mint

21 ロマン主義

[juveonit]

Almost Yours | Sunric

⇢ pairing : Kim Sunwoo/Son Youngjae | Eric

synopsis ⇢ They meet in quiet places, in car seats, in the breath before a kiss that never quite lands where it should. To Eric, this was supposed to be easy. A body. A secret. A distraction. To Sunwoo, it was everything. But love looks different when one gives and the other only takes. And somewhere between "this means nothing" and "say my name," Sunwoo learns the truth. He was never Eric's. He was only almost.

⤿ word count : 14.5K

⇢ tags, themes : hurt/no comfort, angst love confessions, forbidden love, miscommunication, unhealthy relationships, touch-starved, intimacy without romance, almost-kiss, non-graphic sex scenes, secret telationship, love/hate, hurts so good, bittersweet ending, sunwoo deserves financial compensation, girlfriend in the way of the plot.

⤿ warnings : implied/referenced cheating, slight dacryphilia, emotional manipulation, smoking, sex as communictation, overall just toxic relationships.

a/n ⇢ Who am I without balcony confessions and cigarette-centered scenes? i wrote this instead of seeking therapy so i hope you'll enjoy reading as much as i enjoyed writing.

The city was alive, neon lights spilling over wet asphalt, but Sunwoo felt detached from it all, as if he woke up in someone else’s dream.

Eric’s hand brushed his while they walked away from the back entrance of the company's building, a casual touch that felt like permission and denial at the same time. Sunwoo had learned long ago that closeness with Eric never meant intimacy in the way he wanted it to be.

The last time they had been alone like this, Sunwoo had convinced himself it was real. The stolen laughter in the hallway, the way Eric had looked at him during a late-night practice. Surely that meant something, it couldn’t be just convenience.

But convenience was exactly what it felt when Eric forgot his birthday again. Sunwoo tried to brush it off. Birthdays weren’t that important anyway, right? Yet the empty calendar date clung to him like a shadow, a reminder of how little he mattered outside these fleeting nights.

He shook the thought away and focused on the small signs of affection Eric offered him. A lingering touch on his shoulder. A whispered joke that made him laugh. But it wasn’t enough. Not really. He had a way of being near him physically, but the other part, the one that mattered, was locked away behind a door Sunwoo couldn’t open. He had no code, no password, no key. Just the sight of a heart as hard as stone, deaf to every confession and every word he had whispered late at night, hoping he might finally be heard.

They slipped into Eric’s car, cramped in the backseat. The windows fogged up from their body heat, and Sunwoo’s hands trembled as they traced Eric’s body. He had memorized every curve of his chest, every gesture that made him laugh, every subtle nuance in his expression. Every touch made his heart tingle, this closeness was intoxicating, yet there was always a wall.

So when Eric whispered another name during their private touches, Sunwoo’s stomach dropped. It was a careless slip, a sound meant for someone else. This meaningless intimacy was almost unbearable. He could feel Eric against him, his body warm and responsive, but it wasn’t real. Not in the way Sunwoo wanted it to be.

Sunwoo’s hands lingered under Eric’s shirt, tracing small circles, desperate for some acknowledgment, a sign that he existed in his world beyond the physical. But his gaze was distant, focused somewhere else entirely, the affectionate smiles and tender touches reserved for his girlfriend only. The girl Sunwoo didn’t know much about, the girl who had a place in Eric’s life he could only dream of.

“Eric?” His voice was barely more than a whisper.

His hand lay still on Sunwoo’s lower back. “Hm?” he hummed casually, like it was nothing, like the world hadn’t just shifted.

Sunwoo swallowed hard, the taste of anger and longing bitter on his tongue. “Did you just say her name?”

Eric’s eyes flicked to him, a flash of guilt crossed them. But not even a second after, it was gone. “It just slipped.” His tone was light, almost teasing, but Sunwoo's hands tightened around Eric, pulling him closer. Their legs pressed together under the thin barrier of jeans, breaths mingling, hearts hammering. Every nerve screamed for closeness, for acknowledgement, for something more than a light touch.

“Why does it always slip to her?” Sunwoo breathed. “Why does it have to be her and not me?”

Eric’s lips hovered near Sunwoo’s ear, a whisper finding its way against the sensitive skin. “I didn’t mean it,” he said softly. And yet, he didn’t kiss him. Didn’t close the distance properly.

Sunwoo’s hands roamed lower, tugging at Eric’s waistband with shaky fingers, desperate, needing proof that this wasn’t a dream. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t lean in, didn’t return the longing pressed against him. Their bodies aligned, breath hot, hands exploring, nearly stripping the barriers between them, but the intimacy was not really there.

“Sunwoo…” Eric murmured, almost a warning, almost a sigh, “you know this isn’t—”

“I know,” Sunwoo snapped softly, voice breaking, “But I can’t help it.”

The car rocked gently in the parking lot as their bodies pressed together, hands fumbling with buttons, teeth catching collars, skin heating under their fingertips. It was raw, desperate, but there were no kisses. No affirmation of love. Only the electric friction of closeness and the cruel reminder that the affection he longed for was always just out of reach.

Sunwoo hated himself for wanting it so badly, hated the jealousy that bubbled up and consumed him, even as he knew it was futile. He wished, irrationally, that he could be her. The thought made his chest ache.

The car ride that followed was silent, the hum of the engine was the only sound filling the small space. Sunwoo’s mind wandered to the words he had whispered in the dark, the quiet confessions he had made late at night when no one was listening. Eric didn’t hear them. He couldn’t. Sunwoo’s frustration twisted into something bitter, sharp as a blade. He wanted to access Eric’s heart, wanted the code, the key, something to prove himself that all these stolen moments weren’t meaningless. But the lock remained close, and every small touch felt like a warning.

Sometimes he imagined a world where no one else could reach Eric, where his attention, his affection, his warmth, belonged only to Sunwoo. It was a selfish, impossible fantasy that kept him tethered to the illusion that there was something more tangible behind Eric’s casual, fleeting touches. And yet, the reminders were always there: the forgotten birthdays, the wrong name, the way Eric laughed and touched her with an ease he never afforded Sunwoo.

The city lights passed in streaks, the neon lights’ glow painting their faces in shifting colors. Sunwoo buried his hands in his lap, gripping them, so tightly his nails left crescent shaped prints into his palms.

This wasn’t love. Not really. Not the kind he craved. But it was something. And for now, it was enough. It had to be.

He tried to tell himself that Eric cared in his own way, that these nights were proof of some hidden affection. But deep down, Sunwoo knew it was only him gaslighting himself. He was the shadow, the one Eric would pick when life gets messy, when she bored him, when convenience demanded it. He wanted more. He deserved more. But Eric’s stone heart, and its indecipherable code, kept him out.

And still, despite the ache and denial, despite the hollow intimacy that left him gasping for something he could never claim, Sunwoo couldn’t bring himself to look away. Because even in the shadows of being forgotten, even in the flickering light of stolen touches and whispers, he wanted Eric.

The engine hummed steadily as Eric drove, the city lights blurring past the windows. Sunwoo sat in the passenger seat, the warmth from their earlier closeness still clinging to his skin like a ghost that made the ache in his chest sharper.

“Hey,” Eric said casually, breaking the silence. His voice was low, controlled, as if nothing significant had happened. “You good?”

Sunwoo’s throat tightened. Good? No, he was not. The way Eric had pressed against him, whispered her name, taken what he needed and left everything else empty had left a mark deep inside him.

“Yeah,” he said, voice brittle. “I’m fine.”

Eric didn’t talk again, he just adjusted the radio and kept driving. The city passed by, the rain slicked streets continuously reflecting the lights like a fractured kaleidoscope. Sunwoo stared at the blur, focusing on the movement outside so he didn’t have to look at Eric, so he could hide the trembling in his hands, the tight coil of heat and frustration curling in his stomach.

He wanted to touch him again, to seek reassurance that didn’t exist, but Eric’s presence was enough to make him suffer in silence. Every small detail of their usual intimacy, the brush of lips against each other’s skin, the nearly-kisses, the way he guides his hands, it all played on repeat in his mind. This is it, this is all I get. And it’s not enough.

The car slowed as they pulled outside Sunwoo’s apartment. The engine clicked off, leaving an almost deafening quiet in the small space. He didn’t move immediately, afraid that if he looked up at Eric, he’d see the need in his eyes.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Eric asked again, softer this time, a shadow of concern threading through the detached tone.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Sunwoo whispered. He didn’t trust himself to say more. He couldn’t.

Eric’s hand brushed briefly against his. “Alright,” he said, voice clipped, almost businesslike. “See you later.” Sunwoo forced a nod, muttered a quiet goodbye, and watched Eric drive away.

Inside his apartment, the silence was oppressive. Sunwoo kicked off his shoes and leaned against the door, letting the quiet press onto him. The city lights filtered through the blinds, creating long, uneven stripes across the floor. He moved mechanically, shedding his clothes, washing the lingering scent of Eric from his skin, the faint memory of warm hands and cold eyes sticking to his body.

He sank onto his bed, pulling the blankets around himself like some sort of shield, staring at the ceiling. Every moment, every sound from the car, replayed endlessly in his head. He didn’t want me, he just used me. And I still want him.

A soft sigh escaped him before he buried his face in his pillow, letting the heat of frustration and longing settle around him. He remembered her, the girl who had everything he could never even try to wish for.

Sleep wouldn’t come easily. His thoughts were full of hands pressed too closely, breaths mingling, and Eric’s indifference. Every heartbeat was a memo of the gap between desire and fulfillment, between closeness and love.

But even in the ache, even in the emptiness, he couldn’t stop wanting him, even when exhaustion took over his body.

Sunwoo slouched against the back of the couch, tossing a basketball from hand to hand as the others joked and laughed around him. The room smelled faintly of takeout and burning wood, accompanied by the warmth of flames. It was the kind of cozy environment that usually would’ve made him relax. Usually. But tonight, everything felt different, heavier.

Eric was there, at the center of the room, in that quiet, effortless way that made him magnetic. And by his side was her. The girl. The one whose name had haunted him once again the night before.

Sunwoo’s stomach clenched, memories of their closeness from last night, still raw: the way Eric had pressed him against the kitchen counter, the hotness of his breath against his skin, the teasing of almost-but-not-quite intimacy that had left him aching all night. And now, she was here. Smiling. Laughing. Breathing the same air he had been last night, full and alive in a way he wasn’t.

The heat of embarrassment and jealousy roared quietly, mixing with the bitter ache he carried home from Eric’s place last night.

Eric leaned over, whispering something that made her laugh, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Sunwoo’s fists tightened on his knees. He’s so soft with her. So warm. Yesterday, I had his hands all over me, and he didn’t look at me like that. Didn’t look at me at all.

He tried to focus on the current conversation he was in, nodded when someone asked him a question, laughed when the others laughed. But his eyes kept drifting to the curve of Eric’s smile. To the way his girl’s hand rested lightly against his arm. To the way his body remembered Eric’s body, his muscles, his indifference. He remembered the way he took what he wanted, not caring for anything else, and he burned with frustration.

Hyunjae noticed the shift in his behavior. He elbowed him lightly with a smile stretching his lips, “You’ve been staring into the corner like you’re trying to solve some kind of tragic math problem.”

Sunwoo forced a smile, shaking his head. “I’m just tired,’ he muttered, keeping his gaze low.

Jacob leaned closer. “You’ve been quiet all night. Want to talk?” Sunwoo gave a short laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m fine, really. I was just thinking.”

Kevin chimed with a grin. “Thinking or brooding?”

“Brooding,” Sunwoo admitted softly, running a hand through his hair. He refrained himself from saying more, not wanting to let them see the ache, the jealousy, the shame. They didn’t know about him and Eric. They couldn’t.

The conversation moved on, some teasing each other about an old embarrassing story someone decided to bring up again.

Every glance at Eric reminded him of those nights they spent together, every casual touch with her was a knife pressed to his chest.

Changmin noticed him staring silently, fiddling with the hem of his sweater. “Sunwoo, come join us, we need one more player.”

Sunwoo shook his head. “I’m good,” he mumbled, pretending to focus on his phone. Kevin, who was still sitting beside him, rolled his eyes. “Dude, you can’t just sit here sulking. Come on, it’s not even 11 pm.”

Sunwoo didn’t want their pity. He didn’t want questions. Unable to handle the suffocating tension inside, he slipped out to the door to the small balcony. The night air was cool, the city quiet except for the distant traffic. He lit a cigarette, hands shaking slightly, watching the smoke curl into the air, trying to let it carry some of the frustration away.

“Fancy seeing you out here,’ Eric’s voice said softly behind him. He turned to see him casually leaning against the door frame, his girlfriend’s laughter faint through the window. Sunwoo’s chest tightened. Why was he even out there?

Eric smirked faintly, eyes glinting in the dim light. “I needed a break,” he stepped closer, not too close, but enough that Sunwoo could feel the heat radiating off him. “Too loud in there?”

“Yeah, maybe,” Sunwoo muttered, bringing the cigarette to his lips. He could feel the familiar tension building again, the same hollow desire, magnified by jealousy.

Eric leaned on the railing next to him, silent for a moment, his gaze distant. Then he said, almost casually, “You always look like that when you’re thinking too much.”

Sunwoo glanced at him, heart hammering. “Like… brooding?” he asked, half-laughing.

Eric’s smirk widened. “Maybe. I don’t know. You make it look… good, I guess.”

The words were light, teasing, and yet they carried an undertone that made Sunwoo’s stomach tighten. He wanted to say something, anything, but he didn’t. He just inhaled smoke, letting it fill his lungs. He tried to convince himself that his longing wasn’t visible.

They stood like that for a few minutes, the city breathing around them, the faint glow of streetlights casting long shadows. Eric didn’t reach for him, didn’t guide him anywhere. He was still distant, detached.

Finally, he sighed, tossing a small glance towards the sliding door. “I should go back in,” he murmured. “Don’t want her wondering why I disappeared.”

Sunwoo’s chest tightened, “Yeah,” he whispered, flicking the ash from his cigarette.

“Don’t think too much, yeah?” Eric said, the corners of his mouth lifting just a fraction. “Some things aren’t worth it.” Sunwoo wanted to argue, grab him and demand everything he couldn’t have. Instead, he just nodded, “I’ll try.”

Eric gave a small shrug and left, disappearing back into the apartment. Sunwoo stayed a moment longer on the balcony, watching the smoke swirl and dissipate into the night, thinking about warmth and cold, longing and denial, touch and indifference.

When he finally went back inside, the living room was quiet. The others were either gone or winding down. He left the apartment without paying much attention to his surroundings, the only thing he wanted was to go home. When he arrived, he was on autopilot. Moving through the apartment, showering, changing, sliding into bed.

The memory of the balcony, the smoke, Eric’s casual closeness, all lingered like a weight.

He buried his face in the pillow, pulling the blanket tight around him. Even alone in this room, with the city lights bleeding through the blinds, Sunwoo’s heart couldn’t stop wanting him.

The studio was empty except for the two of them, the other members having finally left, tired and muttering under their breaths about the “stubborn part” of their newest choreography. The mirrored walls reflected only their movements, their tense breaths, and the storm of frustration between them.

Eric stood a step away from Sunwoo, arms crossed, his gaze sharp and calculating as he watched him falter for the third time on the same move. “Seriously? Again?” His cutting through the room like a knife.

“I’m trying.” Sunwoo responded, jaw tight, frustration prickling at the edges of his patience. “I just need a second.”

Eric’s eyes narrowed. “Trying isn’t enough. You’re making it worse by hesitating. Come on, Sunwoo, focus. Or do you not even care?”

These last words stung more than Sunwoo expected. Every nerve in his body tightened, the heat in his chest growing unbearable. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he snapped, spinning to face him fully. “You think I’m not trying? That I don’t care? Do you even see me?”

Eric tilted his head, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. “I do see you. And you’re trying. But it’s sloppy, hesitant. And honestly, I’m tired of carrying your mistakes.”

Carrying my mistakes. The bitterness he tried to keep under wraps for the last few days boiled over in one hot, jagged surge. “You’re fucking unbelievable,” he hissed, stepping closer, fists clenched at his sides. “You act like you’re better than me, like I’m some kind of problem you have to deal with.”

Eric shrugged. “Maybe I am. Maybe that’s exactly what you are.”

“Why are you like this? I don’t understand–”

“Stop.” Eric interrupted sharply, the tension in his posture radiating control. “Stop trying to make sense of me. There’s nothing to figure out. I’m here to practice, that’s it.”

Sunwoo blinked, he wanted to remind him of the night before, about how Eric could be cold and detached one second and touch him the next. How he could leave Sunwoo aching and then brush against him without a second thought. How could he be warm with someone else and indifferent to him?

Eric leaned forward slightly, “Keep it professional, Sunwoo. Or maybe you can’t.”

Sunwoo felt something snap inside him. He stepped forward, too close, and the mirrored walls reflected every ounce of his rage, his longing, and his frustration. “You think I’m not professional? Do you have any idea of how exhausting it is to be around you? To try to keep up while you act like none of this matters?”

Eric didn’t flinch, didn’t step back. Instead, his lips curved in that faint, teasing smirk that made Sunwoo want to hit him and cling to him at the same time. “Maybe it doesn’t matter to you either. Maybe you’re actually enjoying the chaos. Maybe that’s the reason you’re still here.”

Sunwoo’s hands clenched into fists at his sides. “You don’t even know me.” he scoffed, voice breaking with anger. “Do you even see me beyond what you want, what you can use?”

The silence that followed was deafening. He could feel every muscle in his body tense, and the air between them was suddenly thick with something unspoken, something electric and painful.

Eric’s expression remained unreadable, detached. “I see enough of you,” he finally said. “I know exactly what you are and what you want. Don’t pretend you’re not here for the same reason as I am.”

Sunwoo froze, Eric’s words hitting him like a bullet he didn’t have the strength to dodge. “You think I’m here because of that?” He felt humiliated, ashamed of his feelings, and of how Eric viewed him.

His lips pressed into a thin line, he wanted to react, to say something. Instead, he just stood there. He couldn’t explode here. They had to keep moving, to rehearse.

Sunwoo swallowed the lump in his throat, positioning himself for the next take. Eric stood beside him, calm and detached, a smirk teasing the corner of his lips daring him to break again.

The mirrors reflected every tense movement, every flicker of discomfort and desire Sunwoo tried to suppress. He danced through the pain. With him. Together, in the empty studio.

Sunwoo exhaled when, an hour later, their last movements came flawless. “Finally,” he murmured, “We got it.”

Eric didn’t respond immediately. He watched Sunwoo for a moment, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Then, in that flat, measured tone that always seemed to cut deeper than anger ever could, he said, “Wow. That was tolerable. Finally.”

Sunwoo froze mid-stretch, realizing what Eric had just said. Tolerable? “I don’t get it,” he said quietly. “Why do you always have to put me down like that? Even when we get it right?”

“I’m not putting you down. I’m stating facts. You’re overly sensitive. Or maybe you just want me to say it differently.”

Sunwoo wanted to press, to ask what it meant, but the pain from before had simmered into something heavier, more frustrating. A gnawing need for something he couldn’t name. “Facts? You call that a fact?” His voice wavered. “You make it feel personal. Every time.”

“I can see when you hesitate. When you struggle. And I don’t sugarcoat it. You get frustrated, I get frustrated. That’s how it works.”

The way Eric saw him, detached, clinical, yet somehow intimate, it cut differently. “It’s not just that,” he whispered. “You have this way of keeping me at a distance. Always. Even when we’re alone. Even when I’m right here.”

Eric’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m not cold for the sake of it. You’re complicated, Sunwoo. I can’t give you what you think I could.”

Sunwoo’s chest tightened, hurt and longing weaving together like barbed wire. “You mean your girlfriend? You care about her, and I’m just… there?”

Silence fell, heavy and oppressive. The rain had begun to drum softly against the studio’s large windows, a distant, rhythmic pulse that matched the pounding in Sunwoo’s chest. He wanted to argue, to beg, to demand explanations, but something in Eric’s expression made his words falter.

“That’s why you’re still here, Sunwoo. You like the game, even when it hurts.”

The truth in Eric’s words burned. He did like the game. He hated it. He wanted more. He wanted less. He wanted Eric to care, to touch, to speak, to notice.

Sunwoo’s eyes instinctively drifted toward the door like he was drawn to it. He needed air. Space. Distance. Anything to stop the ache in his chest from consuming him entirely.

Eric didn’t move. He leaned casually against the mirrored wall, cold but watchful, a small smile teasing the corners of his mouth. “Are you going somewhere?”

Sunwoo’s hand lingered on the doorknob. “I need a break.”

Eric’s gaze followed him, detached yet piercing. “Fine. Go. But don’t think this changes anything. I’ll be here when you get back. Same as always.”

Sunwoo opened the door, the rain immediately soaked him. He didn’t care though, he just needed a moment to breathe, to let the ache wash over him before he had to return.

And as he walked away from the studio, the tension between them remained unresolved.

Sunwoo leaned against the damp brick wall behind the studio, rain plastering his dark hair to his forehead. He’d just lit his second cigarette, letting the thin wisp of smoke curl into the stormy night air. The world around him blurred, but he could feel every heartbeat, every ache in his chest. He had found this tiny patch of shelter, away from the pouring water, away from everything.

Except for the one person he couldn’t get away from, even if physically they were miles apart.

He barely had time to take a deep breath before he heard it: the sound of footsteps on the wet pavement. And then, a voice.

“You can’t hide forever.”

“What do you want, Eric?” Sunwoo’s voice was tight, raw with frustration. His hand shook slightly as he held the cigarette to his lips.

“I want this,” Eric said lightly, gesturing vaguely between them, eyes sharp. There was no warmth in his gaze, only that electric, predatory interest that made Sunwoo ache. “You. Here. Now.”

Sunwoo’s stomach twisted. “I can’t… be here with you like this.”

The heat radiating from Eric’s body made Sunwoo’s chest ache, claws of longing and fury twisting in his stomach. “Why? Because I don’t give you what you want?”

“You never give me what I want. You touch me, you tease me, but you never—” His voice faltered. “You never kiss me. Not properly. Not like I deserve.”

“I told you from the beginning that this was not about romance. It was never supposed to be about more than what we have.”

“You really don’t care about anything else? About me? About us?” His voice rose, wet from the rain, half-shout, half-plea.

Eric’s lips curved faintly in that teasing smirk. “Care about you? That’s cute. Do you want affection? Comfort? You know I’m not like that.”

Sunwoo’s chest tightened painfully. “Why do you have to be so mean about it?” He flicked ash from the cigarette into the rain, the smoke mingling with the mist.

Eric took a step closer, close enough that Sunwoo could feel the heat radiating off him. Yet there was no softening, no comfort. Only the electric pull, the subtle power of someone who could be gentle but deliberately chose not to be. “You always make it sound worse than it is. But maybe I just like seeing you burn a little. Makes you human.”

Sunwoo’s fingers gripped the cigarette like it was a lifeline. “Human? You think that using me makes me human? It’s just cruel.”

Eric’s smile deepened faintly. “Using you? No, no. You’re here of your own volition. And I told you, from the beginning, what this was. You’re so dramatic, Sunwoo.”

“I don’t care what you said from the beginning. I want more. I deserve more than her.”

Eric’s smirk deepened, darker now, subtle, teasing in a way that made Sunwoo ache even harder. “Deserve more than her?” he said softly, a little mean look on his face as he moved a inch closer, waiting for Sunwoo to look at him. “Are you crying for me?”

Sunwoo didn’t answer, just pressed his lips together and shook his head slightly, silent.

Eric took another step, enjoying the quiet ache radiating off him. “Mhm,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “You are. It’s kind of beautiful, you know, seeing someone feel like this. For me.”

He wanted Eric to care. He wanted warmth, attention, and love. And he knew he’d never get it. Not from Eric. Not in this way.

Sunwoo’s teeth clenched. “I hate you.” The words spilled out, raw and trembling, more truth than he wanted to admit.

Eric’s smirk softened slightly, just a hint, but his voice remained steady, cold. “You don’t hate me. You wouldn’t be standing here in the rain, cigarette in hand, telling me you hate me. You want me, Sunwoo. Just say it.”

Sunwoo’s hands shook, tears mingling with the rain on his face. He could feel the pull, the ache, the unbearable frustration of wanting warmth from someone who would never give it. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Eric’s eyes followed him, sharp and calculating. “Leave then. Go ahead. But we both know you’ll come back. You always do.”

With a shuddering breath, Sunwoo dropped the cigarette onto the wet pavement, stamping it out with a frustrated stomp.

The sound of Sunwoo’s footsteps fades into the rain, leaving Eric alone under the awning. He stays there for a moment, unmoving, one hand shoved into his pocket, the other clenching and unclenching at his side. He tells himself it’s just the rain soaking through his shirt that makes his chest feel heavy, but he knows that’s not true.

As he walks towards his car, the argument replays itself in flashes: Sunwoo’s eyes, the tightness in his voice, the way he asked asked why he never kisses him. It’s not the words that sting, it’s the look that came with them. That mix of hope, anger and something Eric refuses to name.

The drive home is long, too long. The rain follows him onto the highway, drumming against the windshield in a relentless rhythm. The wipers beat it back, but the sound still fills the car, heavy enough to drown out the radio. He doesn’t bother turning it on. Silence feels safer.

Every red light feels like an interrogation. His reflection stares back at him from the windshield; blurred, tired eyes, wet hair clinging to his forehead. He doesn’t look like someone in control. He looks like someone who’s unraveling.

He thinks about calling Sunwoo back, just to say something, anything, but his hands tighten around the steering wheel until his knuckles ache instead. He doesn’t know what he would say. Sorry? Stay? All of it feels weak. All of it feels like admitting he wants more than he should.

By the time he pulls into the parking garage, his throat is dry from not speaking. He sits in the driver’s seat for a full minute, engine off, listening to the rain soften against the windows.

It’s easier to stay here, in this in-between space, where Sunwoo is gone but his girlfriend hasn’t appeared yet.

But eventually, he forces himself out. Forces himself up the stairs, down the hall, key twisting in the lock.

The apartment is warm and bright when he steps inside. It smells like detergent and vanilla candles, and for a second, Eric almost laughs at the contrast. Outside, he’s still damp from the rain, his sneakers squeaking against the floor. Inside, everything is soft, familiar, safe.

His girlfriend’s voice calls from the living room. “You’re late.”

Eric’s lips curve automatically, the smile sliding into place like muscle memory. He drops his bag by the door, rakes a hand through his wet hair, and walks toward her as he takes off his drenched puffer jacket. “Practice ran over.”

She’s curled on the couch, blanket wrapped around her shoulders, a movie flickering on the TV. She tilts her face up as he leans down, and he presses a kiss to the crown of her head, practiced, easy, impersonal. She accepts it like always, tugging him down beside her.

He goes, because that’s what he does. Because it’s easier.

Her warmth seeps into his side as she cuddles against him, but it doesn’t touch the cold sitting heavy in his chest. He drapes an arm around her shoulders anyway, watching the screen without seeing a thing.

Sunwoo’s voice won’t stop echoing. “You never kiss me.”

His girlfriend shifts, murmuring something about how good the movie is. Eric hums in response, eyes still on the screen, but his mind is miles away; back outside the studio, rain dripping down Sunwoo’s jaw, cigarette smoke curling between them.

The way Sunwoo’s mouth had trembled around the words. The way his eyes had glistened, tears threatening to fall.

Eric squeezes his girlfriend’s hand when she threads their fingers together, the gesture automatic. He hates how wrong it feels. How much heavier Sunwoo’s hand would have been. How much need would’ve been in the grip.

He wonders, briefly, what it would’ve been like to give in. To lean forward in the rain, close that distance, kiss him. Just once. Would Sunwoo have stopped asking questions if he’d given him that? Or would it have only made everything worse?

His chest aches. He tells himself it’s just exhaustion.

When his girlfriend laughs, he forces a chuckle too. It sounds fake even to his own ears. She doesn’t notice, or pretends not to.

Eric stares at the TV until the images blur. He can still see Sunwoo when he blinks. His lips muttering how much he hates him, the way his voice cracked, the way he walked away without looking back.

Maybe Sunwoo’s right. Maybe Eric is pathetic. But still, Sunwoo doesn’t understand. Eric can’t give him what he wants. He doesn’t know how.

He leans back against the couch, eyes slipping shut for a moment, his girlfriend’s weight warm and light against him. It should be enough. It should feel like enough.

It doesn’t.

By the time the credits roll on, Eric can’t remember a single thing that happened on screen. His girlfriend stretches, yawns softly, and nudges his side. “Bed?”

He nods, forcing another smile, and follows her to the bedroom to change. The rain still rattles faintly against the window, but here, everything feels muted: soft lamplight, pale sheets, the smell of her shampoo.

As she pulls the blanket back, she glances over at him. “By the way, how’s Sunwoo doing? Haven’t seen him in a while.”

The question lands like a punch to his ribs.

Eric freezes, just for a beat, before covering it with a shrug. “He’s fine. Busy.” His voice sounds casual enough, but his throat is tight.

She hums, satisfied with the answer, already climbing under the covers. She has no idea. No idea that Sunwoo’s voice is still echoing in his skull, that Eric’s chest still aches from watching him walk away.

Eric sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. The thought hits him hard, suddenly: I’m a horrible person.

He’s cheating without ever calling it that. He deliberately got into a relationship, knowing the nature of his and Sunwoo’s at the time, and he kept waiting for him to come back. He’s lying without ever saying the words. Sunwoo deserves better. His girlfriend deserves better. He knows that. He knows it with a clarity that makes his stomach churn. And yet he can’t stop.

Sunwoo’s apartment is quiet when he steps in, jacket heavy on his shoulders. He throws it on the coat rack, takes his shoes off, and slides open his bedroom’s window just enough to let smoke curl in the air. Lighting a cigarette, he leans against the sill, watching the smoke rise like a ghost of what he wants but cannot have.

He inhales slowly, trying to calm the tight coil in his chest. Every memory of Eric presses against him : the way he spoke, the way he touched him. He closes his eyes and imagines it all over again, replaying every brush of skin and lingering look. His fingers flex around the cigarette, nails digging into the filter. It’s a poor substitute, but it’s all he has.

When Eric finally slides under the blanket, she curls against him immediately, her arms looping around his waist. The warmth is real, but it feels… borrowed.

He kisses her because he’s supposed to. Slow at first, then deeper when she pulls him closer. Her lips are soft, familiar, everything they should be.

But it’s wrong.

Because as soon as his mouth moves against hers, another face flashes behind his eyelids. On his tongue was a taste he can only imagine, another warmth he craves.

Sunwoo.

It’s his name that stirs at the back of Eric’s throat when she gasps softly against him. It’s his weight he imagines pinning him down, his fingers tugging at his shirt, his voice breaking in that same rough, angry way it did earlier.

Her lips are soft when he leans down, brushing against them in a kiss that should feel warm but tastes artificial. He deepens it because it’s what he’s supposed to do, because she expects it, because he expects it of himself. His hands move over her shoulders, along her back, and every motion brings Sunwoo’s face to the forefront of his mind.

He imagines Sunwoo’s mouth instead of hers, he imagines the way he would hold him, the way Sunwoo would respond, trembling, needy, angry, wanting. It makes him hard to breathe. The shame presses in, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop.

Sunwoo curls into the sheets. One hand presses against his chest, tracing the memory of Eric’s touch on his skin. His lips part as if he could kiss the air, whisper Eric’s name. He clenches a pillow to his chest, dragging it along his body in rough, aching strokes, imagining Eric’s hands instead of his own.

He’s trembling now, hot and cold all at once. His breath comes in short gasps as he rocks slightly, fingers clutching the sheets in a mimicry of what he craves. No one is there. No one will ever be there but Eric, and that thought twists his gut like a knife.

The more desperately Eric kisses her, the more he feels the absence. Like no matter how hard he presses in, it will never be enough.

He pulls her closer, letting hands wander, but it’s mechanical. Each caress is layered with Sunwoo’s voice, the echo of his laugh, the burn in his eyes. Her body is soft, pliant, easy, and yet he feels nothing but hunger for something forbidden.

He presses his lips harder against hers, tasting the memory of another boy in every motion. His body reacts, betraying him, and a sharp pang of guilt slices through him. He imagines Sunwoo’s hands instead of hers, his voice instead of her whispers, and he shudders.

Sunwoo presses his lips against the cold pillow, rocking faster, breath hitching. Fingers clutch the fabric, dragging along himself in an attempt to replicate what he truly desires. The cigarette burns down to the filter, forgotten in the ashtray.

He imagines the weight of Eric on him, the pull of his body, the rough edge of his hands, and it’s unbearable. His chest tightens, eyes glistening, and he presses harder against the pillow, quiet but desperate. Every motion is mirrored longing, every gasp a shadow of the other night’s intensity.

She whispers something sweet against his lips, words he doesn’t really hear. He responds with a hum, with another kiss, with hands pulling her closer, pretending it’s what he wants.

He stops for a moment, hands resting lightly against her skin. Her eyes meet his, curious, innocent. He should stop. He wants to stop. But he can’t. Sunwoo’s face is burned into his mind, screaming at him silently, and the ache in his chest is unbearable.

He leans down again, kisses her throat, tasting what should be her alone, but his mind is elsewhere. Every stroke, every whisper, every breath is a reminder that the boy he wants is not here.

But every move feels like a betrayal. Not just to her, but to himself.

He finishes his cigarette, fingers slick, chest heaving. Eyes shut, body trembling with want and frustration, he curls into himself, imagining Eric pressing down, whispering, teasing, indifferent but dangerous. He imagines the same roughness, the same cruelty, the same desire and its bittersweet agony.

When they finally pull apart, she rests her head on his chest, content. Eric stares up at the ceiling, silent. His heartbeat should be steady, but it’s not. It stutters, skips, pounds with the memory of another boy standing in the rain, cigarette smoke clinging to his lips.

Eric holds her tighter, as if that will drown it out. But all it does is make the guilt louder.

Eric lies back against the sheets, tangled in her arms, staring at the ceiling. Thoughts of Sunwoo ripple through him like fire, guilt coiling tighter than any desire he has for her.

Sunwoo stares at the ceiling too, cigarette smoke curling around him, imagining Eric in every possible way. Empty sheets surround him.

The night stretches on. Both restless, both craving, trapped in the same loop of want, denial, and heartbreak.

And for the first time in a long while, Eric wishes the night wouldn’t end. Because in the dark, with her breathing steady against him, he can at least pretend he isn’t falling apart.

The apartment is quiet. Rain drums softly against the windows, tapping out a rhythm that seems to echo the pounding in his chest. Eric lies back on the bed, tangled in the sheets, staring at the ceiling. Her breathing beside him is light, steady, oblivious. And yet he feels nothing but a hollow ache.

Her warmth presses against his body, soft, predictable, safe. He should feel comforted. He should feel content. But the truth presses down like a weight: this isn’t what I want. Not really. His mind is elsewhere, and the more he tries to focus on her, the further he drifts. Sunwoo. Every thought, every pulse of desire, every flash of guilt leads to him.

He traces a hand along her side automatically, feeling the softness of her skin beneath his fingers. And yet, with every touch, his mind replaces her with Sunwoo; the sharpness of his jaw, the curve of his shoulders, the tension in his chest when their bodies are pressed together. The memory is vivid, almost tangible. He can feel Sunwoo’s hands on him, imagined or recalled, hotter and more insistent than anything he feels here.

He closes his eyes and breathes deeply. Why do I want him this much? The question has no answer, at least not a clean one. He wants Sunwoo for himself, but he can’t. Part of it is security: the easy comfort of his girlfriend, the predictable warmth, the sense of safety in routine. Sunwoo is unpredictable, intense, demanding, and dangerous in ways he’s never confronted and doesn’t know how to handle. To be with Sunwoo fully would be to unravel, and Eric isn’t ready for that. Maybe he never will.

And yet, the selfishness lingers. There’s something intoxicating about having Sunwoo as this close, the knowledge that he can touch him when he wants, take from him, tease him, and then walk away. The guilt is deliciously sharp. He’s aware of the cruelty, aware that he’s using Sunwoo in the exact way he promised he wouldn’t, and it makes him feel good in a way he hates himself for.

Then there’s the complication he hadn’t expected: feelings. He wanted Sunwoo for nothing at first, just sex, just a distraction, just a thrill. But after dating his girlfriend, after trying to reconcile his life with her, he realizes that what he feels for Sunwoo is different. He wants more. Not just the body, not just the teasing, but the boy himself. The anger. The need. The sharp, unrelenting desire that leaves his chest tight, his stomach coiled, his mind spinning.

He rolls onto his side, clutching the pillow, tracing invisible patterns along her skin with his fingers. The smell of her shampoo mixes with the ghost of Sunwoo’s scent in his memory. The sensation of warmth he should feel is tainted by the ache for someone else. He’s burning with need. It’s confusing, frustrating, and it makes him tremble.

He touches himself almost unconsciously before resigning. The friction is meaningless, futile. Each shiver, each hitch of breath, reminds him that the boy he wants is elsewhere. That the warmth beneath his hands is not enough. That the ache in his chest will never abate while he remains trapped between desire and reason.

The apartment feels smaller now, as if the walls themselves press down with the weight of his obsession. He rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling, tracing the tangled sheets across his body. The rain continues, soft and steady, indifferent to his turmoil.

He can’t stop thinking about Sunwoo. Every breath, every movement, every pulse is haunted by him. And yet he is aware of the comfort beside him, the safety, the predictable presence that makes it “okay” to be here while thinking of someone else. It doesn’t make it better. It only makes him feel worse.

He sighs, fingers brushing lightly against his lips as he imagines Sunwoo’s touch instead. He remembers their fight in the rain, the way Sunwoo’s body had trembled, desperate. That had nothing to do with sex or desire and everything to do with sincerity, feelings. That memory coils around his chest, tight and insistent.

And he wants it. Desperately. He wants it in a way that terrifies him, that makes him feel monstrous. But he won’t stop. Not even if it ruins him.

He lies there, tangled in sheets that can never satisfy, brushing her hair back gently, imagining the curve of Sunwoo’s neck, the set of his shoulders, the tension in his hands when he touches him. He closes his eyes again, heart hammering, breath hitching. Desire, guilt, longing: they are one and the same.

And the truth, the brutal, undeniable truth, settles over him like rain on his skin. He has no right to want Sunwoo like this. He is selfish, he is cruel, he is human. He can have neither safety nor satisfaction, neither the warmth of this bed nor the touch of the boy he craves.

He exhales slowly, letting the quiet consume him, the rain outside drumming a soft rhythm over his thoughts. Somewhere deep inside, he knows he’s lost, trapped between what he has and what he refused to give, suffocating under the weight of desire, guilt, and his own self-made chaos.

And still, he wishes, more than anything, that Sunwoo were here instead.

Sunwoo woke to silence. His lashes lifted slowly, sticking from the dampness of a restless sleep, and he found himself staring at the ceiling of his apartment, the light gray of dawn bleeding through the blinds.

He hated how much it hurt.

Not the physical ache. That he could handle. It was the way his chest felt scraped raw, like he’d been left open without permission. They touched each other like it meant something, like they were the only two people in the world, and then Eric had disappeared back into the life where Sunwoo didn’t exist.

That was the pattern. And Sunwoo had let it happen. Again.

His hand fell away from his face, fingers curling against the sheets as if he could claw out the memory. Eric’s weight pressing him down. The sound of his voice when it softened, when it broke, when it almost sounded like he cared. Sunwoo replayed it against his will, the way their bodies fit like they’d been designed for it.

He should hate him.

God, he wanted to hate him.

But what burned through him wasn’t hatred. It was shame. A humiliation that pooled deep in his stomach. Because he knew what he was to Eric: an escape. A release. A pair of hands, a mouth, a body to fall into when he was too restless or too weak to deal with his own life.

Not a person. Not someone worth choosing.

Sunwoo forced himself to sit up, sheets pooling around his waist. His room looked exactly the same as always. Everything was in place, but he wasn’t. Inside, everything had been rearranged and broken apart.

He rubbed his face, dragging his palms down hard enough to sting. “You’re pathetic,” he muttered under his breath, the words hitting the empty air with no one to argue back.

The truth was simple. Eric had a girlfriend. A life. A safety net that Sunwoo could never be part of. What happened between them was a shadow, something shoved into dark corners where it didn’t belong. And Sunwoo had been stupid enough to think that maybe, just maybe, there was more underneath it.

But if there was, Eric would have stayed.

He needed to stop letting this destroy him. Needed to stop letting Eric dictate the rhythm of his heart like this.

So he built walls. Fast, desperate walls, stacking them high in his mind until the air around him felt cold again. He told himself it didn’t matter. That it was just sex. That he could separate it. That he would separate it. Because if he didn’t, he was going to drown in this ache, and Eric would never even notice.

He made the decision there, with his heart still raw and his sheets still heavy with someone else’s scent: he would never let himself be near Eric again. Not like that. Not outside of work, not in his bed, not in his arms.

If Eric wanted to pretend they were just colleagues, just friends, Sunwoo could do that. He could bury everything else beneath sarcasm and distance. He would learn how to look at him and feel nothing.

Because he refused to be the secret anymore. He refused to wake up alone in a bed that smelled like someone else’s choice.

He lay back down, pulling the pillow over his face, pressing until his lungs begged for air. The fabric was still warm with traces of Eric, and for a moment he let himself inhale, one last time, before he promised himself he would never need it again.

But deep down, he knows that he’ll probably never be able to escape.

It had been days since the rain, since the argument that left Sunwoo soaked and aching in ways that no words could fix. Time had passed, the group had carried on, the members laughing, practicing, joking, but between Eric and Sunwoo, there had been a quiet distance.

Not silence, exactly. Not complete avoidance either. But a subtle drifting apart: small spaces in rehearsals, glances held a second too long, hands brushing accidentally, fleeting touches that lingered in Sunwoo’s chest long after they separated.

Sunwoo hated it and loved it at the same time. Every day, every rehearsal, every shared room became a battlefield of wanting and resisting, longing and despair. He craved Eric’s touch in ways he couldn’t admit, ways he didn’t even fully understand himself. And yet Eric was everywhere and nowhere. Close enough to sting, distant enough to wound.

They were at a small gathering with the members and a few other friends one evening. It was casual, laughter and music filling the apartment. Sunwoo’s gaze kept drifting to Eric, who sat across the room, leaning against the counter, speaking softly with a few members. His fingers brushed a stray strand of hair from his forehead, then lingered against the edge of the countertop, just enough that Sunwoo felt the spark, the faint touch of his fingertips, the familiar softness of his skin.

Sunwoo tried to keep himself composed. He sipped his drink, nodded at jokes, smiled faintly, but his heart pounded with the memory of Eric’s touch, the brush of his hand during practice, the intensity of him even when he wasn’t trying.

“Hey,” Chanhee, who he was sitting next to, nudged him quietly, noting the sad expression in Sunwoo’s eyes. “Are you okay? You look weird.”

Sunwoo shook his head slightly, trying to mask the ache in his chest. “I’m fine,” he muttered, though his gaze kept flicking to Eric, who had now leaned slightly closer to Juyeon while reaching for a snack, the tip of his fingers brushing the small of his back.

Why do I want this so badly when he’s like that with everyone else?

Eric’s eyes caught his across the room. A flicker of awareness passed, faint, almost imperceptible, before he looked away.

Later, Sunwoo found himself near the balcony, trying to catch a breath of air, cigarette pressed to his lips again. The rain from earlier had left the city glistening, streetlights reflecting off wet streets below. A quiet presence appeared beside him.

Eric.

Sunwoo stiffened, though he didnt turn around. “I… need a minute.” Eric leaned casually against the railing, close but not too much, just enough to make Sunwoo’s body shiver. “You’ve been quiet today.”

“I’m fine,” Sunwoo whispered, exhaling smoke into the cool night air. “Just thinking.”

Eric smirked faintly. “Thinking about me?”

Sunwoo’s jaw tightened. “No,” he muttered, though a flicker of truth lingered in his chest.

Eric let out a low hum, leaning just slightly closer, brushing the tip of his shoulder against Sunwoo’s. Not enough to really touch, but enough to spark a reaction on Sunwoo’s face. “You still want it,” Eric said softly, almost to himself. “I can see it. Always.”

“I don’t. I… it’s not fair,” he whispered. “You do this and I can’t—”

Eric’s gaze lingered on him, sharp, teasing, almost cruel. “Not fair? Life’s not fair, Sunwoo. You knew that. And yet… you’re still here.”

“You’re really just gonna leave it like that?” Sunwoo asks, without even a tremor, just exhaustion wrapped in sharp edges.

Eric doesn’t look at him. His hands bury themselves in his hoodie pocket, shoulders tense like he’s holding something back. “What do you want me to say?”

“That maybe you give a shit.” The words snap out of Sunwoo before he can stop them. “That maybe all of this—” he gestures vaguely between them, that cursed, unspeakable space, “meant something more than just filling time when you’re bored.”

Eric doesn't answer. So Sunwoo presses harder, like pressing a bruise just to feel the sting. “Why did you never kissed me?”

Eric finally looks at him, startled. “What?”

“You heard me.” Sunwoo’s laugh comes out broken, bitter. “You’ll put your hands on me, you’ll pull me under and tear me apart every other way, but you’ll never kiss me. Not once. Not even by accident.”

Eric blinks, something flickering across his face too fast to catch. “You’re making it sound bigger than it is.”

“Bigger than it is?” Sunwoo repeats, incredulous. His chest aches so violently, he swears his ribs are splintering. “Do you even realize what that does to me? It’s like you’re screaming at me that I’m good enough to fuck but not good enough to actually—” He cuts himself off, choking on his own words.

Eric exhales, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “You expect too much from me.”

“That’s your favorite line, huh? I expect too much. Expecting you to act like I matter is too much?”

Eric’s tone sharpens. “You act like I’m supposed to change my whole life for you.”

“I never asked for your whole life,” Sunwoo shoots back, though maybe that’s a lie. Maybe, deep down, that’s all he’s ever wanted. “I just wanted you. Not the scraps, not the pieces you throw me when it’s convenient. You.”

The silence that follows is thick enough to strangle them both.

Eric looks away first. His voice softens, barely audible. “You think it’s easy for me?”

That catches Sunwoo off guard. He stares at him, blinking. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Eric’s hands twitch in his pockets, like he’s about to reach out but traps himself before he can. “It’s not like I don’t—” He stops, shakes his head. “Forget it.”

Sunwoo feels the crack in his chest widen. “Not like you don’t what, Eric? Care? Feel something? Then fucking say it. Just once. For once in your life, stop hiding behind that wall you love so much and—”

Eric cuts him off, cold again. “And then what? You want me to play house with you? Hold your hand in front of everyone? Pretend this isn’t a disaster waiting to happen?”

There it is: the knife Sunwoo knew was coming. He lets it sink in deeper this time. His voice drops into something terrifyingly steady. “You know what the real disaster is? Wasting myself on you.”

Eric finally looks at him, and there’s something wounded in his gaze, buried so deep it almost doesn’t exist. Sunwoo wants to grab it, pull it to the surface, but he’s tired. God, he’s so tired.

“I hate you,” Sunwoo says, and it feels like truth and lies all at once. “I hate you for making me believe this could ever be enough. And I hate myself more for still wanting you when you clearly don’t want me.”

Eric’s lips part, like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out. Just silence, stretched thin between them.

And then, softer, quieter than the smoke still clinging to the air, Eric murmurs, “I never said I didn’t want you.”

It’s not a confession. It’s not even comforting. It’s a breadcrumb tossed in the dirt, and Sunwoo is done crawling for scraps.

Sunwoo laughs, bitter and shaking. “Pathetic.”

This time, Eric doesn’t stop him when he walks away.

The days after their last discussion blurred together. Practice went on as usual, schedules filled with rehearsals and recordings, and the members moved like clockwork around them. No one seemed to notice the subtle shift. How Sunwoo no longer lingered near Eric, how his jokes didn’t carry across the room to meet him, how the air between them grew taut, heavy with something unsaid.

Or if anyone noticed, they didn’t say a word.

Sunwoo tried to convince himself he was fine. Tried to believe that if he ignored the itch in his chest, the restless energy whenever Eric walked in, it would fade. It didn’t. He found himself tracking Eric out of the corner of his eye, catching the way his laugh softened when his girlfriend’s name lit up his phone, the casual brush of his thumb across the screen before his whole demeanor brightened. Sunwoo couldn’t stand it, and yet he couldn’t look away.

The first real test came during a rare free evening. The members had gathered at Younghoon’s place, ordering food and throwing themselves across the couch in a tangle of limbs. Music spilled from someone’s phone, half-forgotten as they talked over each other.

Eric arrived late, with her.

Sunwoo felt the world tilt the second they walked in. She clung to his arm, smiling shyly as the others greeted her, while Eric beamed as though she belonged there, as though she had always belonged there. He led her in without hesitation, introducing her again to the members who already knew her name.

Sunwoo’s chest tightened as she settled beside him, their shoulders pressed close. Eric laughed at something she whispered, his hand absently smoothing down her hair before he reached for a slice of pizza. It was the kind of touch Sunwoo had never been offered.

He told himself not to look, not to care. But his gaze kept slipping, drawn to the curve of her smile, the way Eric leaned into it.

“Hey.” A voice snapped him out of it. Hyunjae nudged him with his knee. “You’ve been quiet all night. You good?”

Sunwoo forced a smile. “Just tired.”

“Tired of staring,” Juyeon teased from across the table, smirking when Sunwoo flipped him off. The others laughed, but the sound was distant, muffled. Sunwoo’s pulse thundered in his ears.

Changmin, softer, more perceptive, leaned in. “Seriously, though. You seem like… you’re somewhere else.”

“I’m fine.” The lie slipped too easily. He shoved another bite of food into his mouth, hoping the conversation would move on.

It did. But the weight in his chest didn’t.

Later, when the night had dragged into half-empty plates and the soft buzz of late conversations, Sunwoo slipped out onto the balcony, as usual. The air was cool against his skin, the city stretched below in glowing fragments. He lit a cigarette, the first inhale grounding him, though his hands still shook.

He told himself he needed the air, the quiet. Not the distance. Not the chance to breathe without Eric’s laugh filling the room.

But the door slid open anyway.

Eric stepped out, alone.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Sunwoo exhaled smoke into the night, refusing to look at him, pretending the silence was enough to keep him safe.

“You still doing that?” Eric’s voice was low, almost casual.

Sunwoo let out a humorless laugh. “Still pretending to care?”

Eric leaned against the railing, too close, as though nothing had shifted between them. “If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t be out here.”

“Yeah?” Sunwoo turned finally, eyes sharp in the dim glow. “You’ve got someone waiting for you inside. Why bother with me?”

Eric’s jaw tightened, but his smirk stayed. “You think I don’t notice the way you look at me? Even tonight, you couldn’t stop.”

Sunwoo’s stomach dropped. He hated how transparent he was, how easily Eric cut him open with a single line. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” Eric tilted his head, studying him. “You act like you’re done with me, but here you are, hiding out. Smoking like it’ll burn me out of your system. Doesn’t work that way.”

Sunwoo’s hand tightened around the cigarette, the ember flaring with his breath. “You don’t get it.”

“Then tell me.”

The challenge hung heavy between them, but Sunwoo bit it back, unwilling to hand over more of himself. He’d already given too much. The silence stretched, suffocating. Then Eric’s hand brushed his arm, fleeting, a spark of contact that burned more than the cigarette.

It was enough to unravel him all over again.

The studio lights were harsh, humming overhead, throwing their shadows long and thin across the polished floor. Most of the members had left hours ago, their footsteps echoing down the hallway, leaving the two of them alone in the cavernous room. Sunwoo tugged his hoodie tighter, trying to keep his distance, his sneakers scuffing the floor as he moved into position.

Eric, on the other hand, looked unusually calm. Calm, but deliberately close. As they ran through the sequence, adjusting arms and shoulders, he would brush a hand along Sunwoo’s waist when he demonstrated a move, lean in just a touch too long, linger over corrections with a smirk that made Sunwoo’s stomach twist.

“You know,” Eric said softly as they paused to try the sequence again, “you’re still way too stiff here.” His breath grazed Sunwoo’s ear, subtle but unmistakable. “Relax… like you used to.”

Sunwoo flinched, recoiling slightly. “I’m fine,” he snapped, voice tighter than he intended.

“Mm, right,” Eric murmured, lips curling. “Fine. Sure you are.”

The teasing wasn’t malicious, exactly. But it hit every nerve. Sunwoo hated himself for how it made him feel: flushed, restless, aware of every inch of Eric pressed nearby. He hated that his heart betrayed him, even when his mind screamed to step back.

They ran the sequence again, Eric insisting on correcting minor missteps, leaning close under the guise of helping. Sunwoo’s hands clenched into fists, every instinct screaming both to flee and to reach for him.

Finally, Sunwoo stopped mid-step, throwing up his hands. “I can’t… I can’t do this with you standing like that.”

Eric’s grin didn’t falter. “Like what?” His voice was teasing, light, but Sunwoo caught the edge of something sharper like longing, frustration, maybe even guilt.

“You’re too close. I can’t—”

“Can’t what?” Eric pressed, leaning just a fraction closer. “Can’t handle me?”

Sunwoo’s chest ached, his breaths coming short. “I don’t want… this right now.”

Eric’s smirk faltered for the briefest moment before he straightened, stepping back. “Alright. Alright.” But the pause hung thickly between them, neither able to forget the proximity, the heat, the tension that had been simmering for days.

They didn’t speak for a few minutes, just going through the motions of practice with forced attention. Sunwoo’s mind raced. He hated himself for craving Eric’s nearness, for remembering too clearly the way his touch could make him tremble, for replaying moments they’d shared where there was something that almost felt like… care.

And then she arrived.

The soft click of heels on the polished floor was enough to make Sunwoo’s head snap up. Eric’s girlfriend stood in the doorway, a bag slung over her shoulder, eyes bright and smiling. “Hey!” she chirped. “Sorry I’m late. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Eric’s face lit up genuinely. “You’re fine,” he said warmly, stepping toward her. He held the door, waved her inside. Sunwoo could see the ease in their interaction, the casual intimacy, the jokes, the touches that he could never have.

Sunwoo’s chest tightened. He forced a small smile, moving to greet her as if nothing was wrong, as if the last few weeks of tangled desire and frustration had never existed.

“Sunwoo! Hey,” she said brightly. “You look tired… Long day?”

“Yeah,” he muttered, voice clipped, trying to maintain distance. His mind screamed at him not to look at Eric, but he caught the side of his face as he laughed at something she whispered. His chest clenched with a bitter ache.

Eric, noticing him watching, leaned slightly into her space, hand brushing her back. Sunwoo swallowed hard, eyes burning. He wanted to storm out, wanted to demand attention, wanted to escape and never look back.

Instead, he forced polite conversation, focusing on details around them like the music, the studio lights, random topics that allowed him to anchor his emotions. All the while, he could feel Eric’s attention drifting, the warmth in his laugh, the subtle glances toward her, everything reminding Sunwoo of his place: peripheral, secondary, unwanted.

When the others trickled back from the break, the energy shifted. Sunwoo excused himself, muttering something about finishing early. He stepped outside, the cool night air hitting him like a shock. He lit a cigarette, exhaling slowly, trying to steady the storm inside him.

Inside, Eric and his girlfriend continued laughing softly, the sound carried faintly through the glass. Sunwoo’s hands shook slightly as he dragged smoke into his lungs. He hated himself for how much he still wanted him, hated himself for the ache of seeing Eric happy with someone else, hated that even as he promised himself he wouldn’t give in, his mind kept tracing the memory of Eric’s warmth, the press of his body, the ghost of a touch.

He crushed the cigarette beneath his sneaker, letting the last ember die. He couldn’t stay here. Not tonight. Not anywhere near this, not when the desire mingled with disgust and the impossibility of what he wanted.

And yet, even as he walked away, he could feel the pull of Eric’s presence, lingering in his chest like a wound that refused to close.

The backstage area was a blur of exhausted bodies and half-packed equipment. Sunwoo’s legs felt like lead, his shoulders aching from the weight of the day. The concert had been brutal, hours on his feet, voices strained from singing, every move of the choreography etched painfully into his muscles. All he wanted was a shower, a bed, and silence.

Most of the members had already left, either piling into cars or being whisked away by staff. Only Eric lingered, tidying a few stray items, tossing a glance in Sunwoo’s way every few minutes.

“Hey,” Eric said, voice casual, but there was something in the tone that made Sunwoo’s chest tighten. “Want a ride? My car’s right outside.”

Sunwoo hesitated, trying to weigh the pros and cons. After these last four concerts, he refused each time. He wanted space, distance. But the exhaustion was heavy, fogging his judgment. He shook his head slightly, muttering, “I’m fine” before sighing, conceding. “Yeah… okay. I’ll go with you.”

Eric’s grin was almost victorious as they stepped outside. The night air was cool against their heated skin, a faint drizzle beginning to fall. Sunwoo followed, trying not to think, to just focus on the ground beneath his feet.

Once in the car, the tight space forced them close. Sunwoo slumped in the seat, hoodie pulled over his head, trying to make himself invisible. Eric started the engine, humming softly to the background music that filled the space.

“You look exhausted,” Eric said, leaning slightly toward him to grab the cupholder. The brush of his fingers against Sunwoo’s hand lingered far longer than necessary.

“I am,” Sunwoo muttered, shifting slightly.

Eric didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he tilted his head, watching him with that lazy, teasing smirk. “You’re cute when you’re tired, you know that?”

Sunwoo froze, mouth dry. “I’m not,” he said, confused at Eric’s behavior.

“Mm,” Eric hummed, leaning a bit closer, his shoulder brushing Sunwoo’s. “You’re wrong.”

Every nerve in Sunwoo’s body screamed, and he hated himself for it. Hated that his chest felt too tight, that his breath hitched at Eric’s nearness. He shifted back subtly, trying to create space, but Eric followed, leaning as if it were the most natural thing.

“Don’t… don’t do that,” Sunwoo muttered, voice low, almost pleading.

“Do what?” Eric asked innocently, but the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “Just sitting here? Breathing?”

Sunwoo clenched his fists in his lap. “You know exactly what you’re doing.”

Eric’s grin widened. “Maybe I do. Maybe I don’t.” His hand brushed against Sunwoo’s under the pretense of shifting forward. Sunwoo’s stomach twisted. He wanted to push him away, he wanted to get out, but he was too tired to fight entirely.

“You’re annoying, seriously.”

Eric leaned in closer, the faint scent of his cologne filling Sunwoo’s senses. “Maybe I just like seeing you like this,” he murmured softly.

Sunwoo’s stomach sank. His pulse thundered in his ears. “Stop,” he said, barely above a whisper.

Eric’s smirk faltered, just a fraction. “I can’t,” he admitted, voice softer, almost unguarded now. “Not when you look at me like that. Not when you care too much. Even when you think you don’t.”

Sunwoo turned sharply, frustration and longing warring inside him. “I don’t care!”

Eric chuckled, low and amused, leaning back slightly. “Sure.”

For a moment, they drove in silence, the faint sound of rain pattering against the windshield. Sunwoo tried to focus on the road ahead, the city lights blurring past. But the tension, the ache in his chest, the warmth of Eric near him was all too much. When he pulled near Sunwoo’s place, Eric sighed, cutting the engine, then he turned to look at him.

Eric’s voice came quiet, almost desperate. “Sunwoo.”

Sunwoo’s head snapped to him. His eyes were fixed on the steering wheel, but his voice carried a vulnerability that made Sunwoo’s chest twist.

“Every time I kiss her…” Eric’s words faltered, almost as if he wasn’t thinking, “I wish it was you.”

Sunwoo’s heart stopped. His body reacted before his mind could catch up. He hated the admission, hated himself for how much it made him ache.

Eric swallowed hard, voice trembling slightly. “Please, kiss me. Just… just once.”

The desperation in the words hung thickly in the car, mixing with the hum of the engine, the faint hiss of rain, and Sunwoo’s own ragged heartbeat. He wanted to look away, to pull himself together, to step out and never see him again.

But he didn’t.

He froze, chest tight, mind spinning, body betraying him as much as his heart. The space between them felt impossibly small, every brush of Eric’s arm, every glance, every unspoken desire burning into him.

“Please…” Eric repeated, softer this time, almost a whisper. “I just… I need to know it’s real. Just once. Just this one time.”

Sunwoo swallowed, shaking, torn between everything he wanted and everything he knew he couldn’t have. The tension was unbearable, electric, suffocating. The car seemed to shrink around them, a cocoon of longing, confusion, and desperation.

And then… the moment hung, suspended in time, leaving them both on the edge of something inevitable, something messy, and something neither of them knew how to face.

The car felt smaller than ever, every inch of space charged, humming with unspoken tension. Sunwoo’s hands gripped the edges of his seat, knuckles white. His chest was tight, heart hammering like it might shatter his ribs. Eric’s confession still hung in the air: “Every time I kiss her… I wish it was you.”

Sunwoo’s stomach churned, a mix of anger, longing, and frustration. He wanted to shout, to run, to shove him away, but he couldn’t. Eric’s proximity made his body betray him, muscles tense and trembling at the smallest brush of skin.

Eric leaned closer, gaze locked on him. “You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured, voice low and rough, a teasing edge threading through the desperation. “I just… I just need to feel you. One last time. Please.”

Sunwoo’s pulse spiked. “Eric… I—”

“I know,” Eric interrupted, almost pleading, his fingers grazing Sunwoo’s cheek softly. “I know. You don’t want this. But I…” He swallowed, voice dropping even lower. “I need you right now.”

The words were so raw, so unfiltered. Sunwoo hated himself for the way it made his body respond, for the flutter of heat, for the ache building between his legs, and for the way his hands itched to reach out even as his mind screamed to push Eric away.

His free hand brushed Sunwoo’s arm, slow, deliberate. Sunwoo didn’t pull away. Not yet.

Eric’s grin was crooked, mischievous, a little cruel. “You know, maybe I like that about you.” His thumb traced a slow line along Sunwoo’s forearm. “The fact that you can’t hide anything from me. That every look, every breath, every heartbeat screams that you want me too.”

Sunwoo’s chest burned with a mixture of shame and desire. “I don’t…” he began, then faltered.

The first brush of lips came unexpectedly, soft, testing. Sunwoo froze, heart threatening to escape his chest.

Eric’s lips pressed again, firmer this time, brushing over Sunwoo’s with deliberate care, teasing, a mixture of hunger and control.

Sunwoo’s body betrayed him entirely. The tension, the heat, the ache that had been coiled inside him for weeks, was unraveling in a rush. His hands gripped Eric’s shoulders, pulling him closer despite the confusion and disgust twisting inside him.

“Eric…” His voice was strained, a mix of pleading and warning.

Eric’s lips moved against his, slow, almost cruelly deliberate. “Please… just this once,” he murmured against Sunwoo’s mouth. “Just one last time. I need to feel you.”

The confession, the desperation, the raw heat of it all shattered Sunwoo’s defenses. He kissed back, slipping in tongue in Eric’s mouth in a messy, desperate way, hands tangling in his hair. Every motion was a mix of anger and longing, hate and need, a twisted symphony of what they couldn’t have but couldn’t resist.

Eric’s hands roamed carefully, tracing the lines of Sunwoo’s back and shoulders, never crossing the line fully, always teasing, always testing. “I’m yours tonight,” he whispered, voice rough, almost pretending. “Even if it’s just for this moment.”

Sunwoo pressed harder, hungry, frustrated, confused. “You’re… awful,” he gasped, pulling back slightly, breath ragged. “I… hate you.”

Eric’s lips brushed his ear, hot and teasing. “I know.” He lingered there, almost mockingly. “I like that you hate me.But I know how much you love me.”

Sunwoo’s hands clenched at his sides, tears pricking at his eyes, silent but burning with the intensity of everything he wanted and couldn’t have. Eric noticed. “Are you crying for me?” he whispered, voice low, teasing but almost gentle. He gently kissed the tears away, not feeling strong enough to admit this was turning him on.

Sunwoo’s chest tightened further. He wanted to scream, to shove Eric away, to run, to cry, to beg all at once. He pressed his forehead against Eric’s, letting the heat of him sear into every nerve, desperate and trembling.

Eric pulled back just slightly, eyes dark and raw. “You feel it too,” he murmured, almost more to himself than Sunwoo. “You can’t lie to me now. You want me, don’t you?”

Sunwoo’s breath hitched, body trembling. “I…” His voice broke. He hated how much he wanted him. How much he’d always wanted him. “I can’t—”

Eric leaned close again, lips brushing Sunwoo’s temple, his jaw. “Not now. Just… take what you want.”

The world outside became distant, everything faded into the background, leaving only the two of them suspended in this raw, desperate heat.

Sunwoo pressed his lips to Eric’s again, messy, fierce, almost angry, tasting everything he wanted and resented all at once. Eric’s hands gripped him firmly, holding, teasing, guiding. The ache, the frustration, the twisted longing. All of it exploded in that press of lips, that whisper, that desperate, fleeting touch.

Finally, Sunwoo pulled back, chest heaving, lips trembling, eyes stinging. Eric’s gaze followed him, dark, raw, desperate, and somewhere in it… almost tender. “You’re incredible,” Eric whispered, voice rough. “And I…” He faltered, letting the confession hang, unspoken, messy.

Sunwoo’s chest heaved. “I can’t… I can’t do this anymore,” he said, voice low but firm. “I need space.”

Eric’s lips twitched into a half-smile, half-grimace, the teasing, desperate glint still in his eyes. “I’ll wait,” he murmured, almost like a promise, almost like a threat.

Sunwoo leaned back, shoving the door open. Rain splashed against his hoodie, cold and sharp. He let it soak him, let the ache pulse, let the anger and longing mix until it was almost unbearable. He walked away from the car, leaving Eric behind, desperate, messy, human, flawed. And more wanted than ever.

The apartment felt too quiet. Too still. Sunwoo sank onto the edge of his bed, hoodie damp from the drizzle outside and muscles still sore from the rehearsals and concert aftermath. The city lights flickered through the curtains, casting thin stripes across the floor. It all felt too bright, too sharp, too heavy.

He pressed his palms to his face, trying to squeeze out the ache lodged in his chest. Every memory of Eric stabbed like a razor: teasing touches, whispered confessions, the way his lips had pressed against Sunwoo’s in the car. He hated how much he remembered. He hated how much he felt.

He had to stop.

No more texts, no more calls, no more excuses to see him outside of work. Sunwoo’s fingers hovered over his phone, hovering over Eric’s contact as he imagined the familiar message tones, the teasing words that would make his chest ache. He had to resist. Every part of him screamed to answer, to beg Eric to come over, to tell him he was sorry for pulling away. But he didn’t.

Not this time.

It wasn’t just about desire anymore; it was about dignity, self-respect. He had spent months being used, craving affection that would never come, chasing a version of Eric that only existed in stolen moments. The car, the whispered “please… kiss me” it had been messy, desperate, but it had also been the last reminder that he would never be more than what he can give.

He rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling. Every laugh, every touch, every fleeting warmth had been real at the moment, but now it was just a memory. A painful, beautiful memory that would fade in time if he let it.

Sunwoo’s phone buzzed lightly on the nightstand. Eric. The urge to check the text he had just received made his stomach twist. But he didn’t reach for his phone. Instead, he closed his eyes and breathed deeply, counting the seconds as if each inhale and exhale could ground him from the storm inside.

Hours passed in silence. He moved through his apartment robotically; making tea, staring out the window at the rain, pressing his palms to the glass, wishing he could wash away the ache in his chest.

Work was looming tomorrow, rehearsals waiting, but he felt like he’d been awake for weeks straight, trapped in the tangle of longing and regret. He let the quiet stretch around him, feeling the weight of his own heart, remembering every moment he had clung to Eric’s touch.

Eventually, fatigue claimed him. He lay back in bed, hands gripping the sheets, and allowed himself a single thought: I deserve more than this. I deserve someone who wants me fully, not just in stolen moments.

Tears slipped silently down his cheeks. Not the explosive, screaming kind, but slow, quiet drops that left him vulnerable and exposed. He didn’t try to wipe them away, they felt like proof that he had cared, that he had loved, and that he could survive heartbreak.

Somewhere in the haze of exhaustion, he imagined Eric outside his door, knocking, calling his name. Part of him wanted to throw it open, to let the messy, desperate man sweep in, to feel the warmth again. But he didn’t. He knew he couldn’t. He would not.

The phone buzzed again. Another message, still unread. Sunwoo pressed it down to the bottom of the nightstand drawer, out of sight, out of reach. And in the quiet of his apartment, with the city’s neon heartbeat pulsing faintly against the walls, he drifted into a restless, bittersweet sleep. His heart was heavy, mind sharp, and a little stronger than before.

The streets blurred past the car windows as Eric drove, mind spinning faster than the tires on wet asphalt. Every neon sign, every honking taxi, every reflection in the puddles felt like a reminder of Sunwoo’s warmth, his quiet strength, and the ache he couldn’t stop craving.

He had chased him for months, stolen moments and whispered confessions, teasing and demanding, messy and desperate. And now? He had realized the depth of what he’d done, and worse, the depth of what he felt. I love him. I’ve always loved him. The thought burned like a fever, impossible to shake.

By the time he reached his apartment, rain dripping down his hair and coat, his chest felt like it would burst. He entered quietly, the familiar hum of the building mocking his turmoil. His girlfriend was there, waiting innocently, unaware of the storm inside him.

He could see the worry in her eyes when he walked in. “Eric? Are you okay?” she asked softly.

He swallowed hard, the guilt knotting in his stomach. “I think we need to talk.”

The conversation that followed was messy, dramatic, and raw. Words tripped over each other, emotions spilling like water from a broken dam. He admitted everything; the messiness, the stolen moments, the confessions, the longing. He didn’t sugarcoat it. He didn’t try to protect himself. He told her the truth: he loved someone else, someone he shouldn’t, someone he had never stopped wanting.

Her face crumpled, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes. “You… you never even tried to hide it,” she whispered. “You… you cheated on me… with him?”

Eric flinched at the words. He hated himself at that moment, hated how messy he was, how human, how broken. “I truly didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry,” he said for the sixth time. “But I can’t lie anymore. And I need to try to fix what I can. Even if it’s too late.”

The silence that followed was thick, painful, heavy. He left their shared apartment that night, heart raw, chest aching, knowing he had hurt someone he had once loved, and yet still consumed by thoughts of Sunwoo.

He made his way to Sunwoo’s building, hands trembling as he knocked, calling his name softly. “Sunwoo… please… it’s me.”

No answer.

The fear, the ache, the desperation clawed at him. He pounded lightly, then stopped, breath ragged, knowing that the door might never open. Sunwoo had made his choice. He was clear, firm, and strong. And yet Eric couldn’t stop the longing, the hope, the human flaw that made him want to reach out anyway.

Defeated, he walked back to his apartment, every step heavy. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he stared at his phone, thumb hovering over Sunwoo’s number. He couldn’t let the night end without one last attempt. One last confession.

The message came out almost as a whisper:

“I love you. I always have. I’m sorry. I was too much, too messy, too late. I’ll wait if you want me. I’ll leave if you don’t.”

He sent it, chest tight, fingers trembling, knowing he had no control over what would happen next. For the first time in months, he let himself feel the full weight of longing, guilt, and love. Messy, human, raw, and painfully, beautifully true.

And somewhere in the quiet, under the glow of streetlights and the hum of the city, he waited. Not for an answer. Not for forgiveness. Just hoping that maybe, somehow, Sunwoo could see the honesty in it, could feel the love he had always hidden behind teasing and cruelty.

The apartment was silent again, the hum of the city muffled behind closed windows. Sunwoo sat on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, fingers brushing over the screen like it was something fragile, something dangerous.

A notification blinked. He opened it without thinking.

“I love you. I always have. I’m sorry. I was too much, too messy, too late. I’ll wait if you want me. I’ll leave if you don’t.”

The words felt heavy, almost tangible, pressing into his chest. Sunwoo stared at them, heart twisting and aching in equal measure. Part of him wanted to throw the phone across the room, scream, curse Eric for everything, for every stolen moment, for every ache he had left behind.

But another part wanted to reach out, to open that door, to let the messy, human man inside.

He set the phone down slowly, thumb hovering over the screen. The decision wasn’t his to make tonight. Not now.

He took a deep breath, letting it fill his lungs and settle the storm in his chest. He wasn’t ready, maybe he never would be. But reading those words, seeing the vulnerability he had never expected, he felt something shift. A crack in the armor, just small enough to let a sliver of hope through.

Sunwoo leaned back, staring at the ceiling, quiet tears threatening to spill. For the first time in months, he let himself feel everything at once: heartbreak, longing, relief, and a tiny, cautious thread of something else: possibility.

He didn’t reply. He didn’t need to.

Not yet.

Eric sat on the edge of his bed, the room dim except for the soft glow of his phone screen. He reread the message he had sent moments ago, fingers trembling slightly, heart hammering like it might escape his chest.

He had sent the message, and now there was nothing left to do but wait. The air felt heavy, thick with regret, longing, and a bittersweet kind of hope. He thought about Sunwoo, the way he had carried himself, the way he had protected his own heart even as Eric had clawed at it, teasing, desperate, careless.

A part of him wanted to drive back, knock again, beg, plead. But he didn’t. He had already crossed the line too many times. He had hurt Sunwoo, hurt others, and for the first time, he felt the full weight of it.

He leaned back, closing his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered into the empty room. Not just for the lies, the games, or the messy moments, but for himself , for being incapable of loving cleanly until now.

The night stretched on, quiet and unyielding. He imagined Sunwoo reading his words, maybe smiling, maybe frowning, maybe feeling a fraction of longing.

Eric didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. He didn’t know if Sunwoo would forgive, respond, or stay silent forever. But he did know one thing: he loved him, fully and painfully, for the first time in his life. And that truth, messy, human, irrevocable, was enough to keep him awake, heart aching, waiting for whatever might come next.

And maybe, just maybe, in another time or place, they could learn to hold each other without the ache.

But for now, they carried the love they couldn’t yet claim.

[juveonit]

Just a little closer

⇢ pairing : Bae Junyung/Jacob Bae x gn! reader

synopsis ⇢ Home feels different when someone's missing, until they aren't. In which Jacob finally comes to your shared apartment after weeks of being apart, only to find you fast asleep in his bed.

⤿ word count : 918 words

⇢ tags, themes : fluff, soft domestic vibes, sharing a bed, sleepy confessions, comfort and cuddles, friends to something more, no use of y/n, gender neutral reader insert

⤿ warnings : no warnings apply.

a/n ⇢ ngl i was kind of too lazy to turn it into a long fic so enjoy this little drabble!

The apartment felt strange, almost foreign. It was too quiet, too empty, though Jacob’s belongings were everywhere, like usual. His sweater draped over one of the living room’s chairs, his favorite mug on the small table near the TV, accompanied by some music scores. 

You dropped your bag by the door, sighing. The silence felt heavier than expected. Usually, his presence filled the apartment, with laughter spilling from the kitchen, playful teasing about who left the lights on, and the small chatter you’d share after work. All of it felt too distant.

The group’s world tour had only started a few weeks ago, but it felt like more. A small ache tugged at your chest. You realized during his absence how much you relied on the daily things, like his voice over a cup of coffee or late-night talks that somehow turned into a therapy session, even the small annoyances that had become comfort.

You wandered through the apartment, unconsciously checking rooms. Nothing was wrong, nothing had changed, but something felt missing. You found yourself at his door, hand lingering on the handle. Something pulled you in. Curiosity, maybe. So you pushed it open, stepping inside quietly.

The room smelled faintly of him. His desk was a little cluttered, pens scattered just so, and a notebook opened to a page you hadn’t seen before. You ran a hand over the surface, noticing the tiny details: the way he left his things, the yellow post-it notes on the wall, and the Polaroid featuring the two of you that Kevin took during your birthday.

It felt strange, realizing how much you missed him. Not just his company, but the familiarity of him being around. You hadn’t thought about it this way before. You weren’t trying to analyze it; you just slowly noticed this longing that didn’t have a name yet.

Without thinking, you sank onto his bed, curling in the blankets, knowing that you’d have to make his bed perfectly tomorrow. It was his space, yes, but you weren’t overstepping. You wouldn’t even dream of it if he were here. 

But for tonight, his room was empty, and the quietness of your shared apartment made you want to feel close to him somehow. You let yourself just miss him. 

It wasn’t in a dramatic, all-consuming way, just a small, quiet ache of absence. And for the first time since he left, it didn’t feel lonely. 

Jacob unlocked the apartment door, dragging his bag inside with a tired sigh. These last few weeks on tour had left him exhausted. He got the chance to go home a day earlier than he anticipated. His mind was foggy, his body slightly hurting, but he’d been looking forward to coming home. He expected the apartment to feel quiet, maybe empty, but comforting. What he hadn’t expected was how off it felt. 

His eyes drifted over the living room; nothing seemed out of place. Everything was cleaned and neatly arranged. He then moved toward your room first, hoping to either find you peacefully sleeping or working on yet another complicated project. 

When Jacob opened the door, your bed was empty. His eyebrows knitted together, confused at the sight of an empty bed. 

He stepped through the apartment, turning towards his room. The door creaked softly as he pushed it open, and a shadow on his bed made him freeze. 

He jumped back instinctively, a startled gasp escaping his lips. He squinted in the dim light, heart thudding, until realization dawned. It was you. 

Relief softened the tension in his chest, but he still hesitated, unsure if he should disturb you. The sight of you curled up in his bed, peaceful, oblivious to him, made him feel a warmth he was scared to acknowledge. 

He stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Hey… you’re here,” he whispered softly.

You stirred slightly but didn’t wake; your breathing stayed deep and even. Jacob’s lips curved into a small, gentle smile. He bent down, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, careful not to startle you.

He left briefly to change, moving carefully so he wouldn’t wake you. When he returned, he lounged on his side, propped up by his elbow, his fingers brushing through your hair.

You shifted slightly, half-awake, and murmured, “What…why are you here?”

Jacob leaned down, whispering near your ear, “Why are you in my bed?” His tone was playful, coated with a genuine curiosity.

You mumbled, voice thick with sleep, “I missed you.”

His lips turned into a fond smile, and he pressed another gentle kiss to the crown of your head. “I missed you too,” he whispered. His hand moved slowly, stroking the back of your hair, his fingers lingering along your shoulder.

You nuzzled closer into him as your arm draped instinctively around his waist, letting your eyes flutter shut again, comforted by his presence. Jacob adjusted slightly, feeling the quiet of relief and something else, something warmer, settle in his chest.

In the dim light, the line between friendship and something more felt fragile, sweet, and real. Jacob stayed like that, close enough to offer comfort, tentative enough to leave room for discovery. He pressed one last kiss to your head, whispering, “Home feels better with you here,” before settling closer to you.

In that quiet and gentle closeness, it didn’t matter what label there was between you; what mattered is that you were here, and he was home.

[juveonit]

Player

더보이즈 : when a gaming session with your friend turns into something a bit more fun.

──── Son Youngjae/Eric x gn! reader.

⇢ warnings : swearing, making out, teasing, suggestive touches.

⤿ word count : 2.3K

You step into Eric’s room, feeling immediately like you’ve stumbled into a little gaming haven.

The room is dimly lit, a soft yellow light from a lamp in the corner giving everything a warm glow. His TV dominates one wall, a sleek console plugged in and humming softly, controllers resting on the coffee table. Empty soda cans and half-eaten snacks litter the sides, evidence of previous late-night sessions, but it doesn’t feel messy, more like comfort. Like you’re stepping into his world.

Eric’s already on the couch, leaning back casually, a controller in hand, greeting you with a small smile. “Ready to lose?” he teases lightly, with that familiar spark in his eyes.

You smirk, dropping onto the cushion next to him. “I doubt it,” you answer, though your stomach twists with nerves. You’ve never played Call Of Duty before, and Eric, well, he’s scary good at everything he touches.

But that confidence of yours is also part of the game; he knows it, and you know it, both feeding off that silent energy.

He pauses the game, pushing a controller towards you. “Okay, first things first. Movement,” he starts, lilting the controller for you to see. “This stick moves you, the other aims. This trigger for shooting. Don’t worry about grenades and other stuff yet.” He keeps his tone patient but firm, leaning just slightly towards you as he demonstrates.

His shoulder brushes yours. It’s innocent enough, but it sends a tiny spark through your chest. You glance at him, and he’s looking down at your hands, showing exactly how to hold the controller.

You try to mimic him, fumbling immediately. The controller slips, your thumb misses the stick entirely, and you almost shoot him. He lets out a sharp, half laugh, half grunt, flinching dramatically. “Hey! Careful!” he exclaims, leaning closer to steady your hands. His fingers graze yours as he adjusts your grip. You can feel the warmth of his body so close, the quiet scent of him, the soft weight of his arm brushing against yours.

“Okay, don’t panic,” he says, though you notice the faint twitch of a smile at the corner of his lips. “Let’s try walking around first.”

Once you’ve mastered basic movement, he moves on to aiming. “Okay, this one can be a little tricky,” he warns, holding his controller just above yours, his fingers brushing over yours to show the delicate movements. You can’t help noticing how close you are, shoulders almost touching, his breath brushing past your ear when he leans to whisper, “Just small movements.” Your chest tightens, and you focus harder than you ever have on anything in your life, fumbling anyway.

Then comes shooting. You accidentally fire into the ceiling, startling both of you. Eric yelps, flailing like you shot him directly in the head. You laugh so hard you almost drop the controller. Another spark flares in your chest, and you can’t help thinking how ridiculously close you are.

Finally, he decides you’re ready for a practice round against bots. He explains basic objectives “Move, aim, shoot, and stay alive. Don’t overthink it.”

The round starts, and chaos ensues immediately.

You sprint forward in the wrong direction, firing wildly. Eric yells warnings, diving to dodge imaginary bullets. “Sorry!” you yell, laughing and panicking. He can’t help himself but laugh too, half-chasing you, half-protecting himself from your random shots.

At one point, your accidental fire hits him. “Oh my god!” he shouts, acting as if he actually got shot. You burst out laughing, “Oh I'm sorry, do you want a kiss?” You purse your lips towards him, mocking his childish behavior. His lips turn into a pout, blush rising instantly from his face, and he sputters something incoherent before shoving you playfully. “Don’t say things like that!” His voice sounds flustered, almost breaking from laughter.

The chaos continues. You stumble, throw grenades poorly, sprint into walls. Eric shouts, curses, laughs, and in between instructing you, he keeps glancing at you in those quiet, fleeting moments where his usual confidence slips into something tender. Your laughter fills the room, mingling with his, building an intimacy that feels effortless, electric, and completely yours.

The practice round ended in a flurry of chaos, laughter and a little lingering embarrassment. You collapsed back on the couch, the glow of the TV casting a soft light across Eric’s face, highlighting the faint blush on his cheeks, and you couldn’t help but notice how every little flustered reaction made your chest tighten.

“So,” you said, grinning mischievously, “think I’m ready for round two?”

Eric glanced at you sideways, pretending to be serious but failing miserably. “I don’t know if the world, or me, is ready for round two.”

He picked up one of the two controllers on the table, motioning for you to grab the other. “Fine,” he sighed, dramatically, “but this time… try not to blow us up.”

You nudged him playfully with your knee as you settled beside him. “No promises," you teased, already feeling the thrill of pushing his buttons. He rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath, but you caught the faint edge of a grin.

The second round began, and it was clear that your skills hadn’t improved much. Eric’s exasperated shout as you set off a grenade again made you laugh so hard you nearly dropped the controller. “Stop yelling at me!”

“Stop… panicking!” he said, flustered and leaning closer to guide your aim. His hands brushed yours again, lingering a little longer than necessary. You smirked at him, heart racing. “You know, I like it when you get all flustered,” you teased. He froze for a moment, cheeks heating, before he muttered, “I’m not flustered!” but the slight shake in his voice betrayed him.

As the round continued, a surprising thing happened: you actually started hitting a few targets. Not consistently, but enough to make Eric’s eyebrows lift in disbelief. “Okay… okay, that was actually impressive,” he admitted, voice low and uncharacteristically soft. Your grin widened, and you nudged him again. “See? I told you, I’m a natural,” you said, exaggerating your confidence. He laughed, shaking his head, but the warmth in his eyes was undeniable.

Moments of accidental closeness kept occurring: knees brushing, elbows colliding, hands brushing over the controller while adjusting aim. Every touch, every glance, made the tension between you thicker, though neither of you had the courage to address it directly. You could feel him stiffen slightly when your hand lingered near his, and you teased him mercilessly for it. “What’s the matter? Afraid I’ll steal your controller… or something else?” you whispered, letting your voice drop just a little. His jaw tightened, and you saw the tiniest flicker of panic in his eyes, which made you grin even wider.

Finally, the round ended with an unexpected victory. You even survived a last-second ambush and landed the final shot. Eric froze, staring at the screen in disbelief, then at you. You turned to him, chest heaving from excitement and laughter, and couldn’t resist blurting out, “We did it! We won! Oh I could kiss you right now!”

The words hung in the air, heavy with laughter and electricity. Eric’s jaw dropped, and he immediately sat up straighter, hands gripping his controller as if it were a shield. “What?” he stammered, clearly flustered, his eyes wide and cheeks red. You laughed, nudging him gently. “You heard me,” you said, teasing.

He sputtered, fumbling for words, and you couldn’t help but chuckle at his flustered state. “I… you… that’s not… we…” he tried, shaking his head while avoiding your gaze, and you leaned a little closer, letting your knee bump his again. “Oh come on, it’s just a kiss, you deserve it,” you teased lightly, letting your tone be playful but gentle.

Eric’s hands twitched on the controller, unsure whether to drop it or grab yours, his lips parted slightly as he tried to process the moment. His usual calm composure was gone, replaced with the very human blush of someone caught completely off-guard. Your confident grin made the tension almost unbearable, and you could tell he was fighting every instinct to maintain his reserved demeanor.

“Fine,” he finally whispered, playful. “Just one.”

You laughed softly, heart fluttering, and leaned in, carefully, teasingly, but with a spark of boldness. Eric’s eyes widened as your lips met his in a quick, testing kiss, not expecting you to actually do it. The moment felt electric, chaotic, yet somehow safe. He stiffened initially, then melted slowly into it, hands tentatively brushing against your arm as he responded with equal care.

When you finally pulled back, both of you were flushed and a little breathless. Eric’s gaze lingered, soft and slightly awed, and you grinned, nudging him playfully again. “See? Not so scary,” you teased. He rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath, but the warmth in his expression betrayed his words.

The pause after the first kiss was heavy with promise, the room still buzzing from laughter, chaos, and a shared thrill. Neither of you spoke much, just let the moment hang, knowing that this, your teasing, the chaotic game, the sparks of flirtation, was only the beginning.

The room felt warmer, the game sat paused, controllers on the coffee table, forgotten as the two of you sat close enough that your knees kept brushing constantly.

“You know,” you said, voice teasing, letting your knee press lightly against his, “you’re seriously cute when you get all flustered.”

He swallowed hard, eyes darting away. “Shut up, you’re annoying,” he muttered, voice low and shaky, trying to maintain composure. But he didn’t move away. Instead, his shoulder brushed yours, and the simple contact made your chest tighten.

You smirked, letting your hand hover near his. Your fingers grazed him, lingering just long enough to make him stiffen. “Am I?” you asked softly. “Or am I just… fun?”

He froze, a sharp inhale betraying him. “God… you’re impossible,” he whispered, shaking his head, cheeks blazing. You laughed softly, brushing a strand of hair hanging on his forehead, letting the teasing linger in the air. “Oh come on, it’s not like you don’t like it a little,” you murmured, letting your lips brush the shell of his ear.

He swallowed hard, voice rough, “I actually need more.” The vulnerability in his tone made your grin widen. Leaning closer, you pressed your lips lightly to his in a soft, testing kiss. He slowly melt against you, his hands hovering but eventually settling lightly on your waist.

The first kisses were soft, playful, almost exploratory, but each one built more tension. You let out a soft laugh as his lips barely grazed yours, teasingly, and he responded with a low, breathy “fuck…” that made a thrill run through you.

Without pulling back, you shifted carefully, straddling his lap, letting your knees rest lightly on either side of his legs. His hands instinctively rose to your hips, trembling slightly as he adjusted to your weight. You grinned against his lips, leaning in for another kiss, teeth grazing his bottom lip playfully. “God, you’re so flustered,” you whispered, teeth nibbling gently at his lip.

Eric groaned softly, clutching your waist a little tighter. “Fuck, you’re… too much,” he muttered, voice rough and low. His hands roamed tentatively over your sides, unsure whether to hold you closer or panic entirely. You let out a soft laugh, brushing your lips over his jaw, murmuring against him, “I can do this all night.”

The kisses deepened, messy and heated. You guided the pace now, letting your bold confidence lead, while he gradually gave in, letting his reserved demeanor melt into your touch. A soft, almost inaudible moan escaped his lips as you adjusted yourself on top of him, using this at your advantage to deepen the kiss, your tongues now dancing around each other.

Hands tangled in hair, hips pressing closer, small groans escaping both of you in between laughter and playful murmurs.

His lips left yours briefly, trailing soft kisses along your jaw and neck, eliciting a tiny gasp from you. “Fuck…” you muttered, his hands sliding down to firmly hold your thighs, eyes dark and intense as he captured your lips again. You pressed your body closer, letting your hands rest firmly on his chest, tugging him gently toward you.

Breathless, messy, and heated, you both lost track of the world outside the room. Legs tangled, bodies pressed together, every soft laugh and gasp only feeding the intensity. You teased him between kisses, whispering, “I knew you’d love it,” and he groaned, shoving his face into your shoulder briefly before kissing you again.

Eventually, your fevered pace slowed, kisses lingering, softer now, lips brushing lightly, foreheads pressed together. The room was quiet aside from your mingled breaths and the soft hum of the paused TV.

You nuzzled his shoulder, brushing hair from his face. Eric’s lips curved into a shy, flustered smile, eyes flicking to yours with quiet adoration. You could feel his fingers tighten around yours, holding on, while your hands lingered on his chest, tracing gentle circles.

A glance at the corner clock made him mumble, “Shit… it’s late,” breaking the bubble of intimacy just enough to make you both laugh softly. You nodded, heart still racing. “Yeah… we could either watch a movie and crash here or I can head back…” you suggested, voice playful but warm.

He tugged you slightly closer, voice low and hesitant, “Movie together… sounds good.” Your grin widened, settling against him, still straddling his lap with your head on his shoulder. “Good choice,” you murmured, letting your body relax against his.

Wrapped in blankets, the glow of the TV playing softly in the background, you both settled. Eric’s arms wrapped around you, tentative at first, then firmer, holding you close. You rested your head against his chest, fingers laced together, hearts still racing but warm, content, and intimate.

Small teasing murmurs continued in whispers, soft touches lingering on shoulders, hair, and hands. Occasional quiet laughter escaped your lips. The movie played on, largely ignored as you both drifted closer and closer, eventually drifting into a warm, cozy sleep together on the couch. The room was quiet aside from soft breaths, the comfort of being tangled up in each other, and the unspoken promise that this chaotic teasing was only the beginning.

[juveonit]

Mine. Yours.

⇢ pairing : Lee Jaehyun/Hyunjae x gn! reader

synopsis ⇢ “You feel that?” he murmured against your lips, voice ragged. “That pull between us?” ─── In which Hyunjae is jealous of your closeness with your shared friends, and wants to show you how much you mean to him.

⤿ word count : 5.4K

⇢ tags, themes : light angst/fluff progression, cigarette sharing, making out, secret relationship (kind of), harsh and soft intimacy, grinding/ suggestive touches, no use of y/n for reader insert.

⤿ warnings : jealousy, possessiveness, smoking, shotgunning, sensual content.

The apartment still carried the echo of laughter. Even with the sliding door shut behind you, it was still easy to hear someone’s voice breaking into a sudden shout of victory, followed by someone else protesting too loudly to be taken seriously.

It was warm in there, snacks wrappers scattered across the living room table, bottles and glasses clustered in mismatched groups like they’d been abandoned mid-story.

Out there, it was nothing but cool air and the faint hum of traffic from the city below. The balcony rail pressed against your palms as you leaned forward, breathing in the sharp night breeze that smelled faintly of cigarettes even before you lit one.

The glow of the lighter flared briefly, a soft orange halo reflecting in the sliding door glass, before it died out and let only the faint burn at the end of the cigarette.

You exhaled slowly, letting the smoke curl upward, the sound of muffled laughter slipping through the glass like a fading memory. Out there, the silence carried more weight than any of the noise inside.

The door slid open behind you.

You didn’t turn, though you felt an instant shift, the air displaced, the sudden thud of softer footsteps followed by a pause, like someone debating whether to say something or leave. You knew before he even talked.

“Hey.”

Hyunjae’s voice was quieter than you expected, rough from the hours of laughing and talking. You glanced back over your shoulder. He was leaning halfway against the doorframe, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other brushing his hair out of his eyes like he wasn’t sure how to stand.

“Thought you disappeared,” he said, trying to keep his tone casual. You lifted the cigarette a little, the glow catching his attention. “I needed some air.”

He gave a short laugh, and stepped out onto the balcony, sliding the door shut behind him. The sound of the room behind you dulled immediately, like you both stepped into another world.

“Do you mind if I…?” He gestured towards the cigarette, not quite meeting your eyes.

You raised a brow. “Didn’t know you smoked.”

“I don’t,” he admitted, a small grin pulling at his lips before it faded just as quickly. “It just feels right tonight.”

You passed it to him anyway, watching the way his fingers brushed yours briefly, warm despite the cold air around you, and how he carefully inhaled, like he wasn’t sure what he was doing. The smoke curled up, the faint orange glow highlighting the line of his jaw before it was long gone again.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The city filled the silence for you; low hum of traffic, the distant sirens, the occasional burst of laughter from someone walking home too late. You let the quiet stretch, comfortable in the weight of it, until Hyunjae broke it with words that didn’t sound rehearsed at all.

“You were close with him today.”

Your brows furrowed, though you tried to play dumb. “Who?”

He gave you a look, you couldn’t tell if it was playful, or something heavier. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”

“Hyunjae.”

“I’m just saying.” His tone was light, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him. He handed the cigarette back, his eyes following the glow as you lifted it to your lips. “You laugh different with him.”

The words caught you off guard. Not the accusation itself, but the quiet way he said it, like it wasn’t meant to leave his mouth at all.

“This is stupid,” you muttered, exhaling smoke into the air. “I laugh the same with everyone.”

“Not with me.”

The sentence hung between you, heavier than the smoke. His voice hadn’t risen, hadn’t sharpened, if anything, it had softened. Turning fragile in a way you weren’t used to hearing from him.

You turned toward him fully now, leaning your shoulder against the railing. “What are you trying to say?”

Hyunjae’s eyes flicked to yours, then away again. His confidence, the one that carried him through jokes, loud games and easy banter, seemed to falter there. He pushed through anyway, like he’d regret it more if he stayed silent.

“I don’t know.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his smile barely there. “Watching you with him felt like—”He cut himself off, shaking his head. “Forget it.”

“No,” you pressed, the cigarette long forgotten between your fingers. “Say it.”

His eyes met yours, and for a moment the balcony felt too small for the space between you. The look on his face shifted, like he was trying to measure wherever you were ready for the truth he was hesitant to say.

“It felt like you weren’t mine to laugh with.”

The words hit harder than they should have, you could see it from the flicker in his expression that he didn’t mean for his words to come out like that. His confidence betrayed him again, too honest, too quick.

You swallowed, the smoke burning your throat as you forced a breath out. “I’m not yours, Hyunjae.”

“I know.” His answer came instantly, sharp with self-awareness. “I know that, that’s the problem.”

The cigarette had burned low, ash threatening to fall. You crushed it against the edge of your ashtray and turned fully toward him, arms crossed now as if that would hold you together.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” you said, voice lower, more fragile than you wanted it to be.

He laughed bitterly. “Yeah, I shouldn’t. But you wanted me to.”

The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable anymore. It was loaded, thick with everything you didn’t want to admit. The city noise blurred into the background, irrelevant compared to the way Hyunjae’s eyes refused to leave yours, no matter how much he wished he could take his words back.

You felt the night press around you, cool air against your skin, his presence too close, too heavy. “Why are you saying this now?”

“Because I can't say it inside,” he said simply. “Not when everyone’s there. Not when you’re smiling at him like that.”

His honesty was too much, too raw. And yet, it pulled at you. The sadness in his tone, the quiet confession decorated with jealousy. You didn’t know what to do with it, except stand there and let it sink into your chest, heavier with each passing second.

You should’ve laughed it off. Should’ve called him dramatic, flicked the edge of his sleeve, reminded him that the group teased each other for things like this all the time. But the look in his eyes, the way he wasn’t trying to be funny, wasn’t trying to win some unspoken game, made your throat tighten.

“You can’t just say things like that and expect me to know what to do with it.”

His jaw tightened. “I’m not expecting anything.”

“You are.” You leaned against the railing again, your hands gripping the cool metal to anchor yourself. “You wouldn’t be out here saying this if you weren’t.

“Maybe I just wanted you to hear it once. Even if nothing changes.”

The honesty of it knocked the wind out of you. He wasn’t looking at you anymore, not directly. His gaze was fixed somewhere past the horizon, as if he could scatter his words into the lights of the city and pretend they hadn’t been meant for you.

“Hyunjae…”

Your voice was too soft. It sounded like you cared.

He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling hard. “Forget I said anything. It’s late. I’m tired. I’m probably just—”

“No.” You stepped closer without thinking, the urge to stop him from pulling away stronger than the instinct to protect yourself. “Don’t do that. Don’t take it back.”

He finally looked at you then, and it was worse than before, his eyes wide, vulnerable, like you’d caught him without armor. “Why not?”

“Because,” you said, the word catching in your throat, “if you take it back, then I’ll never know if you meant it.”

The silence stretched again, only now it buzzed with something different. Not because of the weight of unspoken words, but the shock of what had just been said out loud.

“I meant it.”

There it was, the truth. Simple and devastating in its honesty. No jokes, no smiles, no way to pretend it had been a slip. Just his voice, soft and raw, telling you the one thing you weren’t expecting to hear.

“This is stupid,” you whispered, more to yourself than him.

“I know.” His laugh was softer now, almost a sigh. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“And yet…”

“And yet,” he echoed, his gaze flicking down to your mouth for the briefest second before he forced it away again.

You could barely breathe. The air between you was heavy with everything you weren’t supposed to say, weren’t supposed to feel. And yet here you were, standing in the middle of it, unable to move.

The cigarette stub in the ashtray caught your eye, a ridiculous reminder of how this had started. “You never finished that,” you said, your voice breaking the tension only slightly.

Hyunjae glanced at it, then back at you. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe you should teach me properly.”

You raised a brow. “You want a lesson?”

He shrugged, his confidence slipping back in like a mask, though the flush on his cheeks betrayed him. “Or maybe I just want an excuse to keep standing here with you.”

The words were playful, but the weight behind them wasn’t. You should’ve shut it down, but instead, you found yourself reaching for the cigarette again, lighting it with hands that trembled more than they should have.

You inhaled, then exhaled slowly, the smoke curling between you. “There’s a thing called shotgunning,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.

Hyunjae tilted his head, intrigued. “Sounds dangerous.”

“Depends who you do it with.”

His eyes flickered, the corner of his mouth curving upward. Then, without another word, you lifted the cigarette to your lips again, inhaled, and leaned forward.

Hyunjae didn’t move at first. Then, slowly, he bent toward you, closing the space between you until your faces were just inches apart. There was something hypnotic about the shared rhythm as you exhaled, the smoke curling from your mouth to his, and he inhaled it with a soft breath, his lips parting slightly.

The air between you shifted, heavy and electric. His gaze locked on yours, pupils blown wide, and for a moment it didn’t feel like a game at all.

When he leaned back, he coughed softly, trying to laugh it off. “Not bad.”

Your chest ached, though whether from the smoke or the closeness, you couldn’t tell. “You’re a quick learner.”

He smirked again, but this time there was no hiding the sadness lingering in his eyes. “Only because of the teacher.”

The silence that followed was unbearable, thick with the knowledge that you’d both crossed a line you couldn’t uncross.

You should’ve stepped back. You should’ve gone inside. But instead, you stayed, the ghost of his breath still mingling with yours, wondering how much further you were both willing to fall.

“You’re different when it’s just us,” you said quietly. “Inside, everyone’s laughing, teasing but out here, it’s… heavier, I guess.”

He laughed softly, and it caught you off guard. “Yeah,” he agreed. “I didn’t think I’d be like this. Standing here, talking to you, feeling—” He paused, as if saying it aloud made it too real.

“You can say it,” you pressed, leaning just slightly forward, drawn in by something magnetic about him tonight.

He swallowed, gaze dropping for a fraction of a second. “I don’t know how to say this without sounding stupid. Or clingy.”

“Say it anyway. I don’t mind.”

The pause stretched, filled only with the soft hum of the distant city. Then he finally met your eyes again, vulnerability peeking through the teasing, confident facade he usually wore like an armor.

“I get jealous,” he admitted, voice low. “I see you with them… laughing, leaning in, sharing things… and I—” He broke off, swallowing. “I don’t like it.”

Your chest clenched. The rawness of it hit harder than you expected, the tiny confession cutting straight through the warmth of your playful earlier hangout.

“I don’t want you to feel like that,” you said softly.

“You can’t help it,” he said, shaking his head, but there was a soft edge, like he was scolding himself as much as you. “I just wanted you to know.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then he held out his hand, a small smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Here,” he said, lighting a new cigarette and pointing it at your lips. “You look like you need one.”

The closeness, the way he held it for you, the faint heat of his hand near your jaw, the glow illuminating his features, it was almost unbearable. You inhaled, the smoke filling your lungs, and when you exhaled, it mingled with his own, their breaths brushing almost imperceptibly.

“You’re really bad at being subtle,” you murmured, voice husky.

“And you,” he said, eyes darkening with something heavier than teasing, “are really bad at ignoring me.”

The words slipped out, unfiltered, vulnerable, and neither of you moved to pull away. Instead, the cigarette became a shared rhythm again, a bridge connecting you: inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, until the confessions started spilling naturally.

He spoke first, quiet and almost hesitant: about failed relationships, about people he had trusted and lost, about the little heartbreaks he’d never admitted even to his closest friends. His voice was low, intimate, carrying over the smoke that now seemed like a living, breathing thing between you.

You listened, letting him speak, your fingers brushing his accidentally as you reached for the cigarette to take a puff. Each touch was electric, igniting a warmth you hadn’t expected.

Then you spoke, sharing your own hesitations, the mistakes of past relationships, the regrets, the soft longing you had kept tucked away. The words were half apology, half confession, heavy with honesty. Hyunjae’s gaze never left you, absorbing every detail, leaning closer with each inhale and exhale as if the smoke itself carried the weight of his emotions.

“You’ve never told anyone that, have you?” he asked quietly, voice almost a whisper.

“No,” you admitted. “Not like this. Not… out loud.”

The cigarette finally burned down, but neither of you moved to put it out immediately. The world felt suspended, reduced to the small balcony, the city lights below, and the steady rhythm of shared breaths.

“You know,” Hyunjae murmured, leaning slightly closer, so your shoulders brushed, “I think I want to do this more. Not just the cigarettes.”

You swallowed, feeling a flush rise in your chest. “Do what more?”

He smirked faintly, but the glint in his eyes was serious. “This. Standing here with you. Talking like this. Not pretending. Feeling… everything.”

You exhaled smoke slowly, letting it drift between you, heavy and tangible. “Maybe we shouldn’t.

The night stretched around you, thick with smoke and unspoken truths. You leaned slightly into him when you exhaled, letting the cigarette heat and the closeness anchor you, both of you suspended in a moment that was fragile, beautiful, and dangerously intimate.

And for the first time that night, the laughter inside the apartment didn’t feel like a memory, it felt like a world away, leaving just the two of you, cigarettes burning, confessions spilling, and the ache of something you weren’t supposed to feel settling between your chests.

The last embers of the cigarette glowed faintly between your fingers as a stubborn, dying pulse of orange light. The heat between you and Hyunjae hadn’t faded, it had only thickened, heavy against the space separating you. It was almost suffocating, in the way he leaned slightly too close when you inhaled, the way his eyes tracked every one of your moves.

You wanted to take a step back, to catch your breath, to remind yourself that this was not a good idea. That this was wrong, that your friends were inside, and nothing should feel like it did right now. But your legs refused to obey.

“I can’t stop thinking about it. About you. About this.” His words trembled, and yet there was a demand in them, a harsh need that made you catch your own breath. “Every time you laugh with him like you did earlier, it—” He broke off, jaw tight, eyes darkening, and you realized he couldn’t finish.

“Hyunjae…” The sound of his name on your lips was almost a moan. You didn’t want it to be. And yet the way he shifted closer, how his hand brushed yours, lightly at first, then lingering, made it impossible to stay calm.

“I hate that I have to act normal, like nothing’s happening.” His hands moved without permission, one resting against the railing near yours, the other brushing lightly against your wrist, pressing just enough that it stilled your own movements. “I can’t watch you like this and not want this,” he said, harsh, teeth clenched, almost bitter. “Not need you this badly.”

The honesty slammed into you. You had felt it too, but hearing it out loud, so desperate, it made your fingers tighten around the dying cigarette, letting the last of the ember burn your skin just slightly. You didn’t care. You couldn’t.

You stepped closer, your chest pressing against his side, the warmth searing through the jacket he wore. “Then why aren’t you doing anything?” Your words were clipped, harsh, but your body betrayed your own teasing tone, leaning into him as if daring him to make the first move.

“I don’t know, I feel… scared for some reason,” he admitted, voice barely above a whisper, but the tension in his shoulders, the tilt of his jaw, screamed need. “Scared I’ll ruin this. Ruin us.”

“You won’t,” you cut in sharply, inhaling the faint scent of smoke that clung to him, the warmth of him that made it impossible to pull away. “I’m right here. Don’t ruin it.”

That seemed to break something in him. Hyunjae’s hands found your waist almost reflexively, gripping, urgent, needy, pulling you flush against him. His mouth hovered near yours, testing, hesitant, then suddenly, he pressed forward, lips brushing yours in a harsh, demanding kiss that stole your breath.

You gasped, and his hand tightened at your hip, tilting your body slightly against the balcony railing, pressing you closer. The smoke lingered, ghostly and faint, curling around the two of you as if the air itself was conspiring to keep you trapped in this moment.

“You feel that?” he murmured against your lips, voice ragged. “That pull between us?”

“Yes,” you whispered, voice shaky, caught between need and caution. “I feel it.”

He groaned softly, teeth grazing your jaw, and pressed harder, need coiling through him in every movement. “God, I’ve wanted this… I’ve wanted you all day. I tried not to notice, but seeing you with him earlier…” His grip tightened slightly, not painfully, but enough that the urgency hit your core. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

You pressed back, hand threading through his hair, tugging slightly, almost demanding. “Hyunjae… stop teasing me,” you said, though your voice trembled with want, your chest heaving, heart hammering in your ribcage.

He smirked against your lips, a dark, needy expression that made your stomach knot. “Teasing? I’m not teasing.”

He tilted your head slightly, brushing your mouth again, harsher this time, teeth lightly grazing your skin, drawing a gasp from you. “God, I can’t stop. I shouldn’t—”

“Shouldn’t what?” you whispered, voice barely audible over the thrum of your own pulse. “You want me. I want you. Say it.”

He didn’t hesitate this time. “I want you,” he rasped, lips pressing harder to yours. “I need you. I can’t wait anymore.”

The words hit you in waves. Each one, punctuated by shallow breaths and the faint curl of smoke around your bodies, was a declaration, a confession, a warning and a plea all at once. You responded instinctively, lips moving against his, hands gripping his jacket, feeling the tension in him, the rapid beat of his pulse through his chest.

“You’re so… harsh,” you murmured between kisses, breathless, your fingers tangling in his hair. “And needy.”

“Yes,” he growled softly, voice low and rough. “And you make it worse. You make it impossible to hold back.”

Your chest pressed against him, hips subtly grinding against the curve of his, and he groaned low in response, teeth catching your lower lip briefly. “Don’t pull away,” he demanded. “Not now. Not ever.”

You gasped at the heat in his tone, the raw need spilling from every word, every movement. The faint haze of cigarette smoke lingering on his jacket, your hair, clinging to your breaths. It made the night feel suspended, isolated, as if you were the only two people in the world.

Finally, breaking the kiss for a moment, you leaned back just slightly, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling. “We shouldn’t…” you whispered, though your body betrayed the words completely.

“I know, but I don't want to stop, please,” he said softly, hands still gripping your waist, thumb brushing your hip.

The harsh, needy edge in his voice made your chest ache, longing coiling tight like a fist inside you. “Then don’t,” you breathed, lips brushing his again, teeth catching gently, tugging softly as if testing boundaries, testing him.

“Never,” he murmured, low, dark, utterly desperate. “You’re mine tonight.”

The night stretched on, thick with smoke, heat, and confessions, about past hurts, about failed relationships, about the fear of being vulnerable, and the undeniable need between the two of you.

Each brush of lips, each stolen gasp, each harsh, needy whisper grounded by the faint curl of cigarette smoke that still lingered in the balcony air, pulling you both deeper, until the outside world, the group inside, the city below, was nothing but a memory.

“You’re insane,” you murmured, leaning back slightly as his hands gripped your waist again, fingers pressing into the curve of your hips. “Do you even care about our friends inside?”

Hyunjae froze just a fraction, a low growl slipping past his lips. “They don’t need to know,” he said, voice rough, but there was a softness under the edge now, a reluctant concession. “And if they do…” He pressed a finger lightly to your lips, then pulled it away, smirking. “I don’t care.”

You rolled your eyes but felt your chest tighten anyway. “You do care. Look at you. You’re still holding me like I’m going to float away if you let go.”

“Maybe you would,” he said quietly, his lips brushing against your temple as he spoke. The touch wasn’t gentle, too firm to be casual, but not harsh, just enough to remind you that he wanted, needed, could not resist you. “I just don’t want to put an end to this. But if you do—” He trailed off, jaw tight, gaze dropping to your lips.

You swallowed hard, heart thundering, and realized you didn’t want him to stop either. “Well, you should at least tone it down before they hear us,” you teased, fingers brushing along his shoulder in mock scolding.

Hyunjae’s laugh was low, soft, almost a sigh. “Tone it down?” he whispered, voice rough but tender. “Yeah, maybe.” He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes closing for a fraction of a second, just to savor the closeness. You could feel him trembling slightly, maybe with want, maybe with the strain of restraint, and your hands instinctively threaded into his hair, tugging him toward you.

He hummed softly into your mouth when your lips brushed his, more urgent now, desperate even, and you responded instantly, letting the fire between you consume the pause you’d both been holding. His hands were everywhere: gripping your waist, running along your back, pulling you impossibly close. The balcony railing pressed behind you, but you barely noticed, your whole world reduced to him.

“You’re reckless,” he growled between kisses, voice low, jagged with need. “Do you even realize that?”

“Maybe I like it,” you whispered back, teeth grazing his lower lip, drawing a sharp inhale from him. “Maybe I like knowing we could be caught at any second.”

His laugh was dark, rough, a mix of disbelief and want. “Don’t say that.” His hands tightened slightly, the pressure a mix of need and almost desperation. “I can’t deal with knowing that you want this too.”

You smiled against his lips, teasing, though your own chest felt too tight, too hot. “Then deal with it,” you whispered, tilting your head up so your lips brushed against his jawline. “Because I do.”

He pressed you flush against him, lips brushing your forehead, then your temple, then, finally, hungry, desperate kisses against your mouth again.

“Hyunjae,” you whispered against his lips, voice shaky, breathless. “You’re so… needy.”

“Yes,” he growled, teeth grazing yours lightly, tugging gently as if testing your resolve. “Because you make me need this. You make me lose control. And I can’t stop myself from…” He paused, shuddering against you, pressing closer. “From wanting you. Right now.”

Your chest tightened, heat pooling low in your stomach, and you couldn’t resist the shiver that ran through you. “Then… take it,” you whispered, lips brushing against his, teeth catching his lower lip again in a playful but charged tease. “I’m right here.”

And he did. Hands tangled in your hair, one sliding down to your hip, gripping firmly, pulling you impossibly close, pressing your body flush to his. His lips were everywhere: mouth, jaw, neck, tracing, nipping, teasing, urgent. Every kiss, every graze of teeth, every heated murmur, it all carried the weight of need, raw and jagged, harsh in its intensity, yet softened by the faint traces of smoke still curling around your bodies.

You tilted your head, lips parting under his, letting him deepen the kiss, and he responded with a groan, pressing closer, needing more. His hands tightened, pulling you flush, your breath mingling with his, the balcony shrinking, the night collapsing around just the two of you.

You glanced at the sliding door in front of you, thinking about your friends inside. “They’d kill us if they saw this.”

“Let them,” he muttered, voice low, needy, pressing against you, holding you impossibly close. “Let them see. I don’t care. I only care about you.”

The words, soft and raw, hit your chest with every inhale. “Hyunjae…” you whispered, touching his face, holding him there. “You’re… too much.”

“Not enough,” he whispered back, lips brushing yours again, teeth grazing lightly, hand holding you tighter. “I need more. I need you. Always.”

You gasped, tilting your head as his mouth found the curve of your neck, lips pressing and nipping, hands gripping you like letting go was impossible. Your own hands tangled in his hair, down his back, over his shoulders, holding him as if the world would crumble if you didn’t.

And yet, between the harshness and urgency, there was softness. There were low, needy murmurs: confessions of jealousy, past heartbreak, fears of being vulnerable, whispers of “I can’t believe you’re there with me” and “I don’t want this to end.” The mix of raw intensity and quiet vulnerability made the closeness almost unbearable.

And there you stayed, pressed to each other, the faint smell of tobacco curling around your faces, fingers tangled in hair and jacket, hearts pounding, breaths mixing, suspended in a moment that was harsh, needy, desperate, and entirely, impossibly yours.

Neither of you spoke immediately. The intensity had drained, leaving a soft, almost trembling stillness. Your forehead rested lightly against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, realizing how long you had been out here, how utterly lost in each other you’d become.

“You… we’ve been out here forever,” you murmured finally, voice small, almost shy now. “I think everyone’s probably wondering where we went.”

Hyunjae chuckled softly, a low, warm sound that vibrated through your chest. “Yeah,” he admitted, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. “I guess reality’s catching up with us.”

You tilted your head up to meet his eyes, noticing how softer, gentler they looked now, the harsh-needy edge of earlier replaced by something quieter, more vulnerable. You whispered, “I guess we should—”

He shook his head slightly, brushing a strand of hair from your face with surprising tenderness. “Maybe we should acknowledge it.”

You nodded slowly, heart still hammering from the earlier intensity.

He took a deep breath, fingers lingering along your jawline as he looked down at you, his lips parting slightly as though words were heavy on his tongue. “I want to ask you something,” he said finally, voice low, tentative, almost afraid.

Your chest skipped. “Hm?” you murmured, leaning in slightly, curious despite the nervous flutter in your stomach.

He swallowed, eyes flickering to the balcony floor and back up at you. “I want you to be mine,” he admitted, simple, honest, vulnerable. “Like… officially. Not just stolen moments in the night when we feel alone, not just whatever this is between us when no one’s watching. I want… us. You. With me. Properly.”

Your breath caught. The way he said it, soft, needy, but steady, made your chest tighten in a way that wasn’t about desire this time, but about trust, honesty, the weight of feelings finally given shape. “You really mean that?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes,” he said immediately, lips brushing against your temple, holding you impossibly close without pressing, giving you space to breathe, to take it in. “I mean it. I’ve wanted this. You. All of it. For a long time.”

You felt tears prick the corners of your eyes, not sad, not frustrated, but a swelling mix of relief and something tender, soft, vulnerable. “Hyunjae…” you breathed, reaching up to cup his face, thumb brushing gently along his cheek. “I want that too. I’ve wanted that for so long.”

A small, almost shy smile tugged at his lips, and he pressed his forehead to yours again, letting the moment settle between you. “Really?” he murmured. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” you whispered back, heart full, chest pressed against his. “I don’t want anyone else. I don’t want anything else. Just… you.”

He groaned softly, a low, almost relieved sound, fingers brushing your hair gently, tugging you just slightly closer. “Then… can I?” he asked, voice soft, almost hesitant, but the heat in it still palpable from before, still carrying that desperate need. “Can I call you mine?”

“Yes,” you breathed, closing your eyes for a moment, letting the lingering warmth of his body, the faint smoke, the night air, and the electric intimacy of the last hours sink in. “You can. You already have, haven’t you?”

Hyunjae laughed softly, a mixture of amusement and something tender, a shiver of relief in his voice. “Yeah… I guess I did,” he murmured, lips brushing your forehead once more. “But I want to say it. Out loud. Properly.”

You smiled against him, heart racing, fingers brushing along his chest, feeling the steady beat beneath. “Then say it,” you whispered.

He took a breath, pressing you flush against him one last time, softer than before, desperate still, but calm in its need. “You’re mine,” he said, voice low, steady, honest. “Properly. All of you. Please… don’t ever doubt that.”

You tilted your head, brushing your lips against his softly, barely a kiss, but full of everything you’d both felt in the night. “I won’t,” you whispered. “And I’m yours.”

For a long while, you stayed like that, chest to chest, arms around each other, breathing in the faint, lingering smoke, the quiet night, the city far below, feeling the weight of promises and confessions settle in. There was no harsh need now, no frantic desperation, just the quiet, tender closeness of two people who had crossed a line and wanted nothing more than to stay together, facing reality, but knowing they’d chosen each other.

The laughter from inside the apartment drifted faintly to you, teasing reminders of the world waiting just beyond the balcony. Hyunjae smirked softly against your temple. “We should go back in before they start wondering where we are,” he murmured, voice low, teasing again. “But… maybe a few more seconds?”

You laughed softly, tugging him closer just slightly. “Maybe a few more seconds,” you agreed, letting the moment linger, just long enough to savor it before stepping back into the rest of your lives, together.

[juveonit]

I Hate You

⇢ pairing : kim sunwoo x gn! reader

synopsis ⇢ Although you share a friend group, you and Sunwoo have never been friends. Not even close. Between sharp words and colder stares, he's always been the last person you thought you could lean on. But when the night shatters and the truth about your boyfriend cuts too deep, it's his voice you hear in the dark. And suddenly, hating him isn't so simple anymore.

⤿ word count : 5.1k

⇢ tags, themes : angst, love/hate, lot of hatred, no use of y/n, you both cry, not exactly unrequited love, toxicity in a way, you're both miserable.

⤿ warnings : morally ambigous characters, swearing, mentions of cheating.

Standing near your friends in the living room of some guy you don’t really know, music pulses around you, but it feels distant, like you’re underwater. Laughter and chatter fill the space, but it’s hollow, artificial, a sharp contrast to the ache twisting in your chest. And then you see it again, your boyfriend, laughing a little too closely with someone else, lipstick smudged on both their faces, the look in their eyes unmistakable. Heat rises to their cheeks as cold spreads through your stomach. It’s real, you’ve been betrayed.

You turn back to your friends with hope that someone would catch what’s happening, all in vain. Seeming too distracted by this stupid conversation they’re having, no one notices the shift in your attitude. Suddenly it feels like nothing matters anymore, you’re lonely, so lonely that you can’t even notice how one of them has been watching you, too closely, like he’s been waiting for the moment you’d finally break. You never really notice him anyways, it’s not like you were friends, he’s too annoying, too mean, never showed you a hint of kindness, even though you’ve known him for a few years. He was your friends’ friend, not yours. He was just… there.

You move through the crowd without really seeing anyone, the warmth of the room only highlighting the cold clawing at your insides. Every joke, every sip of laughter, feels like salt on a wound you can’t heal. Finally, you hear Chanhee call out to you, voice full of concern, but you barely hear him.

The cold breeze hits like a slap the second the door swings behind, the muffled bass of the party thumps faintly through the walls. The night pressing down, dark and cold, wrapping around you like a cloak. The street is quiet, and for a moment you just let yourself breathe, letting the tears slip freely, cheeks streaked with the remnants of mascara on your lashes. Everything feels too sharp, too heavy. Your heartbreak, your anger, disbelief. You can’t even think straight, nor comprehend how quickly your world has twisted.

Of course it had to happen here. Of course you had to find out in the middle of a party, where every pair of eyes felt like they were on you. And of course it was him you ran into when you thought you’d gotten far enough to breathe. He was there, outside. Not talking, not saying a word yet, just standing, watching. His expression is unreadable at first, but there’s a tension in his shoulders, a tightness in his jaw that you don’t seem to notice. 

And somehow, by just being there, he pulls you back from the edge of your own chaos, though you don’t know if it's comfort or confrontation you’re about to face.

“Didn’t think I’d catch you sneaking out like this.” His voice came sharp, too sharp, like he had been waiting to find you outside.

You couldn’t look at him, you just dug your nails into your sleeves. “Sunwoo seriously, don't start.” 

He tilted his head, smirking like always, but it cracked, just slightly at the edges. “I’m not starting anything. I’m… checking.” 

That answer made you snap towards him, eyes stinging, mouth twisting bitter. “Since when do you check on me?” 

For once, he didn’t shoot back immediately. His hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders tense against the glow of the street lights. “Since now, I guess.”

You scoffed, turning back towards the road, away from the heat in his eyes. “You’re unbelievable. You spend all of your time finding new ways to piss me off, and the second I can’t even hold it together you suddenly care?” Your voice broke but you pushed through it. “Don’t play hero, not with me.”

His jaw clenched hard enough you heard the grind of his teeth. “You think I'm doing this for fun?”

“I should’ve seen it coming, I should’ve known.” You can’t stop the tears anymore, they pour down, warm. “Everything I trusted, everything I thought we had, it’s all bulshit! He fucking lied to me and I only have myself to blame, and I can’t even explain how much this hurts.” Your voice breaks again, and the cold night swallows the rest.

You look back at him, trying to figure out what kind of emotion you’re perceiving in his eyes. “And here you are too. Always so damn hard on me, always hating me for everything, and–”

He swears, running a hand down his face, frustrated. He shakes his head, “Stop talking like that.” 

“Why? I thought you liked seeing me miserable.” You shot back, voice sharp, ugly with the tears you tried to hold in. He stepped closer before stopping himself, shaking head “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me,” you snapped, anger bubbling up to hide the ache in your heart. “Explain why you act like you hate me until it’s convenient for you to swoop in. Why the fuck do you care right now?”

For a second, he looked like he might actually answer. His mouth opened, then closed, his tongue pressing against his cheek like the words were fighting their way out. Instead, he muttered, low, almost to himself. “Because I do.” The words don’t come clean, not fully, but they’re between anger, frustration, the care he can’t admit.

You blinked, thrown off, before shaking your head furiously “Don’t. Don’t twist this. I can’t.” Your breath hitched as tears finally spilled over, hot against the freezing air. “I can’t do this right now.” Looking up through the tears, the cold bites harder as he paces in front of you.

“I hate you.” You spit suddenly, shaking your head. “I hate everything about this night. I hate him, I hate myself for not seeing it happening, I hate you for standing here, for caring, for…”

“Good.” He snaps back. “Good, I hate it too. I hate that he got anywhere near you. I hate that you think any of this is your fault. I hate that I care enough to stand there and lose my mind over this.”

The silence after that is long, broken only by your ragged breaths, and the distant thump of the party. He’s staring, chest heaving, and for a fraction of a second, the sharpness of his hate mixes with something rawer. Something dangerous, soft and entirely unspoken.

He hands you his jacket, and you shove it at him without thinking. “Go back inside.” You mutter, still crying, still shivering. “Leave me alone.”

He doesn’t move, just stares. “Yeah… sure,” he says finally, voice tight. “Go ahead. Freeze your ass off. But I'm not going back there.”

You turn away from him, arms wrapping tighter around yourself like you were trying to hold the pieces of your heart together. Behind you, Sunwoo faintly mutters something you can’t hear over the wind, and then… silence. Just the cold night, the music, and the pounding of your own heart.

You can’t stop yourself. "I hate you,” you whisper again, the words trembling, raw. “I hate that you’re here. Fuck, i even hate that probably need you right now.”

He flinches at the last part, jaw tightening, hands clenching at his sides. “I hate you too.” He spits, voice low and harsh. “I hate you for making me do this. For standing there, broken and expecting me to… I don’t know… just do nothing?”

Tears sting your eyes, hot and relentless. “I hate you for leaving me with him. I hate that I came out there crying, and now I'm just yelling at you, and I–”

“Stop.” His voice is sudden, cutting through the chaos. “I wish I could just… fix this for you, I hate that you think that you’re the reason it happened.”

“I hate that you’re seeing me like this,” was the only thing you could say. 

“I’m sick of hearing you blame yourself. I’m sick of it. He’s the one who’s wrong. Not you. Not for crying. Not for feeling. Not for anything.” A shiver shakes you, half from the cold and half from the intensity of his presence, furious and raw. You whisper, “I hate that you’re making me feel like I'm losing my mind even more.”

He opened his mouth, trying to voice out his thoughts, but he stopped abruptly. Jaw tight, breathing uneven, because the words he wants to say would ruin everything if he allowed them to come out.

You clutch your jacket tighter around your body, shaking, salty tears running to your lips. “I hate you so much.” you mumble again, softer this time, but it cuts through deeper. “I hate you for making me feel like I can’t even breathe without hating everything.”

He freezes, a tight exhale slipping through his teeth. “Yeah…” he mutters, voice rough, close to a whisper. “Yeah, me too.”

The wind swirls around you, biting and cold, and all at once the night feels like it’s pressing in from every side. You’re both trembling, not just from the cold, and neither of you can look away, neither of you can stop saying it. The hate, the fear, the unspoken… it’s all tangled together, impossible to separate.

Shivering more from the sting in your chest than the cold, the silence stretches. Sunwoo doesn’t move for a painfully long moment, he just watches. Then, slowly, he shifts, steps closer, though he keeps a careful distance. His voice comes out low, hesitant. “I… didn’t mean to–”

You flinch at the sudden sound cutting the silence, spinning slightly, but not enough to face him. “Of course you didn’t,” you mutter. “Everything’s your fault, huh?”

“No,” he snaps too quickly, then swallows .”Not… not everything.” His hands ball into fists again at his sides. “I didn’t mean to hurt you like that.”

You let out a humorless, shaky laugh. “Hurt me? You’ve been torturing me for months.”

“I know,” he admits quietly. “I know I've been a…” He pauses, voice cracking slightly. “... a jerk. But I–” He stops again, frustrated with himself, a frustration sharpened by the cold, by your silence, by everything he’s too stubborn to say.

You squeeze your jacket tightly, shoulder trembling. “Wow, big apology. Really fixing everything.”

He swears under his breath, and then, softer, he mutters: “I’m sorry. For… for being hard on you. For not noticing sooner. For letting him–”

“...Letting him what?” He doesn’t answer. It’s not a full apology. It’s not a confession. But it’s there, he’s admitting, in his own way, that he’s been wrong. That he cares more than he wants to. That the anger and sharpness, the hate he’s been throwing at you, is tangled up with something completely different.

You swallow, heart thudding. And for a moment, the world feels like it’s shrinking to the space between the two of you. The bitter wind, the dark night, the quiet thump of music inside. But the tension softens, just a fraction, the edge of hate still there, but it now tastes like a mix of something else. Something dangerous. Something that sounds like affection.

A moment of silence appears again, but this time it’s not empty. It’s heavy with all the words that were said and the ones neither of you can say. The wind bites through your clothes, the cold stinging like every misstep you’ve ever made, and yet, somehow, standing there doesn’t feel quite as suffocating.

He shifts again, his sneakers scraping against the pavement. “I didn’t mean to… make you feel like I was hating you.” You bite your lip, “Yeah, well. It sure felt like it.”

“I know,” he says. “I was an asshole. I’m still… I don’t know, I can’t figure it out. I just… hate seeing you like this” He swallows hard. “I hate everything about him being… him being the one who–”

“Stop. Just stop. You don’t get to make this about you. Or him. I already feel pathetic.” You manage to let these words out, half angry, half sobbing, twisting your hands in the folds of your jacket.

“God, stop blaming yourself.” His voice cracks like glass. He takes a step closer, and for a moment, you feel the weight of him there. His presence, solid and infuriating, pressing into the night. “You didn’t do anything wrong, and you didn’t deserve any of this.”

You blink through tears, shaking your head. “I hate that I thought I could just trust anyone. I hate that I let him in.” Your voice cracks as he responds, “Yeah, me too. I hate that I care this much.”

You want to look at him, you want to hate him for how much he sees you, for how much he knows, for how much he cares. And yet, you can’t. So you finally turn around, hesitating. His eyes are dark, restless and somehow, soft, in a way that doesn’t fit the rest of him. He steps closer again, close enough that you can feel the heat of him despite the cold breeze. “But… It's okay to be a mess. It’s okay to cry.” He swallows hard before continuing, “It’s okay to lean on me, even if you hate it.”

You blink, chest tight, “I don’t know if I can.”

“Then don’t.” He mutters sharply, although there’s something in his eyes, something soft, almost pleading. “Just don’t push me away. Not now. Not after all this.” You look down, letting out a desperate sigh, ashamed of your tears, your anger. “I just feel miserable.”

“I know that this is embarrassing in a way, and I hate that you think you have to hide it. I hate everything about this… but I don't hate you. Not really. Not like that”

These last words hang between you, fragile, strange. You’re both so close, even if neither of you moves. The walls you’d built, the hate, the sharp edges of every argument, they’re still there, but they’re softer now. 

And then, almost without thinking, you step a fraction closer, trembling. He doesn’t move away. Neither of you speaks. You let your head drop slightly, and he hesitates, hands twitching at his sides. The world narrows to the two of you. The cold, the dark, the jagged space between space and words. And in that silence, in that moment, you realize something fragile and terrifying: maybe you don’t hate each other as much as you thought.

He exhales sharply, finally lowering his guard for a moment. “Do you… want a hug?” He asks softly, voice rough, awkward.

“...Yeah.”

In a slow, painful movement, you let him come closer. Arms wrap around you, not quite perfectly, trembling, but enough. Enough for both of you to feel it. The shared weight of everything that’s happened during this cold night. The anger, the embarrassment.

His arms tighten around you when your sobs turn into something harsher, rawer. Like you needed him to finally let go of the burden you’ve been carrying the whole night. It hits him then, how vulnerable you feel against him, how broken you are. How much he’s added to that weight. Every sharp word, every glare, every time he could’ve reached out but didn’t. It floods back in waves that choke him. He squeezes his eyes shut, swallowing down the guilt clawing its way up his throat.

“I shouldn’t have–” His voice cracks, burying his face in your hair as if hiding will make it easier to say. “God, I’ve been such an asshole to you.”

Clutching the fabric of his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. “Don’t,” you whisper, “Don’t say that now. Please.”

He wanted to say more, he needed to, but he wasn’t strong enough. Not when you were falling apart in his own arms. He pulls back, just enough to see your tear-streaked face. His thumb almost lifts to wipe the wetness away, but he freezes, like he’s not sure if he has the right.

And then it happens. It’s not gentle, not clean. Just a slow press of lips against lips, soaked in tears and shaking hands. A kiss that’s less about desire and more about breaking. His mouth tastes like an apology, like regret, like everything he’s never said but always meant.

You kiss him back, because you’re drowning, because you need something, anything, to anchor yourself. The tears don’t stop. They smear across your skin, between your lips, making the kiss taste like grief. There’s no heat, no spark. It’s devastation dressed as closeness.

When you pull apart, breathless and ruined, he stares at your face like the sight of you might crush him. His hand lingers near your face, before he lets it fall. “I’m sorry.” He says, hoarse. The words digging a knife straight into your chest. “I shouldn’t have done that. Not when you’re like this.” Guilt tripping from every syllable escaping his soft lips.

His apology makes you feel worse. You crossed a line, you dragged him into this mess along with you. “It’s not your fault I just… I shouldn’t have–” You can’t finish, because no matter what you say, it will sound wrong.

The silence that follows is unbearable. The kiss still burns between you, like a wound that won’t close. It’s heavy, wrong and desperately right all at once. You both stand there for a moment, a quietness so thick you could choke on it. Neither of you knows what to say.

Finally, he clears his throat, low and rough. “We should get you out of the cold You’re freezing”

You laugh, but it comes out hollow, “Yeah. Like that’s what matters right now.” He doesn’t bite back this time. He just looks at you, tired, eyes rimmed red from his own held-back emotions. He shrugs off his jacket, tugging it around your shoulders without asking. The gesture is clumsy, almost too gentle compared to the harshness of this night.

Neither of you speaks as you walk back towards the dim glow of the house, your footsteps crunching over damp grass. The muffled bass of the party grows louder, voices spilling out into the night. For a second, it feels impossible. Like you’re going to step back into a world where none of this happened, where you’re supposed to laugh and pretend you didn’t just shatter outside.

He must feel it too, because when you reach the porch steps, he mutters, “You don’t have to go back in. I’ll get your things. We’ll leave.”

You don’t argue. You don’t want to face anyone, least of all the people who might mention your boyfriend’s name, his face, the reason your heart feels like it’s bleeding out. So you just nod, letting Sunwoo handle it.

Minutes later, you’re in his car, the silence heavier than the night air. You stare out the window, eyes burning, trying not to break again. He grips the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles are slowly turning white. Every few seconds, he glances at you with parted lips, like he wants to say something but swallows it back.

When he pulls up in front of your place, the reality of being alone crashes over you. The thought of stepping into your room, of lying in your bed with the echoes of tonight pressing down on you, everything just makes your chest cave in.

So your voice comes out small, scared. “Can you… stay?”

He blinks, startled, and you rush to clarify, a burning feeling in your throat. “I just don't feel like being by myself tonight”

There’s a pause, so long you regret asking. But then he nods, quietly. “Yeah. I’ll stay.”

The door shuts behind you with a soft thud, the sound almost too loud in the thick quiet that follows. The faint hum of the city outside feels far away, like the world has been sealed off. You drop your bag near the wall and hesitate in the narrow entryway, hands shaking as you pull off your shoes. He doesn’t move, shoulders hunched like he’s debating whether to leave right back out of it.

“Do you want some water?” You ask like you’re on autopilot, searching for something normal to say or do, something that makes sense.

He shakes his head. “No, thanks.” 

He follows you into your room like he’s not sure if he’s allowed, every step reluctant. Neither of you go for bed. Too personal. Instead, you just slide down against the nearest wall. The plaster feels cold at your back, his silence even colder. 

He lingers in the doorway like he doesn’t belong, shifting on his feet before finally sliding down besides you. Sitting on the floor with a careful gap, like he doesn’t want to crowd you, to pressure you.

The silence settles heavy, pressing against your chest until you want to crawl out of your skin. You don’t look at him, you keep your eyes on your knees, hands gripping the fabric of your pants so tightly your knuckles ache.

He clears his throat once, then again, like he wants to speak but can’t find the strength to pour his heart out. An awkward silence stretches until it starts to hurt. Suddenly, your breath catches, tears spilling before you can’t try to stop them. 

You try to be quiet, but the shaky sound of your breathing gives you away, the feeling of his presence breaking your heart. His head turns instantly. You swipe at your cheeks too late, muttering something under your breath, but it’s useless. 

In this moment, the sight of you was enough to break him in half. His hand flexes against his knee, hovering like he wants to reach out. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.” 

You laugh at his statement, the sound brittle. “You didn’t. I just can’t stop.”

That does it, his whole body stiffens, like he’s holding something back. And then you notice it. Just a flicker at first, his eyes red, the subtle quiver in his jaw. He’s crying. Silently. Tears falling without permission, not daring to look back at you, not daring to reach for you. 

You pause, heart thudding. A part of you wants to turn away, the other wants to reach out to him. But another part, fearful and confused, doesn’t know if you should. He’s been cruel, sharp, distant. Did he really care? Was this just misplaced anger or something else?

When you finally turn, cautiously, you see him fully: lips pressed into a small, stubborn pout, tears silently streaming down his cheeks as he stares at his hands. Vulnerable. Helpless. And somehow… honest.

For a moment you’re unsure what to feel. Shock. Confusion. The ache of your own betrayal. The pulse of something unfamiliar, hidden under years of him being mean.

He doesn’t meet your eyes. He doesn’t speak. He lets himself be seen like this, without defense, and it’s terrifying. 

You reach out, unsure. Your hands brush against his arm, then move around him, pulling him closer into an unsteady hug. He presses into you, weight and heat and all the pent-up tension collapsing against your chest. Holding him tighter, you’re unsure if you should be comforting or if you should pull away. You can feel the heat of his tears seeping through your clothes, and it hits you with a strange sharpness, the one that tells you that he’s always been hiding all of this.

Unexpectedly, a quiet, broken voice escapes him. Hesitant, almost fearful. “I don’t know how to be like this. How to care without making it worse.”

“You...care?” The word feels heavy on your tongue.

He doesn’t answer right away, like the words might break him if he says them. When he lifts his head slightly, he says in a whisper, almost ashamed, “I think I always have. And I hated it. I hated myself for feeling it, for the way it made me act. I just didn’t know how to show it properly. So I tried to push you away.”

Something shifts inside you. All the times he was cruel, sharp, distant. It starts to make sense. No excuses, no justifications. Just a reason. A terrible, messy, human reason.

“I thought you hated me, and I hated you too for that.”

“I hated that I loved you, how it made me feel every time I was near you. It wasn’t true hatred, just… everything I've never known how to say.”

The weight of his confession settles in your chest. It’s messy. Confusing. A betrayal of your expectations.

The room is quiet but alive with the sound of his silent sobs and your shallow breaths. You hold him anyway, because somehow it feels necessary. Because maybe, in this strange, chaotic moment, holding him is the only way to acknowledge that you’re both broken. And maybe, just maybe, beginning to heal together.

Eventually, your tears taper off, leaving streaks on both your cheeks. You pull back slightly, still holding him, and notice the tension in his shoulder easing just a little. For the first time today, it feels like you both are breathing without drowning.

“I’m sorry for making this about me.” His thumb drags lightly over your arm. “I wanted to be there for you. That was the whole point. I just don’t know how to do this without… losing control”

You shake your head softly, brushing a hand on his damp hair. “You didn’t make it worse. Not really. And it’s okay, you’re human. I guess I tend to forget that sometimes.”

You both settle in silence again, leaning against each other like the burden of tonight has finally decided to rest. Minutes seem like hours, with only the faint sound of your own steadying breaths. The room feels warmer, the ache in your chest a little lighter.

After a long time, he whispers, “I don’t want you to be alone tonight.”

You swallow, nodding into his shoulder. “Then don’t go.”

And he doesn’t.

Time blurs after that. You don’t move to the bed right away, you sit there until your bodies ache from the floor, until exhaustion weighs heavier than grief. When you finally drag yourself up, he follows without hesitation.

You don’t talk about where he’ll sleep. There’s no pretending, no awkward negotiation. You just climb onto the bed, pulling the blanket up, careful to keep a little space between the both of you. It should feel strange. It doesn’t. 

He sits on one side of the bed, hands in his lap, eyes flicking to yours but never holding contact for too long. You try to close your eyes, but your brain won’t stop. You lie there in silence, staring at the ceiling, mind spinning with images of your cheating ‘boyfriend’, of the betrayal that crushed you and the dread of facing tomorrow. You don’t want to bother him. Don’t want to say anything wrong or pull him back into your chaos. So you stay still, quiet, pretending you’re fine even though every nerve in your body is screaming for connection.

But the stillness, the mere proximity of him, becomes unbearable. Your chest tightens. You need it, the closeness. The warmth. The brush of someone who actually sees you right now, without judgment, without anger. But you don’t know how to ask. How to reach it without messing up the fragile peace you’ve built.

Slowly, tentatively, you inch closer, careful not to intrude. The movement is shy, awkward, a question more than a statement. He notices immediately. The corner of his mouth twitches, his shoulders shift, and almost instinctively, he leans in too. The space between you shrinks, until there’s nothing but a thin layer of air and shared heat.

For a long moment, you just look at each other, trying to read the world in each other’s eyes. The exhaustion, the grief, the unspoken confessions, the hidden feelings. They’re all there, unmasked.

His hand twitches, fingers brushing over his own pants, testing the courage to reach for more. Slow, trembling, he lifts a hand, fingertips ghosting across your cheek. The touch is feather-light, deliberate, yearning, like he’s been holding it back for too long. His thumb traces a line down, brushing the corner of your jaw, then pauses, hovering in question.

You close your eyes at the contact, letting yourself be a little selfish in your need for warmth and comfort. Relief, warmth, the ache of longing, all wrapped up in one small gesture. And without thinking, without permission even, you lean a little more into him, the smallest whisper of a sigh escaping your lips.

He mirrors you, tilting his head, pressing closer. The brush of his fingers against your skin, the heat of his body so near, erase some of the sharp edges of the night, just a little. It’s tender, but also messy, like neither of you really knows the rules for this, how to ask, how to receive.

Neither of you speaks. Words feel impossible, inadequate for the tangled mess of sadness, anger, longing and relief swirling between you. His hands moves again, brushing strands of hair back from your temple, fingers lingering at the nape of your neck. The contact sends a shiver down your spine. You hesitate, unsure if you’re allowed to crave this closeness, unsure if it’s fair to let him see how much you need him when you’re still raw from betrayal.

He must feel it too, you catch his gaze, glassy and vulnerable, realizing he’s been carrying this need, this longing, for as long as you’ve known him. The faintest quiver of his lips betray his own uncertainty, and suddenly, the mask of cruelty that has cloaked him seems almost laughable in the face of his quiet, desperate need.

“Can I..?” His voice is a whisper, uncertain. His eyes don’t leave yours, seeking, asking permission he doesn’t have the words to frame properly.

You nod, voice catching in a breathless sigh. “Yes.”

It’s not a romantic “yes,” not yet. It’s just permission to be human, to need, to lean, to touch without pretense. Slowly, almost painfully, he moves closer until your bodies are pressed together. Your arms wrap around him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. He presses back, a low, almost inaudible hum vibrating against your chest.

You feel his heart beating, strong and irregular, mirroring your own. You stay like his, letting the quiet stretch between you like a fragile thread neither of you wants to snap. Then, he tilts his head, brushing his lips against the corner of yours. Not a kiss that speaks love, but a soft whisper of intimacy. His fingers tighten slightly at the nape of your neck, anchoring you, as you close your eyes, clutching his shirt. 

The kiss fades as quietly as it started. The quiet acknowledgement in his grip says everything: he’s there, he’s holding you, and right now, that’s enough. You allow yourself to rest. Even if it’s just a little, clinging to him like it’s the only lifeline you have. 

Outside the room, the world continues, chaotic and loud. But in this small cocoon of shared vulnerability, the night finally feels… bearable.

[juveonit]

Strings Attached

더보이즈 : when a guitar lesson with your friend turns into a confession.

──── Ji Changmin x gn! reader

⤿ word count : 1.6k

You had never claimed to be musically inclined, but staring at the sleek, polished yellow guitar in the corner of Changmin's studio made you feel a mix of determination, and mild panic.

leaning against the armrest of the big couch you were sitting on, a thought crossed your mind, and you decided to voice it out.

“Okay…so,” you began, trying to sound casual but failing, "I was thinking, maybe you could, uh… teach me how to play?”

Changmin looked up from the notebook he’d been scribbling in, one brow raised. “You?” his lips turning into a smile that showed his amusement.

“Are you sure about that? Remember what happened last time you touched an instrument.”

“You’re an awful person.” You shot back, cringing at the memory. “Anyway, I'm serious. I want to learn.”

He leaned back, folding his arms, eyes twinkling like he already knew how funny this was going to be. “Fine. But don’t say I didn't warn you.”

You left your spot on the couch to pick up the guitar on the other side of the room. Grabbing it like it’s a fragile egg as you popped onto the floor beside him, fumbling to hold it properly.

Changmin’s eyes followed your every move, a low and teasing laugh coming out of his mouth when he saw how you were handling the guitar.

“Your posture is…ambitious.” He said, leaning closer to adjust your grip on the guitar. The heat emanating from his body heightened the smell of his perfume as the faint brush of his hands against yours made your heart beat a little faster.

“Am I holding it wrong?” You asked, trying to keep your voice steady, though your hands were slightly trembling at the thought of his skin against yours.

“A little.” He admitted, smiling softly. “Here, relax your fingers. No, not like that…like this.” His hands covered yours again, guiding your awkward grip.

You cleared your throat, hoping to regain some dignity. “Right, so…chords?”

“Chords.” He echoed, eyes locking on yours for a beat longer than necessary. “Let’s start with a basic one.” Changmin continued, pointing at the strings like he was about to perform some ancient ritual.

“That’s a G major. Simple. You’ll get it.”

You squinted at the guitar as if he asked you to play like Van Halen. “Simple.” you muttered, fingers hovering over the frets.

He looked at you with hope, but as soon as you pressed down, a horrendous screech ripped through the room. Changmin’s eyes widened, you could tell by his face that he was trying to hold a laugh.

“Ambitious interpretation of G major.”

“I probably did it wrong?” you replied hope tinged with panic. “Just slightly.” He said, leaning closer to adjust your fingers once again.

His hand brushed against yours, and a jolt of warmth ran up to your arm. You blinked, hoping you didn’t look like you’d just been struck by lightning.

“Just relax your wrist…like this.” He murmured, guiding your hand. Close. Way too close for your own good. You could now smell his cologne even more, the one that you loved so much.

You swallowed and tried again. This time, the cord came out slightly less horrifying. Changmin’s grin widened. “You’re progressing. I see some potential.”

“Potential for what? Disaster?” You teased back, though your cheeks warmed at the way he leaned over your shoulder to watch your fingers.

He snorted at your comment, “No, potential for maybe a little moment of fame in your living room.”

He tilted his head, watching you carefully.

Determined not to melt under his gaze, you focused on the next cords. Unfortunately your finger slipped, hitting an entirely different string. The guitar let out a loud honk. “Oops.” You muttered.

“To be honest, you might be inventing your own music genre.” Changmin laughed ruffling his hair in disbelief. “And somehow. it’s…endearing.”

You frowned, almost offended. “Endearing? Is that your way of saying I'm terrible?”

He shrugged, grin softening. “Terrible, yes. But fun to watch.”

And maybe, just maybe, that little compliment made your heart thud faster.

After several more failed attempts, a miracle happened. You pressed down on a fret and strummed a chord that didn’t make Changmin wince. Your eyes went wide. “I did it!”

“Finally!” He said, clapping quietly. “See? Not completely hopeless.”

The way he looked at you then, proud. His soft gaze made your stomach twist in a delightful way.

“Okay now, let’s try switching chords. G major to C major. Easy enough.” You nodded in confidence. “I got this.”

As your fingers fumbled, you accidentally nudged his hand. A smirk appeared on his lips as he leaned even closer, ostensibly to guide your fingers on the strings. But the brush of his thumb against yours caused heat to creep up on your face. “Relax.” He murmured, voice low, warm. “Don’t overthink it.”

“I am not overthinking it.” You tried to sound convincing as if your brain wasn’t short-circuited right now.

He chuckled softly in response, eyes glistening. “Sure, that’s why your hand is shaking.”

You groaned, embarrassed but unable to hide that smile growing on your face. “Shut up.”

“Not a chance.” Changmin said, still hovering close. “You’re doing…better than I expected.”

The air between you thickened. You felt him lean in slightly, just to show a proper finger position, but you were all too aware of how close your faces were. A stray lock of hair fell into your face, and he gently pushed it aside. The brush of his finger lingered.

“Maybe we should take a break.” You suggested, heart hammering, overwhelmed by the growing tension.

Changmin’s grin softened. “A break?” His gaze met yours, “Yeah maybe a break is good.”

You both leaned back slightly, yet somehow your shoulders touched. You couldn’t stop the small laugh that escaped. “You’re enjoying this a bit too much, you know.”

“Maybe.” He admitted, voice close to quiet, his teasing tone softened. “But I like seeing you like this. Deeply concentrated and slightly flustered.”

You swallowed. “You’re impossible.”

He leaned in just a bit more, close enough that your breaths mingled. “Maybe I am.” He whispered.

The guitar laid forgotten between you as your eyes met. And suddenly that tension, the heat of proximity, the soft teasing, accidental touches. It was undeniable.

Starting to panic, you suddenly picked up the guitar again, trying to focus on the chords. But every time you touched the strings, your eyes couldn’t help drifting to Changmin. He was now kneeling beside you, adjusting your hands with a patience that melted your heart.

“Not too hard on the strings.” He murmured, guiding you. His touch lingered more than usual as you swallowed while pretending to inspect your hand.

“Okay, C major.” You whispered, heart thudding. You strummed and the chord came out almost right. Not perfect, but enough. Changmin’s eyes lit up, his smile was sweet, proud as he leaned against your shoulder. “I knew you could do it.”

The gesture made you freeze for a split second, heat spreading across your cheeks. “Thank you.” you murmured, your voice quieter than intended.

He seemed amused by your flustered stare. “No need to be shy. You’re doing better than you think.”

The air between you felt heavy, every small brush of hands, every accidental shoulder touch, every shared glance lingering a bit more each time. Even the guitar which had felt so clumsy and awkward at the start, suddenly seemed more like a prop for something more intimate, something unspoken.

As he was trying to show you the next chord, your fingers touched once again, your breath caught, and you quickly pulled back.

Changmin’s eyes tried to find yours, his gaze warmer, as if he was waiting, watching and enjoying the way your nerves danced under his touch. As he caught you looking at him, a tiny smirk played on his lips.

“Be careful, or I might think you’re trying to distract me.” His tone was definitely teasing.

“Distract you?” a nervous laugh escaped your lips. “Who, me? Never.”

He didn’t answer with words. Instead he leaned in, just enough that your noses nearly brushed, while his hand stayed over yours, guiding your touch on the strings with a deliberate slowness. Your breath hitched, every nerve buzzing.

For the first time, this moment didn’t feel like a lesson at all. It felt like a confession. This closeness, the quiet heat between you, the unspoken tension that made it impossible to focus on chords without thinking about his presence.

“Changmin…” You whispered, your fingers trembling against his.

“Yeah” he answered, his voice husky, eyes not leaving yours.

“It’s hard to focus where you’re right there.” Your heart stuttered.

Before you could process it, his face tilted closer. The time seemed to stretch. The faint scent of him, the warmth of his body close to yours, the way your shoulder brushed against his. All of it building to a moment you hadn’t realized you were holding your breath for.

His lips found their way against yours. Soft, hesitant at first, like testing the waters. Your eyes fluttered shut immediately.

You melted into it, a shiver running down your spine as your hands instinctively reached to his shoulders. His hand slipped behind your neck, steadying, grounding, gentle but insistent.

It was a quick, delicate brush of lips that sent fireworks through your chest, enough to shatter the tensions that had been simmering for so long.

When he pulled back just slightly, foreheads resting together, you swore you could hear his heart beating like it was about to explode.

“You…” You began, but he cut you off with a small laugh, his hands reaching to cup your cheeks. “You’re amazing.” “He murmured. “Even with the chords.”

You smiled softly, heart still racing. “You’re not bad yourself.”

He smirked, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Guess we make a good team, huh?”

You nodded, shy but happy, fingers brushing against his. “Yeah…I think we do.”

Changmin chuckled, leaning in for another, gentler kiss. This one was slower, sweeter, lingering just a little longer. You couldn’t stop the quiet laugh that escaped you against his lips.

When you finally pulled back, grinning like idiots, the guitar between you suddenly felt like a memory marker. A first chord, a first laugh, a first kiss. And you knew, without a doubt, that lessons with Changmin would never be just about music again.

“Ready for the next chord?” he asked, voice teasing again but softer, warmer.

“Only if it comes with more…teacher’s help,” you replied, heart still fluttering. His grin widened, hand finding yours once more. “Deal.”

And with that, you strummed, laughed, and fell into the rhythm, not just of the music, but of this new, sweet closeness that was suddenly all too perfect.

[juveonit]

We Share A Wall

★ PROLOGUE

⇢ synopsis : Two strangers, divided by nothing more than a thin wall, trade midnight confessions in the dark. At first it's just an outlet, a distraction. But soon those late-night confessions start to dig deeper than any of them would've expected.

⇢ pairings : zhong chenle x park jisung

⇢ genre : romance, coming-of-age/slice of life, angst.

⇢ tropes : strangers-to-lovers, anonymous confessions, emotional hurt/comfort, accidental confessions.

⇢ warnings : psychological undertones, internalized homophobia, questioning identity.

⤿ Still under work! This will soon be posted on ao3 at the same time as the first chapter.

00 : The Wall

The first time it happened, Jisung thought he was losing it.

He just moved into his new campus apartment a few days before but everything felt like the old one, same old creaky pipes, same overpriced furniture in shades of beige and sadness. He hadn’t unpacked fully yet, he can deal with this later. The wall behind his desk was still bare and the vent next to it made a soft hissing noise whenever the heat kicked in.

The walls look thin. Not enough to hear words through them unless someone is being loud, but thin enough that if you press your ear against one of them you can catch the shape of another life.

A couple days after he moved in, when he was done unpacking his bags, Jisung spent his evening scrolling aimlessly on his phone. The room felt too quiet except for the occasional hum of traffic outside and the soft drip of a leaky faucet he was too lazy to fix.

To his surprise, a slightly high pitched laugh suddenly echoed through the entire room.

“Where is this coming from?” He asked himself. Jisung then tried to remain silent, just to see if he’d hear something again.

He did not talk again, not that night. He laid still in the dark, his pillow half over his head, heartbeat thudding like he’d been caught listening in on something private.

He didn’t think it would happen again.

But it did. The next night, and the one after that.

On the fourth night, the voice addressed him directly: “You’re quiet but I know you’re listening. The vent hisses differently when someone’s on the other side” Jisung hesitantly faced the vent, trying to find an answer but failing. “Don’t freak out. I’m not, like, a stalker or whatever. I’m just bored. Or lonely. Maybe both.”

Jisung’s side of the wall went dead silent before the voice spoke up for the third time today. “If you’re going to keep listening, you might as well say something.”

The silent boy stared at the vent like it might open up and swallow him whole.

That was two weeks ago. Now the voice behind the wall has a name. Not a real name, just an initial.

“D”

Short for Dolphin. Jisung thought it was funny, like that high pitched laugh he heard when he first moved in.

He hadn’t offered his real name either, so he’s just called Raincloud for some reason D refuses to explain, and Jisung doesn’t press.

They don’t chat every single night, but often enough that Jisung started falling asleep with his body facing towards the vent, it’s like the warmth coming from it makes his bed feel less empty.

At first it felt like a game. They talked through the vent late at night, when the rest of the dorm was quiet and the world felt blurry around the edges. They never made plans to talk, it just happened, like gravity. Some nights were light, filled with silly debates, half-asleep confessions or childhood anecdotes.

Other nights were heavier. And sometimes they just…listen.

One night, D played the guitar, working on a new song. Soft, hesitant notes bleeding through the vent like spilled ink. He wasn’t aware of Jisung’s presence.

He didn’t say anything though, he just laid there with his eyes closed, letting the sweet melody fill the room.

After that, the wall felt less like a divider and more like a bridge.

[wyngigi-deactivated20260421]

ꕀ LUST FOR LIFE ꕀ 02

↳ sex money feelings die remastered .ᐟ cross posted on ao3

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“ they say only the good die young, that just ain't right 'cause we're having too much fun, too much fun tonight ”

↳ synopsis: a group of individuals find that their first taste of freedom in the world brings more obstacles than expected. some of them, find solace by drowning in liquor or in the backseat of somebody else’s car. a lot of them have got to get their shit together. a lot of them won't.

mdni » story contains nsfw content intended for 18+ audiences pairings » member specific, not listed for spoiler purposes ↳󠁪󠁪 ateez x female reader, ateez x ateez ↳ genre » coming of age ↳ word count » 3.5k ↳ general warnings » substance abuse & consumption, sexual content, morally grey characters, unreliable narrators, internalised homophobia, angst, basically every struggle young adolescence can go through

02⌇relationships, fuck buddies, heartbreaks

San has made a lot of bad decisions in his lifetime. For starters, back in the golden days of high school he decided to skip class and go on a bike ride with his friends. It was fun, until they decided to add alcohol into the mix, then it got stupidly fun. He ended up on the ground with his bike reduced to a pile of metal scraps with wheels. The addition of a nasty scar near his hairline wasn’t the most favourable either. His parents weren’t happy with that, nor when he hosted a house party the very next weekend that got more than just a little out of hand.

He’s glad most of the mistakes were correctable in some way. The bike definitely wasn’t salvageable, but he did eventually get a new one. Then, after the party, he had to give up a month’s allowance to mend the window he had broken after an intense game of beer pong. That month he also decided to take up a part-time job.

To put it plainly, San doesn’t make a lot of good decisions. Even after transitioning out of the angsty rebellious teen phase, trouble seems to just follow him. It’s okay with him though, he doesn’t just live with chaos, he thrives in it. Some things really do not change.

The building in front of him, previously only seen through images online stands almost confronting now. His clothes make him feel worse, like extremely out of place. They’re all wrinkled from being worn on the airplane and subway ride, and he feels the stares of people in their expensive evening wear as they walk by. It’s too late to back down now, so he reaches for his phone to inform the reason he’s here of his arrival. As he waits, San pays extra attention to his surroundings. Movies were right about one thing; New York, the city that never sleeps. He likes it, the honking cars in the distance and the occasional construction sounds are comforting in a strange way. Life at home felt too quiet, especially after you left.

He loves to be on the move, the thrill of exploring has always been dangerously enticing. San could have done that in lots of ways after high school, spontaneous road trip, booking a one-way ticket to anywhere he could think of. Temporary choices. He didn’t want that though, San wanted to live big. After more thought, transferring to a college that requires a plane ride to reach his hometown might’ve been living a little bigger than he anticipated.

He looks down at his phone, fumbling with the volume button in attempt to seem busy while he waits for a reply from his soon-to-be roommate. He hasn’t packed much, but his backpack has been weighing him down for twenty minutes after his subway commute. San checks his phone again, no reply.

There wasn’t much special about this college, education wise nothing he couldn’t have gained from any closer schools, but this one had something else. Someone else. San is well aware how moronic it is to chase after an ex (well, ex something) yet here he is, outside an apartment five miles from the campus you attend. His plan was always to move to a school further away. San’s decision to move to this school was only slightly influenced by the “vague” memory of your attendance here.

The rest of his belongings, haphazardly thrown into cardboard boxes are on the way soon, hopefully. The moving process is more complicated than San ought to have believed. He doesn’t have anything of too much value from home, except for his well-loved motorcycle. A more recent purchase, a gift to himself for finally deciding to make the big move.

A figure appears from the apartment building’s entrance and San hopes his prayers have been answered, for once. The man across from him squints his eyes curiously, recognition fills them instead after a few seconds and a grin spreads across his face.

“San, right?”

“I don’t get it; you know you could easily pay for this place yourself.” A second voice scoffs, chiming in, “Yeah, you just got the last roomie out. Why don’t you enjoy solo living for a while?” The two boys across from Mingi aren’t accusatory in tone, yet he feels it from their expression. It’s probably stupid from their view, understandably. It’s also kind of stupid from his, he’s just lonely. He can’t say that to them though. It’s hard to not sound like a wealthy prick whose upset his friends have jobs and other friends while he’s spending his days rotting away in some luxury penthouse in Brooklyn Heights.

“Dunno, save money I guess.” Wooyoung scoffs, “Complete bullshit, your parents pay for this place.” Mingi shrugs, “Saving them money, then.” Mingi watches as Wooyoung taps the boy next to him on the floor, holding his hand out. Yeosang squints up at him, elbow resting on his knee, lit joint in his hand sending smoke around in small swirls. “Puff, puff, pass fuckin’ hog.” Yeosang takes another drag, blowing a stream of smoke into the other’s face.

“Not even your stash, stop acting stingy.” Wooyoung rolls his eyes in response, bringing the stick up to his mouth as he leans back into the upholstered sofa. Mingi scowls, “Get another burn mark in this couch and I’m done with you forever.” Wooyoung hovers the lit end of the joint just above the leathered surface before the former knocks his hand away lightly. Wooyoung grins, passing Mingi the joint in surrender. He shuffles in his spot before bringing the stick to his lips between two fingers. Yeosang lays his back onto the cashmere carpet, stretching out his back.

Mingi likes the two boys. They are his friends, as much as friends who come to your place to smoke all your weed and use your fancy television can be. They keep him company, when they’re not studying or working, or at some shitty frat party. Mingi doesn’t really wish to join in on the trashy ragers they go to, it’s all cheap liquor that’ll leave him with a bad hangover. Sometimes he thinks he really does live up to the pretentious rich kid stereotype.

“So,” Yeosang continues, eyes still closed as he lies down, “Who is the new roomie?” Mingi clears his throat to respond, yet the other voice in the room interrupts. “Seriously though, who cares, I’m still grieving the last one. Missing him.”

“You’ve seen him a total of like, seven times.” Yeosang lifts his head up to give the youngest of the three a judgemental look, “Have you guys even spoken before?”

Mingi snorts, “They did, once. Hongjoong lost his key and Wooyoung let him in. He was too out of it to respond and ran to the bathroom to throw up.”  The black-haired boy scowls, “Don’t care. He was hot. Fuck happened to him?”

Mingi shrugs, he doesn’t really know much about his old roommate either. He moved in because the guy was looking for some extra studio space. Some preppy art school kid. Not a lot to know, apart from the fact he drank a little too much. And barely spoke unless he was wasted out of his mind. He didn’t mind it though, just enjoyed having someone to share his place with. To be honest, the place just feels so hollow with just him in it. Last week he had packed his stuff up, handed his key to Mingi and on his way he went. Mingi didn’t have a lot of friends, dropping out of school early kind of kickstarts that. All of Mingi’s old friends were off in foreign countries, travelling and exploring with their parent’s money, and the two with him now were always closer to each other. Not that they’d exclude him, but they were each other’s best friends.

“Long story, you guys hungry?” The two boys nod. Yeosang props himself up, “New restaurant opened up like last week down the road.” Mingi nods, moving to get up before Wooyoung sucks in a breath. “Your treat though, yeah?” He sings, patting the boy on the chest. Mingi nods letting the two make their way out first as he reaches for his wallet on the coffee table. “What are friends for?” He mutters, shoving the wallet into his pocket.

Ever since Jongho was young, he knew he belonged on the field. Football wasn’t just about the winning, the congratulations or the glory of the trophies and medals, it was more than that. He couldn’t boil it down to one thing that made football so important to him. He loved the chill against his skin as he ran across the grass, ball in his grasp as the screaming and shouting all melted in a dull buzz. He loved when after every point he scored added up onto the scoreboard, celebratory ding ringing in his ears louder than any cheers from his team or the crowd.

The game had always been his calling, the practices just as much entertainment to him. Loved the drills, again and again. First one on the field and last to leave. He was unstoppable, sum it up to physical advantage, extra training, but what he knew was that it all began with his mentality. That this was the thing nobody could take from him. Unfortunately, life will always find a way to do exactly that.

His dad, who had fuelled his love for the game for a much younger Jongho many years ago was sick. Jongho knew he was ill; he also knew that the last thing his dad would want to see was him crying at his bedside. So, he chose to be strong. Or try to, as much as one can when you want to cry and hide until the hurt in one’s heart would cease. He went to practices with his team as much as he could, tackled, defended until his body gave up. Then, he would get up and do the same thing again the very next day.

He pretended as long as he could, that nothing in his life had changed. He’d come home from practice, ask his dad if he wanted to throw the ball around with him and when his dad would shake his head and respond with a simple “Too tired, tomorrow maybe.” Jongho would smile, close the door and return to his room. It was easier, to agree his dad was tired, not sick.

It was hard to ignore other things though, like in his house. The paintings his parents bought during their trip in Greece had been sold, his mom’s engagement ring pawned off, the small tv he kept in his bedroom given away in a garage sale for practically nothing. Jongho would be stupid if he didn’t notice they were having money troubles. So, he did something he really, really didn’t want to do.

Quitting his team was one of the first times Jongho had felt completely and utterly hopeless. But he also knew it was the right thing to do. Too much money spent on his equipment and uniforms, too much time taken away that he didn’t have. So, his afternoons routinely spent sweating, running and catching transformed into mind numbing endless shifts at his local convenience store, as well as studying harder than he ever had before.

During his final semester he joined his team again, played the final games of the season but, the universe is cruel sometimes, so damn cruel. Just under a year of being off the field had set him back too far, no amount of practice could’ve helped him. The other top players of the team had received sport scholarships from some of the top schools, and he was left behind. He’s glad to have at least paid enough attention in school to receive a scholarship, an academic one for science. Without it, college fees would’ve set him back far more.

His first year of college went by with a breeze, then the universe had made its round again. Jongho’s dad had passed away, peacefully, in his sleep on New Years. His nights spent buried in books, reviewing lectures and revising for exams had turned into endless bottles of whatever he could get his hands on until he’d pass out. Then, he would get up and do the same thing again the very next day. He doesn’t talk about his dad much for obvious reasons, but by the start of his second year he had entered lectures painfully wasted or stoned out of his mind instead.

Wooyoung’s spent his whole life thinking about love. Watching it first with his parents, as his mom would look up into his dad’s eyes, fixing his tie while he tucked her hair behind her ear before they’d leave for their weekly date night. They were the classic high school sweethearts. He didn’t know exactly what love would be in store for him yet, but he knew what his parents had was simple, plain, love.

As he got older, he watched it in elementary school. More juvenile versions of it, smiles across the playground and confessions scribbled onto paper. He also remembers his first crush. She was pretty, always waved to him in middle school before running off to her friends. Wooyoung would walk the longer route to his own classes to see her as she passed him, locking eyes before one of them (usually him) would feel his breath hitch and he’d walk a little faster. They even went to their school dance together, by that he means they held hands and stood next to each other at the punch table.

They never dated but she was also his first heartbreak in a sense, thanks to the new guy that showed up and swept her off her feet by their final year of middle school. Wooyoung hadn’t cared too much after like a week, they went off to different high schools and he’d forgotten all about her. He certainly doesn’t remember much of her now, but he does remember the feeling of loving someone for the first time. Whatever illusioned version of love a person can have in their teenage years.

By the time high school ended, he’d enjoyed his fair share of relationships, fuck buddies, heartbreaks and whatever else there was in between. Unfortunately, that meant the rose-coloured lenses of his adolescence had been removed, and love had gradually become more of a whimsical fantasy than something he’d truly ever achieve. Life just got in the way most of the time, made relationships way too complicated. Therefore, in the meantime, while he waited for the special someone to come along he chose to embrace college life to the absolute fullest. Which translates to get wasted every weekend and wake up with a stranger in your bed.

“Any of you planning to get some tonight? Because I know I am,” Wooyoung winks. Mingi scoffs, picking up a slice of pizza, “Didn’t I tell you I’m not going? Those parties you and Yeosang go to are always so,” he pauses, holding his hands up to find an eloquent expression, “fucked up.” Yeosang pleads, “You can’t be lame tonight too, dude.” Placing his cup down he continues, “Wooyoung’s gonna ditch me before he’s even gotten a drink in him. Just come with.” Mingi shakes his head, “Isn’t your roommate going? Just stay with him,” he offers with a shrug.

Yeosang exhales, arms dropping to his sides, “Yes, exactly- I don’t want to be drunk around him. I swear Yunho’s straight as shit and I’m gonna try make out with him or something. You need to be there to stop me, deadass.” Mingi purses his lips, “I don’t know, new roommate’s bringing all his shit tonight and I said I was gonna help him unpack.” Wooyoung swallows his bite quickly, tilting his chin towards Mingi, “Didn’t he transfer to Columbia? He would’ve seen the flyers, I’m sure he’d be going already.”

Mingi sighs in defeat, nodding, “I’m gonna head back now. I’ll ask once I get there, text me the details yeah?” The boys break out into grins, elbowing each other in celebration. “Yeah, I got you. See you man.” Yeosang hits Mingi on the arm shooting him a small smile, while Wooyoung bids him goodbye with a tap to his behind, the two watch him leave the store before continuing to finish their food. Unfortunately for the tallest of the three, Mingi hadn’t told them how cute his new roommate was, and just how nervous he’d been around him since the first time they met.

Mingi takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment to pray he doesn’t embarrass himself. He shuts the door behind him before making his way to the living room. Stacks of cardboard boxes greet him, splayed out on the ground. Mingi spots books and stacks of clothing folded messily in some of the opened boxes. He furrows his brows looking around for the boy.

After toeing off his shoes, he places his keys on the counter before calling out, “Hey, San?” Shuffling is heard in the distance before Mingi turns around and finds who he’s looking for. Unfortunately for him, (fortunate for his eyes) the boy is far less clothed than he had anticipated. Holy shit. This new roommate of his is really fucking jacked. And worse, even hotter without a shirt.

“Hey! I’ll get the boxes cleared soon,” San pauses, eyes widening as he notices how Mingi is frozen in place, “Sorry um, moving just got kind of uh, hot.” He presses his lips into a thin line before gesturing towards his very half-naked body. Mingi shakes his head quickly, “No dude it’s fine, is the AC not working or, something?” Mingi realises how much he needs to peel his eyes away, so he does. Extremely unwillingly. His hands tremble as he shrugs his jacket off. Mingi turns away from man opposite him whose still very much not clothed to busy himself with a desperately needed glass of water.

San scratches the back of his neck, looking down, “I don’t really, know how to use it? Embarrassing I know, but I just have some shitty remote. Not the whole touch screen thing, not that it’s bad at all! This whole place is really great, your bedroom is really nice by the way. Not in that way! I just walked in accidentally, this place has a lot of rooms. My bedroom is really great too. Oh my god, I need to shut up. I’m sorry.”

A small chuckle escapes before Mingi can suppress it, “I’ll show you how to use it later. Have you um, unpacked enough of your clothes yet? My friends were asking if you wanted to come with us to that Columbia party tonight.” San grins in return, nodding enthusiastically, “Yeah!” he clears his throat, “Yeah, for sure. No that’s cool with me, I was planning on going already.”

“Okay, yeah. Cool. I’m gonna get changed then we can meet them there.” Mingi empties the last bit of water from his glass, watching as San rubs his now sweaty hands on the sides of his pants. He spins on his heels, returning back to boxes he was previously sorting through. Mingi mutters a quick “see you in a bit” before rushing past the other, off to his bedroom. He pushes his door shut quickly, pulling out his phone as he slides against the wall down to the floor.

mingi: fuck me yeosang: thank u god i knew this day wld come

mingi: wtf dude no

new roomie is hot as fuck yeosang: thought you finally loved me back

kidding spill

so what does he have that i dont Mingi rolls his eyes, poking his tongue to the inside of his cheek before typing frantically back.

mingi: can u shut up

i alr thought he was cute n then he walked in half naked and i Don’t Know What To Do yeosang: is he coming party tn ?

mingi: yes . i want to jump his bones

yeosang: cant wait to see that

mingi: ok voyeur kink is not needed rn

yeosang: sorry i thought this was a Safe Space

mingi: how do i live with him now

i cant be normal around hot ppl

yeosang: idk man u kno i don’t fuck the roomies for a reason

need me to keep u on lock tn ? js keep me from yunho i beg

mingi: i think ill b ok

Can i fuck yunho instead

yeosang: not funny

mingi: sorry x

wooyoung: god when is my hot roomie coming along ..

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[wyngigi-deactivated20260421]

ꕀ LUST FOR LIFE ꕀ 01

↳ sex money feelings die remastered .ᐟ cross posted on ao3

navigation┆prologue┆next prologue is significant to plot pls read <3

“ they say only the good die young, that just ain't right 'cause we're having too much fun, too much fun tonight ”

↳ synopsis: a group of individuals find that their first taste of freedom in the world brings more obstacles than expected. some of them, find solace by drowning in liquor or in the backseat of somebody else’s car. a lot of them have got to get their shit together. a lot of them won't.

mdni » story contains nsfw content intended for 18+ audiences pairings » member specific, not listed for spoiler purposes ↳󠁪󠁪 ateez x female reader, ateez x ateez ↳ genre » coming of age ↳ word count » 2.7k ↳ general warnings » substance abuse & consumption, sexual content, morally grey characters, unreliable narrators, internalised homophobia, angst, basically every struggle young adolescence can go through

01⌇even if just for a little bit

Nobody plans to get addicted to something, obviously. But even once they do realise it, or if they ever do, it’s usually too late. Every step taken to addiction kills someone slowly, whether it be the heart, the liver or the lungs. Nonetheless, the user will undoubtedly repeat their actions. Death does not scare them; death is a promise. Life instead, is worse. It's unpredictable. Life feels unfriendly and cold. It laughs in their face every time they take a fall.

So, in return they’ll chase something to soothe their aches. Whatever gives them the best high, makes them feel like they own the world, that every problem has ceased to exist, and that everything’s gonna be fine. Even if just for a little bit. One more sip, one more drag, another needle dug into their arm doesn’t feel as terrible when they know after their sins, death will open its arms, and they are free to run into the warm embrace.

The first few minutes after Hongjoong wakes up he refuses to open his eyes, not a muscle in his body moves. Every single limb throbs in a dull ache. His throat is dry, and he fights to keep whatever concoction he indulged in last night down. The sun glares over him. He shuts his eyes tighter and mentally notes to close his blinds as soon as he gets up. His cheap mattress feels like concrete underneath the front of his body and he assumes his pillow has been discarded to his bedroom floor. He flings his arm out to his side to reach for his phone. He does not find it, and worse, his nightstand feels far too familiar to a concrete pavement. So does his mattress.

The distant sound of cars driving down the street allows him to confirm (not that it was needed) that he is not, in fact, in his shitty one-bedroom apartment. He cranks his neck upwards, the left side of his face now disconnected from the scratchy floor. Hongjoong takes a long inhale and the stench of something god-awful invades his senses. His mouth coats itself with saliva and he loses the battle he was otherwise winning earlier.

Like the millions of times before, he plants himself on his knees, one arm wraps around his torso and the other holds himself up as much as he can. The thought of calling his parents and asking them for help crosses his mind before he can fully squash the idea away. Hongjoong scoffs at himself, there were two things other people knew about him.

First, that he was stubborn. The type of guy who’d scale a building before letting someone else get their way. And second, that his pride would be the death of him. With just how bad his head was pounding; law school had suddenly not seemed like such a terrible idea. His parents owned some major conglomerates that could’ve paid for his entry into the big-league colleges but no, he just had to decide art school was his true calling.

It would’ve been easier, he supposes. He knows. Learn business, economics or whatever and then join one of his parent’s companies. A high-paying career and future was laid out for him, yet he went the other direction much to his parent’s dismay. His mom swears that paint fumes must’ve gotten to his head, sometimes Hongjoong agrees. It is a possible conclusion.

They don’t contact him, ever. One year into art school still wasn’t enough time for them to get used to their son’s “juvenile dreams” but they do send him some money to help him get by every month. He knows they’re trying to bribe him back, into law school and shit but they don’t need to know that’s not happening. Who gives a shit, Hongjoong’s just grateful he isn’t completely estranged yet.

Fatigue racks through his body as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He allows his body to rest against the bricked wall of the alley. Fatigued by the events of the previous night, he makes no move to head back to his very humble abode just yet. Hongjoong runs a finger over his lips, they’re chapped and no doubt starting to peel. He shudders as the metallic taste of blood seeps out of the cracks when he frowns. His eyelids feel heavy, so he shuts them again.

Moving out of his old place and leaving his roommate was coming in handy. Even if it meant his new apartment was too expensive, having to stumble into the old shared one with last night’s clothes on got far too humiliating for him. Specifically, when his roommate had their friend group over all the time. He’d have to give them all a curt wave before hastily going back to his room. He didn’t know any of them, so it didn’t seem necessary for more. Hongjoong had nothing against them, especially not the pretty one who always stared at him through sharp hooded eyes.

Before heading back to his apartment, Hongjoong stops at a convenience store.

When Yunho would wake up after a one-night stand that he didn’t bring back to his own place, he followed the routine many people universally did. He collected his clothes, got dressed, made his way out of the bedroom as soon as possible. Then he headed back to his dorm. The walk of shame was never humbling, not until now.

His roommate, another victim to last night’s campus rager is sitting on the carpeted floor, back resting against his bed. He massages his temples disgruntledly before reaching for the water bottle on his nightstand. Alerted by the doorknob twisting, Yeosang meets Yunho’s eyes and raises his eyebrows. “Had fun last night?” Yeosang has got a toothless grin on his face as he watches the latter chuck his belongings onto his own nightstand and faceplant onto his covers.

Yunho doesn’t reply with words, half because what he says is muffled and also because he really doesn’t want to reply at all. Yunho slept with someone while he was drunk last night. That wasn’t the problem though. That he was drunk. Or that he had sex. Yunho has hooked up with many people. He understands that the twenty first century is far more advanced and open, that is also not a problem. He’s also not bad at sex, his previous encounters have always been enjoyable for both parties. As well as the occasional third parties.

What happened last night was a first, and he should hope it’s also the last. Yunho doesn’t though.

The lack of proper reply had Yeosang confused, Yunho wasn’t exactly the kiss and tell type but even with some shitty hangover he had a more boastful demeanour upon returning from whatever hook up he had. Yeosang rolls his eyes, shuffling over to the other’s nightstand to pull out a lighter and a plastic bag of pre-rolls.

Weed makes Yunho chatty, and Yeosang wants to know the truth. He nudges the taller boy to move, and Yunho makes the half-hearted effort of rolling onto his side instead. Yunho lights the joint, inhaling before chucking the lighter back into the open drawer. He hands the other the stick, watching as Yeosang’s pretty lips wrap around the joint.

The boy looks up at him as smoke escapes his mouth in small swirls. Has his roommate always had such fuck me eyes? Why is he sitting like that infront of Yunho? Christ, this weed is strong. Why does his face feel so flushed all of a sudden? The boy speaking draws him out of his trance. “So how bad was your hookup? Don’t tell me she was some ugly chick when she rolled over,” Yunho chews on his bottom lip, playing with the fabric of his covers. His words are hard to focus on, his roommate has such a nice voice. He gulps, his heartbeat speeding up. “No, that’s not it."

“Then what is it? I’d be happier if I were you,” Yeosang muses as he turns to face the other completely, head tilting to the side. Yunho wishes the boy would stop licking his lips like that, cotton mouth be damned. Yunho feels everything around him blur; eyes focused on the boy’s exposed neck. Yeosang’s hand stretches around the plastic water bottle, Yunho’s jaw clenching tighter as a stray drop of water falls from the side of Yeosang’s mouth. He clears his throat before he opens his mouth to respond. Through a weed-induced haze, Yunho accidentally slurs out, “it wasn’t a she.”

Yeosang indulges in every party he hears about, doesn’t matter what’s happening the next morning. That’s the thrill of it, to see just how fucked up he can get and how quickly he’ll recover. He also loves hook-ups, he’s not against dating but he doesn’t think he could be a great boyfriend to anyone right now. Call it emotional unavailability if you wish, he’s just trying to live his college life to the fullest. So, a casual hookup seems like the obvious solution to him, he’s not some prick who wants to lead anyone on, but you know, he still has needs.

Yeosang chucks his head back as he downs a cup handed to him by his friend, swaying too slowly for how upbeat the song is. It doesn’t matter, he’s in his own world as he watches the people around him make out. He’s not judging them though, just looking for someone to do it with too. He’s also not desperate for a fuck, pickier instead.

He has rules for who he sleeps with, it’s not a free for all with Yeosang. They can’t be from his close friend circle, not that there’s many people included in that list to begin with. It gets too messy sometimes, just doesn’t want the vibe to change if one night he’s fucking the shit out of someone he’s gonna go take to lunch the day after, platonically. His next rule is no co-workers. He breaks that rule far too much. Yeosang is more lenient with this one, depending on how pretty the person is.

The rule was established his first year of college. Freshly employed at a cute little ice cream parlour. Yeosang and the guy he worked with had been locked in the freezer room thanks to the faulty handle. They were on break after serving sundaes to a pair who looked like they were on a first date, flirting as they moved empty metal tins and stacked them on the shelves. When the large door wouldn’t budge, they texted their boss and all they had left to do was wait till he arrived.

Long story short, Yeosang learnt just how many ways ice cream could be eaten. Fun times. Well, it was, till his co-worker and him got carried away and Yeosang got fired for the first time. He still sees his ex-co-worker around campus time to time, they aren’t the closest, but they share a friendly smile before making their own way in a different direction.

Not all his hookups are the same though, some will just walk by him without a glance, and he would do the same. Yeosang doesn’t harbour romantic feelings for anyone he’s shared a bed (or other various surfaces) with. He makes sure of that with another one of his rules to never sleep with the same person twice, so when a familiar face with blonde hair approaches him he greets them before making his way to another area. He’s not gonna be rude to people he’s hooked up with, but he knows to at least enforce that it was a one-time thing before they try get too pushy.

Eventually when he settles down, he wants it to be someone he actually knows beyond just being naked with. His last rule is to not hookup with anyone he lives with. Far too domestic. (He certainly didn’t make this rule upon meeting Yunho for the first time.)

Point is, Yeosang loves living life till a certain extent. He doesn’t enjoy the messy situationships and will do his best to avoid them at all costs. His dick unfortunately betrays him on several occasions.

Standing in the walk-in freezer of the café he works for, knocking back too many pills wasn’t something Seonghwa predicted for his future after graduating high school. Sure, he knew he’d probably end up drinking a little too much in college (which he did last night) but shit, pills? Even that had him shocked the first time he truly registered it. He chuckles, looking down at the now empty capsule bottle. The fluorescent lights above him make the orange bottle glow in his trembling hand.

His vision blurs for a moment, and then everything around him feels so much more vivid. As he inhales, the chilled air of the freezer enters his lungs without protest, and he feels alive again. The beat of his heart speeds up and every sound around him becomes just that much clearer. With a couple more minutes till his break ends, he savors the feeling as much as he can.

The first batch of painkillers he received were for his shoulder injury, they had run out two months ago. The second round he got was from telling his doctor the pain hadn’t stopped. It had, the pain was gone, but the high he got after the first time he took too many was something he wasn’t ready to let go just yet. He knew addiction was stupid, for a multitude of reasons.

Number one because of all those talks they gave him back in his high school’s health class. Don’t drink alcohol, don’t smoke weed, never even look at cocaine. Shit like that didn’t really stop people, not in Seonghwa’s case at least. Teachers would list reasons like how it’d make you lose all your relationships with loved ones, or you’d end up so fucked in the head you’d get fired and end up on the street.

Seonghwa still had friends, contacted his parents like once every month and still worked at a shitty café. Therefore, he didn’t think that the first reason could really classify him as an addict. Or convince him to stop.

Number two, also taught in those lectures back in high school was that even if you were just drinking or smoking every now and then, that addiction sneaks up on you before you realise it. That eventually, whatever you take won’t be enough, and you’ll start shooting up heroin before your eighteenth birthday.

He proved them wrong, for the most part. He hadn’t touched heroin, but he guesses that yeah, that second bottle of pills started to not be enough too. His excuse was how much extra energy it gave him at work, then for studying a couple more hours into the night, then because it helped him wake up quicker in the mornings. It certainly helped him recover from last night’s party. That’s all it was really, a boost. People had their coffee every morning, so fuck it why not?

Seonghwa didn’t go back when his break was over, and he didn’t care much too. The owner was holed up in his office texting a woman (that was not his wife) so it’s not like he’d notice. Call him a piece of shit for not telling her but he wasn’t about to sacrifice his job for a woman that he didn’t know that well. Hell, it’s not like it was easy for him to hand her a coffee every day and thank her as she dropped her change in his tip jar.

Too much thought put into that was not good for his nerves.

Seonghwa exhales, laying against the metal shelves, pulling his phone out his back pocket. Ignoring notifications for overdue fees and his parent’s texts he continued scrolling. After finding the right contact he held his phone up to his ear. After a few seconds the call had been picked up, the tremble in his hand had stopped but his grip on the container tightened.

navigation┆prologue┆next

[wyngigi-deactivated20260421]

ꕀ LUST FOR LIFE ꕀ prologue

↳ sex money feelings die remastered .ᐟ cross posted on ao3

navigation┆next

“ they say only the good die young, that just ain't right 'cause we're having too much fun, too much fun tonight ”

↳ synopsis: a group of individuals find that their first taste of freedom in the world brings more obstacles than expected. some of them, find solace by drowning in liquor or in the backseat of somebody else’s car. a lot of them have got to get their shit together. a lot of them won't.

mdni » story contains nsfw content intended for 18+ audiences pairings » member specific, not listed for spoiler purposes ↳󠁪󠁪 ateez x female reader, ateez x ateez ↳ genre » coming of age ↳ word count » 1.7k ↳ general warnings » substance abuse & consumption, sexual content, morally grey characters, unreliable narrators, internalised homophobia, angst, basically every struggle young adolescence can go through

00⌇be the air i breathe

Currently, Wooyoung isn’t completely sure why he finds it suffocating to love.

He’s trying to figure it out, but too much is weighing on him right now to know for certain. Maybe it’s to do with how he’s making his way to a place he feels he’s no longer welcomed. He swears there’s ropes winding around his heart, tightening every time he takes a step forward.

Is it the vulnerability of handing your heart to another and granting them a look into the darkest parts of the mind?

Through the stained glass of the store, he spots you. In that moment he questions why he’s here again. It’s not like there’s some poster of him with a big cross slashed across his face, yet as he locks eyes with you there might as well be one.

Perhaps the simplicity of loving so hard the human body’s actions will never match it. The incapability of expression, not proving just how much he feels his soul integrated with another, for it to not be enough for them to stay. For him to just not be enough.

You both look at each other, neither making a move to acknowledge the other. He’s not expecting you to do anything, while he’s stood still in front of the opened sliding doors, you’re the one working behind the register attempting to control your breathing. It’s not that he scares you, yet the sheer sight of him after some time makes your breath hitch.

For him, love was intricate yet so simple, with no bounds, no limitations to its power. If you asked him, he would describe it as an emotion. However, he chooses to treat it as something tangible. Something he can reach out to, latching onto it with all his vigour until his knuckles whiten and his nails dig into his palms, blood drawing to the surface in crescents.

The doorbell rings while he takes his first step onto the cracked floors. His first step closer to you in a long time. The almost stale smell of the store hits him, cardboard boxes line the shelves, and he has to refrain himself from immediately offering to help you open them to put the products up.

He walks past the fridge doors, normally it would cool him down, yet the moment doesn’t allow that. An uncomfortable warmth floods his cheeks as he approaches you. He curses his body’s natural reaction to your presence. And god, is it overwhelming. He feels the tips of his ears redden, heating up and he sends a silent prayer that his hair is long enough to hide it.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you state. He knows there’s more to your words than that; a question hides behind them. Asking why he’s back; why it took so long. Now that he’s closer, he sees you avoiding his gaze, focused on your hands, picking at a painful looking hangnail. He understands that. For him, it’s that he feels if he looks at you for too long, his brain will want to hold onto you again. You’ll feel too real for him, too tangible.

“I know,” a heavy exhale escapes him before he continues, “Can I just get a-” You nod curtly, “I know,” cutting him off. He observes as you turn around swiftly to grab a pack of cigarettes off the shelves, the crinkle of the packaging feeling louder with the absence of customers. He’s not the only one who wants to avoid the reality of why he’s here after all this time.

It's the cruel ways of the universe is it not? To give humans an ability to warm another’s soul with their presence, taking pieces of each other’s heart for themselves. Thus, when the love weakens for one reason or another, becoming more distant and less fulfilling, his response will be to fight for it. Even when the love is already gone—and all left is the illusion of it.

As you place the box back onto the counter, you hold your hand out to him. This is where he tests to see how much you’ve forgiven him. They usually cost forty dollars total, so when he hands you that and sees you take change out of the register to return to him, he can’t help the small grin he breaks into. You’ve charged him the staff amount; he realises he can’t really stand here saying nothing any longer.

So, he decides to take his chance. As he reaches out to grab the change he asks you, with a small voice, “What time does your break start?” Before you’ve even answered him he adds on, “I’ll wait outside.”

He's the type that wants to pursue love, regardless of the cuts and grazes he’ll gain along the way. Because his heart wants to believe the pain of absence is worse than the pain of holding on fruitlessly. His brain knows better, understands that it’s not the truth. That even if the emptiness will stay with him for an uncertain amount of time, there is a chance for more. Yet, he decides to allow his heart to lead, to do what it does best, love.

“You didn’t have to use your discount on these for me you know,” he flips the lid of the box to grab two out, handing one to you. You hum in response, placing it between your lips while you pat down your pockets. Wooyoung grabs your jaw gently, making you face him as he lights the end of the stick with his lighter. It’s the same one he’s owned since the first time you met him. Even with the addition of some unfamiliar black and white stickers, you know it’s the same because of the messy carvings on the side. JWY with a plus sign, your initials following shortly after.

“I know,” you pause, inhaling before letting the smoke drift upwards, “you didn’t have to come back either, but you wanted to. So yeah, you got a discount.” You were always like that, letting your true thoughts reveal themselves in the words unspoken. He hated when you did it at first, now he understands you. He nods, allowing the quiet buzz of the streetlights to fill the silence between you two. You were thankful for that, unsure of what words would next leave your mouth.

He watched as you turned your body to face him, feet kicked up onto the bench while your knees were tucked to your chest. The cold air of the night nips at you, he knows from the way you rub your shoulders. He’s unsure if it’s too soon to offer his jumper to you, or worse, to try and close the gap between where you both sit.

Occasionally, he’d dig his shoe into the cracks of the bricked footpath or bounce his leg up and down. His feelings were always present in his body language, nervousness on display. You brought your arm up onto the bench’s backrest, head leaning on it while you picked at the paint chips that were lifting up, your other arm loosely wrapped around your shins.

Wooyoung grabbed his cigarette with two fingers, hand now resting on his thigh. Clearing his throat, he murmured softly, “Do you think people love too much sometimes?” As you registered his question, he rotated his body to face you. His eyes held a sorrow heaviness to them, pupils darting back and forth between yours. You shook your head softly, “Not possible. Love always has to be too much, some people just aren’t used to feeling of having so much given to them, that it becomes scary. If it’s not, then it simply couldn’t be love.”

He nods, eyes tracing over your uniform. He knew you despised blue, so he can tell you wouldn’t wear it if it wasn’t necessary. “Thought your boss didn’t make you wear that thing anymore?” You chuckled; a brief smile stretches across your face. “He doesn’t. Laundry machine’s broken again, and if you remember, the laundromat’s a little too far to walk.”

Right, he’s the one who would drive you whenever the damned machine would give up on you. He doesn’t fully grasp why you won’t get rid of it though; given that it’s let you down enough and he’s seen you have more than a few meltdowns over it.

Then again, the same—if not more—could be said for how he’s treated you over the last few years. And yet, here he is, consistently by your side. The thought provokes him to take another drag; a longer one. It burns his throat and lungs more than usual.

That night, as the two of you sit on that worn-out bench, he realises something. The thought comes to him as he notices you discard your cigarette butt to the ground, crushing it with your heel just to reach for the box again. You both did that, obviously. Every time one burns out, a new one takes its place.

Every time his own two feet lead him to the store, back to you, it’s him helping wind that damned rope around his heart. He’s aware of that now, yet he doesn’t leave you by yourself on that bench. Instead, he picks up the small box separating you two and brings his arm around you. Your body feels harshly cold against his. It shouldn’t be comfortable—it’s not—but he finds himself leaning into the feeling more.

As he brings the next cigarette to his lips, you hold his lighter up to the end of it. The flame waves around in front of him, making his face uncomfortably warm. As you both exhale, the smoke wraps around the two of you. It’s alright though, even if he can’t register if it’s you or the smoke suffocating him now. With just how much he relies on you, he would pray you don’t leave him, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t need to. He treats the smoke and the crisp winter air the same way you treat him as he stands like a lost puppy outside of your workplace. Uninvited, yet allowed in regardless. Without any real protest.

Wooyoung wonders if that’s the real problem. Not how suffocating love is, but when too much love no longer instils any fear in him.

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