ki said, arms crossed like he was your older brother instead of one year younger. "Get ready. Now."
With no way out, you reluctantly threw on a simple crop top and shorts, tying your hair into a ponytail and doing clean, light makeup.
When you arrived at the party, the atmosphere immediately overwhelmed you. The music was loud enough to shake the walls, the smell of sweat, alcohol, and something smoky lingering in the air.
You stuck close to Sunoo as he handed you a red cup with some drink you didn't recognize.
"Just take a sip!" he shouted over the music.
"Excuse me for a second," you said, escaping to the balcony.
The moment you stepped outside, you exhaled deeply, the fresh air calming your nerves. The cool night breeze felt like a blessing after the suffocating heat inside.
But then, you stiffened.
Sitting in one of the chairs was someone you hadn't expected to see—someone you hadn't seen up close in months.
Jay.
He sat with one foot tapping rhythmically against the ground, a vape in his hand. The dim light from the balcony highlighted his sharp jawline, his pointed nose, and the effortless way his hair slicked back. He wore a simple white shirt under a blue Nike jacket, but somehow, he looked stunning.
Your chest tightened painfully as his head turned, his dark eyes meeting yours.
"Oh," you said awkwardly, frozen in place.
He stared at you for a moment, then leaned back in his chair, taking a long drag from his vape.
Without knowing why, you found yourself walking over to him and sitting quietly beside him, your gaze fixed on the stars above.
"I didn't know you actually smoked," you said softly, breaking the silence.
He hummed, his head tilting slightly as he exhaled the smoke in the opposite direction, making a point to avoid letting any of it near you.
"I don't. Not usually. I don't smoke at school."
He shifted in his seat, sliding the vape into his pocket and straightening his posture.
"Why'd you stop just now?" you asked, glancing at him.
He didn't hesitate. "Your nose is sensitive to strong smells."
Your breath caught, his simple answer hitting you harder than you expected. That was Jay—always quiet, always watching, always knowing without making a big deal of it.
The ache in your chest grew unbearable.
"I'm sorry," the words came out from your mouth.
Jay's gaze snapped to yours, his expression neutral.
"For what?" he asked evenly.
"For just leaving," you said, your voice shaky. "For everything you've done for me, and then me just... walking away. I didn't know what I was feeling back then. I was hurt and scared because... you're you, and I'm just me. I'm not good enough for you—"
Jay didn't respond immediately. His gaze softened, though his expression remained guarded. "And what are you feeling now?"
You hesitated, your heart pounding in your chest.
"I... I miss you, Jay," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "I miss everything about you. The small things, the way you cared, even if you acted like you didn't. I'm sorry for leaving you. I'm sorry for being stupid."
Jay looked at you for a long moment, his dark eyes searching yours.
"You're really stupid, aren't you?" he said, his voice calm but laced with a faint humor that made your heart ache.
You managed a weak laugh, wiping at the corner of your eye. "Yeah, I am."
Jay exhaled slowly, his lips curving into the faintest hint of a smile.
"I thought you'd like me and never break it off because that's what happens in those books you always talk about, right?" he said, his voice softening. "But somehow, I fell harder than I ever expected."
Your breath hitched as he let out a quiet laugh—so rare, so warm, it made your chest ache. He finally looked at you, his eyes glinting with something vulnerable.
"I've always waited for you," he admitted, his voice low. "Waited for you to stop standing outside the music room and just walk in. But you never did."
Your eyes widened, surprise flickering across your face.
"I saw you," he continued. "Every time you sat on that bench, on our place... I saw you at a distance, sitting there, staring at nothing. And I waited. I always waited for your eyes to look at me the way I was looking at you."
Tears began to swell in your eyes as you took in his words.
Jay leaned closer, his movements gentle.
"I'm sorry," he said softly. "For being such a coward. For not walking up to you when I wanted to. I told myself I'd wait, but waiting just hurt more because all I could do was think about you. About us."
He reached out hesitantly, brushing his fingers against your cheek, his hand warm and grounding. "I'm hurting. I've been hurting since you left. Do you feel the same way?"
The tears spilled over, warm and slow, streaking down your cheeks. You placed your hand over his, leaning into his touch as you nodded. "I do, Jay. I've been hurting, too."
He watched you closely, his eyes softening as you smiled at him through your tears.
"You're crying," he murmured, brushing a stray tear away with his thumb.
"Yeah, well, that's your fault," you whispered, laughing through the tears.
Jay shook his head, his lips tugging into the faintest smile. "You're impossible," he muttered, his voice affectionate.
"And you're annoying," you shot back, your voice trembling with emotion.
But neither of you moved away.
The balcony felt smaller, quieter, as Jay's hand lingered on your cheek. His gaze flickered to your lips for a brief second, and your heart jumped, but he didn't move, waiting instead for you to close the gap.
So you did.
You leaned forward, pressing your lips softly to his, your heart pounding so loud you were sure he could hear it. His lips were warm and hesitant at first, but then he shifted, tilting his head slightly as he kissed you back.
His hand slid into your hair, his fingers brushing lightly against your scalp as he pulled you closer. The kiss deepened, your lips moving in perfect sync.
When you pulled back just slightly to catch your breath, his forehead rested against yours, and his lips hovered mere inches away.
His voice was low, and soft as he whispered against your lips, "Don't ever think of yourself like that. You're more than enough."
His words struck you deep, and your eyes fluttered open to meet his. "But... you're you, and I'm just me," you murmured, your voice barely audible.
Jay didn't let you finish. His lips captured yours again, silencing your insecurities. When he pulled back, he looked at you with a gaze so intense it made your breath hitch.
"I like you for being you," he said simply.
You swallowed hard, your chest tightening with emotion. "But you're like a big star," you said, holding up your fingers to make the shape of a small star, "and I'm just... a little star."
Jay's lips curved into the softest smile before he leaned forward again, kissing you gently.
His voice was tender when he murmured against your lips, "A little star that shines brightest in my eyes."
Your cheeks burned, and you couldn't help but let out a flustered laugh, lightly hitting his chest. "How come you always know how to get my heart?!"
Jay chuckled, kissing your forehead as he hugs you.
Jay just wanted to play guitar. That was all. He didn't ask for the reputation, the attention, or the corny nickname the school had slapped on him—the "cold, untouchable hot guitarist." God, how he hated that.
Every day felt the same: girls cornering him in the halls, asking for his number or accidentally brushing their hands against his arms or guitar case. His eyes would glare like knives as he gritted out, "Don't touch me."
He hated it—the fake admiration, the empty attention. Everyone seemed to care about him for all the wrong reasons. And when they annoyed him too much?
"Fuck off," he'd mutter, his tone so cold it practically froze people in their tracks.
But you? You were different.
Jay remembered the school festival three years ago. He'd been sitting in Jake's booth, tuning his guitar lazily while Jake served spicy noodles to an occasional brave (or dumb) soul willing to risk their stomach for the thrill.
It was supposed to be a chill afternoon, but then you showed up.
You were the only person who kept coming back to Jake's booth. Every hour.
"I swear, you're going to burn a hole in your stomach," Jake had told you, half-laughing as he handed you yet another bowl of his stupidly spicy noodles.
"Totally worth it," you'd chirped, your voice high-pitched and cheerful. "Do you have a permanent shop? I'd eat there every day!"
Jay had glanced up from his guitar, staring at you through the slits of the tent. You were completely oblivious to his presence, happily slurping noodles as Jake made small talk with you.
Later, Jake stormed into the tent, tossing his apron onto the chair. "We're sold out," he'd announced. "And it's her fault."
Jay had raised an eyebrow. "Her?"
Jake pointed outside. "The spicy noodle girl. She's been coming back all day. We sold out because of her."
Jay hadn't said anything, but his lips had twitched, the smallest hint of a smile forming before he went back to tuning his guitar.
Jay hated everyone. He hated how they tugged at him, how they fawned over him for no reason. But somehow, he couldn't bring himself to hate you.
He remembered the little things—moments that no one else seemed to notice.
Like the time you walked down the hallway with that cute little bag, the kind of bag that didn't really suit a high schooler but looked perfect on you.
It had a figurine hanging from it, neatly wrapped in a plastic pouch, and you carried it like it was your most prized possession.
Then, just days later, he'd found you outside the lost and found office, whining and crying. You'd lost the figurine, and you'd spent an entire lunch period pacing back and forth in front of the office, waiting for someone to turn it in.
Or the time he saw you clapping and cheering during a cheerleading pep squad performance, smiling so brightly that it felt contagious. You weren't even part of the squad back then, just a spectator, but you looked so genuinely happy that even he couldn't look away.
Then there was your PathFit (PE) class. Jay hadn't meant to stop by, but he'd found himself standing near the open door, his guitar case slung over his shoulder, as his eyes drifted toward you. You were on the floor, legs stretched into a perfect split, your forehead pressed to the ground as you stretched.
Jay once again noticed you searching frantically for a notebook you'd dropped in the hallway. You were crouched on the floor, mumbling to yourself, "This is why I can't have nice things."
He'd spotted the notebook a few feet away, picked it up, and placed it on the bench beside him.
When you found it moments later, you gasped, "Oh my God, it's a miracle!"
You always said you were just a simple girl. That no one really noticed you or cared about someone like you.
But in Jay's eyes, you were the opposite of invisible.
And every time he thought about you, he realized the same thing.
You stood out more than anyone else ever could.
When you'd spilled water all over his face.
His first reaction wasn't anger or annoyance, but something that surprised even him—he noticed how beautiful you looked up close.
Your wide eyes stared at him in shock, your pouty lips forming a small gasp as you muttered incoherent apologies. The faint, sweet floral scent of your perfume hit him, and for a second, he forgot the cold water dripping down his face.
Jay closed his eyes, his jaw clenching as he tried to take in more of that intoxicating scent, grounding himself. But before he could say anything, you bolted, muttering a quick "Sorry!" as you sprinted down the hallway.
He almost laughed when you tripped on your knees, scrambling awkwardly to escape. He stood there for a moment, wiping the water off his face with his sleeve.
The second interaction was you crashing out his guitar. He almost didn't notice his guitar on the floor because his eyes were locked on you.
Slowly, you raised two fingers in a peace sign, your expression a mix of guilt and panic.
"Uh... sorry?" you muttered before immediately backing out of the room.
Jay stood there, staring at the empty doorway, blinking in disbelief. He opened his mouth to say something, maybe even laugh, but the sound never left his throat. You were gone before he could even start a conversation.
And then there was the volleyball incident.
Jay didn't even see the ball coming. One second he was walking into the gym with his friends, and the next, a sharp pain hit him square on the nose.
"Shit," he hissed, dropping to the ground and clutching his face.
When he opened his eyes, you were hovering over him, your face inches from his. Your hair framed your face like a curtain, and there it was again—that scent. Sweet, light, floral.
He blinked up at you, stunned into silence. For a split second, he forgot about the pain, about the blood dripping from his nose. He was too focused on you—your soft features, your panicked expression, the way your lips trembled as you tried to form words.
Before he could open his mouth to tell you he was fine, the blood started pouring out of his nose.
"Crap!" you yelped, standing up quickly, flailing in panic. "I—I'll get help! I'm so sorry!"
And then you ran. Again.
Jay lay there, groaning as Jake handed him a tissue, snickering the entire time.
"Shut up," Jay muttered, even though Jake don't even say anything.
The breaking point came when Jay heard about the rumor that he was in a relationship.
He was furious. Annoyed didn't even begin to describe it. He hated how his name was constantly dragged into things, but this? A fake relationship? With some girl he didn't even know?
Storming through the hallways, he cornered one of the guys he'd overheard spreading the rumor. Grabbing the boy by the collar, he slammed him against the lockers.
"Tell me who started it," Jay demanded, his voice low and sharp. His jaw was clenched, his dark eyes boring into the boy's.
"I-I don't know! I swear!" the boy stammered, flinching under Jay's glare. "They said it was some girl—Y/N! Y/N told the cheerleaders about it!"
At the mention of your name, Jay froze. His grip loosened slightly.
For a moment, he couldn't believe it. Of all people, it was you.
Releasing the boy with a shove, Jay stepped back, his emotions in a whirlwind. He should've been angrier—should've been ready to confront you and demand answers. But instead, he found himself... curious.
He should've been irritated. He should've hated you for dragging his name into a mess.
But somehow, he didn't.
Instead, he felt something he couldn't quite place. And he wasn't sure what annoyed him more—the rumor itself or the fact that the thought of being tied to you didn't bother him as much as it should have.
“Oh my God, are you seeing what I’m seeing?”
“Did they just come back together?!”
Whispers followed the two of you as you walked hand in hand down the hallway.
Jay’s tall frame dressed in his usual all-black outfit. His guitar case was slung over his back, the strap resting effortlessly against his shoulder, and his hand held yours with an ease that made your heart race.
Every head turned to look at you. It wasn’t just the sight of Jay—cold, untouchable, and intimidating—but the sight of him with you, a cheerful and bubbly cheerleader.
You leaned closer to him, lowering your voice as you whispered, “Do you think a guitarist and a cheerleader is a weird combination?”
Jay glanced down at you, one eyebrow raised, his expression softening. “No,” he said without hesitation, his voice steady. “You and me? We’re a perfect combination.”
You let out a laugh, lightly bumping your shoulder against his arm. “God, you’re so cheesy.”
He smirked faintly but didn’t respond, the corners of his lips tugging upward in amusement.
Park Jongseong as a fake boyfriend was good.
But Park Jongseong as a real boyfriend? He was so much better.
You used to think of him as just the guy with the sharp jawline, the deadpan expression, and those sharp, eagle-like eyes that seemed to shoot lasers at anyone who got too close. He was the “fuck off” and “shut up” guy, the untouchable guitarist who kept everyone at arm’s length.
But now, as you walked hand in hand with him, you realized how wrong you’d been.
Jay wasn’t just sweet—he was unbelievably sweet.
You remembered all the little lies you’d told about him when you were trying to fit in with the cheer squad.
“He’s so sweet,” you’d said back then, fabricating stories about how he’d treat you like a princess.
But now? Those stories felt laughable because the reality of being with Jay was so much better.
When you were tired, he’d carry your bag without a word.
“Let me take it,” he’d say simply, slipping the strap off your shoulder.
He opened doors for you—every single time. If you walked through a doorway together, you didn’t even have to reach for the handle because Jay would already be holding it open, waiting patiently for you to step through.
Once, when you were getting into a car, you’d bumped your head against the roof. From that moment on, Jay always, always put a hand over your head to make sure it didn’t happen again.
“Careful,” he’d murmur, voice low but gentle.
You’d joked about him cooking for you once, completely unaware of how true it would become.
One evening, after a particularly long practice, Jay had brought you to his house. “You’re tired,” he’d said. “Let me make you something.”
You hadn’t expected much—maybe instant ramen or a sandwich at most. But then you’d watched, wide-eyed, as he moved around the kitchen with surprising ease, chopping vegetables, seasoning meat, and sautéing everything.
“Do you cook often?” you’d asked, leaning against the counter as the delicious aroma filled the room.
“Sometimes,” he replied, glancing at you briefly. “Jake says my food is too good for him, though.”
You laughed, resting your chin on your hand as you watched him. Jay, the sharp-tongued guitarist, was making you a home-cooked meal. And it wasn’t just good—it was amazing.
Then there were the kisses.
You’d made up a story once, saying, “He kisses me goodbye every morning.” You thought it was the perfect romantic lie to impress the cheerleaders.
But now? Jay had made it a reality.
Every morning before he left for his own class, he’d touch your cheek lightly, his fingers brushing against your skin.
Then, he’d lean in, his lips meeting yours in the gentlest, softest kiss.
“See you later,” he’d say, before turning and walking away.
Each time, your heart would flutter uncontrollably, your fingers brushing against your lips as you watched him go.
"Aftercare after sex"
Except now, the real thing had turned out to be even better.
“Jay!” you whined, your hand gripping his hair as your hips moved uncontrollably against his mouth.
His tongue worked magic against your clit, circling and sucking gently while his long fingers moved inside you. His fingers curled just right, hitting your sweet spot effortlessly, and you gasped, your jaw going slack from the overwhelming sensation.
Your stomach tightened as the heat pooled low in your belly, and you felt yourself getting closer with each passing second.
Jay let out a low hum, the vibrations sending shockwaves through your body. His free hand moved up to intertwine with yours, grounding you even as you felt like you might fall apart.
“Feel so good,” you sobbed, your eyebrows furrowing together in pleasure. “Don’t want to stop.”
Jay pulled back just slightly, his lips glistening as he murmured, “Are you close, baby?”
You nodded frantically, your breathing erratic.
He leaned up, capturing your lips in a deep kiss. You tasted yourself on him, your tongue meeting his as the kiss grew messy and desperate. His fingers didn’t slow for a second, pumping relentlessly inside you as you gasped against his mouth.
When you broke the kiss, your eyes were teary, your chest heaving. Jay looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, his own breathing labored as he took in your flushed cheeks and swollen lips.
“Fuck,” he muttered, biting his lip as he moved back down between your legs. Without hesitation, he latched onto your clit again, sucking hard.
Your body jolted, your hands clutching at the sheets as you screamed his name. “Gonna cum, gonna cum, gonna cum—”
Jay hummed in approval, his tongue working in perfect sync with his fingers, coaxing you to the edge. His free hand squeezed yours gently, the small gesture making your heart flutter even as your hips bucked uncontrollably against his face.
“I love you,” you gasped, your voice breaking. “I love you, I love you—”
Your back arched as the tension inside you snapped, and your vision blurred with stars. You cried out, your body shaking as you came, the overwhelming pleasure leaving you breathless.
Jay stayed with you through it all, his tongue and fingers slowing to help you ride out the waves. When you finally slumped back against the bed, exhausted and trembling, he moved up beside you, brushing the hair from your face.
He kissed you softly, murmuring sweet nothings against your lips as he fixed your shirt and wiped you down with gentle care.
“You’re okay,” he whispered, soothing. “You did so good.”
Jay was definitely good at aftercare.
“Is it true that Park Jongseong is… like, huge in bed?”
You flushed instantly, your thoughts flashing to the one time you’d seen him fully exposed, when he’d let you take him in your hand.
Yeah, he was definitely huge.
"Did he really let you touch his guitar?"
You stared down at the sleek Stratocaster electric guitar now resting gently in your lap. Jay handed you a white marker, his eyes soft as he watched your expression shift from confusion to awe.
Your fingers lightly brushed over the strings and the smooth, glossy surface of the guitar’s body. “What’s this for?” you asked, holding up the white marker he had placed in your hand.
“I need you to sign your name on my guitar,” he said casually.
Your eyes widened as you looked between the guitar and Jay, who was now sitting beside you. “W-wait,” you stammered, your voice rising slightly. “Are you sure? I don’t want to ruin it—”
“Baby,” he interrupted, “you’re not ruining it.” He leaned closer, gently pointing at a spot near the edge of the guitar’s body. “Right there. That’s where I want it. Sign it for me, hmm?”
You swallowed hard, this wasn’t just any guitar—it was his guitar. The one he cherished.
“Okay,” you whispered, nodding as you carefully uncapped the marker.
You hovered the pen above the guitar for a moment, practicing your signature in the air as your nerves fluttered.
Jay chuckled softly beside you, his voice warm. “You’re acting like you’re signing a million-dollar contract.”
“This is more serious than that,” you shot back, your lips curving into a nervous smile.
Finally, with a deep breath, you pressed the tip of the marker to the glossy surface, your hand moving carefully as you signed your name. The white ink glided smoothly across the black body, and when you pulled the marker away, you stared at the result with wide eyes.
“Perfect,” Jay murmured.
You turned to look at him, your heart skipping a beat at the way his gaze lingered on the guitar. His usual sharp, stoic expression was replaced with something softer, his eyes shining as he traced your signature with his finger.
He looked up at you, his lips curving into a rare, genuine smile. “Thank you,” he said, his voice full of warmth. Then, leaning in, he pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder.
Your cheeks burned as you gripped the marker tightly, unsure of what to say.
Jay pulled back slightly, his smile still in place. “Now it’s perfect,” he said simply, taking the guitar from your lap and standing up.
You watched as he adjusted the strap and slung it over his shoulder. His fingers moved instinctively to the strings, testing a few chords, and you couldn’t help but notice the way his eyes kept flickering to your signature.
“Looks good, doesn’t it?” he asked, his voice casual, but you could hear the pride beneath it.
“It does,” you said softly, your chest feeling warm and full.
It was the school festival again, and you couldn’t contain your excitement. Still wearing your cheerleading uniform from your earlier routine, you tugged at your cousin’s arm, practically dragging her through the bustling crowd. The stadium was alive with energy—students cheering, music blasting from nearby booths, and the smell of snacks wafting through the air.
“Come on, we’re going to miss it!” you squealed, your ponytail bouncing as you hurried forward, your pom-poms tucked under your arm.
Your cousin groaned dramatically, trailing behind you. “You’ve been talking about this all day. Who are we even going to see?”
“My boyfriend!” you said, grinning from ear to ear. “My boyfriend's in a band!”
“Boyfriend?” she repeated, narrowing her eyes. “Since when do you have a boyfriend?”
You turned to her with a mock gasp, clutching your chest like she’d insulted you. “Excuse you. I’ve had one for months now.”
Your cousin raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Alright, then. Let’s see this mysterious boyfriend of yours.”
The two of you found seats near the front, and you craned your neck, scanning the stage as the band members set up. The noise of the crowd grew louder, students and visitors alike cheering as the festival program officially began.
And then he appeared.
Jay stepped onto the stage, standing out against the bright festival decorations. The strap of his guitar rested comfortably on his shoulder, the instrument gleaming under the stage lights—and there it was, your signature on its glossy surface.
Your heart thudded wildly in your chest, a giddy smile tugging at your lips as you clapped your hands together in excitement.
“Okay, but which one is your boyfriend?” your cousin asked, squinting at the stage as if trying to piece it together.
You didn’t even hesitate. Pointing toward Jay, you said proudly, “The guitarist. His name is Park Jongseong. That’s my boyfriend.”
Your attention was locked on Jay as he adjusted his guitar strap and tested a few chords. His sharp, eagle-like eyes scanned the crowd, his usual stoic expression giving him an air of effortless cool. But then, something changed.
His gaze stopped on you.
Jay’s piercing eyes softened, his lips curving into the faintest smile, the kind of smile he rarely let anyone see. It was small, barely noticeable to most, but you knew it was for you.
Your hand flew to your mouth, trying to hide the giddy grin that threatened to take over your face. Your cheeks burned, and your heart raced as he looked at you.
After a brief moment, Jay’s gaze dropped to his guitar. He adjusted the tuning, his fingers moving skillfully over the strings, but you could tell his mind wasn’t entirely on the music. He stole one last glance at you before focusing on his task, a quiet confidence radiating from him as he prepared to play.
Your cousin, still in shock, nudged you. “Okay, he’s hot. How did you—like, how did you—end up with him?”
You laughed, brushing her off as you continued to watch Jay. “It’s a long story,” you said, your voice dreamy.
As the band began their set, the crowd’s cheers grew louder, and Jay’s fingers danced effortlessly over the strings. The sound was mesmerizing, and your chest swelled with pride as you watched him command the stage.
And as you sat there, smiling like an idiot, you realized once again how lucky you were to call him yours.
do you ever read a fic where you need to stop for a minute before continuing again. yes, that was what happened to me while reading this… like i’m not joking i love it so so much it’s so fucking good??? i had to momentarily stop myself because i just couldn’t fucksjhdjd oh my god. you’re such a good writer thank you for writing this piece <3
Summary: When you decided to apply for a researcher post in an elusive institute, you already had the feeling that you will be getting yourself knee-deep into something out of the ordinary. But desperate needs require desperate measures, and so you embraced the invite, despite all the alarm signals urging you to run away. What you found out was nothing you’d ever expected.
Seven boys.
Seven human deviants granted with abilities tied to the legendary Arcana Cards.
Welcome to Project Dream.
Pairing: Various Dream Members x Reader
Trigger Warnings/Themes: violence, torture, trauma, very slight yandere themes, poly dynamics, suggestive themes, language, psychological, mystery, sci-fi. Romance will take a little bit of a backseat on this one since this is more of a suspense-driven plot, but it will still be threaded in the overall story. The concept of the tarot or Arcana cards will be loosely used throughout the series. Note that I am not a trained doctor so there may be some slips here and there about medical things. Again, this is a work of fiction and I am not implying any likeness between the characterization here of the boys to their real life counterparts. I also reserve the rights to all my work—I do not post anywhere else other than tumblr. Minors DNI.
> CH. 1 | CH. 2 | CH.3 | CH.4
Chapter Song:
Formula [Labrinth] | Heartburn [Wafia]
“Sweetie, when was the last time you got shagged?”
GAGGED FOR REAL… THIS IS INSANE! a masterpiece if i may say, if there is any other word to describe how beautiful writing this is, i simply will use it. it is not easy to write about this genre and you for sure killed it. this is only chapter 5 and i just cant wait to read all of them so i can give a proper review. anw, this by far is my favorite chapter! jaemin oh im in love with him already. renjun too my lovely boy. and haechan being his usual self, which i also deeply in love.
genre: song-fic, childhood friends to fwb to lovers to exes, fluff, smut/suggestive, angst | requested and inspired by she gets the flowers by beth mccarthy
summary: the person you shared every moment of your life with could never betray you, right? That was what she thought before Jaemin proved that he could turn from her soulmate to the biggest source of her pain.
warnings: mentioned drinking and smoking underage, smut, mostly suggestive, oral sex (f receiving, a bit more explicit), angst, no cheating but still feelings of betrayal, attempted suicide (not really, but just in case)
words: 6.855k
a/n: first of all, i'm incredibly sorry this took so long but i was going crazy trying to come up with a plot because the song led me to a plot similar to traitor so that's why it took so long. But I'm happy with the result and i hope you'll like it too. warning: probably it's even sadder than my other angst fics so prepare the tissues, i guess???
There’s something beautiful in growing up together and sharing every day of your life with somebody. It’s a type of bond that nothing in the world can replicate.
That was her relationship with Jaemin. She and Jaemin had shared their entire life together. It wasn’t like they had a choice when their mothers that were best friends for ages, casually ended up pregnant at the same time and gave birth to them only two days apart. Being raised side by side even if they weren’t related was something they couldn’t escape. And without realizing it, they became such a big part of each other’s life that living without each other was hard.
They did everything together. All the dumb things you have to do at least once in your life. All their first times. All their heartbreaks, and joys. There wasn’t a single moment they didn’t share.
Despite this, they were different. Jaemin wasn’t exactly a bad boy, not like the bullies type, at least, but he was the most reckless of the two. Always getting her in trouble, while she tried hard to still be the good girl she always was.
“Jaemin, this is dumb,” she said, trying to stop him from climbing the roof of the store. That was the first time he took her there, only seventeen, the perfect age to try dumb things they couldn’t do.
“Is it?” He asked, his hand reaching for hers to help her get up.
She sighed before briefly looking around, making sure that nobody could see them and then followed him.
“You’re so damn hard to convince sometimes,” he whispered, lips puffing out as he let out the smoke of the cigarette he had stolen from his dad’s jacket, head inclined enough so he could look at her. The chill breeze of October blowing on them.
“And you’re reckless,” she huffed, resting her head on her knees, looking in front of her, they could see a small part of the neighborhood from there, and maybe it was worth the risk.
“Here,” he said, handing her a bottle of soju and she pushed his hand away. “Oh, come on, that’s not dumb.”
“You know I get drunk too easily, I will kill myself trying to climb down again.”
Jaemin chuckled, shaking his head, before turning off the cigarette and drinking the alcohol instead.
“The things I do for you,” he joked when he was done, moving closer to her, wrapping a hand around her shoulders. Her head leaned in immediately, cheeks brushing against the blue jacket he was wearing.
“That’s because you love me.”
“Yeah, I do,” he replied, leaving a peck on her forehead.
And that was so normal for them that they never truly weighted the words they said to each other. The ‘I love yous’ didn’t mean anything, just like it didn’t mean how they always held each other’s hands when they walked side by side, and always called each other for help.
It was normal, from the crib to when they went to high school and still looked at each other with the same old eyes. It was fine because they both had their own adventures, and they didn’t need each other for that.
Until something wasn’t enough anymore. Until they started to realize they couldn’t find each other in other people. That their beds were always going to be cold if at their side it wasn’t them.
They had no idea how their first kiss happened, or what exactly lead them there. After a long day at Uni, once again on that rooftop with the breeze freezing them. Hesitant lips getting closer, and shy eyes looking into each other, silently asking each other if it was worth it.
When their lips touched their questions were answered. It was. It was worth putting on a line all their years of friendships.
But they had the bad habit of never calling things with a name. That was their relationship since they were kids. It worked without trying.
But they seemed to forget they weren’t five or ten anymore. They were grown-ups. They should’ve talked, should’ve put a name on it, and set some rules. Anything to don’t end up in ashes.
But they didn’t and that kiss was followed by another. This time not so shy or full of fear. Their hands moved freely on their bodies, touching each other in ways they never imagined before. But once again it stopped there, as much as they were pulled by this force, the fear of taking a treacherous path was high.
Until things took a different turn again.
“Wasn’t expecting you here,” Jaemin said, opening the door of the apartment he shared with his friends.
“I’m so tired,” she huffed, kissing him quickly and then falling down on his couch, throwing her bag next to her. “I have two essays to turn in and I have no idea when I’ll write them.”
“Maybe you could start now,” he proposed, pointing at the books on the coffee table. “We could study together.”
“I don’t want to study,” she replied, crossing her arms on her chest.
Jaemin sat next to her, his hand caressing her cheek, making her turn around in surprise.
“I can help you though,” she stuttered, gulping, wanting to pull away from him but at the same time she just wanted to crave more at his touch. “Would never want to come between your studies.”
“We can do something funnier,” he proposed, and only then she turned around, seeing his eyes locked on her lips.
“This is another one of your dumb ideas,” she whispered.
“Is it?” He asked, same old smirk on his face that then turned into a smile that made her melt.
“We shouldn’t be doing this, you know it,” she mumbled, lying, knowing she was lying. Because she wanted it, she wanted that to happen for such a long time.
“Just this time,” he whispered, breath fanning against her lips. “Just once.”
But it hadn’t been just once.
It had happened over and over again.
“Jaemin, fuck.” The loud music was muffled in his room as the party downstairs kept going on. But her mind wasn’t there, it was focused on Jaemin’s face buried between her legs and his hands wrapped around her thighs as he ate her out while she stood against the wall. Too eager to even wait of getting on the bed or undressing her completely.
“You taste so good,” he mumbled pressed against her wet flesh, nose teasing her clit while his lips and tongue worked perfectly to bring her over the edge so soon.
“I’m close,” she breathed out, fingers intertwining in his hair, pulling hard as the orgasm made her tremble.
“Need you,” Jaemin muttered as soon as he pulled away, licking his lips before dragging her body on his bed. Their clothes were on the floor in a second and Jaemin’s hands ran all over her body.
“Quit playing and just fuck me,” she urged, hips grinding against him.
“You’re so impatient,” he groaned before leaning over the bedside table to grab a condom, ripping the wrap and rolling it down his length.
“If you didn’t tease me all night, maybe,” she said, spreading her legs more, waiting for him to slip inside her. “Shit, so good.”
Moans and whimpers got lost in the night as the party went on downstairs without their care, too busy burning into each other’s flames and lying into ashes on the bed as what was going on between them grew bigger and bigger every day.
There’s something extremely painful about one-sided love. And it only gets worst when the person that gets you weak in the knees is your best friend.
She should’ve known it was a dumb idea. She should’ve stopped it before it even started but by now it was too late. She was too deep into that. And she was once again half naked in Jaemin’s bed, getting drunk in a pleasure that wasn’t enough to water the pain any longer.
“I can’t do this anymore,” she snapped, standing up, pushing his body away, and trying to look for her clothes again.
“Did I hurt you?” He asked, grabbing his boxer just to cover himself the quicker he could and reaching her.
She sighed, slipping on herself his shirt, lifting her head up to push down the tears. “No, I… it’s my fault,” she confessed, turning around again, looking for her pants but the tears in her eyes made it impossible for her to see. And the salty drops filled her eyes even more when she felt Jaemin’s arms wrap around her.
“Hey, calm down,” he whispered, turning her around, her head falling in the crook of his neck as she let him lull her, his hands caressing her back. “It’s alright, it’s fine.”
“No, it’s not,” she mumbled through sobs. “I can’t keep having you like this without truly having you.”
Jaemin was surprised by her words and pulled away to stare at her face. “You mean the sex?”
She nodded, the palm of her hand wiping away her tears. “I thought my heart was safe but I love you. And I know you don’t love me back, I know this was just… just the easiest thing we could do but I – I love you so much. I’ve been loving you for too long without knowing,” she sobbed. “And I know you don’t feel the same –”
“Who said that?” Jaemin stopped her immediately.
“I know.”
“You know? And based on what?”
When she didn’t answer he shook his head. “You think I treat all my other friends the way I treat you? You think I stay up all night to study with somebody else? You think I prepare them tea? You think that if it was just sex I’d let you stay over every time and let you sleep on my chest? You think I’d make your breakfast? You think I’d let you borrow my clothes?”
“Isn’t this what we… isn’t this what we did even when we were just friends? How can I tear this apart?”
Jaemin sighed, nodding, “I don’t know…” he whispered. The lines of their relationship had always been blurry. All the years their friends told them they acted like a couple. All the years their family told them the same thing. All the times they wondered what they were. They simply never had the courage to say it out loud, but now that all the lines were crossed they couldn’t keep playing that game anymore.
“I feel good with you, and I love you,” Jaemin said. “I love you so much,” he replied, cupping her cheeks in his hand, and her heart skipped a beat at his words. “And if you love me back maybe we could give this a try?”
And she said yes. Of course, she did. She had been waiting for this moment for so long that she felt on cloud nine.
Jaemin, her best friend, the perfect man she always wanted to have at her side, was finally her boyfriend.
The perfect man.
That was what she thought.
That was what Jaemin was when he was her best friend.
And he was like that even for the first year they dated.
He was thoughtful, energetic, and responsible and the list of all the compliments she could give him could go on and on. He was the same Jaemin she used to know, the one she always loved, as a friend, as a lover.
And their story was going so well that they even started to look for a small apartment together when the second year of University ended and moved in before summer was over.
“Stop playing around, Nana,” she warned him, pointing the brush on his face, trying to squirm away from him.
“Come on, it’s just some paint,” he laughed, successfully staining her face with the light blue of their bedroom.
“What did you just do?” She glared at him before coloring his face too, making him laugh. “You want war and I’ll give it to you.”
And that was another afternoon spent playing around, paint ending everywhere but on the walls, leaving them lying on the floor breathless before they decided that it was better to wrap it up and go take a shower.
And the new house led to thousands of shopping dates to pick up the furniture, and everything else they needed. Long days running around ended in cozy nights spent together on their couch eating food while their place started to form around them, walls filling up, smelling and looking like them more and more with each passing day.
The last two years of University passed like that, in their place, with their usual routine, with new memories and joys. Inviting friends over, wasting Saturdays doing nothing but cuddling up in their living room, or taking care of the plants that filled their home.
They slept and woke up, looking at each other, always more sure that they were meant to be each other’s future.
Until something broke.
Jaemin was distant.
It wasn't a clear break, one day the sweetest, most loving person ever and the next one a cold, heartless one. It was slow, like the grains of sanding passing from one side to another of an hourglass. Slipping out of her hands just like sand.
Every time she tried to plan something, he always came up with something he had to do. She didn’t want to call them excuses, but at this point, she couldn’t name them in any other way.
And it wasn’t only that, it looked like he had stopped paying her attention at all, whether she wanted it for dumb reasons or even serious ones.
“We have to call the landlord,” she reminded him from the kitchen, turning around to see that he was once again on the couch, doing nothing on the phone.
“Jaemin,” she called him, leaning against the door frame, glaring at him.
“Yeah? You wanted me?”
“I was talking to you,” she replied.
“I wasn’t listening,” he mumbled, putting the phone away.
“Yeah, I can see it,” she sighed, turning around again.
“What did you want?” He asked, and even if she didn’t turn around she knew he was in the kitchen too.
“Nothing, I can do it myself.”
Jaemin huffed, “so you can be mad at me because I didn’t do it?”
She chuckled. “You never do what I ask you do.”
“Here we go again,” he replied, rolling his eyes and shaking his head.
“Yes, I’ll say it again because we can’t keep going on like this. We have to call the landlord because he’s raising the rent of this house again. Our place. I don’t know if you get it that you live here, too.”
“I know. I’ll call him. You think that will make him stop? It’s been two years since we live here, and he does it every time.”
“You didn’t even answer your mother about Sunday.”
“Do you really want to go there?”
She sighed, studying his face with a shocked expression. “It’s your mom? And it’s to spend time together.”
“I can’t.”
“You can’t? On Sunday?”
“I have... a thing to do…”
“A thing? And what is that?” She tilted her head, trying to meet his gaze but Jaemin was avoiding it.
“Need to help Renjun with something. Boring things you don’t care about,” he cut short, and she furrowed, but she had no strength to dig deeper and maybe end up in a fight.
They fought too often lately. They had started to bicker over the smallest things, screaming at each other, drifting away, and crying over spilled milk. And that was fucking her up.
She felt like she couldn’t keep going on like this, but every time she tried to talk with him, Jaemin always slipped from her fingers or she couldn’t find the mental energy to go all the way.
It was just a moment. It surely had to be like that. Maybe it was the stress from work, or those normal crises couples went through.
But to Jaemin it wasn’t a moment.
“I want to break up.”
And then those words arrived. They hit her like a thunder in the middle of a storm. While sitting in front of each other at the table of their house he was finding the bravery to put an end to them.
“I can’t keep lying to myself anymore,” Jaemin confessed, eyes lowering because he couldn’t stand looking into hers. His best friends. The person he learned to walk with. The person he almost shared his birthday with. The person that saw him at his lowest. “I think I mistook the habit of having you by my side for love.”
Her whole world fell apart. She had so many things to say, questions to ask, but not a sound could come out of her mouth.
“I don’t love you. I’m not even sure I ever did. Not like this, at least. Not like you want me to love you.”
Some moments of silence passed after his confession as they stared into each other’s eyes. Jaemin trying to imagine a reaction, hoping it was going to be different from the ones he pictured while preparing for this. Her trying to see a glimpse of a joke, a terrible and cruel one, but a joke.
But she knew him too well and his eyes, his beautiful, once warm, brown eyes there was no sign of a joke. He meant it. Jaemin meant every word.
“You never loved me?” She asked, voice trembling, eyes watery.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? You’re telling me I just wasted more than two years of my life by your side and you don’t know?”
“It’s not my fault, I… I thought I did before I met someone else and maybe… maybe this is not love. My heart doesn’t beat the same. I don’t know.”
“So there’s also somebody else!” She screamed. “After all that I gave up for you! You couldn’t realize this a little bit earlier? Before I gave up my job in London for you? Before I put all my savings in this place for us to share? Before I gave up going to New York for the master?”
Jaemin didn’t answer, he didn’t even look at her. He couldn’t stand the look on her face, he was used to wiping it away, to kiss it away, but now he was the one that caused it.
“I… fuck,” she cursed, throwing her head back to push back tears. “I could’ve had so much more and I never did all because of you, because I thought I had love and you’re telling me all these years had been a lie? I ruined my life for you and you can’t even love me. No, you can’t even look at me while you’re telling me this big news.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispered, eyes meeting her just for a split second.
“Sure, this is going to fix everything,” she chuckled bitterly. “Tell me what she has that I don’t!”
“Don’t do this.”
“Don’t do this? Seriously? I want to know. I deserve to know because you… you can’t just leave me like this.”
“I’m not leaving like this,” he tried to explain. “I thought about it for so long.”
“Why am I so hard to love?” She cried, but it was more of a thought to herself, getting up to walk back and forth because she felt all the emotions pile up and she needed to let them go somehow.
“You are not hard to love. I love you, just not like that.”
“Just shut the fuck up! I don’t care how you love me, I don’t want you to love me like that. Shut up!” Her whole body was shaking, tears flooding down her face, her head was about to explode, and probably her heart too.
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop saying it, stop it!”
Jaemin sighed, he never imagine it would come to this. Honestly, he had no idea how else she could’ve reacted, but there must’ve been a good side to this, right? “I don’t know when it happened, I just realized it now. Isn’t it better like this? It’s over now and we can both move on.”
“Sure,” she replied, holding in a bitter chuckle. “It’s so easy for you. She’s already waiting at home, right? Waiting for you, being everything you always wanted. Something I will never be.”
“She doesn’t know. There’s nothing going on between us.”
“I hope she makes you happy,” she replied, eyes closing so hard that tears rolled down her cheeks faster while her hand rested against the wall, trying to calm her breathing down. “I hope her eyes look better than they shine. I hope her lips taste sweeter than mine. I hope she looks prettier when she cries. I hope she won’t be so hard to handle.”
Jaemin walked toward her, trying to hold her in his arms but she glared at him and it was enough to make him take a step back.
“Leave,” she only whispered, taking a deep breath, trying to don’t pay attention to the tears that were making her look more and more pathetic. “You don’t want me, Jaemin. And I can’t change your mind. I can’t force you here. I already ruined enough of your life with this.”
“You didn’t ruin my life, please. You will always be my best friend.”
She couldn’t hold in the loud sob that rolled out of her mouth when he said that and her body crashed against the wall again.
“I hate you so much,” she screamed, shaking and sniffling. “You — you should’ve told me this so long ago. I hate you so much,” she repeated, bending and holding her stomach, wishing she knew a way to make this pain stop. “I would’ve rather lost the sex with you than — than be — ugh,” she sobbed, completely falling on the floor.
Jaemin was frozen, his heart was broken too. He would’ve never wanted to be the reason for her tears, or for her pain, especially for this pain. Seeing her body shake, her face a mess of tears and mascara and her chest panting uncontrollably as she gasped for air.
“I didn’t do this on purpose,” he whispered because he had no idea what to tell her. How to make her believe that if he made up his feelings before he would’ve told her sooner.
“I know,” she replied, not looking at him. “But… leave, please. I can’t — I can’t do this… I can’t be this close to you. I — I… Leave.”
And he did, walking to their bedroom he grabbed some of his things for the night and left. He tried to meet her eyes before closing the door behind him, but she was huddled up on the floor, sobbing uncontrollably and the only thing he could do after turning her in that state, was to leave her some space.
When the sound of the door closing reached her ears, she started crying louder, fingers clenching too hard around her hair and pulling too much, trying to feel some physical pain because the emotional one was unbearable.
That wasn’t fair.
That was nothing of what she had planned for the night, or for the weekend, or for their lives.
And she couldn’t even think why she wasn’t enough, why he didn’t cast her in the show of his life forever. She could only think about all the wasted times and how now she could’ve been anywhere else in the world, with a job that made her ten times happier, with somebody that truly loved her and still with Jaemin at his side, still her childhood best friend, still the little teenage boy that made her laugh, still the college pal that spent nights up with her.
But Jaemin now turned into a nightmare. He was somebody that she didn’t know.
Jaemin was the source of her biggest pain and that was a kind of hurt she didn’t know how to deal with.
She felt sick.
Sick to the stomach.
So, still crying, and sobbing, she crawled on the floor, tired body making its way to the bathroom, feeling like she was carrying around a ton too heavy to handle. And she threw up, everything she could’ve, and finding the strength to lift her hand and flush was hard. Just like it was to get up when her heart and stomach hurt so much and she felt like she could barely breathe.
“I’m so pathetic,” she whispered through sobs while she laid curled up on the floor, thinking it couldn’t be possible to react that way, that a break-up couldn’t be the end of the world, that a betrayal like this couldn’t be the end of the world. And yet it felt exactly like that. And she had no strength to get up or drag her body to the bed, their bed, so she fell asleep there, exhausted, heartbroken, and humiliated.
It wasn’t going to be the end of the world.
But right there, it felt like the end of the universe.
Dealing with what came after hadn’t been easy. Seeing Jaemin’s face again hadn’t been easy. But that still was his place, and his friends couldn’t just make room for him in their houses out of nowhere. So they still had to share their everyday life for a week before Renjun found a way to let him squeeze into his house, a temporary solution to give him time to find a new place.
But dealing with his absence wasn’t easy either. Every day when she came home the house was a little emptier. All the things they bought together. All the things she had seen in his room at his parent’s place, then in his college room, and now here. Gone. Gone just like him.
Jaemin had tried to talk to her several times, but she never answered, unless it was really necessary, and when she did the only words were ‘yes’ or ‘no’ or small phrases.
She was angry. Furious even. So much she feared she was going to go insane. Because the pain was pressing her to the floor and she felt like she was about to explode. But that wasn’t her, that was a part of her that was hurt and devastated. And as much as Jaemin deserved it, she didn’t want to regret any dumb action, so she took a step back. Hoping he was going to leave her alone as soon as possible and then she would’ve healed by herself.
And it took her at least one month to get back on her feet. She didn’t even feel pain, she felt empty, and for some reason, it was worst. She had no emotions to deal with, to feel and then analyze, no root of a pain to reach to break it apart.
She spent her evenings sitting on a corner of the sofa, looking at the wall, feeling like she was going insane. Her friends tried to make her go out, get her mind off of it, but she had no strength. She was falling into a withdrawal.
“What is this?” She asked her mother while she went through the mail, an envelope that was too elegant to be normal mail catching her eyes. She had started to come back to her parent’s house during the weekend to don’t feel so lonely because that place screamed Jaemin from every corner and she couldn’t deal with it. During the week she was too wrecked from work to let him drag her down, but the weekends were the worst.
“What, honey? It must be the usual stuff,” her mother replied not even turning around, too busy crocheting a blanket.
She wanted to leave it there, but something inside her told her to open it.
“Are you kidding me?” She whispered, blinking her eyes twice to make sure she wasn’t going insane. “He’s getting married?” Her eyes were still on that piece of paper with her name written on it. “He’s getting married and he invited me?”
When her eyes fell on her mother her heart broke even more. “You — you knew?” the words were shaking coming out of her mouth and her eyes got wetter.
“Honey, I’m —”
“Don’t call me honey,” she warned her sternly, feeling like that pet name was mocking her even more. “You knew?”
“I’m still friends with his mom, you know what’s between us, of course, I did,” she confessed, placing the wool next down on the armchair and walking toward her daughter but she stepped back. “I wasn’t planning on giving it to you.”
“Why did he invite me? Does he think — does he think we can still be friends after all the pain he caused to me?” Her back met the wall and it was getting harder to breathe.
He was getting married.
Na Jaemin, her best friend for life, her first love, her first real relationship, the one she gave up so much for, was getting married two months after they broke up.
“His mother did the invitations. You know it’s hard for us to see you like this. We just wish you would solve this.”
“Solve this?” She almost screamed, staring at her mother in disbelief. “Solve what? The broken heart he threw to the ground and stepped on? I gave him my life, mom, I did things for him — I… I would’ve died for him and he tells me he never loved me. These past three years had been a lie, he was with me just because I was there, ready to crawl at his side, I was just a habit he was too afraid to lose and he had to tie me to him somehow until I became too much and he kicked me out of his life. How can I go past this? Why do I always have to be the one that lets people run over her?”
“I didn’t mean that, but you two have been through so much. I don’t understand how —”
“Yeah, you don’t understand,” she replied bitterly before grabbing her things and walking out of the house, not listening to her mother begging to make her stay.
She had no idea how she made it home with the tears fogging her eyes and her heart split into million pieces more than it already was. But once she crossed the door she let out the most broken scream of her life, bending in two in front of the door, letting her body fall on the floor, screaming and crying, regretting all her life choices, wondering how the person she trusted the most in the whole world could’ve turned into her biggest enemy.
Jaemin, the one that had her back when she did something wrong. The one that helped her stood up every time she fell. The one that kissed the pain away when she fell off the bike or from the swing. Her soulmate had backstabbed her, over and over again.
“I don’t deserve this,” she shouted, resting her back against the hard door, head rolled back as she tried to let her lungs breathe in more air because she felt like she was dying. “I don’t deserve all this pain.”
But she had nobody to talk to, nobody was there to hug her or calm her down, nobody to whisper in her ears that eventually, one day, everything would’ve been better.
Nobody was there to tell her that one day she would’ve got that love she deserved.
Because the love she deserved was reserved for somebody else.
And she shouldn’t have added more pain to her suffering, but her hands quickly reached for her phone and opened Instagram.
And there they were.
“Forever and always” as the caption of their hands, two beautiful rings on their fingers. And swiping left another picture, their cheeks pressed against each other, smiling widely as the wind blew the hair in front of their faces.
The exact picture she had of them on her lock screen, but now that she thought about it, after months of thinking that was one of their best photos, she realized that Jaemin’s cheek wasn’t so close to hers.
And there were so many posts on Instagram, both of their feeds were full of each other with cheesy captions and emojis. Things he never, ever did for her.
She broke down again, feeling her heart twist in her ribcage.
She had spent months trying to convince herself that Jaemin had fallen out of love in the last months. That it had happened, that it was just bad luck and they weren’t meant to last.
But looking back at it now, thinking about how easily he had moved on and what kind of love he was reserving for her, the sad truth crashed her to the ground.
Jaemin had never fallen in love with her.
They weren’t supposed to meet again, but she couldn’t say ‘no’ when her mother invited her to the usual spring party she threw the first week of April.
“Sorry, I didn’t see you here,” Jaemin mumbled when they crashed against each other. “I was looking for a thing in my… my jacket,” he explained since they were both in the guest room.
She was frozen. She wanted to leave. She should’ve left because she came there mainly to avoid him. She couldn’t stand seeing him and her all over each other, their hands intertwined, his lips always on her cheeks or lips, his fingers gently grazing her hair back.
“Are you okay?” He asked when tears started streaming down her face. It had been months since he had last seen her and he never imagined she was doing this badly, she barely looked like herself anymore.
She didn’t even notice she had started crying, it happened so often lately that she didn’t even pay attention to it anymore.
“Never been better,” she replied sarcastically, but her feet still couldn’t find the strength to move past him and walk out.
“I didn’t know about what my mom did, I would’ve stopped her,” he said.
She chuckled bitterly. “You think that the problem is being invited? You think that the mere fact of you marrying someone else after two months of our break up isn’t heartbreaking enough?”
“I didn’t want to hurt you.”
She nodded. “I know, I know. We never want to hurt others, and just because it wasn’t on purpose the others shouldn’t feel hurt or betrayed, right? It’s always an honest mistake. Oops, I slipped. Oops, I didn’t do it on purpose. I casually stuck ten knives in your chest but I never thought you would bleed and die on the floor, please, forgive me.” Her tone wasn’t high but bitter, full of a type of anger Jaemin never heard before.
“Let’s not do this right now,” Jaemin said. “There are people.”
“Yeah, you care so much about what they might think. You don’t even care about all the pain you put me through. How much this hurt and how much you, your mother and mine are slapping your happiness at my expense on my face.”
“You shouldn’t have come here.”
“I shouldn’t have? She’s my mom. This is my parents’ house. Not yours. You should’ve been thoughtful enough to say no when she invited you, to take your fucking distances from my family but no, this is so much better. You love seeing me miserable. You love knowing I’m not getting over you, that for me there will never be getting over you. Probably you get off to my pain.”
“Don’t say things that are not true. I didn’t know you were coming, I wouldn’t have come.”
“I don’t even get how my mom let her in, why she’s so supportive of you as if… as if you’re not the reasons I’m struggling to make it to the next day. Why does nobody care about me? Why is she still all over you? Why can’t she see it? Why can’t she realize you’re not the kind, little boy I used to spend my morning, afternoon and evening with?”
“She’s just happy for me…”
“Right, you’re happy, your family is happy. She’s happy, happier than I’ve ever been. You found your person, and there’s nothing I can do about it. And I’m so happy about it. Congratulation for being happy, for finding love, for — fuck,” she cursed. “I’m so happy for you. I’m so happy that she’s getting all the love I deserved to have.”
“Don’t do this.”
“No, I’m truly happy. I’m so happy that she gets the flowers, the boxes of chocolate, the nights out to stargaze, the marriage proposal, the new house, maybe even a dog or a child.”
“Are you mad because I love her?”
“I’m mad because she gets the love I deserved. The love that I gave you.” It was hard to say it out loud and in front of him but she was so mad, so frustrated that everybody there acted as if she was the problem or the overdramatic one.
“She gets the posts made about her, she gets the flowers, she gets a perfect love that you never gave to me. You never loved me. All these years were a fucking lie, Jaemin. You lied to me. I gave you my everything. I was so open to you, I showed you my true colors and what I got back? A fucking play. You were playing a part. I have no idea who I had by my side in the last three years. And I’ve known you before we could even talk.”
“I’m sorry but I can’t… I can’t choose who I love.”
“I don’t care. I got excuses, Jaemin. You got to use this, to use me. You left me in the dust with nothing and then walked away as if it was nothing. As if I was nothing,” she screamed, fist clenching around his shirt before letting go because she couldn’t stand to stay this close to him.
“Was I too hard to handle? Was I too emotionally unstable? What was wrong with me that — that didn’t make you love me? Why don’t you love me? Why don’t you want me?”
“Because you’re not her,” Jaemin snapped, their eyes locking into each other, hearts breaking again. Hers because she never imagined he could hurt her that bad. Again. Over the same wound. Healing and bleeding. Closing and ripping open. And his because he never wanted to hurt her that bad. Jaemin truly didn’t want this to end like this. And he couldn’t stand the emptiness he could see in her eyes as they stared into his and felt like nothing of what they used to feel.
They weren’t home anymore. And this was the cruellest reminder.
Her feet moved back, heels almost dripping on the floor and lips shaking. She gulped, wrapping her arms around her shoulders, nodding as she felt the air dim in her lungs again.
“You’re right,” she whispered, looking through the clothes to grab her jacket before putting it on and storming outside.
Jaemin should’ve let her go but he knew that when she acted like this she was out of herself.
“Where are you going? It’s dangerous to drive like this,” he screamed, running after her, cursing because he didn’t want to make a scene but he still cared about her.
“Why do you act like you care? You don’t give a damn about me. Just — just stop this,” she replied, slamming the front door, walking fast to her car, falling apart when she turned around and he wasn’t there. His fiancée had stopped him, probably asking what was going on and he was lying, coming up with something that wasn’t related to her, because she wasn’t worth a fight between him and the love of his life, and he walked back to the garden, once again forgetting about her.
Driving in those conditions was a terrible idea, but she wanted to go home and the idea of death didn’t sound so sad or scary.
Dying for love was such a dumb thing.
But she couldn’t keep her eyes on the road, her hands couldn’t control the wheel, shaking too hard. And when she lost control, when the car ran off the road and death grazed her, she wondered if it went in another way, if destiny wouldn’t have been so gentle to keep her alive if she would’ve gotten the flowers on her tombstones.
But she wasn’t underground, she was alive, hurt, next to her car, crying her eyes out to a love that was never meant to be.
She couldn’t know what would’ve happened if things went the other way. But of one thing, she was sure.
Someone else was getting the flowers and would’ve always got them.
And that someone, wasn’t her.
I hope you liked it! Please let me know with comments, reblogs or asks!!
you did it again… i cried like 3 times what the fuck 😩😩😩 everyone seemed like villains to her oh my god ☹️☹️☹️ PLS she deserved everything in this world. she sacrificed EVERYTHING for him, she gave her all to him, just to hear him saying that those 2 years they spent tgt meant nothing to him, that he wasn’t sure about his feeling before he met THE NEW HER, that she was not HER. GOD GRACIOUS i would snap at him, i would make sure he will never experience happiness again in his life, i would make his life miserable‼️
GENRES ▸ smut, fluff, some angst, crack, college au, strangers to friends to lovers au, slowburn
WARNINGS ▸ profanity, alcohol and weed consumption, “opposites attract” trope, mentions of anxiety, nahyuck are extra stupid in this fic, hyuck has his euphoria moment, momentary fwb, unprotected sex (wrap before u tap), slight corruption kink, high sex, fingering, oral (fem. receiving), and lots of fluff !!
SUMMARY ▸ lee donghyuck’s competitive spirit to find the best girlfriend results with him setting his sights on yoo jimin, the hottest girl on campus. however, trying to get close to her ends up with him being pushed in her roommate’s direction. donghyuck has never considered dating someone as quiet as you, but, for whatever reason, he’s infatuated.
PLAYLIST ▸ adada adada by chitharth • partners in crime by finneas • i wanna be yours by arctic monkeys • garden song by phoebe bridgers • kal ho naa ho by shankar-ehsaan-loy, sonu nigam • heartbeat by bts
WORD COUNT ▸ 17,017 words
AUTHOR’S NOTE ▸ hihi !! i’ve been so so excited to share this fic so i hope u guys enjoy !! lmk what you think and i hope you enjoy the playlist :’) third installment of the bitch hunters series ♡
LEE DONGHYUCK’S COMPETITIVE NATURE RAN IN HIS BLOOD, SET DEEP WITHIN HIS VERY BONES.
When he and his friends were finding prom dates in high school, Donghyuck was determined to find the best date with the best proposal he could plan. This ended with him on the rooftop of the science wing with a large sign that read “Will You Light Up My Night At Prom?” with neon lights taped to the sides, a megaphone, and his poor friends standing to the side with bouquets of flowers. Perhaps it was rather over-the-top, but Donghyuck’s charm came from how much effort he put into everything he set his mind to.
One would think Donghyuck’s fire would die down once he hit adulthood, but it was quite the opposite. College offered many opportunities for competing against his peers. Even if it was something simple as getting the last pizza roll from the microwave, Donghyuck would shove Na Jaemin against the wall any day to be victorious.
Bitch hunting season brought the challenge of a lifetime for Donghyuck. At first, he was determined to be the first one to get a girlfriend, but that fell apart once Renjun and Jeno beat him to it. Then, Donghyuck came to realize that it didn’t matter when he finished as long as the others saw him as the winner.
That meant Donghyuck would have to cuff the hottest girl in their year: Yoo Jimin.
pairing: lee haechan x oc/fem reader (no descriptions and no name but written in third person) | mentioned: huang renjun, lee mark, lee jeno, na jaemin
genre: angst, song-fic, friends to lovers to exes | requested and inspired by traitor by olivia rodrigo
warnings: angst, implied past bullying, implied past depression, assumed cheating, gaslighting, break-up, fights
summary: the worst kind of betrayals are the ones that happen unexpectedly and from the ones you love the most. Haechan never gave her a reason to believe he was a traitor. Their relationship never showed signs of cracking. But doing the most for someone you love doesn’t stop them from backstabbing and leaving you behind.
words: 6.450k
a/n: it took me ages but she’s here. there might be some mistakes bc while i was editing tumblr decided to don’t save half of it and i didn’t want to re-read it for the third time. i hope you’ll like it! let me know what you think with comments, reblogs or asks ♡
When somebody cheats, the partner always finds out. No matter how slick they think they’re being, at some point, they know. And the reasons why they don’t confront the other could be different, maybe they’re not sure, maybe they think they would never do something like that, or maybe they think that being hurt is just a tiny little price to pay to keep them.
The latter was the main reason why she kept her doubts to herself and never found the courage to face Haechan.
The signs were all there, they started to pile up one after the other, but when they became too much to handle she had to let go.
“What got you smiling so hard?” She had asked her boyfriend. They were sitting on the couch next to each other, the tv playing a movie they picked previously, but Haechan seemed more concentrated on the phone in his hand than on the movie, or her. No matter all her touches lingering on his body, or her jokes at the actor’s lines.
He shrugged, lifting a hand to caress her hand that was placed on her thighs, “Nothing, babe,” he replied, locking the phone and tugging it deep into the pocket of his pants. “Jaemin sent a stupid meme in the group chat, you know, the usual.”
And she hummed, shrugging it off, not paying attention to the hidden signs. The way he didn’t keep the phone in his hand but hid it away, the way his breath shook for a split moment or how his mind still seemed off somewhere away from there.
At first, it really did seem nothing. Jaemin would always flood up the group chat with stupid messages. And sometimes it happened to her too to get distracted by other things.
There was nothing strange with it.
Just like there was nothing strange with the boys’ nights out. She wasn’t jealous, she trusted Haechan, and only thought it was fair for him and his group of friends to go out and have fun. She did the same with her closest friends so it was something common in their relationship, just some healthy alone time with other important people of their lives.
If only boys’ nights didn’t start happening so often.
“I just don’t get it,” she said, nervously biting her lips as she walked back and forth in her room while Haechan was sitting on her bed, looking at her with an apologetic look – honestly, she couldn’t even get if there were any apologies behind his brown eyes. “Your boys’ nights out are on Saturday, why do they keep happening on Friday, too?”
Haechan sighed for the nth time that afternoon, standing up and walking toward her, trying to make her stop from walking around. “I told you, it’s not a boy out only, the guys also have some other friends and we’re just all hanging out.”
She scoffed, “So they are not even your friends, right?”
“Well,” he sighed, shrugging, “I don’t know, I know them, we got close with time.”
She sighed, turning around, throwing her hands up before pinching the bridge of her nose and sighing deeply and loudly again.
“Okay, what’s wrong, now? Are you going to do this or talk?” He asked, raising the tone of his voice and furrowing in annoyance.
She gasped, turning around again, “What’s wrong? I just… can’t you say no for just one night, Haechan? It’s literally just one fucking Friday for us.”
“I thought you didn’t mind me spending time with my friends.”
“I don’t,” she cursed, “but you are always out with them. And these are friends of your friends while, me,” she said, chuckling bitterly, “last time I checked, I’m your girlfriend.”
Haechan sighed, wetting his lips as he nodded lightly and walked toward her, gently wrapping a hand around her waist, “You’re right,” he said, caressing her cheek, moving her hair back, “I’m sorry, okay? I’ll tell them I have to pass this time.”
She wanted to get mad at his use of ‘have to’ as if he was being forced to do that but decided to let it slide. She didn’t like fighting with Haechan, and lately, those stupid bickerings were happing way too frequently.
“Yeah, fine,” she replied, leaning closer to rest her forehead against him and inhale deeply his scent. “I don’t like looking like a psycho obsessive girlfriend but I… I just miss you so much, lately, I’ve been barely seeing you.”
“I know, we’ll make it up this weekend,” he smirked before kissing the pain away. “You have to tell me things, though, or I can’t solve them. Promise me you will tell me anything?”
And she did promise, but the one keeping secrets in the relationship wasn’t her, so it was a bit hard to make things work that way. Especially in the long run. At the start Haechan tried to spend more time with her again, being able to balance the friend life and the love life perfectly, but then excuses started to collect, and most of them didn’t even match what the other boys would tell her.
“Maybe he fell asleep,” Renjun said, chewing the inside of his cheeks nervously. “You know, he’s a little stressed out lately.”
She scoffed, “he could’ve told me he couldn’t make it out of the bed. I’ve watched the movie alone after waiting for him outside for like a… like an hour? I didn’t even enjoy it because I had no idea where he was,” she sighed, falling beside him on the couch. “God, I have no idea where he is now.”
“I’m sure he’s fine,” Jeno tried to reassure her but was too busy looking at a vase on the shelf. He wasn’t even that close with her, he just came along because she called Renjun and he was with him. He had probably seen her three times before.
“Can you please don’t play with the vase, though, it’s my grandma’s gift, I don’t need more preoccupation now.”
Renjun glared at him, signalling him to back off, and got back caressing her back while Jeno lifted his hands and backed away.
“We can go see if he’s at our dorms,” Renjun proposed, “we didn’t sleep there tonight so we don’t know.”
“Yeah, maybe that would help,” she replied, trying to hold back the sniffles.
“We’ll call you as soon as we know something,” he reassured, leaving her alone again. But Haechan wasn’t home and he wasn’t even picking up Renjun’s or Jeno’s calls. It looked like he disappeared.
When two hours passed, she heard a knock on the door and got up immediately, imagining it was him, feeling so many different emotions bubble in her body.
“Hey,” there he was, Haechan standing there, looking at her with a sorry face, chest panting because he had probably rushed there and a bag in his hand. “I’m so sorry.”
“Are you okay?” Was the first thing she managed to say. All the anger, the frustration, leaving her body because she was more terrified something had happened to him than the fact he was basically acting like a completely different person.
“Yeah, I… I’ve been practicing all afternoon and I collapsed on the bed as soon as I got home.” Lie. Well, partially a lie. It wasn’t like she had to know all the truth. Knowing he stayed at the dance room later because he was helping out a new friend wasn’t an important part of the story, right? They just danced. It could’ve been even Jeno, it was just irrelevant.
She hummed, making room for him to enter the house. The text Renjun had sent her before telling her he wasn’t home completely slipped her mind. “I was worried, I thought something happened, you didn’t answer the phone.”
“I know, I was too busy to pay attention to it,” he replied. “But I bought McDonald’s,” he cooed, lifting the bag full of food in his hand, “So... can we make it up?”
“Buying me with food?” She asked, giggling.
“Well, it’s your favorite hamburger,” he said, pouting and batting his lashes. “Come on, you know I get carried away sometimes, but I really need to be prepared to pass the audition next month.” Haechan hated studying, but it wasn’t like his parents gave him the chance to pursue his dancer career so he had to make it all fit between a university major he couldn’t care about and the hard practice at night to follow his dream. And lately, he just had a special dance partner that gave him more motivation, leading to staying hours past the usual training hours.
“I know,” she said, kissing him slowly, “but promise me you will try to at least warn me when you’re too tired and can’t make it.”
“I will. Making you worry is the last thing I want to do.”
Up to that point, the cracks in the house they had built were already starting to show, small, barely visible, passing unnoticed. But no one of the two was suspecting anything. Haechan truly didn’t want to cheat on her. And she had nothing to worry about.
But then it happened.
When her name first slipped out of Haechan’s mouth she didn’t pay much attention, she didn’t even pay attention to the way he was stammering while trying to answer her innocent questions, almost as if he was hiding something. But she simply didn’t see it. There was nothing to see. Haechan was loyal, his charismatic and extrovert personality weren’t signs of being a cheater. Bora and he met at the studio and were partners, she surely wasn’t the first woman that danced with him. And she also seemed pretty dull, at least from the few answers Haechan gave her.
That was until they met on a Friday night at a restaurant all together to hang out. Bora was tall, fit, an amazing dancer that moved to Seoul to follow her dream, friend with Mark, and dance partner of Haechan and Jeno. A little bit too funny for her liking, too smart, too pretty, just… too much.
And she was also too close to Haechan. Her hands touching his, her soft smiles curling her lips at any word he said, her irritating chuckles at the unfunniest of his jokes.
That was why Haechan avoided her questions, because she wouldn’t have liked the answers.
‘She’s not even that pretty.’
‘She doesn’t even get my jokes.’
‘Yeah, she needs more practice.’
“Are you okay?” Haechan had asked close to her ear, turning around so he could only look at her.
“Mh, me?” She asked, shaking her head and zoning in again.
“Yeah, you,” he chuckled, “you barely spoke all night,” he said, caressing her hand on the table. And that touch, that usually brought her so much comfort, felt weird, almost foreign.
“I just… I don’t really know what to say,” she smiled fakely, “I know nothing about dance.” She was a history student, the things that got her excited were far different from pirouetting, popping, or whatever they did.
“We didn’t only talk about that, come on,” he said.
“No, sure, I…” she stopped, shaking her head.
Calm down, you are going insane. It’s fine. It’s all in your head.
“You?”
“I need more alcohol; can you order it for me?” She asked, changing the topic, making him furrow but then shrug.
“Yeah, sure.”
It wasn’t the time and place for a jealous scene, she thought to herself. There was no need to be jealous. Bora just happened to be an amazing dancer and an amazing person and that was it, and so were Haechan’s male friends, she was just like them.
But the anger and jealousy didn’t calm during the rest of the night out, she couldn’t help but stare at her, and the way she was always facing Haechan, smiling at him, a wicked smile that hid thousands of things she didn’t even want to know, or the way her hand tried to brush against his any chance she got. They were acting as if she wasn’t even there. They were acting as if she wasn’t his girlfriend.
“Can we go home?” She asked, finally speaking, probably for the first time in an hour when Bora snuggled her face against his shoulder for god knows whatever reason, probably due to a comment Mark made toward her, she wasn’t really listening, just paying attention to their body language.
They all stopped laughing, looking at her with a confused expression, Haechan included, that swiftly brushed her off and finally paid attention to her, his girlfriend.
“It’s barely ten?” He pointed out, staring at the watch on his wrist.
“I know, I’m tired.”
“Already?” He asked, lowering his tone and moving toward her to shield her conversation from their friends.
“Yes, I… can we just go? Do you hate spending time with me so much?”
“What?” He gasped. “Why would you say that?”
“Why would I say that? You didn’t look at me the whole night,” she snapped, voice getting higher and nostrils flaring.
“Oh, please, now that’s not true.”
“You know it is,” she remarked, raising her voice, making him turn around and smile awkwardly at his friends.
“Okay, let’s not do this right here, right now, okay?”
“Oh, sure, would never want our friends to know that we fight too,” she snorted bitterly.
He sighed, “I just think there’s no need to fight, you’re seeing things.”
“I am what?”
“Can we seriously don’t do this now?”
“Can we go home? I simply asked you this.”
Haechan huffed again, but fighting in front of their friends was the last thing he wanted to do, and also he hoped that she would calm down on the way home, but that didn’t happen. The silence of the car ride back to her place got interrupted as soon as they stepped inside. The main door slammed behind them.
“Who is she?”
“Who- what do you mean who is she?”
“For you, who is she for you?” She screamed, throwing her bag on the couch.
“Oh, god really? Are you seriously doing this? This is your problem?”
“Yes, because… because she was always on you and you – you looked at her, you looked at her with those eyes, with that look you never look at me like that anymore.”
Haechan groaned, offended. “What are you insinuating?”
“It doesn’t look like insinuation to me.”
“No? You think I’m cheating on you?”
She sniffled, turning around, not able to stand his gaze. His eyes were looking at her as if she was out of her mind, blaming her for being too emotional, for being the one that was ruining everything for not trusting him.
“You’re crazy.”
She turned around again at those words, staring at him in disbelief as she felt her heart clench in her chest. She wanted to say something but everything seemed useless. Why was he acting like that?
“You – you didn’t talk to me all night,” she whispered, voice clapped and eyes starting to get watery.
“You’ve been acting like a bitch all night,” he snapped, “and now I know why. How can I talk to you when you put a wall between us?”
“What did you call me?”
He rolled his eyes, “You know what I meant. It’s not my fault I didn’t talk to you.”
She fought back tears and lift her head to push them back, finding it hard to bring her attention to him again. “I told you I knew nothing about what you were talking about and you didn’t even make an effort to try to change the topic of the conversation.”
“Sure, of course now it’s my fault," he chuckled, walking back and forth, “You’re a jealous crazy girlfriend and it’s my fault,” he screamed at her.
“Fuck you! I never made scenes when we went out together, there’s a reason if it’s weird.”
“Is there? Or maybe you are just insecure?” He said, voice not loud anymore but full of bitterness, a defiant smirk on his face.
“Insecure?” She asked, voice trembling and body too.
“Yeah, she did nothing but be nice and here you are. Maybe you wish you were like a her, not a pain in the ass like you are.”
She tried to say something but those were the last words she was expecting to come out of his mouth. Why was he defending her so much? Why was he going all the way against his girlfriend for a girl he barely knew?
“I didn’t say a single bad word about her, I’m talking to you, my boyfriend, about us. This is about us.”
“I don’t know what to tell you then,” Haechan shrugged, drifting his gaze from her wet eyes.
She chuckled incredulously, “Maybe sorry would be appreciated?”
“I’ve got nothing to apologize for. You’ve been bitching all night, you made me come home so soon for this and now I have to apologize?”
“I just wanted to spend some time with you! If you didn’t start asking me dumb questions we wouldn’t be fighting but maybe right now we were in bed like a fucking normal couple!”
“Well, then maybe we are not a normal couple.”
“No, since I see my modern history professor more than I see you.”
“You know what? I won’t talk to you if you keep blaming it on me,” Haechan said, grabbing his jacket again and walking toward the door. “Call me if you seek some sanity again.” And then the door slammed behind him, leaving her petrified in the middle of her living room with tears streaming down her face, shaking hands and lips and a heart that was breaking more and more. And it was getting too heavy to carry around.
Two headstrong and proud partners don’t go anywhere. It’s impossible to meet each other in the middle ground if that simply doesn’t exist.
None of them was going to back up.
She had done that too many times, crawling, and scratching her knees to fix something he had broken.
And Haechan knew he was wrong, but the guilt was eating him alive, and so was his pride.
And just like that, one week passed, with silence, avoided gazes, switched seats in the two classes they had together, lunches at a different table, and no texts or calls on their phones.
“I’m sorry.”
Then it came. It arrived unexpectedly, probably for the first time in the five years they were dating.
Haechan apologized. Standing right behind her at the table of that library that was now her only safe place, with his big green hoodie, snapback covering his guilty brown eyes, and the dirty Converse tapping nervously against the floor.
And she wanted to fight back, to put him through half of the pain he put her through but she couldn’t. The possibility of losing him scared her more than now, opening her arms again, would’ve hurt her dignity. If she still had some of it left in her.
So she stared at him, trying to read his face, that familiar face that now seemed so stranger to her. She wanted to convince herself that it was all in her head. She needed to convince herself of that. But finding some truth, some honesty behind his eyes, and the way his fingers were playing with his backpack, was difficult.
“I’m sorry if you felt left out, I thought you cared about dancing after all these years with me,” he added, finding the courage to look at her.
She wanted to say that she didn’t feel left out, they left her out but now wasn’t the time and place for another fight. Surely that was what he meant, Haechan simply wasn’t good with words. So she hummed, trying to stop her lips from shaking and find the right words to say, something that made sense in the mess they were becoming, or probably already were.
“So… you promise she’s just a friend?” She asked. That was the only thing she needed to be reassured about. The only thought that ran across her mind for the past week. The only fear that made her cry at night while covered in his sweater she tried to cling to the few things she always had of him, feeling that just a blow of wind was going to take him away from her.
Haechan hummed, “She’s just a friend, you’re just being paranoid,” he said and then walked closer to her, sitting on the empty chair at her side. “Can we please make it up? I haven’t gotten a hug in a week.”
And she couldn’t do anything but smile, her lips mimicking the way his own turned up and his arms opened to welcome her in.
She fell into his trap again, not catching the lies, or the way he was shaking and not because he had anxiety to finally confront her but because he had started slipping.
Because during that week he didn’t miss her that much. Because he had been receiving countless hugs. Because he had spent his afternoons in somebody else’s company. Because they almost kissed and that made him realize he needed to redeem himself.
And from then on, lies became more and more. All the ‘I love yous’ didn’t feel so genuine anymore, and the hugs were weird, short, and cold. The hours together were boring and he wasn’t looking forward to them in anticipation.
And maybe there, he realized why he was stuck there. She became a habit. An old one, hard to let go of. They had nothing in common, not anymore at least.
She felt safe because she was there at his worst. She was there by his side when nobody else wanted to be associated with him. When he was a loser. When people took it out on him and the only arms he could run to were hers. When his brain was tricking him into thinking that life wasn’t worth it anymore. When he couldn’t find a reason to wake up every day, she became the reason.
But that was five years ago.
Now Haechan wasn’t that person anymore. He didn’t need shielding. He didn’t need to be protected, and comforted. He didn’t need any more savings. He needed to mirror himself in somebody that was like him with the same passions and needs. Somebody that lived for the things that kept him alive, and she, she wasn’t his reason anymore.
And since she wasn’t his reason anymore, she started to be pushed into the back of his brain more and more.
The clock hands ticking weren’t a reminder big enough that he should’ve been at the cinema in twelve minutes and he needed to stop dancing with her and rush home to get changed. And only when his phone started buzzing uncontrollably he realized he was late.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t make it.’ Another apology, or an excuse, followed by an empty promise. ‘I’ll make it up.’
And she swallowed her pride and told him not to worry. His future was important, and he couldn’t waste time. She would’ve supported him and been his number one fan once he finally made it as a professional dancer in his dream company. Because she was when nobody else believed in him and his dream. She would’ve always been her number one fan if only he wanted to.
But then it happened again, and again. And being so far away from him was harder than expected.
The morning texts weren’t enough. The classes together weren’t the type of time she wanted to spend with him. And the lunches at their table had shifted since Bora also started to sit with them.
And she wasn’t dumb. She kept quiet but she knew. She kept quiet to keep him, to hold onto an image of Haechan that now, she was more than sure, wasn’t there anymore. She kept quiet because not only it was painful but also humiliating.
And humiliation was what was leading her angry steps under the rain. It was past ten, and the cinema board was fading behind her as she hurried to his dance gym.
One hour past their date. One hour late and no text, no call. Nothing but silence. A silence that was becoming agonizing and too loud, full of his lies and her delusional thoughts.
And she couldn’t care that the rain was socking her clothes, sticking her hair to her skin and ruining her shoes, she needed to get this over. But hope is the last one to die, and a part of her wanted her doubts to be fake, she truly wanted to be the weird one that was seeing things. She wanted to believe it was just another honest mistake, that he was tired and had forgotten, that if she entered the room Haechan would’ve been alone or with their friends and not with her.
But it wasn’t like this. He was there with her, laughing carelessly, way too close to each other.
And right there at the moment, she knew that she wasn’t even crossing his mind anymore.
That flame of hope wasn’t big enough anymore to make her get on her knees and beg. She couldn’t close her eyes and pretend she didn’t know, she didn’t see. She needed to let go. There was nothing to gain from that, their relationship had crumbled apart, the pieces of their story were dripping on the ground like the raindrops were slipping down her coat.
“It’s not what –” Haechan immediately tried to defend himself when he saw her but she stopped him, lifting her finger in the air.
“Can we get a moment alone?” If this needed to end like this, if she had to be the one putting an end to them, she wanted it to at least be private. Because she had no idea what she meant to him anymore, but Haechan still meant something to her, what they had, everything they had been through meant something to her. So damn much that the pain she was feeling right there can’t be explained with words.
When they were alone, under the porch outside of the gym they stood there in silence for a while.
They both knew what was coming.
There was no need to paint the grey walls between them blue. It was raining outside just like it was raining in the home they had built in the past years.
And that was why it was so hard to say something. One guilty of not loving anymore, and the other victim of loving too much. A terrible match that shared too much of each other. A terrible mess that knew the other’s deepest secrets and highest moments. Half a decade passed in front of their eyes as they tried to come up with a way that didn’t hurt like hell to take all that time they shared and throw it in a bin.
“It’s over,” she whispered, looking at the ground because she was sure his eyes were lighting up, happy he could finally run to Bora without their story holding him back. “We are over,” she repeated, lifting her gaze, almost more to tell it to herself, to be sure she was doing this for real. To remind herself that all her doubts and fears and his twisted games were real.
“I don’t understand, why?” Haechan asked, mixed emotions running in his mind. Why wasn’t he feeling relieved? Why was this weird? What if he still cared?
She snorted before pressing her lips together to suppress any other sound to come out, the cold was starting to make her shiver but the way he was acting was tiring her more than the long day she had, than the cold and the broken heart. He was faking it, even now, even at their breaking point, he was pretending. Putting on a mask to play the role of someone that wasn’t him, the role of someone that wasn’t the person she used to love.
“There’s nothing to understand, just like there’s nothing to save,” she answered. What was the point in wasting her breath screaming at him and explaining to him what he did and what he was fully aware he was doing? She had spent months walking through his tangle of lies and shocked faces, falling into traps that now were crystal clear, no more leaves covering the big holes she rolled down into.
And when no other word came out of his mouth, she took a step back, the rain hitting her again. When his hands didn’t move to stop her, when his feet didn’t try to cancel the distance between them, when his eyes looked into hers and there was nothing in them she used to know. She realized that she had been fooled much more than she imagined. He didn’t want to fix this, he had no reason to want to fix what broke between them because he didn’t want what was between them anymore. He was past the state of mixed feelings, past not knowing where he belonged. He knew it damn well. And the place where he belonged wasn’t her anymore. It was waiting inside in a white room, probably praying for their downfall so she could finally have him.
And right there the tears mixed with the rain, he couldn’t tell them apart, he couldn’t even swear she was crying, not that it mattered anymore. All this vulnerability, all the things they shared, were gone. So she turned around, hugging her body to shield herself from the cold, her feet almost tripping on each other every two steps as her fogged vision tried to carry herself home. Heart breaking even more when she couldn’t hear footsteps behind her. Haechan wasn’t following her. Haechan wasn’t even waiting outside to at least make sure she wasn’t getting hit by a car driving by. Haechan wasn’t under the porch, he was inside again, with her.
She wasn’t his reason anymore. But Haechan still was hers. And she had no idea how she was going to cope with that.
Break-up pain is weird. It’s weird when you’re young and you know you have all your life ahead. You know it’s not the end of the world, and yet it feels like it. It feels like all you knew, suddenly doesn’t make sense anymore. It hurts even more when you break up with someone you spent so much life with. When you grew up with them and imagined having them by your side all your life. And it’s even harder to deal with it when you got backstabbed by that person. It’s harder when you dried all their tears, pulled them out of their darkest hours and then suddenly you meant nothing to them.
Nothing.
She felt like an appearance in Haechan’s life when after just two weeks he proudly showed Bora around.
Two weeks were all it took him to get over her and the five years spent together.
She felt like a forgotten bus ticket in the pocket of a coat hanging in the closet for the whole summer. A piece of paper that gets found, looked at with a confused expression and then gets thrown away.
But to her Haechan wasn’t an old, faded, ticket. Haechan had been such a big part of her life and she couldn’t understand how he could move on from her so quickly. She couldn’t understand why he wasn’t hurting even a bit.
So this pain was worst. Because it made her feel dumb, it humiliated her, it shamed her for all the things she let him do. All the red flags she chose not to see. All the lies she chose not to listen to.
And it made her wonder if she was so uninteresting. If they truly had nothing in common anymore. How it was possible to be so easy to be forgotten after everything? And doubts start to form even more, going back in time and questioning when it all went downhill. When everything started being fake.
But she couldn’t find an answer.
She couldn’t even find her Haechan anymore.
Surely that wasn’t the one she had fallen in love with.
Walking around campus holding Bora’s hand, moving her hair behind her ears, buying her food, dropping her to her classes with the risk of arriving late to his. He even let Bora sit at her place at their table. Slapping it straight into her face how he didn’t care about her. Bringing her around, replacing her so blatantly just to shut her down.
Probably that also was the biggest pain. Not only she had lost him but she had also lost her friends. Bora took her place in his life, in his friends’ circle, probably soon even at her chair at his parents’ house.
She had nothing of the old life anymore. The only ones that checked on her were Renjun and Mark, and the only one that still proposed to go out was Renjun. But she still sat alone at an empty table now and picked the farthest seat from him in the few classes they had together, and avoided all the places they used to go together.
And things weren’t going better for her. If in front of him she faked it, and smiled, and held her head high, in the privacy of her room she would fall apart. She couldn’t point out when the betrayal started, when his words turned into lies that then turned into daggers that made her bleed. And those years felt wasted. Five years she wasn’t going to ever get back. That made her realize that she also couldn’t let him take away more years of her life. He had hurt her, badly, terribly, but she couldn’t give him that power anymore. She needed to let go for real, forget about him, move on, just as fast as he did.
But she wasn’t Haechan.
“You’re avoiding me.”
Their last conversation came three months later, when all of a sudden she heard his voice again and, lifting her gaze from her phone, she saw him.
“I know we’re over but… you were talking with Renjun and then ran away when I reached you two.”
She blinked twice, shaking her head to make sure she wasn’t dreaming, or in that case, having a nightmare. But he was real, white t-shirt, blue jeans, honey brown hair moving in the light summer breeze and stranger eyes looking into hers.
“Do you hate me?” He asked again, so nonchalantly she wanted to throw the glass in his face.
How could he come here like that? With his head low, tail between his legs, and playing the victim.
“Are you serious?” She simply asked, too stunned to believe he wasn’t joking.
“Yeah, I don’t get what I did for you to cut me off like that.”
“You betrayed me,” she said, rising her voice, shaking visibly, feeling her lungs burn. Wasn’t it enough? All the pain he put her through. Why did he need to sink the knife deeper? “I know that you’ll never feel sorry for the way I hurt. Because you don’t care, you, you just don’t care. You never cared about me, not the way I cared for you.”
She sighed, shaking her head, taking a deep breath because she didn’t want to shed more tears for him, “And I can’t even blame you, I have to blame me for being so, so stupid, and in love. God,” she exhaled, looking back at him. “I wish you had thought this through before I fell in love with you.”
“I never cheated on you,” he defended, emotionless voice with just a hint of insecurity, a small tremble, at the unexpected way she was talking to him.
“I don’t care,” she said. “In two weeks you were over me. In two weeks you erased a five years relationship. You were terrified of love, it took you one year to ease into me and try to be in a relationship with me, there’s no way you fell in love so soon. You fell in love with her when we were still together. You… you probably did even worse.”
“No, I would’ve never done that to you.”
She hummed, hiding a bitter chuckle, “It doesn’t matter…” she whispered. “Nothing matters anymore. Not when I gave you my all, my youth, my support. Not when I was the only one by your side and you pushed me to the sidelines so easily. A kiss is not more painful than this.”
“I’m sorry,” he apologized, voice breaking in his throat as he started to slowly realize that maybe she was right. He did hurt her anyway. Holding himself back from kissing Bora when they were together wasn’t better than the thoughts that crossed his mind or the way he let her go so easily. He had cursed himself many nights for not even being able to talk it through, to end it on a better page, to let her down slowly.
She chuckled, “No, you’re not. I don’t want you to be, I wish you to feel at least half of the pain you put me through. I hope to pop inside your mind when you least expect it, when you sleep with her in our bed, when you let her wear your sweatshirts, when she cooks your favorite breakfast or prepares tea exactly how you like it. Does she know it? Did you tell her about how much you love it with those biscuits that are almost impossible to find? How it has to be green tea and not teabag but only loose leaf?”
Haechan drifted his gaze. She didn’t know. She had no idea what he truly liked. Or how annoying he could be. She didn’t know half of the things she knew about him. And he wondered if she would ever get to know him that much.
“I will never take you back, Haechan, not even as a friend,” she said, fixing her clothes and staring straight into his eyes. No matter how much pain it still gave her, or how painful the idea of living a life without him was. If he forgot about her so soon, she could do the same. She was going to do the same. She deserved better and she was going to find it. And that wasn’t Haechan, not anymore.
So she stood up, grabbed her bag, and looked at him one last time, “I guess you didn’t cheat, but you’re still a traitor.”
pairing: ex!lee haechan x oc/fem reader (no descriptions, no name, written in third person) | side members: huang renjun, lee jeno
genre: angst, song-fic, friends to lovers to exes, (a bit of) fluff, happy ending | requested and inspired by enough for you by olivia rodrigo
summary: all she ever wanted was to be enough for Haechan, even now that they aren’t together anymore. Until someone opens her eyes and makes her realize that she is already enough the way she is.
warnings: angst (but it's not that bad, it's more focused on the healing process)
words: 5.002k
a/n: i hope you’ll like it! let me know what you think with comments, reblogs or asks ♡
Looking back at what had been between her and Haechan she should’ve known. Should’ve seen some red flags before, instead of being so surprised when everything crumbled apart.
Sure, it was all there. But she didn’t feel like blaming herself too much when he did nothing but fool her. She had no idea what kind of Haechan she would’ve had in front of her, every day changing into someone she didn’t know.
But she loved him. Deeply, too much to really hate that push and pull. She loved him too much to see how much all that was getting to her head.
And even now that Haechan wasn’t hers anymore, now that they broke up, those doubts filled her mind.
Her confidence had crumbled into pieces, it was worse than when they started dating when he had to whisper sweet words to her hear and tell her how beautiful he found her.
“Why are you changing so much?” Renjun asked her when he met her in the corridors of their campus.
“What are you talking about?” She asked, fixing her bag full of books on her shoulder, and starting to walk to the library with her friend.
He sighed, rolling his eyes. “You know what I’m talking about.”
“No, I don’t,” she replied, chuckling.
“You never wore make-up,” he pointed out. Renjun wanted to add ‘not that style, not the kind of make-up Bora wears,’ but didn’t. She knew it.
She sighed, pushing the heavy door and waiting for him to walk inside. “Wanted to change,” she shrugged. “New break-up, new me.”
“Sure,” he huffed, pulling out a chair for her before sitting next to her. “You’re just hurting yourself.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she replied, hiding her face in her bag to look for the books they needed to study.
“You gave him everything you had to give,” Renjun said. “If he’s dumb and doesn’t see the value in you it’s not your fault.”
She lifted her face, glaring at him. “I’m doing this for myself.”
“Yeah, just like you started going to the arcade for you, right?” He asked, placing his elbows on the table, staring at her, making her roll her eyes. “Jeno saw you, you were more concentrated on Bora and Haechan laughing because she got herself killed every two seconds than your own game.”
She wanted to deny it, but she knew there was no point. She saw Jeno too, they made eye contact and then drifted away, but it was too late. And neither he nor Renjun were dumb to don’t know she didn’t care about video games at all.
“He never let me play with him,” she confessed. “He always got mad at me because I wasn’t good. And now he’s laughing with her for the same mistakes I made.”
“And knowing it will make you feel better?”
She chewed her lower lips, head lowered as she pulled a hangnail on her thumb. “No, but I don’t understand. How can she be so much more exciting than me? What does she have that I don’t?”
“He’s an asshole, that’s the only answer you need to give yourself,” Renjun insisted.
“No,” she replied. “You know her better than me, you don’t have to lie. I know she’s more exciting. It took me one night to get she had everything to swipe him off his feet.”
“Her being interesting doesn’t make you less.”
She hummed. Of course, Renjun was going to say something like this to her, but she didn’t want his pity. She didn’t even know what she wanted. No, she knew. She wanted Haechan back and that was something she couldn’t have.
“Let’s study,” she said, opening the first book. “I don’t want to think about him.”
But she thought about him a lot, more than she should’ve.
Every time that she was in her kitchen preparing coffee, she couldn’t help but remember their mornings together.
“I promise coffee is not that bad,” she laughed at Haechan’s disgusted face as he pushed the cup back.
“That’s like a shot of venom,” he said, trying to clean his tongue and get rid of the strong flavor.
“It’s an espresso, of course, it’s strong,” she said before turning around and opening the fridge. “Wait, let me make it better.”
“Yeah, throw it away.”
She rolled her eyes, sitting next to him and pouring the milk into the small cup. “Drink it now, come on.”
Haechan lifted his eyes on her, a furrow on his face, and then hesitantly grabbed the cup. “Just because it’s you,” he said before bringing it to his lips, tongue sticking out to try to taste just a bit before drinking it all.
“So?” She asked, big bright eyes looking at him with hope.
He sighed. “Hate to prove you right, but it’s good.”
She clapped, letting out a squeal, “I told you! You never trust me.”
“You nearly killed me before.”
“I’d never kill you, I can’t live without you.”
And it was true. Because now that he was gone it felt like she was carrying around an empty shell of her body. And she hated the way his favorite songs popped in her mind at the most random times. And she could still hear his angelic voice singing over them when he would let her lay her head against his chest and she could feel it vibrate and then drift to sleep into his hold while his voice lulled her.
She couldn’t move on when he was in every corner of her house. She still had those self-help books she bought just to impress him, to make him think she was smart. Like she had to prove something to him when her history major was going so well, when she always aced everything since she was six. It still wasn’t enough. Somehow Haechan always found a way to don’t make her feel smart enough.
“It’s not like you’re not smart,” he said, resting on the couch with one leg falling out, dangling back and forth. “You’re too emotional. You let that part of you get the best of you and you end up looking stupid.”
“There’s nothing wrong with emotions,” she retorted, trying to push away the painful emotion she felt at his words.
“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “You panic over anything. The other day you got mad at me just because I was a bit more annoyed over the phone.”
“Lately you are always annoyed,” she replied. “And not only over the phone.”
“I told you, I’m tired,” he cut her off. “Anyway, you should read some self-help books, they might help you.”
And she did, she listened. Starting from one and then reading so many more just to make him happy. But it wasn’t like they worked. She kept being her paranoic, obsessive little self because Haechan gave her enough reasons to be. No book was going to take away the way he acted and how much he pushed her back.
“I thought you were smarter than this.”
The last person she expected to ever talk to her approached her one day, making her turn around with a furrow on her face.
“Shouldn’t you be at your table with your friends?” She asked when Jeno sat next to her in the university cafeteria, ignoring his words because she couldn’t get what he wanted from her, and she couldn’t care about it either.
“Don’t want to deal with Bora and Haechan stuffing their tongues in each other mouths,” he said, making her gag just imagining them so close. “You were much less annoying.”
“Is this a way to slap to my face how much better he’s doing without me?”
Jeno shrugged, grabbing his chopsticks and starting to eat. “No,” he mumbled after swallowing. “I told you, I don’t get why you’re still obsessing over him.”
She snorted, rolling her eyes when she got that he had no intention to leave her alone, and started to eat too. “I don’t care about him.”
Jeno almost choked from laughing at what she said. “Please, be serious,” he said, looking at her up and down. “Look at you, baggy pants, neon tops, sneakers? What happened to your dresses and skirts and pastel colors? From looking like a fairy to looking like a hip-hop dancer.”
“People can’t change?” She asked, tilting her head to look at him, still trying to understand what he wanted from her and why out of all the people he cared.
“Sure,” he said, “but it would be less embarrassing if you didn’t try to be her copy.”
She placed the chopsticks down and turned to him. “Leave.”
“No,” he retorted, turning to face her. “He’s not worth it. He’s not worth none of the hurt you’re putting yourself through.”
“You are his friend, not mine,” she said, not getting why he was acting like that. Were those words coming from Haechan? Maybe he saw her changes and found her annoying once again but didn’t dare to confront her?
“I know, and I also told you I can’t stand them.”
“Sure, it didn’t seem like you couldn’t stand her when he was dating me,” she huffed, going back to her food.
“I guess he made you feel incredibly insecure, but,” he said, stopping for a moment because he didn’t know how to let her know what he thought without looking weird. “You are interesting. And you’re not annoying or whatever he made you believe,” he confessed.
She stopped eating again, looking at Jeno with a furrow on her face. “Do you have a fever by chance?”
“Oh, shut up,” he groaned, slapping her hand away from his forehead. “I’m serious.”
“How do you know?” They never talked much, well, now that she thought about it, they never went past greetings and other small talks when they ended up being alone during their group hangouts.
“You don’t want to know,” he said, drifting his gaze from her.
“Oh, no, I do. You sound like a stalker.”
“I’m not, you can be sure about that,” he defended himself immediately.
“Then what it is? I don’t need your sympathy or worse your pity, Jeno. I already have Renjun filling me up with bullshits to make me feel better and trust me, it doesn’t work,” she snapped, raising her voice, making him look around, panicking when people turned around to look at them.
“I didn’t eat,” she whined, barely grabbing her bag and trying to don’t fall on her steps as she hardly followed him when he grabbed her wrist and dragged her outside.
“We’ll skip the last lessons and I’ll pay for something outside,” he said, starting to walk out of campus, still holding her hand.
“Jeno, what the hell,” she complained but then gave up. She couldn’t care less about university either, two hours skipped weren’t going to make her fail.
“I know,” he whispered once they were outside of the garden, walking through Seoul, his hands hidden in the pockets of his jeans, his backpack on one shoulder, and his black hair hiding his face.
“Yeah, how?” She asked, getting inside of his car once they reached it, not even sure why she was following him and maybe ending up getting more hurt than she already was.
“Is there something of your heart left to break?” He asked, lifting his eyes to meet hers and when she looked behind him, he got that yes, there was something more to break. “Nevermind.”
“I want to know anyway,” she begged, grabbing his arm without thinking before letting him go, pulling away.
Jeno sighed, starting the car and driving to a place where they could eat. “Haechan talked a lot about you…” he confessed. “And not always in a positive way.”
She was expecting to feel pain, to hurt more, but maybe there truly was nothing left of her heart to break. There was nothing left of her that Haechan could break because he had already destroyed everything. Her heart, her confidence, her passions, her intelligence.
“I honestly couldn’t get half of the critiques about you,” he admitted, his gaze was concentrated on the street, but she felt a weird nervousness in his voice, and she couldn’t understand why. He always seemed like the confident type, and he wasn’t her friend, so he had no reason to be afraid of hurting her. But she shrugged it off, she, unfortunately, had other things to worry about, like her ex-boyfriend talking shit behind her back when they were together. “A bit because you seemed the total opposite of what he used to tell and also because I couldn’t find flaws in many of the things he hated about you.”
“Hated?” She asked, a look of disbelief on her face. Over the past months, she had come to the conclusion he couldn’t stand her anymore, but she never thought Haechan hated her.
Jeno nodded, not daring to turn around and see her wrecked face. “Maybe your story became too much,” he guessed. He truly couldn’t comprehend how they fell apart. He was there since the start and imagined them to be together for eternity. She had been by Haechan’s side when nobody else was and Jeno couldn’t understand how Haechan could be so stupid to let her go, especially like this. And he couldn’t get an answer from his friend. Not that he asked, it wasn’t his business after all.
“What did he hate about me?” She dared to ask, looking down at her thighs because she felt tears at the corner of her eyes. But they threatened to fall even harder because Jeno was right, she looked pathetic trying to be Bora. She hated those clothes. She wasn’t like her. She wasn’t the kind of girl Haechan wanted and no matter all the clothes she could change, or lipsticks on her face, she was never going to be her.
“Why would you do this to yourself?” He asked, parking the car before signaling her they had arrived.
“You started talking to me,” she reminded him, closing the car door behind and following him as they walked toward the place.
“And not to hurt you,” he said, scratching his neck, and she saw his mouth open again to say something, but no other words came out of his lips.
“Then why?”
He shrugged, avoiding her gaze. “Because I think you’re smarter than this dumb thing of trying to be a copy of her. And because…nothing. We’re here,” he said, turning left and pushing the door open before looking for an empty table.
“No, finish,” she insisted, sitting in front of him, and now it was harder to escape her interrogating gaze.
“Because you deserve better than him,” Jeno confessed, cheeks reddening.
“I will never have him back,” she replied with a bitter chuckle as she felt her heart clench as the realization hit her again.
“That’s why I wish you stopped acting like this,” he said before handing her the menu. “It’s on me, get whatever you want,” he added. “What?” He asked when a smile curled her lips and she hid her face behind the papers.
“Nothing,” she mumbled. “I thought you hated me and here you are, paying for my lunch, trying to wake me up from my fantasies about my ex.”
“You thought I hated you?” He asked, raising a brow, eyes widening in surprise.
“Let’s say you weren’t the most welcoming of his friends,” she explained, smiling at him again before focusing on the menu.
“Let’s say you’re not good at reading people considering how you let him treat you,” he whispered but she heard anyway.
“You do stupid things when you want to keep somebody by your side,” she replied, but she wasn’t mad, not at Jeno at least, because he wasn’t wrong. She was terrible at reading people, especially when she loved them.
“Yeah, but now?”
She hesitated before answering, “I know… but I can’t help but still want to be enough for him. I meant too much for him. I have no idea how I…” she had to stop, feeling her eyes wet again and a gulp form in her throat. “I don’t get how he couldn’t care less about someone that loved him so deeply. I don’t get how after everything that tied us he could forget me that easily.”
Jeno nodded. “I don’t get it either. And I know you don’t want me to be the one saying those things but as I said before, you don’t deserve all this pain.”
“I don’t know how to make it go away,” she confessed. “I don’t know how to make him go away.”
“Or maybe you didn’t even try,” Jeno whispered with a hesitant voice, shily meeting her eyes, and feeling his heart clench seeing that they were off, nothing of her old bright eyes was there anymore.
“I just… I want myself back but I feel that he’s such a big part of me and I know this is wrong, but he took so much of me, Jeno. I cannot erase so many years of my life in the blink of an eye.”
And he wanted to tell her that yes, she could, just like he did. He wanted to tell her that the way he moved on so easily should’ve been enough for her to do the same or to at least don’t let him have so much power over her. But when he looked in front of him and saw her shaking as she tried to hold back the tears, he realised that Haechan was right. She was too emotional for this, too emotional for his careless way. She loved too much and Haechan didn’t know how to deal with so much love. Now that she looked at him, apologizing when a tear rolled down her cheek and ranting about how pathetic she looked and how weird this all was, he realized why she and Haechan didn’t last.
“Hey,” Jeno called her, grabbing her hand that was moving frenetically to fix the bottle with flowers she made fall by mistake, “look at me. It’s alright,” he said, smiling before he wiped her tears away. “Why don’t we eat without thinking about him?”
She nodded, slumping back in the seat, hating herself a bit more because she wasn’t so sure she could’ve avoided thinking about Haechan. Not now that she knew that he truly started slipping out of her hold much longer than that and only God knew how many other girls made him turn his head because she had never been enough for him. Because she was not enough and too much at the same time and she had no idea how to deal with it. Jeno was wrong when he said that their story became too much. The heavy thing that dragged them to the bottom of the sea was her. She was too much to take and at the first chance Haechan got, he ran away.
But weirdly enough Jeno was good at keeping her mind off her ex. He listened to her, something nobody did in ages. And he was funny, unlike the times they hung out together and his jokes never hit. Sure, it wasn’t the kind of humor that anybody could get, but right now it was enough to make her crack a laugh and feel her heart less heavy.
And with time, it turned out that Jeno in general was really good at don’t make her think about Haechan. She had no idea when they started hanging out so much, probably after he had asked for help for a class he was about to fail because he couldn’t even memorize the basis and they spent afternoons in the library studying, occasionally with Renjun’s company, that was finally happy to see that she didn’t look so heartbroken anymore.
“So, you’re finally stepping out of the house without me dragging you by the hair,” Renjun joked, they were sitting on the sidewalk while they waited for Jeno to bring them their orders from the street food stand in Hongdae. “And most importantly,” he said, looking at her dress and the make-up on her face, “you got back to being yourself.”
“You were right, it was dumb trying to be like her,” she said, resting her head against his shoulder. “Also, I look better in pink than in bright colors.”
Renjun chuckled, and then asked, “And your heart? Got back to beat for someone else?” He pointed his head to Jeno that briefly turned around to smile at them while he waited in line.
“What are you talking about?” She asked, pushing him off.
“You know what I mean.”
She rolled her eyes. “He’s just a good friend, like you.”
“Are you sure?”
She hummed, biting her nails, before saying, “I’m getting back up on my feet, but I’m still hurt, Injunnie. And…sometimes I still think about you know who.”
Renjun laughed before pinching her cheek. “Take your time, baby. And, next time, fall for someone that won’t hurt you this bad.”
“That someone that hurt me that bad is your friend.”
“And? You have no idea how much I fought with him for the way he treated you.”
Before she could say anything else, Jeno came back.
“Teobokki for my favorite girl,” he said, handing her the cup, making her lower her head and mumble a low ‘thanks’ and then he turned to Renjun, “and a tornado potato for you.”
“Thanks,” Renjun said. “Should we start walking again?”
The other two hummed and started walking through Hongdae again to enjoy more local singers or dancers covering songs. But she couldn’t help but think about what Renjun had told her.
She wasn’t feeling anything for Jeno, right? No, of that she was sure, at least, she believed her heart was too wounded and broken to start beating again. And she also knew that when she occasionally crossed Haechan she could feel a weird sensation in her stomach, but she couldn’t tear the butterflies and the venom apart.
On the other hand, she knew that Jeno made her feel good. But she couldn’t call it love.
She liked the way he would rest his face on his crossed arms and listen to her talk no sense for hours, his eyes crinkling up every time he laughed or smiled at something she said.
She liked the way he never made her feel stupid, even when her emotions would take over and tears fell a bit too easily from her eyes.
She liked the way he listened to her repeat for her history exams and didn’t find it boring even if she knew that it was terribly boring for him and he couldn’t care less about wars, politics, and social dynamics all around the world.
She liked hearing him talk about dance without mocking her when she didn’t understand some specific terms, or when they tried choreographies together and she couldn’t keep up with him. Most of the time it lead to them laughing on the floor like fools while they struggled to breathe from the laughs and the fatigue. And when she laid there, at his side, so close to him feeling light, she could feel her heart beat just a bit faster than usual. And maybe her stomach twisted when he turned around and smiled at her, his shaky hands moving a strand of hair out of her face.
But it was too soon, it definitely wasn’t love, and she couldn’t jump into another relationship without looking. She couldn’t use him as a replacement, she couldn’t hurt him when she was the first one to know how painful being used and betrayed was, so she left Jeno there, in the back of her heart, under the ‘friend’ label because she knew she wasn’t ready for another heartbreak.
“So, Jeno’s the lucky one.”
When she heard those words and that voice she felt her heart drop to the floor, her stomach clenched uncomfortably and she felt struck on the spot. But she still turned around, the lights of the party weren’t enough to don’t make her see Haechan standing there behind her, unfortunately for her with the same handsome face of always. And the music wasn’t loud enough for her to pretend she didn’t hear him.
“Jealous?” She asked, tilting her head and holding the glass in her fingers tighter.
“I just think that it’s just a low move to go with one of my closest friends,” he said.
She laughed, not a chuckle or a smile, a laugh, loud enough to make some others at the party turn around and stare at them before Haechan glared them off. “You talk about what’s a low move or not. You have some gut to come here and teach me a lesson.”
“You broke up with me,” he replied.
“Of course,” she chuckled, shaking her head, “how long has it been? Two months since we spoke last and you still don’t get it, you still don’t get all the pain you put me through.”
“I told you, I never cheated,” he said, taking a step forward but she stopped him with a glare.
“Yeah, because cheating is the only painful thing you can do, right? Don’t you think I loved you too much to be used and discarded? Don’t you think I loved you too much to think I deserve nothing? Not even respect. I’m not asking you to love me, I don’t need it anymore. No, worse, I don’t want it anymore. But you could at least stop coming in between my happiness. Why are you mad? Because your best friend can give me all the love you were never able to give me?”
“I loved you and you know it. You can’t delete five years of our story just for someone that arrived in your life in what? Two months?” He told her and when she looked at him with a serious face, eyebrow raised and a smirk on her face, it hit him. That was exactly what he did to her but two weeks after they broke things off. He was getting mad at her for the same thing he did, but he did even worse, he hurt her more than she could ever do now.
“So, is it clear now? Do you feel at least half of the pain I felt? Do you feel betrayed like I felt?”
Haechan didn’t answer, he stood there, staring at her while all his mistakes crumbled on his shoulders and pushed him to the ground. He was the reason their story fell apart. He had hurt her. He had betrayed her. And he couldn’t get mad at her for moving on with anybody else, not even if it was Jeno, not even if that meant seeing them together all the time.
That was her payback, and all of a sudden, he realized he had no more reasons to be mad. And probably, it would’ve been better if he simply avoided approaching her in the first place. But he did that, and they were there now, and he deserved it, he deserved to feel all the humiliation he was feeling right now.
But she was glad he did. Sure, those past months not talking to him helped her, but this conversation made him realize what he had put her through. And she loved to see that he was finally bleeding too. Sure, revenge wasn’t a virtue, but she couldn’t care. She was tired of his smug smile, of his confidence when he broke her apart. She was tired of seeing him walking around like a God without realizing all the pain he was causing.
And right now, in front of her, there was a broken-hearted Haechan and she had no idea if he was regretting it because he missed her, because he had realized that Bora couldn’t give him what she gave him, or if simply because he didn’t like losing and his pride now was eating him alive. Knowing him, well, finding out over time who he truly was, she would’ve bet on the latter, but she truly didn’t care.
Haechan wasn’t her problem anymore.
She was done with this story, with him, with his lies, and his games.
And since he seemed to have no intention to talk again, she started walking past him. She had a party to go back to, and an entire night to dance between arms that weren’t his, between the arms of someone that made her feel good and enough. A feeling she had forgotten all these years by his side.
“And for your information,” she said, turning around again because she needed to put an end to this with a light heart, “between me and Jeno there’s nothing. But who knows, someday I’ll be everything to somebody else. And they’ll think that I’m so exciting. And maybe then, only then, you will be the one who’s crying.”
Haechan didn’t dare to meet her eyes, the floor wouldn’t have hurt as much as meeting her cold heart would’ve, the floor couldn’t remind him that she wasn’t his anymore and it was all his fault.
“All I ever wanted was to be enough for you, Haechan,” she said, looking into his eyes when he lifted them, and not feeling pain, not feeling anything anymore. “But thanks to you I found out I was already enough for someone else. And I don’t have to pretend to be someone I’m not. I don’t have to hurt myself just to keep them. They don’t leave me all alone crying, wondering what I did wrong.”
“You were enough for me,” he tried to stop her from leaving him again, grabbing her hand but she swiftly pulled away from his hold, making a crack form in his heart.
“No,” she replied, a bitter smile painted on her face as she stared into his brown eyes, “I don’t think anything could ever be enough for you.”
keywords: (M) stands for NSFW; (💌) stands for all-time favorite
total fics: 68
note: credit to the authors!! thank you for writing them <3
Jung Jaehyun
dusk till dawn 💌 by @iridesuhnce | series (14 parts) | 122k words | action, angst, mafia!au
healing by @nctream | series (9 parts) | 50k words | (M) romance, single parent!au, CEO!au
promised by @doiebunny | 20.9k words | (M) childhood friends to enemies to lovers, arranged marriage!au
i hate that i love you by @jaehyunnie77 | 14.1k words | (M) angst, fluff, slow burn, enemies to lovers, college!au, roommates!au
sleep well, princess by @anashins | 12.5k words | (M) fluff, angst, drama, romance, slow burn, six-year age gap, big brother's best friend
the more you know, the harder you fall by @j0hnj4e | 10.8k words | (M) slight angst, fluff, enemies to lovers
Mark Lee
alcoholman by @dreamykram | 20k words | (M) romance, slow burn, enemies to lovers, fuck boy!mark, rich!reader
clouded fate 💌 by @byunbaekby | 17.2k words | (M) angst, bad boy!mark
perils brewing by @jenonctcity | 16.9k words | (M) fluff, angst, fantasy!au, supernatural!au
thin ice 💌 by @alicanta77 | 14.6k words | fluff, angst, hockey player!mark
gluttony 💌 by @misfitneo | 13.5k words | fluff, angst, mafia!au
nothing on me by @ethaeriyeol | 7.3k words | (M) angst, humour, friends with benefits!au, office!au
out of my league by @neovisioned | 4k words | (M) tiny angst, fluff, best friends to lovers, best friend!mark, college!au
Huang Renjun
happier than ever 💌 by @rrxnjun | 16k words | angst, fluff, slice of life, coming of age, slow burn, brother’s best friend, childhood friends to lovers, high school!au
baila 💌 by @ncityrave | 11k words | (M) fluff, pinch of angst, slow burn, mutual pining, dance teacher!renjun, college!au
one foot in the golden life 💌 by @nsheetee | 9.7k words | (M) romance, slight angst, rich kid!renjun, caddie!reader, university!au
archenemies by @wincore | 8.8k words | fluff, bad boy!au
seal it with a kiss 💌 by @cinanamon | 8.6k words | angst, suggestive, fluff, enemies to lovers, vampire!au, vampire hunter!au
the new cupid by @lunena | 8.6k words | fluff, suggestive, strangers to friends to lovers, college!au
summer limerence by @sugarjaee | 8.2k words | fluff, slight angst
cupid's arrow by @notnctu | 7.1k words | fluff, slight angst, friends to lovers, college!au
shotgun 💌 by @primehyuck | 6.4k words | (M) fluff, angst, slice of life, college!au
Na Jaemin
the way life goes 💌 by @mrkis | series (6 parts) | 100.6k words | (M) fluff, angst, slow burn, crack, humour, friends to lovers, fwb!au
the force between us 💌 by @neoculturetravesty | 27k words | (M) romance, fluff, angst, fantasy, hurt/comfort
wave rider by @amorajae | 22.1k words | (M) fluff, angst, surfer!jaemin, fwb!au, celebrity!au
oblivious part 1 – part 2 – epilogue by @misfitneo | 18.1k words | angst, fluff, slytherin!jaemin, hogwarts!au
hostage part 1 – part 2 – epilogue by @jaeminhours | 17.6k words | angst, fluff, gang!au, high school!au
upon your invitation 💌 by @lunena | 17.2k words | (M) fluff, friends to lovers, college!au
the owl and the moon by @amorajae | 7.5k words | (M) fluff, angst, bad boy!jaemin, high school!au
Lee Haechan
post mortem 💌 by @alicanta77 | series (5 parts) | 52.4k words | angst, fluff, suspense, friendship, best friends to lovers, zombie!au
before our story began – jealousy – make a wish 💌 by @sundaysundaes | 31.8k words | (can be read separately) (M) fluff, slice of life, humour, drama, college!au
love bites – craving by @sundaysundaes | 29k words | (can be read separately) (M) fluff, humour, romance, vampire!au, roommates!au
lost memories 💌 by @jisungiest | 28.5k words | (M) angst, fluff, strangers to lovers, dystopian!au
friendly favour by @hencity | 20.9k words | (M) fluff, angst, best friend!donghyuck, college!au
boys like this 💌 by @alicanta77 | 18.8k words | fluff, angst, bad boy!au
and i love her just like that 💌 by @rrxnjun | 16k words | fluff, humour, childhood enemies to lovers
dandelions by @treasuretaeil | 11.7k words | (M) fluff, angst, slow burn, childhood friends to lovers, neighbors!au, summer!au
falling 💌 by @sundaysundaes | 11k words | (M) fluff, angst
started with a kiss by @sundaysundaes | 10k words | (M) fluff, humour, romance, actor!au
home is a feeling 💌 by @neonun-au | 8.2k words fluff, slight angst, light suggestive
eccedentesiast by @babyflossy | 7k words | angst, fluff, violence, bodyguard!au
Lee Jeno
tomorrow never dies 💌 by @alicanta77 | series (5 parts) | 63k words | angst, fluff, mutant!au
a marriage of inconvenience 💌 by @choco-mark | series (9 parts) | 34.6k words | (M) angst, fluff, enemies to lovers, mafia!jeno, mafia!reader
ascension to the throne by @jisungiest | 30.2k words | (M) angst, slow burn, political, mystery, strangers to friends, crowned prince!jeno, king!au
wicked games 💌 by @iridesuhnce | 12.7k words | (M) angst, fluff, enemies to lovers, university!au
endings by @angelicmark | 11.1k words | (M) angst, fluff, bad boy!jeno
two photos, two kisses by @slightlymore | 9.5k words | (M) angst, fluff, romantic comedy, college!au
leather jackets & rumors part 1 – part 2 by @cinanamon | 7.3k words | fluff, bad boy!au, high school!au
10 things i know about you 💌 by @asthmark | 7.1k words | fluff, roommate!jeno
a not so cinderella story by @alreadyblondenow | 4.5k words | (M) fluff, enemies to lovers, cheerleader!reader, football player!jeno
Series (NCT Dream’s 00 Line & Mark)
love sick 💌 by @moonlit-jeno | 00 dream's series (11 parts) | 23.8k words | (M) fluff, angst, graphic violence, zombie!au
evanescent – remember me 💌 by @sundaysundaes | LHC & MKL's series | 22.2k words | (M) fluff, angst, friends to lovers, soulmate!au
what if we stay by @neo-shitty | LJN & LHC's fic | 21.7k words | fluff, angst, slice of life, brief university!au, summer!au, friendship!au, band!au, drummer!hyuck, guitarist/bassist!jeno
the hogwarts series by @taeghi | HRJ (26k) – LHC (16.8k) – LJN (14.1k) – NJM (28.3k) | (M) fluff, angst
ridin' club by @notnctu | HRJ (6.8k) – LHC (9.3k) – LJN (8.3k) – NJM (8.5k) | (M) dark themes, angst, fluff, flirt!dreamies, street racer!au, bad boy!au, college!au
