Kpopmixer’s Fic Recs

erin - 21 🔨 currently under construction

[skzcodered]

A Romantic Concept pt 3

pairing: Felix x f!reader wc: 19 ss tags/warnings: fluff, minor angst, misunderstanding, cursing part one // part two // part three masterlist

Summary: When Felix needs a director of photography for his upcoming music video, Chan recommends you, his childhood friend and an aspiring cinematographer.

The End

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[channlust]

take a look at my girlfriend — shes the only one I got!

or: times different skz members got hit on, and they proudly showed you off as their partner.

wc:4k (500 ish each)

warnings: none! ot8(separate) x reader, fluff, crack, nonidol!au

a/n: a little treat for hitting 2k hehe ૮(˶ᵔᵕᵔ˶)ა

chan — 'she even loves the music that my band makes'

The couch at the studio has a permanent dent in the cushions from where you always slouched. You didn’t plan on becoming a fixture there — it just happened. His late nights turned into your late nights, his takeout orders became your takeout orders, and when you fell asleep for the first time waiting for him to finish editing, the studio stopped feeling like his workplace and started feeling like yours too.

At first, it was just weekend visits. dropping off lunch, then lingering a while till he finished up. Then the weeknights where you’d wait past midnight, because going home alone felt lonely and wrong when he was still working.

2racha—changbin and jisung— stopped asking why you were there (han occasionally slept on the other side of the couch anyway). Even the security guard waved you through without checking your badge.

Tonight was no different. You were curled under his hoodie, half watching some reality show on your laptop while Chan tweaked a vocal track for the third hour straight.

an intern had arrived an hour ago, all bright laughter and eager questions. You didn’t mind at first, Chan was patient with newbies, always explaining things twice if needed. But then her chair inched closer to his. Then she started getting touchy when it wasn't necessary.

Chan didn’t even look her way, just leaned back in his chair, occasionally putting space between them. You watched from the couch, the laptop screen long forgotten.

Then she asked the question, voice pitched too high, “So, are you single, or…?”

You held your breath without meaning to. chan’s fingers stilled on the keyboard. Then he turned his head, just enough to catch your eye over his shoulder, and the corner of his mouth twitched, jerking his thumb to your direction, “I’m married, actually,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

The intern’s face froze. Her gaze darted to you, then back to Chan, like she was trying to reconcile the idea of him belonging to someone with the fact that you were just… there. Quiet, half buried in his hoodie.

Chan didn’t wait for her to recover. He tapped his wedding band against the edge of his laptop and nodded toward the door. “that's a wrap for today, you should head out. It’s late.”

minho — 'you got me trippin' in finesse'

you've learned to read Minho's body like a second language, he's a dancer after all. You know his tells before he even speaks.

the way his shoulders relax when he’s finally nailed a routine, the quick tap of his fingers against his thigh when he’s impatient, the slight tilt of his head when he’s watching someone else move. It’s all punctuation in a conversation you’ve been having for months without saying a word.

You met at a studio mixer last summer, back when you were still just the barback for the afterparty, refilling drinks and dodging sweaty elbows. He’d been the one to notice you first, initiating a conversation with you over the counter.

Later, when the music switched to something slow and sultry, he’d pulled you onto the dance floor without asking, and you hadn’t protested.

Minho isn’t the type to flaunt things, though. He keeps his private life private, and you respect that, just a quiet understanding that some things don’t need an audience.

right now, you’re leaning against the doorway of studio 3, watching him run through a new routine with the team. Sweat glinting at his temples as he mirrors the others. You’ve seen this drill a hundred times, but it never gets old.

The music cuts abruptly mid step, and Minho’s gaze snaps toward the sound system — only to land on you instead. his expression turns into a soft smile, and you grin right back at him, raising your water bottle in a silent greeting.

One of the newer dancers, a woman with her hair tied in a tight topknot, follows his line of sight and raises an eyebrow.

Topknot leans into his space as he adjusts the music, her elbow brushing his arm. “You always this serious during practice?” she asks, he doesn’t look up from the playlist, just shrugs one shoulder.

Undeterred, she adds, “Bet you’re fun outside the studio, though. You ever take anyone out after hours?”

Minho’s fingers pause over the soundboard for half a second before he taps the play button again, letting the music swell back to life. He doesn’t answer her, just steps away to reset his position in the center of the room.

But topknot doesn't get a hint, it seems. She sidles closer, her voice dropping. “Come on, do you have a girlfriend or something?” She flicks her eyes toward you, still leaning in the doorway, and adds, “Or are you playing hard to get?”

You take a slow sip of your water. He’s never been one to entertain this kind of thing — not because he’s rude, but because he doesn’t see the point in feeding into games.

Still, you can tell the moment he decides to shut it down. He turns his head just enough to catch your eye, and the corner of his mouth twitches.

“nah,” he says, loud enough for the room to hear. “I already have someone.”

Topknot blinks, then laughs, like she thinks he’s joking. “Yeah? Where are they, then?”

Minho doesn’t hesitate. He lifts his chin toward you, and the smirk he’s been holding back finally breaks through. “Right there.”

changbin — 'guy.exe: 6 5'6 feet tall and super strong'

a matte black dumbbell rolled from Changbin’s grip and thudded against the rubber gym floor. He’d been at it for two hours— shoulders, back, arms, a relentless workout that left his top sticking to his skin in abstract patches of sweat. You watched from the bench near the water cooler, half hidden behind your phone, pretending to scroll while stealing glances at the way his muscles flexed under the lights.

Three years together, and the sight of him still made your pulse skip.

The gym was mostly empty, mid afternoon lull, just a few die hards and the staff wiping down machines. You’d come straight from work, still in your office slacks, your hair barely holding onto its ponytail. Changbin had texted earlier with a come keep me company and a winking emoji. who were you to turn down an excuse to watch your boyfriend work out?

A woman, early twenties, in one of those matching pink gym sets, hovered near Changbin’s bench while he adjusted the weight rack. You caught the tail end of her question, something about his deadlift form, but then she made her move. "Damn tho, you’re built like a god. Single?"

Changbin snorted, wiping his forearm across his forehead.. "Do I look single?" he said, shaking his head like the idea was ridiculous. Then, without hesitation, he tilted his chin toward you standing a few feet away, there, and grinned. "That’s my girl."

The woman followed his gaze, blinking at you like she’d only just noticed the water cooler, the benches, the entire half of the gym you occupied. You raised your hand in a half wave. "Sorry," he added, not sounding sorry at all.

You expected her to leave, but she just smirked, propping a hand on her waist. "Lucky girl," she said, loud enough for you to hear. then, to Changbin "You ever wanna trade up, you know where to find me." yikes.

Changbin’s smile didn’t falter, but his eyebrows did a little jump, He shot you a look—girl you seein' this?—before shrugging. "Nah," he said, casual as anything. "I’m good." He moved towards you and planted a kiss on your cheek, "Better than good."

hyunjin — 'hopelessly devoted to you'

You and Hyunjin had been neighbors in that crumbling apartment complex where the pipes groaned louder than the tenants, and your first real conversation happened because he'd left his studio door ajar.

The scent of paint had pulled you in like a lure, and there he was, sleeves rolled up, forearms smeared with charcoal, halfway through painting something that looked like a storm given human form. and you were mesmerized.

By the time you started dating, you'd learned to love the mess of him — the way his hair stuck up in every direction after hours of working, the paint streaks on his jeans, the fact that he'd forget to eat unless you nudged a takeout container into his line of sight. He balanced his chaotic creativity with a quiet steadiness that surprised you.

his art thrived on bold strokes and screaming colors, his love language was more subtle, warming your cold fingers between his palms, humming off key to your favorite songs while he cooked food for you, tracing the curve of your shoulder blade when he thought you were asleep.

The gallery showing was his first major one. You'd watched him prepare for weeks. frames piling up near the door, muttered debates about lighting choices at 3 am. When the invitations finally arrived, he'd handed yours over, "You don't have to come," he'd said, but you knew he wanted you to be there.

You'd kissed the worry from his forehead and tucked the invitation into your wallet, where it stayed until the corners softened from handling.

Now, standing near a table with a champagne flute you hadn't touched, you watched him work the room. Hyunjin moved through the crowd like water, slipping effortlessly between conversations without ever seeming anchored to any one group.

His laugh carried over the murmur of guests, and you felt that familiar warmth curl behind your ribs. This was his element, even if he'd never admit it. The way people leaned in when he spoke, how their eyes flicked toward his hands when he gestured — he commanded attention without trying, and you loved him most like this, alive with his passion.

The girl approaching him now had been circling for a while. You'd noticed her earlier, lingering near his largest piece, her head tilted in a way that suggested admiration.

When she touched Hyunjin's elbow, you saw him startle slightly before turning with that polite smile he reserved for strangers.

You couldn't hear them over the gallery's din, but her body language was clear. fingers tucking hair behind her ear, the slight lean forward. Hyunjin nodded along, hands stuffed in his pockets, already scanning the room for an exit.

You didn’t move, not yet anyway, because part of you wanted to see how he’d handle it.

That’s when he saw you. His eyes flicked over her shoulder, and something in his face shifted, relief.

You stood from the table, weaving through the crowd, the girl hadn’t noticed you yet, too busy tilting her chin up at him, one hand now resting on her collarbone.

“...really think we should discuss your technique, over some coffee?” she was saying as you slid into place beside him, close enough that your hip brushed his.

Hyunjin exhaled, barely audible, as you laced your fingers through his. His palm was warm, slightly damp from nerves, and you squeezed once, “Oh, he’d love that,” you said, sweetly. The girl blinked, her smile freezing as you added, “I’ll come too, I’m his girlfriend.”

“Yeah,” he said, and you could hear the grin in his voice before you even looked towards him. “she's my muse.”

jisung — 'everywhere I go I keep her picture in my wallet'

"Jisung." You poked his shoulder with your socked foot from where you were sprawled across the couch. "I will perish."

He didn’t look up from his phone, thumb scrolling lazily. "Dramatic."

"No, listen—" You rolled onto your stomach, pressing your cheek against the cushions. "My stomach is eating itself."

This time, he glanced over, one eyebrow raised. "You just ate two hours ago."

"Snacks aren’t food," you said gravely.

Jisung sighed, tossing his phone onto the coffee table with a soft clatter. "Fine," he said, dragging the word out like it physically pained him. "But if I'm going out in the middle of the night, you're eating the weird gummy worms I pick out."

You grinned, kicking your legs against the couch cushions. "Deal."

The convenience store felt both too bright and eerily empty at 1 AM. Jisung grabbed a basket, tossing in the usual suspects, chips, chocolate, those inexplicably neon gummy worms, and went over to the counter to pay when the cashier leaned over the counter. "You again," she said, grinning. "Third time this week."

Jisung blinked, setting the basket on the counter "Uh, yeah."

she picked up the contents, scanning each one as she went on. "I mean, you could be here for the snacks or whatever ," she said, waving a hand, "or you could admit you keep showing up for the ambiance." Her grin widened. "And by ambiance, I mean me."

jisungs mouth gaped, "Oh no, no, I'm—Married. Very, extremely married." then he pulled out his wallet, flipping it to the clear plastic sleeve where a polaroid of both of you rested. one where you were kissing his cheek and he had a big, wide grin on his face, then pulled out his card to pay.

she blinked, her grin faltering for half a second before she leaned back, shrugging with exaggerated nonchalances as she took the card from his hand "Damn," she said, clicking her tongue. "Figures the cute ones are always taken."

The apartment was dark when he got back, you were still in your spot on the couch, waiting impatiently for him. "Finally"

Jisung let the door slam shut behind him, you barely had time to process the dramatic thud before he was crossing the room in three long strides, arms outstretched, the plastic bag dangling from one hand.

He crashed into you with the force of a man who’d just survived a warzone, his face buried in the crook of your neck before you could even ask what was wrong. “I got hit on,” he mumbled into your skin, voice muffled.

You blinked, arms frozen mid-air around him, the crinkling snack bag pressed awkwardly between your ribs. “...By who?”

“The cashier,” he hissed, His cheeks were still flushed, the tips of his ears pink like he’d sprinted home instead of walked. “you’re coming with me next time. No. More. Solo. Snack. Runs.”

felix — 'the perfect pair'

the first time Felix walked into the community kitchen, he nearly dropped an entire tray of freshly chopped carrots.

You'd been there six months already — long enough to know that the dented metal tray was older than both of you combined, and that the carrots were destined for a stew that would feed sixty. You lunged without thinking, catching the edge just as it tipped, fingertips brushing against his.

"Thanks," he said, his sleeves were already rolled up past his elbows, "I swear I'm usually better at carrying things."

Felix still drops things sometimes, never the carrots again, but last month it was a spoonful of cinnamon that poofed into a cloud across the counter. You laughed so hard your ribs ached, and he grinned like he'd meant to do it, like every little accident was just an excuse to hear you laugh.

Now, twelve months deep into this rhythm — Saturday mornings at the kitchen, Sunday afternoons tangled in his double bed, it's your little routine now.

This morning, he's leaning against the fridge, peeling labels off donated jam jars while humming off key. "Mrs. eom asked if we're doing the pumpkin soup again," he says, glancing at you. "Told her we'd have to check with the boss." He winks. You're not the boss. There is no boss. But this is Felix's favorite joke, his way of stitching you into the center of his stories, even when you're just scrubbing pans in the corner.

this new volunteer has been hovering around him all morning. You recognize the tilt of her head, she keeps finding reasons to step into his space, keeps finding reasons to strike up conversations, and he's too kind to turn her down on the get go.

she might've mistaked his kindness for something else though.

He's handing her a knife to chop chilis when she "accidentally" grazes his wrist. "You're always so patient with everyone," she says, he replies with a simple "thank you", polite as ever, but you could tell he was uncomfortable.

You don't move. Because Felix is already walking over to your station, he bumps his forehead lightly against your temple "Rescue me," he murmurs into your hair, and you can feel her stare burning holes in your back.

"Tell her yourself," you whisper, amused. you're already reaching for his hand, lacing your fingers through his. Felix exhales, relieved, before turning back to her with that easy smile.

"Oh! Almost forgot," he says brightly "This is my favorite person. The reason I never miss a Saturday."

And just like that, the room tilts back into place, Felix glowing like always, you beside him, and the quiet understanding that some things, like this kitchen, like his hand in yours, aren't up for grabs.

seungmin — 'I'd risk it all for you '

stadium lights blazed down, bright enough as if the sun was still up, turning the sweat on Seungmin’s skin into glitter. He wiped his forearm across his brow, smearing a streak of infield dirt in the process, and grinned at the roar of the crowd still thrumming through the stands. The mic in his hand was warm from being passed around, and the interviewer, was standing just a little too close. Her perfume was floral, aggressive.

"Kim Seungmin," she said, "Another incredible performance tonight. That last play — were you trying to give your fans a heart attack?"

Seungmin laughed, easy and practiced, the sound swallowed up by the noise around them. "Nah, just wanted to keep things interesting." He shrugged, adjusting the cap perched on his damp hair. The fabric of his jersey clung to his shoulders, heavy with sweat and adrenaline.

"Interesting is one word for it." She tilted her head, leaning in enough that the mic brushed his chest. "You’ve been on a hot streak this season. What’s driving you?"

Seungmin exhaled through his nose, a quick, amused breath. "Same thing as always," he said, gaze drifting past the interviewer's shoulder toward the stands. "Love of the game."

"That’s it? Just pure passion? No special someone in the stands tonight?"

Seungmin let the silence stretch just long enough for the tension to coil — then, he spoke again, "Actually," he said slowly, "yeah. My girlfriend’s here."

The interviewer blinked. The mic slipped a fraction in her grip.

The crowd erupted, a collective 'ohhh' rippling through the stands. Somewhere in the noise, someone wolf whistled. Seungmin didn’t react, just kept that easy, knowing smile, like he’d been waiting for this exact moment.

"we've been together since college," he continued, voice carrying effortlessly over the din. The interviewer recovered quickly, professionalism snapping back into place, but her grip on the mic was tighter now.

“That’s sweet,” she said, and it wasn’t insincere, “Care to share more? The fans would love to hear.”

Seungmin’s gaze flicked back to where you were sitting — third baseline, five rows up, right where you always were, and his expression softened. “She hates when I talk about her in interviews,” he admitted, laughing under his breath. “But she’s the reason I don’t overthink pitches. And the reason I do stretch before games.”

The interviewer opened her mouth, probably to pivot back to safer baseball territory, but the cameraman beat her to it, swinging the lens abruptly toward the stands. The stadium screen flickered, then locked onto your face, blown up fifty feet tall for thirty thousand people to see.

Your lips parted in surprise, the nacho you’d been mid bite hovering forgotten in your hand. Seungmin’s chuckle echoed through the speakers, "There she is,"

A nearby fan elbowed you, grinning. "Girl, you’re famous now!" she stage whispered. Your cheeks burned, but you managed a small wave at the camera, awkward, The crowd ate it up, cooed like it was the cutest thing they’d ever seen.

On screen, Seungmin’s smile went crooked, like he was trying not to laugh at you. "See?" he told the interviewer, nodding toward the screen. "Told you she hates this." The mic caught the rasp in his voice, the one that only showed up when he was tired or fond. Tonight, it was both.

Jeongin — 'love struck girl, I'd tease her.'

"You would pick the one night we’re out of ice cream to confess you like me," Jeongin had said that night two years ago, his voice cracking halfway through the sentence. He’d been holding a half melted pint of strawberry between you like a peace offering, or maybe a shield.

The confession had been an accident, words slipping out during one of those aimless midnight drives where the radio played nothing but old love songs and static.

You’d blamed the music, blamed the summer heat, blamed the way he’d drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the beat.

But Jeongin, ever meticulous, had pulled into the nearest convenience store parking lot, then returned with the ice cream as if that solved anything. but it only got that confession out of you that was begging to crawl out of your throat days prior.

Now, standing in the crowded glow of your friends apartment, you watch Jeongin from across the room. He’s holding a drink he hasn’t sipped yet, nodding as some woman you don’t recognize — a friend of a friend, probably — talks animatedly about something.

The way she gestures tells you it’s a story, not small talk. Jeongin’s always been a good listener, the kind who leans in just enough to make people feel heard, but tonight there’s a stiffness in his shoulders you recognize.

Hyunjin bumps your elbow with a fresh beer. "You’re staring," he sing songs under his breath.

You take the bottle without looking. "I’m observing."

"Same thing." He follows your gaze, then snorts. "Oh, her. She’s new. Felix invited her. Something about crypto startups? I tuned out after 'blockchain.'"

The woman— crypto girl —leans closer to Jeongin, her hand brushing his sleeve as she laughs. You don’t move. Jeongin’s fingers twitch against his glass, then still.

Then, clear across the room "So… are you single?"

Hyunjin chokes on his drink.

Jeongin blinks, caught off guard. For a second, he looks like he might laugh it off, might deflect like he used to when strangers flirted with him at bars back when you were just friends. But then his gaze flicks to you and his posture shifts.

"No," he says, quieter than usual. "I’m engaged."

Crypto girl’s eyebrows shoot up. "Really? I wouldn’t have guessed."

Before she can say more, you’re crossing the room, setting your beer down on the table beside Jeongin with a clink. "What wouldn’t you have guessed?" you ask, voice light.

Jeongin exhales, something close to relief. His fingers find yours without hesitation "That I’m taken," he says, squeezing your hand.

Crypto girl’s smile falters. "Ah. My bad." She retreats with a half hearted salute, already scanning the room for someone else to talk to.

Jeongin watches her go, then turns to you, sheepish. "Sorry."

"You’re apologizing for existing attractively now?" you tease, bumping his shoulder.

He rolls his eyes, but his thumb traces circles over your knuckles. "Shut up."

a/n: I hope at least one person gets all the lyrical references I made in this or I might just cry

taglist:@yourqueenlady @kloversung @hycnsung @seagulljk @g0matchi @eyyyylucieeee @zosauce @minniebitesfr @jazz7gnab @stormynight-240 @ariaaleelynn @pedropacals0l0s @caalcyon @hyunjinswife4ever @11racha @starlostjisung @straykitten88 @mandmilovehim @hanjinology @breakmeonce @carrotcakeesblog @supernaturalsunny @gwinamlvr @parkairis18 @g0obz @tumvlrgirlsblog @atetheluck @ivyonsaturn @shortcake-whoops @mylovchris @diiv9ne @avchannie @emeraldgem22 @pinkyrec @yourtypicalnerd @skzhyunjinwifey @stryscribbles @jektaev @cb9711 @lostinmymind-daydreaming @b4echo

[lovecase]

ℋANDS OFF ℘ SKZ's!

ɞ . abstract. they’re used to sharing their lives with the world, but they aren't interested in sharing you. eight times the members reminded a stranger exactly where the line was drawn. ɞ . warnings / tags. fluff. suggestive. jealous!skz. established relationship. possessive & territorial behavior. intimidation of others. unwanted attention/harassment. encroachment on personal space. mentions of alcohol/drinking.

BANG CHAN

the studio was crowded, way more crowded than it usually was during a late-night tracking session. you were perched on the edge of the leather sofa, tucked into the corner with a drink in your hand, while the rest of the guys milled around. it was supposed to be a low-key wrap party for the new album, but some of the producers had brought friends, and the room felt small.

chan was across the room, leaning over the console with changbin and a couple of senior engineers. he looked good—focused, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, a pencil tucked behind his ear—but you could tell he was keeping one eye on the door and one eye on you. he always did that. he called it being a good host, but you knew it was just his nature to keep track of his people.

"so, how long have you known the group?"

you blinked, pulling your gaze away from chan to look at the guy who had just sat down next to you. he was one of the guest track-makers, someone you’d seen a few times but never really spoken to. he was leaning in close, his arm draped over the back of the sofa, effectively carving out a little bubble for the two of you.

"oh, a long time," you said, offering a polite smile. "i’ve been friends with chan since before the debut."

"lucky guy," he chuckled, his eyes scanning your face in a way that felt a little too lingering. "i can see why he keeps you around. you’ve got a really great energy." he introduces himself, giving you some name that you can't recall. can't bother to.

he didn't pull back. if anything, he shifted closer, his knee brushing against yours. you tried to shift subtly, but the sofa was deep, and there wasn't much room to move. "thanks," you murmured, taking a sip of your drink to avoid further conversation.

"you know," he continued, lowering his voice to a tone that was definitely meant to be intimate. "we’re headed to an after-party at a club nearby in about twenty minutes. chan’s probably going to stay here and obsess over the master tracks for another five hours. you should come with us. i'd love to actually get to know you without all this noise."

he reached out then, his fingers grazing your forearm as if to emphasize the invitation.

before you could even open your mouth to decline, the atmosphere in the room shifted. you didn't even have to look up to know chan had noticed. you could feel the weight of his stare from across the room.

a second later, the heavy footsteps approached. chan didn't walk over; he converged.

"everything okay here?"

chan’s voice was low, smooth as silk but with a jagged edge underneath that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. he didn't wait for an answer. he stepped right into the narrow space between the coffee table and the couch, placing a firm, heavy hand on your shoulder. his thumb rubbed against the base of your neck in a slow, possessive rhythm.

the man pulled his hand back quickly, clearing his throat. "oh, yeah. just inviting your friend here to the after-party. you’re probably too busy to go, right?"

chan tilted his head, a small, tight smile playing on his lips that didn't reach his eyes. he looked incredibly calm, but the grip on your shoulder tightened just enough for you to feel the tension vibrating through him.

"actually," chan said, his voice dropping an octave, sounding like that deep tone he got when he was serious. "we have our own plans. and i’m never too busy for her."

he looked down at you then, his expression softening for a split second before he cut his eyes back to the other man. the look was icy—a clear, unspoken warning that said you're overstepping.

"is that right?" he stammered, looking between the two of you. "i didn't realize... i mean, i thought you guys were just..."

"we're a lot of things," chan interrupted, his voice steady. "but available isn't one of them. you should probably go find your group, man. i think they're leaving."

it wasn't a suggestion. he got the message, mulling out a quick "right, see ya" before making a beeline for the door.

the moment he was gone, the room seemed to regain its oxygen. chan didn't move his hand. he let out a long, ragged exhale, his shoulders finally dropping from their defensive hunch. he turned toward you, his eyes dark and swirling with a mix of leftover adrenaline and something that looked a lot like guilt.

"sorry," he muttered, though he didn't sound particularly sorry. "he was being... a lot."

"channie," you said softly, reaching up to cover his hand with yours. "were you jealous?" you don't bother to hide the teasing lilt in your voice.

he let out a dry, sheepish laugh, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. he looked away for a moment, watching the door where the guy had disappeared. "was it that obvious?"

"you looked like you were about to growl," you giggle.

chan stepped closer, moving until he was standing between your knees, his presence completely enveloping you. he leaned down, his face inches from yours, his eyes searching your face with an intensity that made your heart hammer against your ribs.

"i don't like the way he was looking at you," he confessed, his voice a rough whisper. "and i definitely didn't like him touching you. i know i shouldn't be so... yeah. i know you can handle yourself."

he paused, his fingers sliding up to cup your jaw, his thumb tracing your lower lip.

"but the thought of someone else taking you away from here—even for an hour? i can't handle it. you're the only thing in this room that keeps me sane, okay? i'm selfish. i want you right where i can see you."

you smiled, pulling him down by his collar until your foreheads rested together. "i wasn't going anywhere, channie. i like it right here."

he hummed, a deep sound in his chest, and finally let out a real smile—the one that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. "good. because i’m done with work for the night. let’s get out of here before someone else tries to talk to you."

he pulled you up from the sofa, his fingers interlacing tightly with yours, refusing to let go even as he grabbed his jacket. he led you out of the studio, his body positioned slightly in front of yours, a silent shield against the rest of the world.

LEE KNOW

the dance studio was freezing, the air conditioning humming a low, mechanical tune that usually helped minho focus. but today, his focus was completely shot. he was leaning against the mirrored wall, a towel draped over his shoulders, watching you talk to one of the new backup dancers near the sound system.

minho didn't do loud jealousy. he didn't storm over or start a scene. he was more surgical than that. he just watched, his eyes narrowed, tracking every movement.

the guy—some kid who was way too confident for his first week—was laughing, leaning a little too close to you. he reached out to adjust the strap of your bag that was slipping off your shoulder, his fingers lingering on your skin a second too long.

you were just being friendly, smiling at his jokes, but minho’s jaw tightened. he felt that familiar, sharp prickle of irritation. he hated when people didn't know their boundaries, especially when those boundaries involved you.

"so, you're here every tuesday?" the dancer asked, his voice echoing in the quiet room. "maybe i could take you to that cafe downstairs after we wrap? i heard their lattes are actually decent. or, you know, we could always go anywhere else, too."

minho didn't wait for you to answer. he pushed off the wall, his sneakers squeaking sharply against the wood floor. the sound was intentional.

he didn't say a word as he walked over. he simply stepped into your space, sliding his arm around your waist and pulling you back against his chest. it wasn't a gentle hug; it was a firm, grounding weight that made it very clear where you belonged.

the dancer jumped slightly, his eyes widening as he looked up—and up—at minho.

"she’s busy," minho said. his voice was flat, devoid of any emotion, which was always when he was the most dangerous. he didn't look at the guy; he just stared at your reflection in the mirror across the room, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder.

"oh, i—we were just talking about coffee," the guy stammered, his confidence evaporating under minho’s cold gaze.

"get your own coffee," minho replied, his tone clipped. "and get back to the floor. chan wants to run the bridge again in five minutes. don't be late."

it was a dismissal, plain and simple. the guy scrambled away, practically tripping over his own feet to get to the other side of the room.

the second he was gone, minho’s grip relaxed slightly, but he didn't let go. he turned you around in his arms, his expression still unreadable, though his ears were tinged with a faint, stubborn pink.

"you're scary when you do that," you whispered, reaching up to smooth the stray hairs on his forehead.

"i wasn't doing anything," he mumbled, looking away. "he was just annoying. talking too much."

"he was just asking for coffee, minnie."

minho’s eyes flicked back to yours, sharp and intense. "i don't care what he was asking for. he was touching you. i don't like it."

he let out a small, frustrated huff, his fingers digging into the fabric of your hoodie. minho wasn't big on emotional confessions, but in the quiet of the studio, with the rest of the members occupied at the far end, he let the mask slip just a fraction.

"i know i’m difficult," he said, his voice dropping so low you had to lean in to hear him. "i know i don't say the right things all the time. but you're mine. and i’m not good at sharing."

it was the closest you’d get to an 'i love you' in a moment like this—a raw, possessive honesty that felt more real than any flowery speech.

"i'm not going anywhere," you promised, leaning your head against his chest. "you know that."

"i do," he whispered, finally letting a small, smug smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. he pressed a quick, firm kiss to the top of your head before pulling away, his usual cool exterior snapping back into place. "now go sit down. you’re distracting me, and if i mess up this choreo, i’m blaming you."

he swatted your shoulder playfully, ushering you back to the bench, but as he walked back to the center of the floor, he caught the eye of the new dancer.

minho didn't say anything, but the look he gave him—cold, steady, and utterly territorial—made sure the kid didn't look your way for the rest of the afternoon.

CHANGBIN

the gym was mostly empty, the rhythmic thud of weights hitting the rubber mats the only thing breaking the silence. changbin loved this time of night—the overhead lights were dimmed, and he could actually breathe without people hovering.

he was currently finishing a set on the bench press, his muscles strained and glistening under the low light, while you sat nearby on a weight bench, scrolling through your phone and occasionally cheering him on.

everything was fine until a guy from the late-shift training staff wandered over. he was big, almost as big as changbin, and he had that swagger of someone who knew exactly how much he could lift.

"hey, mind if i hop in for a set?" the guy asked, but he wasn't looking at changbin. he was looking at you.

changbin sat up, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. he didn't miss the way the trainer’s eyes dragged over you, or the way he puffed out his chest a little more as he stepped into your peripheral vision.

"just finished," changbin said, his voice coming out a bit rougher than usual. he didn't stand up yet; he just sat there, arms resting on his knees, watching.

"cool, cool," the guy said, turning fully toward you. "i haven't seen you around here before. you a member or just lucky enough to watch the show?" he flashed a grin that was clearly meant to be charming, leaning one hand against the rack right next to your head.

you looked up, giving him a small, polite nod. "i'm just waiting for him to finish."

"well, if you ever get bored of waiting, i'm usually here around this time. i could show you a few things. you look like you've got good potential for some real strength training." he chuckled, his voice dropping into a lower register.

he didn't move his hand. he stayed leaning over you, his shadow completely covering where you sat.

changbin didn't say anything at first. he just stood up. slow. deliberate.

when changbin stood, he looked massive. the pump from his workout made him look twice his usual size, and the intensity in his dark eyes was enough to make the air in the room feel heavy. he walked over, not stopping until he was standing directly behind you, his presence looming like a mountain.

he didn't shove the guy. he didn't have to. he just reached out and placed a heavy, solid hand on the back of your neck, his fingers tangling slightly in your hair. it was a grounding, heavy touch—one that claimed every inch of the space around you.

"she’s good," changbin said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that seemed to vibrate in the floorboards. "she’s got the best trainer in the city. she doesn't need another one."

mark’s smile faltered. he looked at changbin, then at the way changbin’s hand was draped over you, his thick arm practically acting as a barrier. the power dynamic in the room shifted instantly.

"oh, yeah, no doubt," he stammered, taking a half-step back. "just being friendly, man. no harm meant."

"right. friendly," changbin repeated, his voice dry. he didn't blink. he just stared until the guy started to look physically uncomfortable. "we're done here anyway. go ahead and take the bench. it’s all yours."

mark didn't stay to chat. he muttered something about a good workout and practically scrambled to the other side of the gym.

changbin let out a sharp, hot breath. the tension in his jaw didn't fade immediately. he looked down at you, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, his expression a mix of irritation and something softer that he tried to hide behind a scowl.

"you're all red," you teased gently, reaching up to touch his arm. "was he that bothering?"

changbin grunted, finally sitting back down next to you, though he kept his arm draped over your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side. "i don't like it. i don't like the way he was hovering. like he was waiting for me to look away for one second."

"binnie, i wasn't going to go anywhere with him."

he looked at his lap, his fingers subconsciously flexing. "i know that. i do. but..." he trailed off, his voice losing its aggressive edge and turning into something much more vulnerable. "it’s just... i work so hard to be strong, to be someone you can rely on. and then some guy walks up and acts like he can just talk to you like that? it pisses me off."

he turned his head, burying his face in the crook of your neck for a second, his breath hot against your skin. changbin was all bravado and muscle on the outside, but with you, he was always just a guy who was terrified of losing the one thing that made him feel soft.

"i know, i know. i'm selfish," he mumbles against your skin. "i want everyone to know that you're with me. i want them to see me and realize they don't even have a chance. is that bad?"

"it's not bad," you whispered, leaning your head against his. "it's just you. it's also, like... really hot."

he pulled back, a small, genuine smile finally breaking through the scowl. he leaned in, pressing a hard, lingering kiss to your temple before standing up and pulling you with him.

"come on," he said, his voice back to its usual confident tone, though he didn't let go of your hand. "let’s go get food. if i stay here any longer, i'm going to end up staring that guy down until he quits his job."

he led you out of the gym, his chest puffed out just a little bit more than usual, his grip on your hand tight and unshakable. he walked you to the car, and even as he opened the door for you, he shot one last look back at the gym windows—just to make sure the message had been received.

HYUNJIN

the gallery was hushed, the kind of quiet that made you feel like you had to whisper even if you weren't saying anything important. the walls were covered in abstract pieces that looked like explosions of color, and you were currently squinting at one particularly confusing canvas. you couldn't tell if it was supposed to be a sunset over the ocean or just a very vibrant bowl of fruit.

hyunjin had wandered off a moment ago to look at a charcoal sketch in the far corner, leaving you to your own devices. usually, he walked right beside you, his hand resting in the small of your back, murmuring his own interpretations into your ear. those were your favorite moments—hearing him talk about brushstrokes and color theory in that soft, passionate way of his. it was the best way to spend a date.

"it’s the duality of existence, don't you think?"

you blinked, snapping out of your thoughts as a random guy stepped into your space. he was dressed in a turtleneck that looked way too tight and was holding a brochure like it was a holy text. he didn't wait for you to respond before he kept going, leaning in closer than necessary.

"the artist is clearly grappling with the fleeting nature of light," he said, gesturing vaguely at the red splotch you thought might be a cherry. "most people just see the surface, but i bet you have an eye for this sort of depth. i can tell by the way you’re looking at it. you have that... artistic soul."

you bit the inside of your cheek, trying desperately not to laugh. you didn't have an artistic soul; you were just wondering if the painter had been hungry when they made this. "oh, i'm not sure," you murmured, stepping back an inch. "i was just—"

"no, don't be modest," he interrupted, flashing a practiced, flirty grin. "i could spend the whole afternoon explaining the subtext of this wing to you. a girl like you shouldn't be wandering around such complex work without a guide."

he reached out, his hand hovering near your waist as if he were going to guide you toward the next painting.

"she already has a guide."

the voice was cool, smooth, and laced with a sharp underlying tension. you didn't even have to turn around to know hyunjin was back.

hyunjin didn't look at the guy at first. he kept his eyes on the painting, but his hand found yours instantly, his long fingers sliding between yours and squeezing tight. he didn't just hold your hand; he anchored you to him.

"actually," hyunjin said, finally turning his head to look at the man. his gaze was icy, his dark eyes narrowed in a way that made him look incredibly intimidating despite his beautiful features. "it’s not about the duality of existence. it’s a study on chaos. and she doesn't need you to explain depth to her."

the guy blinked, taken aback by the sudden shift in atmosphere. "i was just offering some insight—"

"your insight is unsolicited," hyunjin cut him off, his voice dropping to that low, velvety tone he used when he was genuinely annoyed. he stepped closer to you, his shoulder brushing yours, effectively erasing any gap the other man could have filled. "and your subtext is wrong. maybe read the artist's statement before you try to impress someone else’s girlfriend."

it was a total shut-down. the guy’s face turned a mottled red, his mouth opening and closing like a fish before he muttered something about "just being nice" and scurried off toward the sculpture garden.

hyunjin didn't watch him go. he turned to you immediately, his expression shifting from cold to pouting in a split second. he let out a dramatic sigh, dropping his forehead against your shoulder.

"i leave you alone for two minutes," he complained, his voice muffled. "two minutes, and someone is already trying to guide you."

"he was just being annoying, jinnie," you laughed, reaching up to run your fingers through his hair. "i was fine."

"he was touching your space," hyunjin muttered, pulling back to look at you. his eyes were still a little stormy, his jaw set in a stubborn line. he reached out, adjusting your scarf even though it was perfectly fine, just so he could have an excuse to touch you. "i don't like it. i don't like the way he was looking at you like you were part of the exhibit.”

he wrapped both arms around your waist then, pulling you flush against him right there in the middle of the gallery. hyunjin was always a bit dramatic, a bit more sensitive to the energy around him, and when he felt someone overstepping with you, he became incredibly territorial.

"you’re mine to explain paintings to," he whispered, his lips brushing your ear. "i’m the only one who gets to see your 'artistic soul,' okay?"

you smiled, leaning back into his embrace. "okay. so, what is this one actually about then, mr. expert?"

hyunjin looked at the painting again—the one you thought was fruit. he went quiet for a second, his head tilting as he studied it. "honestly?" he whispered. "i think it’s a bowl of fruit. but i’m going to keep pretending it’s deep so we look more sophisticated than that guy."

you burst out laughing, and he joined you, his jealous mood finally melting away into that bright, beautiful smile you loved. he didn't let go of your hand for the rest of the day, leading you through the halls with his fingers locked firmly in yours, making sure everyone knew exactly who you were with.

HAN

the arcade was a chaotic mess of neon lights and overlapping synth music, exactly the kind of place jisung loved. you were currently focused on a racing game, your hands tight on the plastic steering wheel as you tried to beat the high score. jisung had gone to the counter to trade in a stack of tickets for some candy, leaving you alone at the machines for just a few minutes.

you were doing pretty well until a guy leaned against the side of your console. he was wearing a leather jacket and had a smirk that suggested he thought he was the best thing in the room.

"you’re taking that turn all wrong," he said, loud enough to be heard over the game’s sound effects. "you gotta drift earlier if you want the boost."

you didn't look up, eyes glued to the screen. "i'm doing fine, thanks."

"i'm just saying. i've got the top score on this cabinet," he continued, completely ignoring your brush-off. he shifted closer, his arm brushing against yours as he pointed at the screen. "here, let me show you. move over a bit and i'll handle the pedals for you."

the suggestion was weird and way too personal. you felt a surge of annoyance, but before you could tell him to get lost, a familiar presence appeared on your other side.

jisung didn't say anything at first. he just leaned in, dropping a heavy bag of sour candy onto the dash of the machine, right between you and the stranger. he didn't look like his usual hyper, joking self. his shoulders were tense, and his eyes were fixed on the guy with a look that was uncharacteristically sharp.

"she doesn't need help," jisung said. his voice wasn't loud, but it had a sudden, firm authority to it.

the guy blinked, looking jisung up and down. "just giving some tips, man. don't get worked up."

jisung stepped into the gap, effectively pushing the guy back by a few inches just by claiming the space. he draped an arm over your shoulders, pulling you into his side so tightly that you had to let go of the wheel.

"she's winning," jisung noted, his voice dropping into that lower, slightly raspier tone he got when he was feeling protective. "and she’s winning without you hovering over her. so unless you’re planning on playing the machine next door, find somewhere else to hang out."

the guy looked like he wanted to argue, but the sheer, focused energy coming off jisung was enough to make him think twice. jisung wasn't the biggest guy in the room, but when he was set on protecting something, he had a way of making the air around him feel electric.

"whatever," the guy muttered, pushing off the machine and disappearing into the crowd near the air hockey tables.

the second he was out of sight, jisung’s posture deflated. he let out a long, shaky breath, burying his face in your shoulder for a second. he was still holding onto you like you were the only thing keeping him upright.

"hanji? you okay?" you asked, leaning your head against his.

"i hate idiots like him," he whispered, his voice muffled by your jacket. "idiots that act like they can just walk up and touch you. my heart started doing that weird thing where it feels like it’s vibrating."

you turned in his arms, seeing the faint flush on his cheeks. jisung dealt with a lot of anxiety, but when it came to you, his protective instincts usually managed to override his nerves—even if he felt the crash immediately afterward.

"you handled it perfectly," you said, reaching up to cup his face. "you were very cool."

jisung let out a small, embarrassed laugh, his eyes finally meeting yours. "i didn't feel cool. i felt like i was going to vibrate out of my skin. but then i saw him leaning on you and i just... i couldn't stay over at the counter. i don't like people in your bubble. that’s my bubble."

he pouted slightly, his thumb tracing the hem of your shirt. "i'm not good at the whole tough guy thing, but i really don't want anyone else thinking they can take my spot. is that too much?"

"no," you smiled, pulling him into a hug. "it's not too much."

jisung squeezed you back, his chin resting on your head. he stayed like that for a long moment, letting the noise of the arcade ground him again.

"okay," he said, pulling back with a sudden, forced burst of his usual energy, though he didn't let go of your hand. "now, move over. i'm going to beat your score and then i'm going to buy you a stuffed quokka with the rest of these tickets so everyone knows you’re taken by the best gamer in this building."

"i don't know if they'll have quokkas," you giggle.

"a squirrel, then!"

he spent the rest of the night glued to your side, his hand either in yours or resting on the small of your back, making sure that anyone who even looked in your direction knew exactly who you were with.

FELIX

the beach was beautiful, the salt air thick and warm as the sun began its slow dip toward the horizon. you were lounging on a wide striped towel, the sand still warm beneath you, while the sound of the waves provided a steady, rhythmic soundtrack. felix had been sitting with you for hours, his laughter ringing out every time a seagull got too close to your snacks, but he’d headed up to the boardwalk restrooms a few minutes ago.

you were closing your eyes, soaking in the last bit of the afternoon heat, when you felt the sand shift beside you.

"hey there. you look a little lonely for such a nice day."

you didn't notice the guy walking toward you until the sun was blocked out, casting a long shadow over your face. you squinted up, expecting to see felix, but it was someone else—a guy in board shorts with a surfboard tucked under his arm. he sat right down on the edge of your towel, kicking a bit of sand onto your book in the process.

"i'm fine, thanks," you said, sitting up and pulling your knees to your chest to create some distance. "my boyfriend just went to grab something."

the guy laughed, a slow, easy sound that felt entirely too confident. "boyfriend, huh? well, he's a lucky guy to leave someone like you alone on my beach. i’m a local—lived here my whole life. i know all the hidden spots, the ones the tourists don't know about. if you ever want a real tour of the coast, i could show you around."

he leaned back on his elbows, encroaching further into your space. his name rolls off his tongue, smooth and confident. too confident. "and... you are?"

"not interested," you replied, your voice firm, but he didn't seem to take the hint. he just grinned, looking you up and down in a way that made you feel exposed.

"come on, don't be like that. just a friendly offer from a local."

"she said she isn't interested."

the voice didn't sound like the felix most people knew. it wasn't the bright, bubbly tone you normally heard from him. it was deep—unnervingly deep—and it carried the weight of the ocean behind it.

felix was standing a few feet away, his silhouette sharp against the setting sun. he was wearing an open linen shirt and shorts, his blonde hair tousled by the wind, but his expression was anything but breezy. he looked down at the surfer with a cold, steady gaze that made the guy’s smile falter instantly.

felix didn't wait for a response. he walked over and stepped directly between you and the stranger, effectively shielding you with his body. he sat down right in the middle of the towel, his back to the guy, and pulled you into his lap. his arms wrapped around you, his chin hooking over your shoulder as he locked eyes with the surfer.

"you’re sitting on our towel," felix said. his voice was a low vibration against your back, the kind of sub-bass that you felt in your bones. "and you’re bothering her."

the surfer cleared his throat, suddenly looking much smaller than he had a moment ago. "man, i was just talking. no need to get aggressive."

"i'm not being aggressive," felix countered, his tone clipped and icy. "i’m telling you to leave. now. take your board and get out of here."

the guy scrambled up, grabbing his board and muttering something about "crazy tourists" before jogging off toward the water.

the second he was gone, the tension in felix’s frame snapped. he let out a jagged breath, his grip on you tightening. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his nose cold against your skin. he didn't move for a long time, just held you there while the waves crashed in the distance.

"lixie? you okay?" you whispered, reaching back to stroke his hair.

"no," he murmured, his voice muffled. "i wasn't even gone for that long. what a dipshit. can't even take no for an answer."

he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours. the usual spark was replaced by a raw, protective vulnerability. felix was usually the sweetest person you knew, but he had a territorial streak that came out whenever he felt like your safety or comfort was being threatened.

"i don't like being that guy," he admitted, his thumb tracing your bottom lip. "the one who gets all possessive and weird. but when i see someone looking at you like that... like you're just something for them to win... it makes me feel like i’m losing my mind."

he sighed, his forehead dropping against yours. "i want to be the sunshine for you, always. but i’ll be the storm too, if i have to. i just want you to be safe."

you smiled, pulling his face closer to yours. "i’m always safe with you, baby. you don't have to worry. besides, it's very sexy."

his expression finally softened, a tiny, shy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your nose before leaning back, though he kept you tucked firmly under his arm.

"good," he whispered. "because i’m not leaving your side for the rest of the night. we’re staying right here until the sun is completely gone."

he spent the rest of the evening exactly like that—glued to you, his hand never leaving yours, watching the horizon with a quiet, steady gaze that made it very clear to anyone passing by exactly who you belonged to.

SEUNGMIN

the bookstore was quiet, smelling of old paper and vanilla coffee. it was the kind of place where seungmin could spend hours, his eyes scanning spines with a focused intensity that you always found endearing. he’d spotted a specific edition of a poetry book he’d been hunting for and had disappeared into the back corner of the store, leaving you in the "new releases" section.

you were standing there, tilting your head at a row of thrillers, not exactly sure what you were looking for. you picked one up, reading the jacket blurb, when a guy stepped up beside you.

"that one’s a bit overhyped, honestly."

you looked over to see a guy who looked like he spent a lot of time in libraries—thick glasses, a slightly pretentious hoodie, and an air of confidence that felt a bit forced. he was leaning against the bookshelf, blocking your view of the next row.

"the pacing is all off in the second act," he continued, not waiting for you to ask. "if you want something with actual literary merit, you should be looking at the historical fiction section. i could walk you over there and give you some recommendations. a lot of people struggle with picking the right novel."

you gave a small, awkward laugh. "oh, i’m sure it’s fine. i just liked the cover."

"style over substance," he sighed, shaking his head with a condescending smile. "typical. look, i’ve got a pretty curated list of must-reads. if you give me your number, i can send you a few titles that are actually worth your time."

he leaned in a little closer, his hand reaching out as if to take the book from your hand to put it back on the shelf.

"she’s keeping that one."

seungmin’s voice was like a cold splash of water. it was sharp, precise, and completely devoid of his usual playful teasing. he appeared at your side, not with a flourish, but with a steady, quiet presence that immediately shifted the air in the aisle.

he didn't look at the guy at first. instead, he tucked the poetry book he’d found under his arm and reached out, taking the thriller from your hand and looking at the cover.

"it has a 4.2 rating on most platforms, and the prose is noted for being accessible yet punchy," seungmin said, his tone incredibly dry as he looked at the stranger. "but i’m sure your... curated list is much more impressive."

the guy blinked, his face flushing. "i was just offering some help. she seemed a bit lost."

"she isn't lost," seungmin replied. he didn't raise his voice, but there was a biting edge to it—the seungmin that the members were always wary of. he stepped into the space between you and the guy, his shoulder subtly pushing the stranger back an inch. "and if she wants a recommendation, she’ll ask someone who actually knows her taste. which isn't you."

the guy opened his mouth to say something, but seungmin just raised an eyebrow, his gaze steady and unimpressed. he looked like he was ready to dismantle the guy’s entire personality with a single sentence. the stranger clearly decided it wasn't worth the effort, turning and disappearing into the biography section.

the second he was gone, seungmin let out a quiet scoff. he didn't move away, though. he stayed right in your space, his hand sliding down to grip your wrist gently, his thumb rubbing against your pulse point.

"you were going to let him talk for ten more minutes, weren't you?" he asked, looking down at you. his ears were red, a tell-tale sign that he was much more bothered than he was letting on.

"i was just trying to be polite, min."

"you're too polite," he mumbled, his grip on your wrist tightening just a fraction before he pulled you closer to his side. "he was being a condescending prick. and he was trying to get your number right in front of me. well, almost in front of me."

seungmin let out a frustrated sigh, looking back at the shelf. he wasn't usually the type to make a scene, but when it came to you, his patience for other people was non-existent. he was territorial in a very intellectual, sharp way—he didn't like anyone acting like they knew you better than he did.

"i'm the only one who gets to recommend books to you," he said, his voice dropping to a softer, more private murmur. "because i’m the only one who knows you hate sad endings and that you always skip the middle of long descriptions. i don't need some guy in a scarf trying to fuckin' curate your life."

you smiled, leaning your head against his arm. "are you jealous, kim seungmin?"

"i'm observant," he corrected, though he couldn't hide the small, smug smile that touched his lips when you didn't pull away. "and i don't like people hovering. especially when they’re wrong about the pacing of that thriller. it’s actually very well-regarded."

he led you toward the checkout counter, his hand sliding down to lock fingers with yours. he didn't let go, even when he had to pay, making sure he was positioned between you and the rest of the store. as you walked out, he tucked the bag under his arm and pulled you closer.

"next time," he said, "just tell them you’re with a very mean singer who has no problem being rude in a quiet shop."

"i think they got the message," you teased.

"good," he whispered, pressing a quick, firm kiss to your temple. "they were supposed to."

I.N.

the night market was a blur of neon signs, the smell of spicy rice cakes, and the constant roar of a thousand different conversations. it was loud, crowded, and exactly the kind of place where you could lose someone in seconds.

jeongin had been holding your hand tightly the whole time, but he’d let go for just a moment to elbow his way through a crowd at a street food stall to grab the skewers you’d been eyeing.

you were waiting by a brightly lit claw machine, watching the mechanical arm fail to grab a plush bread roll, when a guy drifted over. he looked like he’d had a few drinks—not enough to be stumbling, but enough to be loud and way too confident.

"man, these things are a scam," he said, leaning his shoulder against the glass of the machine, effectively blocking your view. "you’re never gonna catch that. but hey, if you want something to take home, i’m right here."

you didn't even look at him, keeping your eyes on the joystick. "i'm just waiting for someone."

"he must be a slow guy to leave a girl like you standing in the middle of a crowd," he laughed, reaching out to tap the glass right in front of your face. he was hovering in your personal space, his shadow cutting off the light from the machine. "come on, let me buy you a drink instead of wasting your money on a toy. i know a spot just around the corner that’s way better than this mess."

you started to step away, but the crowd was thick behind you, trapping you between the machine and the stranger. "i said i'm waiting for someone. please move."

"don't be like that," he said, his hand moving as if to reach for your shoulder. "i'm just being—"

"she asked you to move."

jeongin appeared out of the crowd like he’d been launched from a cannon. he didn't look like the baby bread the fans joked about; he looked sharp, his feline eyes narrowed and his jaw set in a hard, uncompromising line. he stepped directly between you and the man, his shoulder knocking the guy back a couple of inches.

he didn't say it loudly, and he didn't make a scene, but the sheer coldness in jeongin’s voice was enough to make the air around you feel brittle. he stood his ground, his height and the sudden, intense presence he carried making him look much older than he was.

"hey, man, back off. we were just talking," the guy snapped, trying to regain his footing.

jeongin didn't flinch. he didn't even blink. he just reached back and grabbed your hand, his fingers interlacing with yours with a grip that was borderline bruising. "you were bothering her. she told you to move, and you didn't. so i'm telling you now. get lost before this becomes a bigger problem for you."

the man looked at jeongin—really looked at him—and saw the silent, icy resolve in his gaze. jeongin had a way of looking through people when he was angry, a sharp, piercing stare that made it clear he wasn't playing. the guy muttered a curse under his breath and disappeared back into the sea of people.

the second he was gone, jeongin turned to you. the "scary" version of him evaporated instantly, replaced by a look of pure, frantic worry. he dropped the skewers onto the ledge of the machine and took your face in both of his hands, his thumbs frantically brushing over your cheeks.

"are you okay? did he touch you? i was only gone for a minute, i shouldn't have let go of your hand," he rambled, his voice high and breathless. the adrenaline was still surging through him, making his hands shake just a little.

"innie, i'm all good. you got here before he could even do anything," you said, trying to calm him down.

jeongin let out a long, shaky exhale, leaning his forehead against yours. he closed his eyes, his hands sliding down to rest heavily on your shoulders. "this is crazy," he whispered. "some drunk bastard thinks that he can... that's crazy."

he pulled you into a crushing hug, burying his face in your neck. jeongin was usually the one being pampered by the older members, but when it came to you, he had this fierce, almost desperate need to be the protector. he hated being seen as "young" or "harmless" when it mattered most.

his grip tightening, he mutters against your skin; "i don't want anyone to look at us and think they can just take you away because i’m not enough to keep them back. you’re mine. i need them to know that."

he pulled back, his ears bright red but his eyes steady. he reached down, grabbed the food, and then locked his fingers with yours again—this time, he didn't just hold your hand; he held it like his life depended on it.

"we’re going home," he said firmly, though a shy, dimpled smile finally managed to peek through his serious expression. "and next time, if you want skewers, we’re going together. i’m not letting go of you for the rest of the night."

he led you out of the market, navigating the crowd with a new, confident stride, his shoulder always positioned to block you from anyone else’s view.

[joeiove]

STUCK WITH HIM

after years of believing soulmates simply weren’t part of your story, getting injured at a university expo was supposed to be the worst thing to happen that day. then koga yudai casually called you his soulmate, and somehow turned your entire life upside down.

koga yudai (k) x reader | 1,476 words. | fluff, university!au, soulmate!au | cw. minor injury.

when you were younger, your grandmother used to tell you bedtime stories filled with old legends that felt too gentle to be anything but real. your favorite was always the tale of the red string of fate, the invisible thread said to connect soulmates long before they ever met. you used to ask her, completely serious, when your own string would finally appear, only to receive a soft laugh and a promise that some things were never meant to be seen too early.

soulmates weren’t always bound by strings or matching symbols. instead, each pair shared a unique ability that awakened around the age of sixteen, quietly confirming the existence of the person meant for them somewhere in the world.

some were extraordinary in obvious ways. others were subtle enough to miss at first.

your parents, for example, could always find each other no matter where they were. your grandparents had aged in perfect sync, never once separated by time.

it was proof enough that soulmates existed. maybe you just happened to be the exception. after enough years passed without anything changing, disappointment eventually stopped feeling dramatic and settled into something quieter—something easier to live with.

by the time you reached university, you had already started to accept the idea that maybe your story simply didn’t include a soulmate at all.

then came the university expo.

you honestly couldn’t even remember how you ended up volunteering for the committee again. something about credits, responsibilities, and fuma asking you with that tone you could never refuse. it was how you found yourself standing under the late summer sun, handing out flyers to passing students while your assigned teammates had conveniently disappeared.

you adjusted the stack of pamphlets in your hands and forced yourself to keep smiling, even as your patience slowly thinned. it was supposed to be a simple rotation job, but somehow you had been left doing twice the work alone. you were already planning exactly what you would say to taki the next time you saw him, and none of it was polite.

that was when someone bumped into you.

hard.

the flyers scattered across the grass while pain shot through your arm where her bag had hit you. she didn’t even stop to apologize properly, already walking away as if nothing had happened.

you exhaled sharply, crouching down to gather the papers while muttering under your breath, “ugh, freshmen these days…”

your arm throbbed with every movement, but you forced yourself to ignore it. it wasn’t the first time you had been overworked for the sake of club duties, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.

still, you really needed to learn how to say no.

when you finally made your way back toward the booth, you ran into euijoo, who was guiding a small group of freshmen. he immediately noticed your expression before his eyes dropped to your arm.

whatever he had been about to say disappeared instantly.

“what happened?”

before you could answer, he had already handed the freshmen off to someone else and was dragging you toward the clinic with zero hesitation.

the door swung open a little too aggressively.

“nurse, my fri—” euijoo stopped mid-sentence because there was no nurse.

instead, inside the clinic stood yudai with his head buried inside a cabinet, one hand holding random medicine boxes while he muttered something to himself like he had been searching for ten minutes and still had no idea what he was doing.

he glanced over casually. “the nurse stepped out.”

then, as if nothing was unusual about this situation, he returned to what he was doing.

euijoo frowned. “what are you doing here? shouldn’t you be at the booth with fuma and nicholas?”

“fuma sent me for stomach medicine,” yudai replied casually, lifting a small box triumphantly. “found it.”

he then turned his attention toward you, eyes dropping to your arm. “and you?”

“our [name] here got hurt,” euijoo explained quickly. “and she refuses to admit it’s serious.”

“because it is nothing,” you insisted immediately. “it just hurts a little.”

yudai looked at you for a moment longer than necessary, expression unreadable, before letting out a slow sigh.

“leave her.”

both you and euijoo blinked. “what?”

“i’ll handle it,” he said simply, already moving toward the door. he placed the medicine into euijoo’s hands and physically pushed him out. “go before fuma finds out you abandoned your post.”

“hey—!”

the door slammed shut.

silence settled over the clinic.

you slowly turned to yudai. “you just removed me from my responsibilities without permission.”

“you’ll survive.”

“…rude.”

he ignored you, pulling up a chair and sitting across from you, gaze dropping to your arm. for once, there was no teasing in his expression.

it was almost unsettling.

“i can treat this myself,” you said cautiously.

he nodded. “i know.”

“then why are you still here?”

he leaned back slightly, arms crossing as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "because if i leave you alone for five minutes, you'll probably end up making it worse somehow."

"…that's not taking care of me."

"same thing."

that answer made absolutely no sense coming from him.

you had known yudai for years, and if there was one thing you were certain of, it was that he did not “take care” of people unless it involved making fun of them first.

so this version of him—quiet, focused, unusually attentive—felt wrong in a way you couldn’t explain.

“close your eyes,” he said suddenly.

you hesitated. “why?”

“just do it.”

reluctantly, you obeyed.

you expected pain, but none came. instead, a strange warmth spread across your arm, gentle and light, like something invisible was stitching your skin back together. when you opened your eyes again, k was already pulling his hand away, as if nothing unusual had just happened.

“it’s done,” he said.

you looked down to see your arm was completely healed. no scratch. no pain. nothing.

“how…?” you stared at him in shock.

yudai scratched the back of his neck like he was annoyed by the question itself. “i figured it out a few months ago.”

“figured it out?”

“apparently i can heal injuries.”

you blinked. “…that’s not normal.”

“no kidding.”

you stared at him harder. “since when were you magical?”

he shrugged. “since always, probably. just didn’t notice until recently.”

your brain was struggling to process everything at once.

then he added, far too casually, “it only works on my soulmate though.”

silence.

you looked at him while your brain struggled to catch up with what had just come out of his mouth. meanwhile, yudai looked completely unaffected, like he hadn't casually thrown your entire understanding of life out the window.

“…wait,” you finally said, voice rising. “what did you just say?”

yudai frowned slightly. “are you slow?”

“excuse me?”

“soulmate,” he repeated, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “you know. that thing that’s apparently real.”

you opened your mouth. closed it again. then opened it again.

“i thought that was a myth, almost.”

yudai sighed. “you’re really not helping your case right now.”

you could only look at him, completely unprepared for how casually he was delivering this information, especially considering this was yudai—someone who once tried to microwave metal just to “see what would happen.” and now he was casually telling you you were destined soulmates.

“…so i’m your soulmate?”

“yeah.”

“you’re sure?”

“pretty sure.”

you blinked at him in disbelief. you didn’t know whether to laugh or panic.

yudai leaned back in his chair, watching your reaction with mild amusement.

“i wasn’t going to tell you yet,” he admitted. “i only figured it out recently anyway. but then you showed up injured and looked annoying enough to prove my theory.”

“…wow.”

“what?”

“that is the worst soulmate confession i’ve ever heard.”

“you’re welcome.”

despite everything, a small laugh escaped you. yudai noticed.

of course he did.

and for once, instead of teasing you immediately, he just looked away slightly, scratching his cheek like he was trying to ignore the fact that he was smiling too.

“so,” you said after a moment, “what now?”

“no idea,” he answered honestly. then he glanced at you again. “we figure it out. quietly.”

“quietly?”

“yeah,” he said, standing up and stretching like this was just another normal day. “if fuma finds out, he’ll make it everyone’s problem.”

you let out a laugh at that despite yourself.

“fair.”

yudai walked toward the door, then paused like he had forgotten something.

you looked up. “what?”

he glanced back at you, expression softer than usual.

“you owe me for saving your arm.”

you rolled your eyes. “you literally just healed me because we’re soulmates.”

“still counts.”

“…you’re impossible.”

"and yet," he said, glancing back with a small grin that looked suspiciously softer than usual, "looks like we're stuck with each other now."

© 2026 joeiove

[la-vander-writes]

Show time

Kim Seungmin (김승민) x fem!reader smau

💌 a/n: this is so silly I can't believe I'm putting out stuff like this lmao to be cringe is to be free ig have a good monday my loveys

📌 warnings: swear words (your honor it's not my fault they're embarrassing)

💬 leave a feedback (if you don't comment felix will show up under your bed tonigh)

🏠 home

part 1 < part 2 > part 3

--------------------------☆

[la-vander-writes]

Wrong number 🚫

a two part chan x fem!reader smau in which some bad choices eventually lead to good :)

💌 a/n: hi, is this a bad time to come back with all the mashup drama? maybe. I have really no idea what to think lol i just know that all my fyp is in shambles. I feel like this is a given, but i do not condone generative ai in creative spaces, and especially not in a commercial context :))

📌 warnings: there's a few swear words, reader is drunk at one point

💬 leave a feedback (too desperate? fine don't)

home < part 1 > next

----------------------------------☆

[starlostjisung]

my moot is dating who?

pairing: lee know x reader

genre: humour; fluff; suggestive

ss count: 18

warnings: thirst tweets; suggestive

summary: stays keep talking about skz’s secret twitters, completely oblivious to the fact that minho’s girlfriend is part of their circle

next part

a/n: this fic was heavily inspired by @pvppymin fic his gf is oomf? so go and read it now 🫵🏻 reading hers and writing this has genuinely been so fun and exciting!! i hope you all like it 🩷

the library

likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated 🌟

if you want me to add you to the taglist let me know in the comments ☺️

divider by my darling @lariesographic 🩷

permanent taglist 1: @stormofwho @luvbangchan @annyeongffs @iamlazychip @lavunyan @sammhisphere @kaybeerrosa @changbinshearteubeateu @jeonginslittledoll @wolfhallows4 @emmiesoverthemoon @geni-627 @xxestxays @btch8008s @mitsuri1221 @necrozica @skinnyjeans-tanktops @hyvneluv @bluesungology @hyunjinxxs @ann-gell @minastronaut @astrophia13 @v3n7s @yunwoogidoll @vantaerayleigh1997 @minhocinema @channiesswift @inlovewithstraykids @nojerama-writes @inniemeenymineymoe @virgopotterhead @hazelwritez @prettydumbandcrying @mar1511 @tsunderelino @neukdaeng @skzbyemmy @luvvvivi @hannieslovebot @httpsxnox @skzittomebabyuhhuhx3 @staygenesblog @luna585 @nightmarenyxx @hogwartsexpressx

[catiuskaa]

𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐖𝐈𝐅𝐄 𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐒

sum: chan is having a hard time not missing you while he’s on tour, missing you even when you’re doing facetime with him.

wc: 1.3k

cw: lowercase, this is very sweet, don’t be fooled by the “dead wife” on the title, it’s all just Banter™️ and people being lovingly missed -but no one dies dw. <3

[🔸★💗★🔸]

when his back finally touches the so mercifully cold fabric of his bedsheets, chan doesn’t even dare to move beneath the covers.

he lets out a groan that could’ve contained stress and tiredness across several generations, and now is released as his eyes flutter close, not quite tired —he wishes he could be that lucky— but itchy in that sleepy way that tells him he’s well over his bedtime.

but, to be fair, could anyone blame him? love makes people a little bit crazy.

“chan-ahhhh,” your voice echoed in the hotel room through his computer, left not too far away from the bed, sitting on the dark desk table there. “muffinnnn,” you teased.

chan knew himself to be a weak man. and a weak man knows no law. or what was it?

“oh noooo,” your voice echoed with that electric sound coming from the computer call. if chan’s eyes were open, he could see you lying on your bed, arms folded beneath your face with one hand holding your face up as you made silly faces at the screen. “baby, your camera’s off.”

a weak man knows no law? no, that can’t be. a something man knows no something. god, english can be such a prick of a language sometimes.

it only came to chan’s head when you started making kissy sounds from your end of the facetime. drowning. a drowning man knows no law. and it only occurred to him because chan would’ve given by now exorbitant amounts of anything, there it be money or else, to be drowning in your kisses as you spoke.

“mmmm,” he hummed all smily, knowing you could hear it from the other end.

“darling,” you mumbled softly, sweet as so many different things that chan would probably get type one diabetes if he tried them all one after the other.

you teased him. “you’re soooo sleepy, mr. chan.” your accusation was met with nothing but silence, so you knew you were right. “you should sleep, honey,” you spoke, softer again.

chan let out tiny whines and moans as he stretched himself.

you hummed, smiling. “mmm, hot boy noises.”

“yes,” he let out before relaxing his body again, now less tense. “your hot boy,” he giggled, the smile rolling off his tone.

there was a bit. two. he turned his head over and looked at the camera.

maybe it was how you were the closest thing he could get to have you there with him, in the flesh, and still, the computer screen could never be enough, or maybe he was just very sleepy indeed, but before he could think too much about it, he let out a soft,

“i miss you so much i get flashbacks of you when i close my eyes.”

and the worst part is that the affirmation wasn’t just said to hear your lovingly cute giggle and the “awww baby” that you let out before, or to see your face all smiley on his computer screen. It was true.

“really?” you asked all giggly, like just the mere thought of your boyfriend thinking of you could turn your heart and your brain into fluffy mush.

it was something like that, to be honest.

“i swear,” he sighed softly, both loving and tired.

“what do you see? Is it like, do you picture me like in dead wife flashbacks, or like, more of a powerpoint of me’s.” you rambled, also starting to feel sleepy.

he snorted, and snuggled into himself, lying on the bed the closest he could be to the computer.

“dead wife?” he let out, “i don’t want my wife to die.”

you cackled, your chest all warm and fuzzy just because he uttered the w-word. “im not dead yet, silly. you don’t know what dead wife flashbacks are?”

maybe chan knew what it was. maybe he’d seen some in a couple of movies here and there. but, it was the perfect excuse to keep hearing your voice and watching you talk as you snuggled against your pillow at the other side of the screen.

he’d be a fool not to take it.

“what are you even talking about.”

you snorted at his tired confussion, and answered the question he was too tired to ask with the necessary questioning tone. “it’s like, in movies, when the main character’s partner dies, usually when they also have a child together, and there’s always like, old videos of usually him recording her while they’re like, on the beach late in the day and the sun is going down and it shines against her and she’s laughing, or something,” you licked your lips, yawning.

he yawned back, the damn thing ever so contagious.

he closed his eyes again, and now tried to imagine you in the way you just described. but, without noticing, he turned around and opened his eyes again, staring at the screen.

“i see my beautiful girl,” he started, his heart softening when he saw your smile on the screen. “she’s all smiley. i see her in a computer screen, lying on her bed,” he chuckled as you started cackling.

“so you just see me in your flashbacks?”

it wasn’t just you. it was you. he didn’t need anything else but you. and he loved you. he loved you, warm, and solid, and equally soft, and tender, and all so… yourself. he’s truly mad for you. and it’s all madness. the one that made him unable to think about all this properly, let alone put it into words —not when there’s so many things left to be said.

he loved you. he’d be nothing but a fool if he didn’t mention the way he was obsessed with every square milimeter of your skin. he wanted to crawl beneath it and cover himself with it like a blanket. he wanted to swim in the ever so shimmery colour of your eyes.

but this was all too much to let out for sleepy, sleepy chan. so he blinked slowly as he looked at you.

“yeah,” he sighed instead, smile still on his face. “no wives killed in the process.”

you let out a soft giggle at his sleepy humour.

“it’s so unfair that your camera’s off,” you then mumbled, your face snuggled in your pillow.

chan shrugged, even though you couldn’t see him. “I turned off the lights, so the camera can’t really see anything. maybe that’s why it turned off.”

“maybe,” you nodded softly.

there’s a beat in which none of you spoke, and then you sighed.

“my love.”

he found himself in awe at how soft the words came out. It tickled his heart, warming it. chan blinked, looking at his computer’s screen.

“i’m so in love with you,” he mumbled. “i miss you so much. two months without seeing you is torture,” he almost whined. “and there’s still a month left.”

“i miss you too. so much.” you smiled sofly, honesty oozing off of it. “i should let you sleep.”

you giggled at chan’s dramatic whine, as you started to drag out the moment you’d need to hang up the call. but you couldn’t help but smile. maybe because you were so in love with your boyfriend he had already drove you mad.

or maybe because of the plane ticket you had, scheduled in a couple days.

but, to be fair, could anyone blame you? love makes people a little bit crazy.

[🔸★💗★🔸]

~kats, who'S POSTING AFTER ALMOST A YEAR?? …yeah, um, sorry, my dudes. this doesn’t mean im back (because writer’s block is still out to fucking catch me and i don’t like making promises i could break) but this short bit came out in a whim and i miss my little tumblr blog corner <3 hope y’all don’t hate me for this one.

catiuskaa, july 2026 ©

permanent taglist! @svckrpvnch @lyramundana @cheeksung

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

──── ACCIDENTALLY YOURS ⋆˚꩜｡ p. sh

pairing ˚୨୧⋆｡ ₊° park sunghoon x f!reader ── .✦ smut (mdni!), fluff, rom-com, angst, slowburn kinda, college!au, friends to lovers ft. yn's roommate!jake & sunghoon's roomate!jay wc ꩜⊹✎ᝰ.ᐟ 24k

synopsis ୭ ⁺₊✧ the universe has a funny way of working. some people find their fate in poetry, in the stars, or in the grand, sweeping moments of life. you? you find yours in the form of park sunghoon—a boy you keep running into in the most unfortunate ways possible. like how he threw a football straight into your face and broke your nose. or when he got way too drunk at a party and threw up all over your shoes. or that time he somehow managed to blow up an entire science experiment all over you. in other words—the few accidental times the universe tries to tell you that park sunghoon is your fate…and the one time you finally listened (and maybe fate had less to do with a broken nose and more to do with the way he looks at you like you’re his favorite accident).

warnings ꩜｡⊹ ࣪ ˖ sunghoon is DOWNBAD, clumsy & awkward as hell // he YEARNS & LONGS, a drama queen // alcohol consumption // mild cursing // hoon is also a self sabotager // jayhoon bromance is real // sunghoon has one sided mental beef against jake for sum reason LOL ˗ˏˋ nsfw tags ᝰ.ᐟ virgin!sunghoon x experienced!reader, lowkey sub/switch!sunghoon, unprotected sex (dont do it pls!!!), oral sex (f receiving), riding, fingering, squirting, dry humping, hoon has a praise kink for sure, breast play, handjob, hair pulling, dirty talk, masturbation (he does it while he munches whoops), roughish sex, creampie

°˖➴ .ᐟ addie ── OK so i'd like to start off with saying last i checked this fic had 15k words...and then suddenly it has 24k... idk what happened honestly . but i ended up LOVING writing this sunghoon bc in my eyes he's a hot, clumsy dork <3 this is my first time ever writing smut so i am so so sorry if it sucks absolute booty hole bc it truly had me spinning in circles...i have so much respect for smut authors bc damn . anyways i hope u guys like, pls let me know what u think & also ty ronnie per usual for beta reading & encouraging me to explore out of my comfort zone heh. HOPE U ALL ENJOY :')

THEY SAY YOU NEVER FORGET YOUR FIRST. your first kiss. your first failing grade. your first crush. your first pet’s name. for park sunghoon? he’ll never forget the first time he met you.

and honestly? he kind of wishes he could.

scratch that—he desperately wishes he could. then he wishes he could self-implode. then, he wishes he could rewind time and never agree to play catch with jay in the first place.

not to be dramatic or anything. but if you had been responsible for sending a football flying at full speed straight into someone’s face, you’d probably want to self-implode too.

and that’s exactly what happens.

it’s a quiet day. a peaceful one, almost. the kind of the day that feels soft around the edges, where nothing’s too bright, too loud, or too complicated. the one that almost makes sunghoon feel like simply a background character in the movie of his own life, which he doesn’t entirely mind either.

sunghoon’s morning starts like most of his mornings do—half productive, half running on pure autopilot. he wakes up to his alarm on time (a small miracle), beats jay to their shared bathroom before he can claim it for his thirty minute long skincare routine (a big miracle), and grabs a granola bar from the kitchen cabinet. said cabinet, by the way, is home to an endlessly growing collection of half-eaten snacks—chips that have gone soft, instant ramen cups with weird flavors no one remembers buying, and a mystery jar of peanut butter that’s been there since move in day.

sunghoon pays half attention in his 9AM statistics lecture (which is about as much as anyone can ask from him on a monday morning), and manages to grab his favorite sandwich from the café before they run out for the day. the café lady even remembers his name this time (although she calls him ‘sungoon’, which he lets slide because she gives him extra pickles).

it’s all wonderfully, boringly normal.

and for sunghoon, that’s saying something.

because his life isn’t exactly filled with chaos—he’s not that guy. but he does have a habit of stumbling into moments that feel like they were written by a sitcom writer and he’s the character created solely for the purpose of comedic relief.

like the time he ran into and tripped over the campus mascot in front of an entire basketball game. or the time he waved back at someone who wasn’t waving at him and then had to commit to pretending he actually did know them. or the time he tried to flirt with a girl at a bookstore and accidentally knocked over an entire table of self-help books on himself.

you get the idea.

still, today feels normal. stable, predictable.

until jay shows up.

jay appears in sunghoon’s peripheral vision exactly how sunghoon predicted he would—hair sticking up in three different directions, wearing an oversized hoodie that may or may not be his sleep shirt, a cup of iced coffee in one hand even though it’s four in the afternoon and, for some reason, a football in the other.

sunghoon blinks up at him from his table in the campus courtyard. there’s an empty sandwich container on one side of him, a half-finished math sheet on the other, and that quiet kind of peace that only comes when you’re okay with the world not doing anything particularly interesting.

jay park ruins that peace immediately.

“what’s that for?” sunghoon asks, nodding at the football in jay’s right hand.

jay shrugs, sipping his coffee before putting it down next to sunghoon’s empty sandwich container. “found it on my way here. thought it’d be fun.”

fun.

sunghoon raises an eyebrow. that’s a bold word coming from jay—jay park, a business major who considers waking up before noon an accomplishment and whose idea of cardio is sprinting into lecture late.

still, sunghoon doesn’t judge. he’s learned his lesson about athletic optimism. the summer he was nine, he tried out for the neighborhood little league baseball team with nothing but poor hand-eye coordination and a dream. one swing, one very unlucky coach, and one black eye later, and sunghoon retired early from all things sports related.

which should’ve been foreshadowing in itself.

sunghoon’s first mistake is catching the football when jay tosses it at him. his second is not immediately throwing it back and walking away.

because somehow, between the caffeine in jay’s bloodstream and sunghoon’s chronic inability to say no to stupid ideas—five minutes later they’re standing on opposite sides of the courtyard, tossing the football lazily back and forth.

and it becomes easy, repetitive. jay’s talking about something mid-throw, probably the new band he’s into or some conspiracy theory about the campus squirrels. but sunghoon’s not really listening, not really. he’s too focused on the rhythm. catch, step, throw. catch, step, throw. it’s almost meditative.

until it isn’t.

because somewhere across the courtyard that smells like grass and cheap coffee, laughter suddenly carries through the air—a bright, unfamiliar kind of laugh that feels like home anyways and that makes sunghoon’s head instinctively turn.

and in that same half-second, jay’s voice calls out.

“yo, heads up!”

sunghoon turns back just in time to see the football not in his own hands anymore.

and it’s definitely not heading towards jay either.

it’s heading towards you.

and before he could do anything about it—the ball collides with your face with an impact so loud that the entire school might as well have witnessed it.

“oh my god,” jay whispers.

“oh my god,” sunghoon repeats under his breath.

“oh my god,” you’re gasping, clutching your nose and stumbling back before you can catch yourself, your butt hitting the grass.

sunghoon’s stunned for a second, arms halfway raised, eyes flickering between you and jay and the football. he runs through a mental list of things that could maybe, possibly, reverse the entire past twenty minutes of the disaster that is his life (spoiler: there aren’t any).

and then he’s moving before he even realizes it, jogging over with wide eyes and a growing pit of dread in his stomach.

“oh my god—are you okay? did i—shit—is your nose broken?” the words fall out of his mouth in one frantic breath as he crouches beside you.

you hand is still pressed against your face as you blink up at the figure above you, your vision disorientated.

and when your eyes finally focus—the face that greets you is devastatingly pretty.

which would be fine under any other circumstance. except for the fact that this is the face of a man who literally just assaulted you via sports equipment.

and unfortunately for sunghoon, the face that greets him is just as devastatingly pretty.

which would also be fine…under any other circumstance.

because sunghoon’s luck with girls isn’t terrible…technically. he’s had his fair share of crushes that lasted two weeks but ended in radio silence. he knows how to flirt when he needs to, knows how to make a girl laugh, knows what kind of compliment lands without sounding weird. he’s even good at the little things—opening doors, letting the girl have the booth side of the table, texting back on time but not too soon, pretending to like matcha even though it tastes like grass to him.

the problem is never getting their attention. he’s grown up around enough of his mom’s friends cooing at him during dinner parties—‘your son is so handsome!’ ‘what did you eat during your pregnancy to get a face like that?’— that he’s well aware he’s got at least one thing working in his favor. so no, getting attention isn’t the issue.

it’s keeping it.

because sunghoon is the kind of guy who accidentally ghosts first. not on purpose, he just forgets. he gets too caught up in assignments, or chores, or reorganizing his t-shirt collection by color again (even though it’s really only three colors: black, white, and a slightly lighter black). he’s terrible at balancing the whole dating thing and college thing and not knocking over self-help book displays in public thing.

and now, apparently, not breaking someone’s nose.

but right now, looking at you—bloodied nose, wide eyes, planted in wet grass and probably mildly concussed—sunghoon can’t think about any of that.

because, somehow, even like this, maybe even especially like this, he thinks you’re the prettiest person he’s ever seen.

which is horrifying.

sunghoon wants to dig a hole right then and there and crawl inside. maybe build a small underground home, maybe live out the rest of his days as a mole person.

“i—i’m so sorry. i swear, it was an accident—he—jay was supposed to catch it—”

that’s when jay conveniently shows up right behind him, a hand lifting up in betrayal, “bro, you looked away—”

“i was distracted—”

“by what?”

sunghoon freezes. his brain short-circuits, because the answer is, unfortunately, you.

he opens his mouth. freezes. clears his throat. tries again. “by…a…bird?”

you finally speak up from your spot on the ground, your head going back and forth at the two bickering guys through your watery eyes, “…a bird.”

“yeah,” sunghoon says, shrugging like this is an everyday conversation. “it was…really big.”

there’s a slight beat of silence where even jay looks like he feels pity for his best friend. then, you squint at him, tilting your head slightly.

“wait—” you start, voice still a little nasally. “you look familiar. have we met before?”

sunghoon stiffens. his entire life flashes before his eyes.

have you met before? god, please not the self-help book incident. or worse—not the person he accidentally waved to thinking it was someone he knew.

he feels his stomach drop. maybe it’s neither. maybe it’s both.

and maybe he should just crawl into the earth now and never come back up.

“that would be park sunghoon,” a new voice cuts in.

you turn your head towards the sound, relief instantly washing over your face when you see the tall boy approaching—baseball cap on backwards, plastic cup of boba in one hand, and a very mild look of concern on his face.

“jake.”

“y/n.” jake’s eyes flick to the scene in front of him: you, still clutching your nose; sunghoon, crouched nearby with a look only a guilty perpetrator could possess; and jay, standing behind him and sipping his coffee like he’s getting free entertainment (and he is).

“…i leave you alone for two minutes,” jake starts flatly, “and you’ve already managed to get injured by my friends.”

“accidentally injured,” jay corrects pointedly and very much unhelpfully.

jake ignores him. “he lives in our building, that’s probably where you’ve seen him.” he then gestures vaguely to both sunghoon and jay with the drink in his hand. “they both do. down the hall from us.”

he reaches down and helps you to your feet in one smooth pull, steadying you by the elbow before turning to the boys. “y/n, meet sunghoon and jay—two of my closest friends since high school, unfortunately. and also unfortunately, our neighbors.”

then he glances back at the pair, who now stand side by side in an awkward pose of guilt and discomfort. “and sunghoon and jay, meet y/n—my new roommate. remember? i told you guys she transferred here a few days ago. i was coming over to introduce you guys but…looks like you beat me to it.”

sunghoon makes a noise. not a normal human noise. a noise that lands somewhere between a startled choke, squeak, and what he thinks a goose being lightly stepped on would sound like. 

because no—he absolutely does not remember jake telling him this. because jake definitely mentioned it, but probably in the middle of a league match when sunghoon was functioning at ten percent brain capacity, half-listening while trying not to die in-game for the fifteenth time:

“new roommate, got it,” he had probably replied at the time, while actually registering none of it.

and now here you are. in front of him. because of course the universe would make you one of his closest friend’s roommate. of course the prettiest girl he’s ever accidentally assaulted with a football now lives ten doors down.

he hovers, like he wants to say something else—maybe something smooth so you think he’s charming, maybe an actual apology so you think he’s not an asshole with awful coordination. but his brain offers him nothing but static.

he opens his mouth. closes it. opens it again. nothing.

he’s spiraling. he wants to evaporate. he wants to scream. but instead of doing any of these things, sunghoon does what any rational, socially competent person would do.

he sticks out his hand. straight. stiff. right in front of you. doesn’t say a word.

you blink. you glance down at it. then back up at him. you squint your eyes past the vision of your other hand still clutching your face, looking at him as if trying to puzzle something together. 

still, with your free hand, you eventually reach forward and give his a small, polite shake. his palm is warm, a little clammy, and you’re pretty sure you can feel him holding his breath the entire time. 

“nice to meet you, park sunghoon,” your voice small but with something else. 

the way his full name rolls off your tongue is smooth, deliberate. just on the edge of playful, but there’s something else beneath it. he can’t tell if it’s sarcasm or sincerity. maybe both. maybe you’re the kind of person who could ruin him with a smile and then apologize while doing it.

either way, it sticks. because it shouldn’t sound like that. like a challenge. like a secret he’s suddenly desperate to learn. and the worst part of it all? he likes it.

and for a second, everything else is tuned out—the sound of the commotion around campus, the breeze rustling the leaves around him, even jay’s straw scraping against the remaining ice in his cup—all sunghoon can focus on is the faint curve of your lips when you say his name. it hits him somewhere low in his gut. strange and foreign and sweet. sweet in a way that could be addicting if sunghoon isn’t careful.

and honestly, he’s not good with things that make him feel like this. because, sunghoon? sunghoon is far from careful. he’s clumsy in life—can’t keep his balance, can’t hold his composure, can’t even throw a football without committing mild assault.

and now he can’t think straight either.

“—and jay,” you nod towards jay, who lifts his now empty coffee cup in a small wave, “but i think i should probably go to the clinic or something.”

jake nudges you gently, which snaps sunghoon out of whatever trance he was sinking into, “yeah. let’s get you checked out before you lose your nose.”

and because sunghoon is sunghoon and definitely not a rational, socially competent person—the best he could manage is a crooked, lopsided smile and a stiff little wave as you turn to go.

you start walking, jake talking quietly beside you, but before you’re too far away, you glance back over your shoulder. and it’s quick, half a second at most—but sunghoons catches it.

a faint smile. the faintest. and he can’t tell if it’s teasing, curious, or dangerous. maybe all three.

either way, it stays with him and he freezes, watching you disappear around the corner, his heartbeat now annoyingly loud in his chest. and he doesn’t know what to think of it. because, again, sunghoon’s luck with girls isn’t terrible…technically. he just doesn’t think he’s ever felt this before. but, to be fair, it’s not everyday you accidentally potentially break the nose of the prettiest-girl-you’ve-seen-turned-neighbor before.

“that…was amazing.” jay breaks sunghoon out of his mental spiral, nudging sunghoon’s arm with his own elbow, smirking.

sunghoon doesn’t answer. he’s too busy replaying every second in his head—the way your hand felt, the way you said his name, the way you threw that half-smile over your shoulder.

and somehow, some way, sunghoon’s wonderfully boring day had accidentally become something else entirely.

and that was the first time park sunghoon sees you.

the second time he sees you, he almost forgets about the entire football fiasco, honestly.

not because it’s anything personal against you. god, no.

but because he remembers something his therapist once said. something about how, apparently, if a memory is painful enough, sometimes the best thing to do is just…repress it. file it away. pretend it never happened altogether.

which, in hindsight, is probably, most definitely, not the best way to handle one’s crippling emotions. especially not crippling emotions involving a girl who looks like the kind of person that keeps you up at night after only exchanging a solid ten (10) words.

but to be fair, sunghoon’s therapist is also a twenty-something year old business major who listens to ‘character development’ podcasts every morning and calls it experience.

so yeah. his therapist is jay park.

which explains why the memory of meeting you now lives in the deepest and darkest corners of sunghoon’s mind—right between the mascot-tripping incident and the little league baseball trauma.

but again—sunghoon has the chronic inability to say no. especially to jay. and you’d think, after years of friendship, he’d know better.

he does not.

which is how he ends up here—standing in the middle of a frat house that’s definitely seen better days, clutching a red solo cup filled with what jay insists is just ginger ale, and silently wondering how to sneak out without anyone noticing.

because parties were never really sunghoon’s thing.

not only because he’s a self-proclaimed introvert. but because they usually involve three things: 1) loud music that usually consists of mediocre 2000s pop songs all mashed up together by a frat brother whose side gig is dj-ing, 2) sticky floors from mysterious substances that he refuses to think about, and 3) some guy named ni-ki who, for reasons unknown to science, keeps losing his left shoe at every function and makes it everyone else’s problem.

or all of the above. usually all of the above.

but now sunghoon’s too many sips deep into his maybe-not-ginger-ale mystery drink, with the floorboards vibrating underneath him, and the crowd of bodies around him moving in an off-beat rhythm to some one direction song.

he also thinks the room might be spinning, but he’s not sure if that’s from the strobing lights flickering across the ceiling or because he accidentally downed half of whatever this drink actually is. he should probably stop. he should definitely stop.

but before he can even gather his thoughts to make any semi-rational decision a semi-drunk person could make, jay shows up and slaps him on the shoulder with the force of a man who’s had one too many more than sunghoon has.

“dude,” jay shouts over the music, leaning in and nodding his head toward the other end of the room. “don’t look now, but—”

which is precisely the kind of sentence that makes sunghoon immediately look now.

and there you are.

you’re across the room, leaning casually against the wall, laughing at whatever jake just said beside you. your head’s tilted back, cup in hand, a strand of hair falling over your face, and sunghoon nearly forgets to breathe.

and you’re wearing exactly what’s going to keep him up tonight. and so, of course, he doesn’t know what to do about it. 

sunghoon’s pretty sure the air conditioning in this place stopped working about an hour ago, but the room suddenly feels suffocating, sweat prickling at the back of his neck and the crowd blurs into a backdrop, the music fading to a distance. all he can see is the curve of your mouth when you laugh—fully, invitingly, the kind that pulls a low heat to his gut—and the way your fingers twist a loose strand of hair absentmindedly, completely unaware of how it draws him in.

it’s not fair. you’re supposed to be a one-time occurrence. the one-time girl he accidentally maimed with a football and might awkwardly bump into while checking mail or when he comes over to visit jake—not someone who looks like she belongs in every dream he’s going to have for the next six months.

and sunghoon hasn’t even had a real first kiss, technically—unless you count that tragedy of spin-the-bottle in the tenth grade where he accidentally bit a girl’s lip and left her mortified and bloody—but all of the sudden, his mind floods with foreign, forbidden thoughts he really shouldn’t entertain. thoughts of closing the distance, backing you against that wall, his hands on your waist, how your lips would part under his, the faint taste of whatever you’re drinking mixing with his, your laughter turning into something heavier, needier. the way your body might arch into him, the soft gasps you’d make if his mouth trailed lower—god, it’s wrong, it’s too much, and sunghoon tries his hardest to veer his thoughts elsewhere. 

but because sunghoon is everything except subtle, jay follows his line of sight and smirks immediately.

“oh god,” jay warns, but the intrigued look on his face says otherwise. “you’re thinking about going over there, aren’t you?”

sunghoon freezes before subtly rolling his eyes, running a hand through his hair, “i just—i should apologize. right? like, properly. you know, be mature about it.”

jay gives a look despite the a playful tone in his slurred voice, “i’m just saying. she might walk away with a new broken bone if you do.”

sunghoon exhales, straightens up, takes a gulp of his drink and coughs from the burn—yeah, definitely not ginger ale. “statistically, lightning can’t strike twice.”

jay blinks. “how the hell are you quoting statistics while drunk?”

“because i’m not,” sunghoon says pointedly, slapping his own cheek once as if that’ll magically sober him up. and he thinks he’s at least…fifty percent sober. hopefully. “see? totally fine.”

he doesn’t stick around to hear whatever jay’s response is—because the second he notices jake disappearing into the kitchen, he’s already weaving through the crowd, heart pounding, brain screaming at him to turn around, and feet doing exactly the opposite.

you notice him before he even reaches you. there’s a flicker of surprise on your face, but it fades just as quickly—shifting into something that looks like amusement. like you were expecting this. like you’d been waiting for him to show up eventually.

“the park sunghoon,” you say once he’s close enough to hear you over the music. and when he is, the space between you feels heavy—maybe it’s from the heat of the room, maybe from the scent of alcohol and sweat. maybe from something else entirely. “i didn’t take you as a party person.”

sunghoon freezes mid-step.

because he thought he knew what he was going to say to you once he got here. maybe something clever, maybe something smooth. but your tone—the teasing ease of it, the way his name sounds in your mouth—it throws him off completely.

his fingers tighten around his cup and he takes another sip, pretending to look casual and not because he suddenly has no idea what to do with his hands. then he lets out a laugh—nervous, stupid, a little too loud.

“i’m usually not,” he manages, trying to sound smooth as he leans a shoulder against the wall beside you. “but jay can be persuasive.”

a small smirk plays at the corner of your lips. “mmm. and the drink?”

sunghoon follows your gaze down to the red solo cup in his hand.

“jay told me it was ginger ale.”

you don’t say anything for a second. then, you let out another hum, reaching out before he can react and taking the cup straight from his hands.

you take a slow sip, your eyes trained on his own over the rim of his cup. it’s deliberate. it’s long. it’s dangerous. and he feels every. second. of it.

you lower the cup, swallow, then make a face. “yeah. definitely not ginger ale.”

sunghoon laughs, sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. “yeah, figures.”

a teasing smile tugs at your lips, “do you do everything jay tells you to?”

his eyes widen immediately. “what? no! no—no, definitely not.”

“uh huh,” you glance past him to where jay’s pretending not to watch the two of you from across the room. very badly. “did he tell you to come over here?”

sunghoon turns, spots jay’s unsubtle wave, and groans. “no, actually. i came over all on my own, i’ll have you know.”

“oh yeah?” you tilt your head, stepping just a little closer—close enough for him to catch the faint citrus of your perfume. “and why’s that, sunghoon?”

he opens his mouth, ready with something about apologizing again, but the words stall.

because here you are. up close. and you’re a little overwhelming—eyes steady, posture loose, smile daring. he thinks he can feel his pulse in his ears.

“because…uh—” sunghoon stops, clears his throat, then smirks, trying to look steadier than his heart feels. “i figured if i’m gonna cause another accident tonight, i should probably make sure it’s worth it.”

you laugh, and he swears it’s louder than the music, “smooth recovery.”

“i’m a fast learner.”

“from jay?”

he grins. “definitely not.”

and the way you smile at that—the slow, curious curve of it—makes him realize he’s in trouble. the kind of trouble he doesn’t exactly want to walk away from.

there’s a beat where neither of you say anything. the music continues to thump all around him, the lights flash across your face in a dizzy rhythm that makes sunghoon’s stomach flip, and you’re standing close enough now that he can smell the faint scent of your citrus perfume and feel the heat from your arm whenever you shift slightly closer to hear him over the music.

and god, it’s suddenly very, very hard to think straight again.

he clears his throat. “anyway. i, uh—i wanted to apologize too. properly, you know. for your nose. for ruining your face—i mean, not that your face is ruined! it’s a great face. a perfect face. or, maybe not perfect-perfect, but y’know, structurally sound—”

sunghoon stops. he thinks he’s never hated himself, alcohol, and maybe a little bit of jay more than he does in this moment.

you stare at him for a long second, lips pressed together like you’re biting back a laugh. then, slowly, the teasing smirk on your face softens into something warmer, something he doesn’t quite know what to do with.

“sunghoon,” you say, his name coming out softer this time. “how about we just start over?”

the noise of the party tunes out again. it’s like the world narrowed down to just you, him, and the faint sound of ‘has anyone seen my left shoe?’ somewhere in the background.

“yeah,” sunghoon nods a little, nervous and hopeful all at once, his mouth twitching into an awkward smile. “yeah, i’d really like that.”

and then the conversation lulls into something easy after that. something comfortable. he manages to land a joke that makes you laugh, he learns your major, how you ended up as jake’s roommate—which spirals into a story about being cousins with his last roommate, lee heeseung, who graduated last semester and now moved onto bigger and better things in the adult world. and by bigger and better, we mean he graduated with a biology degree but now works for a music label and spends all his time obsessing over his co-worker-turned-girlfriend.

and everything feels good. it’s casual. it’s normal.

sunghoon feels like he’s floating—like he’s actually managing to exist around you without saying anything stupid about bones or noses or facial structures.

everything is just fine.

until it suddenly isn’t.

because when you turn away to refill your cup, sunghoon straightens up from the wall and blinks. once, twice. the lights all smear together in red and gold and blue. the floor tilts, or maybe he does. either way, his vision sways, just a little, and he can feel his pulse pounding in his head.

and that’s when it hits him. 

oh. oh no.

sunghoon is drunk.

the realization hits him at the same moment you turn back towards him.

your hair catches the light as you move, and your lips part—he can see you saying something, your mouth forming the beginning of a smile—but all sunghoon can focus on is trying his very best to look composed. his fingers dig into the side of the table next to him, the room ripples, the floor hums under his feet.

he blinks hard. again. and again, like that’s somehow going to stop the slow spin that’s started in his vision. it doesn’t. his heartbeat trips over itself. there’s too much heat in the room, too much sound pressing at the back of his skull, too much you in front of him.

“would you want to—i don’t know, maybe one day—”

sunghoon doesn’t hear the rest of your sentence. because suddenly his entire body stiffens. the nausea rises sharp and fast, his breath catches, and his face drops. and you barely have a second to register his expression before he’s leaning forward when—

it happens.

the end to park sunghoon’s dignity.

the music doesn’t stop. the lights don’t even flicker. but for sunghoon, the world falls completely silent as he realizes, in a slow motion way that only seem to exist in horror movies, that he’s just thrown up all over your shoes.

you stare down at your shoes, blinking.

sunghoon stares down at your shoes, horrified.

the silence between you stretches, thick and terrible. somewhere in the background, one direction is still playing, jay is shaking his head in a kind of not-surprised disappointment, and someone trips over a single, abandoned left shoe.

“oh my god,” sunghoon whispers, voice small and hoarse as he stares at the pile of him now covering your shoes. “oh my god.”

he then looks up at you, all glassy-eyed and pale, half-drunk but one hundred percent mortified, “i am so sorry—i swear, i didn’t—your shoes—”

you look down at your shoes again, then back at him, and then close your eyes slowly, not saying anything.

“—i promise i’m not like this normally,” he blurts out, words slurring together. “i—oh my god, i’m so sorry—”

sunghoon sways slightly where he stands, still holding the table for balance, his face stuck in the kind of panic that belongs to someone who’s guilty.

jake appears just in time, two cups in hand, stopping dead in his tracks when he sees the scene in front of him.

“…what the hell,” jake says flatly, eyes darting between you, your shoes, and the man responsible.

and sunghoon can’t even look up. his hand is still clamped over his mouth, palm slightly damp, stomach twisting, throat burning, and mind praying that everyone else around them is drunk enough to ignore the situation.

he risks a glance. immediate regret.

your shoes, the mess, the smell, the whole awful, lingering reality of what he’s done. the sight alone is enough to make sunghoon sway again. his brain, fuzzy and slow, still tries to find the words to form an apology that’s at least fifty percent not pathetic.

you then inhale. “yeah,” you say finally, your voice weirdly calm for someone whose shoes had just been absolutely ruined. “i…i think i’m just gonna go home.”

your voice is quiet, barely above the music, but somehow, it cuts through everything. the pounding bass. the off key singing of the crowd. the ringing in sunghoon’s ears. it’s all he can hear.

jake sighs, glancing between the two of you. “yeah. yeah, that’s probably smart. let’s go.”

he gives sunghoon a pitying look—the kind you give a guy when you’re stuck in between both sides of a battle—before turning to guide you toward the door.

sunghoon still doesn’t move. he just stands there, stuck, heartbeat hammering behind his ribs, in his head, everywhere. his mouth opens like he might say something—apologize again, call out your name, beg the floor to swallow him whole. but nothing comes out.

so he just watches. watches the back of your head disappear into the crowd. watches jake’s hand settle lightly on your shoulder. watches the door close behind you.

he exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face when jay appears beside him. he’s holding a now half-empty cup, the look on his face somewhere between pity and amusement.

“…i told you you were drunk.”

sunghoon pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezing shut, “jay.”

“yeah?”

“shut up.”

jay doesn’t. instead, he hums, “and i told you not to come over.”

sunghoon thunks his head against the wall behind him, “jay.”

“yeah?”

“please stop talking.”

and that was the second time park sunghoon sees you.

the next and third time sunghoon sees you, he knows it’s coming.

sunghoon knew he was going to see you because he’s an observant guy. yes, he sits in the back of class and only speaks when spoken to, but he notices the little things.

like how the guy two seats to his left keeps a family-sized bag of hot cheetos inside his backpack and thinks no one notices. or how the girl in the third row plays papa’s freezeria on her laptop every single lecture, unbothered by the fact that the professor is talking about reaction mechanisms right in front of her.

and how the new girl—the pretty one who showed up one random day with the shiny hair and the voice that always knows the right answers—always gets there five minutes early and sits in the first row. aka, you.

sunghoon has always noticed you.

so yeah, he knew he was going to see you today. chemistry lab is predictable like that. but he didn’t think it was going to be like this—you coming in late, hair slightly frazzled but still somehow shiny, breath just a little uneven from probably speed walking across campus, cheeks warm with the rush of someone running late, eyes scanning the room for an open seat.

because you are never late. but the universe has a weird sense of humor sometimes. and today, it decided to silence your morning alarm all on its own (you smacked it in your sleep and gave yourself twenty-too-many-minutes of snooze time), cut off your shower halfway through rinsing out your conditioner, and let the vending machine eat your last dollar without giving you your granola bar.

so the sight of you hesitating in the doorway makes the entire energy of the room shift just a little for sunghoon. he watches you mumble a quiet apology to your professor before your eyes quickly scan the room for an empty seat. and then his heart stalls for one horrifying second.

because he swears he can hear the universe laughing. laughing at the fact that the only seat available in the entire room…just so happens to be the one next to park sunghoon.

sunghoon, who immediately pretends to be incredibly invested in the periodic table projected on the side wall.

sunghoon, who is currently praying that someone will miraculously volunteer as tribute and take the empty chair beside him out of nowhere. no one does.

sunghoon, who tries his very best to quietly will himself invisible (he has never succeeded at this before. he does not succeed now).

your eyes land on the seat. then on him. and your expression does this tiny thing—something between oh! and oh…and something else that sunghoon cannot, and probably should not, interpret for the sake of his emotional stability.

then, with a small flash of hesitation and what seems like acceptance, you make your way over.

“hey…sunghoon,” you say, voice soft but steady as you pull out the chair.

sunghoon turns his head just slightly, offering you a nervous half smile that feels about three seconds away from collapsing into a full panic.

“hey,” he manages, voice a little too quiet, a little too soft. you slide into the seat, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, and the faint citrus scent of you hits him like déjà vu and disaster rolled into one. and because it completely throws him off, he doesn’t even realize what he says next until the words are already out, “so how was your weekend?”

and then he freezes.

so do you. you are mid-bag-unzip. there is a soft still in the air as his words hang in between you two. how was your weekend.

the weekend where he vomited all over you.

sunghoon looks away and mentally slams his head into the table. maybe you didn’t hear him. or maybe he’s hallucinating and didn’t actually say that. or maybe he did actually say that and you’ll pretend it didn’t happen out of pity for him.

none of that happens.

because, eventually, you turn to him fully, a small smile on your face as you casually shrug, “oh, it was good!”

sunghoon stops for a second. he stares. okay. okay, good. maybe we’re safe. maybe this is forgiveness, maybe this is grace.

“—until i had to throw away my favorite pair of shoes.”

and there. it. is.

sunghoon thinks he dies. just a little. or a lot, internally. his eyes shut, his fingers gripping the pen in his hand so hard he swears the plastic actually creaks.

“yeah, um. that’s…fair,” he says back, but it comes out more like a croak. “listen, i’m really—”

“it’s really okay, sunghoon,” your voice interrupts as you tap your pen on the notebook, the tone light and casual and teasing—not at all the sound of someone who recently got assaulted by the same guy twice in the past week. “i mean, i think you just really owe me now, though.”

sunghoon’s eyes snap open. he glances over to look you and—

you don’t look mad. you don’t sound mad. if anything, you look…amused, really. and the tilt in your voice just now sounded almost fond, even. which is objectively worse for sunghoon’s emotional well-being.

sunghoon tries to speak. tries to be cool, collected, charming, normal. tries to ignore the fact that the pretty new girl with shiny hair that usually sits five rows ahead of him is currently still talking to him after he messed up with her twice.

“i—yeah—yes. absolutely. i will. i promise—”

and sunghoon literally does not know what he’s promising, nor does his mind give him the chance to find the words before the professor’s voice cuts through the room, “alright everyone. today’s experiment will be done in pairs. your partner will be the person you’re currently sharing a lab bench with.”

there’s a beat of silence.

because, again, the universe has a very weird sense of humor.

then, a soft inhale. and sunghoon isn’t even entirely sure if it came from him or from you. could be both.

“…so,” you start, turning slightly toward him just enough that your shoulder brushes his, “lab partners?”

and approximately within the next two seconds, park sunghoon goes through all five stages of grief:

denial — no. surely not. she means across the lab bench. diagonally. someone else. fate would never be this cruel to me.

anger — this is jay’s fault. it’s always jay’s fault. why did he convince me to go to that party. why does alcohol exist. this is all jay’s fault.

bargaining — if the universe lets me get through this without causing any physical harm, i will donate to charity. i will recycle properly. i will stop ignoring mom’s text messages. 

depression — i am going to die. right here. in a room that smells faintly of citrus (you), acetone (lab), and sweat (me).

acceptance — okay. okay. we got this. we persevere.

sunghoon swallows. clears his throat, once, then twice. but his voice still cracks like a thirteen year old boy when he turns to you, “lab partners.”

you give a small smile. it’s not mocking, it’s not pitying. just…warm. like you know exactly how nervous he is. like you know how sorry he is. like you aren’t holding the past two disasters against him at all. and sunghoon will take it. he’ll take whatever he can get.

you both stand and begin gathering equipment from the front bench—beakers, pipettes, safety goggles that look like they were designed by someone who has never seen a human face in their entire life.

so when sunghoon returns to the table and tries to put them on, it’s all a tragic scene—the strap catches, the goggles twist, his hair gets stuck. and through it all, you watch with a smile playing at your lips, but you don’t laugh. instead, you step closer, simply tilting your head.

“here,” you murmur, your voice gentle in a way that makes something inside sunghoon want to claw at his own skin. your hands lift, slow and careful, fingers sliding lightly into his hair as you adjust the straps behind his head.

“bend down a bit,” you say, struggling to reach his height, and sunghoon does what he’s told. you finish adjusting the goggles, smoothing down a strand of hair near his temple before your fingers linger for a brief second. the moment is light. short. harmless. but still long enough for sunghoon.

“thanks,” he says in a voice that isn’t really a voice. it’s low and careful, like if he speaks too loud the moment will shatter.

because you’re still close. close enough that he can feel your own warmth. close enough that if he tilted his head forward just a fraction, his lips would be right near your own. and he is trying so hard not to focus on that. he miserably fails.

all he can focus on is your breathing—soft and a little uneven, like you’re not totally unaffected either, which would be insane, because this is you and this is him and the universe should not allow him to have this much hope. that would be cruel.

but then your eyes flick up to meet his, and the world gets quiet for a second, like someone hit pause on everything except the two of you.

sunghoon swallows hard. his eyes dart elsewhere, anywhere, but then it hits him.

it hits him abruptly and mortifyingly, with the force of a preteen revelation:

there’s the subtle sheen of sweat tracing the line of your collarbone, where the lab’s humid heat has your skin glistening just enough to draw his eye to the hollow of your throat, where you’re wearing the tiniest necklace he has ever seen in his life.

and somehow that is the most scandalous thing he has ever encountered.

because it sits there, tiny and delicate and soft—and he thinks back to the way you spoke to him at the party. the way your eyes didn’t back down from his, the way his name sounded from your mouth the first time he met you. like you knew exactly what you were doing. 

you are everything but delicate. and something about that contrast, the softness laced with boldness, the gentle curve edged with something sharp—makes something in sunghoon go frighteningly, beautifully still. because sunghoon realizes he want more.

and not just in that casual, lab-partner-who-lives-ten-doors-down-and-occasionally-asks-to-borrow-sugar way. but in the remember-your-favorite-snack-and-stock-the-pantry-with-it, memorize-your-handwriting, learn-your-schedule-by-heart, hold-your-face-in-my-hands-and-finally-know-what-you-taste-like kind of way. the kind where he’d trace the line of your jaw just to feel your pulse quicken under his touch, where late-night texts turn into confessions whispered into the dark, where the world narrows to just the heat of your breath mingling with his, close enough that one right move could unravel everything else.

park sunghoon is 22 years old but his brain reacts to this realization like he is eleven, standing at the edge of the community pool and realizing that girls have collarbones and the world will never, ever be the same. his ears go hot. his heart beats faster. he looks away.

“no problem,” you clear your throat, stepping back, smoothing down your skirt with your palms. your voice is light again, controlled. but there’s a little curve at the corner of your mouth—like you know.

and somehow, everything after that falls into a quiet, simple, routine. because, in theory, the experiment is simple. measure, mix, heat, observe. nothing that a normal college student with half a functioning brain shouldn’t be able to handle.

which is precisely the issue. because the second sunghoon thinks he’s in the clear, the second sunghoon thinks he can maybe, possibly, start a normal conversation with you, maybe even pretend like the past two incidents never even happened—

you lean slightly over the lab bench, shifting slightly when the edge of your sweater brushes against his wrist. and that’s all it takes.

sunghoon forgets everything he just told himself.

“okay,” you tap your fingers playfully against the table. “we just need ten millimeters of solution A.”

“right,” sunghoon says, nodding immediately.

sunghoon says this with confidence.

sunghoon does not know what solution A is.

his hands are still steady though, surprisingly. he reaches for a beaker, a dropper, a labeled bottle.

“careful,” you say softly, fingers brushing his wrist as you help guide the pipette from one bottle to the other. sunghoon tries to ignore it. he really, really tries. he then looks at you, and you’re already looking at him.

“you’re really focused,” you tease with a small smirk, an eyebrow lifting.

“yeah,” he says without thinking. but he’s focused on you. not the beaker. not the measurement. and most definitely not the very important instruction that says pour ten millimeters and not thirty.

so when he pours—it’s too much. way too much. there’s a hiss, a bubble, a foaming roar before sunghoon could stop it even if he wanted to.

“wait—no that’s too—” you start, but it’s too late. and all sunghoon can do is stand there, and watch. watch as the reaction is already shooting upward, a fountain of foaming mixed colors exploding straight into the air before dropping right back down and directly—

on you.

all over you. from your hair to your eyelashes to your lips to your sweater to the floor.

the entire room goes silent. sunghoon swears he can hear 1) the way the professor closes her eyes slowly, like she’s lived this exact nightmare seven semesters in a row, and 2) someone in the front of class whisper a small, “holy shit.”

and sunghoon is frozen in horror. completely, absolutely, done. wishing death upon himself. his soul leaves his body, watches from the ceiling, and considers not returning.

you blink. foam slides down your cheek in slow motion. “okay..,” you say, very calmly, as though you saw this coming from a mile away and yet still trying to process what happened. “..cool. of course.”

“i—i am so—” sunghoon’s voice breaks as he inhales a heavy breath, the words tumbling before he even knows what he’s apologizing for this time. the explosion? or maybe still the throw-up? the almost-broken-nose moment? “i don’t even know how that—”

you hold a hand up, stopping him mid-sentence. a blob of foam falls from your face.

“sunghoon,” you deadpan, eyes slowly opening. and your expression says it all—not annoyed, not surprised, not even disappointed. just the acceptance of fate. and sunghoon mentally accepts the fact that maybe he should not be allowed within ten feet of you.

“i know,” you sigh, voice strangely gentle for someone covered head to toe in chemicals and is the current center of attention in a room full of people, “and it’s okay.”

sunghoon squeezes his eyes shut. there is nothing he can say. no apology that will undo the last ten minutes, the last few days, the last entire week. no sentence in any human language that can fix this.

maybe this is punishment for that one time he ghosted a girl because she used too many laughing emojis. maybe this is karma coming back. maybe someone hired a witch to curse him. maybe it was jay. honestly, it was probably jay.

your voice breaks him out of his downwards spiral, “i think i need to…go wash this out.”

and because sunghoon is sunghoon and a man powered entirely of panic, impulse, and bad luck—he moves before he thinks. his hands are already tugging his own hoodie over his head, the hem catching awkwardly on his shirt, his hair going everywhere, and earbuds (why did he put his earbuds in his pocket) flying out and clattering to the floor.

but then he’s holding the hoodie out in front of him.

just…holding it. straight armed. eyes avoiding yours and trained on the material in front of him.

and you just stand there, foam still dripping, but now staring at the hoodie. then back at him.

“sunghoon—”

“just take it,” he blurts, his cheeks flushed pink and voice embarrassingly earnest. “please. before the chemicals…seep…or—spread? i don’t know—”

and sunghoon has no idea what happens when lab foam dries on skin. he just knows it sounds bad and cannot, and will not, be the reason you get third degree chemical burns.

but when you take the hoodie from his hands, a small thank you on your lips, you look at him with something soft, something understanding, something that looks real, and not tossed out of politeness or pity. something that makes sunghoon’s heart want to beat straight out of his ribcage.

and when you come back a few minutes after, sunghoon thinks he’s ready.

he is not ready.

because, see, sunghoon did not think ahead (he has never once thought ahead, historically speaking), and therefore he did not anticipate the sheer consequences of his own actions playing out. of him handing you his hoodie. of you actually wearing his hoodie.

but there you are.

and it swallows you whole. the sleeves bunched slightly at your wrists so they don’t slip past your fingers. the hem hits right at the end of your skirt. the collar sits a little wide and off-center because the hoodie is well-loved, and because sunghoon studies in it, because he sleeps in it, and because he chews on the drawstring when he’s stressed—so one string is short and the other is stupidly long, uneven in the exact way only his hoodie is uneven.

your hair is pulled up now, strands slightly damp from the sink, your cheeks pink from your attempt of scrubbing mysterious chemicals off, and you look like you belong in it.

sunghoon’s body has a reaction that can only be described as malfunctioning. his breath catches in his throat, his pulse jumps, and that foreign feeling of something coiling tight and low in his gut comes back, heating spreading uninvited, unwelcomed, but definitely undeniable. 

because you look good. and soft and warm and heartbreakingly casual. like you’ve worn his clothes a thousand times before. like you will wear his clothes a thousand more.

and definitely like something sunghoon could be stupid about for the rest of his life. like there is a universe—maybe just slightly left of this one—where this is normal. where you wash your face at his bathroom sink and steal his clothes on purpose and drink the orange juice from his fridge without asking.

and he would let you. every single time.

so yes, the third time sunghoon sees you—he knows it’s coming. he just didn’t expect to want it this time.

“so let me get this straight,” jay leans over the table with the wide eyes of someone who already heard the story (he did) and is simply here just to see his friend in agony (he is), “…you blew her up?”

sunghoon peers his eyes from across the courtyard table, nearly scoffing, “no, i didn’t blow y/n up.”

“so…you blew up all over her?”

sunghoon throws his hands up exasperatedly, gesturing to his still very intact self, “well, evidently not!”

“okay…so,” jay draws his voice out, slow and unimpressed, dragging the fork through his lunch, “…what did you blow up?”

“why—” sunghoon drags a hand down his face, “—is everyone saying i blew something up?”

jay looks straight at him, chews on his pasta, and does not answer. instead, he pulls out his phone.

“because,” he scrolls through the screen once before turning the screen up to sunghoon, “of this text i got from jake saying ‘sunghoon blew up y/n. eye roll emoji.’”

sunghoon stares. blinks, then stares again.

traitor.

“i blew up our science experiment,” sunghoon mutters through a sigh, pinching his nose like the memory physically hurts him. “all. over. her.”

jay pauses mid-bite. lets it sink in. then—

“oh god,” he bursts into full laughter, “all over her?”

sunghoon ignores him. rolls his eyes.

“jay, it was so bad,” he groans, burying his face into both hands now. “i don’t even know what happened. she was so close to me and her hand brushed mine and it’s like my brain just—” he then looks up and claps his hands together dramatically. “—stopped.”

jay doesn’t say anything.

sunghoon, however and unfortunately, continues.

“and then it gets worse, jay.”

there’s a long beat. jay gives sunghoon a look that tells him there’s no possible way it could get worse. but, once again, because the universe has a weird sense of humor, sunghoon’s existence is living proof that it always will get worse.

jay takes another bite before he nods solemnly, as if gearing up for what’s coming. “alright, lay it on me. what’s next, what else could possibly have happ—”

but jay doesn’t finish.

because at that exact moment—you walk into the courtyard. hair still pulled into a loose ponytail, the sunlight catching in your face like the sun only came out today to make sure you’re seen by the rest of the world, a smile on your face as you walk besides jake.

but none of that matters.

because you’re still wearing sunghoon’s hoodie. his hoodie. and he can’t take his eyes off you. you look like you got dressed in his bedroom. you look like you belong in his bedroom.

sunghoon stops breathing. from beside him, jay also freezes.

“…isn’t that…your hoodie?” his chewing slows down to a a stop, voice going flat. then, just for dramatic effect, “…on y/n?”

sunghoon does not look away. in fact, he’s full on staring. stares like a man witnessing both the holiest and worst moment of his entire life.

“that, jay—” sunghoon says, voice low, hollow, and utterly destroyed, “—is exactly how it gets worse.”

jay looks at you—completely swallowed by the hoodie, laughing lightly at something jake says, fingers tugging absentmindedly at the drawstring.

he looks back at sunghoon and squints.

“…this is bad,” jay starts slowly, nodding as if he totally knows what’s going on but definitely doesn’t, “because…?”

sunghoon turns to him with a look, “BECAUSE, JAY. SHE’S WEARING MY HOODIE. and it makes me—” he gestures weakly, helplessly, and vaguely to himself— “feel things.”

and that’s when jay sets down his fork very gently, the realization hitting him in real time, “oh my god, you like her.”

sunghoon doesn’t respond. he just closes his eyes, inhaling slowly, trying to remember the exact breathing pattern his therapist (again, jay) recommended for moments of emotional crisis (four counts in, six counts out, something like that)—which, by the way, he is strongly considering firing him now because none of his advice ever helps in the moment.

because yes. sunghoon does like you.

he likes you. he likes the way your laugh sounds just a little breathier when you’re trying to not show you think something is funny. he likes the way you talk like you’re choosing your words on purpose, but never too carefully. he likes that you didn’t freak out on him when he, multiple times, was the direct cause of your suffering. he likes the way you look at him like he’s not the complete wreck he is. he likes that you’re kind, but not in a soft, fragile way. kind like you’re aware and like you choose to be.

he likes you, and the only times he has ever interacted with you, he’s probably taken another two years off your lifespan.

sunghoon, by all known definitions, should never interact with you ever again.

“oh wow,” jay continues, laughing now, breathless, delighted, and the worst therapist-slash-best-friend in the world. “no, dude. you totally do. you have a crush on the girl you’re, like—” he holds his fingers up half an inch apart, “—this close to actually killing.”

sunghoon slams his palm on the table and immediately regrets it because it rattles and now people are looking, “shut up, jay.”

jay raises both his hands in surrender, but the smirk on his face says he’s not surrendering at all.

“no, like—think about it,” he presses, leaning in closer. “that’s probably why you keep messing up. you’re nervous around her. like, elementary playground crush behavior. you’re basically pulling her pigtails.”

sunghoon stares at him, horrified. “jay. let’s not compare this to elementary school kids please.”

jay shrugs, picking his fork back up and goes back to twirling his pasta like this is a regular tuesday and not a life-changing-revelation for sunghoon.

“whatever,” sunghoon continues, voice deflated, shoulders sinking, “it doesn’t matter anyway. it’s not like she feels the same way. especially after i—” he pauses and gestures vaguely to the lingering memory of disasters that has defined his existence lately. “all of that.”

he doesn’t specify which disaster. he doesn’t need to. jay knows. you know. the world knows. God definitely knows.

sunghoon rubs a hand over his face, voice growing quieter, smaller. “i should just stop. stop talking to her. stop trying. just…distance myself or something.”

that’s when jay’s fork freezes mid-air. he sets it down and looks at sunghoon like he just suggested he run off to the mountains and join a cult.

“okay. woah. relax, drama queen. absolutely not.”

sunghoon blinks. jay picks his fork back up and points it at him with the authority of something who has never once been correct but speaks confidently anyway.

“first of all, please never say the words distance myself ever again. you sound like an awful romance-novel-series-turned-movie-franchise.”

sunghoon glares weakly from across the table. “i’m being serious, jay. she probably hates me. or worse—” he has to swallow because the next words taste bitter, like something he never wanted to even consider but could be highly likely, “—she’s probably, like, i don’t know—into jake. or something.”

and jay actually physically recoils. his whole upper body leans backwards like someone just threw a raw fish at him and he has to grab the edge of the table to prevent himself from falling back.

he then furrows his brows at sunghoon, eyes squinting, “you’re joking, right?”

sunghoon doesn’t answer. because he is, surely, not joking.

jay looks over his shoulder to where you’re standing across the courtyard—still smiling, hair still catching sunlight, still wearing sunghoon’s hoodie—then looks back at sunghoon with the expression of someone witnessing unprecedented levels of stupidity.

“sunghoon,” he says carefully, slowly, “y/n looks like the kind of person who probably color codes her google calendar and knows the exact expiration date of every condiment in her fridge. and jake—” his thumb points vaguely behind him, “—jake once microwaved a fork because he thought it would make his food taste warmer. the entire reason why we don’t live with him.”

sunghoon just stares. jay nods to himself, like there’s no possible argument to this. “trust me. i don’t think y/n would want to choose that life.”

sunghoon opens his mouth to argue—because at least warmer meals by microwaved-metal sound better than an almost broken nose by football—but then his gaze flicks over jay’s shoulder.

“jay. stop. talking.”

and jay isn’t even talking anymore, but he shuts his mouth anyways. he goes still. sunghoon goes still. then, sunghoon’s eyes widen a fraction, the smallest warning signal.

because you’re coming over. you’re walking across the courtyard next to jake, food in hand, and waving over at the two boys, completely unaware of the quarter-life-crisis occurring only a few feet away.

sunghoon keeps his face still, but his posture changes slightly. he pulls his shoulders back, takes a deep breath, straightens out the water bottle sitting in front of him for absolutely no reason.

“hey,” jake calls out, slapping jay lightly on the back as he drops into the seat next to him, “mind if we join?”

you’re already sliding into the empty spot next to sunghoon, easy, natural, like it’s just what you do. like this is normal. like sitting beside him is just…your place.

“’course not,” sunghoon mutters, politely, evenly, eyes fixed on absolutely anything else that isn’t you. the water bottle, the condensation, the way the light hits the plastic. fascinating stuff, really.

you shift, just a little—knees angled toward him, shoulder brushing close enough that he can feel your warmth, not touching, but enough to notice the space between you.

“hey,” you say. it’s small, soft, casual. it’s nothing dramatic, but yet, sunghoon feels it like someone tugged a string from somewhere deep within his ribs.

he doesn’t look up, just nods.

“hey.” it’s neutral, nothing to analyze, nothing to misunderstand.

if you’re weren’t paying attention, you wouldn’t think anything of it. but here’s the thing, you are paying attention. so you offer him a faint smile, the kind that’s quiet, doesn’t demand anything, just acknowledgement.

and sunghoon sees it. his chest goes painfully warm. because he wants to look back. wants to return it. wants to ask how are you in a way that means i’ve been thinking about you and not just saying it to make small talk.

he wants to tell you he keeps replaying the sound of your laugh in his head and wants to say something stupid and honest and reckless like i hope the hoodie’s okay. actually, please just keep it. forever. i don’t want it back.

but instead, he focuses harder on anything and everything else around him. the way jake’s enthusiastically talking to jay about something with his hands. the wrinkled label on the water bottle. jay’s pasta, now stale and definitely cold. everything he doesn’t care about. because, right now, looking at the one thing he does care about feels too dangerous for himself.

and you notice. not in the dramatic why-are-you-avoiding-me kind of way, but in the micro-shift in your posture. the way your smile lingers for half a second longer than it should, like you were waiting for something. the way your fingers tap the edge of the table a few times. the way you let out a small exhale through your nose.

“—thinking just something small at our apartment,” jake’s voice finally cuts in, bright and loud. he’s gesturing big enough to knock jay over if he wanted to. “drinks, music—maybe ni-ki can dj if he doesn’t lose his shoe again.”

jay groans. “one, he is not dj-ing. last time was a one direction blender remix from hell. and two, ni-ki will never not lose his shoe.”

you laugh at that, the sound light, amused, genuine. and sunghoon swears his chest has never felt more tight.

jake continues, eyes wide and excited, “anyways—you guys are coming. this weekend. both of you. no excuses.”

sunghoon nods once, quick and automatic. “yeah. sure.”

your head tilts at that, just slightly—a tiny furrow in your brow, like you can sense something in the air is different.

and sunghoon tries his best to pretend he doesn’t notice. tries to pretend that the sudden distance between you isn’t something he’s actively building with his own hands. but it feels awful.

because he knows what he’s doing. doing the exact thing jay told him not to do—the easy thing. pulling back, shrinking, playing it safe. as if safety has ever saved him from anything.

he swallows hard. his jaw clenches. the collar of his shirt suddenly feels too hot, too tight. but the conversation keeps moving around him anyways—jake rambling about playlists, jay complaining about how he’s going to be forced to help clean afterwards—voices blended together into one long, meaningless sound.

meanwhile, sunghoon is somewhere else entirely. somewhere between panic and longing and the quiet awareness of his own undoing. he finally risks a glance, quick and careful, but just enough to look at you. and you’re already looking back at jake now, laughing gently, the kind that sunghoon could definitely get used to, but—

your fingers still tap against the table. your leg bounces next to his, as if in anticipation, as if aware.

and sunghoon’s chest aches in a way he can’t explain. not to himself. and definitely not to you.

the next time sunghoon sees you, he swears it’s not his fault.

at least, he’d like to think so. but statistically speaking—and sunghoon knows his statistics—it probably was his fault anyways.

the parking lot is nearly empty, close to sunset hour—that small time in between where the sky is barely turning colors and everything looks a little softer around the edges, the campus quieting down in the way it only is when all classes have ended for the week and everyone’s going home.

sunghoon’s already halfway through the lot, keys dangling from hand, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder. and he’s so close. dangerously, blissfully close to freedom. to going home, collapsing onto the couch, arguing with jay over takeout before inevitably eating cereal and playing league until his eyes dry out. so, yes, almost free.

almost able to pretend today didn’t happen. almost able to pretend he didn’t, once again, cause minor emotional and physical harm to the girl who has done nothing but exist and be moderately nice to him.

he unlocks his car, swings the back door open, tosses his backpack in with a soft thud. and then—he looks up.

and he sees you.

you’re a little ways across the lot—just far enough that sunghoon could pretend he didn’t notice you if he were a stronger man (he is not), but still close enough to see his hoodie’s sleeves pushed up to your elbows, a frown on your face as your phone is pressed to your ear, and the hood of your car propped open.

sunghoon watches as you pop your head back into your car and turn the key back into the ignition again and again and again—

to no avail. the car stays dead.

sunghoon hesitates. he internally debates. argues with himself for, like, three whole minutes.

he could leave. he could absolutely leave. you haven’t seen him yet. he could get in his car, drive away, go home, take a nice, warm shower even though it has weak water pressure, eat cereal over the sink, and pretend he never witnessed anything.

but instead, he stands there. like an idiot. staring across the parking lot with the look of someone who’s fighting with only himself.

don’t go. she definitely thinks you’re a curse.

go. she’s wearing your hoodie.

don’t go. what if you break the car somehow.

go. now. before she calls roadside assistance and meets a guy who’s better at life than you. or worse, jake.

don’t go. you’re supposed to be distancing. that’s the plan. that’s the safe thing. the smart thing, the—

you look up.

and when your eyes meet his, your expression softens, breaking into something comforting and relieved. like you’re glad to see him. you lift your hand and give a small wave.

and that’s it. that’s the end of sunghoon’s entire distancing plan.

he sighs.

fine. he is going.

he is a moth and you’re the closest open flame and he will simply have to deal with the consequences later.

his feet start to move before the rest of him agrees to it, shoulders stiff, posture trying very hard to look normal and calm and definitely not like he just had a full internal monologue breakdown. you give him a smile when he’s close enough—bright, easy, familiar, somehow—and sunghoon has to physically look away for a beat to reorient his mental wellbeing.

“car won’t start?” he says, even though he definitely already knows the answer.

you let out a breath, the sound coming out like a laugh as if the situation is somehow funny instead of deeply annoying. “yeah. i think the battery’s dead. or the universe hates me specifically. either one.”

sunghoon’s lips twitch because he’s sure if the universe hates anyone specifically, it’s him. “could be both.”

your smile widens as you look up at him, “definitely both.”

there’s a short pause that falls between you two for a second before you speak up again, “i tried calling the roadside people but it keeps going straight to voicemail, which feels pretty ironic.”

“i’m pretty sure roadside assistance is a scam anyways,” he says, shrugging as he tucks his hands deep into his pockets. “i think they just nap in trucks and hope people give up.”

you laugh at that, fully this time, and it’s even softer, warmer, like the joke wasn’t even that funny but you like the way he said it. and sunghoon is ridiculously glad his hands are in his pockets now, because his fingers twitch at the sound.

and park sunghoon is not a car guy. not even a little bit. he failed his driver’s license test twice. and not even the driving part—he failed the written part. both times. he still has to google which side his gas tank is on. and he’s pretty sure his car is two years due for an oil change.

so what he does next is absolutely logical, because sunghoon is not touching your car with a ten foot pole. what he does is what any rational, non-car expert, guy with a raging crush and a fully functioning car would do in this situation:

“do you…want a ride home?” he offers, though it comes out more like a question to himself.

your lips part just slightly. surprise flickers across your face—and then something else. something unreadable. something that feels like a soft yes. “really? you don’t mind?”

sunghoon nods—casual, casual, very casual—despite the fact that his heart is jumping around in his ribcage at the thought of you sitting in his passenger seat.

“i mean…” he clears his throat, eyes down to the ground just to avoid yours. “we literally live down the hall from one other. i wouldn’t exactly be able to sleep peacefully knowing you got stranded in a parking lot.”

your smile widens a bit more, real and grateful, as you fidget with the ends of the hoodie now. “okay,” you say. “yeah. i’d really appreciate that.”

and that’s how sunghoon finds himself walking you to his car—unlocking the passenger door for you like he was raised by parents who taught him manners (he was) and how to fall in love too fast (he does).

he gets in on his side, starts the car, and the radio is too loud, so he turns it down. then it’s too quiet, so he turns it up again. then regrets everything.

but he starts driving anyways, silence falling in between the two of you. he grips the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, and he clears his throat just to have something to do.

the engine hums, the sky slowly going from pink to orange around you two, but the one and only thing sunghoon can perceive is your presence in his hoodie in his car.

you look out the window, watching the campus buildings pass. “i always forget how pretty it gets around this time,” you murmur, suddenly breaking him out of his own thoughts.

sunghoon glances at you before focusing on the road again. “yeah,” he says, a little small. “it kind of sneaks up on you.”

you smile, not looking away from the window. and then suddenly, “you strike me as a sunset person.”

sunghoon stills and blinks, keeping his eyes trained on the road. “a what?”

“like…you seem like someone who appreciates that kind of stuff,” you explain, glancing slightly at him. “sunsets. late-night convenience store runs. peeling fruit the slow way. that kind of person.”

sunghoon opens his mouth. then closes it, because he does not know what to do with that sentence.

“i..i guess?” he tries, trying very hard not to panic at the idea of someone, namely you, having thoughts about him. “well, you seem like a…sunrise person.”

you turn to look at him fully now, and you laugh under your breath, “i’m definitely not a morning person.”

“no. not morning,” he says, shaking his head a little. he turns right at a stop sign, his hand loose on the wheel now, almost relaxed. almost. “just…the feeling of starting fresh.”

you don’t say anything right away. you just look at him, eyes trained to the side of his face, as if you’re trying to figure something out.

and sunghoon nearly drives into a parked prius, but he hopes you don’t notice that.

you look back out your window, but your smile stays, “that was weirdly poetic of you, park sunghoon.”

sunghoon swallows hard, but his grip loosens some more. the quiet settles again after that, but now it’s different. lighter, easier. you start talking about the small things, nothing earth-shattering, but something comfortable. something about the terrible on-campus breakfast, the vending machine that stole your dollar this morning, how jake broke your coffee machine after two uses. but the whole time—sunghoon can’t help but think.

think how maybe in another universe, this is normal.

maybe in another universe, you’re always in his passenger seat at the end of the day. maybe he drives you home not out of chance, but because it’s routine. because you’re just in each other’s lives. because this is what you do. because he knows what songs you like to play when you’re tired and which stores you stop at on the way home and how you hum when you think about what you want to eat for dinner.

maybe in another universe, he didn’t meet you by accidentally hitting you in the face with a football. maybe in that universe, he’s…normal. not whatever this is—this mess of nerves and second guesses and catastrophes that only ever seem to happen to him whenever he’s with you.

maybe in that universe, he meets you at one of jake’s parties he throws too often. maybe you’re laughing at something someone said, holding a red cup and leaning against the counter, and sunghoon sees you from across the room the way people see things they were always meant to find.

maybe he walks over—all steady and confident—and says something easy, something light, something that makes your smile bloom slowly and softly at him. not out of politeness, not out of pity because he threw up all over you. just because you want to.

maybe in that universe, he gets the girl. but this is not that universe.

and when the car rolls to a stop outside the building, sunghoon still finds himself walking you to your door.

because of course he does. because he wants to. because he doesn’t know how not to.

you stop in front of your apartment, keys already halfway in the door, and turn to him, meeting his eyes fully.

“thank you,” you say, and the look in your eyes is soft. honest. and something else, something sunghoon can’t quite place and, frankly, is afraid to. “for the ride—” and then you look down, fingers toying with the drawstring of the hoodie, like it means something you don’t have words for just yet, “—and the hoodie.”

and as sunghoon looks at you in the quiet of the hallway—just you, him, the flicker of the dying lightbulb a few doors down, and the pure warmth he feels around you—he thinks there’s a version of this moment where he says it all.

where he doesn’t swallow everything down, doesn’t mistake silence for safety. where he tells you he hasn’t stopped thinking about you since the first time you laughed in his direction, that the sound of it still sits in his chest. where he admits that every stupid mistake, every clumsy accident, somehow only pulled him closer.

but instead, this version has him standing still, heart in his throat, pretending that wanting you quietly is the same as not wanting you at all.

so he just nods.

“yeah. of course.”

you smile one more time, soft and unsure, lingering just a beat too long—like you’re waiting for him to say something else, or maybe trying to find the courage to say something yourself.

but then you turn, hand halfway reaching to the door handle, and pause. your fingers hover mid-air. the hallway hums with nothing but silence and the heaviness of everything left unsaid between you two.

sunghoon straightens instinctively, caught off guard by the stillness that follows.

you turn back to him. “can i—” your voice comes quieter this time, hesitant in a new way he hasn’t heard before. “—can i ask you something?”

sunghoon blinks, his throat suddenly dry. “uh…yeah. of course. what’s up?”

“we’re cool, right?” you ask, eyes wide and searching his face. “like…we’re friends?”

and the words hit harder than they should. sunghoon does not know how to answer that. because how exactly does he even define what this is? a one-sided crush? forced proximity? neighbors-turned-accidental-victim-and-perpetrator-turned-friends?

“um—yeah,” he finally says, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “i’d say so.”

you study him for a long second, lips parting like you’re testing to see whether he’s lying. “okay. i just…didn’t know if i did something wrong. you seemed a little off earlier, at lunch.” and your laugh that follows is small, nervous, the kind people use to soften a truth. “and i overthink sometimes, so…yeah.”

sunghoon’s heart twists sharply at that. you, overthinking. you, worrying if you’d done something wrong when he’s the one building the wall between you.

“no,” he blurts before he can stop himself. it comes out too fast, too honest, but he keeps going anyways. “no, you didn’t do anything.” he clears his throat, a bubble of nerves rising too fast. “i just…wasn’t feeling great. long day, you know? classes and…exploding chemicals and stuff,” he exhales, the corner of his mouth twitching.

your shoulders relax, the worry written all over your face fading into something gentler and amused. “okay,” you say with a nod, your smile returning. “just wanted to make sure. friends, then?”

the word stings again, but sunghoon forces a smile anyways. “friends.”

you grin—wide and bright—and it makes something in his chest go weightless and heavy all at once. because, sunghoon realizes, not for the first time, this is what he likes about you, maybe. that you’re not all sharp edges and confidence like he thought. you’re also warmth and thoughtfulness and awkward timing, the kind of person who checks in even when you don’t have to. just because you want to, and just because you mean it.

“i’ll see you tomorrow then?” you say, hand going back to unlock your door. “at the party?”

sunghoon nods. “wouldn’t wanna miss it.”

you look back and smile at him one more time before slipping inside, the door closing gently behind you. sunghoon stands there for a moment, clinging to the warmth of your presence still in the air, lungs tight, and heart somewhere between the pavement of the parking lot and the memory of seeing you for the first time that day in the courtyard.

and he thinks—not for the first time, and definitely not for the last—

in this universe? he is truly, utterly, deeply doomed.

“so you’re really not coming?”

jay’s already standing by the door, shoes on, dressed in what he considers casual party attire, which means a wrinkled overshirt that might be clean, with a white shirt under that definitely isn’t, and jeans he absolutely pulled off the back of his desk chair. his keys jingle in his hand as he leans against the door frame, waiting for sunghoon to fold.

“yes, jay. i’m staying.” sunghoon doesn’t even look up from the couch, eyes trained on the random documentary that he found on the nature channel playing in front of him. “and frankly, you can’t make me go.”

jay lets out a huff. “jake could. and he will. we literally live ten feet away, he’ll drag you by your ankles if he has to.”

“then tell him i’m sick,” sunghoon mutters back, slouching deeper into the couch like he’s trying to merge with it. “like the flu or something.”

jay’s laugh that comes after is a loud, disbelieving, ha.

“that’s so bull. you only ever get sick for two reasons,” he holds up two fingers. “one, when you drink too much, and two, when you get that suspicious ass chinese takeout i keep telling you to stop ordering.”

sunghoon finally looks up from the tv to glare at him. for a second, it looks like he might get up—stand his ground, be a grown man, assert dominance or whatever the sunghoon equivalent is to that.

he doesn’t.

he just grabs the nearest couch pillow and launches it in jay’s direction with zero aim, zero strategy, and zero strength.

jay looks at the pillow. then at sunghoon. “wow,” he says flatly before tossing it back onto the far end of the couch.

“okay, fine,” jay continues, a mix of amusement and pity in his tone, “but you’re really gonna sit here on a saturday night—” he cranes his neck toward the tv, brows furrowing, “—watching a documentary about…dinosaur extinction?”

“dinosaurs are cool,” sunghoon says, eyes narrowing in defense. “plus, i’m tired.”

“no,” jay crosses his arms. “you’re lying.”

sunghoon then lets out a sigh through his nose, because—yeah, he is. but he doesn’t let jay know that. because what he wants to say is that he’s exhausted, but not in the way that sleep can fix. the kind of exhaustion that comes from thinking too much and saying too little. from the drive home yesterday that replayed in his head so vividly he’s starting to remember it like a movie he’ll never get to rewatch. from the realization that every time you smile, something inside him shifts a little, softly, painfully, and permanently.

and that terrifies him. because sunghoon has never been that guy. not the one who gets the girl, not the one who says the right thing at the right time. he’s the background character—the one who holds the door, smiles too late, apologizes too much.

so no, he can’t go to that party. he can’t stand in a crowded room watching you light up the way you do—laughing at something someone else will say, someone else’s story, someone else’s joke, someone who isn’t actively avoiding you for your own good—reminding him of all the ways he can’t have you.

jay stares for a beat longer, studying him like he’s about to bring up the topic sunghoon’s been avoiding all day and night—but he doesn’t. he just exhales, slow and knowing, and reaches for the door. “fine. i’ll tell jake you caught the plague or something.”

and after jay leaves, sunghoon’s not sure how much time passes. the apartment settles into that kind of quiet that lets you hear the hum of the fridge, the faint tick of the clock in the hallway that jay insists adds ambience, the low static of the tv playing in front of him.

sunghoon is still on the couch, now half under a blanket he stole from jay’s room, his eyes fixed on the screen, where a cgi triceratops is doing something probably scientifically inaccurate. but it doesn’t matter anyways because he hasn’t been paying attention for the past forty minutes. because his mind is somewhere else. it’s been somewhere else since you shut your door one night ago, wearing his hoodie and smiling at him like he hadn’t spent the whole day overthinking about you.

and he tells himself—again, again, and again—that this distance thing is good. smart. necessary. that the safest point between your two paths is the one where he never hurts you again. where he removes himself before he ruins something that could’ve been easy, simple, normal.

and sunghoon almost believes it, too.

until his phone buzzes.

it buzzes once, and it’s quick and sharp, yet cuts through his silence. he glances at the coffee table and stares at it. he almost doesn’t want to pick it up, as if he knows who it is and is avoiding the inevitable.

but he reaches for it anyway.

Y/N (11:15PM) : hii sunghoon

and his heart drops. he stares at the screen. doesn’t type. doesn’t move. his thumb hovers just above the message box just as his phone buzzes again in his hand:

Y/N (11:16PM) : jay told me you weren’t feeling well :( i hope everything’s ok

sunghoon inhales sharply through his nose. his jaw tightens. because, no, nothing’s okay with sunghoon. not really. not the kind of ‘not okay’ that he could exactly explain to you, though. it’s not a headache or a fever or whatever lie jay came up with. somewhere more like the ache of wanting something he’s convinced he shouldn’t. something that looks a lot like you.

his brain starts the war almost instantly.

don’t answer. you’re supposed to be distancing, remember? this is the plan.

don’t be an asshole. just say thanks. be normal for once in your life.

sunghoon groans quietly, head hitting back against the couch as he presses the heel of his hand to his forehead.

then your third text lights up the screen.

Y/N (11:18PM) : do you want me to bring anything?

and sunghoon’s brain short circuits completely.

yes. you. here. now.

you standing in his doorway, wearing his hoodie again like it’s the most natural, normal thing in the world. you filling the apartment with that quiet warmth you seem to carry everywhere. you sitting beside him on this stupid couch watching stupid documentaries with him until stupid hours of the night.

but because he can’t exactly put that feeling into logical words, he instead stares at his screen for a little too long, fighting with the part of him that’s screaming to stop pretending he doesn’t care.

he stares long enough at your words that the screen dims, and he has to tap it once just to see your name again.

his thumb twitches—hovering, shaking—because a part of him wants to break the rules he set for himself. wants to answer you. wants to let himself want you.

but he doesn’t.

he shuts his phone off, flips it back down on the table, and pushes it away like it’s the devil himself. his throat burns, his chest hurts. he leans back into the couch, closing his eyes, and exhales—slow, heavy, resigned.

because if he answers, he’ll just want more again. and wanting has never ended well for sunghoon. so he tells himself you’re just being kind, that this is what you do because this is who you are. you care, you reach out, you text first. you say things like hope you’re okay and ask if he needs anything because you ask everyone that. because you’re a friend.

sunghoon sinks deeper into the couch, trying his best to breathe through the tightness that refuses to leave. the clock ticks, the documentary plays, the phone stays face down.

and just when sunghoon finally feels himself settle—

the front door slams open.

“—OKAY. first of all, you’re coming to this party. and second of all, you’re so stupid.”

jake storms in at full volume, the door slamming shut behind him with the force of someone who has no respect for privacy and apparently door hinges. he’s flushed—cheeks pink, eyes bright, hair a mess, which means he definitely pregamed his own party.

sunghoon jolts upright so fast he nearly falls off the couch. “jesus christ—”

but jake is already toeing off his shoes like he lives here, marching across the living room like a man on a mission, and unfortunately for sunghoon, that mission is him.

“dude,” jake says, pointing at him like an accusation, “what the hell is wrong with you?”

sunghoon groans, dragging a hand down his face. this is jay’s fault. this is all jay’s fault. it’s always jay’s fault. jay never locks the door and this is the consequence for sunghoon not checking. this is karma. this is the plague he supposedly caught. he’s never lying again.

“so tell me why jay said you’re sick,” jake even air quotes it. “‘sick.’”

a beat.

“which is a lie, by the way.”

sunghoon glares weakly. “why does everyone just casually know the conditions under which i get sick?”

“because,” jake raises a finger, counting, “one, you only get sick when you drink too much—”

sunghoon mutters, “oh my god—”

“and two—” jake continues, louder, a second finger in sunghoon’s face, “—when you get chinese food from that cursed corner place i keep telling you not to order from. so unless you did either of those tonight, which you didn’t—because they only take venmo and i checked your venmo transactions—”

“why the fuck are you checking my venmo transacti—”

“—you’re not sick.” jake finishes triumphantly.

“you, jay, and i need to have a conversation about boundaries,” sunghoon deadpans at the boy in front of him.

“don’t deflect,” jake snaps at him. “you’re avoiding the question.”

sunghoon slumps back into the couch cushions, silently praying for death. or a sinkhole. or spontaneous combustion. he’s not picky, really.

“i’ll just go to the next one, okay?” he mutters from his spot. “it’s no big deal.”

and jake gives him a look that says he’s offended. like, genuinely offended.

“it is a big deal,” jake squints, marching a few steps closer. “you’re not skipping this just to avoid y/n. what are you, twelve?”

sunghoon instantly shoots upright again, a look betrayal on his face, “i—what, who said anything about—”

“jay.”

sunghoon shuts his eyes. exhales. counts to three.

jay is fired. jay is beyond fired. he is never telling jay anything ever again.

“and also, i just know you,” jake continues, pacing the living room like this is an intervention sunghoon is now apparently a part of. “you can’t keep doing this. moping around, feeling sorry for yourself just because you made a few minor accidents.”

“a few major—”

“—yes, sunghoon. a few minor ones,” jake says, waving a casual hand through the air. “just go to the party, talk to her, apologize. kiss and make up—actually, don’t do that one unless the vibe is right—but you get my point. just don’t sit here doing this sad boy act and torturing yourself.”

sunghoon narrows his eyes at him, because he forgets—he always forgets—how stupidly well jake knows him.

jake, who once sat with sunghoon on the curb after a failed calculus final and talked him out of dropping out entirely by buying him a churro and saying, ‘your brain just had a lag.’

jake, who memorized sunghoon’s stress tells by sophomore year of highschool—right thumb tapping: anxious; left thumb tapping: spiraling.

jake, who once dragged him out of bed at 2AM because he ‘felt in his soul’ that sunghoon needed fresh air and a convenience store slushie.

jake, who has known every single crush sunghoon’s ever had—most of whom sunghoon barely even realized were crushes until jake said something.

so yeah. of course jake sees right through him.

sunghoon looks away, jaw tight. eventually, he lets out a sigh, “jake, it’s not that simple.”

“sure it is,” jake stops, hands on his hips. “you just make it complicated.”

sunghoon looks up then, and his expression isn’t defensive. just resigned—the kind that comes from trying too hard to convince yourself you don’t care that there’s no way you could go back now.

“i’m not going,” he says finally. “end of story.”

and for a moment, jake looks like he might argue again, brows drawn together, mouth opening. but then he stops. his mouth shuts and something soft flashes in his eyes. he lets out an exhale.

“fine,” he turns to the door, already putting his shoes on. “stay here. be mysterious and tortured or whatever.”

sunghoon doesn’t reply. he just watches the glow of the tv flicker across the living room—tiny prehistoric creatures moving across the screen, narrator droning on.

and right as jake is about to leave, he pauses. “oh, by the way—” he adds casually. “she was asking about you.”

sunghoon freezes. his heart does something absolutely violent and traitorous inside his chest.

jake then glances over his shoulder, “she was looking for you, actually,”

and that’s it. that’s the crack in sunghoon’s entire resolve.

because logic means nothing when it comes to you. because distance means absolutely nothing when you’re still thinking about him. and restraint? restraint dies instantly because he can already see it—you, at that party, somewhere in the crowd, wearing something that’s definitely going to make sunghoon stop breathing, holding a drink and smiling at someone who could be him, but isn’t.

jake opens the door. “see you there, yeah?”

sunghoon didn’t really know what the plan was. not really, anyways.

but here he is.

the music’s too loud, the lighting’s too low, tinted red in that way that makes everyone look vaguely better but slightly untrustworthy, and everything smells faintly of fruit punch, cheap beer, and body spray. there’s a sticky patch on the floor that catches the sole of his shoe everytime he shifts his weight, and someone spilled an entire drink near the door but everyone’s pretending they don’t see it.

and now sunghoon’s standing in the corner, yet again, red solo cup in hand, the deja vu washing over from last time. he’s already warm—cheeks flushed from the multiple shots jake forced into his hand the moment he arrived, calling them ‘celebration shots’ for finally showing up. jake took three. jay took one, immediately regretted it, but took a second one anyways. sunghoon took two and was rudely reminded him and alcohol don’t like one another.

now he’s approximately three minutes into a conversation with a classmate whose name he absolutely does not remember but is pretending he does because lying feels easier than admitting he forgot. the poor guy is saying something about his econ midterm, but the words wash over sunghoon like static. because even while nodding politely, even through the chaos of the environment, sunghoon’s eyes find you.

of course they do.

you’re across the room by the couch, cup in hand, laughing at something someone just said. your head tilts back a little, your mouth curves in that way that knocks the air straight out of his lungs. it’s the kind of laugh that makes strangers look your way without knowing why. the kind of laugh that gets stuck in his head for days after.

and, of course, you look good.

unfairly good.

your hair soft under the shifting lights, your cheeks glowing, your sweater hanging just right on your frame. there’s something about you—always something—that makes you look like a secret sunghoon wants to keep, a discovery he wants no one else to find, something he wants to learn slowly, quietly, intimately.

he swallows hard. looks away. then looks back again, because he can’t not.

and then, almost as if you can feel that he’s staring—you glance up. your eyes scan the room lazily, drifting over faces and shoulders and the mess of people. until they land on him.

your expression softens. surprised, but warm. a small, easy smile curves onto your lips—one that says oh, you came, and something else he’s too scared to interpret.

and sunghoon, because he’s sunghoon, and a complete, absolute idiot—panics.

he panics and turns away. pretends to be very interested in the contents of his red solo cup that he knows isn’t even close to edible. nods along to whatever econ-related nonsense the guy in front of him is saying like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever heard.

and he doesn’t see it—but you frown slightly. doesn’t see the way your smile falters, something uncertain flickering across your face. doesn’t see the slight confusion in your eyes before you turn back to your group.

and that’s how it starts. the night spins on just like that—full of almosts and not quites and hesitation.

you find him in the kitchen a little bit later. he’s pouring something that looks just as inedible as before into his cup, and you smile when he notices you.

“hey—i’m glad you made it, you feeling better?”

but sunghoon startles like you’ve caught him doing something wrong. he steps back too quickly, nearly bumping the counter, muttering something along the lines of ‘yeah—i’m okay, fine—’ before he excuses himself to find jay.

later, you end next to him in the circle when jake—who’s already too many shots in—suggests a game of truth or dare. you sit, knee brushing sunghoon’s for a second, before he abruptly stands up, mumbling about needing more ice in his cup before disappearing into the crowd.

and then it keeps happening. you’re mid-conversation with jay and jake, laughing at something ridiculous they just said, when your eyes move across the room, as if your body can’t help but instinctively search for him. when you finally find him again—leaning against the wall across the room, phone in hand, eyes meeting his for a brief second—his gaze darts immediately back down to his phone as if nothing just happened.

you start to notice it—the way he never stays in the same place as you for long, the way he keeps his shoulders angled away from you, the way his smile turns tight and fades when you step too close. the way his eyes flash with something heavy and unspoken before he drags them away from you as if touching you would be dangerous.

you try to tell yourself you’re imagining it, that maybe he’s tired, that it’s the alcohol or the lighting or ni-ki’s loud karaoke or anything else.

your chest feels tight. the air feels heavier than it should. jay is rambling about unplugging the karaoke machine before ni-ki loses his voice, jake is doubled over laughing, red cup in hand that you should definitely take away from him, but none of it feels right anymore.

and it’s ridiculous, really. because you shouldn’t care this much. because, technically, sunghoon is no one to you. just a boy you met recently. a boy who happened to be decent-looking—very, very, decent-looking. who happened to be clumsy in a way that drew you in instead of away. who happened to be your neighbor. your roommate’s best friend. a guy with pretty hands and a nervous laugh and a tendency to panic whenever you tried to flirt with him on purpose.

and, honestly—at first it was fun.

because you’re not oblivious. you’re not dense. you noticed the way he got nervous around you. you saw the way his eyes widened the first time you ever said his full name, the way his breath caught when you leaned in, the way his hands shook the tiniest bit when you wore his hoodie.

and god, you liked it. you liked getting a reaction out of him. liked watching the way he came undone so easily around you.

but now? now that same boy won’t even look at you?

it feels worse than it should. worse than you want it to. worse than anything he’s done so far—and that includes accidentally assaulting you three times.

you tell yourself it’s fine. that it doesn’t matter. that you’re overthinking again, like you always do.

you laugh at something jake says. you clink your cup against jay’s and take another sip just to have something to do ith your hands. you smile, chat, pretend nothing’s wrong.

but then, from the corner of your eye, you see it.

the way sunghoon’s head turns when you laugh, just barely. the way his gaze flickers toward you for a second too long. the way his jaw tightens before he looks away again like he saw something he shouldn’t have.

and that’s when something inside you snaps. the ache shifts sharply, into something close to frustration, confusion and something hot behind your ribs that makes your drink taste too bitter and makes the room feel too loud.

you set your drink down on the table next to you, too hard. it spills over the rim. you don’t even care.

because what is this? what is he doing? and why does it sting so much?

jay says something to you—something that makes jake laugh again a little too loudly, but you barely hum in response, eyes already scanning the room again.

you find him again, now closer to the back hallway, talking to someone you don’t recognize. he looks uncomfortable, like he almost always does, but there’s something else tonight. something distant.

and you’re done trying to figure it out.

you held back, you didn’t push. you swallowed your pride enough to ask him point-blank if you were even friends. you tried to read him, tried to be patient, tried to be understanding.

and now he’s avoiding you? after he’s the one who kept messing up? after he offered you his hoodie? after he drove you home? after everything?

you feel heat bubble in your throat, not from embarrassment, but something closer to hurt. something that feels too close to rejection from someone you barely even know.

you’re done. you’re done wondering. done overthinking. done waiting for him to make the first move.

so before you can talk yourself out of it, your feet are already moving. through the crowd, past the couch, past jay’s raised eyebrows, jake’s knowing smirk, and ni-ki’s off-key singing.

and when you finally get to him, he barely has a second to react before your hand catches his wrist and you’re pulling him into the dim hallway of the apartment that leads to where the bedrooms are. 

it’s quieter here, the thumping bass of the music fading into a distant pulse behind him, like a heartbeat finally slowing down—unlike his own. the air is cooler, laced with the faint scent of spilled beer you’re going to lose your mind over in the morning and whatever cheap air freshener jake sprayed earlier—but it’s still a relief from the chaotic swirl of bodies and flashing lights in the living room.

sunghoon stumbles a little as you tug him along, finally stopping with a soft thump when his back hits the wall. he’s trapped—stuck against the peeling wallpaper and your hand still wrapped tightly around his wrist. his eyes widen, the look on his face equal parts confusion, surprise, and something else, something that makes your stomach flip.

“so are you going to tell me why you’re ignoring me?” your voice comes out sharper than you intended, raw with the sting of it all—the silence, the distance, the hurt flashing in your eyes as you watch him falter.

sunghoon’s mouth opens, then closes, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. his cheeks are flushed pink under the dim lighting, and you can’t tell if it’s from the shots he knocked back earlier with jay and jake or from the way you’re standing so close.

“i—i’m…” he’s stammering, his voice low, almost like a whisper stuck in throat, like he’s afraid the words will shatter everything between you. “i don’t—” 

“because first of all,” you step closer, “you tell me we’re fine, we’re friends, we’re cool, that i didn’t do anything wrong—”

his eyes flicker in panic. breath stutters, chest rising too fast. 

“—and then you ignore my texts. completely avoid me. won’t even look at me. in my own apartment.” you exhale sharply. “i’m confused, sunghoon.” 

and for a moment, neither of you move. the music muffled now, just an echo behind you, and the hallway feels too quiet. too intimate, too charged, like the world narrowed down to just the two of you. you loosen your grip on his wrist, but you don’t drop it. and he doesn’t pull away. he just looks at you like he’s bracing for impact. then, he swallows hard, “i—it’s not like i want to—” 

“...okay,” you cut in but your voice is softer, steadier, “then what is it?” 

you watch as sunghoon takes a breath as if to ground himself before he starts, “it’s just—i…” and suddenly his words tumble, trip, collapse over themself. “i don’t know. i just keep messing up. everytime. like the football, the shoes, the lab, probably somehow your car breaking down had something to do with me, literally everything—” 

“sunghoon—” 

“—and it’s like my body just glitches around you or something,” he blurts, running a hand through his hair. “i get nervous, then do something stupid, then you get hurt, and then i feel like an idiot—” his voice cracks and he has to take a breather before continuing again, “and i don’t know how to get myself to stop screwing up around you. i don’t know how to just be normal. not with you.”

his eyes drop. shoulders tense. he looks like he hates himself for saying any of that out loud.

you don’t say anything. you just look at him, studying the way his cheeks glow that soft pink, the slight part of his lips as he breathes unevenly, the way he looks at you with that raw, boyish vulnerability and nerves.

and then your anger melts into something else. something warmer, deeper, something that understands. something that makes the frustration soften and something that tugs at your chest. 

you step closer, close enough to feel the heat rolling off of him, close enough that he sucks in a breath like you just touched him even though you didn’t. a small smile makes its way to your face as you tilt your head to meet his eyes fully. your eyes flicker down his face—along the cut of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the way he swallows hard under your gaze. 

“okay then…just stop messing up,” you whisper, lips quirking just the tiniest bit. your tone is lighter now, teasing, like it’s the simplest solution in the world. 

sunghoon blinks at you. once, then twice. because you say that as if it’s easy. as if your simple existence being just mere inches away doesn’t set every nerve inside his being on fire. as if his heart isn’t pounding so loud and wild that he’s convinced you can hear it, drowning out the rest of the party around you. as if you’re not looking at him with your glossy eyes and lips, so close to his own, that he doesn’t know if he should kiss you or melt into the ground.

but none of that matters.

because you decide for him.

because the silence is too thick, too charged, and you can’t take it anymore. so before you can even think to stop yourself—

you lean in and close the distance, your lips brushing his in a hesitant, soft way that sends a jolt through you both. and it’s cautious at first, like testing the waters, and sunghoon genuinely believes he’s in a fever dream for a second. but then his hands suddenly find your waist and pull you in closer, and it shifts into so much more.

his lips move against yours with a newfound urgency, one hand sliding up to cup your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek. his back hits the wall again with the sudden motion, but he doesn’t care. in fact, in this moment, nothing else matters to sunghoon right now.

because you’re deepening the kiss, tasting the faint bitterness of beer on him, mixed with something sweeter, something unmistakably sunghoon, something that pulls you into a quicker, messier rhythm. a low groan escapes his throat, vibrating against your mouth, and it only fuels you further. you break apart for a breath, but only for a second before your lips crash into his again, your hands fisting in his hoodie as you push him harder against the wall. his fingers dig into your hips, pulling you flush against him until the heat between you becomes nearly unbearable.

“come on,” you murmur against his lips, your voice breathless as you grab his wrist again, but this time you tug him toward the first door in the hallway—your room—and push it open with your free hand.

the door clicks shut behind sunghoon, and he barely has a moment to take in the surroundings—dimly lit by the small lamp on the nightstand beside your bed, a string of lights laced along the headboard, a stack of annotated books piled on your desk, and a row of succulents perched on the windowsill. it’s all so warm, so utterly you.

that’s all he manages to register within the first 0.5 seconds of entering your room. because you don’t hesitate. your lips crash into his again, more fervent now, hungry, backing him hard against the door until the frame digs into his back but he doesn’t even care. 

sunghoon kisses you like he’s terrified it’ll end if he stops—too much tongue at first, then not enough, teeth clashing in the mix because he tilts wrong, nose bumping yours, a startled little huff escaping him when you nip his bottom lip and he doesn’t know whether to pull back or chase harder. his hands are everywhere and nowhere—gripping your waist tight, then loosening like he’s scared he’ll bruise you, then wandering up your back and fisting your sweater like it’s the only thing keeping him on earth. 

it’s sloppy, breathless, desperate in a way only a kiss can be when the person has waited twenty two years and repressed every memory that came before it. his rhythm falters with every push and pull, chasing your mouth when you pull for air, making these soft, involuntary sounds—half-whimper, half-groan—that he’ll probably overthink about later. 

“park sunghoon,” you whisper against his swollen lips, pulling back just enough that he instinctively follows, chasing, eyes still closed, and completely, utterly, wrecked. your hands knot in his hoodie, “am i your first kiss?” 

sunghoon’s eyes flutter open, hazy and dark with pure want as he looks down at you. “yeah—well, n—” the rest dies when your drag your teeth over his lower lip, slow and deliberate. a broken, needy sound tears out of him and his hips jerk forward involuntarily, “—no. yes? i think.”

“you think?” your hands slide into his hair, nails scraping lightly, and tug just enough to tip his head back. the soft thud of his back hitting the door again doesn’t even register—his arms only tighten around you, fingers everywhere like he’s trying to memorize your exact shape through fabric. “tell me.” 

“technically—” he starts, voice cracking. “there was this girl in tenth grade—” 

you cut him off again with your tongue this time, licking into his mouth slow and filthy, and whatever story he had dies against your lips. he makes another helpless noise, raw and surprised, and tries to copy the motion. his nose bumps yours again, his grip on your hips stutter, and every time he thinks he found the rhythm, you change it, and he whimpers like it hurts. it’s all messy, desperate, and perfect. 

one of his hands slides down—hesitant, then sudden—and cups the back of your thigh. he lifts it experimentally, and when you immediately hook your leg around his waist he groans like he’s been punched. you smirk against him, giving him credit for the confidence you didn’t think he had in him as he pulls you flush against his body. 

“—spin the bottle,” he manages to gasp out when you trail your mouth along his jaw now, nipping at the skin here and there. he tilts his head back, offering more as his eyes flutter closed again, a soft moan on his lips. “i bit her lip and she bled—”

you giggle softly against his jaw, teeth grazing the sharp line of it, and he shudders so violently his knees almost buckle. his voice is strained now, another small gasp cracking from his throat when you roll your hips once, the friction going straight to his core. “—and my therapist told me to repress traumatic memories so i don’t count it.” 

you freeze and pull back slightly, lifting an eyebrow as amusement flickers in your eyes despite the heat pooling in your core. “your therapist?”

sunghoon’s eyes are half-lidded, pupils blown wide, mouth swollen and red and still chasing yours. “uh. yeah. jay. jay is my therapist.”

your lips twitch, a small laugh bubbling out before you can catch it. god.

“fuck. you’re so cute,” you murmur, and the sound of your laugh seems to snap the last thread of any and all restraint sunghoon had left. you crash your mouth back into his the same second he surges forwards, kissing you like he’s drowning and you’re his oxygen, like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded at this point. you’re already moving, tugging the front of his hoodie, walking backward, pulling him with you step by stumbling step across the room. 

he follows without question, hands roaming everywhere all at once—up your back, into your hair, down to your ass like he can’t decide what he wants to hold onto most. his mouth never leaves yours, swallowing every soft noise you make, and every time you nip his lip he makes that same desperate little sound and tries to kiss your harder, deeper, messier. 

your legs hit the edge of the bed first, and you tumble backwards with a small thud. sunghoon stays standing at the foot of the bed, chest heaving, lips parted and shiny, hair a mess. his eyes rake over you—lips swollen, hair fanned across your pillow, that infuriating, knowing smirk still clinging to your mouth like you already know exactly what you look like sprawled out waiting for him.

and god, sunghoon thought he knew what living felt like. he thought he was pretty damn accomplished already—decent grades, a color-coded closet, the occasional victory when he plays league with the guys. but this? sunghoon just stares, like this sight of you like this is a religious experience he’s not worthy of. 

he’s never felt more alive.

you prop yourself up on your elbows, tilt your head, and your smirk widens. 

“gonna keep me waiting, park sunghoon?” 

you tease, an eyebrow arched as sunghoon shakes his head frantically in an almost comical, desperate no. he scrambles forward like a man possessed, knees sinking into the mattress before his weight is on you just right, one thigh easily slotting between yours as he leans down to capture your lips again. his hands shove under your sweater, palms hot and trembling against your ribs, thumbs brushing the underside of your bra like he’s afraid to go higher but dying to.

your hands roam up his back under his shirt, light enough to raise goosebumps, but hard enough to make him arch and grind down with a muffled, broken moan that vibrates straight into your mouth. his mouth trails everywhere, hot and open against your neck, tasting the cool metal of that stupidly delicate necklace, teeth nipping in that perfect, impossible way that hitches your breath and makes you wonder how the hell this could be his first time doing this.

his thigh presses firmer, rough denim rough against your bare skin where your skirt has slightly ridden up, and you can’t help it—you roll up into him, shameless, chasing the pressure, hips circling slow and needy—not sure what you’re after, just something, anything, to relieve the rising ache.

and that makes sunghoon freeze. just for a split second—his mouth hovering over your collarbone, breath ragged and uneven against your skin. you feel it right away, the faint tremor in his hands where they’re gripping your hips, the way his body tenses against yours. he pulls back slightly, just enough to meet your eyes—his own wide, pupils blown but laced with something else—uncertainty and pure, raw, nerves that make your heart twist.

“wait,” he breathes, voice low and rough. his forehead drops to yours, nose brushing, lips so close you can feel the ghost of them against yours, “i…i don’t know what i’m doing.”

and it’s the way the confession spills out. the way it sounds so vulnerable, jagged edges and all. the way his cheeks burn a deeper red that starts to creep down his neck. the way his fingers flex against your sides, like he’s afraid to let you go but equally afraid to keep touching.

the way his eyes hit you—with desire so thick it aches in your core, tangled with that boyish charm that only makes him so much more endearing, more real. you tilt your head up, your hands softening where they clutch his shoulders.

“sunghoon,” you whisper, voice soft but steady, thumb tracing a slow circle onto his hoodie. “that’s okay. we can stop, or we can keep going. whatever you’re comfortable with.”

and sunghoon swallows hard. every nerve he owns is screaming—your body soft and there beneath him, the way your legs are hooked around his waist, it’s all overwhelming, intoxicating, like he’s edged too close to the sun and has absolutely no intention of backing away. and sunghoon’s never been here before, never had anyone look at him like this. but he’s also never felt this way about anyone before. and that’s what makes his heart slam against his ribs.

his eyes drop to your lips before flickering back up. “yeah?” it’s barely a word, more like a pure plea, and god, the vulnerability in it tugs at you harder.

“yeah,” you lean in, brushing your mouth against his in a feather-light touch, not quite a kiss, but just enough to make him chase it. his breath hitches, hands sliding up your waist under your sweater again, hesitant but warmer now, like your words unlocked something for him.

“i just—i really like you, y/n,” his words are so soft and quiet you almost think you made it up. “—and i really don’t want to mess this up. more than i have.” his hands shake slightly on your waist, thumbs rubbing gentle circles over your skin as the confession hangs there between you like something holy and obscene at the same time. 

you lean up and give him a full kiss this time, soft, gentle, and reassuring, then smile against him, shifting your hips just enough against him to draw a sharp inhale from him. “you won’t, hoon,” you whisper, nipping at his lower lip, tugging it gently between your own until he groans. “trust me, you’re not going anywhere.” you fingers weave back into his hair, guiding him back down as you capture his lips again—slower this time, letting him set the pace even as you arch up to meet him.

and sunghoon melts into it, his tongue shyly tracing your lips until you part for him, letting him in with a soft sigh that goes straight to his core. his hands gain confidence, sliding up your sides, palms warm and slightly calloused as they explore the curve of your ribs, stopping just shy of your bra like he’s silently asking for permission. you nod into the kiss, arching your body into his hands, and he exhales like he’s been holding that breath for years. fingers shove your sweater up and off in one frantic motion, and the cool air hits your skin the same second his mouth does—and it’s hot, open, starving against your throat. 

your hands go down to the ends of his hoodie, dragging the material up his chest yourself, nails raking over his abs, feeling them tense under your touch. “off,” you mumble into his mouth. 

sunghoon doesn’t hesitate—he takes it off so fast and clumsily, in park sunghoon fashion, that he almost elbows himself in the face but that doesn’t matter. it’s tossed blindly into the corner of your room before he’s back, chest pressing against you, skin already boiling hot. 

his lips find your throat again, this time sucking a small mark just below your jaw, harder than before, teeth scraping, tongue soothing, and when he pulls back to check your face, there’s still that flicker of hesitation, like he’s waiting for you to tell him no.

“this okay?” he murmurs against the bruise he just left, voice wrecked, his hips rolling down experimentally—a slow, grinding press that has you gasping, thighs tightening around him, the rough drag of his pants over your bare thighs sending a fresh wave of heat pooling low in your belly. sunghoon’s breath catches—sharp and audible—like he’s just discovered something forbidden, his eyes flicking down to where your bodies connect, then back up to your face, searching, pleading. 

you can’t answer with words. you just arch up even more, grinding your heat against the now obvious length of him, and the broken moan that rips out of his throat is unholy. he starts to move a little faster, barely holding it together as he chases the way you’re arched off the bed. his hands brace on either side of your head, arms trembling faintly from the effort of holding himself up, caging you in the best kind of trap.

you nod, biting your lip to stifle back a moan, your hands sliding down his sides with a firm press. “yeah, just like that,” you whisper, voice laced with encouragement that makes his pupils go wider. “keep going, just feel me.”

he follows your lead, eyes locked on yours, lips parted in awe as he follows your rhythm. “fuck,” he breathes, forehead dropping to yours again. another roll, deeper this time, heavier, his hardening length unmistakable through his jeans, pressing right where you need it, drawing a whimper from your throat. “like this?”

“yes, perfect, hoon,” you let out, rewarding him with a tilt of your hips that has him cursing again under his breath, his movements faltering for a second before he steadies himself again. “use your hands, baby. touch me. here.” you take one of his palms and guide it between your bodies and beneath your bra, molding his broad hand over your breast and squeezing it lightly with your own fingers laced over his.

sunghoon’s eyes darken to near black as he stares at his hand on you like it’s a miracle. the hesitation flickers again—he bites his lip hard, eyes darting to yours for that final green light. you nod, arching into his touch and removing your own hand before he finally moves, thumb circling slowly at first, then bolder, pinching lightly until you gasp his name, “sunghoon—yes, harder.” 

he obeys instantly, rolling the bud between his fingers while kneading with a confidence that borders on desperate. the sensation releases another moan from you, this time loud enough that he clamps his free hand over your mouth instinctively, his eyes blown in a panic. 

“shh—people might—” but you don’t let him finish. 

you take his thumb between your lips, sucking it without any hesitation that leaves him choking on a sound that’s half-moan, half-whine, hips now jerking erratically against yours. his hand falls away, replaced by his mouth crashing into yours—messy, all teeth and tongue, swallowing your moans as he grinds harder, faster, the rough drag of fabric and heat coiling tight between you until you’re both chasing that edge, breathless and lost.

sunghoon should be embarrassed, really. the only one coherent thought left rattling around his skull is: 

he’s about to cum in his pants like a goddamn middle-schooler and there’s not a single thing he can do to stop it.

he can’t stop the obscene sounds spilling from his mouth, his gut feels like it’s on fire in the best way possible, and he’s jerking his body against your soaked heat like it’s trying to fight its way through the pathetic fabric. it’s his first time with a girl, and he might not even make it to the first time part at this point. 

“skirt. push it up,” you pant against his lips, and he does, fumbling his fingers to fully hike the fabric to your waist, exposing the thin barrier of your underwear. his hand hovers there, burning over your thigh, inches from where you’re aching and soaked for him. “touch me, hoon,” you urge, not waiting to take his wrist and press his palm right over your wet core, letting him feel the way you’re absolutely dripping through the lace.

sunghoon’s entire body locks at the sensation, eyes in shock, lips shiny and swollen as he stares down at you, chest heaving. “i—fuck, you’re…wet.” the word comes out slowly, almost disbelieving. his fingers flex, tracing the outline of you through the thin fabric. your mouth drops open slightly at the sensation as you buck up into his hand with a sharp whine, nodding.

“yeah, for you, hoon. now rub, like—” you move his fingers for him, showing the motion—slow, firm circles over your clit that already have your legs trembling, eyes fluttering closed at the feeling. he easily takes over after two strokes, copying perfectly, his touch turning slick as he presses firmer, learning your body like it’s his new religion. “oh god—yes, right there, don’t stop—”

and he definitely isn’t planning on it. sunghoon’s mesmerized, forehead pressed to your shoulder now, watching his own hand work between your legs like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen. his hips keep grinding, chasing his own friction clumsily against your soft thigh, breaths coming in hot gasps against your skin.

“sunghoon—fuck,” you whimper, the praise spilling out as his thumb finds that perfect rhythm on your clit, circles tightening, faster now, the slick sounds filling the room obscenely. he groans like it’s the hottest thing he’s ever heard, his free hand clamped on the headboard above you to steady himself.

“am i—is this good?” his words come out cracked and rough, raw desperation threading through it as he presses two fingers experimentally against your entrance through the soaked fabric, feeling you flutter and pulse for him. his hips grind down harder in response to your every twitch, the bulge in his jeans now straining, hot and insistent against your thigh. sunghoon’s unraveling—muscles tense, cheeks flushed, abdomen flexing with every roll—but those big, pleading eyes keep flicking up to yours constantly, almost as if begging for reassurance, for you to keep leading him through this fire.

“perfect, baby. so, so good,” you choke out, your hand shooting down to cover his, guiding his fingers to slip right under the edge of your underwear now. “inside—now. curl them up, like this.” you demonstrate with his hand, pushing one long finger past your folds, then two. and he slides in so easily, your arousal coating him instantly. the stretch burns sweetly, and you both moan—his a broken, addicting sound that sends a vibration straight through you.

sunghoon stops again, buried to the knuckles, eyes staring down at where he’s disappearing inside you. “holy shit,” his voice is wrecked, feeling the way you clench instantly around him. “you’re so—tight—fuck, i can feel you—” his fingers twitch inside you, curling just like you showed him, brushing that one spot that makes your eyes roll back instantly.

“right there. right there, hoon. please—” you cry out, back arching off the bed, nails raking down his bare back hard enough that it stings but he doesn’t care. your words give him the confidence to move—gentle thrusts at first, scissoring his fingers gently, learning the slick glide of you around him, then bolder, fast, his thumb never leaving your clit. the dual sensation has you seeing white, the pleasure coiling violently tight in your core, breaths coming in sobs now.

his forehead drops to yours, noses bumping, lips brushing yours in frantic, open-mouthed kisses that are more shared air than anything. “tell me—fuck, tell me what else,” he’s panting against your mouth, his free hand moving from the headboard to palm your breast fully, rolling your nipple between his fingers. “want to make you—cum—please, show me how—”

and that plea—raw, ruined, his—snaps the coil. 

you shatter—walls clamping down hard on his fingers that they stutter inside you, your orgasm rushing through in sudden waves before you could see it coming. “sunghoon—yes, yes, yes—” your cries muffle into his shoulder, thighs shaking uncontrollably, gushing over his hand in a rush that soaks his fingers, his wrist, the sheets beneath you.

sunghoon whines, all high and uneven as he watches you come undone on his fingers, squeezing him like you’re trying to keep him inside forever. his hips jerk forward in messy, desperate snaps against your thigh, cock leaking steadily through his boxers now, chasing friction he’s too wrecked to control. he doesn’t stop—he can’t stop—pumping you through it, thumb grinding ruthless circles over your swollen clit until you’re twitching, oversensitive, thighs clamping around his wrist like a trap, a broken sob ripping out of you that sounds like his name and mercy all at once.

only when your body limps, boneless and gasping, does he ease his fingers out—slow, deliberate, eyes locked on the way your slick coats him, strings of it clinging to his skin as he holds them up to the dim light. his breath stutters at the sight of his glistening fingers, dripping with just pure you. “did i—fuck, did i do that?” 

he doesn’t wait for an answer. brings them to his mouth and sucks them clean with a filthy, broken groan that vibrates straight to your spent clit, making your body jerk again even as you’re still coming down. his tongue swirls, greedy, eyes fluttering shut like he’s tasting heaven and hell at once.

you’re ruined—face flushed, lips bitten raw, hair stuck to your forehead with sweat—but that smirk still clings. you grab his wrist, yank him down hard, and crash your mouth to his, tasting yourself on his tongue—a little salty, a little sweet, but all filthy. “we’re not done,” you murmur, wrecked and hungry, hands already fumbling for his pants. “off—now.”

sunghoon nods frantically, hips lifting just enough to help you shove the material down his legs, boxers tented obscenely, a dark stain already blooming in the front. before he can even process, you hook your fingers in the waistband and drag them down too, freeing him and—fuck. he’s thick, flushed a deep red and curving up toward his stomach, already twitching under your gaze untouched.

he immediately tries to hide his face in your neck, mortified. “don’t—don’t stare like that.” 

you giggle, low and filthy, wrapping your hand around him without warning—one firm stroke from base to tip, thumb swiping through the bead of pre-cum leaking from his slit, spreading it down his length in a slick glide.he immediately bucks into your fist with a choked sob, one hand clutching your shoulder, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

“baby, you’re gorgeous,” the words drip off your tongue like honey or poison but sunghoon doesn’t know the difference at this point. your thumb swipes over his silt again, and sunghoon has to shut his eyes to restrain himself from finishing all over your fingers right then and there. “feel how hard you are for me? fucking dripping.” 

another stroke—tighter, faster—and his head slams against the pillow next to your head, throat bared, a high, desperate whine tearing out of him.

“touch yourself,” you order, guiding his trembling hand to wrap around yours. “show me how you do it when you think about me.”

sunghoon’s eyes snap to yours, wide and scandalized, breath picking up. “w—what? i—fuck, i don’t—” but his hand moves anyways, wrapping around yours where you stroke him, guiding you together—slow twists at the head, then long pulls back to his base. he’s so responsive, every drag pulling more and more. more moans from his throat, more precum from his tip, leaking steadily over your knuckles.

“good boy,” you praise, and he preens, chest puffing slightly, a desperate whimper spilling out as his free hand braces the headboard above you again for leverage.

“faster—” you tighten your grip, speeding up, and he follows your lead flawlessly, both your hands working him in brutal sync until he’s babbling nonsense pleas mixed in with your name like a prayer he’s too far gone to control. 

then you feel him twitch, once and hard, and you stop cold, releasing him. sunghoon almost pouts at the sudden, aching void—the sharp denial hitting like a punch, but you’re already shifting, too fast to let him dwell.

“not yet—i want your mouth first,” you murmur, sitting up and shoving at his chest until he’s forced back on his heels between your spread thighs, cock bobbing heavy and desperate, flushed dark and leaking. his gaze drops—your face, your bitten lips, then lower to where you’re still exposed, folds swollen and glistening, lace shoved aside and ruined, dripping with the mess he made of you. “get off the bed. on your knees, hoon. want you to taste me.”

he drops instantly—knees thudding against the floor at the foot of the bed, hands grabbing your thighs and yanking you to the edge so fast the mattress springs groan. his face is inches from your core now, breath punching out hot and frantic over your sensitive skin, making you twitch.

he swallows hard at the sight. “i—you need to…show me please,” he’s nearly begging, his voice raspy yet so earnest that it makes your heart stutter at the sight.

you thread your fingers in his hair, guide his mouth forward, pressing his lips to your inner thigh first, letting him kiss and lick small, gentle patterns up toward where you’re aching. “start slow, baby,” you breathe, thighs trembling. “kiss it, then tongue—flat and wide.” 

he obeys like it’s the only thing he was born to do.

lips brush your folds—hesitant, reverent—then his tongue comes out, one broad, filthy lick from your entrance to your clit that punches the air out of your lungs. you immediately roll your hips into his face shamelessly.

“fuck—yes—just like that—suck my clit now—”

and sunghoon doesn’t need to be told twice. he devours you—nose bumping your mound, tongue sloppy and urgent, latching onto your clit with a perfect amount of greed that it pulls a small scream from your throat. he’s messy—chin slick, eyes glassy as he glances up through his lashes for approval, moaning into you every time you tug his hair like he’s on the receiving end. 

“mmph—good?” he mumbles into you, the vibration nearly sending you over, and then—without waiting—he sinks one long finger back inside you, curls it hard, and starts pumping like you taught him.

“oh my god—sunghoon, fuck—yes—” 

your ankles lock behind his head, heels digging into his back, and you ride his face without shame—hips rolling, grinding, fucking yourself on his tongue while he devours you, thriving on every gasp, every quiver, tongue delving deep, lips sucking with starvation. like it’s his last meal and his punishment and his salvation all at once.

sunghoon’s free hand then drops between his own legs —wraps around his aching cock and starts stroking in frantic, sloppy pulls, hips thrusting into his fist in time with the way you’re riding his face. pre-cum drips onto the floor, splattering the wood, and he doesn’t even care—just moans into your cunt like a broken thing, eyes rolling back every time you clench around his finger.

you force yourself up on shaking elbows just to look at the view.

sunghoon on his knees, hair wrecked from your hands, face buried between your thighs, skin slick with sweat that catches in the dim light, mouth shiny with you, pumping his cock recklessly—and those dark, glassy eyes flicking up through wet lashes, begging for approval even as his tongue fucks you into oblivion.

the sight alone almost ends you.

so you decide you’re going to ruin him. and he’s going to thank you for it.

“hoon—fuck—come here,” you haul him up by the hair until his mouth slams into yours, slick with your release, tasting like salt and sin. you feel the heavy, slick weight of his cock pressing against your thigh, twitching wildly with need.

you shove him back with a teasing palm to his chest—flip him in one sharp twist—and he goes down easy, hitting the mattress with a small grunt, eyes huge and black as he puts together what’s about to happen. you straddle him in a heartbeat later, knees digging into the sheets on either side of his hips, hovering just high enough that your soaked heat brushes the flushed head of him—once, twice—drawing a needy, high-pitched whine that rips straight from his chest.

his cock lines up perfectly—throbbing, veins bulging, slick with both of you—and he bites his lip bloody trying to hold back the whimper, hands shaking violently where they clamp your waist for dear life. “wait—shit—i don’t have a condom—”

“sunghoon,” you shoot, voice raw and impatient, already lifting your hips to torture him at your entrance, sinking down just enough to swallow his tip in tight, wet heat. “i really don’t fucking care right now.”

his head slams back against the headboard with a thud, a raw moan tearing free as his hips jerk up involuntarily, trying to bury himself deeper.

“just wanna make you feel good, yeah?”

he nods wildly, eyes pleading—utterly lost, wrecked, and completely yours. “please—fuck, yes please—”

you don’t wait any longer. you drop, sinking down fully in one brutal, merciless move. and the stretch—the sweet, burning stretch of him splitting you open has you both gasping, the pent up tension that’s piled up for days finally shattering into a pure ecstasy that has you blinded.

he fills you to the brim, thick and pulsing, every inch dragging against your clenching walls as you bottom out, your hips now flush against his. you can’t make sense of it—how he’s stretching you impossibly wide, the burn delicious and overwhelming all at once, your body fluttering around him in desperate adjustment. his head snaps back against your headboard again, his throat exposed and veins bulging as he can’t stop the deep moans coming from his chest, hands clamping onto your hips—bruising, possessive, the only way to keep himself grounded.

you collapse forward, forehead to his, breaths mingling in hot, frantic pants. his eyes are squeezed shut, lashes wet against his pinked cheeks, lips opening and closing from the pure pleasure, “oh my god—you’re…fuck you’re—so tight—” the words tumble out, his hips twitching up, chasing the sensation, making you both gasp at the jolt.

“shh—stay still,” you whisper as best as you can, hands holding his face to force his glassy eyes open. and you have to collect yourself for a second. because park sunghoon is a vision—lips swollen red, pupils dark and blown, sweat trickling down his temple. “breathe, hoon.” you clench around him deliberately, and he tries his hardest not to snap immediately, his cock throbbing deep inside you. 

“c—can’t—it’s too much—gonna—” his voice cracks, hands scrabbling at your waist, dragging you down harder even as his thighs shake violently under you, every muscle rigid, restraint shattering second by second. he’s pulsing inside you, fighting with everything he has not to cum, teeth gritted, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes because it’s too good, too perfect, too much. 

you lift your hips carefully, just an inch, then sink back down, slow, torturous, letting him feel every slick of you swallowing him whole. “fuck—yes—” his eyes roll back, mouth falling open on a silent moan, his hips bucking up to meet you halfway on their own, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing loud and filthy. “tell me—fuck, tell me if it feels good—”

“perfect, baby. you feel perfect,” you gasp immediately, voice trembling as you finally start moving—hands braced on his sweat-slick chest, nails carving red lines into his skin. “just like this—harder now, hold my hips—help me—”

and he does—fingers pressing as he hauls you down onto his cock as he suddenly slams up, meeting your movements in brutal, punishing thrusts that turn the air filthy, wet slaps echoing, obscene, and unrelenting. the bed starts to creak in protest beneath you, the string lights on your headboard blurring into hazy streaks as the pleasure turns into tears stinging your eyes. 

“hoon, yes, yes—faster,” your voice breaks into sobs, head tipping back, spine arching so hard your breasts shove up into his face. 

he absolutely loses it. 

he’s seventy percent sure he’s blacked out—the rest of him drowning in the symphony of your broken whines, the way your pussy sucks him in like it’s starving, the intoxicating sensation of you around him—every wet clench, every flutter squeezing him. but he’s still determined, feral with it, a man suddenly possessed—one hand flying up to palm one of your breasts hard, rolling the nipple rough enough between his fingers to draw a small yelp from you, the other shoving between your bodies to rub messy, perfect circles over your swollen clit.

 “s—so tight—fuck, so mine,” he chokes out, voice breaking on every thrust. “mine, mine, mine—fuck—please say—” 

his thrusts turn erratic, sloppy, with a new found determination as he chases his release, eyes locked on where he splits you open—you stretched around him, white slick coating his thighs, his balls, every inch of skin where you two collide.

“yours,” you moan, nails digging further into his chest. “been yours ever since you hit me in the fucking face, baby.”

and that does it. sunghoon just breaks. 

back arching off the bed, whole body spasming, a strangled cry of your name tearing from his throat as as you feel him cum hard, his cock pulsing and swelling impossibly thicker inside you, the harsh and hot spurts filling you up quickly. the heat of it, the throb, the way he jerks inside you shatters you instantly after. 

your second orgasm hits you with a sob against his mouth, clamping down viciously around him, milking him dry as you gush—violent, soaking pulses that drench his cock, his lap, the sheets, everything in a hot, filthy flood that leaves you shaking, blinded, ruined.

you collapse together—boneless, shuddering wrecks tangled in the sweat damp sheets that now cling to your skin. his arms wrap around you, pulling you flush against his chest, his cock still twitching deep inside as the aftershock ripples through you both. the room spins softly in the dim glow of your lights, the only sounds the distant party you both forgot about and your breathes mingling in a ragged harmony—his chest heaving against yours, heartbeats syncing in a frantic yet slowing pattern.

sunghoon buries his face in the crook of your neck, lips brushing sloppy, uncoordinated kisses, trying his best to catch his breath, each exhale hot against your skin.

“did i—was that okay? are you hurt anywhere?” voice small, vulnerable again despite the literal fact that he’s still buried deep inside you, his release leaking warm and sticky down your thighs, pooling beneath you in an intimate, filthy reminder. his hand moves to stroke your back gently, tracing the curves of your body as if mapping every inch for damage.

you giggle against him, the sound exhausted yet euphoric, vibrating through your chest as you lift his chin with a single finger, tilting his flushed face to yours. the kiss is soft, slow, lingering—tongues lazy and unhurried, a stark contrast to a few minutes ago, tasting all like salt and sex. “hoon, i think you ruined me,” you murmur against his lips, half-teasing, half-serious, your voice strained from the moans he pulled from you.

he lets out a small, relieved laugh, warm and genuine as his hands stay gentle on your back, thumbs circling soothing patterns over your damp skin. you shift slowly, lifting off him with ease, both of you exhaling in a sharp unison at the sudden emptiness.

you don’t pull away far, nestling into his side, draping a leg over his thigh as he tugs your crumpled up blanket over you both. his arm curls around your shoulders, his fingers tracing lazy swirls along your arm, the touch sweet and affectionate.

“ruined you, huh?” he echos after a beat, voice muffled as he presses a kiss to your temple, lips curving into a shy grin against your hair. “is that…good ruined or bad ruined? because if it’s bad, i swear i’ll make it up to you—after i make up for your nose. and shoes. and clothes. i’ve got a lifetime supply of apologies, honestly.”

you snort softly, cuddling closer into his neck, inhaling the comfort and warmth radiating off of him as your fingers dance lightly over his chest. “good ruined, idiot. like, the kind where i might not be able to physically get up tomorrow. so now you owe me at least breakfast in bed.”

“deal.” sunghoon chuckles, the sound vibrating through you both, his free hand slipping under the blanket to find yours, lacing your fingers in a loose, effortless hold. “pancakes? or—wait, do you even like pancakes? god, i don’t even know that yet. we should probably fix that before i ruin you again.”

you tilt your head up, eyes narrowing playfully before a small smirk tugs at the corners of your lips, “baby, is that your way of asking me out?”

his laugh melts into a groan as he buries his face into your hair again, arms tightening around you as he pulls you impossibly closer, bodies fitting perfectly together, “keep calling me baby like that and we’re skipping the pancake date—i’m just gonna ruin you all over again.”

your grin widens as you lift a brow at him, a mix of teasing and challenge written all over your face. then, your hand begins its slow, deliberate descent, fingers trailing a lazy path down his chest, over the ridges of his abs, your eyes watching his adam’s apple bob with a hard swallow, his breath catching in anticipation as your hand moves lower and lower.

you part your lips just enough, voice laced sweetly with promise: “deal, baby.”

and after that night, everything kind of falls into an abnormally normal rhythm.

sunghoon did get you pancakes—because he’s a man of promises.

but not until after he ruined you a second time, because, well…he’s a man of promises.

he eventually makes up for the other accidents too. he starts knocking on your door at 8:03AM every morning—two coffees balancing in one hand, a paper bag of something warm in the other, hoodie string still uneven but now on a different hoodie because he let you keep that other one. he starts showing up—after class to drive you home with him, in your texts to ask you which cereal he should buy for the week, in your kitchen, handing you clean dishes while pretending not to stare at the way you hum along to whatever song is playing. 

he starts showing up in parts of your life where you didn't even know he was missing but now that he’s here, you never want to go back. 

and through it all, sunghoon learns you. he learns that you can’t drink iced coffee without stirring it exactly three times first, that you sometimes talk in your sleep, that you always pick the m&ms out of trail mix, that you hate parallel parking but love late night drives, that you laugh with your whole face, and that someway, somehow, between the pancakes and drives and mornings and the softness—you’ve managed to carve out a permanent place in his life without either of you really meaning to.

so yeah. everything becomes accidentally abnormal after that night.

sunghoon still wakes up on time like he always does—but now he gets ready faster, just so he can walk ten doors down the hall and meet you before class.

you still sit next to him in chemistry, but now your hand is slyly trailing up his thigh under the bench table while he’s trying (and desperately failing) to measure 25 milliliters of sodium hydroxide without shaking.

when you’re at his apartment, curled up together on the couch, jay walks by and gives sunghoon a look that says finally.

when he’s at your apartment, head resting in your lap, jake walks by and gives you the same look.

it’s all wonderfully, beautifully, accidentally abnormal. which, for you and sunghoon, feels just right.

so, yeah—they say you never forget your firsts.

your first love, your first kiss, your first time.

for park sunghoon? he’ll never forget the first time he met you.

and honestly?

he kind of really hopes he never will.

꩜｡⊹ ࣪ ˖ ty all again if u made it to the end <3 mwahmwahmwah

m.list here!

tag list (1/2) 💌 🍀 🎱 ─── @xylatox @vivimura @leehsngs @puma-riki @lezleeferguson-120 @enhaprettystars @laurradoesloveu @sievenderz @somuchdard @kristynaaah @hinryh @ltfirecracker @chwrrydolly @taeheexx @freakseungi @chunkzdeluluwife @jakeflvrz @rikiimuraaa @grandcascadeparadox @enhawonnie @sunhrtss @jakeyyyjakexoxo @highway-143 @alex-is-sleeping @luhvletters @dazzlingjaeyun @ningwrrld @wonnieswife @kristynaaah @enha4everr @theothernads @kwhluv @01209r @yeuvio @jellyoiz @rikifever @sugarrtalk @soobundle1009 @angelhyuka @dreamy-carat @fairyof553 @virgopotterhead @vanillakirstein @gentlestpour @why-did-i-just-do-this @firstclassjaylee @neozon3nha @jakeyswifeblog @wonist | @cutehoons02

[imfoive]

𝐒𝐨 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞

BANG CHAN x READER GENRE: Boyfriend!Chan, Established Relationship, Romance, Fluff WARNINGS: none!, somewhat proofread WC: 1.5k A/N: Happy birthday to me! An itty bitty Chan scenario in celebration for me-day woohoo! (this was supposed to be a preluding vignette in the sunlight and daydreams universe but I figured that would be super evil of me so let’s pretend it’s not lmao) 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬, 𝐑𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬, 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝! ── MASTERLIST

────────────────────────

The ocean sings. Waves crashing loud against the rocks, the late afternoon brings forth a beautiful pinkening sky and cool, hair-fluttering breeze.

A little chilly, but you don’t mind. Not when Chan’s grip is warm, fingers cupping yours as your entwined hands swing between the both of you.

Your feet sink in the sand, wet and cold against your bare feet the closer you get to the shore, leaving behind footprints and clinging to your skin.

You really don’t mind, Chan hums a soothing tune as you walk, distracting you from the fact that you’ve left all your belongings back there where you had spent the afternoon lounging under the sun and building sandcastles.

Though the walk is nice. Comforting, and soothing. The sun sinks lower by the minute, the kind that has both of you pause, facing the horizon to take in the glimmering sea that reflects the light like a painting. The kind of sight that has your breath hitch, has you stop, eyes shining as you take in the pink and purple sky, the bright orange sun ready to bid its farewell.

Chan seems to agree, your boyfriend squeezing your hand almost faintly before he mutters the words you would have missed between the sunset, the waves and the winds.

You don’t though, not when Chan looks as if you mean the word, the same shine in his eyes as they meet yours.

“—It would be perfect to propose here.”

You think you would’ve laughed startled at such a random exclamation, would have agreed with such an romantic observation. Yet before you can even giggle at the idea, even agree with him with a hum and a nod, you only turn to find a sight that has you freezing. 

Eyes widening and lips parting with shock because he doesn’t even wait for his words to settle, doesn’t tear his gaze away, already dropping down with a widening grin.

Chan kneels. Right there, right before your suddenly frozen form.

He’s on one knee, pants planted over the wet sand, the seafoam left after retreating waves seeping through the material, yet even the dirt and water isn’t enough to keep him from doing what he decided to do. 

Everything continues as it was. The sun still on its descent, the waves still crashing against the rocks, rising over sand, the winds still ruffle through his hair, tousling the strands.

Yet nothing remains the same for you, not when his gaze meets yours so warm, so fond. Locked onto you with a lingering softness that shows in the way he fishes out the small box from the depths of his pocket. 

Where had he hidden it all day? You’re clueless. Yet he holds it before you, opening with ease, the slight tremble in his hands going unnoticed amidst the sudden emotions that surge through you. Chan holds it out before you. Offering you something you’ve only dreamt of, you can’t help but gasp, eyes flickering to what’s inside. 

It’s a glimmering thing, dainty and elegant, the ring glints beautifully against the sunset. And he cradles it in his palms, inhaling deeply as he lets you react. Your hands fly to your mouth, pressing against your lips, as you once again gasp louder. The ocean waves are cold over your feet, wind biting at your skin, yet you feel as if you are burning up.

“I—” Chan begins, clearing his throat, a twinge of nervousness crossing his gaze but the wide smile remains.

“I love you.” He states, softly, loudly, those words coming out as easily as breathing.

His eyes dart over your shocked-still expression, at the misty haze in your own gaze as you finally grasp what is happening.

“‘Is this love?’” He whispered.

A repeat of a question you’ve asked. It’s a familiar question, one that has you break into a breathy and wet scoff-like giggle as you realize exactly what he is referring to, hands falling to your sides, shoulders relaxing as you let him continue.

Let him propose.

“The night after our first date, after I spent the entire after of it distracted by thoughts of you, you sent me that question.” His cheeks dimpled with the way he grinned, watching you exhale with a breathless laugh.

“—Granted, it was a message you accidentally texted to me instead of your friend—immediately followed with ten other messages of you freaking out over it, before threatening me to forget how you just embarrassed yourself.” He recalls with a chuckle, with a fondness and a grin that has you mimic the glee, though the tears now freely slide down your cheeks.

“But how could I have ever forgotten such a question when that same night I decided that I had an answer for it. That seeing your adorable sputtering and your refusal to meet my eyes the next day made me realize that it was love. That you were it for me.” There’s a waver in his voice, a shine in his own eyes as he takes in the beautiful sight that is you.

But he barrels on, as if he has so much to say but not enough time—at least not currently. Not when he has a ring to put on your finger. The recollection of your most precious moments could wait a little.

“I knew I wanted to marry you then. I knew I wanted a full life with you.” He swallows his nervousness, his emotions that threaten to crack in his voice.

You almost whimper shakily, happily, your expression soft and warm and oh-so-touched as his voice drops just a tad bit softer, just a tinge warmer.

“I want more late night adventures, more spontaneous trips, the slow strolls hand-in-hand. I want the growing birthdays to come, the wrinkles and white hair, all the way to the end. Till death do us apart—right after that first date. I want it all with you.”

You swipe the back of your hand to wipe away the tears that pool at your jaw, shuddery breath escaping your lips with a soft sob. Chan kneels patiently, as he continues to make your heart flip, your stomach swoop, your eyes prick with more happy tears.

“I’m sure you know by now how painfully obsessed I am with you.” He too chuckles wetly, his voice slightly shaky, yet dripping with something akin to adoration as he looks up at you, absolutely besotted.

“You already know how deeply I love you, but I’ll say it again. I love you. And I will continue to do so for the rest of my remaining life. Will you—” He stutters just the slightest as he swallows, taking in a nervous breath, his eyes locked onto yours.

“Will you please marry me?”

The waves crash loud, your feet sink into the wet sand, the sunlight is moments away from disappearing, yet you only look at Chan, on his knees, his own teary eyes and that beautiful smile of his that you’re so fond of. 

Your boyfriend awaits the answer he should know you would give him almost nervously. And even with the shock and the heart-touching words spoken, you can’t help but laugh almost helplessly. The tears continue to cloud your vision yet even with blurred sight you know exactly where to find your most special person, lunging forward you can’t help but wrap your arms around him, falling onto your own knees.

Chan wobbles just the slightest at the impact but he holds you firmly, pressed right against him.

“Yes. Yesyesyes.” Your voice is half-choked, half a whisper as you tug him closer into your embrace.

Chan’s own voice cracks as he laughs against you, arm wrapping tight around you as he inhales your scent.

“Thank you. I love you so so much.” He pulls away, just enough to gaze into your eyes, lashes wet from his tears, yet his smile remains.

“Give me your hand.” He whispers.

You don’t wait another second, your hand trembling between the both of your kneeling bodies as Chan looks down to pluck the ring out, box forgotten over the sand.

It slips on easily, cool against your skin, yet even that doesn’t last long, not when his hands cup your fingers in his, engulfing you in his warmth.

“You won’t regret it, I swear—”

As much as you want to hear more of his heartfelt promises, you can’t help but want to disappear in his embrace, melt into his arms. Squeeze into his chest, and make yourself home. You lean in to capture his lips, kissing him and swallowing his promises. And he easily allows you to do so. 

Melt into his embrace, disappear in his arms.

Kissing you in that slow, careful kind of way. The one where his fingers sit just right below your jaw, cradling your face as if you’re the most delicate thing he has. And you can’t help the sigh that leaves you, the way you pull him close and allow the thought to settle.

So this is love. 

He squeezes you a tinge bit tighter, kisses you just a tad bit harder, his mouth hot against yours.

And how sweet it was. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ e n d .

[from-the-labyrinth]

Vision Board

Bang Chan x Gn!Reader (Wedding Planner Reader)

Warnings: None

A/N: I wrote this on scrap paper at work months ago and lost it. Just found it this morning while packing to move.

[0210sjy]

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ sim jaeyun “so your plan is to fake date?”

━━ HOW TO SURVIVE BOYS 101

⋆·˚ ༘ * four letters get sent out, and fake dating your brother's best friend becomes damage control.

brother's best friend! jake x fem! reader 📌💌 if To All The Boys I've Loved Before raised you... this might make sense ˗ˏˋ fluff, rom-com, (very) slowburn, angst, friends to lovers, crack, highschool au wc: 51 219 ; pt1 26 624 , pt2 24 595 part1, part2

disclaimer : the "reader" selfie in this smau is only a filler image for layout purposes. reader is poc-friendly and not meant to represent a specific race, appearance, or identity 🪽 - "flushing" in this story refers to the physical sensation of warmth, not blushing

Tip #1: Don’t fall in love.

It’s one of those universal warnings girls pass around like gum at lunch, punctuated by high-pitched laughter and confident nods. What an overprotective father (and brother, actually) would say at dinner because you’re growing, and apparently, high school is crawling with boys whose testosterone levels are the world’s biggest threat. 

It first started with ballet and pink. You fell in love with how the world slowed down when the piano started, how the first plié felt like a prayer, the spotlight after your pirouette.

And then there was Jake. The second thing. You, 9 years old and too delicate to ever tag along, would always spot him outside your lawn, waiting for Evan, your older brother. They were 10 and 11, said girls were not allowed.

Jake, with his soccer jersey and his grass-stained knees, white socks browned from rain and soil. Jake, who’d sit on the curb outside your house after practice, waiting for your older brother, spinning a ball on his finger, and asking if you ever got dizzy doing all those turns. You told him it was called spotting. He told you he could never do that, before mimicking it on the asphalt of the neighborhood street.

Okay, admittedly, it was a crush. That was not a crime. It’s not like you were writing his last name after yours in your notebook or anything (you were). 

It’s just – he was Jake. Jaeyun. The first boy you ever liked.

By the time you turned 13, he was taller, louder, smarter, suddenly full of everything that made all the other girls in middle school realize how cool Jake Sim was. Surrounded by people who’s got really shitty attitudes and personalities, Jake being way too good for them. You couldn’t really fight the fact that you liked him first, the same way kids would claim their favorite colors, saying they favorited it first. He was your brother’s best friend – which, by definition, is an unspoken rule of forbidden territory.

He’d come by after soccer practice, shoulders broader, voice lower. You’d hear the front door open and that familiar “Mrs. Lee, we have practice again!” from the hallway. He’d walk past you while you’re lounging on the couch, with just a small smile instead of a teasing grin, a quick “hey” instead of a whole conversation.

By 15, you had a boyfriend, Jay. Sweet, safe, the kind of boy your mom liked. He played guitar, texted you good morning, and called you pretty. And it was a good thing, of course. You liked him and he liked you. Jake told you Jay seemed nice, you told him he was.

Jake was busier too, as the captain of the soccer team, busy from girls leaving notes in his locker, laughter always following him down the hall, busy from becoming the picture of what it is to be a golden child that had greatness tail him like a shadow. He wasn’t particularly loud or cocky or smug, but that relevance surrounded him easily.

Jay was good to you. The kind of good that felt easy and nice and quiet, like Saturday afternoons. He brought you flowers on random days, not the fancy kind, but the ones you actually liked. There were nights you’d both curl up on the couch (snuggled but still dad-approved), a throw blanket safely between you, watching Netflix romcoms. He’d quote the cheesiest lines just to make you laugh.

Then the front door would open, and there they were: Evan and Jake, back from practice, loud and sweaty and too full of energy for 7 p.m. And for a long time, it worked. You went to Jay’s gigs, he came to your recitals, he kissed you goodbye before class. But somewhere between the months, something shifted, not in a dramatic, heartbreak kind of way – just slowly. You still cared about him, still wanted him to do well, still smiled at his jokes. You just didn’t feel that something you couldn’t name but always knew was supposed to be there.

The breakup was quiet, no yelling, no tears, just a long talk on a park bench. He said he understood, and that was it, one and a half years folded neatly.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆。

Tip #2: Don’t be a romantic. (please)

So yeah, maybe you fell in love too quickly, too softly, too much. You did what any logical, overly sentimental girl with a box full of old stationery would do – you wrote about it. Or, technically, to them. Because apparently, journals were too boring, why wouldn’t it be less obvious in floral envelopes and addressed to actual names? They were safely kept in the hidden compartment in your ballerina music box. 

Four letters. Four crushes.

You wrote them on quiet nights when your head was too full and your heart throbbed loud, when the real world wasn’t enough and you needed to spill everything somewhere safe. They weren’t meant to be seen or sent – just a way to put feelings back where they belonged: on paper, not in your chest.

At least… that was the plan.

“I’m never talking to you again,” you sob. 

“You’ll survive,” Evan teased, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into an embrace you willingly melt into. “Don’t cry too much, okay? It’s bad for your pores.” You hit the side of his torso, earning a laugh from him. “You’re insufferable.”

Evan, who decided to pursue that college scholarship miles away from home which he said was a big opportunity.

Jake was there too, of course. He’d always been there as Evan’s best friend since forever. Your brother’s other half, the duo who used to make all summers feel endless. Now, your entire childhood is split down by college, the final stamp that says, “it ends here”. It was Jake’s turn to say goodbye. You stepped back beside your mom, watching the two of them fall into that quiet rhythm of half jokes, half real things. They dapped, then pulled each other into a hug.

Evan turned back to you all, that same grin you grew up with now framed with a goodbye you couldn’t delay. You force a small smile, watching until he was just another person walking away and into the gate.

Jesus Christ, who will drive you to school?

Tip #3: If you write letters you don’t plan to send, don’t put actual stamps on them.

Another tip, for “HOW TO SURVIVE DRIVING 101”. Maybe just don’t fucking drive.

Not when it’s driving at night in a neighborhood you’ve never been to, and when your phone’s at 9%. 

You crashed the car. You’re shaking – half from the cold (and because you’re only in your stupid pajamas and this was supposed to be an errand), half from the fact that the front bumper is now kind of… detached and it’s looking at you like it doesn’t know what to do with itself. The headlights are still on, casting these long, uneven shadows across the empty street. 

Your first instinct is, obviously, Evan. “...what the fuck, dude,” his groggy voice comes through after the 6th ring, heavy with sleep and annoyance and confusion. “Why are you calling at – what time even is it? Wait – are you crying?”

You sniff, which answers that question. “I – I hit the curb – I didn’t mean to – it’s dark and I don’t – it’s not starting anymore, and I –” Your tears are wild as they cascade down your face, spilling everywhere while you pace back and forth across some street you don’t know.

“Jesus Christ.” He groans, rustling noises in the background. “Call Mom and Dad.”

“I can’t, Evan! They’ll freak out, and it’s – my phone’s at nine percent, I don’t even know where I am – wait,” You said, reading one of the street signs near you. “Cornelia Lane, yeah, where the fuck am I?” You sob again.

There’s a pause. You hear him mutter something under his breath, then a resigned, “Okay, okay, hang up. Wait. Don’t move. Don’t cry.” Then he hangs up. Which, frankly, feels cruel, like he shoved a knife right in the space between your ribcage. 

Two minutes later, your phone buzzes.

Evan 🦶: texted Jake. he knows that area. dont use ur phone. stop crying.

You let out a choked laugh – half disbelief, half desperation. Jake? Out of everyone? You’re sniffling, holding yourself like it could shield you from the cold and fright of solitude. 

And, you haven’t talked to Jake in weeks, after you dropped Evan off at the airport. Sure, the campus isn’t so big that you’d never cross paths with him after one month of returning back to school. Aside from the fact that he’s a senior and you’re a junior, you both haven’t really talked much the way little 13-year-old you and 14-year-old him did. Puberty was a jerk too, because who was once your best friend is now an object of probable discomfort.

Ten minutes later, sitting by the curb while your knees are pressed against your chest, headlights spill across the street. You squint through the glare, heartbeat picking up when the car turns the corner, familiar in color and shape – that army green Ford Bronco.  It pulls up beside you with a low rumble, engine humming even after it stops. For a second, you just stare, your mind running through every possible way this could be more mortifying just before the door opens, and there he is. Jake Sim, in a gray hoodie, a crease between his brows that softens when he sees you.

He takes one look at the car, then at you – teary, puffy, wrapped in your own arms – and exhales, stepping closer. “You okay?” His voice is low, calm, the kind of tone that feels grounding even when your pulse is anything but. You nod, though your throat tightens, and you start stammering to explain.

“Hey.” He cuts you off gently, waving a hand. “It’s fine. You’re fine. Just breathe, okay?”

You remembered. The Jake, who shared his juice box with you because you tripped over your own feet during tag and started crying, who brought you a popsicle after letting go of your bike. He’s here now, but gone are those days, now replaced his old bike by that SUV, his soft features sharper with age. Did his jaw always look like that? And his nose?

You sniffle again, and you see how he fights the urge to laugh. He squats down in front of you, tilting his head to chase your gaze. “Yo,” You look up, finding his eyes. “I’m here.”

You try to collect yourself with the heat of your palms pressing against your eyelids, grounding you somehow. “Am I screwed?”

He sighs, standing back up and checking on your car, which was awkwardly tilted over the curb. He whistles, rubbing the back of his neck, and then he straightens, pulling his phone from his pocket. “Kind of,” he murmurs, scanning the situation once more, “I’m calling Triple A, and then your dad. He’s gonna –”

You shake your head before he can finish. “No, please – don’t call him.”

Jake pauses, thumb hovering over his phone. The silence between you hangs thick in the air, broken only by faint chirping of crickets. He studies your face – the trembling lip, the way your shoulders are hunched like you’re trying to disappear. Then, softly, he exhales through his nose and sets his phone back in his pocket. “You know he’s gonna find out eventually, right?” he says, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You can’t exactly hide a bumper hanging off.”

You sniffle, wiping at your cheeks with the back of your hand, then tugging your jacket sleeve down like it would stop you from shivering. “I’ll tell him tomorrow. I just – I can’t tonight.”

Jake nods slowly, that smile settling into something familiar – the one that used to come right before he’d say something teasing but gentle. “Alright. You get the call, ballerina,” he says under his breath.

You almost laugh, but your throat’s too tight, eyelids too heavy, eyes still glassy. He glances back at the car again, hands on his hips. “We’ll wait for the tow, I’ll drive you home, and you can tell your dad in the morning.”

You hesitate, shaking your head. “You don’t have to stay.” You didn’t exactly think it through – like if he did leave, then what would you do? But thank God, Jake is Jake the way you’re you.

He turns to you, eyes catching the weak beam of the streetlight. “Yeah, I do.”

Something about the way he says it – quiet, steady, like there’s no argument to be made – makes you look down at your shoes, heart pounding. “We’re friends.” he says with a kind smile, just to remind you that he still is that sweet boy.

You’re both there, a little too still, and the silence stretches just long enough that it starts to feel… heavy. You shift your weight, hands twisting in your jacket sleeves, and he glances at you, eyes flicking away for a moment before going back to the car. Your heart’s in your ear, and you really aren’t sure what to do with your hands, or your eyes when it accidentally meets with his.

Shit, was it always this awkward with him? Did age also just guarantee the discomfort? 

Jake shifts his weight, glancing at the car again, then back to you. “Alright,” he says finally, with that familiar mix of firmness and calm, “let’s just sit in the Bronco. Heater’s on, it’s warm. We’ll wait here until help comes.”

You nod, silently grateful, and follow him into the car, your jacket sleeves still twisted around your hands. The door shuts with a soft thud, and the faint warmth of the heater pushes against the cold.

“Thank you,” You say quietly, eyes focused on your car propped so awkwardly in front of you. You could sink in embarrassment, avoiding looking at him now. He exhales a chuckle before nodding, trying to glance at you. “Yeah, no worries.”

When he dropped you off, you ran to your room and read the letter you wrote to him – stamped and addressed and all. An epiphany, probably, the fact that some things haven’t really changed, and he’s still the kind of person who’s always one call away. You feel floaty, like you once did, just as you do now. 

You’re back to the middle school handwritings in pretty letter parchments, which you specifically saved for the love messages. Carefully opening the envelopes, there they are, in the corny glory of immature feelings. You read it just to be reminded of how earnestly you used to feel things. How unfiltered it all was, no self-awareness, just feeling in its rawest, most embarrassing form. 

Tip #4: Learn how to run fast.

Your parents found out about the car, and they weren’t really mad, but they said 18 was too old to let go of a responsibility like that. Half the repair cost would come from your savings, and the other half would come from them, just to be able to teach you a lesson that shit like that comes with a price. No big deal.

You decided to sell some of your things: clothes and bags, stuff you didn’t really use anymore. The process was a mess, and your things were everywhere that your procrastinating ass wasn’t able to fix it all in one go. Your mom helped. 

Today? Was going well! You had tests today, and you think you did great, managing to answer all of the questions with confidence. Your makeup was cute too, and you finally tried with your outfit, while your hair fell in this graceful way it rarely ever did. 

By all accounts, it was a good day. Even the drive to school wasn’t terrible, though you were hyper-aware of every turn you made. Your bumper was still fucked and you drive slow, but hey, it drives (you got honked at twice). 

After classes, you parked at your usual spot by the field, half-proud, half-exhausted, thinking maybe you deserved a nap before ballet practice. Your backseat was a disaster though – skirts, shoes, tote bags, and random receipts. So there you were, leaning into your car, muttering to yourself about where your left ballet slipper went – when a shadow passed across the window.

“Hey.”

You froze, glancing over your shoulder.

Jake.

He looked casual – black sweater, grey sweatpants, backpack slung over one shoulder – but there was something in his stance, like he wasn’t just passing by or trying to make a civil conversation. And he was looking at you but not really, and there was barely a second you think – he’s blushing, sorta. Must’ve been the sun or the heat; it was a particularly hot week anyway.

“Uh,” you blink, straightening, tucking your hair behind your ear as if that would make you less caught off guard. “Hey.”

“You drove here?” He nods at your car, and you’re still not sure what’s happening. 

“Yeah.” You respond, nodding.

He nods again, offering that polite, careful smile. “Can we talk?”

Your stomach drops, but you try to play it cool, shifting your weight to the other leg. You straightened your skirt, turning to him completely. “Oh. Um, sure? About what?”

He hesitates, eyes flicking to the ground before meeting yours again. “I think… we should clear a few things up.”

“What things?”

And that’s when he reaches into his backpack – slow, deliberate – and pulls out something that shouldn’t exist outside your music box, outside your room, outside the safety of you.

An envelope. Ivory-colored with black accents. Your handwriting on the front. His name in ink.

No, no, no, no –

You can’t breathe and it feels like the air just got ripped out of your lungs. The world tilts a little, and your body moves before your brain can even register what it’s doing. You’re gonna faint – you already probably are, and your feet are off the ground, or you’re probably just falling.

“Wait –” Jake starts, but you’re already gone.

You run. Away from the car, from him, from the stupid piece of paper that just blew your entire existence apart. You hear him call your name once, maybe twice, but your legs don’t stop. Your pulse hammers in your ears, and all you can think is –

He read it. He knows. How the fuck did he have it?

Your vision blurs, part adrenaline, part disbelief that this is your life now. You don’t even know where you’re running to – just away, as far as possible from the boy holding your 8-year-old to middle school heart in his hands like it’s something he accidentally found in his mail. A piece of you that was only supposed to be yours was between his fingertips – a part of your mind he’s seen, and you can’t ever take it back.

You’re walking now but you’re practically blacked out at this point. The pavement is uneven, the air thick, and your hands are shaking so hard. You’re just trying to breathe – in, out, again – when it happens.

You accidentally collide with something solid. Before you could stumble back, hands catch you by the elbows, steadying you back.

“Woah, you okay?”

The voice – low, calm, familiar – sends another jolt through you.

Your heart stutters when you see Jay, with discomfort and distress again. What the hell happened to this once-good day?

His face comes into focus through the blur of everything – warm brown eyes, hair tousled from the wind, that same reassuring presence you once thought would always mean safety. You let out a shaky breath, half a laugh, still trying to get your balance. “I’m fine. Sorry, I didn’t see –”

“It’s fine.” He gives a small smile, hands still hovering near you in case you stumble again. “You were running like someone was chasing you.”

You clear your throat, brushing invisible dust off your skirt, trying to sound normal, casual, human. “It’s nothing. Just – yeah, whatever. Doesn’t matter.”

Jay studies you for a second longer, like he can see right through the lie. Then, almost hesitantly, he nods. “Alright.”

You’re about to thank him, to excuse yourself, to crawl under the earth and never resurface because it’s just better that way than having to face your brother’s best friend, who now knows your sacred and confidential feelings, when he shifts the strap of his bag off his shoulder and pulls out something that makes your stomach drop again.

An envelope. Dark green in color. The same goddamn handwriting.

Your breath catches and you practically die again. He looks almost… awkward, holding it between his fingers, glancing down at your handwriting like he’s been trying to figure out what to do with it all morning.

“Look,” he starts, his tone soft but steady, “I just – I wanted to tell you that… past is past. Okay? I read it, and I get it. I really do. But I think we should just –” he exhales, scratching the back of his neck, “establish some boundaries, maybe. I mean, we had our thing. And it was great. It meant a lot to me. But… it’s been a year. And I’m –”

He pauses, glancing up at you, voice dropping slightly. “I’m talking to someone now.”

And for a moment, there’s no sound – just the ringing in your ears, the pounding of your heart, and the way the world seems to blur at the edges. The last time you saw that, truthfully, was 4 days ago. The last time you actually meant what the fuck was in that paper was specifically 1 year, 11 months, and 22 days ago. Freshly broken up with, with the raw love of a 16-year-old girl with a draft for a heart.

He keeps talking – something about memories, and respect, and how he hopes you understand – but you can’t hear any of it. Because all you can think about is how every single one was mailed. Jake. Jay. Kai. Yeonjun.

Your letters, your feelings, all the versions of yourself you thought you buried, floating out in the world for people to read. You just stand there, staring at him, your mouth dry, your face drained of color.

You want to disappear. You want to die on the spot. You want to rewind the past twenty four hours and stuff those envelopes so deep into the ground no one could ever find them again. Maybe take the fucking stamps off and scratch away the address.

You remember everything you’ve written there. Two years ago, immediately after the breakup, reeling in the feeling of losing your first boyfriend and first kiss. How you’ll miss when he played you the guitar, or when he buys you flowers, or his jokes that always make you laugh. 

That you did love him, truly, and there will be a part of you who will love him always.

That was two years ago, you’re not so sure you agree now. 

Tip #5: When your ex shows up, keep your mouth shut (seriously).

You open your mouth, and for a second, nothing comes out – just the sound of your heartbeat thrumming in your ears. Then, somehow, you find your voice, small and breathless.

“It’s – it’s not like that,” you start, shaking your head so fast you almost make yourself dizzy. “The letter, I mean. I wasn’t… trying to say anything, or get anything back. It’s old, Jay. It’s old. Like, two years old. I just…” You swallow, words tripping over themselves.

Jay’s expression softens, but he still looks a little uncomfortable, none of it making sense yet obviously. “Oh.” He blinks, nodding slowly. “I mean, yeah, no, I get that. It’s just – yeah, it caught me off guard, you know? Reading all that.”

“Yeah, no. Totally,” you nod slong. “Actually –” you try for a smile, the kind that feels steady but isn’t, which is worse because it looks like you’re smiling through the pain from the revelation of someone new in his life – which is not the case at all, “I’m, um… I’m seeing someone too.”

His brows lift, just barely, caught between polite curiosity. “Oh?” he asks, tone light but edged with surprise. “Who?”

And before you can stop yourself – before you can think – the name slips out.

“Jaeyun.”

You blink once, realizing too late what you just said. 

Jay blinks too. Twice. The silence stretches – long, tight, like the world itself just froze for a second. His eyebrows knit together, not jealousy but something between confusion and disbelief. And honestly, you probably have the same look too.

“Jaeyun… Jake… Sim?” he asks carefully.

You open your mouth. Close it. Nod. “Yeah.”

The air goes weird, like really fucking weird..

Jay’s gaze flickers somewhere past you, like he’s trying to piece the timeline together in his head – Evan’s best friend, your brother’s other half, the guy you practically grew up with (all in which he knew) – and when he looks back at you, he gives this small, uneasy chuckle. “Wow. Didn’t see that coming.”

“Yeah.” You force a small smile, gripping your skirt like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. “Me neither.”

You basically drive over the limit back home, storming into your room just to see that the fucking letters were indeed missing – all of them.

Your fault, of course, because you’ve completely forgotten to put the envelopes back into your music box after rereading them when Jake dropped you off, and even as you scramble through everything (under the bed, between the clothes, in the bags, and in the trash) they were nowhere. 

You’d practically jumped down the stairs, calling for your mom, finding her in the kitchen while she makes dinner. “Where–where are my letters? The ones I wrote? The four letters? They were on my desk and they’re not –”

Her eyebrows lift, just slightly, like she’s trying to place the context. “Oh… those?”

“Yes! Those! The letters! The ones addressed to–oh my God–” Your voice cracks a little, and you clutch your warm cheeks from the humiliation bubbling beneath your skin.

She wipes her hands on a dish towel, glances at you with that faint, you’re being dramatic smile. And except you wish you were. “I thought you meant to send them. So… I mailed them.”

Your knees nearly give out, jaw hanging wide open like the soul was personally snatched from your body. “You… mailed them?! All of them?!” 

She tilts her head, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like mailing your emotional soul is just part of a normal Tuesday. “Well, I figured you left them out for that reason. They looked ready.”

You’re so fucked.

Tip #6: If your brother’s best friend finds out you like(d) him, move countries.

Okay, one thing’s for certain (as far as your overthinking mind is concerned), you’re sure Jay did not believe you at all. You’ve always said that you saw Jake as your other brother (lie), the kind that went with Evan as a Buy 1 Take 1 promo – so saying that you’re seeing him?

Who the hell is buying that? Not Jay, who’s seen it all. So what if he thinks you’re still hung up?

You see Jake two days later. Your mom insists on going to the community fair because “you’ve been cooped up too long, sweetheart,” and you don’t have the heart to tell her you’d rather fall into a sinkhole than risk running into Jaeyun Sim in public right now. Because he’s always there, and that’s just the kind of guy he is.

But of course, fate has other plans. He’s there – standing by the lemonade stand, sun hitting his cheekbones just right, looking really flawless. Layla’s beside him, tail wagging, sitting obediently there. He spots you before you can turn away. For a second, you think maybe he won’t say anything because if he was a dear, he wouldn’t. Except he’s exactly that, and that he’s this friendly, social dork who looks just as jolly as his dog.

“Hey.”

Just one word, but it’s him, careful not to scare you away again. You smile because you don’t know what else to do, almost forced and strangled. “Hey.” You clear your throat, forcing a casual smile. “So… what are you doing here?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing, looking down at Layla, who’s staring at you with her tongue out. “Was walking Layla.”

You nod once, trying to look relaxed. “Right. Of course.” You glance toward the next booth, hoping to make a graceful exit, almost turning away when suddenly –

“Wanna talk about it?” he asks quietly.

You blink, jaw clenching, pretending to be clueless. “About what?”

He looks at you with his a small smile – just a little. “You tell me.”

And then your entire face feels like it’s on fire. You shift your weight, suddenly aware of how loud your heartbeat is. “I don’t know what there is to talk about,” you say, trying for nonchalant but failing spectacularly. 

Jake laughs. “Uh-huh. Sure. Nothing at all.”

You glare at him. He smiles. Then you sigh. 

“I mean, it’s… old. The letter. It’s… history.”

“History, huh?” he nods, puckers his lips, all to tease you obviously. “So I’m supposed to just… pretend I didn’t read about how you were obsessed with me in – what? 4th to 8th grade?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, groaning internally. “Obsessed is a strong word, Jaeyun.” 

He falls into step beside you, Layla trotting happily between the two of you. “You know,” he says, voice calm but firm, “I really think I deserve a clarification.”

You snort, exasperated. “Fine. I liked you.” you dare glance at him and he’s got that smile so wide you basically sense its’ smugness. “Happy now? Can we move on?”

He tilts his head, pretending to think, still following you. “Hmm… vague. Are we talking fifth-grade-level-like or… high-school-heart-eyes-like?”

“Fifth-grade. Definitely fifth-grade,” you say, waving your hand like it’s obvious – because it is, the handwriting in glitter pens should sell it by now! 

He finally catches up, stepping just a little closer, the ever-so-annoying grin still on his mouth. “You know,” he says softly, nudging you lightly with his shoulder, “for someone who claims it’s all ancient history, you’re awfully… defensive.”

“Defensive?” you repeat, mock-offended. “I’m cautious – very cautious. And apparently extremely popular with dogs.” Layla barks happily at the two of you, as if she’s judging your banter. You look up at Jake too, who’s brows are raised at you, smile wide.

Dogs!

“Point is,” He starts again, but you start walking and he follows. “It’s hard to make sense out of this whole… ‘it’s ancient history’ and ‘childhood crush’ –” Jake falls into step beside you again, like he’s glued there. “Well, you say it’s old but,” he continues, voice casual, but the glint in his eyes tells you he’s deadly serious, 

“Jay told me something.”

You freeze mid-step, hand hovering over a jar of chocolate chip cookies. Their exchanges always shifted a gear inside you, like two worlds colliding – so what more is this now?

Jake quirks an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “He said that you said that you and I… are seeing each other.”

Your brain short-circuits. You feel like your entire chest has been replaced by a bucket of ice. “What?”

“That’s what Jay said,” he continues, eyes on you, amused. “So… tell me. That doesn’t sound like a fifth-grade, forgettable crush, does it?”

You die. You freeze entirely, turning to him fully with your hands up in surrender. “I said that because that’s all the excuse I could muster at the moment!”

Jake leans on the counter casually, clearly enjoying your flustered state. “Uh-huh. And yet, you said it like it’s nothing.”

You wave your hands helplessly. “It is nothing!”

He shrugs, giving you that infuriatingly calm look. “Honestly, I think you have a massive, massive crush on me right now. How can you even convince me that you didn’t just write that letter a week ago when I saved you?” He’s trying to look calm but you could see how amused he truly is about this. Like he’s actually enjoying torturing you.

You scoff, glare at him, but it’s a weak glare. He’s grinning, leaning in just enough that you can feel it.

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” you mutter.

“Right. Okay,” he says smoothly, snickering, “so I’ll just walk away. While Layla and I think… you’re absolutely in love with your brother’s best friend. That’s… crazy.”

You blink at him, scandalized. “Crazy? Okay, first of all –”

“Crazy.” He cuts you off. “I’m confused. Very confused. And I deserve an explanation, of course.”

You groan again, and you fight the very urge to throw the cookie jar at him. “Fine! It was ages ago.” You exhale, training your gaze away. “I wrote letters to guys I liked. They helped me figure out what I felt. Like journaling, but more… specific.”

He hums, pretending to think. “With a stamp and an address?”

You ignore him entirely. “There were four letters. They got sent out by accident and it wasn’t exactly planned.”

“Four?” he repeats, eyebrows raising. “Holy shit, you were a player.”

He laughs, and for a second, the tension dissolves – replaced by that stupid, easy warmth that used to fill every summer evening when you were kids. But the last thing you need is comparing that vibrant-lensed memory to your life now – because it is so, so different. No crushes, or whatever. You both sit at the bench, and he leans his elbows on his knees.

Jake’s still grinning, the kind of grin that makes you want to both punch him and crawl into the nearest trash bin. “Alright, so… four letters. One for me, one for the ex.” He voice drops just slightly. “Who were the other two?”

You sigh. “Why do you care?”

“Curiosity,” he says, though there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes – something sharp, a little too interested. “Come on. I feel like I deserve to know what kind of competition I had.”

You groan. “There wasn’t competition.”

“Then tell me.”

You give him a look but cave anyway, because you’ve never been good at ignoring that tone. “Fine. One was this guy in the community library. He’d lend me annotated books, and we liked the same books, so,” you shrug, “I thought that meant we were soulmates.”

He tilts his head. “I annotated for you.”

“You highlighted science notes for me.” you hide your smile.

He shrugs, trying to get a glimpse of your face again. “Same thing.”

You ignore him and continue. “The other one – well, it doesn’t even count. He was a senior during one of my summer camps. He helped me carry my canvases and smiled at me twice. He also said I was pretty and I danced nicely. End of story.”

“Smiled twice,” Jake repeats, pretending to take mental notes. “Tragic love story, really.”

“Exactly,” you deadpan. “Totally life-altering.”

He smiles, shaking his head, and for a moment, the teasing dies down. “So… four letters, huh?”

You nod slowly, tucking your knees closer to your chest. You feel like a solid-liquid matter, because half of you still can’t believe that this is all happening. He’s smiling, sometimes he’d lick the corner of his mouth like he’s fully processing the information. You could only feel the sink in your stomach. 

Right now, it’s not the popular, soccer captain, with straight A’s, and fanclubs – it’s the boy-next-door whom you grew up with. And he’s stealing glances at you like he’s really reeling in the fact this girl that always just kinda stuck to him and his best friend, liked him. Little you with the pink bows and orange popsicles, one who always laughed too loud because he messed up tying a ribbon. Little you and little him because he intentionally ruined the ribbons to make you smile.

Jake’s quiet for a moment, just watching you in the corner of his eye. Then – of course – he clears his throat.

You look up immediately. “What?”

He shrugs. “Jay already thinks we’re… you know.” He gestures between the two of you. “So, like… maybe we let him think that.”

You blink. “You’re kidding.”

He doesn’t answer immediately, just kicks a rock on the ground. “If you suddenly backtrack, he’ll know you lied just to save face. This way, it’s… consistent.”

You gape at him like he just grew a second head. “So your plan is to fake date?”

He looks up you like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah.”

You almost practically splutter. “Jake – what the actual – no.”

He laughs, which only makes you more flustered. “Relax, it’s not that deep. Just for a bit. Saves you the embarrassment.”

You squint. “What’s in it for you?”

Jake bites his lip, looks away, like he’s half-ashamed to admit it. “There’s this girl. Cheer squad. She’s… really trying. I tried too, okay? But I can’t – ” he exhales, running a hand through his hair, “ – I can’t like her. Not the way she wants. And if I were, you know, dating someone, she’d stop.”

You stare at him with the gaze of someone judging. “That is the worst justification I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah, well,” he says with a crooked smile, “you were the one who started the rumor.”

You glare. “That wasn’t a rumor, it was a defensive maneuver.”

“Semantics,” he says, unfazed. 

You shake your head. “No. Absolutely not.”

He just nods once, like he expected that. “Yeah, didn’t expect it to be easy.” Then he tugs Layla’s leash, and she immediately stands. “C’mon. I can drive you home.”

You consider refusing, but the thought of walking back alone under this afternoon heat kills it immediately. So you sigh and follow him to the car. The drive’s quiet, the kind of quiet that hums with awkwardness. You hate it, of course, you’ve find very little reasons to not be hateful these days. When he parks in front of your house, he kills the engine but doesn’t move. Then he’s out, walking you to the front door like some kind of gentleman – except he was, since he was always kinder than Evan, everyone knew that. 

You’re fumbling for your keys when you feel a light tug on the back of your top. You look up – and damn, has he always been this tall? A tower that hovers over you? You swore you were the same height like, 5 years ago. The daylight hits his jaw, that stupid, unfair jawline.

“Just think about it, yeah?” he says softly. “The fake thing.”

You exhale, crossing your arms. “Fine.”

His eyes widen, and so does the smile that reeks of smugness at how fast this is turning out. You narrow you eyes at him, just to let him know that you still think it’s a tenth-rate idea. Before he can even comment about how easy you are with so little conviction and, well, thinking time, you turn to your door. 

“We’ll talk in school.” is all you say before you storm in and block him off today.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆。

Tip #7: Set some rules.

Now you’re sitting on the bench beside the vending machines, out of the way from people’s sight and hearing, and finally turn to him while you sit. “We need rules.” You pull out a sheet of paper.

Jake blinks while he clicks some buttons. “Rules?”

“Yes. Rules,” you say, trying to sound composed, even though you’re one second away from combusting. You are, in theory, very much dying – but you start writing on the paper. “If we’re doing this fake dating thing, we’re doing it properly.”

He tilts his head, intrigued, a smile already forming. “Alright. Hit me with your list.”

You take a breath, then you write. “Rule one: no kissing.”

He snickers, shaking his head. “Okay.” he says, tone dripping with mischief. Okay, Mr. Never-Had-A-Girlfriend! He laughs at the no kissing rule, weirdo.

“Rule two,” you continue, ignoring him, “we don’t act unless necessary. In the cafeteria, classes, school events. That’s it.”

He nods. “Sure.” Then, like he can’t help himself: “You know, most girlfriends actually want to spend time with their boyfriends.”

You shoot him a look so sharp he raises his hands in mock surrender. Then his snack is stuck on the other side of the machine, and he curses, calling it a complete scam. He’s frowning, hitting the vending machine like a loser.

“Rule three,” you finish, “you don’t get to call me ‘babe’ or whatever unless someone’s around.”

That earns you a full-blown grin. “That’s gonna be tough, babe.”

You groan, rubbing your temples. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” Jake says, that infuriating glint back in his eye. “But admit it – you kinda like it.”

You look up at him, deadpan. “Rule four: don’t assume things.” This is very, very crucial.

He laughs, the sound echoing down the hall. “Guess I’ll have to find out which of these rules you break first.” He fishes his chips out the machine by shaking it and you try not to laugh at how he’s acting.

Jake huffs, leaning against the vending machine when he finally gets that godforsaken chips. “Alright,” he says. “Then I’ve got rules too.”

You narrow your eyes. “You? Making rules?”

He shrugs. “Fake relationship’s gotta look real. Means you come with me to games and parties.”

You blink. “Parties?”

“Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. “People will notice if I show up alone. It’ll look weird if my ‘girlfriend’ never shows.”

You hesitate, frowning. “I don’t like parties.”

“That’s fine,” Jake says easily. “You don’t have to like them. You just have to be there. Plus, they’re just socializing, bit of drinking, nothing bad. I’m not a frat boy.”

You open your mouth to argue – something about how ridiculous that sounds – but he’s already looking at you, calm, steady, annoyingly reasonable, while munching down on his chips. “It’s just part of the deal,” he adds after a beat. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it properly. Otherwise, Jay’s gonna catch on. And cheer.”

You let out a quiet sigh, pressing your lips together. He’s right, technically. You just hate that he’s right. “Fine,” you mutter. “But don’t expect me to actually enjoy it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You wrinkle your nose, spine suddenly rigid. “Evan can’t know, by the way. Actually – my whole family can’t know. They’ll –” you wave your hands like you’re swatting away a swarm of angry bees. “They’ll freak. They’ll think I’m reckless or dramatic or that I’m trying to date within the family friend ecosystem. Mom will –” cheer, you know she will. “ – I don’t know, something. Evan will literally murder both of us.”

Jake watches you, amusement softening into something like understanding – because he knows your family like it’s just an extension of his. He nods. “Fair. Family stays in the dark.”

Relief burbles somewhere in your chest. “Good. Thank you.”

You feel slightly more human. Then he tilts his head, an eyebrow rising like he’s about to negotiate terms. “Okay – one more thing.”

You already feel the groan forming. “What.”

He leans forward, voice casual, practical. “So – if we’re not doing kisses because that’s your rule, people will still need to believe this. We should do believable stuff. Public stuff.”

Your first instinct is to say no. Your second instinct is to ask what “believable stuff” even means. Your third instinct is to picture yourself linking arms in the hallway and dying slowly. Not that you hate it but you are not fond of the way you’d react.

Jake watches your face closely. “Holding hands sometimes. Link arms when we walk into parties. Sit next to each other. Little things that read as couple-y without being, like, gross or personal.”

You blink. “Hold hands?”

He nods. “Not clingy.”

You fold your arms. “And the kissing thing?”

He shrugs. “We can do non-romantic stuff. A forehead peck at a pep rally, maybe. Or a quick head-kiss after a win at the game. You okay with that?”

You think about it. The idea of a staged forehead kiss makes your stomach flip in a very unnecessary way, but it’s not a full-on mouth kiss and it gets the job done. You don’t want to admit any part of you finds the image faintly tolerable. But honestly, a part of you is screaming that you don’t want that, just because something fake is too overly romantic for your lover girl heart. Still, you exhale, and nod.

“Fine,” you say finally, voice tight around the word. “And if anyone gets weird, we stop. Immediately.”

Jake’s grin is equal parts victory and relief. “Deal. Family stays clueless. Public stuff only. You call the line.”

You stand and pat your knees as if you’ve just concluded high-stakes diplomacy. “Okay. Rules set. Now let’s both try not to ruin our lives.”

He snorts. “No promises.”

You shove him lightly and start toward class, trying not to notice how natural his stride looks beside yours – the kind that makes a fake thing feel startlingly less pretend.

You sling your bag over your shoulder, ready to leave, when Jake calls out, “Okay – one more rule.”

You spin on your heel, exasperated. “Jake. We already have, like, a constitution. What else could you possibly –”

He’s grinning, that boyish kind that makes you want to throw something at him. “I need to watch your dance practices.”

You blink. “…What? That’s not even relevant to this plan.”

“Sure it is,” he says easily. “If I’m your boyfriend – fake or not – I should be supportive, right? Boyfriends go to their girlfriends’ performances. It’s believable.”

You cross your arms, trying to play it off, but your chest is doing this stupid flutter thing that feels way too alive. “You don’t have to. It’s just boring arts stuff. No one from school would even see.”

Jake raises an eyebrow, smirk tugging at his lips. “So? Maybe I just want to go.”

Your mouth opens, closes. “You don’t even like ballet.”

He shrugs. “I liked yours.”

And there it is – those five stupid words that make your pulse trip over itself. But you convince yourself that it’s the heart of 13-year-old you and not 18-year-old you, of course. It’s not logical and even plausible in this timeline now. You roll your eyes too fast, too defensive, too flustered. “That was, like, forever ago.”

“Still counts,” he says, pushing himself away from you. “Rule stands.”

You glare up at him, but he’s already walking backward, grinning like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Fine,” you call after him, trying to sound nonchalant, but your voice cracks a little. “You’ll regret it when I dance for one hour straight.”

He winks. “I never did.”

˚ ༘♡ ⋆。

Tip #8: Abide by the fake girlfriend etiquette.

When you were 10, things were simple.

Evan was 12, Jake was 11, and you were just the tag-along kid with the pink backpack and juice box, sitting cross-legged on the sidelines while they kicked around a soccer ball. Jake used to wave at you from the field before every practice – grinning, hair sticking to his forehead, yelling, “Watch this!” before missing half his shots but celebrating like he’d won the World Cup anyway.

You’d clap until your palms stung. His other flock of friends were there too, boys just as rowdy supporting him. Yet he’d always come running over to you and Evan first, all flushed and sweaty, asking, “Well? How’d I do?”

And you’d giggle, cheeks warm. “You were cool.”

Evan, naturally, ruined everything by aggressively poking your cheek. “You like him, don’t you?” You puffed your cheeks, shaking your head hard enough to make your ponytail whip around. “Do not!”

You snap back to the present just as you’re walking to the bus station, bag slung lazily over your shoulder, earbuds in. The air smells like asphalt and afternoon rain when your phone buzzes.

Jake Sim. You hesitate before answering. “What?”

“Hey,” he says, tone way too casual for your liking. “You gotta show up at my practice.”

You stop walking. “What, why?”

“Cheer’s here,” he says simply, and you can hear the exasperation through the line, like you can already see the image of girls swarming, and eyeing him down. You groan, tipping your head back. “Jaeyun, I have homework. Just let them.”

“Dude, that’s not fair,” he fires back without missing a beat. You roll your eyes so hard it’s almost audible. “Practices are not part of the rules.”

“Wow,” he says, fake offended, scoffing, overly dramatic, just the way he is. “You’re really gonna let your boyfriend play to a thirsty audience?”

“Fake boyfriend,” you correct sharply and he ignores you completely. “Field. Fifteen minutes. Look cute.”

“Jaeyun –”

The call ends.

You glare at your reflection in the black screen for a full five seconds before groaning out loud, clutching your bag tighter. “I hate him,” you mutter to no one.

But fifteen minutes later, you’re trudging your way across the field anyway. Of course you are. You’re a woman of your word, even with the guys you hate and used to like and have some stupid constitution with because you’re fake dating him. Junior year is crazy and stupid, and whatever you are now is beyond normal to even be analogous to be compared to other kids your age. You used to believe you’re smart, but now you feel like you’re one red wig away from looking like a clown anyway.

Okay, maybe you glanced a few times in the mirror before getting here. Not that you were trying to impress. Of course not. But when he sees you, you can’t help but think if you should’ve fixed your hair a bit more, your top and shorts – just to look part of whatever this is. 

Early September this year was unusually cold, but you blame the dawn. You tug your knitted cardigan closer as you find your way to Jake, who was already warming up on the field. Jake notices you instantly, breaking away from his teammates. He jogs over, breath visible in the chill, that easy grin already pulling at his lips. “You look ridiculous,” he says first thing, eyes flicking over your outfit. “It’s cold tonight.”

You sigh, rubbing your arms. “Yeah, well, I wasn’t particularly planning to stay at school beyond dismissal time, you know.”

He hums, nodding toward the sidelines where his duffel bag sits and you follow his gaze. “There’s a hoodie in there. You can wear it.” He says in a way that was more of a casual exchange than a proposed act.

You blink at him, unimpressed. “I’ll live.” You start toward the bleachers instead, but before you get far, his voice follows you – lazy, casual, loud enough for a few heads to turn. “Hey, get my wallet from the bag pocket and buy yourself coffee from the vending machine.”

You stop mid-step. What the fuck? Then you remember – right, act. You’re the supportive girlfriend. This is just theater and people like seeing that, the whole princess treatment.

You exhale through your nose and keep walking, pretending not to notice the amused looks from his teammates. You’re halfway up the bleachers when his voice rings out again, louder this time:

“No good luck kiss?”

You freeze. Half the field turns to look at you. You feel your face heat up, and you swear you hear someone whistle. You glance over your shoulder, glare sharp enough to cut through the cold. “Later, loser!”

Jake just grins – wide, boyish, triumphant – before jogging back to the field.

You can feel the eyes on you the moment you sit down. The cheer team is scattered nearby – half of them pretending not to notice, half of them definitely noticing. Whispers ripple between them like wind through grass, and you’re used to it or at least, you pretend you are.

Except there’s one girl who doesn’t join in. She’s sitting cross-legged on the bench, scrolling through her phone, totally unbothered by your presence. No sideways glance, no whispered comment, not even a flicker of curiosity.

She’s pretty. The kind of pretty that takes work but in an effortless way – soft waves that clearly came from a salon blowout, glossed lips, lashes that catch the light every time she blinks. You can tell she smells expensive, like vanilla and something floral. The kind of girl who journals at cafes and has a curated Instagram feed. 

You don’t even need to ask. You just know. That’s her. The cheer girl. And honestly, how could Jake not like that?

You press your lips together, dropping your gaze back to your notebooks and textbook. The game starts – cheers start their own practice drills, whistles are blown, the dull thud of shoes against turf – but you don’t care. Your pencil scratches against paper as you wrestle with pre-calculus instead of your own thoughts.

As the sky deepens into navy, the air turns sharper, colder. You rub your hands together, glance once, then twice, at Jake’s duffel bag on the sidelines, staring at you with temptation and oversized comfort and warm caffeine. The hoodie’s right there. He did offer and he did tell you to buy coffee.

You could. No one would even think twice.

But you don’t. Because this is fake – you’re fake, and letting yourself get comfortable with the pretend label feels like the first step into something stupid. 

You straighten in your seat, pull your cardigan tighter, and tell yourself your support here is enough. You deserve that much self-respect because this is an act, no need to be comfortable when you’re already deep in the pretend. So you keep your head down and keep working because pre-calculus sure as hell isn’t going to solve itself.

When the final whistle blows and you’ve finished the final question, flipping the cursed material closed, the soccer team is dispersing and Jake’s jogging towards you like he used to with Evan beside you, and still with that grin like he’s in the middle of impressing you.

“I scored half the team’s points in the practice game.” 

You raise a brow without looking up right away, feigning disinterest as you tuck your pencil in your case, and zip your bag closed. “Congratulations,” you say flatly. 

Jake huffs a laugh, hands on his hips, jersey clinging to him, hair damp with sweat. “You’re so supportive,” he says, sarcasm dripping. “Really feeling the fake girlfriend energy.”

You finally look at him, which was a mistake, because he should reek of sweat and look disgusting, but he’s neither. “Well, it’s not like I was supposed to actually enjoy being here.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he shoots back. “You didn’t even look up once.”

“Pre-calculus,” you reply, lifting your notebook slightly like evidence in court. “Some of us are trying to pass.”

He grins again, easy and boyish, and it makes something uncomfortable twist in your stomach. It’s cold, okay. That’s why.  “You’re ridiculous,” he says, but his tone’s softer this time.

“So I’ve heard.”

Jake crouches down a little, eye level with you now, his breath still uneven from the run. “You’re cold,” he murmurs, less teasing, more observant when his eyes trail to your hands and unmanicured nails. “Told you to take my hoodie.”

You shrug, refusing to meet his gaze. “Didn’t need it.”

“Right,” he says, unconvinced. He sighs, which you believe is the disappointment of you not playing further into the GF act yeah, obviously. “You look like you’re about to catch hypothermia out of spite.”

You snort, finally standing up and slinging your bag over your shoulder. “It’s called dignity.”

Jake tilts his head, smile tugging at one corner of his mouth, taking his duffel bag as well. “You and your dignity are both freezing.”

You roll your eyes and start walking toward the gate, and he falls into step beside you like it’s second nature. It’s annoyingly easy, the way he matches your pace – not too fast, not too slow – and you wonder how something fake can feel this familiar already.

You’re on your way to the school gates, about to part ways with Jake when he calls you. You turn, confused. “What.”

He points to the parking lot to where he’s heading, and you shiver. Then you realize. You, Jake, Bronco, outside people’s field of view which eems excessive and unnecessary, maybe even scary.

“I can take the bus.” You nod, turning your heel but he laughs under his breath, that low, knowing sound that always seems to find its way under your skin. “You think I’m gonna let my fake girlfriend take the bus at night?”

You roll your eyes, pretending to scoff even though the corner of your mouth threatens to curve up. “You don’t have to, Jaeyun. You’ve done your civic duty. Played soccer, annoyed me, performed for the crowd – gold star.”

He shakes his head, walking backwards a few steps again, the parking lot lights catching the edge of his grin. “Get in the car, angel,” he says, teasing but somehow gentle, like it’s a line he’s not even aware sounds too easy on his tongue.

You blink. “Bro, I said no calling me –”

“Get in,” he interrupts, unlocking the Bronco with a beep. “You’re cold, and I have heated seats.”

“Wow,” you say, hugging your cardigan tighter to hide the way your pulse jumps, like it would help, like it could also stop the butterflies. “Bossy and selfless.”

Jake opens the passenger door for you, mock bowing. “It’s called good fake boyfriend etiquette.”

You sigh, fighting a smile as you walk over, trying not to show how much warmer it feels just standing near him. “Fine,” you mumble, brushing past. “But this doesn’t mean I owe you anything.”

He leans against the doorframe, eyes gleaming under the dim lights. “I can take a ‘later, loser’ as payment again,” he says softly, the hint of a smile ghosting over his lips.

You shake your head, pretending to be exasperated – but you still say it, barely above a whisper. “Later, loser.”

And the way his grin widens – just slightly, like he’s trying not to let it show – makes the night feel a little less cold.

It’s the second Sunday of the month, so you do the task of buying groceries. Everything’s as planned – except you don’t even know why you’re… sorta doing this out of planned. The list in your Notes app says “bread, toothpaste, detergent, blah blah essentials” and yet your cart is full of snacks you swore you’d stop buying, instant noodles, and a new body wash that smells really good. Right, as well as the basket loads of sweets that you swore you’d cut because you cannot live that sugary life anymore. 

The gray sky was hanging low, the grocery aisles nearly empty except for parents dragging their kids and college students attempt at adulthood. And the manager’s trying, okay? With the new pop music that’s hot in the radio, but they need to put the decade old speaker to rest.

You’re halfway through the snack aisle when you see him. Out of your plan because you look half-dead and it’s just embarrassing. He doesn’t though, because he never does. Jake’s hoodie is up like always, sleeves pushed past his wrists, a basket in one hand and a can of Pringles in the other like he’s been standing there deciding between flavors for ten whole minutes.

You blink, hoping maybe you’re hallucinating. Because why the hell is this dude suddenly everywhere? Like, sure, he always has been everywhere ever since the beginning, but it’s so frequently this time that it feels intentional. Why would you two be in the same aisle in the same grocery store at the same time?

He spots you, and that familiar grin pulls at his face, amused and wide that pulls his cheeks up. “Oh my god,” he says, like he’s genuinely shocked. “You actually grocery shop.”

You roll your eyes, pushing your cart forward, attempting to make this as trivial as possible. “Yeah, I do basic human things sometimes.”

But he doesn’t let you because he starts walking beside you, basket swinging lightly from his hand while you push the heavy cart. “Didn’t take you for a domestic type.”

“I’m not,” you say. “We just ran out of cereal.”

Jake hums, looking into your cart. “And chocolates, chips, ice cream, coffee pods, three packs of different drinks – real essentials.”

“Are you stalking my cart?” You glare up at him.

“Maybe.” He shrugs, grinning. 

You huff a laugh under your breath.

The aisle hums with fluorescent light which flickers sometimes, begging to be replaced. Your wheels squeak every few steps and the old front casters decides a mutiny to turn left when you mean right. However, Jake doesn’t leave. In fact, he follows you to the next section, sometimes he stays quiet and sometimes he’s still talking about nothing – milk prices, the weather, some inside joke you actually don’t get – like it’s the most normal thing in the world to tag along when your fake boyfriend just happens to bump into you at the grocery.

“Shouldn’t you leave me alone.” You say it not as a question but out of exasperation.

“Nah.”

You move on, pretending to check labels, but your focus is gone. You can feel him a few steps behind you, basket getting fuller with things he clearly didn’t come here for, looking at things he probably doesn’t care about. Simply because you’re here and he chose to be there too.

By the time you reach the checkout, he’s still there. He helps you unload your stuff onto the counter like it’s habit, then quietly plucks out the ice cream and sets it aside.

You frown, looking up at him. “Hey, that’s mine.”

“I’ll carry it,” he says simply, not even looking at you. “So it doesn’t melt.”

He pays for his things, and you both head out – the automatic doors sliding open, letting in the smell of rain. The parking lot’s damp, glowing faintly under the streetlights. The air is cold in a way that it seeps into your sleeves and makes you hold the bags tighter, and Jake falls into step beside you, shoulders brushing just barely, like he’s not really thinking about it. 

It’s drizzling and the droplets catches on your hair and lashes before you realize it. There’s a beat of silence before he lifts his hand slightly over your head, his hoodie sleeve brushing your hair as if to shield you from the drizzle. Not quite touching – but close enough to make you look up at him.

You blink up at him, caught, but he’s looking somewhere else, pretending to study the clouds. “There,” he says casually. “Problem solved.”

You roll your eyes, but your voice comes out a little softer. “That’s overreacting.”

“Yeah,” he says, grinning. “But at least you’re dry.”

With an arm over your head, you both head to your car. He helps you with your bags because you clearly have gotten way more than what your list said you needed. He tucks them in your trunk for you, smirks just a little when he sees your still very fucked bumper.

“Still haven’t fixed this?” he asks, tapping the dent lightly with his knuckles.

You roll your eyes. “Leave it alone, bro.”

Clearly, he laughs at that, bending a little and just adds a quiet comment about getting called ‘bro’. 

You adjust your bag, trying not to look at him when he nudges your shoulder lightly with his own. “See you, bro,” he says, soft. And when he walks the other way, ice cream still in his hand, you realize your groceries are lighter but your chest isn’t.

You’re gonna kill him. He stole your ice cream.

Fuck ass alarm clock, actually. For not ringing. And then, you missed the first bus but seriously, you’re not driving to school. Not when your bumper’s still fucked (repair shop said one month at least before it’s back to good condition) for the whole school to see.

You’re sprinting through the campus, late, backpack bouncing, hair barely held together by a clip that’s losing the will to live. The school is crowded today – student org booths, food stalls, music, chatter – everything you’d normally love if you weren’t racing the bell. 

And then – bam. You collide into someone hard enough that your said dying claw clip flies out of your hair.

“Oh my god, I’m so –” you start, but the words die somewhere in your throat. Because the girl in front of you is gorgeous. Effortlessly so. Tousled chestnut hair with blonde highlights (religious monthly retouch, you swear), glossy lips, eyes lined just enough to look like she woke up perfect. And you know her. You know her.

Jake’s practice. The girl who didn’t look at you. The one who acted unbothered while the others whispered. Her.

She smiles, soft and polite, like you didn’t just crash into her soul-first, like you’re not something that’s barely holding herself together while she’s the human embodiment of that Vivienne Westwood tartan in Pinterest. “Hey,” she says, voice smooth. “I see you around sometimes, but we’ve never officially met.”

Your stomach sinks. Oh, that line. The ‘I know exactly who you are’ line dressed up as small talk because no one actually ever says that to someone they bumped into even if they’ve seen them around in campus. It’s intentional, and meeting you was on purpose.

You force a smile, straighten your bag, try not to sound like you swallowed air wrong. “Right. Yeah. Sorry, I’m –”

“Yeah, I know,” she says easily, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, effortlessly, the kind of way someone like Jake Sim would like. “I’m Vivienne.”

Of course she is named the way she looks. Of course her name sounds like luxury brand. You’d half expect violins to start playing behind her and maybe even you’d start performing Giselle right there on the pavement, tragic and delusional, with her as the hauntingly beautiful lead.

You nod, flustered. “Nice to meet you. I gotta – I have class and –”

Her smile is gentle, too gentle, like she’s not even trying to compete because why would she need to? “Oh, sorry! Didn’t mean to hold you up. See you around, okay?”

You manage a half-wave before turning and bolting toward the hallway, heat crawling up your neck. You just met the girl who’s probably starring in Jake Sim’s next romantic subplot – and you looked like a winded raccoon doing it.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆。

Your footsteps echo down the nearly empty hallway, the faint hum of chatter spilling from open classroom doors. You’re just minding your business, totally normal, completely fine – until you see Jay.

And of course, he’s not alone. He’s leaning against the wall, head tilted slightly, smiling at the girl beside him. She’s laughing softly, one hand brushing his arm – it’s all so cinematic.

And then – just your luck – his eyes flick to you.

Oh no. Oh no.

You weren’t supposed to be here, alone, empty-handed, totally boyfriend-less. Because what kind of person fakes a relationship to their ex and then gets caught solo in the hallway while he’s out there looking like a K-drama poster? And your competitive ass would not lose to that. You swear you can feel his stare linger, assessing, amused – like he knows, like he’s already caught you in your own lie and that you suck and you’re still a sucker for him, the two-year-old letter was still the very symbol who you used to be and are now. 

And then, you spot Jake. Thank god.

He’s walking down the opposite end, surrounded by his usual crowd, voice loud and laughter louder, sleeves rolled up, looking every bit like the boy everyone somehow orbits around. 

Your stomach twists. This is a bad idea. This is the worst idea. But Jay’s still there.

You feel it – that lingering awareness, that quiet amusement burning into your back – and suddenly, standing still feels worse than anything else. So you move.

You cut through Jake’s friends without really looking at them, fingers wrapping around his sleeve, pulling harder than you mean to. He stumbles mid-laugh, words cutting off as you pull him out of orbit and straight into you.

“Hey –” he starts.

You don’t give him time.

You back up against the lockers, the metal cold against your back when you press, his arm instinctively bracing beside your head to keep himself from knocking into you. He’s close – closer than either of you planned – breath warm, eyes wide with surprise.

Your heart is trying to escape your ribcage.

You tilt your head up, voice low, urgent. “Kiss me.”

Jake blinks. 

His eyes flick over his shoulder, quick and assessing – the hallway, the people, the goddamn fucking context as to why you’re acting the way you are – before landing back on you. Something shifts in his expression, seriousness cutting easily through the teasing.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs.

You nod surely.

That’s all it takes before he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, gentle and grounding. His hand settles lightly at your waist, steadying you, like he knows your legs might give out otherwise. Then he presses another kiss, lower this time, just on the bridge of your nose.

For a second, the hallway fades. You’re too aware of the way his breath ghosts your skin, the warmth of his palm, the fact that this feels… stupidly good.

When he pulls back, your eyes meet. There’s a beat where neither of you says anything and the air feels thick with something unspoken, something that doesn’t fit the excuse you just used. Jake studies your face like he’s trying to read it, then his mouth curves into a soft smile.

He reaches up and ruffles your hair, affectionate and familiar, like how it’s always been. He pulls away, putting a close but safer distance between you two.

“There’s a party later,” he says casually, thumb brushing your sleeve. “I’ll drive you.”

You scoff, leaning away just enough to breathe again. “I can’t. I have a paper due in, like, two days –”

“Hey,” he cuts in, grinning. “Contract.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he steps closer again, quick and deliberate, and presses a kiss to your cheek. It’s brief – almost teasing – before he pulls away entirely.

“Think about it,” he says, already backing up. “See you.”

You freeze, like someone just ripped the air from your lungs. Heart hammering, brain fizzing. 

And then, just out of the corner of your eye, you notice her. Vivienne who’s glancing at the scene, calm, composed, not giving anything away. For half a second, your eyes meet just before she turns her head and walks away, graceful as ever, leaving you blinking against the lockers.

Okay, yeah, that’s why. Obviously.

You want to punch him. You also want to melt. Both, simultaneously.

˚ ༘♡ ⋆。

The houseparty is loud and bustling from the inside – the kind you eye while walking past when you’re supposed to head for the convenience store at 10 p.m. Yet you’re here, standing by the entrance, Jake at your side while you tug at the hem of your low cut dress. You glance at yourself in the hallway mirror half a dozen times ever since you’ve gotten here – which is less than two minutes ago. 

Jake’s there too, just beside you, in a simple bomber jacket over a white shirt. You fidget with your hair, messing with a strand of hair that’s already fine, and it’s definitely not helping you feel more composed.

“You look good,” Jake says suddenly, low enough that it feels like it’s meant just for you, and not the thrumming crowd around you. For a moment you think it is, to help you not look so rigid beside your supposed boyfriend.

You glance at him, slightly flustered, trying to hide the flutter in your chest behind a scoff. “Thanks,” you murmur, not daring to let the hint of a smile slip.

“Not that you’d notice,” he adds, tilting his head, eyes flicking over the curve of your hips and the way your hands twist nervously. “You think too much.”

You can’t help it – a small, almost embarrassed laugh escapes, and you tug the dress down a bit, just enough to remind yourself that you’re standing here in front of Jake Sim, who somehow makes it impossible to act like you’re not completely aware of him.

Again, you think about how this is a bad idea. The whole fake dating thing. Because it’s Jake Sim and not just some random dude, it’s someone people know – which is not your kind of thing, and it does make you a bit nauseous when you think too much about it. Something about the fact that you’re pretending to be in love felt so wrong, like it’s going against a sacred scripture. At least, in your world, you are. Because when did something as pure as the romantics and butterflies have to be an act.

You let Jake guide you further inside, the bass of the music and laughs vibrating under your feet. Lights flash against faces you recognize, people who seem to exist on a higher plane of social gravity and took Instagram curation as serious as resumes. You stick close to Jake, letting him pull you along like a practiced partner in a dance you’re quite close to mastering.

“Drink?” he asks, voice low as he leans a little closer so only you can hear. He gestures toward the kitchen where a small crowd has gathered, laughter spilling out like a current. You nod, letting him pull you through the current.

Inside, the kitchen is chaotic but manageable – half-empty bottles, solo cups clattering on the counters, someone talking loudly about a prank from last week. You grab a cup and fill it with the fizzy liquid in the suspicious fishbowl at the middle of the counter – you only assume its safety from the hospitalable set-up.

“I ran into Vivienne the other day,” you say as if you’re trying to sound like you’re just passing the time.

Jake pauses with his cup halfway to his lips. “Oh. Okay,” he mutters, low and clipped, uninterested with the way he continues to drink, and how he doesn’t ask anything nor even glance back at you.

You frown slightly, but decide to keep going anyway by pressing on like a good narrator in your own story. “She’s… really pretty.”

His posture doesn’t change, he’s still relaxed against the counter but the way his fingers tighten slightly on his cup betrays something. You notice because you always notice things about Jake.

You scoff a chuckle, failing to act nonchalant. “She’s, like, perfect. For a guy like you.” 

Jake lets out a soft, almost amused sigh, finally loosening his shoulders a fraction. “A guy like me?”

You shrug, letting a smile twitch at the corners of your mouth. “Yeah. I mean, don’t the soccer captains usually fall for the cheer captains?” You drink the fizzy liquid, juicy with the alcoholic after taste – you hum at its surprisingly nice flavor.

Jake scoffs, and for a moment, he leans back a little, tilting his head as if weighing how much he should entertain this conversation. “Well, you’ve been reading too much romance novels, that’s for sure.”

You grin, sipping your drink. “It adds… flavor. Like a plot twist.”

He tilts his head, gaze locking on yours. It’s tall, steady, and a little intimidating in how calm he looks while you stare up at him. “Okay,” he says slowly, “then what about this plot twist?”

You freeze a little, trying not to overthink the weight in his tone and the way his eyes stay on you while you attempt to not look stricken. Your emotions move without authority, and suddenly you feel tingly when you look at him. But before you can respond, someone calls his name from across the room. He exhales, and does not waste a second longer to look for the source, slipping into the crowds for a more sensible conversation with his friends.

You take the cue, moving away into the crowd, thankful that the tight kitchen which reeks of questionable alcoholic beverages no longer becomes your stage of frightful beginnings. The living room feels spacious and easier, so you let yourself collapse onto the couch, settling in, feeling your tensed shoulders finally relax. Your drink fizzes in your hand, a cold reminder that you’re still very much here, alive, and playing a role of a dangerous act.

For a moment, you just sit there, letting the noise of the party blur around you, watching the way Jake moves through it, impossible to ignore even when he’s not looking at you. He easily mingles with the people, while you find yourself thinking too much in helpless solitude.

You might have been too lost in your thoughts because you don’t realize the presence sinking just a few feet away from you. And it’s nothing, really, until you look over and it’s Jay.

Okay, seems scandalous, because you’re both (essentially) seeing other people and this is too close for comfort. Though you don’t leave, even when he meets your eyes. 

He advances quick, starting with a friendly smile. “So, you and Jake?” His tone isn’t pointed or bitter – it’s just curiosity, and you laugh like you’re out of breath. Mostly because you are, but you cannot warrant a reason why. 

“Yeah.” you manage, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Since… when?” he asks, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. It’s not a jab – no. You know he’s thinking about the timeline: when Jake was always around, when he got there, when he left, and how it all fits together.

Honestly, yeah, it’s weird. 

You take a sip of your drink, steadying yourself. “Okay, so…” You grin a little, and it’s all part of the script you and Jake agreed on. “It kind of just happened. Evan left, and Jake and I got closer, hanging out more. That’s all. Nothing else crazy.”

“Yeah, I just,” he shrugs, eyes flicking down. “I just needed to piece it together, you know? He’s been around forever and then I came along. And when I left, Jake’s just… there. I guess I just wanted to know I wasn’t…”

“A placeholder?” you finish softly, your tone teasing but gentle.

He huffs a laugh, sheepish. “Something like that.”

You shake your head, smile easy. “No, Jay. It’s not like that.”

“I know.” He laughs, you shake your head. 

“There was space between timelines.” you mean for it to sound reassuring with the way you say it, and it does. He smiles, small and almost shy, and for a second, it’s familiar.

“Okay,” he says finally, nodding. “Good. We’re good.”

You chuckle, the corner of your mouth curling up. “Yeah. We’re good.”

Silence, but not the kind that’s not uncomfortable – that never happens with Jay. It’s the kind that makes you remember why it worked between the two of you before, and you think that softness you had for him for 1 year was always going to be there (in the corner of your heart).

He clears his throat. “How’s ballet?”

You blink. “Huh?” Then, softer: “Oh. Yeah. Still good. Not as consistent lately, but… I still love it.” You nod, more to yourself. “It’s nice to still have it.”

He smiles. “You always looked like you belonged there.”

You laugh, half embarrassed. “Yeah, well. I try.” Then, because you’re curious – or maybe because you want to know if he’s happy as the way long time friends do it – you ask, “How about you? How are you and –”

But before you can finish, a voice cuts through.

“Hey.”

You turn. 

Jake’s eyes flick between the two of you, quick, assessing, like he’s walked into a scene he doesn’t quite understand. 

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he says, hands in his pockets. “Everything okay?” 

Jay leans back, “Yeah, man. Just catching up.”

“Right,” Jake says, and it’s not sarcastic, just… uncertain, which makes you sink into the cushion. His gaze lingers on you for a second longer before he nods. “Catching up.”

The air shifts, though it’s not awkward, just suddenly aware. “Yeah.” you pause and smile too quickly. “Just catching up.”

And that’s it – no one says anything else which is more distressing than it is good. The silence hums between you three, heavy and delicate at the same time. Jay’s hand drums lightly on his knee and Jake’s thumb grazes the edge of his pocket. You pretend not to notice the way Jake’s still looking at you like he’s trying to figure out what he just walked into. And maybe, if you’re honest, you don’t really know either.

Jay glances at his phone, the screen lighting up his face for a second. “Hey, I should probably head out,” he says, standing and giving you that small, polite smile. You nod, maybe too quickly. “Yeah, of course. I’ll see you around.”

“Yeah.” he looks at Jake for a second, something unspoken flickering in the air, then back at you. “Take care, okay?” 

You smile, small. “You too.”

He waves lightly before slipping into the crowd, and just like that, he’s gone. The space he leaves behind feels heavier somehow.

Jake’s still standing there, watching the retreating figure like he’s waiting for something else to happen. Then he lets out a low breath, half a laugh but not quite. “So…” he says, lowering himself onto the couch beside you, not in the Jay-feet-away, the Jake-way with your legs touching, and it makes your breath hitch a little. “What was that?”

You blink, caught off guard. “What was what?”

He tilts his head, studying your face. “That. You and Jay. You looked like –” He pauses, searching for the word, a corner of his mouth twitching. Then he shrugs like he’s really trying to look nonchalant. “Like something.”

You huff, defensive without meaning to be. “We were just talking.”

Jake lets out a small laugh, then he’s shaking his head while looking away. “Right. Just talking.”

You don’t answer. You can just feel how close he is now – the space between you shrinking until you can smell the faint trace of his cologne, especially when he leans back, arm resting on the back of the couch, failing to be casual. 

Then his knee brushes yours, and you face him with narrowed eyes. It feels as if he’s meaning to get close subtly even though it isn’t subtle at all. His jaw flexes slightly, eyes flicking away from you for a second.

Then, finally, he sighs, straightening. “It’s getting late.” He glances around the room, unimpressed. “And this party sucks.”

You manage a small laugh, bored and unamused. “Yeah. Kind of does.”

He stands, slipping his hands into his pockets, that easy Jake posture you know too well. “Come on. Let’s go.”

You hesitate, but he’s already headed for the door regardless. The room feels too loud, too crowded, and following him feels like the only option that makes sense rationally and irrationally.

You follow him out – through the hallway, past the half-empty red cups, the fading music, and people that tell him to stay – and into the cooler, quieter night that welcomes you with a crisp breeze. It actually wasn’t that late, only a quarter until 11, much unusual from the time he’d leave. You wrap your arms around yourself the way you always do, still following him while crossing the cold street, looking over everything before it moves to the back of Jake’s head.

The car’s parked out front, headlights catching the faint shine on the wet pavement. Jake unlocks it without looking back, the familiar beep echoing softly in the dark.

You walk to the passenger side, exhaling the chill of September through the mist of your breath. 

“So what did you guys talk about?” Jake breaks the silence while he rounds the front of the car, his voice casual but not really. He stops by the driver’s side, glancing at you over the hood.

You blink, hand already on the door handle. “What?”

He shrugs, unlocking his side and sliding in. You open the passenger door and climb in, the car greeting you with that faint leather smell and the low hum of the engine warming up. 

“You and Jay.” He says it simply, but there’s something underneath – something easy to miss if you weren’t listening closely – but thank God you actually don’t listen close enough and know nothing about his tone because you don’t care enough for that obviously.

Yeah, duh.

“Nothing,” you answer, buckling your seatbelt. “Just caught up. He asked about ballet.”

Jake hums, nodding like he believes you, though you can tell he doesn’t fully. His hands grip the wheel lightly, thumb tapping against the leather. “Right. Ballet.”

You glance at him, raising a brow, “Why do you sound like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you don’t believe me.”

He lets out a small laugh this time, the kind that sounds like he’s trying not to sound bothered. “I didn’t say that.”

“Didn’t have to,” you mutter, looking out the window. The reflection of the streetlights flickers, blurring in the glass.

Jake exhales, eyes still on the road. The car’s warming up and not moving, so you two sit in the boiling evidence of your bad decisions and the overcomplexities of trivial matters.

“I’m not –” He stops himself, jaw tightening before softening again. “Forget it.”

“No, what?” you press, turning to him.

“It’s nothing.” He glances at you briefly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, like he’s really trying to play it off. “Just… weird seeing you talk to your ex. That’s all.”

You blink, processing it, because that’s not something you thought you’d hear tonight – least of all from Jake. “Does it matter?”

“Well, yeah. If we’re trying to pretend like we’re dating, you’re not really supposed to be talking and getting cozy with an ex like that.”

“We were just,” you shrug, “talking. He asked about you and me. Because the timeline was kinda weird and he needed reassurance.”

He scoffs, a bit loud. Okay, way too loud than necessary volume. “Reassurance.” he repeats.

And there’s this part of you, teetering so close to the edge of asking if he’s jealous, but why would he be? Why was he acting that way? Why would it matter? His tone is weird and there’s a crease between his eyebrows, lips puckered just a little like he’s close to whining.

“It’s just, not. A good look.” he sighs like he read your mind and responded before you could ask. “It’s whatever. I feel whatever.”

You shake your head, trying not to smile, but failing a little. “You’re ridiculous.”

Jake laughs under his breath, but more disbelieved than it is amused. “Yeah, maybe.” His hand shifts on the gear, his tone becomes quieter now. “Still didn’t like it, though.”

You turn to him, surprised, but he’s already looking ahead – focused, expression unreadable. The dome light catches the edge of his profile: sharp jaw, steady eyes, lips pressed together like he’s not sure what he just admitted or got into.

For a second, neither of you say anything. The car hums softly beneath you, the night stretching quiet and long outside.

Then he exhales, mutters almost to himself, “This thing’s gonna kill me.”

Your pause and you turn to him. “What?”

But Jake just smirks, turning up the radio, avoiding your eyes like it will save him. “Nothing. You hungry?”

You stare at him, pulse loud in your ears, but he’s already pulling onto the road like nothing happened. He’s good at running away from you too, even though you’re only a center console away.

You exhale, sinking just closer down the softness of the passenger seat, unsure where the sudden need to explain comes from. “He really just asked when we started dating.”

He puckers his lips, looking as if he’s debating whether to ask further or not. Of course, he decides to feed his rumination. “And what did he say to that?” he taps the wheel, just stealing one glance at you. 

You scoff, maybe a bit disbelieved, also a tiny bit of enjoyment in whatever’s happening. “What matters was we didn’t look friendly, okay? And no one was looking.” You turn to him again even if he’s not looking back. “Not everyone has the spotlight on them 24/7 like you, Jaeyun.” 

Jake laughs under his breath, a single huff through his nose. “Spotlight, huh?”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t pretend you don’t know what I mean.”

“I really don’t,” he says, though the faint grin tugging at his mouth says otherwise. “You make it sound like I’m out here doing press tours.”

“You kind of are,” you mutter. “Golden boy, soccer captain, girls whispering your name in the hallway – ring any bells?”

He chuckles, low and quiet, shaking his head. “You pay way too much attention.”

You bite back a smile. “I have eyes.”

The road hums beneath the tires, streetlights flashing rhythmically across the dashboard. The silence that follows isn’t heavy, but it’s charged – the kind that makes your chest feel too small for your heartbeat.

Later that night, when you’ve cleaned from alcohol and popular kid atmosphere, your phone buzzes from your nightstand.

When your phone buzzes again, you see Jake posted on his Instagram story. It’s you when you were fixing your dress at the mirror by the entrance of the houseparty, a candid shot you didn’t realize he took. With a caption: “my pretty girl”.

You stare at the ceiling for a long time before setting your phone down – because even when you tell yourself it’s all pretend, the thing in your chest still feels way too real.

“She hasn’t stopped.” Jake announces to you, leaning against the locker beside yours while you unload your things. 

You sigh. “It’s not my fault Vivienne-the-perfect actually isn’t a girls girl and would flirt with a taken man.” you give him a glance and try not to smile at the completely worried and concerned look on his face, like he’s clearly very offended by this revelation.

“That’s bullshit! Is that not – girl code, or whatever?” 

You close your locker and shrug. He frowns – pouts even. “She literally had her hand on my jacket and did the thing with her eyelashes. We should just try harder.”

You scoff and couldn’t control when your eyes rolled, which you hope he didn’t take for a different reason. You can’t just believe people like her existed! “I doubt making out in front of her would keep her hands off you if she doesn’t care you’re taken.”

You could’ve chosen better words, really, because now Jake’s smiling and leaning in. “Wanna try?”

Your book lands on his arm and he winces in pain, while you glare at him before walking down the hall, away from him, and to your next class.

Fake dating Jake was… easy. And that should be a good thing when you look at it in a perspective of… colleagues, or workers, or groupmates. People who are working in a system that needed to abide by a certain degree to be considerably functioning in the area of expertise. 

But in a perspective of a 18-year-old girl who’s in love easy and a hopeless romantic; it’s hell dressed in fluffy hair, easy grins, soccer practices, tall stature, kind personality (the kind your mom likes) and pretty brown eyes.

He shows up just as much as you do, in places that needed the presence of a good partner. In the school fields, classrooms, hallways, parties, games. Showing up was easy – he made it easy.

Sometimes it’s the smallest things.

Sometimes it’s the bigger ones. When it started getting harder because more were getting involved, and showing up became consistent unnecessarily.

When his mom had called you to come over to taste her baked treats – you immediately agree. You catch up and she asks mostly about school, ballet, college, and then Jake. Jake, who’s pretending he’s not eavesdropping from the living room.

You promised not letting your families know, and sure, she wasn’t asking if you were dating, but she looked at you like she was already welcoming you in their family anyway. In the “i’ll-start-expecting-grandchildren-soon” way now, mostly because you’ve always been part of the Sim when you were kids.

Jake would look at you with a kind of gaze that says sorry when he passes by to grab a glass of water. You’d shake your head and mouth ‘it’s okay’. Even though, deep down, you know it’s kind of not.

Or that time Jake was invited by your dad over for some ‘usual family barbecue night’. Usual would mean involving Evan, but he’s states away – so it’s just this kind of awkward set up of your parents plus Jaeyun. 

He’s laughing at your dad’s jokes and stories while they grill barbecue. He asks about school, soccer, and college, Jake responds easily, asks questions in return to keep it going.

You stay with your mom by the lounge while you eat your portion, and, well, ruminate your small acts of self-sabotage in the very form of barbecue night. Your mom notices, just like she always does. 

“Jake’s a good kid.” she says, testing the waters of your very deep thoughts.

You could only hum in response. Because it’s true. Which is what makes it particularly harder to fake date him.

Games were part of the contract, so you show up, of course. It was nothing crazy, just sitting by the sidelines beside the field, and cheering during the right time, screaming at the right time.

Friday nights always smell like rain and turf. The field lights blaze against the sky, and the air hums with that familiar game energy – cheers, whistles, the announcer’s voice echoing across the stands. You pull your jacket tighter and sink into the bleachers with the rest of his friends.

Jake looks very much in his element, all focus and motion, hair sticking to his forehead under the lights. He’s got that captain thing going on: steady, composed, easy smiles for his teammates, the occasional glance toward the stands. 

By the time the final whistle blows, they’ve won by a mile. The field floods with students and friends and noise, everyone rushing in to celebrate. You stay by the sidelines, waiting, watching him disappear into the chaos.

And then he finds you – sweaty, breathless, still smiling – jogging on his way.

You decide before you could think, rounding the fence and down the stairs towards the field. Not overly excessive, it’s part of the act if you really wanted to sell it, that’s what you tell yourself when the cold breeze makes you realize suddenly. 

Before you could reach him, you notice the familiar stature. Her perfect hair and perfect figure, hand brushing slightly against his arm while they talk. She’s all smiles – the perfect cheer captain – and honestly, you know they look good together. Like they make sense, more than Jake Sim and his best friend’s younger sister.

You slow down to give them space, just before she leaves. And then Jake finds you. Immediately, he walks over to you, smiling through the sweat and, well, an expression you can’t name. “She, uh, just congratulated me.” Maybe unease.

You nod, your smile coming out smaller. “Yeah. I saw.”

Jake runs a hand through his damp hair, chuckling nervously. “Didn’t even realize she was there until after the whistle. She’s… loud.”

You huff a laugh, trying to match his energy, but it’s thin. “Yeah. She’s your cheerleader.” You mean that literally, and you thank the divinity that it does not reek of bitterness.

He studies you for a moment – the way your voice dips, the slight tightness in your expression. Then, like he’s trying to smooth over something he doesn’t quite understand, he grins wider and nudges your shoulder. “You saw the goal, though, right? That was clean.”

“Yeah,” you say again, forcing the corners of your lips up. “Really clean.”

He grins, bashful and proud, but there’s still that tiny crease between his brows – the one he gets when he’s not sure what you’re thinking. The crowd’s still cheering faintly behind you, the smell of grass and sweat and aftergame chaos in the air. You should be used to it by now – the way people look at him, the noise that follows him everywhere.

“Hey,” he says softly, stepping closer, looking you over from his height. “You good?”

You blink, surprised by how easily he reads you sometimes. “Yeah,” you lie, voice light. “Are you?”

Up close, you notice the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his shoulders sag now that the adrenaline’s gone – like he’ll be sick by morning. But he’s smiling so widely at you. “Yeah, of course.” he says, as if you don’t know how fast he actually gets tired.

That easy grin places like what he’s feeling now is nothing. “Let’s get food after, yeah? I’ll even let you pick this time.”

You laugh – small but real from the amusement of his suddenness sometimes. “We don’t have to.”

Jake beams, slinging his towel over his shoulder. “Don’t play coy with me.”

Maybe you’re just overthinking. Maybe Vivienne’s hand on his arm really didn’t mean anything. And even if it does, it shouldn’t mean anything to you.

Still, when he turns to wave at his teammates, you can’t help but glance at her again – laughing with her friends, still watching him. And this time, you look away first.

Tip #9: If you have to fake-date someone, maybe don’t pick the boy you actually like(d???).

Liked. You are not the same 13-year-old girl who made stupid excuses to watch Jake beat Evan up in video games in the living room. You’ve grown out of that phase, and you know better than to be part of the crowds that fill his locker during Valentines day. 

But, maybe, you really should have taken into account who you blurted out when Jay asked who you were seeing. Because this, truly, was a predicament as it is awkward, when you finally had an eye-opening realization of who the entire campus knows you’re dating. 

Your older brother’s best friend? Seriously? Now he’s the (fake) boyfriend everyone won’t shut up about.

You hear the whispers get louder. “Wait, Evan’s sister?” and “Oh my God, they’re actually together?” followed by the inevitable, “Dude, that’s his best friend.”

And honestly, yeah. You get it. It’s weird. Messy, even. The kind of setup that belongs in some bad teen rom-com – except this time, you’re living it, and there’s no laugh track or fade-to-black scene when it gets complicated. You’re praying it doesn’t travel to Evan, whose texts you’ve been ghosting, and name have been avoiding when it gets brought up at the table. 

Your parents have been gazing a little longer, and implied multiple times the possibility of ‘someone’. But you never let it drag, quick to dismiss or retreat back to your room before it could be some topic.

What was a little harder was joining the hang outs and keeping the friends out. Not when it’s Jake Sim you’re dating – which by definition, was basically dating the entire soccer team.

It’s one of those boys nights (again) – spontaneous, loud, and absolutely unplanned. One second, you’re about to wash your face and call it a night, with your face lathered in moisturizer and serum. You’re ready for the comfort of your mattress when your phone is buzzing and he’s texting you.

So now you’re in Sunghoon’s living room – a mix between cozy and chaotic – with piles of notebooks, tangled chargers, and the faint hum of music from someone’s speaker. 

The group study isn’t as productive as it should be. Someone’s half-asleep on the couch, two of them are arguing over the whiteboard, and the rest – including you – are pretending to highlight notes that stopped making sense thirty minutes ago. 

You’re sitting on the floor, back pressed against the side of the couch, hair tied up loosely, currently chewing the end of your pen while the same sentence stares back at you for the fourth time.

Okay, no. You’ve been studying and you have been productive for the past few hours. Just not anymore when you’ve consumed 5 lessons and you’re surrounded by seniors who are bickering at each other for getting ‘this’ wrong and ‘that’s’ how you actually get the answer.

“Snacks!” Sunghoon announces as he comes from the kitchen, holding up a tray like it’s a peace offering. He sets it down in the middle of the circle and starts distributing, tossing and throwing, really. “Oh, hey, got you this one,” he adds, tossing a pack of chips your way. “Saw it on that story Lia posted – figured you liked it.”

You blink, smiling a little. “Oh, thanks –”

But before you can open it, Jake’s hand shoots out from beside you, plucking the pack from your grip. “Dude,” you protest, half-laughing. “What the hell are you doing?”

He’s already scanning the tray, unfazed. Then, without a word, he grabs another pack, the right one, the one you actually always buy, and tosses it into your lap. 

“This one,” he says simply. “You don’t even like that flavor.”

You blink at him, startled for a beat, then laugh, shaking your head. “Are you keeping tabs on my grocery list now?”

Jake just shrugs, reaching for his highlighter again, not looking at you. “Maybe.” 

The room hums with quiet conversation, pages flipping, pencils tapping. You swear your pulse shouldn’t be this loud in your ears. 

“Damn, we’re out of drinks,” Jungwon groans, standing and stretching. “I’m gonna run to the store.”

“I’ll come,” Jake says immediately, pushing himself up. Then, glancing down at you, “You want anything?”

You look up at him from where you’re sitting. “I’m good.”

He tilts his head, not convinced, and then pretends that’s not what you just said. “Your usual, then? Or –” A beat. His voice softens, almost casual. “Ice cream?”

You look up at him, blinking once, twice. You mean to say something, maybe a teasing “you don’t have to,” but the words don’t come out.

Jake tilts his head slightly, waiting. “Or both?”

It’s ridiculous, the way your heart trips over something that small. You try to play it off, the back of your pen still pressed to your lips as you shrug, then nod.

He nods too, easy, like you didn’t just short-circuit. “Got it.” Then he grabs his hoodie from the armrest, calling out to Jungwon to wait up before heading for the door, nonchalant like it’s nothing. Like you’re not going insane.

You stare down at your notes, highlighter hovering mid-air. The words blur into a jumble of letters that refuse to make sense. You realize you’re one paragraph off from where you left off but your brain refuses to process anything.

Because all you can see is him, brows furrowed, reaching across the table to swap out a snack just because he knows what you actually like. Because he doesn’t ask what your usual drink is, he asks if you want it.

And that stupid, fluttery feeling you’ve been trying to ignore for weeks creeps up again, crawling up your chest until you melt into the couch a little, pretending to reread the same line for the fifth time. When it doesn’t work, you sigh and fall back, letting the heat of your palms hide away your eyes from the rest of the world.

By the time they’re back, the air’s colder. Jungwon’s loudly announcing that Jake almost tripped on the curb because what an idiot, he wasn’t looking where he was goi– ack!, Jake’s hitting him, and your lips are puckering before you even look up because you’re in the middle of ridding him away and yet he just comes back every time.

He doesn’t even stop to talk to you – just twists the cap off your drink before handing it over, eyes still on Jungwon because they’re mid-argument about the change and who owes who, even bringing up the past 6 years when 13 year old Jake actually still very much has a balance to pay. 

His voice comes out distracted when he finally looks at you: “They didn’t have the big one, so I got two small ones.”

You blink down at the drink, the cap loosened just right, and before you can thank him, he’s already walking off toward the kitchenette. You catch the faint creak of the fridge door.

He’s putting your ice cream away first.

You don’t realize you’ve dozed off until your phone buzzes against your thigh – three missed calls, a text from your mom:

Mom 🫶: Where are you? It’s getting late.

You blink the sleep out of your eyes, seeing your disregarded textbook on the floor which must have fallen when you fell asleep. The room’s dim now, only lit by the soft glow of laptops and a lamp someone forgot to turn off, a background of key clicks and quiet murmurs as they recall their topics. The air feels heavier, quieter – half the group’s already passed out in awkward positions across the couch and floor.

You stretch a little, turning your head – and there he is.

Surprisingly, he isn’t sleeping like everyone else, but rather looks very focused. Jake’s on the couch right behind you, hoodie sleeves pushed up, one leg tucked under him, the other acting as a pillow for Sunghoon’s half-conscious foot that somehow found its way onto his lap. He’s hunched slightly over his laptop, typing something with one hand, writing notes with the other. There’s a faint crease between his brows, hair a little messy, face softened by the dim light.

You wonder what his study material is, and whether you could just stare a bit longer.

You tug at his sleeve. “Hey,” you whisper, voice still groggy. “I gotta go home.”

He looks up immediately. And he doesn’t argue, doesn’t ask why, just nods once, pushing Sunghoon’s foot off his lap with a quiet, “Move, man.” He stands, stretches, then heads straight for the fridge. You watch him grab your ice cream from the fridge, and then carefully grab your stack of notebooks from the table.

Jake leans down to Sunghoon, who’s barely awake, and murmurs, “Gotta get her home.” Sunghoon grunts something that might’ve been ‘okay, bro’ before they dap hands lazily, clearly too passed out for it.

You follow Jake out the door, the night air hitting your skin like cold water. It’s quiet, streetlights stretching in gold lines down the road.

“You don’t have to take me,” you say, hugging your things close to your chest as he unlocks his car. “It’s late, I can just–”

Jake scoffs, cutting you off with a sideways glance as he opens the passenger door for you. “Yeah, right. You think I’d see the next sunrise when your parents find out I let you Uber home?”

You blink at him, caught somewhere between flustered and fond. “You make it sound like I’m five.”

He smirks, motioning for you to get in with a nod. “Then stop needing supervision.”

You roll your eyes, but you get in anyway. And when the car door shuts, it’s quiet again – just the hum of the engine, the faint music from the radio, and the soft thunk of your ice cream settling in the cup holder after he cleared it from his things.

Jake glances over once as he pulls out of the driveway, eyes flicking to your face before the road again. “Seatbelt,” he says quietly.

You buckle up, still fighting the small, traitorous smile tugging at your lips.

Tip #10: Remember it’s not a big deal (you’ll fail).

The morning is still too pale to be real, and just the kind where tomorrow’s a Tuesday and you have 3 quizzes lined up so you actually kinda just want to die. You didn’t try either, face bare, wearing the first sweater you got from the pile, and Crocs. It’s pathetic, lowkey. It’s also the kind of quiet where footsteps echo too easily, lockers slam too loudly, and it’s feeling a lot like the monthly visit is coming. 

You’re barely awake, stacking books you don’t want to read, when a hand appears in your periphery – a paper cup in a pale brown sleeve.

You blink up. Jake. Hoodie up, hair just kind of dry, eyes a little sleepy.

“Here.” His voice is soft. Rough in that just-woke-up way. Like here’s here in a way that’s like, you know, you texted him to run an errand before getting to school and here it is. Except you didn’t, you haven’t even texted in 2 days actually.

You stare at the cup like it’s foreign currency. “What–”

“Coffee,” he says simply.

You hesitate. “Why?”

He looks down, kicks an invisible thing on the floor. “You looked like you needed it.”

That’s all. No smirk, no punchline (which you wait for) – just that, and the faint tap of his fingers when you don’t take it fast enough. But he doesn’t rush or add another half witty half mean comment.

So you finally do get it, reaching for it tentatively like you’re waiting for the joke to arrive. 

The scent: vanilla, a little caramel, smells exactly how you order it. You blink. “Uh, is this?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, hitting the locker beside yours without any real force, looking over your head from his height. 

You clear your throat, pretending to fuss with your bag, even though it’s perfectly fine. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know.” He shifts his weight, shoulder leaning against the lockers. 

The hallway hums awake around you – lockers slamming, someone laughing down the corridor – but it’s all muffled. There’s only the heartbeat in your ear and the stupid warmth crawling up your neck. You’re racking your brain for something witty and rude, establish the banter you always exchanged.

Not this time. Not when he notices and remembers. Like there’s a part in his mind that’s specifically sectioned for your coffee order. He remembers and he’s so casual about it.

Jake’s watching you, your brows and nose and lips, eyes gentle in a way that makes it worse. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” You nod too quickly, take a sip to hide your face. It’s perfect, of course. “It’s good.”

He smiles – not the wide, field-bright one. “Good.”

You stare at the cup again. “You’re weird.”

“Probably,” he says. “See you later.”

He just gently tugs the hem of your sweater when he passes. 

And then he’s gone – the smell of coffee and rain air trailing behind him – leaving you by your locker, awake for the first time that morning, pulse thrumming too fast for something that was supposed to be pretend.

“Hey, Jake’s shawty,” Riki says, sliding into the seat across from you with that shit-eating grin he’s so proud of. Jake’s already beside him with his tray, looking way too comfortable for someone who doesn’t even belong at this table. Your friend looks at you with exasperation and you can only return it.

You don’t even look up right away, still eating your mashed potatoes. “Don’t call me that.”

“Anyway–” he glances at Jake, smirking, “ –you’re going to the trip with lover boy here, right?”

That makes you look up. “What?” You laugh, an incredulous little scoff as you set your fork down. Because there’s no way that’s happening, not when you know Jake’s very enormous friend group would be going, consisting of those you do not hold goody-goody friendships with and a tolerable attitude to their excess thereof. “No way.”

Riki blinks, caught between amusement and confusion. “Wait – she’s not? You said –”

Jake just sighs, shoulders slumping as he shakes his head. “I told you,” he mutters, half under his breath, stabbing at his fries like they personally offended him. 

The Sim’s are just as their youngest son is: kind and hospitable. They own a lakehouse 4 hours away from the urban, and his family had always been welcoming that Jake and his friends make use of it. It had a dock that creaks when you run too fast, the canoe that always leaks a little, the porch light that stays on even when everyone’s already asleep – but it’s large and have always been cozy, making up the yearly bricks of your childhood. You’ve been there when you were kids, when Jake’s friend group was barely a group. Just you, Evan, Sunghoon, and Jake’s older brother. No teams, no cliques, no unspoken rules about who was “allowed” to come. 

You stopped going when the group got bigger with names you only knew through known Instagram handles in middle school, and something that once was your sanctuary stopped feeling like a place you belonged to. Really, you were the only girl Jake ever invited, so coming along (even if Evan was) stopped making sense and instead threaded closer to scandal.

Through the eye of the outside, Jake’s girlfriend should go. Of course, he has been attempting to convince you, while he drove you to the dance studio, held your bag, drove you back home – just any kind of bribes and sweeteners to get you to say yes, although they didn’t feel so absurd because Jake had always been sweet without the sweeteners.

You can’t help it – you bite back a grin, watching the way his jaw flexes in mild frustration. “What, were you planning without me now?” you tease, leaning forward.

Jake doesn’t look up right away. “Just thought it’d be fun,” he says finally, quiet, but there’s that lilt in his voice – the one that gives him away every time.

Riki, oblivious as ever, grins. “Oh, it’d definitely be fun. A cabin, really fucking cold lake, hot chocolate –” 

Right. Usually they’d go during the summer, but now they spontaneously decided to go during the winter break. The lake wouldn’t be frozen, just worthy of hypothermia.

You throw him a look. “It’s not working, by the way.”

Jake finally glances at you then, and there’s something small in his smile – not his usual teasing one, but the softer kind, the one that looks like he’s almost shy to have been caught hoping.

Riki, being Riki, props his elbows on the table, preparing to be the best wingman apparently.

“Yeah, I mean – the trip’s gonna be good. You know how it gets. There’s – uh –” it’s uncharacteristic of him, so it only makes you chuckle, “cold weather, everyone will have fun –” He gestures with a fry awkwardly. “Jake will totally miss you and I heard Vivienne and her friends are invited –”

You still your fork and cock your brow at him. “Really?”

Riki nods eagerly, conviction all over his face. “Yeah, like competition – ”

Jake clears his throat to hide the way he kicks Riki’s foot underneath the table, eyes flicking from you to Riki – who’s now blinking, finally realizing he might’ve gone too far. Jake’s eyes are wide, signaling the younger to shut the fuck up because clearly taunting through Vivienne’s name will not work on you, if not piss you off truly.

“What the fuck dude,” Jake mutters under his breath, voice low, before sending Riki a glare sharp enough to cut steel.

Riki holds his hands up, laughing nervously. “Fuck, went off script.”

The muscle in your jaw jumps at the realization that Jake had invited Vivienne to someplace you’ve preserved as something sacred refuge. The place where your summers lived and the air always smelled like pine and sunscreen and lake water, where you learned how to skip stones with Evan counting aloud, where Sunghoon once fell off the dock and laughed so hard he swallowed half the lake. 

It was yours before it was anyone else’s.

Why is she even invited? Since when did she get to sit on the same dock, drink from the same chipped mugs Mrs. Sim kept in the cupboard, laugh in the same rooms you once slept in with the windows cracked open?

The same place where you learned Jake, besides on the asphalt of your neighborhood. Before teams, before labels, before people like Vivienne ever had a reason to exist in his orbit and got to favorite your first-favorite-boy too. 

You don’t look up, stabbing and munching on the fries with the effort of duty to eat rather than enjoyment. Yeah you’re pissed off, not with Riki and his awkward reckless mouth, nor Jake with his friendly invites and decisions – but at yourself for letting yourself believe you could swim the damn lake called fake-dating-Jake-Sim and expect to float.

Jake’s still staring – not in the teasing way, not with that easy grin he always holds with ease; just watching you, quiet, like he’s trying to read the space between your words.

Tip #11: Listen to your mom.

With headphones on, wrapped in thick blankets, you rot in bed. Nothing better than that, usually, until your brain’s swarmed by the flies of suffering and overthinking. Your curtains are drawn shut. The soft hum of your playlist spills into your ears, dulling the outside world, like they’d help pull out the nightmares. 

Your phone buzzes once – Jake again, probably. You ignore it. It’s the plague no one has an ailment for other than avoidance and detachment.

Your room smells faintly like lavender detergent and indecision. You haven’t moved in hours (10 minutes). There’s a bowl of cereal on your nightstand – untouched, the milk soggy with regret, because life’s shitty and you’re a buildup of your worst flaws and you actually don’t know how to survive boys named Jake Sim.

There’s a knock on the door, light but purposeful. You yank the covers higher.

“Sweetheart?” your mom’s voice filters in.

You scramble to pause your music and pretend to be asleep, but your throat betrays you with a cough – dry and unconvincing, healthy and lying.

You’ve been lying to everyone for months now and you’re not sure if you could do it to the woman who can easily see through you. Your mom opens the door anyway. She stands there for a second, eyes flicking from your laptop (closed), to your cereal (dismal), to your face.

“You’re not at school,” she says gently, with the tone of someone who’s not mad. Not even concerned. Just… watching.

You groan dramatically. “I have a very contagious flu,” you mumble, stuffing your face deeper into the blanket cave.

She raises an eyebrow and walks in anyway. “Oh no,” she says, deadpan. “I’m probably already infected.”

Without asking, she kicks off her slippers and climbs into bed beside you. The mattress shifts as she settles against your side. She’s warm, familiar, her hand automatically finding your hair, stroking gently like she used to when you were little. And you could cry from this alone.

You sigh, long and full of static.

“So,” she murmurs, like it’s just the two of you in the world. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”

“I’m confused,” you admit, voice small. The blanket muffles it, but she hears, which comes maternally probably.

Jake has been driving you to school, more usual than not. That’s a bearable routine – just not when he decided upon both of you to drive to the dance studio too. So, almost every single time, he’s waiting outside with the engine running.

He stays during practice, sitting on the floor with his back to it, holding your bag when you forget where you left it. Sometimes you catch him watching. When practice ends, he’s the one helping you gather your things, untying straps, carrying the extra stuff you said you can manage on your own. Then he drives you home.

He says it’s because you’re still kinda scared to drive, right? Then adds it’s fine, really, it’s not trouble.

Except it is. For you

Your mom doesn’t push. Just keeps combing her fingers through your hair until the silence makes your lungs tight like your ribcage is caging you in and that traitorous heart of yours is still growing larger.

“It’s not about Jake,” you say suddenly, a little too quickly, just to hide the fact that it is about him.

Her hand pauses, then resumes. “Didn’t ask,” she says lightly.

You roll your eyes. “You were going to.”

She chuckles. “No, but thank you for confirming.” Then, after a pause, “You know your dad and I love him, right?”

Your head shoots up. “Mom.”

“What? He’s always been around. And he’s funny! Kind. Polite. Good teeth.”

You groan again, dragging the blankets over your head like you can disappear into the fabric. “Please stop talking.”

“He makes you laugh,” she says softly. “That’s all I’m saying.”

You don’t answer. Your throat’s tight again, but for a different reason now, like you’re completely clogged and everything’s piling on top.

After a while, you say, “He invited me to go on their lakehouse again.”

“You should go, sweetie. It’s been a while.” she says.

You shift restlessly. “I don’t like his friends.”

“You can learn to like them.”

“And I don’t know what to do.”

She gives you a look. “About making friends?”

You let out a breath. You don’t have the words for it – and it’s not like you’re trying to tell her the fake dating and the not-so-fake feelings. The way Jake looked at you the other day like he knew and that maybe he didn’t know what he was doing either. In theory, it should be a good thing because then you’re both balancing on a rope that’s starting to snap, and that in itself should give you some sick kind of comfort.

Except appearance doesn’t equate reality (thanks Roy Bhaskar), and how he’s been looking and acting shouldn’t ever make up for the space he could easily fill with clarification. You know better than to fall for the theatrics of the guy every girl liked because he was too friendly and maybe too close all the time. He invited the girl he wants to get rid of! Because he’s a decent guy who’s friends with the girl who likes him and finds no faulty in that kind of order.

Mixed signals, basically. It’s not new when it came from guys who knew they looked good and even if he’d try humility, his eyes glisten with the awareness of the public's fondness for him.

Your mom doesn’t need the details. She just hugs you a little closer and says, “It’s okay not to know.”

You nod against her shoulder, the warmth of her shirt soaking into your cheek.

“But I will say,” she continues, “you’ve looked like you’re having a lot of fun lately. Real fun. Not the kind you fake.”

You close your eyes and then take a deep breath, because that sounds more like a nightmare than solace. Not here, not when the main point was to fake it, yet even then the player is fooled by his jests.

“You’re different when he’s around,” she says, almost to herself. “Softer.”

You whisper, “I wasn’t supposed to be.”

“Some of the best things aren’t,” she replies. She doesn’t exactly get what you mean and you’re thankful for that (because you will be getting an earful), that even then, she knew the right things to say.

She kisses the top of your head like she did when you were a kid with actual fevers and actual tears. Though you refuse to cry. You’re not crying for a boy who probably isn’t thinking twice about this.

“You don’t have to go,” she says. “But you might want to think about it. It might be fun.”

You lie there in silence, the question hanging like fog in your chest. Because pretending stopped feeling like pretending somewhere along the way, or maybe the truth in your heart remains that even when you believed it was gone in the presence of your feelings for another, it really hasn’t. Just kept and stagnant in a warmer, refusing to spoil. 

Your mom gets up, brushing your hair out of your face one last time. “Let me know if your flu miraculously clears up by tomorrow,” she teases.

The door clicks shut behind her, and you're left with the silence again.

You’re 9, Jake’s 10, and Evan’s 11, the perfect age for scraped knees, loud laughter, and tears you think you’ll never forgive.

It happens in the backyard. Evan’s teasing you again, something about how you “throw like a baby” when you join their catch game, and everyone laughs, even Jake at first. But then Evan goes too far by muttering something about how you’re always ruining things.

You try to blink it off, try to laugh with them. But it catches in your throat, that sharp, stupid sting behind your eyes, and before you know it, you’re crying.

“Hey!” Jake’s voice cuts through the air, a little panicked.

You’re already running toward the porch, sniffling, wiping your face with the back of your hand, muttering about how you hate all of them. The world’s blurry and hot, your chest tight in that awful way that makes you hiccup and sob.

When you turn, Jake’s there, breathless, holding the ball in his hand, dirt smeared across his cheek. He looks like he sprinted the whole way just to fix it.

“Don’t cry,” he says, voice soft and unsure, like he doesn’t really know what to do with crying girls yet. He just holds the ball out awkwardly. “Evan’s just dumb sometimes.”

You sniff, arms crossed. “He said I ruin everything.”

Jake frowns. “You don’t.”

He looks down at you then, eyes all earnest and serious in a way that 10-year-olds shouldn’t manage. Then he steps forward, small arms wrapping around you in this clumsy, tight hug. It’s warm, smells like grass and sunlight.

“Come on,” he says, holding out the ball. “We’ll team up on him this time.”

Tip #12: Never call your fake boyfriend when you’re sad.

Because apparently, he’ll show up.

It’s 11:38 p.m. when you cave – when your room feels too quiet and your chest too heavy and your notebooks are a mess on your desk and your textbooks and empty highlighters feel useless and your phone screen’s too bright as you stare at his name for a full minute before hitting call. You don’t even know why you do it. Maybe because Jake talks and doesn’t run out of things to say, and you need something that sounds like that right now.

He answers on the 6th ring, voice low and groggy. “What,” he mumbles, like you woke him up mid-dream. He’s tired from a whole day of classes and soccer practice, which had ended when the sun has long dipped. 

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Just a sniffle, quiet and shaky. “Jaeyun?”

That’s all it takes. You hear the sheets rustle, then a faint thud, and his voice suddenly sharper, awake. “Hey, hey – what’s wrong?”

You try to laugh, to make it sound stupid and lighter than it really is. “Nothing. Sorry. I just–” You sniff again, tugging your blanket tighter around you, eyes closing while the streaks of tears finally start pouring. “It’s dumb.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then, “Stay on the phone.”

And before you can ask what that means, the line goes quiet – except for the sound of car keys jangling and a door closing. 

Seven minutes later, he’s outside your window, hoodie and sweatpants and all. You stare at him, eyes wide, half-horrified. “Are you insane?” you whisper-shout.

He just grins, breath fogging in the cold. “You called.”

You should shut the window or just tell him to go home because that’s the right way to do this shit. But instead, you grab a jacket and your phone, climbing out as quietly as you can. He helps you down, hands firm and warm, and before you know it, you’re in his car, city lights passing in soft blurs through the window.

You don’t even ask where you’re going, you just let him drive.

Turns out, it’s that McDonald’s on the hill, the one at the edge overlooking the city, glowing faintly like a secret that never closes. But still, it makes you smile. 

The parking lot’s almost empty, the air smelling faintly of fries and rain. Jake parks near the edge, taps the hood. “Come on.”

You climb up beside him, the hood cool beneath you. The city sprawls below, quiet and endless.

For a while, you just sit there.

In his company, with the ghost of your thoughts silenced for a moment. Like you’re saved without much attempt, all because he’s here. Then you talk, trying to make the noise in your head lighter, the thing you’ve been trying not to say out loud, because Jake always had the thing for showing up. 

“Evan’s on this full scholarship, you know that, right? My parents keep bringing it up. How proud they are. How amazing he is.” You laugh, but it sounds thin, and your voice is breaking. “And then they ask how my application for my scholarship’s going, and I just–”

You shake your head, not fast enough to wipe that tears that managed to fall. “I’m trying. I am. But it’s like nothing’s ever enough. I’m tired… and I just want a break.”

Jake doesn’t interrupt. He doesn’t fill the silence like he usually does. He just listens, legs stretched out, hands in his hoodie pocket, eyes soft and focused on you like you’re saying something that matters.

When your voice cracks again, you look away, embarrassed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to –”

“Hey.” He shifts closer, voice low. “You don’t have to apologize for that.”

You nod, and before you can stop yourself, your head drops onto his shoulder. You feel him tense for a second, then his body eases. A few seconds later, he leans his head against yours, careful, like he’s afraid to break something fragile that just so happens to be you.

Neither of you speaks for a while.

Then, when he’s sure that you feel lighter and your breathing is more stable, he says softly, “You know… that trip might be your break. Like, a reset or something. Fresh air. New view.”

You laugh through the last of your tears, nudging his arm. “You never quit, do you?”

“Not when I’m right.” though he doesn’t it with smugness, just an attempt at comfort.

You sit up then, wiping your face with your sleeve, turning to him. His hair’s messy from the wind, his hoodie slightly pulled at the neckline. He looks… tired, too. Maybe he is, from school, senior year, and soccer expectations – because behind the golden name, he’s just like you. But he doesn’t look at you like this is burden, that he’d rather be in the confines of his sweet bed than the cold breeze of the city night.

He doesn’t look at you like you ruined anything.

He looks at you like this is his rest too. 

Like you are.

“Okay,” you say quietly.

He blinks. “Okay?”

“If I do well on my finals,” you clarify, trying to sound casual, but your smile is too wide for anything like that. “Then I’ll go.”

Jake’s smile starts small, just a twitch, before it grows into that bright, boyish grin that used to make you clap from the sidelines years ago, and shows the teeth your mom likes. “Then you better do well.”

You laugh, the last remnants of your vulnerability wiped by his thumb. He’s just watching you – the corners of his eyes soft, the glow of the dashboard painting his face in gold. When it finally dies down, you sigh, still smiling, and rest your cheek on his shoulder.

Under the flickering streetlight, with the city glowing beneath you and the air smelling faintly of salt and fries, you think maybe calling your fake boyfriend when you’re sad isn’t the worst thing you’ve ever done.

Tip #13: Survive hell week first.

It’s finals week. Hell week. The kind of week where your brain feels like it’s being roasted slowly over the fire of pre-calculus, history essays, and chemistry equations.

You wake up early, already rehearsing the formulas in your head before your feet even hit the floor and while you’re brushing your teeth, you swear they stack as tiles instead of the ones on your bathroom bricks. You keep scrolling through your planner like it might magically rearrange itself into something manageable – but honestly, it’s working out for you even when you’re basically brain dead with information. You’re not confident (and healthy) enough but at least you know you’d be able to answer.

Library becomes your second home. The smell of paper, ink, and desperation is sickening in a way you don’t want to admit. Every table is littered with notebooks, highlighters, pens uncapped and you’re growing tired of them all. Your desk has its own ecosystem of sticky notes and half-drunk coffees.

Every time you think you’ve conquered one chapter, three more take its place. The world outside? Frozen and inconsequential and time exists only in increments of “exam period” and “study break,” and even those breaks are spent panicking about the next exam instead of actually relaxing. 

Which, in hindsight, is really fucking exhausting and is not healthy for you.

Failure is not an option. Not when Evan Lee is your brother, succeeding in life as an ace.

Yeah you’re still doing really well and your grades are still pretty high, but the amount of times you didn’t have time because you were with Jake or at least rotting because you were overthinking about him: way too much time was spent. 

You’ve been definitely spent more time offline and… might have ghosted everyone. Even Jake. And he understood – you think – because he doesn’t bug you even when he knows where you’d be. He doesn’t show up with coffee or good luck sticky notes.

You don’t wish for them but – okay, whatever.

He just doesn’t show up and you don’t find for him. It becomes that way throughout the entire week, and although you don’t linger in the hallways, he doesn’t stop when he sees you there.

It’s weird. You overthink. 

Sometimes you’d pass one another like the deal had ended and something flipped completely. You try not to let it sting, really only because it wouldn’t make sense because you’re ghosting him and he’s letting you. A girl could only really be dramatic, okay.

This whole routine was not good for you and your social life but it was what works. Plus, it was a sort of reality check from his distractions.

Tip #14: Never trust your mom with visitors.

You’re not sure whether it was some sort of planned comedy stage or truly a well thought out exam schedule that was somehow strategic in someones perspective? Because you did try to understand why physics was on a Friday and the last exam of your week.

Sure, people liked that shit. Some. Not you. When when you’re exhausted by the studying and you’ve extinguished all your efforts throughout the entire week until there’s none left for the devil’s spawn itself. Not a good idea probably and maybe you should’ve given it more thought, but there you are, on the brink of death anyway.

Which, might be some kind of dramatic thing to say. But physics never understood you compassionately.

It’s Thursday. You’re perched on your desk, notes spread around like a desperate fortification, textbooks stacked in uneven towers. You’ve been staring at the same word problem for what feels like decades, and somewhere deep inside, you start questioning your entire grasp of the English language. Is this even a sentence? you wonder, because clearly, the words have formed themselves into some sadistic riddle meant only for the scholars of the universe.

And you didn’t notice. Not once. Because you’re dead focused, remember? You don’t see the notification.

Then the bedroom door creaks open, and you whirl around like a startled cat.

It’s Jake.

You freeze on your desk, blinking. In all his glory after ghost town, he’s here in your fucking room.

“What – what the hell – what are you doing here?” you stammer, half whispering, half shouting, standing to get to him. “Who even let you in?”

Jake just grins, slow and amused, eyes sweeping lazily over your room. “Your mom,” he says, tone too fucking annoyingly sarcastic for you not to roll your eyes. “She said you needed to cool off.”

You groan, smacking your forehead so hard it actually stings. “Oh my God.”

He laughs – quiet, low, the kind that comes from somewhere deep in his chest – and takes a slow step inside, glancing around like he’s trying to take everything in.

It’s… surreal, kind of. Seeing him here, in your space, grown and not the kid with scraped knees to muddle with your stuffed toys. The place that’s so painfully you – the fairy lights pinned along your wall, the photos taped near your mirror, the pile of books that you swear you’ll return to someday. It’s warm and soft and just slightly chaotic. You’re not messy, but you’re not exactly organized either.

Jake hums, running his fingers along the edge of your desk. “Looks different,” he says, eyes trailing across your shelves. 

You’re suddenly very aware of what you’re wearing. Tank top. Shorts. Hair messy. Unprepared for a visit from the boy who’s been messing with your brain as of late (3 months).

You fold your arms instinctively, like maybe it’ll make you less visible and bashful. “You could’ve at least texted before – you know – invading my room.”

He raises an eyebrow, that teasing half-smile appearing again. “I did. And I was literally invited in by your mom, so, less of invading.”

You give him a look.

He chuckles, glancing at the fairy lights again. “Still cute,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Didn’t think this room could fit more pillows.”

You sigh, slumping back into your chair, attempting to concentrate back despite his discernible presence behind you. “Jaeyun, you’re not supposed to be here. It’s finals week.”

Jake raises both hands in mock surrender, still laughing softly. “I know, I know. You’re in full-on scholar mode.” He walks closer though – slow, careful steps that make the space between you feel smaller and tighter. “But I figured if I didn’t see you soon, you’d forget to look after yourself.”

You roll your eyes, even though your heart’s already tripping over itself. “I’m fine.”

He glances at your desk – three empty mugs, crumpled notes, a highlighter graveyard – and raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? This looks real fine.”

You grab a pen just to look busy. “Don’t start, Jaeyun. I only have two exams left.”

Jake hums, leaning against your desk, close enough that you can smell his cologne. “That’s why I’m here.”

You blink, squinting your eyes at them. “To distract me?”

“To help,” he says simply, smiling like he knows exactly what effect that word has on you. “Or, you know, make sure you don’t forget how to chill. Or eat.”

You purse your lips. “And how exactly do you plan to do that?”

He licks the inside of his cheek, shaking his head in exasperation. 

“Dude, you really are impossible.” He glances back at you. “Maybe I just missed you, no?”

You freeze. For a second, you think you misheard him.

Jake doesn’t look away this time. His tone’s still playful, but there’s a trace of sincerity – like a line he’s tiptoeing past without meaning to. “You disappeared on me, angel.”

That nickname slips out like muscle memory. And God, it shouldn’t make your stomach flutter the way it does. You should hate it, because it’s part of your stupid constitution – one you set up, but you’re the one reeling in it now.

“I didn’t disappear,” you mumble, eyes dropping to your notes. “I was just busy.”

“Too busy to even text?” he asks softly, and there’s no accusation in it – just quiet curiosity.

You sigh. “You know how it gets.”

“Yeah,” Jake says, voice low now. “I know. That’s why I didn’t push. But –” He leans closer, bracing one hand on the back of your chair. “I don’t know.”

You turn your head, and suddenly, his face is right there. Too close. His eyes flicker down to your lips before he quickly looks away, smiling like he didn’t just do that.

“Jaeyun,” you whisper, because you don’t know what else to say.

He grins – small, soft, utterly devastating, teeth and dimples that could ruin everything – like you and your life. 

“Relax, genius. I’m not here to ruin your study streak. I’ll just sit here quietly and –” He gestures at the open textbook. He pauses mid-step, considering that for half a second before leaning against your desk. “How bad?”

You gesture helplessly at the notebook open in front of you, full of scribbles, eraser dust, and one very sad-looking free-body diagram. “Bad enough that I might actually cry.”

Jake hums, stepping closer to peek at your work from behind you. You can feel the faint warmth of him – close, but not too close – as he bends slightly, one hand on the back of your chair for balance.

“Ah,” he says, in that low, thoughtful voice of his. “Projectile motion. Classic pain.”

You turn, squinting up at him. “What, you know this?”

He gives you a look that’s somewhere between offended and amused. “Move over.”

You blink. “You’re kidding.”

He isn’t. He pulls your chair a little to the side and slides in next to you, the scent of his cologne faint but distracting – something like cedar and laundry detergent and boy.

You scoff. “You’re seriously helping me? You, Jaeyun Sim?”

He grins, already picking up your pen. “I think I’m pretty okay with numbers.” He glances at you, eyes glinting. “Now, what’s killing you here?”

You hesitate, pointing at the question. “This one. The angle. I don’t get how they got the answer.”

Jake hums again, his brow furrowing as he starts to explain – slowly, clearly, patient in a way that’s both unexpected and weirdly comforting. He gestures a little as he talks, tracing imaginary parabolas in the air, and when you don’t get it right away, he doesn’t tease. He just grins and tries again.

“See? You just overcomplicated it,” he says after a minute, nudging your pen toward the solution. You look back at your paper, then up at him, and realize – annoyingly – you actually did, and it’s starting to make a bit of sense. 

“Okay,” you mutter. “Fine. You’re kind of a genius.”

Jake leans back in his chair, smug. “Kind of?”

And for a few quiet seconds after that, with your playlist humming softly in the background and the faint glow of your fairy lights against the window, it feels strangely normal.

Because the problem’s on paper, but the real one’s sitting right next to you, smiling like he has no idea what he’s doing to your heart.

You continue working on the equations and solutions, finally getting the hang of it while he watches just to keep an eye for a mistake. Okay, fake boyfriends really aren’t that bad when they help with the numerical homeworks, and maybe, possibly, might not actually be the worst idea one ever had.

Jake watches you scribble down the last line, then hums approvingly. “See? You’re getting it.”

After some time, you both decided to move over your bed. You gather your notes and textbook, then you climb onto the bed and sit cross-legged near the headboard. The sheets are cold, slightly rumpled, unmistakably yours with the cute little prints. Jake’s sitting beside you, back against the pillows, long legs stretched out, your bunny stuffed toy resting on his lap like she’s part of the discussion.

He sets the book between you, close enough that your knees brush, enough to make your thoughts go static even though physics require full attention.

“Okay,” he says, businesslike, pointing at the page. “Same concept, different numbers. Walk me through it.”

You swallow. “Uh. Okay.”

You start explaining, a little shaky at first, but he listens, nodding, occasionally interrupting gently to correct you or ask why you chose a certain step. When you mess up, he doesn’t laugh, he just tilts his head, then pretends he doesn’t notice how embarrassed you look explaining.

It’s fine. It’s fun.

“Try that again,” he says softly. “You’re almost there.”

At one point, you frown at the page, frustrated. “I don’t get why the time changes here.”

Jake leans closer, shoulder brushing yours as he reaches over to tap the equation. His arm stays there, warm against your side. “Because the vertical and horizontal motions are independent,” he explains quietly. “Think of it like –”

He pauses, searching for a metaphor. “Like us.”

You blink. “What?”

He grins, sheepish. “Bad example. Ignore that.”

He continues explaining, his voice low and steady, and you find yourself focusing less on the numbers and more on how close he is – the way his knee nudges yours when he shifts, the way his sleeve brushes your arm, the way his eyes soften when you finally nod and go, “Oh. Ohhh.”

“There you go,” he says, smiling like he just watched you win something. “Told you.”

You laugh, light and breathy. “Okay. You’re officially helpful.”

He shrugs. “Fake boyfriend perks.”

You ignore him. You focus on the work on hand, writing your formulas down and then solving the problems with a focus that is straightforward and unforgiving – the kind Jaeyun gets to see while you busy yourself.

He’s across you now while you continue writing, mumbling to yourself the little keywords he mapped for you just so you wouldn’t get lost.

He smiles, inevitably.

The next problem takes longer. And you’re way too concentrated that the hair that keeps falling forward, slipping loose from behind your ear, is far from noticeable to you. Though of course, he notices.

Then, quietly, “Hold on.”

Before you can react, he reaches out and gently tucks the strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers barely graze your skin – careful, deliberate, like he’s unaware of exactly how close he is.

Your pen stops mid-sentence. You look up at him and he seems to realize what he’s doing.

Jake pulls his hand back like he’s touched something hot. “Sorry,” he says quickly, a sheepish and awkward smile already forming. “It was just – it was in your face.”

“Yeah,” you manage. “I – yeah.”

Silence stretches. Your heart is doing something unhelpful.

He clears his throat. “Uh. Continue.”

So you do, blinking away back to the number that demands your attention just so you’d finally be able to get this over with. Except now, the focus isn’t as directed – it’s in fragments, and you’re more aware when he shifts, leans close to check your work, and when he’s looking at you instead of the paper.

You finish the problem, it’s the easiest, but Jaeyun comments.

“That’s not right,” he says gently.

You didn’t notice the mistake in your work, you’re a number off, and now you’re scrambling for your eraser. 

“I know,” you say. “I just –”

When you look up at him to leave a witty reply, he’s already looking at you. No smirk or tease. Just Jaeyun.

So you automatically look down and stare at the page, pretending you’re thinking on how to move on to the next step. Except it does the opposite. Jake watches you stare at the page a little too long, eyes unfocused, pen hovering like it’s forgotten its purpose.

“Break?” he asks gently. “Just to chill for a bit, yeah?”

You hum in response, noncommittal, already shifting. You scoot down the bed and flop onto your back with a dramatic sigh, your brain is scattered like broken shards that reflect the way he’s looking at you. He’s trying to help and he has been, but you’re still distracted and nothing will cure the nuisance of a fake boyfriend you’re secretly in l–

“Oh wow,” Jake says, amused. “She’s down.”

Silence settles when you close your eyes, still pretending to be relaxed even though you’re hyperaware of every little movement and presence. Jake quietly watches you for a few more seconds, letting the soft hum of your playlist fill the spaces between breaths. Then he shifts a little closer, stretching his legs out until they lightly brush against yours.

You feel it before you see it – his fingers brushing your knee, absentminded, like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. He traces a small shape there, slow and lazy.

Then another.

Your breath catches into a breathy laugh. “Jaeyun.”

“Yeah?” he says easily, still drawing.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” He looks down at you still lying down with your eyes at him, his brows lifted, lips twitching like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

You swallow. “That.”

He pauses. Just for a second. Then he stops, pulling back and starts playing with the bunny on his lap, flopping its ears. 

Then you decide to sit up, hugging your knees to your chest, letting your hair fall loosely over your shoulders. You watch him idly play with your bunny, at the way his fingers pinch the ears, how carefully he flops them back and forth. You notice how pink his knuckles are, and the difference of size between his hands and the bunny is almost comical.

Your eyes wander to his face, noticing the way his brows crease when he concentrates, the slight pout on his lips. And then you tilt your head, giving him a look that’s both playful and slightly challenging.

He catches it.

His eyes snap to yours. And you notice his pupils dilate slightly before he looks away.

You smile, small and slow, keeping your eyes on his face. You look at the high point of his nose, and the lines of his cheekbones. 

He looks back at you just to check, and when your eyes meet again, he quickly looks away. He laughs nervously, flopping the bunny more aggressively. 

“Stop that.” Jake says.

You chuckle, shaking your head. “Stop what?” you pretend.

Then he suddenly he starts punching your bunny as some sort of stress-relief, earning a gasp and laugh from you before you snatch it away from him. Then now, he flops dramatically on your bed, closing his eyes while he tries to retrieve his cool back – one you successfully stole.

You hover, just a little, because you’re still not done checking him out apparently.

You poke his cheek and he smiles so wide you can’t help but return it. “Stop what, Jaeyun?”

Jake opens his eyes slowly, stretching lazily across the bed like he owns the space. You’re sitting near his head, hugging your bunny close, knees tucked to your chest, leaning just slightly over him but not so close that it’s obvious you’re hovering.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. 

Your eyes just meet, and it’s like the world narrows until all you can see is him. 

The sharp line of his jaw, the smirk tugging at his lips, his dilated pupils that makes your chest tighten.

You blink first, maybe out of nerves, maybe because you’re caught, but he doesn’t look away. He just holds your gaze calmly.

Then, casually. 

“You’re so pretty.”

It’s not whispered nor is it shy. It’s said with that steady, sure confidence that makes your stomach flip and your heart stumble over itself.

You snicker, hiding your face behind the bunny for just a second, pulling away slightly. “Okay… back to physics,” you mumble, trying to sound authoritative even though your heartbeat is anything but. 

You straighten up, flipping open your notebook, pen poised. You try, really try, to focus. The numbers blur a little at first, your mind still tangled around his words, the way his eyes lingered on yours. Jake sits up too before casually sliding over to sit beside you. His shoulder brushes yours, and suddenly, the space you just claimed for concentration still feels scattered all over, some in his grasp.

You grit your teeth, forcing your eyes back to the notebook for numbers, angles, trajectories. You try to drown out everything else while scribbling formulas. Jake leans closer, elbow lightly bumping yours. “Check your units here,” he says, pointing at the line you’ve miswritten.

You sigh, muttering, “Yeah, yeah, I see it.” You fix it, trying to maintain a straight face.

You’re hunched over your notebook again, pen moving in a flow state, numbers lining up in a way that finally makes sense. Your brow furrows, lips pressed together in concentration as you work through this, murmuring little reminders under your breath.

Then you notice him shift beside you, and when you glance –

Jake’s chin is tucked against his chest, shoulders hunched forward ever so slightly, eyes peeking up at your face from under his lashes like a bored cat trying to look innocent. His lips are pressed together, fighting a smile.

You snort, shoving his shoulder lightly. “Stop.”

He lets out an oof and immediately commits to the bit, flopping backward onto the bed with zero dignity, arms splayed like he’s been taken out by a sniper.

“Oh,” he groans. “She hates me.”

You shake your head, continuing what you’re doing, deciding to ignore him.

After a surprisingly productive half-hour, you shut your notebook with a decisive snap. “Okay, genius,” you say. “You should go now.”

Jake pouts slightly, groaning a long one while he falls back on your bed. Then he rises, glancing at the time on his phone because he decides to be good now. “Kicking me out after all that is crazy, by the way.”

You wave him off, smiling. “Yeah. It’s still finals week, Jaeyun.”

You both climb down the stairs, forgetting completely your parents are in the living room, having just finished a show. They immediately greet him when you both get down, and seeing Jake must always flip a switch because they’re immediately smiling – well, your mother, who you are quite sure favors Jaeyun more than anyone. 

“Jake! Good to see you!” your mom chirps, eyes lighting up while she scoops her ice cream. Your dad grins, nodding. “You became her tutor, huh?”

Jake laughs, that easy, friendly laugh that makes everyone instantly comfortable, with a kind of charm so polite and likeable. He’s Jake Sim, after all. “Yeah. Just helping her out,” he says, voice smooth, the very thing that makes him easy to like and talk to.

They talk about classes, mutual friends (like Jungwon, who your mom likes, then Sunghoon, who your mom also likes), and even your parents’ favorite TV shows, nodding along, laughing at the right moments. You can see it in the way he occasionally glances at you, you try not to look back.

Your mom leans forward slightly, curious. “So, were you good with her?”

Jake nods, smile so wide his cheeks practically rip. “We did okay. She’s a fast learner,” he says with enthusiasm. 

After a few more minutes of polite conversation – Jake: still charming, careful, a little sheepish under the scrutiny – you finally wave him along. “Okay, Jaeyun, let’s get you back outside,” you say, lightly steering him toward the door.

Once you’re outside, the winter air hits. He says you should stay inside, although he also tugs your hand in his so you wouldn’t leave. You walk with him to his car, as the night’s quiet around you.

He pauses at the car door, turning toward you with a glint in his eyes. “So… one more goodbye?” he asks, voice low.

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms over your fluttering heart. “No. Go home, Jaeyun.”

He pouts while he leans down at you, his breath fogging in the cold, and his face way too close for someone who’s supposedly leaving. His bangs fall forward again, grazing his lashes, and he ducks his head just slightly to catch your eyes and meet your height.

“Come on,” he murmurs, lips tugging into that soft, borderline smug smile. “Just one? I was a really good tutor.”

You scoff, though your pulse jumps. “You were average at best.”

Jake hums, pretending to be offended, pouting, glancing down at your mouth. “Wow. That’s cold, baby.”

You laugh. “It’s cold, yes. Get in your car.” you shoot back.

He grins, teeth showing this time. “Well, someone won’t let me leave properly.”

You open your mouth to retort – but he gently uncrosses your arms, fingertips brushing your wrist like he’s memorizing the feeling. His hands slide up to your elbows, warm even through your cardigan. 

He leans a bit closer, voice lowering. “I’ll go,” he whispers, “but I’m not leaving without something.”

Your heart stutters. “Jaeyun.”

“Hm?” he tilts his head, innocent in the fakest way possible. 

“You’re impossible.”

“And you,” he says, smile softening, breath misting in the cold, “make me want to be.”

You exhale sharply – half laugh, half surrender. And maybe it’s the cold, or the quiet, or the way he looks at you like he’s trying really hard not to be stupidly happy (he is, he really is)  – but you rise onto your toes and press a quick, graze of a kiss to his cheek.

Jake freezes. Then his entire face lights up – hollowed cheeks, shy grin, eyes flicking away like he can’t handle it.

“That wasn’t what I meant,” he whispers, pretending not to melt, “but that was… very okay.”

You smack his arm. “Get in the car.”

He laughs – bright, giddy, a little breathless – and finally opens the door. Before slipping inside, he catches your hand again, thumb brushing your knuckles.

“Text me when you’re in your room?” he asks.

You roll your eyes. “You’re already going to text me before you get to the end of the street.”

He grins. “Yeah. Probably.” He sits, door half-closing. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Jaeyun.”

The door clicks shut. His car starts. He gives one tiny wave through the window before pulling away, and you’re left standing in the cold, smiling like an idiot, heart absolutely swept and taken into the Bronco pulling out your street.

You stay out there for a second longer, breath puffing in the cold, watching the red taillights drift down the street. The second they turn the corner, you let out a tiny, ridiculous squeal into your hands.

Your bedroom door shuts and you flop on your bed, face buried in your pillow for exactly one second before your phone buzzes.

You turn off your phone and immediately press it to your chest, kicking your blankets, because there is absolutely no surviving this boy.

only 1000 blocks are allowed per post saauurr the other half is in the next link continuation!

[0210sjy]

*ೃ༄ sim jaeyun “you’re drunk.” — "i know.”

━━ HOW TO GET YOUR EX BACK 101

⋆。ﾟ ( 💬 ) one accidental reunion turns “no contact” into emotional whiplash and oh my god why is he still hot.

ex! jake x fem! reader ˗ˏˋ fluff, smut, porn with plot, rom-com, crack, smau, college au, little angst, second chance, lots of profanity, unprotected sex, oral sex, MDNI ! wc: 27 929 p: we almost broke up last night - sabrina carpenter ; loose - enhypen ; tears - sabrina carpenter ; sugar talking - sabrina carpenter ; imgonnagetyouback - taylor swift ; toxic - britney spears ; bad decisions - ariana grande ; knew better / forever boy - ariana grande ; we find love - daniel ceasar 📌💌 sequel of HOW TO SURVIVE BOYS 101 ... but can be a standalone!

disclaimer : the "reader" pics in this smau is only a filler image for layout purposes. reader is poc-friendly and not meant to represent a specific race, appearance, or identity 🪽

Tip #1: Remember how you lost him.

Bullshit repeats itself – is that how the saying goes?

Ever since Jake had gone to college, conversations turned into check-ins, goodnights into apologies, and affection into something scheduled between deadlines. Time and distance were the main culprits behind the crime scene.

You tried staying up later, phone warm in your palm, eyes half-lidded while he talked about university life. You tried not to mind the missed calls, the delayed replies, the way silence began to feel less like rest – from college? Or you?

Jake tried too and you know he did. He promised visits that almost happened but something came up, I’m sorry, baby. He tried coming back on some weekends, but the demands of freshman year doubled in no time and you’re left on delivered for double hours.

He says his phone's broken but he just forgot to charge it.

You try to pull the plug, suddenly verbal about how it felt like you were the only one bending your time around him, about how effort shouldn’t feel like something you had to ask for. You told him that love shouldn’t feel like this.

Jake didn’t argue; didn’t even try because the way you sounded was worse than any petty fight. Instead, he starts working it out at twelve in the morning.

His alarm was already set for an 8am lecture, but that night, he got in his car and drove three cities back to hometown to get you. There was no warning – just the familiar headlights of his Bronco outside your house. He looked tired and concerned, and you immediately apologized before he could say anything, told him it was just a lot – senior year, the pressure, the uncertainty. He listened, arms squeezing you closer, just nodding.

He stayed until four (despite your protests that he should leave earlier), long enough to make sure you’re okay. He's sweet, no others boys would compete – your words run on scraps.

"We almost broke up again last night."

You've been there a thousand times and there's clear selective memory here. All the I love you's and I'm sorry's were said, but they feel futile. It's drifting apart, a big deal you've been in before and will be in tomorrow.

So the actual breakup wasn’t loud, loaded with knowing.

You talked on your couch when he came from uni, the tears coming before either of you could fully start. He kept wiping his hands on his jeans, fidgeting because he didn’t know what to do with them. 

“I don’t know how to fix this anymore,” you said, voice breaking on the word fix. Because you’d tried fixing, tried patience, tried understanding, tried being quieter about how much it hurt.

A part of you wished he insists, that he thinks otherwise and this is still fixable. Maybe because a part of you was still willing to fix it even when the odds were out.

But he only nodded slowly. “I think it just got… way too demanding, and I don’t know if I’m ready for something like that.”

That was the worst part.

“I love you,” he said, immediately. “I know,” you replied. “I love you.”

The exhaustion of wanting more and having nothing left to give.

You sat there for a long time after that, shoulders slumped, knees still touching, your hands finding his. His thumb brushed over your knuckles in the way it always did, familiar enough to hurt. He left quietly, making no promises, no maybe someday. Just a long, very long hug at the door, his chin resting on the top of your head, breathing you in like this would be the last time.

You watched him walk down the driveway the same way you always did, only this time, he didn’t turn back.

1 year, 2 months, 15 days, folded neatly in a corner of your room, hidden in your ballerina music box.

Tip #2: Do not use Instagram as a test. It’s dumb.

The summer after senior year was something.

College decisions loomed in the background like unfinished business, and it’s sometimes the very thing you dread just remembering. There was one you waited for specifically and God, you were scared shitless because it’s the very thing you’ve always wanted.

The dream university. The one you’d talked about since forever, with passion and persistence of the 13-year-old you. It’s also the school Jake goes to now – of course, with that kind of grit and intelligence? No doubt.

The email came on an ordinary morning, much to your distress because you were just eating cereal when –

The confetti registered first before Congratulations! itself because the decision portal specifically throws confetti across the screen when you’ve been accepted. That’s what makes you scream and cry and hug your mom and dad buys cake with custom icing and Evan calls you a crybaby, but he’s got a wide smile on his face for you. 

Then like muscle memory because your body tends to forget – it comes like instinct when you know it shouldn’t have.

You thought of Jake; your former number one supporter. The first person who’d told you you could do it, who’d sent you links to campus resources, who’d promised about showing you all the best spots when you get in. Back when when still existed.

You hadn’t talked ever since the break-up, as things should be between people with history (11-year-long history, to be precise). Although you still followed each other in social media, only at a distance so deliberate and established even without negotiation. No liking posts, no watching stories, just a quiet agreement to let each other live separately while still being one call away.

Definitely unhealthy – it’s really not good and it speaks a lot about your attachment.

You added the screenshot to your close friends with a caption of “see you”, balancing both the meaning of academic and, maybe, him, which is pathetic but who can blame a yearning (and desperate, clearly) heart. You included him after overthinking it for 35 more minutes which you reason out as “to see what would happen”.

Until a whole day passed and you received nothing.

Fucking hell, you are pathetic.

Of course he wouldn’t check, of course it was a dumb idea. You settled with screaming into your pillow, then you picked yourself back up with the notion that it doesn’t matter because this moment was yours and it didn’t need an audience – much less one from an ex.

The first week of college was easy. 

The campus was bigger than you ever thought it was – so you did indeed get lost multiple times and walked in lecture halls late with shame chiming around you. By the end of the week, you learned the schedule, learned shortcuts across campus (for when body and alarm clock betrays you), and discovered a coffee shop that made the best tactic to stay awake for your 8am.

For the next month, weeks blurred, lectures became routine, notes just got less pretentious, assignments demanded attention.

The crazy part — aside from your mind — was that you haven’t seen him yet, let it be in the library after staying there for hours, or in the hallways when you’re trying to get to your next class.

Not that you were hoping but – okay, you were and that’s not a crime, just very self-inflecting and sad. But you go on anyway.

Tip #3: All this tension, baby, let your body loose.

“You have to come!” Mia said, bouncing on the balls of her feet like she had stakes in your social life. “It’s the first real party of the semester. Everyone’s going.”

“Yeah,” Lila chimed in, voice dragging your name out like a cautionary tale. “We deserve a night off.”

You cross your arms, melting back against your friends cushions like ice cream. “I have dues tomorrow,” you muttered, though the thought of seeing new faces – and maybe forgetting about deadlines for a few hours – was tempting. However, saving yourself the hangover for a promised productivity tomorrow seems even more enticing.

“You are so –” Mia basically pounces you and starts tickling your sides, as you shriek and swat your arms in defense, “ – boring!”

Once you finally get her off you, both of you breathless, you glare at her with mock offense.

You truly do think about it, staring at their posters that stuck loosely against the wall while you do. A month in, and everything already felt like a balancing act in the circus – classes, expectations, this new version of yourself you were still figuring out. Maybe a few hours off wouldn’t ruin anything.

Lila nudged you. “Stop overthinking. Just come. It’s a cool, chill night. We’ll keep you safe. We’ll make you dance. We’ll –”

“Fine, fine,” you cut her off, laughing despite yourself. “I’ll go. But I’m not getting drunk.”

It’s still early when you arrive (12am), early enough that the place hasn’t fully filled in yet. There’s space to breathe and move without squeezing past bodies, but the music is already loud and colored lights sweep lazily across the room. Mia spots someone the moment you three managed to move through the crowd. “Oh my god – hey!” she calls out, already waving, and before you can process it, you’re being pulled along. Quick introductions are exchanged over the music – name you only half-catch, smiles that come easy.

He leads your group through the room to an open table near the back, just far enough from the speakers that you don’t have to shout. You slide into one of the couches, the leather smooth against your legs and Lila leans close to say something you barely catch over the music. At some point, you realize Mia isn’t beside you anymore, but before you can even text her, she’s back – grinning, triumphant, weaving through people with three plastic cups in her hands.

“Miss me?” she asks, setting one in front of you.

You blink, surprised. “When did you –”

“Don’t ask,” she cuts in, sliding another drink toward Lila. “Just drink.”

You lift the cup and take a cautious sip because you don’t trust the palate of a drunkard. It’s sweet before the bitter taste of alcohol comes, making you cringe back from the unexpectedness. It’s honestly exciting.

Mia clinks her cup against yours. “To surviving the first month!”

You have no idea yet that this is where things start to shift.

The friend Mia greeted earlier comes back, smiling at all of you. “Uh, would it be okay with you guys if our groups kind of merge? My friends just came.” his hands do gestures and immediately, you all agree before he even finishes the sentence. Lila’s already scooting over to make space, Mia’s cheering over the music.

He looks relieved, flashing a quick thank-you smile.

You take slow sips of your drink, letting the liquid cool the small knot of nerves you didn’t realize had formed in your stomach. You don’t get to be all jumpy and edgy in the function that demanded someone buoyant and convivial.

Though, you definitely should have expected doom – when some already-drunk dude comes and stumbles on your lap that you shriek in pure horror like a lead in Scream. You immediately shove him off and he lands on the floor, wasted and absolutely gone, while his friends apologize with pressed palms. You try to contain the sour expression on your face – but you can’t, because half your drink has spilled on you.

Great. Love that.

Because now you feel sticky and you smell like alcohol before anything real even began, your mood spoiling like you personally invited the bacteria in. Before you could curdle further into deciding to leave and plunge into the comfort and sterility of your bed, Mia’s already pulling you up on your feet to get to the bathroom.

Like some cruel, cinematic twist, the growing crowd press bodies closer and someone knocks into you without meaning to, of course, because you’re God’s number 1 favorite child besides the Redeemer. Either way, you stumble on your heel and you’re pushed into someone else for the nth time tonight, though you don’t really try to bother with a genuine apology. You mutter something half-assed, preparing yourself to squeeze into the crowd until you decide to glance.

Holy. Fuck.

For a split second, your brain stalls. And you’re frozen and you think that this has to be some kind of divine intervention as they like to call it, because this man has to be one of God’s loyal angels with the way the party lights start to uncoil as strobes behind him, and he’s here to announce the birth of some Messiah that will save the world.

Maybe you’re supposed to be expecting soon with the way alcohol isn’t the only thing making you wet now.

Everything rushes in at once – and you’re bombarded with the unfair reality of male supremacy in genetics. He’s taller than you remember, even with your heels on. Broader shoulders, solid in a way that makes it obvious time didn’t just pass him by, it worked on him. He’s filled out, grown into himself that didn’t change him but made him look more mature.

And now, Jaeyun Sim's staring at you like this was exactly what he didn’t expect in some random Friday party, much less in his local university club.

(Backtrack – Jake knows you’re attending the same university after receiving the news from Evan, who, despite the breakup, announces certain things about you as if to keep Jake updated. He never asked and never really stopped him either. So imagine how he feels, when the woman he knew didn’t exactly like parties bumps into him in one after one whole month on campus.)

The guy Mia knows is still talking, introducing his friends, but you can barely process anything past this one in front of you. The music isn’t helping, by the way, because it’s playing ‘Shout Out to My Ex’ by Little Mix.

Then he fucking smiles at you. Casually. Amused.

What the fuck?

“Hi.”

Jake reaches a hand out and you stare at it, well, first at his long fingers, then his wide palm, then the veins that travel all the way through his arms. “Didn’t know you go to parties.” he says and you look up at him through your lashes again, seeing that smile that doesn’t show much, just that he’s seeing you right here in front of him and he doesn’t hate it.

You try smiling too (works out fine; you look hot, he clears his throat), because you can’t be the one flustered while he’s here looking like God’s favorite, and casually reaches out his hand to you like you’re just someone he kind of knew back in high school.

Finally, your hand clasps with his. A dap, a squeeze; he taught you how to do it properly back then when you were together, something you do every after making out.

“I always do,” you reply, clearly pointed. His eyebrows knit for a few seconds, before he realizes what you mean, then he breaks out to a wider smile.

Before anything else can happen, Mia grabs your arm like a lifeline and yanks you through the crowd until you’re finally pressed up against the bathroom wall, the sounds of the party muffled behind the door. “How do you know that guy?!”

You basically scream into your hands once you get inside, while Mia yanks you beneath the hand dryer, pulling specifically the wet patch underneath to let it dry. 

Right. You got alcohol on you. You practically forgot how wet you are.

“That was my fucking ex, Mia!” you shriek.

She freezes immediately, eyes going wide when she realizes who you’re talking about.

“Wait. Wait. Wait. That’s… no. That’s the guy? Wait, first or second?”

“Second,” you groan again, slumping against the wall. “The same one. Holy shit, Mia. The same one.”

She grabs your shoulders and shakes you lightly. “And he’s here. At this party. And he’s… what. Hotter? Better?”

You groan again, throwing your hands in the air. “Mia, I can’t. I wanna go home.”

She rolls your eyes and shakes you by the shoulders again to get yourself together because you’re too hot and gorgeous to malfunction like this. After much encouragement from her (it didn’t work, you still feel like a slug against the wall), you two finally get out of the bathroom. She promises a drink just to get you your guts back, and of course, she delivers. She orders you two shots to salt the slug out of you, demanding you drink them now like the alcoholic-maniac she is. And like the disaster you are, you chug the burn down your throat.

The last thing you need right now is to care about your ex.

And to think about how hot he’s gotten after a few months. Like he needed to glow up, like how he looked wasn’t enough.

You know how to handle your drink well, but chugging down two straight shots must’ve fucked you up good because your knees feel weaker and your vision welcomes the lights as streaks that do wonders with feeling afloat.

You steady yourself by the table once you two get back. Your head feels light, but not in a bad way – only like the world softened around the edges and you remember that this isn’t high school; this is something you have to explore and enjoy.

So you do that. You don’t mind the reminder of high school at the corner of your peripheral, sitting on the couch so easily. 

You shake hands. You do the half-hug introductions like you’ve been friends for years. You repeat your name more times than you can count, watch it get lost immediately in the music.

Every now and then, you glance.

It follows him; the noise, the lights, the looks, because it’s him. Jake. The handsome guy in the group, the hot one in the team, the golden one even when he’s just smiling. No matter where, even in the corner of the room when he’s not doing anything – not even drowning himself in intoxication like you are. 

You know that much – the girl beside you has been eyeing the ‘guy in a leather jacket and eyeglasses at the side’. Jake, of course, who's got his sleeves rolled up like he doesn’t know just what kind of effect his veiny arms have. You admit, your heel might have jabbed her foot a few times, accidentally or not.

Jake’s a few feet away in the other table, leaning back with the natural ease of directing himself through social gatherings without trying hard. He’s talking to someone, head tipped slightly as he listens, smiling at something you can’t hear.

He’s not looking at you

A twinge blooms in the middle of your chest, just between the bones that cage your lungs. But before it worsens, you’re already bottoming out a drink Lila offered to you because you’re not about to orbit someone who somehow had the time for social stuff but never enough time for you. 

You wonder about the nights you waited for Jake’s reply while he was out partying. The thought steadies you more than the alcohol does.

You straighten a little, roll your shoulders back, remind yourself that this isn’t a competition, and you look too hot to treat the night like a loss

You don’t realize it at first. That some guy’s flirting with you.

You recognize him though, he’s part of the group that came in with who-shall-not-be-named.

He’s tall, and sometimes he leans down to hear you. His smile’s great and you remember him talking something about engineering. You don’t care, you don’t even try to care. But your own body betrays you because your heels have been slowly killing you, and your legs don’t function the way they do when you’re sober. So when someone accidentally bumps into you again, you stumble back and lean against him. He laughs low, ducks down to whisper how clumsy you are while his hand settles on the small of your back to steady you.

This is stupid. You feel stupid. Not ecstatic in any way at all.

The guy beside you says something again – teasing, light, trying – much of your disinterest. He takes a step closer and says your name like it’s something he wants to remember. 

You look around when the guy beside you takes a sip of his drink, letting this moment catch. 

But Jake’s eyes are already on you. He’s not laughing nor talking anymore, just watching you.

His expression is unreadable, jaw set tightly, the muscle jumps once and his hand curls around his cup like he’s finally clocking the distance between you and the guy, like he’s noticed the hand at your back.

The guy beside you leans in again. “So,” he says, voice easy, confident. “You're single, right?”

You don’t answer – you don’t even look at him. Your eyes stay on Jake and he doesn’t look away either. He’s looking at you like he’s sick of pretending he does not see you. Like he’s wondering if he’s been too patient waiting for a sign.

He turns away, taking a sip of his drink like he meant for you to catch him too, and now he’s frustrated that he's caught something else he didn't want. His jaw is still clenched, tight enough that the line of it looks sharper under the dim lights when he tilts his head slightly to the side, licking the inside of his cheek in the way he does when he’s mad.

You see that goddamn nose, tall and pointed. And you want nothing but to sit on it in front of this guy.

VIRGINs™.

You close your eyes and pull away like you’re burnt, not even managing a simple polite excuse before you practically shove him away from you and find your way to your friends.

Mia’s there immediately, she grabs your wrist and yanks you back into the safety of your circle. “Come on, babe. Drink up.”

Lila’s already pressing a cup into your hand, eyes sharp, knowing, and they’re assholes for this. Still, it’s comforting, the way they’re holding you now. “Bottoms up!”

You drink it immediately, barely registering the taste before you feel the rush, the way it hits your bloodstream and scrambles everything before they could form something coherent such as Jake’s face and how mad he looked when someone else had you.

“Dance?” Mia asks with an encouraging yell, but she’s already pulling the three of you together into the dance floor. 

The music crashes over you again, bass rolling through your chest and loosening something in your knees. The alcohol smooths everything out until moving feels easy and impulsive. You follow Mia and Lila without thinking, letting the rhythm carry you forward like a tide. Bodies blur together around you – all grinding, swaying, hands reaching up toward the lights as they flash and stutter. You drift closer to them, arms brushing, steps syncing, three girls caught in the same pulse, heat and laughter and movement packed into a space too tight and too loud. 

You close your eyes. You let the music hold you. And even when you try not to, you feel it; Jake’s gaze lingering on you like a ghost of warmth, woven into the rhythm, impossible to shake.

Tip #4: Think imgonnagetyouback mindset.

It’s 4am.

The music has started to die down. The chaos of the party is reduced to less and scattered laughter, half-empty cups, and people basically fumbling for their coats with wobbly feet and fucked vision. You swear you can smell vomit somewhere near, you’re just not sure if it’s on you and dangerously close by. 

You’re halfway gone on the couch, leaning against Mia’s shoulder because it’s the only thing keeping you upright right now. Deadweight, basically. Lila is fussing over you, holding a bottle of water up your lips like it’s a lifesaver. “C’mon, just one sip. You’ll thank me.”

“‘m fine,” you mutter in that slurred way, eyes half-closed, and completely stubborn while you swat her away like a useless baby. “You’re not fine. Look at you, Ms. I’m-not-getting-drunk.”

“‘m fiiiine,” you repeat, muffled against Mia’s shoulder, mostly because speaking more feels exhausting.

You don’t see it, but Jake’s with his friends. He’s laughing quietly, ready to disappear into the cold late hour, early morning. He’s completely normal and okay, sober compared to the disastrous sight of you. Which should be very embarrassing, but you’re way too blacked out to even know what’s happening.

He stops. His gaze flicks toward you. “Hey,” he calls softly.

Mia and Lila immediately exchange a look  – half amusement, half mischief – because of course, of course this is happening. And your ass is too drunk to handle your own plotline, so what would these simple women do if not steer it for you?

“Uh… he’s asking about you,” Mia says slowly, patting your leg. You groan softly. “Tell h’m ’m fine,” you mumble, voice battered with alcohol, low and coarse from fatigue.

“Tell him yourself,” Lila says, and you groan again.

Jake’s friends start moving toward the door, laughing under their breath and nudging him along. But Jake stays where he is across from you, doing something he knows he shouldn’t be doing (has been doing for the past few hours anyway), which is staring. Because whatever he’s feeling right now has him frozen in place, ethics slipping through his fingers, all because of you.

And in that second, when he looks at you better and sees just how disheveled you look, the tiniest smirk tugs at his lips, not even attempting to restrain himself. He looks like he’s holding back a joke, like he knows exactly what your stubborn little face is doing, leaning there, stubborn and tipsy and entirely (not) his.

“Is she okay?” he asks, not teasing, just him.

Mia snorts, Lila laughs quietly. Then, you lift your head to shoo away this man, until you see him and freeze, dignity crumbling little by little the more time you spend in this godforsaken club.

Jake. Standing there, relaxed, very much sober, and looking at you. Just you.

“You okay?” he asks again, softer than before.

And you can’t help it. A tiny, annoyed frown slips onto your face, one you didn’t mean to make, because of all the alcohol and the chaos and the mess of people bothering you, you see him and you remember you’re not exactly goody-goody with him, but he’s here asking if you’re okay anyway, acting so concerned about you.

Last time you remember, he can’t make time for you!

“’m fine,” you blurt, slurred, stubborn, mad, and a little breathless.

Then you fall back on Mia’s shoulder, deciding upon yourself that this is just a dream and he will disappear and you can go back to the life he wasn’t a part of.

Of course, he’s not convinced. 

Jake’s gaze flicks to Mia and Lila. He knows that you’re stubborn enough to try to walk home on your own if left unchecked.

“How are you getting her home?” he asks them this time, voice calm but with that subtle edge of concern.

Mia straightens a little, gauging just how to strategically use this wild card given to her by the guardian angels themselves like it’s fucking Uno. “Honestly? I don’t fucking know.”

Jake looks at both of them – at you – much in disbelief. Mia firmly believes she made the best choice.

Jake’s gaze shifts back to Mia and Lila, serious now, like now he’s assessing the logistics of this situation. “Where’s… uh, her dorm?” he asks, calm but firm.

Mia smiles and has the nerve to relax against the couch. “Oh… uh, it’s actually a bit farther away,” she says quickly, waving her hands vaguely. “But…it’s 4 am, there’s creeps out, and, you know…we’re all girls.” She lets the last part hang, her eyes flicking to you and Lila for piteous effect, acting the part of damsels in distress.

Jake raises an eyebrow. Before he can even open his mouth, Mia’s already talking again. “So… do you think you can take her? Please? We are soooo tired, it’s sooo late, and she’s basically useless right now.” She glances down at you slumped against her shoulder, half-asleep, barely clinging to consciousness.

Lila’s already nodding emphatically after understanding this turn of events, giving you a little squeeze for emphasis. “Yeah. You’d be, like… her hero or something,” she says, grinning.

Jake lets out a quiet, almost exasperated laugh.

“Guess that’s my job, then,” he says, voice low and soft, almost like he’s talking just to you about something only you’d understand. 

Always to the rescue, apparently.

One second you’re warm and hazy against Mia’s shoulder, the next you’re being shifted, hands lifting you under your arms, voices overlapping in a blur of wait – careful – okay, got her – 

And then, Oh. This is familiar.

You press into his chest without thinking, forehead tipping forward until it rests just beneath his collarbone. His sweater is warm and smells faintly like detergent and something unmistakably like his perfume – you know because you bought it for him last Valentines.

Jake stiffens for half a second.

Then he exhales, adjusts his grip, one arm sliding more securely around your back, the other settling under your knees. He struggles a little, just a little, shifting his footing, maybe because he’s still registering the reality of you in his arms.

You make a tiny sound in protest, brows knitting faintly in your sleep, and he smiles wider.

Mia points a finger at him immediately, all serious now. “You take care of her. I will hunt you down.”

Lila crosses her arms. “I know where you live.” (she doesn’t)

Jake snorts quietly. “Duly noted.”

He looks down at you again, expression softening, thumb brushing absentmindedly against your side like muscle memory never left him. You shift closer, nose brushing his sweater. “I’ve got her,” he says, steady now.

Mia and Lila exchange a look, satisfied with their contribution to this plot twist and turning the course of events in your life effectively, then step back, already halfway to freedom. The script’s flipped and you’re leaving a dumb party with him, no handcuffs needed.

“Text us when she’s in bed,” Mia adds. “And water. Make her drink water.”

Jake nods. “Yeah. I know.”

With you tucked against him, asleep and unaware, Jake Sim turns toward the door and carries you out into the quiet, early-morning air. He slips you into the passenger seat of his Bronco, which smells like faint cologne and pristine, organized and fixed while – you are basically deadweight, heavy, and uncooperative, completely misplaced in his world. So when you shift in the passenger seat to get more comfortable after he slides you in, your elbow swings out without warning, smacking him lightly in the face while he’s trying to buckle you in.

“Whoa – hey,” Jake mutters, voice low but amused. You groan softly, like you’re the one who deserves to get mad, eyes still half-shut. 

You slump further, letting yourself sink into the seat, muttering something that barely comes out as a coherent “sorry” that obviously isn’t meant. He doesn’t say much, just shifts the car into gear, and starts driving.

The next memory hits and you’re in the dorm lobby, blinking at the familiar walls while Jake has you wrapped up in his arms. Suddenly, you notice your own weight again and decide, maybe you can walk on your own.

“Okay, I’m good,” you mutter, pushing lightly at him.

“No, you’re not,” Jake protests, tightening his hold.

“I can walk, thank you very much.”

With an exaggerated sigh, you pry yourself from his clutch and take a shaky step forward, bare feet on the cold marble, instantly a washing regret because it’s freezing. Only then do you realize – you’re not wearing heels, you’re not even holding your bag, and Jake is standing there with basically everything you own, dangling in his hands like some overzealous luggage attendant.

“Really, you’re just showing off now, aren’t you?” you huff.

He gives you an “are you serious?” guise, and he looks fed up if it weren’t for the small smile that says otherwise. Like he’s entertained and he likes this, watching you with the kind of gaze too thrilled for someone who’s supposedly your ex. 

Maybe around five steps later, your foot catches and you stumble, losing balance instantly. Before you even fall, his arms are around you again, steadying you — and once again you’re pressed against him. He lets out a soft scoff of amusement, finding you both irritating and adorable simultaneously.

“We should stick to plan A,” he murmurs, the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You’re too drunk to pretend you’re not.”

You groan into his chest, limbs still heavy. But you don’t protest anymore, letting him guide you to the elevator. He gets you to your room with minimal fighting this time.

The door clicks shut behind you, the familiar quiet and comfortability settling in way too fast because now you just want to sleep pronto. Jake guides you over gently, hands warm and steady at your waist until the backs of your knees hit the bed. You sit down obediently, blinking up at him like you’re trying very hard to stay awake and failing anyway.

“Okay,” he murmurs, already turning. “Stay.”

You do. Shockingly.

By the time he comes back with a cold bottle of water, you’re slouched slightly, hands folded in your lap, hair falling over your face. He presses the bottle into your hands and nudges it toward your mouth.

“Drink,” he says softly, the way he used to – like he knows you’ll listen if he keeps his voice gentle.

You do. You take small sips, nose scrunching at the cold, eyes half-lidded as he watches to make sure you actually swallow. He waits until you’ve had enough, then takes the bottle back and sets it on your desk within reach.

“There you go,” he says, quiet praise tucked into the words.

He thinks he should go now, now that you’re safely in your room and in your bed. Though he hesitates, eyes flicking to your face – your lashes clumped with false lashes and mascara, faint shimmer still clinging to your lids, concealer intact, lipstick smudged. A smile tugs at his mouth, fond, and a little resigned.

“You’re gonna hate it if you sleep like that,” he says lightly, gently poking your cheek. “D’you want to take your makeup off?”

You nod immediately, just small and sleepy, still fighting your way to stay awake.

“Mm,” you hum.

He exhales a soft laugh and heads to your bathroom, carefully of course, cautiously going through your room and locating familiar products on your counter. He comes back with your remover, cotton pads, even your headband.

He places everything carefully into your hands. “Here.”

You stare down at it – long, blank, confused – like you’re waiting for them to work themselves out onto your face. Then you look up at him, brows pinched slightly, lips pouting in concentration like you’re trying to remember a thought you just had.

“‘M just… gonna sleep,” you decide, voice small and stubborn, followed by a yawn.

Jake closes his eyes for a second, pinching his nose bridge before his hands fall on his hips. “Yeah,” he sighs, smiling despite himself. “I figured.”

He gently takes the things from you before you can drop them, then crouches properly in front of you. He tilts your chin up with two fingers, touch feather-light. 

“Don’t move,” he murmurs.

He gently and carefully removes your false lashes first. Then he soaks a pad and starts slow, careful, wiping beneath one eye first, one side at a time. His touch is patient like he’s handling something fragile.

“That okay?” he asks quietly.

You nod again, leaning into his hand without thinking. He smiles at that, just gently holds your jaw.

He works in silence, almost reverent in the way he handles you so gently. He’s switching pads, murmuring the occasional “there we go” or “almost done,” wiping makeup away until your face is bare and clean again. His thumb lingers for half a second at your cheek, warm, familiar.

You sway slightly, fighting sleep, eyes drooping.

“Hey,” he says gently, tapping your knee, tipping your chin back with his two fingers. “Stay with me, yeah?”

You hum in response, something content and sleepy, and his chest tightens.

He stands when he’s done, then he sets everything aside and looks at you for a long moment – sitting on your bed, hair messy, makeup gone, eyes heavy but trusting. You’re looking up at him through your lashes, and he really likes you that way. 

“Good girl,” he murmurs before he can stop himself.

Your brows knit together, lips pushing into a soft, unhappy pout, like something about this doesn’t sit right with you – because with all honesty, this feels like something you’d look back with regret and hate.

Jake notices immediately. He straightens a little, eyes searching your face. “What is it?”

You blink at him, slow and glassy, like you’re trying to line your thoughts up and they keep slipping away. “…why’re you here?” you ask, voice slurred, small, and drunk.

He shouldn’t engage with you when you’re like this.

Still. He can’t not.

“What?”

You frown deeper, shaking your head slightly, hair falling into your eyes again. “You’re… you’re acting like you care,” you mumble. “Why are you pretending?”

His brows furrow this time. “I’m not pretending,” he says quietly.

You scoff, weak and breathy, clearly unconvinced, clearly drunk. “It’s not fair.”

Jake swallows. “You’re drunk,” he says gently. “You’re tired.”

You nod once, sharply. “Yeah. And you’re here. And you’re… being like this.” Your voice wobbles despite your effort to sound annoyed, you point a finger at him. He glances at it then back to you, not being able to keep himself from smiling. “So which one is it, Jaeyun?”

The way you say his name undoes him. Completely.

When he doesn’t answer you, you frown, trying to focus through the fog in your brain. “Probably like this with all the girls you meet, then?” 

He blinks once before he chuckles quietly, very amused with your insobriety. Then, slowly and deliberately, he leans over just enough to tap your forehead with a finger, teasing but gentle. “Aren’t you the one who was flirting with some guy tonight?” he asks, half-smile tugging at his lips. His eyes shine with something you can’t quite name – soft amusement, pride, maybe even jealousy in the right angle.

You let out an incredulous laugh. “I don’t like him.” you mumble, head leaning back, eyes half-lidded when you look up at him through your lashes.

Jake’s smile softens, grows warmer, almost proud. “I know,” he says simply.

Your chest hammers, and it’s not just the alcohol anymore – hasn't been, really – it’s him. He watches you like he’s memorizing every detail – the messy hair, the curve of your hips, the way your eyes drift between amused and annoyed – and you feel seen. Now, you know, you’re hopelessly, irreversibly caught; drunk or not.

You murmur something then, so soft it barely makes it past your lips.

Jake blinks. “What?”

You don’t repeat it. You just stare at him, eyes unfocused, lashes heavy, mouth tight because the words slipped out before you could decide if you meant them.

He leans in a little. “Hey,” he says quietly. “What’d you say?” As he moves closer, his hand lifts on its own. He gently tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear like he’s afraid of startling you.

You both know this shouldn’t happen, that this is beyond the rules of exes and the quiet decency you’re supposed to keep between people who already broke each other once. This look, this closeness, the way his attention lingers like he’s forgotten how to pull it back – it’s all wrong. And yet he’s looking at you like he’s still falling, slow and helpless, like nothing ever ended, and in the quiet of it you realize the worst part isn’t that it’s happening. It’s that you want it to. Drunk or sober.

Sitting on the edge of your bed, you look up at him from under your lashes.

“I miss you,"

Jake's heart? It does a sharp, traitorous jump, like it’s trying to climb into his throat, and for a split second he forgets how to speak. The golden star he is, known for being well-spoken and articulate with his sentences now rot speechless in the presence of the only girl he’s ever loved.

“Oh,” he says, because it’s the only sound he can manage.

His hand drops slowly back to his side, turning into a fist, like he needs the grounding of knowing better than let this thrive.

“Hey,” he murmurs, quieter now, steadier than he really feels. “You’re drunk.”

You nod, breaking away the eye contact. “I know.”

Jake swallows, jaw tightening as he looks down at you. He looks… a bit wrecked, like he’s trying to decide whether this is real or just the cruelty of 4 am and too much alcohol. His hand slides to your jaw again, thumb warm against your cheek, grounding himself just as much as it does you.

Then he leans in.

He dips his head just enough that his lips brush on your forehead. And with hesitance, he presses another kiss at the bridge of your nose.

You let out a small, breathy laugh. It slips out of you, soft, a little incredulous, and you lift your hand to weakly shove at his chest. “What the fuck are you doing.” you say through a breathy laugh, half-protest, half-something else entirely but feels close to intimate.

Jake smiles. The tension in his shoulders eases just a fraction. “Relax,” he murmurs, fond – always fond. “You’re gonna knock me out like that.” His sarcasm makes your blood and chest curl with heat. 

You scoff, rolling your eyes, but your hand lingers at his chest instead of pulling away. He glances down at it, then back at you, smile deepening just a little. You try to shove him again, this time with even less force, because you’re everything messy but he likes that anyway. “You’re weird.”

“Yeah,” he agrees easily, eyes warm. “You’ve told me that before.

Bygone will be the bygone’s era, yet they fade into gray, blurry, and uncertain. Because he who should remain obsolete looks the most vibrant in the dull vision of intoxication. You can’t decide whether you’re gonna curse him out or pull him into bed with you – but now, you hate him all the same. Because you can hear the whispers in his eyes – and they sound a lot like late night apologies for not finding time for you.

Jake straightens at last, hands lifting in surrender. “Okay,” he says gently. “That’s my cue.”

You start to fall back on your mattress, head back against your soft pillow from incredulity at what the fuck life has brought you to.

You’re just drunk, you think, for the way indignation (from remembering) and nerves blend into a tarty smoothie in the pit of your stomach. Jake carefully helps you tuck in and pulls the blanket higher around you.

“Sleep,” he whispers. “We’ll talk when you’re not like this.”

He waits until your breathing evens out, which doesn’t take long. Once the tension leaves your shoulders, your lashes finally rest against your cheeks, and your fingers loosen their grip on the blanket. Only then does he move again. Jake slips into the bathroom, opening the cabinet above the sink, and finds what he’s looking for almost immediately. He takes a couple of painkillers then places them beside your water bottle, lined up like a reminder for the morning.

You’re curled slightly on your side now, blanket pulled up to your chin, hair fanned like feathers across the pillow. He dims the light instead of off, and steals one final glance over his shoulder – like he’s imprinting the sight of you into memory.

Then he leaves. That familiar smile lingers on his face – the kind that’s always been yours.

He finds it that he was never not yours.

Tip #5: He’s responsible, proceed with caution.

You wake up with a really shitty hungover. Your head hurts, your mouth tastes like regret, and your brain keeps replaying things it shouldn’t be replaying. Then there’s knocking at 10:17 am, according to your phone, which feels too early for anything.

You consider pretending you’re dead, but Mia has never respected boundaries, not even in theory.

They settle in like this was always the plan, like your room is a recovery ward for debriefs and recollection and greasy sandwich breakfast. 

Then they say his name casually like it doesn’t still do things to you. 

Jake pretended he didn’t care.  Jake was normal.  Jake was looking at you every time you moved.  Jake was looking when you weren’t. 

You don’t know which part makes your stomach twist harder, the fact that you weren’t imagining it or the fact that it changes nothing, because knowing he still looks doesn’t mean he’s allowed to.

You’re feeling everything all at once, which you shouldn’t, by the way, because he’s your fucking ex.

And then the water bottle and the pain killers on your nightstand – a reminder from him and the physical evidence of his tracks that he was here.

You go on to fill their hearts content with what happened last night, about how Jake was so responsibly firm and gentle with you and treated it as if it wasn’t an inconvenience. As if he had the time to do all of it; slowly, carefully, steadily, not in a rush for a deadline he’ll say sorry for later – not anymore. Last night, in your own room while you were drunk and gone, Jake Sim played daddy.

Mia peeks through her fingers. “You’re saying this very emotionally.”

“I’m saying this very hormonally,” you snap. 

Right now, you remember the wet patch of alcohol from last night. As well as the tears you’ve shed from high school because he wasn’t able to manage his routine in a way that he can balance his school life and your relationship. 

Right now, Jake isn’t that. He can hold you without it feeling like he’s losing time. Right now, you get fucking wet from the thought of him being a responsible guy, treating you like he was supposed to do – and yeah, you remember the tears, except they’re running down your thighs now.

A little “There you go,”, “Drink.”“Don’t move,”, “That okay?”“Stay with me, yeah?”, and of course, “Good girl,”, which is plainly ideal foreplay.

You’re mid-chew when your phone buzzes on the mattress behind you.

Mia manages to snatch it before you can, and you basically start whining for her to give it back. Too late, she’s read the preview and says it out loud, 

jake: you alive?

You groan, dropping back on your bed because you’re absolutely emotional and embarrassed and hungover and turned on by your ex. 

You can’t believe it. After months of no contact ever since the breakup, specifically 7 months and 2 days ago, he breaks it to ask if you’re alive like he didn't just kill you.

“I hate him,” you mumble.

“You absolutely do not,” Mia says, shoving your phone back to you immediately. “Text him back.”

“No.”

“Yes,” Mia says, already sitting on your legs to pester you.

You stare at the screen. This totally isn’t fair and you know that he knows this is wrong – exes don’t talk to each other and check up on one another and tuck each other in and kiss each other’s foreheads. 

Before the girls protest which reponse sounds natural, your phone buzzes again.

jake: drink water btw

You shut your eyes and try to calm down your heart while he tries murdering it with Instagram texts. What is he doing? Why’s he doing it? Does he know he’s actively committing felony?

“Oh my God,” Lila whispers. “He’s still taking care of you."

Mia flops beside you. “Okay. We’re doing this strategically.”

“No strategy,” you say quickly. “I am not opening a door.”

“Too late,” Mia says. “The door is already cracked. He carried you through it.”

Fuck, she has a point. 

Your head still aches, but it’s not just the hangover anymore. It’s the memory of his hands steady on your waist while he talks you through it, his voice low and patient. He didn’t rush you. Didn’t take. Didn’t demand anything. Just stayed. Willingly. And smiled charmingly while he did – with extremely good teeth too.

You exhale slowly, then finally type: alive. sorry if i was a lot.

You hit send before you can chicken out, and the three of you stare at the screen like it’s a bomb.

The reply comes almost instantly. Oh wow, now he remembers how to use a phone – how to charge it too.

jake: you werent

That’s it. No flirting, no emotional ambush, no anything else, just a message that makes you think if he’s letting you open a conversation or if he’s closing it himself. He really is messing with your brain, and it’s not good for you – nothing about Jake Sim was ever good for you.

Tip #6: Prepare for the Instagram story.

Your phone stays quiet from his messages for the rest of the following weeks. At first you tell yourself that it’s good. It’s proof that you’re both mature and healthy, because you acknowledged that the night happened, but didn’t see it as an opening for anything else. 

Except you, maybe. You’re back to wondering where he is on campus. It’s life playing tricks on you; letting your heart go on a rollercoaster of events only to snatch it and buckle you back in your routine that didn’t include him.

Jake wasn’t an online kind of person ever since college started, only really posted stories when someone else mentions him on theirs. Stalking him through social media is futile, but you always go back to his posts, anyway – like a temporary remedy.

There used to be four posts, three highlights. But for very obvious reasons, your proof of occupation was removed.

It feels like highschool, when you danced this humiliation pirouette around something you wanted but had to pretend you didn’t. To act like you’re not itching even though your concentration has been compromised, which is obviously piteous for someone as bright as you. 

So you don’t do anything, more than willing to participate in this game of composure to see who’d break first. You keep your decorum. You keep your dignity folded neatly in your back pocket.

Nothing happens.

‘Til it’s late out and you’ve just finished studying 2 lessons – which obviously immediately means you’re more emotionally unstable and desolate tonight. And you’re not exactly expecting a tragic ambush for the cherry on top, because you're not thinking right now, not when your mind’s running on about limits in Calculus 1 – which is ironic because you're clearly on one.

It’s muscle memory, really – open app, tap, tap, oh. You don’t even register it until the screen loads and the familiar username appears on the top of your screen.

You’ve viewed it 52 seconds after he uploaded the story. Like you were waiting on his proof of life and decided to pounce him, straddling and all, the moment it shows.

And then when you process just what the story is, that’s where your stomach drops. It’s a repost from a girl’s story, who took a picture of Jaeyun leaning against the table, using his phone while she’s holding coffee and sitting really close – as in, legs brushing, overly intimate, something old you would post when he was your boyfriend – that you scoff so loudly and practically fling yourself back against your chair.

So that’s why. That’s why he didn’t text even though he said you’ll talk when you’re sober. He has a girlfriend and obviously, you’re the last thing he’d ever have in mind. And you? You remain lonely and single and pathetic and pining for another man in other girls stories and leg-brushing-tionship.

That’s also when you notice the little caption tucked in the corner. thanks for the coffee ig

Right, and she’s flirting plainly and publicly and clearly claiming territory. You don’t even see her face but you could tell immediately how perfect she probably is, as far as your insecurities are concerned: she’s the same year, probably shares ⅔ of his classes, sees him all the time, and gets free coffee from him.

And your phone’s been suffering lately, attempting to function on 1gb left on your storage. It’s laggy, that’s when it downright betrays you after 2 years together. It lags and your hand probably slips or something, because you like the story.

Shit.

You blink. Then you scream. You unlike it then you throw your phone away after, shrieking against your pillow while you decide whether it’s time to delete your Instagram account for good. You decide on multiple options here actually, but all of it comes to a choice when your phone buzzes.

jake: ?

God you wish you could sleep. But there are monsters in your head called impulse and pride, and they’re tag-teaming you while your phone lights up like it knows exactly how weak you are. You stare at the screen. The single question mark feels louder than any paragraph he could’ve sent and it’s annoying and he feels like the asshole he never was.

you: phone lagged mb

You hit send before you can overthink it into something kinder. In your best efforts to be civil, there’s still a faint aftertaste of not my fault, it’s yours. 

Three dots appear almost immediately. Disappear. Reappear. Like it was meant to piss you off. You roll onto your back, arm flung dramatically over your eyes like you’re auditioning for a film about female suffering directed by Greta Gerwig.

When you said ok, you thought he meant on a customary, normal-person time and date. And you should think like what a regular citizen act on this eccentric occasion – such as declining his absurdity and sleeping because you have lecture tomorrow. You ask yourself what you’re doing in this cafe now, in a tee and sleep shorts, arms crossed while you wait for the man who somehow still knows how to summon you with two texts and zero explanation.

You look around like you might recognize another idiot who showed up for emotional closure in pajamas, but there’s no one. Just you, your crossed arms, and the creeping realization that you look like a girl waiting to be let down. You’re not the girlfriend, not even the ex that gets proper boundaries, but the one he can call at 1 am – the punchline practically knows your name.

The bell over the door rings and there he is, exactly as expected, annoyingly composed in a hoodie with sleeves rolled to his elbows – and this time, you’re both sober. You look at each other a second too long, like you’re both checking for signs of intoxication that might excuse whatever happens next. When you find none, you decide that it’s the worse version of the night – clear-headed and intentional: there’s no buffer tonight with excuses to lean on. 

Jaeyun gestures toward the counter. “You want coffee?”

You shake your head. “I’m fine,” you say with a sigh. “I have lecture in the morning.”

And then he just nods, tongue poking the inside of his cheek while he decides what to do now. You both sit in a table for two, across from each other – which isn’t anywhere in the safebook because it’s close enough to feel familiar, but far enough to be safe.

“You said things the other night,” he starts carefully. Of course, because he treated your fleeing like a lesson, and he now talks like a man (doesn't make him one, though). “When I helped you home.”

Your stomach tightens and you chew on the inside of your cheek to try for casual. “I was drunk.”

“That all?” His brow cocks up, like he obviously doesn’t believe that’s all. “You didn’t mean it?”

Honesty has always been your downfall with him, even after spending half your life pretending and lying about what you feel for him. “I said I missed you,” you say flatly, owning it before he can dress it up. You laugh under your breath in disbelief of your position now. “There. Are you happy?”

He looks at you then and whatever he sees makes his shoulders drop a little. Jake sighs, fingers fidgeting underneath the table while he thinks of what to say now, just before he swallows and looks back into your eyes. “I didn’t text because I didn’t know if you wanted to talk to me sober.”

“So you waited,” you say. “Until I embarrassed myself.”

Honestly, the phone does work two ways. Maybe he was also pensively standing by for a sign that you’re still willing to let him in solemnly – but for fuck’s safe, was he meant to play hard-to-get while you chase?

Now he smiles, tongue poking the inside of his cheek because clearly you’re being petty and he’s measuring just how much patience he has tonight. Jake says your name quietly, low and firm, which does 7 natural wonders in your abdomen.

“Honestly? I was wondering if you remembered, or if it was just something you said because you were drunk.”

He delayed, he avoided, he compartmentalized, and he resurfaced at this ungodly hour. So yes, you get to be petty in thin sleep shorts because he fucking messaged you at 1am after posting another girl in his story. 

Indifference isn't respect, avoiding isn't civility.

When he looks back at you, his expression is composed, which is unusual for someone as emotional as him. “I didn’t say anything back that night,” he says, meeting your eyes.

You nod. “I noticed.”

“Yeah.” He practically huffs out a laughter. “I just didn’t want to say the wrong thing.”

You watch him, unimpressed despite the heartaches that say otherwise; loud and thrumming through your body in the form of your foot tapping. 

“I figured if I answered at that moment, it would either sound like I was some guy who’s going to take advantage of a moment just because it’s convenient.” Then he straightens, like now he’s talking out of judicious judgment and not out of the heavy first-love impulses to work it out with you. “I chose time,” his voice steady. “For both of us.”

A minute of silence passes but you don’t try to break it, not that you had the proper words to do it anyway. He sees you though, even when he can’t see your eyes.

When it’s clear that you won’t say anything anymore, Jake swallows, then leans his elbows against his knees to at least try to find your gaze.

“I missed you,” 

You look up at him before you can stop yourself, like your body reacts faster than your pride ever could. His eyes are on you already, open and honest and a little scared, despite the composure he holds tight.

“But missing someone,” he continues, “doesn’t automatically mean going back is the right move. And I don’t want to pretend it is.”

The cafe noise swells for a second, people talking about their much jovial nights, but the only words ringing in your head are Jake's.

Dumb and easy, that’s what you are, what always will be. Because you should be mad at him right now, right? You're supposed to curse him out, block him in social media, and never reminisce the past like an aspiring historian.

He leans back in his chair, measuring exactly how much gravity to put on the moment. “I know I messed up,” he admits softly. “Not texting. All of it. I’m sorry.”

You huff a laugh that’s equal parts bitter and incredulous. “That’s just your character, isn’t it?”

He smirks faintly like it’s an inside joke he fully understands, that half-smile that used to make your chest do dumb things when you were 18 and convinced he was untouchable. “Maybe it’s strategic inconvenience?”

You roll your eyes. “Strategic inconvenience,” you repeat, flatly, like it’s a brand. “You mean… you’re an asshole.”

“Point taken,” he says, hands up like he surrenders but he doesn’t flinch when you call him that, doesn’t ask for sugarcoating, doesn’t even try to defend. He just accepts.

“You know, you can't decide I’m already guilty before I finish talking.”

You tilt your head, crossing your arms. “You are guilty.”

A corner of his mouth twitches. “Exhibit A.”

“Don’t make jokes,” you say firmly. “That’s how you get out of things.”

“I’m not getting out of anything,” he replies with a smile that almost mocks. “I’m sitting right here.”

“Bare minimum,” you mutter.

He leans forward this time, elbows on the table, eyes on you. “What do you want me to say?”

Now you feel the aftertaste of bad decisions and ideas, when he’s looking at you that despite how gone pride is in this moment – now just running on want and unhealthy self-management – he looks like he won. ‘Cause sure, he fucked the circadian rhythm and pulled you out in pajamas like hauling a rabbit out a magician's ass and pissed you off again, but he thinks it’s worth it. Because he got to see you.

You scoff, narrowing your eyes at him, "I thought you know the right shit to say now, Jaeyun."

The way you say his name again undoes him. He grins, shaking his head like he can't believe himself for that reaction.

“I’m not here to charm my way back in. I know that doesn’t work on you anymore.”

You raise an eyebrow and he shrugs, long fingers tracing the edge of the table.

“I came because I missed you,” he continues, eyes following the lines of your features. "And because I figured if you were going to be mad, I’d rather you be mad to my face.”

You cross your arms tighter. “That’s not an apology.”

He tilts his head, eyes flicking over you – your crossed arms, your shorts, the way you’re still here despite yourself. "You're sick of apologies. I'd rather show."

You swallow. Annoyed at him, at yourself. “You look way too pleased for someone who’s supposedly guilty.”

He chuckles. “I am guilty.”

Your jaw tightens. “Don’t get comfortable.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” his smile turns stupidly fond. “You’re terrifying when you’re mad.”

This is idiotic and you do feel like one. But that has always been the deal with Jaeyun; always complicated even before you got together. And now you’re in the after being together department, you’re not sure you find yourselves to be… ex-materials. 

This is really unhealthy, but he doesn’t see you trying to leave your seat.

Jake smiles, no teeth, just smug, and pulls out his wallet from his pocket like he’s getting comfortable. “So,” he says. “Do you want me to buy you coffee now?”

He's the bad decision – the one you already made.

Oh, this is fucked.

Tip #7: Use your mouth. He likes it.

You know better than to stay up late for a guy – you swore you learned your lesson. But… the conversations were easy and traitorously familiar, exchanging stories and laughter with the natural cadence of people who knew how to do it. And to add to the betrayal, it’s… not awkward. Which is bad, like really really bad, because that means you both still have chemistry.

Jake drives you back to your dorm at 4am again like it’s your personal devil’s hour. You thank him and get down the Bronco, but he gets off too, and meets you on the other side after he rounds from the hood.

You try passing by him but he grabs your wrist and tugs you back. He gives you a once-over, smirking a little at the sight of your bare legs in this cold. 

“I’m sorry for not catching up sooner." he suddenly says. You blink, just once, like you’re trying to understand. "and for posting that girl." he adds.

“That’s not my busin –”

“It is.” he cuts you off, thumb now running over your wrist. “You get to be annoyed.”

You force the smile off from your mouth, settling to bite the inside of your cheek instead. “I know better than to pine for someone’s boyfriend.”

Now, Jake smiles like you dropped a good pun. He shakes his head, and pulls you a little closer which you could easily mistake as being clingy if you’re careless with your thoughts. “I haven’t dated or even talked to anyone after you.”

Your heart jumps and your stomach lurches. “That’s sad.” you say, light and dismissive.

He huffs a laugh through his nose. “Yeah,” he says. “Guess I’m a little pathetic.”

He pulls you just a little closer. Then he leans in, just a little. “So am I forgiven?” he says softly.

You scoff, turning your face just enough to avoid how close he is. You're not in the mood to confront just how he's looking at you. “You’re asking like you didn’t keep me up at four in the morning.”

“Strategic timing,” Jake says easily. “You're nice when you're sleepy."

"I am not."

He hums, amused, eyes dipping to your mouth like he’s thinking something he has the decency not to say. “You didn’t say no.”

You tug your hand slightly, testing him. He lets you go immediately but the warmth of where he was lingers, traitorous.

“Have a nice night, asshole.” 

Jaeyun looks at you like you’re still his favorite smart mouth. “You too, princess.”

Back in your room, you check your Instagram. Jake removed the story.

Tip #8: He's your ex, there's no slowburn.

Days pass and there’s buildup faster than what you’re used to.

After that day, the campus feels smaller. Now that you know where Jake Sim exists inside it (he shared with you his classes and where they were, just a small thing he mentioned when you guys talked). You’re not tracking it – obviously, come on. At least not consciously. It’s only inevitable, you tell yourself, knowing a place holds meaning.

You start seeing Jake Sim more, also inevitable.

At first it’s coincidence; a glimpse across the quad, a passing figure near the library steps. It’s a quick ‘hi’ and wave. Then it becomes routine – eye contact that happens faster, his hellos that always suggest more conversation. He intends them to be quick but they always takes up more time than necessary, only to end up with him running to get to his next class, you trying not to smile on the way back to your dorm. 

Then comes the heart.

You, Mia, and Lila go out for dinner – nothing fancy, just food and girls night. You take a picture, you post it to your Instagram story without thinking. Your phone buzzes less than a minute later.

A very specific like. From him, of course, his username and his profile picture. You stare at the screen for half a second before Mia notices, then Lila notices, then all three of you are shrieking because slowburn doesn’t seem to exist here at all.

Okay. Whatever. It’s fine. It’s nothing. That’s the theme with Jaeyun Sim, and you’re more than adamant to keep it rolling. You don’t think about it – well, you do but you try not to, it’s just that you pause to breathe while brushing your teeth. So yeah, you do think about it way too much for your own good. 

Enough that later, you post with more purpose and intention, though you try not to be obvious. It’s just to see.

Sometimes he likes them. Sometimes he doesn’t.

Even when it’s a really cute selfie of you – of course he doesn’t like it. But if it's a random picture of food, he likes it. 

Whatever! It probably just means that he’s totally not into you and you should actually start to realize how pathetic it is to post a story for a guy. You have to accept that he’s a player, a real NBA baller with how he manages to flirt with you and turn you over for food. 

One night, you’re out again – this time it’s loud and late and sticky with sweat and bass-heavy music. You’re back to a party after a week long of demands, dragged back to blinding strobes and catching names you’ll forget later. You slip into a bathroom stall, mirror fogged, lighting criminal but flattering enough. Mia takes a selfie, and you pose in between them while Lila stands behind you, not really overthinking it. Your outfit shows more skin than usual – not obscene to the point of out-of-character unordinary, but something’s undeniably different this time. 

You post it because it’s a good picture. You drink, you exchange names, you drink more – more importantly, you have fun and let loose. You check your phone and other than the usual flood in your inbox, you see a specific username that manages to hitch your breath every time.

A like. And a reply.

jake: i thought u had to be dragged into parties? 😂

Your breath catches so sharply you almost choke on it.

You stare at the message, grin spreading before you can stop it, warmth curling low in your chest – something light and stupid and undeniable. Because yeah, this is happening, he really is starting to be part of your life again, in these dumb ways that mean more to you. You don’t even reply right away, you just sit there for a second, phone in your hands, heart traitorously satisfied.

You don’t go home drunk that night. But you go home with an epiphany that gets you smiling into your skincare like a dumbass, replaying the message in the dark like you find something you’ve once lost.

You physically press the phone to your chest, eyes squeezed shut, a sound leaving your mouth that you will never admit happened. You stare at your screen for a long time, smiling into the quiet of your room, the night suddenly too soft, too full.

This isn’t nothing anymore.

It’s the beginning of something you’ve swam in before.

Tip #9: Post the selfie.

The next few days shift in a way that’s subtle enough to deny, and you still say it’s nothing even when you start to think otherwise. Jake’s messages start coming more. Not in a good morning beautiful way that takes things too fast and icky. You don’t talk all the time, but once a week turns into once every two days, then replies that used to lag start coming quicker.

It starts small.

A reply to something you were meant to send to Mia that accidentally ends up in his DMs instead because you’re stupid and half-asleep and maybe you’ve been backreading that’s why you were in his chat log.

You: omg im sososo sorryyyyy

jake: its aight 😭

jake: seems like my business now tho

jake: tell me 😂😂

Then there’s him reacting to things he never reacted to before – your complaints about deadlines, a blurry picture of your coffee, a story of your notes spread across the table with a self-deprecating caption.

02simjake: liked your story.

02simjake: replied to your story: real

Then one afternoon, when you’re sitting on the steps outside your building finishing up some work, your phone buzzes again.

You shake your head, laughing under your breath, heat crawling up your neck. This easy back-and-forth, this familiarity slipping back into place like it knows where home is – like you know where home is.

Back to the boy who never failed to make your heart thump like a drum.

And on some random night when you finally breathe from the uni demands, you post a simple selfie. It’s nothing. But he messages, and it’s enough to get you back on adrenaline.

simjakee_ replied to your story: go to sleep

You stare at it and type anyway.

You stare at the ceiling, a grin slowly spreading across your face, chest warm and buzzing in that unmistakable way. This is real, your ex is flirting with you on Instagram and you feel as giddy as you did at 13-years-old; back when it was you and him learning how to tie ribbons and landing on skateboards. It’s intention, soft and careful and unmistakably him, with the wisdom that came from learning the past and letting you see just how far it has improved. 

The boy who couldn’t balance you and his studies is now a responsible guy with fixed time management, on the way to your apartment – because he wants to see you. With no excuse that he doesn’t have time, or that he can’t because he’s really busy. Now, he’s asking if you have time, and he follows your schedule.

5 minutes after your dumb hoax impatience, he texts again.

jake: im here

If you had good instincts, which you doubt you do, you’d turn away with the defense mechanism of someone with avoidant attachment issues just to protect your heart – but you can’t, not when it feels this… thrilling.

You open the door and there’s your ex; tall, hoodie pulled over his cap, hands shoved into his pant pockets like he’s pretending this is casual, like he didn’t just show up at your door on impulse. You look up at him through your lashes before you can stop yourself and – God. Yeah. This looks exactly like toxic, bad decisions.

“So,” he says quietly, eyes dropping to your face. “Are you drunk?”

“No,” you answer. “Why, were you hoping?”

Jake huffs a short laugh, shaking his head. “Just checking.”

Then you let him in before you could decide to shut the door in his face and regret whatever this is. His gaze drifts, just taking in the room like he hasn’t seen it before. When his eyes come back to you, you see them check you out while you try to process that he’s standing in your room at an hour where intentions blur and honesty slips out too easily.

You cross your arms, suddenly hyper-aware of how you’re dressed. “So what do you want to do?” 

He shrugs, eyes on yours. “You really wanna ask me?”

And when you blink multiple times, the heat crawling up your neck, he smiles playfully like he didn’t realize how that sounded. He shakes his head before settling on your bed, spreading his legs while he sits on the edge, putting his cap down. “Relax. I’m not gonna do anything.”

You raise a brow. “Bold of you to assume I was worried.”

That earns another smile, warm and dangerous.

“Okay,” he says, amused. “Then what are you thinking?”

You hesitate, shifting your weight, pretending you need to fix something that isn’t actually wrong. You lean against the desk instead of sitting, arms still crossed like they might save you from yourself and your thoughts and the dooming questions. “Why did you come over?” you ask finally, voice lighter than you feel. 

Jake looks up, brows knitting together just a little, elbows resting on his thighs. “You invited me.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes like you didn’t fucking know that. “Yeah, but I didn’t force you. It’s not like I dragged you here. What made you come?”

For a second, you think he’s going to deflect, make a joke, or shrug it off the way he used to – but he doesn’t. Right now, he licks the inside of his cheek, before saying, “I wanted to see you.” No overthinking, no qualifiers, just the truth, laid down with pure honesty.

Your mouth curves before you can stop it. You immediately try to swallow the smile, turn your face away like you’re suddenly very interested in the floor.

“Oh,” you mutter. “That’s… dumb.”

“Is it?” he asks, amused.

You glance back at him. “A little.”

He laughs quietly, shaking his head. “You invited me this late and I’m the dumb one?”

“Touché,” you concede, shrugging.

Another pause settles in, thick but not uncomfortable. The kind that only exists when it’s loaded and even though it feels good, it doesn’t make it any less right. Now, again, you’re never the arbiter on what’s correct and not – yet you look at him like you’re battling with your moral compass because wrong looks so fucking hot if it’s Jake Sim.

Jake exhales through his nose, then slowly reaches out – open palm, unhurried. “Come here,” he says quietly, a balance of order and ask. 

Your heart stutters, and you hesitate just a second too long only to slip your hand into his anyway. His fingers close around yours gently, and he pulls you toward him with care. You end up standing between his knees. His thumb moves without thinking, brushing slowly over your knuckles, grounding and absent-minded all at once. 

"Thought you weren't going to do anything." you whisper. He ignores.

He leans forward, stopping just short of touching you – then tilts his head and rests his forehead against your stomach. He stays there for a moment, eyes closed, like he’s anchoring himself and is starting to realize he needs this more than he’s willing to admit.

"Is this okay?" he asks quietly.

Your stomach drops. "Yes," you answer.

He exhales, relieved, shoulders relaxing as he settles there properly. One hand still holding yours. The other resting loosely at your hip, and it’s a lot like threading dangerously down a line he isn’t sure he should cross.

Your free hand lifts before your brain can stop it. Your fingers slide into the hair at the nape of his neck, which is devastating to Jake, who lets out the smallest sound but it tells you everything.

You shouldn’t be doing this. You know it. And yet, your thumb strokes slowly, guiltily, like muscle memory never really left. Jake doesn’t move, just stays there, forehead pressed to you, breathing you in like this is the quiet he’s been missing.

“God,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “I missed this.”

This. Not you.

“Jaeyun,” you call. He only hums, thumb rubbing against your hip and you feel the warmth of his touch through your shorts. Your fingers curl slightly in his hair, grounding yourself as much as he is with your hips.

“You’re gonna hurt yourself,” you say quietly, half a joke, half a warning. “Doing this.”

His lips twitch, but you don’t see. “I know.”

“The –"

“I missed you,” he repeats, this time not to himself but to you for sure this time. “I really don’t want to fucking pretend I don’t.”

You exhale shakily, shaking your head but you’re smiling. “You’re so annoying.” You huff out a laugh, breathless.

He looks up at you, eyes practically doe before he breaks away and shakes his head. Then he stands, hands fully to himself which fidget at the side of his jeans. At first you're confused, then scared, because you don't want him to leave.

“We can just chill.” he tells you, obviously holding his composure tight while he avoids your eyes.

You cross your arms and stare at his chest, shaking your head because you don't know what you're doing. Clearly, so does he, because when he looks at you, he's trying to read you.

It's silent, save from the sound of your appliances and the casual drive of cars outside. He's looking into you while you pick at your elbow, studying just what you want from him.

You take a step back without realizing it and Jake notices instantly, his body tensing just slightly. “You want me to go?” he asks, careful.

The thought makes your stomach drop.

“No,” you say too fast, shaking your head.

You look at each other like that – like you’re standing at the edge of something familiar and dangerous, both knowing exactly where it leads.

He swallows, throat bobbing, and your gaze follows it before you can stop yourself.

You step forward, still enclosed in your own embrace, and he watches you tensely because you've got the reins and he's just letting you steer. Your fingers curl on his hoodie, eyes refusing to meet his for now as when you tug the fabric, he willingly follows.

You look up, finally, and he's looking into you like he's reading the directions off your gaze.

He knows now, of course, plain in sight, what you need him to do.

Jake leans down slowly and carefully, enough that you feel his breath, warm against your cheek, your nose. He stops there, giving you time. “Tell me to stop,” he says.

Your noses brush and the world narrows down to breath and heat and the memory of how this used to feel.

Jake exhales, slow and shaky. “Fuck.”

Your lips brush his first – just a graze, like you’re both checking if the other will pull away because you know better than to indulge. When neither of you do, he exhales into you, a soft sound of relief, and then ducks down to your height to press his mouth on you. You flinch when his hand finds your hips. Your lips move together like you’re relearning something you never really forgot.

Jake pulls back like he got burnt. “Fuck,” he whispers, breath warm against your mouth. Then, quieter: “I really –”

His hands caress the soft curve of your waist and hips, firm but careful when he pushes you back against the counter of your kitchen – decisive in a way he’s made up his mind and isn’t going to pretend otherwise. You let out a soft breath as you stumble back, the back of your legs bumping the wood. He kisses you again, hungrier this time, hands steady on you while your tongues meet in your mouth.

Your hands find his hair again instantly, fingers threading through it like they always naturally do. Jake groans quietly this time and his hands flatten against your back, warm and grounding, holding you like he can’t handle space.

You can’t help the little sound that leaves you, and he tenses, just a little, catching your bottom lip between his teeth like restraint’s something he’s never known. You tug him down and he follows, ducking down his height just to chase your mouth. His large hands slide underneath your shirt and touches your skin there, fingertips slightly grazing the hooks of your bra.

When you pull back just enough to breathe, your noses brush. Jake rests his forehead against yours, breathing heavy but controlled.

“Shit,” he whispers again, softer this time. “This feels unfair.”

You smile despite yourself. “Do you hate it?”

He laughs under his breath, arms still wrapped around you. “Hell no,” he admits. “I’d do it again.”

You lean in for another kiss, worse than last time because his tongue presses fast into your mouth, and his warm fingers caress the skin underneath your bra hooks. You tear away for a startled laugh, smacking his arm and he smiles, before pulling you back in for another kiss.

It’s almost 3 am when you finally tell him he should go.

Jake doesn’t argue. You walk him down the building, hoodie sleeves brushing your wrist in the elevator, the air between you calmer but heavier obviously.

Outside your building, the street is empty and quiet, in a way that shows the impropriety of this rendezvous.

"Well," he says, rocking back on his heels. "Text me when you’re inside."

You scoff. "You don’t get boyfriend privileges."

He grins. "Worth a try."

You dap him out (because he always he insists you should after making out, just for tradition) and you’re already pulling your hand back when he tugs you forward just enough to press a soft kiss to the bridge of your nose.

"Goodnight," he murmurs.

Back in your room, the silence hits different.

You sit on your bed, staring across you with the post-experience clarity of what you have just done. You laugh under your breath, sharp and humorless because of course he’d do that, of course you’d let him.

This is how it starts. This is how you forget why it ended. This is how you convince yourself this time will be different.

So stupid, you think. So predictable.

So, very, toxic.

Tip #10: Let it become a habit.

For the first day, you two kinda tried pretending nothing happened. 

Jake answered texts the way he always had – flirty but polite and measured. He showed up to class, ate, slept – all in time. He even convinced himself that the warmth lingering in his palms was psychosomatic, some delayed response to nostalgia rather than the very real memory of pushing you against the counter he pretended not to remember. You were equally complicit. You waved at him across campus like nothing had shifted tectonically between your bodies. You spoke in full sentences and didn’t stammer once, so it was going pretty great.

This mutual delusion lasted exactly thirty-five hours. Because at precisely 11:07 pm, Jake Sim’s on your door unannounced, looking faintly apologetic and was simply bracing for consequences. “I was nearby,” he said, which was a lie. “I figured,” you replied, which was an acceptance. 

He stayed until 1 am. You worked on an assignment but was cut for intervals because he’d pull you in his lap and kiss you. 

Jake had always been a creature of habit, as once something entered his routine, it stayed. You slipped back in as if you’d never left. He started showing up with intent disguised as coincidence, your study sessions lasted longer than needed. There’s also late-night drives where the music stayed low and you laugh about stupid things together while munching down on McDonald’s fries.

Weeks passed and there also came the moments when the day’s busy for anything particular, that even hanging out in the same room was a little close to impractical. However, Jaeyun finds the time he couldn’t give before. He makes sure to call when you don’t meet, or a quick snack to hand over between in-between class schedules. Your favorite is when he promises just five minutes to see you after a lecture.

"Five minutes," you say. "You promised."

"I stand by that."

Then he hugs you, chin-hooked-over-your-head hug that immediately eats up about forty-five seconds. After 5 minutes;

“Time’s up.”

He doesn’t move.

“…Jaeyun.”

“Just one more,” he says quietly, arms still locked around you.

In the hallway, you’re walking with your Foreign Language partner, running lines for a presentation due the next day. He laughs at something you mispronounce, leans in to correct you, points at your notes. You don’t even think twice about it until later, until Jake decides it is a big deal.

He’s on your couch now, sprawled while you tell him it was just your partner, he scoffs.

“Yeah, right. Nothing,” he mutters.

“Literally, leave it, Jaeyun,” you say, arms crossed, irritation buzzing under your skin.

He glances at you. “Didn’t look like nothing,” he says, quieter now, sulking like he hates that he noticed at all.

You bite back you don’t get to be mad or anything at all that would turn this to a fight. Instead, you turn to your laptop, pretending to care more about another language than the way his presence tilts your focus off-center.

From the couch, his foot nudges yours absentmindedly, like muscle memory.

“You still need help with that presentation?” he asks eventually, casual, almost bored.

On some random week, Jake has had too much to drink. Now, he loves a good beer and can endure it more than the average man, but clearly, everything's been building up – you, to a great degree actually – that he comes up your building and knocks at 2am and clearly, at the very least, is tipsy.

When you open the door, all he had to do is follow the silhouette of your body underneath your thin sleepwear and listen to your very angry remarks about respect and time or whatever, before he's already letting himself in and kissing you against your bed.

He's respectful, always is, but you feel how tight he holds your hips like he's trying not to touch the skin of your thighs grazing his fingertips.

The morning comes around and you wake up with his chest pressed against your back and his arms around your waist in your bed – no hookup, clothes still on, just messy makeouts – but it's enough for you to groan in disappointment anyway.

"We need to set boundaries." you state while you make your waffles.

Jake hums, trying not to get distracted by the curve of your ass when your back's turned to him.

You look at him, arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed. "You're always like that. Always so pushy and breaking boundaries and breaking the rules – "

He manages to chuckle. "That was two years ago."

"And last night! And the nights before!" you scoff, shaking your head while you massage your temple.

It's bad. This is bad.

When you turn to look at him again, he's already in front of you, pressing close while his hand finds the side of your neck. You tilt your head up towards him, meeting his eyes which seem to study your face so closely.

You can't really think properly when he's this near, when he's touching you.

Jake’s thumb pauses at your neck. His voice is softer now, clearer than last night but still low. “I know,” he says. “Tell me to stop.”

You open your mouth, nothing comes out.

He exhales a laugh under his breath, fond and frustrated all at once, then leans his forehead against yours instead.

That's so unfair.

You swallow, and push lightly at his chest. "Stop showing up at 2am, Jaeyun."

“I know.” He nods immediately. “That’s on me. I'm sorry."

When push comes to shove, between self-respect or Jaeyun, you run on drunk impulse on a sober gut.

Your studies? A bit compromised. You still show up and pass and look functional on paper, but there’s a fog where focus should be, thoughts drifting where they shouldn't.

And the thing was – Jake Sim was still exceptional and brilliant. Still building a future with the same relentless precision that once earned him accolades and recognition, but now there was something else threaded into his life, something not quantifiable with the integers he mastered in so well.

You. A variable he no longer tried to control and pretend wasn’t doing mass decimation to his sane meter.

“…Are you serious?” Mia turns to you after what she’s dubbed an essential debriefing, legs tucked beneath her as she stares like you’ve just confessed to crime. Your life odyssey – past tense colliding violently with future tense – has been laid bare between sips of iced coffee. You sink further into her couch, picking at your nails. “I mean. I think so?”

Lila blinks. “You’ve been meeting your ex, who’s been acting like your boyfriend minus the title?”

You think about Jake – about the way he waits for you outside lecture halls, pretending to scroll through his phone like he hasn’t been tracking the time down to the minute. About the way he listens now, really listens, like he’s afraid to miss something important and is completely terrified that you’d have to repeat yourself. 

You tell yourself – just this once – that it’s fine not to define it yet. After all, habits take time to name, even the really bad ones called making out with your ex in his Bronco and going on a dinner date in a real lavish restaurant billed in his card after.

Later that night, when you’re back in your room, phone face-down beside you, you wonder when exactly it happened. You wonder if he’s thinking about you too and your phone buzzes like it heard you.

Oh, this is sick. You've become a dog.

Then once upon a time, you were only supposed to be passing through to find Jake and return the borrowed charger, then leave.

He's near the steps of the humanities hall when you spot him, surrounded by friends. He’s leaning back against the railing and there’s a girl beside him whose shoulder brushes his arm when she says something. He laughs at what she says, doesn't really flinch when she touches his arm.

His eyes lift and immediately he's already jogging over. Once he's right there, you reach the charger out but he grabs your elbow instead, then pulls you closer to him.

Jake's eyes search search your face like it's checking damage.

“What,” you ask flatly.

A slow, crooked, and infuriating smile tugs at his lips. “You look like you’re about to murder me,” he says quietly.

“Stop,” you say, low and clipped, even as you tug at your arm. He doesn’t let go, thumb warm against your sleeve to keep you there.

“Relax,” he murmurs, tone easy, almost lazy. Like you’re not two bad decisions away from ending what shouldn't have started. “I’m not doing anything.”

You glare at him. He just watches you, gaze steady in that way that’s always made you feel seen without being put on the spot.

He finally lets your elbow go, hands dropping into his pockets. “Didn’t mean anything,” he adds, glancing briefly back toward where he was standing earlier, then back to you.

Back to you.

"You look so fucking annoyed." Jake laughs, hand reaching up to ruffle your hair.

You shove lightly at his chest, more reflex than force. “Don’t.”

He stumbles back a step anyway, like you’ve wounded him, hand flying to his chest. “Wow,” he says, dragging the word out, eyebrows lifting. “Violence on campus.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips betray you – curling slightly despite yourself.

He catches it instantly even though it's barely anything. His grin widens, smug and triumphant. “There it is,” he says, pointing at you like he’s won something. “I knew you still liked me.”

Then he positions his arm over your shoulders, dragging you to lunch off-campus just to hook you back again.

Fuck. It's fucked.

Tip #11: Give him something to remember.

November is fucking hell. It was the month professors collectively decided that sleep was a suggestion and deadlines were a personality test. They expect submissions on top of other “minor” requirements that demand just as much work anyway, just to reason it out as a growth strategy for the harsh, professional world of jobs. As if the real world operated on 72-hour days and the sustained abuse of caffeine. 

You do try to see the good at the end of the tunnel from all the sadism, because in the middle of your aggressively color-coded annotated calendar sat one date circled in ink: Jaeyun’s 21st birthday. 

It wasn’t going to be another birthday to pass with simple dinner, much less under the vituperative ultimatum of the endless projects and studies.

You insisted he celebrated it with everyone.

Not just a rushed meal squeezed between deadlines or a quiet “we’ll do something later” promise that later never really comes.

So you booked the fancy restaurant, you sent the texts, and herded his friends like you're the Shepherd Himself. You told them to dress nice, and prayed no one would accidentally ruin the surprise with a dumb slip.

Jaeyun was wearing a simple crisp white button-up with trousers.

The night of, he showed up thinking it was just the two of you, until he walked in.

The table was already full with familiar faces and grins, singing happy birthday the moment Jaeyun's at the entrance like a humiliation ritual. For half a second, he just stood there, blinking, processing – then he laughed, stunned, hand dragging through his hair like he didn’t know what to do with himself and the moment of everyone he loved in one huge ass table.

“What the hell?” he said, turning to you.

You shrugged, way too casual for the amount of effort this took. “Happy birthday?”

The dinner itself was loud and warm and unpretentious despite the restaurant itself being conspicuous of poise. His friends made the space theirs anyway – chairs pulled closer, voices overlapping, utensils clinking. They toasted him for things both sincere and stupid, and his ears end up turning to a color red.

Sunghoon starts first, hand in his pocket and red wine raised high. Riki follows, then Jungwon, then Sunoo who smiles a little bashfully.

His friends told stories you hadn’t heard yet and ones you’d heard too many times, and Jaeyun took it all with that soft, crooked smile like he couldn’t believe he was being celebrated this openly.

Cake came with a candle and off-key singing he definitely didn’t ask for. Jaeyun made his wishes, cheeks warm, eyes bright.

At some point in the night, draped in Jaeyun's coat, you stand near the edge of the balcony overlooking the city below. When he slips behind you, his hands automatically settle on your waist. His cheeks are flushed, eyes bright, smile lazy and unguarded.

“Hi,” he says, like he hasn’t seen you all night.

You laugh, one hand on top of his, and the other hand threading up to the hair on his nape. “Hi, birthday boy.”

He rocks you side to side, barely moving, chin resting against your hair. “You know,” he murmurs, voice low so only you can hear, “I was genuinely okay with just us two. I meant that.”

“I know,” you say.

“But this?” He glances around at the inside, his friends, the calmed chaos. Then his gaze drops back to you. “This is… insane. In the best way.”

You tilt your head up. “You like it?”

He laughs, soft and breathless. “I’m obsessed with it. With you.”

He presses a kiss to your temple first, slow and lingering. Then another to your cheek. He pauses there, lips hovering, like he’s savoring the moment.

“Can I?” he asks quietly, eyes flicking to your lips.

You don’t answer with words. You just turn around, hands settling on his nape.

The kiss is warm and unhurried, his hand sliding up your back, thumb brushing over your spine. It’s full, sweet, and certain. Like this is exactly where he wants to stay.

Jake pulls back just enough to grin. “I love this.”

“Your party?” you ask.

“You.” he corrects easily, like the word belongs there now. Like it always has.

Later, he drags you back onto the dance floor in front of the live musicians. 

He dances badly on purpose – spinning you too fast, dipping you slightly too low your back is lowkey bad now, laughing when you squeal and clutch onto him. At one point, he lifts you off the ground just because he can, grinning like he’s won something.

“You’re showing off,” you accuse.

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “It’s my birthday.”

Eventually, when your feet ache and your voice is hoarse from laughing, when the night’s adrenaline has settled on your bodies, the crowd starts to thin and some people head out. You thank them for coming, waving as they disappear into the elevator with tired smiles and leftover cake in hand.

As you make your rounds, thanking people for coming, accepting hugs, the night starts folding in on itself.

That’s when you hear it. Something that wasn't meant for you – low, lazy voices carried over by the balcony doors still cracked open.

Jake and Sunghoon are leaning against the edge, sharing what’s left of the wine. Jake’s sleeves are rolled up, posture loose in a way that only happens when he’s had a good night.

Sunghoon tilts his glass, watching the last drops swirl. “So,” he says casually, too casually. “You and her.”

Jake huffs out a breath, not defensive just honest. “No.”

Oh.

Sunghoon looks at him and waits.

“We’re not together,” Jake adds, after a beat. It's not denial, just a fact that still makes your chest curl.

Sunghoon hums. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Jake’s mouth quirks, something complicated flickering across his face. He takes a sip, eyes drifting somewhere distant like he’s replaying moments instead of looking at the present.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Like last time.”

There’s no bitterness in it, not something like regret either. Just that strange, suspended place between was and isn’t clouding over like a storm coming.

Sunghoon clinks his glass lightly against Jake’s. “For what it’s worth,” he says, “you look happy.”

Jake smiles then. “I am.”

You hide behind the wall before either of them notices you lingering, heart doing something uncomfortable in your chest.

When you reappear a minute later, Jake looks up instantly – like he felt the shift in the room.

“Hey,” he says, easy smile snapping back into place.

“Hey,” you reply, mirroring it.

But this time, when he reaches for your hand, his grip is a little tighter.

"Wanna go?" he asks, hand soothing the small of your back.

You nod, giving Sunghoon a hug before you slip behind the doors before Jake. They make their goodbyes and you wait outside, Jake's coat protecting you from the cold.

It rings, that one single word that makes the night cooler than it really is.

No, you're not dating. And he's vocal about it too, probably with all his friends who also asked. You start to realize how stupid you must've looked, sending the invites, kissing his cheek throughout the night while everyone knows that – there's nothing between you two.

Your heel taps against the concrete, lips quivering, getting into your thoughts before his palm finds your lower back and his lips press on your temple.

"I love you." he whispers while he pulls you into him.

No. We're not together. Could've fooled me. Yeah. Like last time.

The drive is quiet, the city blurs past, lights streaking softly through the windows. His hand finds your thigh at red lights, thumb brushing slow, absent-minded circles. You try not to think, because it's his day and you'd hate to ruin something this good.

So you swallow and turn to him.

“I don’t really wanna go home yet,” you admit quietly.

He glances at you, surprised for half a second, then smiles. “You can stay with me for a bit.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he says easily. “We’ll keep it chill. I’ll get you home before two.”

It’s only 11. 

At his place, everything is hushed. The shoes are off by the door, lights kept low. His apartment is very much him – some legos half-built on a shelf, posters slightly crooked, figurines taking up their space, a hoodie draped over his chair – and you’ve been over a couple of times but it’s only now you really look over his orderly clutter. 

You smile. “You never finished that one.”

He groans. “Don’t expose me.”

There’s a pause, comfortable, charged, settling in while you throw your heels somewhere across his floor. You look over the lego cars and books aligned in his book shelf, giving them a better look, until he slips his hand in yours and pulls you towards him. Jake rests his chin on the crown of your head, humming in contentment at your warmth underneath him.

“Thank you for tonight.” he says quietly. You tip your chin up to look at him and simply smile as a silent you’re welcome.

He leans in first, kissing you softly, like he’s testing the water. It’s slow, his hands on your waist with your fingers on the back of his neck.

Then another kiss, lasting longer this time. You shift closer without thinking, pressing, pulling him down to you as he melts in. His hand slides to your hips while your fingers curl into his hair, tugging just slightly.

When you pull away, you press one last kiss on the tip of his nose before telling him you'll just change out of your clothes. He nods and lets you go to his bathroom to slip into the comfort of sleepwear.

You rethink, even though you're trying not to. Let it be not another bad decision you make yet everything about him is – though you can't resist. The reminders echo but the image-driven mind can't lose the way he kisses you so good, and holds you the way you need to be held.

So when you get out, his shirt's still on but more crumpled and loosened. He's talking about something that happened in dinner, rambling the way he always does. Except when he turns to you to tell you what Riki did with the cake, Jake freezes. You look shy but still, you meet his eyes, the same ones that can't even pretend to be respectful as he stares at the imprint of your nipples through your tulle and lace nightdress.

Jake's silent and frozen, eyes wide and jaw slack. You manage a smile, softly padding your way to him. Once in front of him, you stand on your toes to wrap your arms around his neck and pull him down to you despite how stiff he is, how careful he is not to touch you.

Still, when you kiss him, he kisses you back.

The kisses deepen naturally, like neither of you really wants to stop. But he feels your rush, when you pull closer like you’re looking for something, how you kiss harder and lick into his mouth. He pulls back suddenly – not far, just enough to look at you. He looks ragged and trying to collect his thinning composure, blinking like it will save him.

You meet his eyes, breath a little uneven, heart loud in your ears. You don’t say anything – don’t really feel like you have to. Whatever he sees in your expression makes his face change, something startled and tensed passing through it like an epiphany for something like he didn’t expect. 

His thumb brushes your cheek, slow and careful. “You’re okay?”

You nod, eyes flicking back to his mouth. “Yeah.”

He exhales, leaning his forehead against yours, eyes closed for a second like he’s steadying himself because if he doesn’t, then he’ll lose the thin veil that’s keeping him restrained. When he kisses you again, it’s still slow but more breaths – like he’s losing a part of himself when he’s giving this much to you. He keeps his hands on your waist, pulling you closer without really meaning to but because his body needs it.

And when he finally rests his forehead against yours again, smiling weakly and knowing and wanting but respecting –

“We can just stay like this,” he says, swallowing. “I don’t need anything else.” he reassures because he’s terrified that you think you need to do this for him.

You look up at him through your lashes, nodding. “I know.” you add, “I want this.”

You kiss him again before he can process it – harder and faster this time, with a weight behind it that makes his breath hitch immediately. Your hand slides into his hair, fingers threading through it as if you need something solid to hold onto.

He makes a sound he doesn’t mean to.

It’s quiet, caught in his throat, but you feel the way his hands tighten at your waist, the way his shoulders tense before he gives in. He shivers, just a little, like the kiss reached somewhere deeper than he expected and pulls out a moan from his chest. You pull away, your hands lingering. Jake has to bite his lip, feeling your warm and soft palm move from his hair, down to his shoulders, across his chest, until they finally rest flat against his abs. You feel it, the way his muscles contract from your touch, the way his breath catches shakily against your mouth.

You look up again, your eyes undeniably dark, and you see his restraint breaking as his Adam's apple bob, sweat glistening down his skin. You nudge him back, guiding him with your palms until he sits on the edge of the bed. He lets you. He doesn’t resist at all. His legs hit the edge of the bed and he sits down almost automatically.

He looks up at you then.

His hair is messy, lips pink and swollen, eyes dark and searching – like he’s trying to read you without pushing, without asking for more than you’re giving. His hands slide from your waist to rest at your hips, grounding, reverent. You stand between his knees, letting your fingers comb through his hair. 

“Baby,” he says quietly, voice rough, like he’s trying to stay in control.

Your nails graze his scalp just enough to make him inhale sharply. His eyes flutter shut for a second, forehead dropping forward until it presses lightly against your stomach.

He exhales there, like he’s holding himself together one breath at a time – but you know he’s failing. You slide one knee on one side of his hip, followed by the other, your thighs framing him as you settle in place. You straddle him perfectly and fully, hands braced on his chest as his breath stutters beneath you. 

He thinks this is fine. Straddling isn’t new. Making out isn’t new. You’ve done this a dozen times.

Until you smile, letting your nose bump against his, and lips brush together. “Hi,”

He clears his throat. “Hi.”

It's just another dress. It's new with intent and purpose, but it was alike to the others – just that you're not exactly wearing a bra underneath. He tries being rational but he can't, not when he can feel just how soft your breasts are against his chest.

You tilt your head, letting your lips glide against his, teasing the birthday boy as he tries catching your mouth with his. Your fingers thread through his hair, tugging gently, and he responds with a low groan that vibrates straight through you. Then you kiss him, harder, claiming, his large hands pulling you closer. You shift slightly, letting the heat of your bodies sink together – until your hips press against his so suddenly that he has to stop you and pull away. 

“B-baby,” he gasps, looking up at you, eyes wide and confused and needy. “What are we doing?”

You look at him beneath you, breathless and kiss-drunk, already fucked out before anything has even happened. 

“Do you not want it?” you whisper.

He practically chokes on the air. His hands tighten instinctively at your hips.

“I –” He swallows hard, throat bobbing, eyes blinking. A little flustered, very Jaeyun. “I thought we’d wait. Like –” He exhales, embarrassed. “Until marriage.”

That’s true, he thought this is something you’d like to do after passing the eye of God or something like that. Yet you only hou hum softly, sounding dangerously close to something else, his shoulders tensing immensely. Your hands slide up, thumbs brushing his jaw as you lean in, pressing a slow kiss there – right beneath his ear. Again, you’ve never really been for righteousness.

“Do you not want it?” you ask again, slower, deliberate.

He swallows again, and you can feel him think and break, especially when you feel this soft and good in his hands. Because honestly, committing sacrilege feels sweet when it tastes like you.

You don’t wait for an answer anymore, letting your hips rock against his pants that he lets out a soft, strangled whimper. His fingers tighten against your hips, unsure whether to keep you still or press you closer.

“Jaeyun,” you whisper, tugging his hair back gently but enough for him to open his eyes to you again. He looks at you with reverence, like you’re God herself pressing your clothed pussy against his growing erection. “Do you not want it?” you ask again, needing an answer.

He blanks, zeroes, knows enough that this is all he needs to cum.

He thinks about the time he didn’t want it – which goes down to the answer: never. Not ever since he tasted you for the first time almost 2 years ago, his tongue in your mouth, your soft chest pressed against his, your thighs enclosed around him. He always felt guilty, while he fisted his cock after a hangout with you, but couldn’t really help it when he gets horny even just from kissing you. 

Things never escalated between the two of you, never anything more than breathless makeouts that always had been respectful and not overly touchy. He thought you’d like it that way, and he liked it too. He knows now, as he finds desire in your eyes, how months of missing and wanting has finally come down to this. As exes that doesn’t know how to be exes, or a situationship that’s more romantic than any other crude paperback.

“Are you sure?” he whispers, husky and suede. You smile from how meek and small he sounds – it makes you clench around nothing. 

“Am I sure if I want your dick in me?”

He fucking chokes at how vulgar you are. Gone is the woman who pretended to be annoyed with him, gone is the girl he used to bribe popsicles with.

It’s his 21st birthday, and you want nothing but to make it his most special day ever – you made sure to include this in the itinerary.

You run your hands from his hands on your hips to the length of his veiny arms, until the collar of his top. You slowly start unbuttoning his shirt, and he makes no protests, keeping his eyes on you while he lets you do the work. Once it’s off, the firm muscles of his arms flexes underneath your touch when you let your fingers graze. When you glance up, you see him clearly struggling to breathe.

You’re not rushing this – even when you think you should, just as you think how you have every right to be angry at how respectful Jaeyun Sim is.

You feel like a sex demon because of how much you think about fucking him. Yes, you’ve been masterbating even back when you were together because how could you not. You’ve been drinking pineapple juice these past few weeks. You’ve been stretching out your hole through your own fingers for this moment. You feel crazy and that’s very much an underreaction, considering how hot Jake is.

“Do you not want me?” you ask, voice small, trying to sound pitiful, while you kiss his jaw.

Want you? He’s been having wet dreams of you. When he was fucking you balls deep, or when he had you bent over your vanity, or when you were riding him in his Bronco –

He doesn’t understand why he can’t move now, when you’re still grinding your pussy against his hard cock. He curses himself for not doing anything more than hold your hips against him. So, like the sensible guy he is, his hand trails up your skin. Your breath finally catches when his large hands caress the softness of your side, just when his thumbs innocently graze the underside of your boobs.

He breaks into a grin and before he could say more, you lean in again, kissing his mouth with the intensity of a starving woman. It’s messy fast, his tongue slipping into your mouth, intertwining as he finally finishes unzipping your dress. Your own palm press against the hard lines of his abs, making him gasp and breath shake against your mouth. He makes a sound at the back of his throat – urging you to press harder, feeling the hard bulge against his jeans.

He pulls back, letting out an amused huff of a laugh. “Fuck, baby,” his eyes are completely half-lidded.

You giggle, and you feel like an animal as you lick his bottom lip, plump and swollen. 

You push his shirt off him. Once it’s off, you gape at the hard muscles of his torso, broad, and all very yours. He’s lean without being too big, lines of strength visible beneath smooth skin, shoulders wide, waist narrowing just slightly. You let your fingers trace the solid lines, liking the way he reacts at your touch.

You gasp when he suddenly shifts you in his lap, letting you grind against his boner. He reacts too, like he didn’t mean that, but rocks underneath you anyway. His hands – large, veiny hands, rub at the sides of your dress, and you could feel his desperation starting.

“Take this off,” he says, already pulling your dress. “please, baby. Let me see how pretty you are.”

You shift a little on his lap again, just to let the hem of your dress pool around your waist.

“Arms up,” he states, soft but firm.

You follow, putting your arms up as he pulls it off, and just in one go, your breasts spill out in front of him. He smiles and exhales, “There you go,”

His teeth bite down his bottom lip as your nipples stare at him, all hard and practically begging to be put in his mouth. His cock twitches in his tight pants at the sight, pupils dilating visibly.

His hands meet your sides, softly brushing your supple skin, causing shivers to run down your spine. “Damn…” 

Then finally, he ducks his head down, pressing his face at the valley between your breasts. He finds the swell through feverish bites and licks, taking his time with his tongue. After, he finally latches his mouth around one nipple after, teeth gently biting down, earning a gasp from you at how good it fucking feels. Then he sucks, tugging even, letting his tongue twirl the bud.

The sight of it should be a sin, at how he seems so content with sucking your breast. At fondling with them like he’s having the time of his life. 

It’s his birthday. So you pull away, his mouth detaching with a pop. His eyebrows knit with confusion, large hands tightening instinctively around your hips when you try moving away. “What the fuck are you doing?”

You soothe his hands, prying his fingers off you. “Trust me, birthday boy,” 

You press a kiss on his nose, making a mental note to sit on it later – finally.

When he lets loose, you slowly get off his lap. Still on the edge of the bed, he watches you with wide eyes when you sink down on your knees in front of him. Jake breath catches like he hadn’t been ready to see you below him like that – on the fucking floor of his room. You smile at him, eyelashes fluttering as your palm glides over his clothed thigh. He flexes at the contact, blinking like he’s in the midst of trying to survive this, at the way you look on your knees for him. He’s never been this hard in his life, he thinks. 

“Baby?” his voice is unbelievably soft and whiny, sitting up to look at you while you keep his knees spreading. Your hand slides over the muscle of his thigh, watching the way he slightly twitches beneath your manicured fingers. You trail further up, and just when he realizes, he takes your wrist.

You know he doesn’t mean it, but his grip’s tight. He clears his throat, and he’s genuinely kind of scared of you. His cheeks and ears are flushed pink. “Y-you don’t have to, do this. For me.”

You’re not sure if this is his way of telling you to stop, or if he’s so overly sweet and cares so much. Well, you care quite little, only really needing that cock in your mouth right now.

“Well,” you pull your hand away, shifting further on your knees as you reach for his zipper. He stares, intently watching how close you are to touching him. “I think…” 

You start pulling it down, keeping an eye on the light twitches on his face; biting down his lip, eyebrows knitting closer, breathing uneven. “I think I also deserve to blow… a candle.”

You smile at him, finally pulling the zipper down, and cupping the huge bulge against his boxers. He chokes on his breath, head tipping back at the relief of your hand despite the cloth between. You stop wasting time, tugging the hem down to reveal just how hard he really is.

Jake’s big. And long. And veiny. And pretty.

You eye the way his sharp v-line leads to his cock, all hard and pretty, tip so pink and flushed – you can’t help but lick at your lips, imagining the way it would cry and twitch in your mouth. You pray thanks because pink really is a lovely color.

Jake’s looking down at you like he’s with fever, all flustered and intoxicated, and you could see how scared he is of how excited you look, your eyes are practically sparkling at the sight of his cock. 

You wonder if it will fit.

You hold it against your warm palm and he groans, voice rough when it hums against his throat. His hips buck, wanting more of you already – needing more of you because it’s impossible not to. Your thumb meets with the head, toying with the slit that’s already wet with pre-cum while your hand starts a slow stroke. 

“Ahh–” Jake whines, and when you look up to see, his eyebrows are furrowed, eyes half-lidded watching you, completely fucked out while he tries rocking into your hand, hips lifting off his bed just a little.

“C-can you…” he tries talking but you squeeze him, biting your bottom lip as you tilt your head slightly to the side to tease him. The sight makes him hum out another whine. “...go faster? J-just a bit, baby, please.” the way he begs makes you wet your panties a little.

He’s fucking sublime and you think you could go on with teasing him, not really giving him what we wants until he’s puddled with tears, begging that you finally put him in your mouth. But, it’s his day, you can’t be mean.

You hum, like you’re thinking about it. You pull his pants and boxers down further, before rubbing his dick just to spread his pre-cum all over. Then, without warning, you lean in to lick his head, your tongue teasing the slit.

He whimpers and his head falls back completely, lips parting and neck glistening with his sweat. He’s flushed and heavy against your hand, finding yourself playing with it with a few kitten licks and rubs at the base. Then you drag your tongue from his base back to the tip with a long lick, earning a moan that sounds close to drowning.

“Yes, yes, yes,” he whines, biting his bottom lip as his large hand shoots into your hair. He grabs a handful from your scalp, although you can tell just how gentle he’s trying to be even when he’s losing all control. 

You open your mouth and enclose it around his head first, tongue twirling around it. Then slowly, you take him in, letting him slide further into your lips. “Fuck,” he groans, his hips jerking forward immediately. The head touches the start of your throat and you can’t help but choke at the sudden intrusion, sending vibrations around him. You watch through your lashes, how his bicep flexes while he guides your head down his dick, abs contracting when your nose almost touches v-line, eyes narrowed at how his length disappears into your lips.

“O-oh, fuck, that’s s-so dirty…” he groans, seeing drool spilling from your chin as you cheeks hollow around him. Your hand tightens around the parts you can’t reach, squeezing and rubbing fast. You pull back up, leaving only the head in your mouth before sliding it all back down your throat. 

You set a pace, not so fast, but it’s still too much for Jake whose chest is heaving while he forces his gaze on you, burning and dark. “Mmmm,” he moans, trying to keep his mouth shut from all the pathetic noises he’s making. He looks like he’s in heaven, watching you suck his cock on the floor of his bedroom – you can tell that he’s practically finishing already. “Ahh… y-yeah, I like th-tha – ahh–”

He groans, shaking his head at how good and dirty he feels. “Just a-a bit more, mhmm, yeah,” he exhales deep, shaky breaths, using your hair as anchor while he guides your mouth down his cock. “Just like that– ah, o-oh, g-god…”

You see how his eyes are rolling back, teeth biting down his plump bottom lip. That’s when you tug back, pulling off with a wet pop from the tip. You give him a few more kitten licks, rubbing slower until he feels the loss and snaps his eyes back down to you.

“Uh, I was just,” he sits up properly, looking at you confused when you pull away fully. He’s eyeing you with desperation – brows pressed together, lips tight in a line, hair messy and reaching his eyes. Then he shakes his head, blinking while he tries rebuilding his control.

“Are we done, baby?” He forces his eyes away like he’s convincing himself he’s okay with what you’re giving, even if it leaves him with blue balls. He’s still so gentle with you, tone soft and whispered while he watches your face, checking if you’re still okay.

You smile so wide and bright, not needing any convincing to know how much you love this boy.

Then you stand back up, body still bare as the soft lace of your panties is the only thing keeping you, well, completely exposed. He stares at your soft breasts again, swallowing at the way they bounce slightly when you help him out of his pants and boxers. He smiles just watching them, his hand reaching out to fondle with one. His thumb glides over one nipple, playing with the hard bud.

You laugh, taking his wrist when he starts fondling with the swell of your breast, like he’s memorizing how its weight looks on his hand. “Staring is rude.” you say, kicking his pants and boxers away once they’re off. His pretty cock’s still hard against his pelvis, lubricated with your saliva and his own pre-cum.

“They stared first.” he says, keeping his eyes on your nipples, pinching one with his fingers.

You smack his bicep, prying his hand off you with a playful shove. He looks up at you, a small frown on his mouth like you did something mean. “You’re taking away my fun.” he pouts dramatically.

Then, you hook your fingers on your lace panties and start sliding them off you, the fabric gliding over your smooth thighs before pooling around your feet.

Oh shit.

His eyes are glued to the way your pussy glistens for him, slightly amused with just how wet you are too, without being touched. He gently reaches out for you, deciding how far you really are. His palms slide at the back of your thighs, guiding you closer to him as your hands settle at the back of his head, gently caressing through his black silky locks. You’re now standing in between his knees.

“My pretty girl,” he whispers, ducking his head slightly to get a closer look. Although you don’t feel super embarrassed, you can’t help but shift inevitably, closing your thighs when you feel his breath fan in between your legs. 

Jake looks up at you, eyes twinkling and an amused smile on his lips. “Don’t do that, baby,”

He spreads your thighs, hands firm against the plush, supple flesh. He gets closer, addicted to the way it smells so sweet and enticing. His nose basically subtly nudges your clit, earning a cracked gasp from you, your fingers tightening against his hair.

“Can I?” his eyes briefly glances up at you before looking back down. When you hum an approval, he leans in further, licking your folds.

“Ah, Jaeyun, wait –” he grabs your thigh and props it over his shoulder suddenly, helping you find your balance before plunging his tongue through the folds, finding your clit almost immediately.

Wow? To think this is both your first time?

“F-fuck–” you caress the back of his head, his tongue lapping up at the hole while his nose pokes against your clit. Cunt-hungry man, he thinks he can do this forever, just latching his lips around your clit and holding your shivering thighs around his head.

“I n-need your,” you tip your head back, words lost in your throat. 

“My what, pretty?” he moans against your pussy, his cheeks now messy with your juices and his saliva combined. “God, she’s fucking talking to me. Look at that,” he uses his thumb to spread out your fold, watching the way it shines before using his tongue to tease the hole.

Your things are quivering in strain and pleasure, too much, that you feel your knees buck. He groans when he realizes you’re pulling away, propping your thigh back and forcing your legs up with his hands. “Stay still.”

“Y-your fingers, baby, please.” you whimper, and he likes that sound. He nods, following you obediently, letting the tips of his fingers graze your entrance before suddenly plunging one inside.

Oh God.

His fingers are thicker and longer than yours, so even one feels too much. Your knees are wobbling but he helps you still. Jake keeps it slow, feeling just how your walls squeeze around him, the sweet smell wafting through the tension. Jake can’t help it, wanting that back in his mouth, so he teases your clit with his tongue in tandem with the thrust of his finger. He sneaks in another thick finger inside, thrusting two at the same time, stretching you out definitely. You let out whines, holding tightly on his hair while he fucks you with just his hand and mouth.

“Jaeyun, wait –” you tap his shoulders, just as he speeds up the pace, addicted to the way your cunt squelches around his fingers. “Jaeyun – ah – w-wait, please,” you tap insistently and when he realizes, he stops at once, a bit irritated. Jake pulls away with a bitter exhale, but softly and slowly strokes your thighs, letting you stand on both your feet now. He looks up at you, eyes finding yours, still soothing your thighs with his warm hands. “Why do you keep stopping, love?” He laughs, amused and humorous, but there’s a tone of annoyance tucked in.

Your eyes flick down to his dick, and his gaze follows, looking back at how hard and angry it looks against his abdomen like that. Long and begging to be touched. He huffs, grin widening back up at you with disbelief and lack of control. 

He swallows, shaking his head. “I don’t have a condom, baby,” his voice is rough, hands soothing your thighs still.

You scoff, using your palm to push him further into the bed. When he’s moved, you slide your knees on either side of his hips and he has to physically hold himself back from the sight of how close your cunt is to his dick. It makes him twitch against his stomach, bite his lip from making a pitiful sound.

“I want you raw.” you say, leaving a mark on his skin.

“And I want you safe.” he says, softer this time, gently caressing your hips.

You laugh, getting back to his face as you nudge his nose with yours. “Just fuck me, Jaeyun.”

He exhales, both from exasperation and how turned on he is from your straightforwardness. He likes it, he likes you, and clearly he’s torn between fucking you until you’re full of his cum, or being responsible with sex and –

Fuck that.

You stroke his cock underneath you, giving it slow rubs just to lubricate it. He sighs, watching you work on his length like that. Even with just you on top of him like this, bare and looking at him and only him, he’s happy. The wishes that blew his candles do not compare to this; a prayer in flesh and soft breasts and plush thighs and a pretty face – what else could he need if this is not enough salvation. Then you shift closer, aligning his angry tip with your entrance. He watches it all happen, hands still on your hips, half-lidded eyes completely dazed with desire and anticipation of when your cunt meets his cock. His lips are parted, taking heavy shaky breaths.

“Will it fit?” he swallows, looking back up at you with wide eyes. 

Just then, his sensitive tip grazes your hole, and he lets out a quiet whimper. You drag the head into your wet folds, pushing the thick tip with a wet pop, and Jake practically jolts up at the feeling – fingers so tight against your hips you know it will bruise. “W-w-wait, baby, y-you’re too – ah–”

It stings so you pause, adjusting to the size first. You rest your forehead against his, catching your breath as he catches his – and something about it is so intimate, at the way he holds you close, hand soothing your back to ground you and himself.

“Y-you okay?” he asks, rubbing your back, pupils blown wide you could practically see hearts form in them.

You smile, weak and soft, pressing a kiss on his mouth. He tilts his head for you, your tongues meeting in his mouth before you pull away. “Perfect.”

Then slowly, you start to sink down his cock, earning grunts while he holds you close. “Sh-shit– tight– fuck–”

He guides you down his shaft, and he really does fight the urge to shove himself inside you in one go. “S-slow down for me, yeah?” Jake holds you, thumb rubbing against your skin. “There, mhm, I-I know you can do it.” 

You cry out his name when you bottom down, his leaking tip touches your cervix deliciously and your walls tighten around him so right he’s convinced he’ll finish right here. It’s warm inside you and you’re tense, arms wrapped around his neck, chests pressed together, gummy walls choking his cock. You wrap your legs around his hips closer, squirming slightly while he’s still inside you that he moans loud, feeling just how you vacuum him in and grind against him – he’s done.

Jake’s mind is blank, nothing except the way you look like Sunday worship with how you kneel above him. He knows now, that this is heaven, and that being good does not mean anything to him when you feel like every sin eaten in Eden. He doesn’t mind dying lying this, he thinks, in between your thighs while you introduce what greed truly means, and as you show him just what the fuck Adam betrayed God for underneath that tree.

He’s in so deep and tight that you could feel every vein that throbs inside you. Like he was meant to fill in that space, with how perfect it fits, you can’t help but roll your hips against him a little. Because it’s too good not to, too fucking slow to wait. 

Jake though, very much cannot let you move because you look so incredibly hot riding him and taking him in so good that he will come from cockwarming. He grabs you before you can even try again, his hands a paradox of gentle and strong, keeping you still from any ideas. His long fingers run down your spine, shivers trail your skin, inevitably making you clench from the sensation. He exhales, struggling and trembling, huffing out a sick laugh as he licks his bottom lip. “I’ll cum if you move.” he says, rough and no more breaths to give when you’ve taken everything.

Even though his hold is firm, it’s not bruising, so you decide to tease, just a little, by rolling your hips subtly and when he realizes what you’re doing, he grabs your hips quick – tight and strong, his biceps flexing. “D-don’t move, baby, c’mon,” his hoarse voice is soft in contrast to how hard he’s holding and staring at you now. You giggle, leaning in instead to kiss him. It’s slow, the smell of sex so heavy in their air and in between you two. 

With an exhale from coming down the high, he finally nods, falling on his back. “Ride it, love.” Then you lift yourself, slowly, showing a white ring at the base of his cock. It’s lewd and better than any pornographic he’s seen.

Leaving just the head inside, you slam yourself back down, a strain moan spilling his lips like confession. “F-fuck– o-oh– so g-goddamn tight…” you do it again, loving the way his eyebrows push together, his lips parting as he moans your name. He whimpers when you squeeze your cunt around him. “H-holy s-s-shit.” he holds your hips as you find the pace, speeding up as you practically bounce on his dick like a mad woman. Every thrust spills a whimper or your name in the form of a gasp. He helps you slam right back down on his cock, touching just the right spot inside you with precision.

“T-that’s it – just like that, baby, f-fuck yeah,” he huffs, abs tightening. Your palms are flat against his chest, admiring just how his hair is now slick with sweat, sticking to his forehead. He runs a hand through it, pushing it back. You go faster, riding him to the point he can’t even talk right. “W-w-wait, s – holy s-shit, please, s-s-slow down,” his words turn into broken moans, hoarse and cracked as you pound yourself down his dick. Skin slapping echoes throughout his room, your breaths merging in this hot air.

Jake can feel it too fast, the way his abdomen and balls tighten because he’s about to cum already. It’s warm and so good. But he sits up and stops you, his strong arms quickly pulling you off him while you grow stunned. “Wha–” 

He huffs an incredulous laugh, shaking his head in disbelief of the situation. He was seconds away from cumming, way too fast for how long he wants to spend this moment with you. His grip’s strong, tight compared to how gentle he places you down his bed. You lie chest-first on the mattress, your abdomen tightening with a slight heaviness from not releasing tension. You try asking him again but cuts you off, “Wait for me, yeah?”

He looks over you with hunger in his eyes; from the gentle curve of your shoulders, to the arch of your back, down to the plumpness of your ass. Jake smooths over it, admiring it as his fingers squeeze the fat, just before giving it a smack, earning a gasp from you. “Jaeyun –”

Jake lifts your hips to put you on your knees, chest against the sheets for him, and leans down to press a kiss on your folds. “Need that ass,” he smacks one cheek again, then uses one thumb to spread out your labia and lick one stripe.

And he’d love to keep this going, munching down until your knees would give out and he’ll have to hold you up to continue devouring what your pussy could give him, but the tension in his dick begs otherwise, especially after knowing how it feels to be choked inside. So he flips you, taking your arm and getting you on your back.

Jake spreads your thighs, pressing your knees down against the bed so you’d allow him in between your legs. He props himself there, hovering over you when he puts his hands beside your head. “Is this okay?” he murmurs, sliding his own knees underneath your legs, shifting you against him. He soothes your inner thighs, making sure you feel comfortable.

The coil in your core is too hot for you to talk, mind blank except for the way Jake’s body glistens with his sweat and how he feels on top of you, his presence a clash of need and relief. You just nod, reaching your hands flat against his chest, trailing down towards his abs which tighten from your touch. He chuckles, raspy and rough, leaning down just slightly that you could feel his breath fan your face. “I need words, love,” he smooths over your thighs again, though this time closer to where you need him most. “Can you do that for me, hm?” he purrs.

You whine, biting your bottom lip at the sight of his cock so hard and straight, faintly brushing your entrance. “Jaeyun, stop teasing.” you mewl, reaching down further to let your fingertips graze the slit on his head. He lets you stroke him, smiling down at you as you do.

“Words, come on. I need to know you’re still okay.” he asserts, voice patient but firm.

You sigh. “Put your cock inside me, Jaeyun, please.” 

Then he smiles, pressing a kiss on the bridge of your nose. “Good girl.” he coos.

Jake pulls you closer by your thighs, squeezing the fat before he gives himself a few strokes. You watch him eagerly, hips unintentionally squirming at the sight of him touching himself, his own juices spilling just a little to give it slick. Then he shifts, nudges your legs up with his knees before propping himself in between you. You keep your legs up as he aligns his cock with your throbbing clit, giving it a few rubs. Moans fall from your pretty lips. He gets closer, uses his thumb to push back your folds and find your entrance, before finally positioning himself against you. He presses a kiss on your mouth just to distract you a bit, then pushes himself inside, the slick sounds obscene.

You pull away from the kiss because of the stretch, Jake’s big cock squelching inside your pussy. “S-so fucking tight, s-shit…” he groans.

Your hands find purchase on his traps, nails digging down the skin there when he squeezes himself inside you, veins throbbing against your walls. Thick and long, touching your cervix as it did earlier, and you’re addicted to the feeling of him filling you up, kissing every crevice like he’s made for you. You clench, thighs pressing against his hips – he lets a low growl when you tighten.  He finds your gaze and for some unknown reason, you get flustered, and he smiles. Jake kisses your warm cheek. “That feel good?” he whispers, waiting for your nod of approval before he starts moving. 

Teeth sink into his bottom lip as his hips rocks into yours. It’s slow at first, letting you feel every little detail of his dick inside you. Until he speeds up, the sound of skin slapping echoing in the corners of his bedroom. Low whimpers slip from Jake’s throat, breathing your name against your mouth. It’s vulgar, the smell and sound of cum when he pulls out and slams right back in, at a pace like he can’t handle being apart from you for long.

He loves the way you shove against the bed when he pushes in, loves the way your tits bounce every time, the way your swollen and bruised lips part and moan his name like you’re his. Your moans, sweet and thick like honey, your nails when they dig into his muscles like you’re claiming him.

“C-can you clench, baby? Just – t-there– fuck, baby – f-fuck yeah, just like t-that, ah–” he whines, veins running along his arms beside your head as he grinds into you, head stroking your fucking womb.

His cock drives into you with perfect precision, somehow hitting the right spots, rubbing against your walls so good. His abs taut, muscles flexing above you. “Y-you feel so good, baby, ah– so fucking good,” he coos, stealing your mouth for a kiss.

He speeds up, rutting into you like he can’t handle any more time not cumming in you. And it feels good, for sure, but something about the fact he’s enjoying himself in you, his thick brows knitting together, teeth into his lip, makes it better. Jake looks at you then, and when he finds your wide, innocent eyes gazing up at him like that, his hips suddenly stutter to a slow and his arms falter. His chest tightens, caught off guard from how pretty you are.

You laugh, smacking his arm in amusement. He huffs an embarrassed chuckle, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “Shit,” he murmurs against your skin, while your hands run through his hair, scratching his scalp gently. You hum, pressing a kiss on his hair while he holds you closer, sneaking an arm underneath you.

“That’s not fair,” he murmurs against you and you laugh again, softer and quieter. “You’re so perfect.” he whispers, peppering kisses all over your neck. Before you can respond, he pushes into you roughly again, a cracked moan slipping from your lips. You hit his arm for doing that, before squeezing it when pleasure comes back.

He straightens, finding his pace again as you breathe heavy, fisting the sheets behind you. Jake’s hands find your thighs again, pushing your legs back against the bed, stretching you out further. “Fuck, Jake–” you sob, and the name makes him pound into undeniably faster and rougher.

“Again, baby,” he sneaks a thumb against your clit, rubbing it to add into your pleasure, “Say it again, come on,”

You stretch out your arm, your palm pressing against his taut abs. He doesn’t stop, if not his movements become faster, fucking your pussy so aggressively you practically recoil back on his bed every thrust. He hisses at your warm touch, baring his teeth a wolfish grin. “J-Jake, fuck,” yeah fuck him, ‘cause how could someone be so sweaty and still look hot.

Jake adds more pressure, stroking circles on your clit. You practically wail, that knot starting to form and tighten in your core. His other hand presses on your lower abdomen and you feel it – a stimulation in your wall and obviously, his fucking cock bruising your cervix. He leans down, hovering over you closer. “You feel me, baby?” he whispers, pressing harder that you choke on your own moans.

You arch into him, fingers tangling in his hair, his thumb stimulating your pussy continuously. Each push of his hips starts bringing you closer to the edge, that knot tightening harder and hotter – the image itself is pornographic, with how powerful his pelvis wrecks into you.

“Jaeyun, I-I’m gonna –”

“Gonna b-breed this fucking pussy,” he murmurs, rutting harder, his thrusts getting sloppier and losing measure. He flashes you a grin again. “Will you let me, love? Let me cum i-inside – f-fuck –” 

You nod, eager and urgent, letting your nails scratch down his back, making him wince in pain and pleasure. He pushes your hips before pulling it back, his own orgasm arriving. 

“F-f-f-fuck, I’m cumming – I’m g-gonna, w-wait baby –” he moans.

“Jaeyun, p-please– ah–”, one final thrust has you milking him before he does, pussy clenching so tight as you grab his hair to ground yourself when your orgasm washes your vision white. He continues, pounding into you so deep, before Jake whimpers low and loud. You feel the thick white ropes spill into you, hot and full and sticky, hips stuttering. “Shit, b-baby, god– that’s so hot– baby, you’re so hot–”

He rides out the last of your pleasure before you pat his biceps to stop him from overstimulating your sensitive walls. Jake falls on top of you, weight pressing down on you before he could even stop it, muscles tensing before they relax.

You’re both breathless, mixed cum warm inside you and slowly oozing out. Neither of you move just yet, he’s holding you close, resting his forehead against your collarbone. You soothe his back, tracing the outlines of his muscles while you hum, helping each other out to come down from your high. 

A few beats stretch out before you tap him, a tired smile on your lips as he musters back his own strength and straightens, his darkened gaze meeting yours when he gets on his hands again. His pupils are in the shapes of hearts, mouth pulled to a sheepish grin, face still flushed with heat and sweat.

Jake practically inhales you like it’s what will bring him back to reality. When he pulls back, he swallows, resting his forehead against yours. “J-just, let me catch my breath,” he huffs out a laugh then lies his head back down your chest.

He listens to the rhythm of your heartbeat, closing his eyes at the calming sounds of it. His cock still is very much inside you, softer than it used to be, twitching and you feel it.

After a few minutes or so, Jake starts shifting and you let him get up, releasing him from your embrace. He then slides out of you, hissing at the feeling, slick oozes out of your hole, but you don’t pay any mind anymore.

For a moment you're frightened, because he just lies there beside you, not touching you. You rethink again, once the high's gone and he's got his fill, whether this is just another bad decision you'll regret –

Until Jaeyun places his blanket around the both of you, arms wrapping around you underneath the weight of it. With your back pressed against his chest, he peppers soft and light kisses on your head, holding you tight. He's muttering sweet nothings that make up of praise and affections, although your mind is too hazy to comprehend any syllable.

His breathing finally steadies, finding himself comforted and grounded with you against him like this.

After 5 minutes, hand rubbing your belly, he calls your name. When you hum and turn to him, he studies your face for a second, eyes warm and attentive.

“Water?” he asks, voice hoarse.

You hum against his chest, voice small. “And chocolate.”

He nods. “Okay,” he says softly, like it’s the easiest decision in the world.

Jake rubs your back, soothing and gentle, pressing light kisses to your temple because he can't really afford to let you go yet. Pressing one long kiss on your forehead, he finally sighs and loosens. “Okay, I’ll go,” he whispers before slipping away, murmuring reassurance that he’ll come back immediately. He stumbles when he attempts to put his sweatpants on fast, making you giggle watching him.

He returns quickly with water and snacks. He settles back beside you, guiding the glass into your hands, watching as you drink like you're deserted dry. “Slow, baby,” 

When you’re done, you both curl back into bed and he hands you a piece of chocolate to munch down on. Neither of you speaks for a while, the room quiet except for rustling of sheets, and your chewing.

Jake’s thumb traces lazy, soothing circles against your arm. You rest there together, warm and close, his cheek resting against the top of your head. “Okay,” he murmurs. Then, almost shyly, “Uh… in a bit, you’re gonna have to pee, yeah?”

You let out a small, tired sound, half a laugh. “Okay,” you whisper.

His hand keeps moving along your back, lazy, repetitive, like he might fall asleep doing it. There’s a beat of silence, then he speaks again, words blurring together in that half-awake honesty.

“Hey,” Jake murmurs again, thumb slowing where it traces your arm. His voice is quieter now, careful, shy again. “Was that… okay?”

You tilt your head slightly, enough to look up at him. His brows are knit just a little, not anxious, just attentive like he’s waiting for your answer to matter.

“Yeah,” you say with a smile, honest and warm. “It was amazing.”

He exhales, shoulders easing like he’d been holding that breath on purpose. “Okay,” he says, nodding once. Then, softer, “I just wanted to make sure.”

You shift closer, tucking yourself into him more fully. “You’re really sweet, you know that?”

He lets out a small laugh, embarrassed but pleased, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Only with you.”

His arms tighten around you – not confining, just secure in that way he's grounding himself against you too. He stays like that, no hurry to move, no agenda beyond keeping you comfortable, no plan other than staying right here with you.

You hum, already drifting while his hand still moves in those slow, steady circles. After a beat, he sighs softly and nuzzles your hair, tapping your forearm while sitting up. “Okay… bathroom time.”

He helps you shift gently, sliding an arm under your back while you get on your feet. “Easy,” he murmurs, careful.

Once you’re upright, he walks just behind you, steadying you with a hand lightly on your lower back. “Like a professional escort,” he jokes softly, voice low.

He takes you to his ensuite and you have to smack him again because he’s babying you, acting like you need this much help when in reality, he just wants to stay close. “I can sit on the fucking toilet on my own, Jaeyun.” you laugh in disbelief and amusement.

He frowns but follows through, leaning against the doorframe while you pee. Once you’re done, you two head back, one hand still on the small of your back. He takes his shirt, one too big for your frame, and slides it on you. He also helps you into your panties because your legs are still worn.

"I love you." he whispers, not from post-sex haze, but because it's you. You smile and say it back.

Back in his bed and in his shirt and in his arms – everything that makes this entirely his, you melt into it remembering,

You're not his.

And to Jake, the 4 seconds of silence before you said it back hurts like fucking hell.

Tip #11: Refuse to be simplified.

Nothing about Jake is suddenly different.

He’s always been around – always walking you to class, always waiting. He’s somehow at every corner, leaning against the doorway of your lecture hall when you exit, waiting outside the library when you need to grab a book, showing up at the cafeteria exactly when you do. But now, there’s touches intertwined with them. Fingers immediately finding yours in the hallway, shoulder nudges to tease, quick kisses pressed to your temple or hair.

In your dorm, it’s worse than it is outside. Not all moments or hang-outs transition to heat, sometimes he crashes over just to lie on your lap and sleep there, or he helps you out with laundry and folds your clothes with you. But of course, there are moments when a kiss brushes your lips before you’re even fully aware. Your fingers trace his jawline, catch his shirt, pull him closer, and suddenly he’s already in between your legs, pounding into you recklessly. After your first time, he insisted he’ll use condoms instead, you respond with a pout.

At the last stretch of the first semester’s finals, it’s hectic. Every single day is packed with tests, essays, group reports – sometimes they share the same due date and you try not to collapse under it all. It’s not easy, but you feel that you have some kind of cheat code to steer away from chaos.

Jake finds a way to meet up when the schedule’s too tight for anything else. A text ping between classes: coffee. 5 minutes. i’ll be outside. He shows up just when you need a break, just when the stress is too much to carry alone, he makes sure you know he’s there.

Even if it’s just ten minutes, even if it’s a rushed chocolate handoff, even if it’s just to hold you for 5 minutes – they’re all enough. Enough to feel like he’s keeping the storm at bay, like you’re not drowning in deadlines because he’s always there, tethering you to sanity with soft touches, stolen kisses, and the reassurance that no matter how chaotic, he’ll always find you.

No more begging for time and counting minutes. Now, time finds you both without asking, offered freely and instinctively because he tries.

He plans around you without making it feel like effort, he adjusts his pace to match yours.

There was one week specifically that was busier than any other, all subjects demanded something for their final submissions and the over-achiever in you always had to give everything. Jake says you’re over-stressing and overworking, that you’re going way too hard on yourself even when you didn’t have to. You also did try brushing him off, that this was okay. He brushed you off by unexpectedly coming over and relieving you off your tasks, and you unexpectedly broke down into tears in his arms. After that, once you’re refreshed, he helps with productivity which he doesn’t rush, just eases you into slowly.

You find your rhythm again and lo and behold, your hardwork and efforts have been greatly rewarded with an A that you practically smell the 3.8 gpa coming your way.

And to graciously show your appreciation to his thoughtfulness towards you, you ride him. Jake’s a gentleman as he is kind, but he’s also just some guy. Simple, knows-what-he-wants guy. So sometimes, it’s a gentle switch from kissing to sex on the bed with a pillow under your hips. There are times where he doesn’t even take off your shirt and slip off your underwear and he fucks you from the back while you’re brushing your teeth. Or cooking. He seems to find you in a domestic state completely fuckable and hot. Sometimes it’s in the shower and he spends half the time kissing you and eating you out under the running water than actually cleaning up.

Very, very clingy. Kisses your forehead suddenly, presses some on your knuckles, hands on your breasts and nipples when you’re spooning in your sleep, then later when he’s really stressed with engineering he practically urges you on your knees and slips his cock down your throat.

It’s a duality you don’t mind, obviously. But sometimes you’re caught in surprise just how strong this man’s sex drive is. 

He keeps a stack of your clothes in his closet, though he insisted you grab a pile from your dorm. He quite literally bought you clothes specifically for his own place so you don’t keep going back. And in no time, your belongings have infiltrated his entire place; half his closet was yours, the sink’s cluttered with your cosmetics and skincare products with his one single cleanser and toothbrush in a quiet corner. And the bed, of course, where he fights for space because your plushies also had their own. He doesn’t mind it – he loves it actually, the constant epiphany when you walk around his place in nothing but his shirt that yeah, this is his life now, being colonized by your over-the-top possessions. 

One night, he comes home kinda late and finds you curled up in his bed, laptop balanced on your thighs, his shirt slipping off one shoulder. For a moment, he just watches. You call him a creep and you throw a pillow at him, but he sneaks in between your legs and takes your clothes off and fucks you in the same minute.

There’s no conversation about moving in. He just presses a kiss into your hair and murmurs, half-amused, half-awed, “You know you basically live here, right?”

Normally, ambiguity didn’t bother him. Jake was built for uncertainty in the academic sense – he lived in probabilities and margins of error. He trusted that if you applied enough rigor, enough time, the answer would eventually reveal itself. Variables could be isolated and noise could be filtered out. Systems, no matter how complex, always collapsed into something legible if you were patient enough.

People, however, were not systems.

You were not something he could model without interference or reduce into inputs and outputs without losing the essence of you. And yet, that was exactly what he did – slotting you into his life with the same quiet efficiency he applied to everything else. You were there when he woke up, there when he came home, there when his brain finally shut down. 

And he had also followed through, coming over to your own place and integrating his dominion over your space – his deodorant, some hot wheels he forgot to take home, clothes you both can wear, and sweatpants when you accidentally cum on his pants. Yeah, the setup was nice, but even if ambiguity was something he thoroughly enjoyed exploring in the world of science; you’re not science.

He can’t treat your relationship like a margin of error he can back up from and retry again when shit’s messy – that’s never his intention with you, and he does regret that faulty. 

You’re not his girlfriend. You’re not not his girlfriend.

When the grocery cashier comments how much of a lovely couple you two are, you laugh that sweet laugh he loves, until you say, "he's not my boyfriend" and he tries not to die from a heart attack.

Jake feels sick.

Tip #12: Remember how you got him.

Jake hates it. Didn't realize how bad it actually fucking sounded when it comes from you saying that no, you're not dating, he's not your boyfriend, that you might as well cut his dick and shove it between his lungs.

He spends the weekend in your apartment as some unnamed lover. You both settle with ordering takeout for dinner after much negotiating where to order.

The movie keeps playing, something you just randomly chose to pass time. Snow taps faintly against the window, Jake’s fingers tracing absent-mindedly on your thigh. You’re also in the middle of your face mask when his phone dings, then he says he’ll get the food.

He takes a while. You hear the door first – the soft click of the lock, the familiar drag of his shoes against the floor – and you’re halfway through complaining about how long it took when he appears in the doorway.

With a bouquet of your favorite flowers. And a big, obscenely plush bunny tucked under his arm. And an envelope pinched between his fingers like it’s nothing.

You blink, lips part, jaw slack, completely frozen with a dumb hydrating mask on your face.

“Uh,” Jake says, shifting the bunny like it’s inconveniently large and like he doesn’t understand what this means. “So.” He frowns slightly, then jerks his thumb back toward the hall. “I think the delivery guy is flirting with you.”

You stare at him, still in the middle of processing the sight and reeling back in from the shock of everything. You're in the middle of trying to understand what the fuck this is. “Jaeyun.”

“What?” he says, defensive. “I’m just saying.”

You’re still trying to understand the fact that there is a bouquet and a giant bunny and an envelope in your bedroom when he walks closer and hands you the letter like it’s a receipt he forgot to give you earlier. Like a delivery guy, that’s what he is. 

“Anyway,” he adds, too casual. “This is yours.”

You look from the letter to him, still completely confused and startled, handing you the bouquet and bunny next like it’s just something he found in the mailbox. “You’re not even going to explain?”

He shrugs, lips twitching. “Explain what?”

“The –” You gesture vaguely at everything. “All of this.”

He tilts his head, pretending to think. “Delivery guy must’ve felt bad.”

You kick his knee and he laughs. “You’re such a liar!”

You stare at him for a couple of more seconds, biting down your bottom lip from a wide smile. You feel giddy and excited and astonished and hydrated.

Is this it.

Is this the moment you're finally going to rid the expired not-dating label.

"Tell me what this is, dork!" you're being mean because you're skittish, but he loves it, loves how you're mean sometimes.

"I don't fucking know, baby!" he laughs, still pretending before he leans in and presses kisses on your thighs. "Fuck I know why the delivery guy is flirting with you."

You open the envelope immediately and Jake suddenly finds the floor very interesting. He watches you from the corner of his eye, pretending not to, pretending this isn’t a big deal, pretending his heart isn’t doing something stupid and loud. 

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

dec 1

You and I have never been simple. We never moved in straight lines or clean timelines, and there were breaks and overlaps and wrong timing and a lot of moments where we probably should’ve stopped and didn’t.

You were never simple. You were a really really complicated interpretation.

We’ve tried being nothing. We’ve tried pretending. We’ve tried acting like what we do doesn’t mean what it obviously does. And every time, we end up right back here. I always find myself coming back to you.

I also really hate getting denied at the grocery cashier.

So… can I be this complicated girl’s boyfriend again?

– Jaeyun

━━━━━

When you finish, you don’t say anything right away. You look at him then, at the way he’s trying so hard not to make this a thing while making it very much a thing. At how he stands there like he’s bracing for rejection even though he already knows you’re not going anywhere, not with that face mask you’re not.

Jake shifts. “So… food’s getting cold.”

You throw the face mask away, a wide smile on your face as you tug the end of his shirt. “Come here,” you say.

He doesn’t hesitate. He’s already leaning over you in between your legs, and then he kisses you slowly. It’s warm and nice and romantic and when he pulls away, he’s smiling like he’s in heaven on earth. It just so happens to be right here, right next to you.

You knew it’d come around, this thing called love that comes crashing down. 

“So,” he murmurs. “Still think the delivery guy was flirting?”

You smile, playing with his hair. “Yeah.”

Jake sighs, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.” 

Then he leans in again but before you can kiss him, he stops.

"So is that a yes?" he knits his brows.

You laugh, smacking his arm with no real effort before you smooth over the muscle there, then sensually down to the veins leading down his wrist. He clears his throat and presses closer, pelvis against your ass.

"I don't know," you drag the last syllable to tease him and he groans.

He ducks down, nose brushing yours. "Fuck, baby," he whines. When he kisses you again he totally forgets the food waiting outside.

Guess getting your ex back 101 did work, then? Real genius.

[la-vander-writes]

Show time

Kim Seungmin (김승민) x fem reader smau

💌 a/n: I think the way this account gets updated whenever there is a figure skating event has to be studied... I'm starting to see a pattern. Anyways, it's my first time trying something like this, it was done mostly for fun~ I miss the tour so much so this is me coping with it. I don't care that this page is becoming fully seungcentric lol I hope you're all doing well my friends :3

📌 warnings: there are some swear words

💬 leave a comment (happy late skz-versary btw, I can't believe I've seen all 8 years, it seems like yesterday they were playing with the tiny arcade machines *sobs*)

🏠 home < part 1 > part 2

------------------☆

[binnieverssse]

One More Time - y.jn

✿ Author: binnieverssse

✿ Summary: Poor Jeongin doesn't realize that a one-night stand typically lasts only one night...

✿ Pairing: frat!Jeongin x f!reader

✿ Word count: 3k

✿ Tags/Warnings: fluff, lovesick innie, suggestive but no exclusive smut - MNDI!!!, frat!au

✿ Author’s note: I am working on the Felix fic that I mentioned in the poll, but I had this frat!Jeongin idea that I HAD to write before it left my mind! I hope that you all enjoy! (:

“That was really good,” the guy panting beside you whispered. His eyes were shut closed as he soaked in the bliss lingering in the air. 

“Yeah, not too shabby,” you joked, lightly bumping him with your shoulder. 

Between frail gasps for air and sweaty, sticky skin, you found yourself desperate for some familiarity. You currently found yourself in the bed of some random frat kid’s dorm; another night with no names. You liked it that way, though. It made leaving that much simpler. 

Rolling out of the bed, you started to look for your clothes that had earlier been thrown into random corners of the room. Hearing the rustle of your jeans, your mystery man of the night began to open his eyes. 

“You’re leaving so soon?” he asked, a slight pout adorning his lips. 

“Oh, honey,” you cooed, “Is this your first time?”

He looked confused and almost embarrassed for a moment. 

“First time? I am not a virgin if that is what you are asking,” he defended himself, brows furrowed. 

“You’re cute,” you snickered. “I meant: is this your first time hooking up? You know — having a one-night stand?”

“Oh,” the boy was definitely embarrassed, but for a different reason now. A faint pink blush began to kiss the apples of his cheeks. 

“It’s okay. I won’t tell anyone,” you reassured him whilst grabbing your bra from the top of his dresser. 

“Do you really have to go so soon, though?” he asked, voice quiet and small. Ironic seeing as his lack of confidence doesn’t reflect the manner in which he is actively ogling your chest. 

“I have class in the morning. It is a Sunday night,” you pointed out as you seamlessly clasped your bra together. “Do you want me to stay and read you a bedtime story?”

He was easily affected by your teasing. You found it endearing. Most of the guys that you’ve hooked up with during your time in college were your stereotypical douches. It was sweet to see someone respond without post-nut clarity for a change. Receiving a blush rather than a scowl was precious. 

“I mean, I haven’t even gotten your name,” he let out a tiny whine, slightly revealing his desperation. 

“I like to keep it that way, pretty boy,” you winked after haphazardly throwing your shirt back on. You noticed the way that his shoulders drooped, but you didn’t think too much of it. Tomorrow would be a new day and he would forget you anyway. 

Just as you were sliding your shoes on, you caught a glimpse of his face. You could tell that he wanted to say more, but was hesitating. At this rate, you predicted more requests for you to stay a bit longer, so you didn’t pry. You weren’t expecting to hear his voice, gravelly and nonchalant, calling toward you as your fingers wrapped around the cold, metal doorknob, ready to leave. 

“I’m Jeongin by the way.”

Shit. 

There goes your ‘no-name’ policy. 

When classes rolled around Monday morning, you couldn’t stop thinking about the boy from the night before. More specifically, you kept replaying the way that his name rolled effortlessly off his tongue. 

Jeongin.

Little did you know, this was only the beginning of the pestering that Jeongin would bring. New semester - new nuisance. 

In Jeongin’s world, you were also on his mind nonstop. Your faint smile, beautiful hair, sweet moans - he was obsessed. Every inch of your body was stored in the back of his mind as you left him wanting more. 

Your mysterious nature only left him thinking of you further. Maybe this infatuation was truly just a result of curiosity. Maybe it was the way that your body fit perfectly against his. Jeongin wasn’t sure, but that only made him that much more eager to see you again. 

He didn’t even know your name. It was silly of him to keep mentally chasing someone that he can’t even name. This caveat is the only thing preventing him from reaching out again. He couldn’t simply ask his friends if they knew the pretty girl from last night’s party – God knows they would each have separate answers. 

For now, Jeongin would have to be content with the flashing images of your eyes, lips, and tits playing on loop while he drowns out his professor’s rant about first-day expectations. 

Somehow, you managed to survive your first two classes of the day. The familiar lectures on syllabi and basic college standards were enough to ground you as the semester kicked off. The only thing that consistently bugged you was the tiny voice in the back of your head. 

“I’m Jeongin by the way.”

You hoped that your third and final class of the day would be less than boring to pry that name from your mind once and for all. The quicker you forgot his name, the easier it would be to move back to your regular routines. 

You tell yourself that that’s what this is: you being upset at the disruption in your routine. There’s nothing about his sharp smile with polarizing dimples that has Jeongin on your mind.

Nope.

Nothing at all. 

You can’t stop thinking of him because he wanted you — not the other way around. 

Even though he was on your mind, the last thing that you wanted was to run into him again. However, it seems that the world has different plans for you. Your routine was broken once, might as well break it a second time. 

As you were settling into the slightly uncomfortable seat in your last lecture for the day, the man of the hour walked in himself. 

Jeongin strolled in moments before class was intended to start. There weren’t many seats left, but — of course — the seat right beside you was open. 

The moment that his eyes locked onto yours, his brows shot up in the most cartoonish way. You could almost see him physically melting in front of you. Nondiscreetly, his smile started to grow on its own, only further highlighting the faint blush on his cheeks. His heart-eyes were insane. 

You groaned as he made his way straight toward you. 

Before he could even get comfortable, you were already looking for another seat. Craning your head backward, the only other seat available was in the main back of the room. Unfortunately, you care too much about staying focused in class. So, front of the room with Mr. Jeongin it is. 

“Hey-”

“Dont,” you immediately cut him off before he could start conversing. Your straightforward tone secretly made him gush even further. 

Thankfully, your professor waltzed in at the perfect time. With the start of his lecture, you were able to avert your gaze elsewhere. 

After the repetitive, classic syllabus talk, the part of class that you dreaded most approached: introductions. 

Being in college, introductions aren’t super important. Why do professors still insist on hosting them knowing they won’t remember your name the second you walk out the door? 

Your professor asked the basics:

- Name

- Major

- Why are you taking this course?

At least you didn’t have to create some tacky fun-fact about yourself. That would have only further added to your humiliation. 

Once your peers had spoken and it was time for you to introduce yourself, you took a deep breath in. 

“Um-” you cleared your throat, feeling awkward with all eyes on you, “I am an English major. I am taking this class because it is required for my program,” you gave the same shitty answer as many of your peers. 

“Name?” your professor grumbled.

“Excuse me?” you pretended not to hear him, but you had heard him loud and clear. 

The professor slightly lifts his head from his notepad, looking at you through his glasses, “What is your name?”

“Oh, right. That,” you laughed, only making things worse for yourself. Being overwhelmed with the amount of focus that was currently pinned on you, you caved, “It’s Y/N.”

Jeongin gasped as you said your name. He wasn’t inconspicuous about it either. Sure, the people around you likely couldn’t hear him, but you sure did. The ever-so-smitten sigh that left his lips moments later was only the cherry on top of his dramatization. 

Before he could swoon any further, Jeongin had to introduce himself. 

“Hello, everyone,” Jeongin smiled, looking around the room. An embarrassing amount of girls in the class were visibly affected by his sweet smile. You snarled and rolled your eyes. 

“I am Jeongin. I’m an education major and I am taking this class for the same reason as Ms. Y/N here,” Jeongin snickered as he nudged you with his elbow. He earned a few laughs from across the room, but you simply gave him a harsh glare. 

How dare he say your name like that? He wasn’t even supposed to know you. 

Funny enough, you weren’t too caught up on the name thing at this moment. You were more surprised by the fact that the flirty frat boy sitting beside you was an education major. Something about knowing his major left a warm feeling in your chest. It was sweet to think that this dweeb wanted to be a teacher. Not that you knew him much at all, but it surprised you nonetheless. 

After the rest of the class slowly introduced themselves, the professor quickly dismissed class for the day. 

“So,” Jeongin drew out, “Y/N? Pretty name for an even prettier girl.”

You felt his energy before he even opened his mouth. Slightly annoyed, you still couldn’t stop the butterflies fluttering in your chest at his cheap flirting. 

“What brings you around here?” he tried to be smooth - he really did. 

“I told you that I had class. Alright forget last night, pretty boy?” you teased. His ears immediately turned red. 

“Oh, I will never forget last night,” he sighed, appearing to dream back to last night’s rendezvous right in front of you. 

“Good, because you will never get a chance like that again,” you quipped, snapping him back to reality. 

“What?” he whined, looking at you like a hurt puppy. 

“One night? Ring a bell?” you shrugged while throwing your notebook back into your bag. 

“I thought that you were just messing with me. You won’t let me relive heaven at least one more time? C’mon Y/N,” he wailed dramatically. 

“No, I was being serious. You’re lucky that you even earned my name. That is the most that any guy has ever gotten from me.” With this information, Jeongin perked up further. 

“I’m special. Y/N finds me special,” he was speaking aloud, but clearly his dialogue wasn’t directed at you. 

“Keep that up and I will make sure that you never see me again,” you spat, pointing a finger right at his chest. 

“Then who will keep me company in class? Y/N, don’t leave me alone!” he pleaded.

“Drop the name and I may consider letting you continue to sit next to me,” you bargained, cracking a slight smile at his antics. 

“Yes, ma’am. I can do that,” he saluted you, earning another slight chuckle from yourself. He mentally patted himself on the back for that one. 

“Ma’am,” you thought aloud, “I think I can handle that.” You threw your bag over your shoulder and started heading toward the door. 

“See you around?” Jeongin asked, hopeful. 

“Don’t be too eager, Jeongin,” you shooed him away. 

“Yes, ma’am!” he replied once more, frantically waving as you left the classroom. 

You didn’t even bother to give him another glance before you disappeared. Nonetheless, he sighed, “Ugh. She is so perfect.”

Your school always slightly overdid things when it came to the first week of each semester. 

Well, it wasn’t necessarily the college itself - it was mainly the frat houses. 

Each semester, the first week of classes was filled with too much partying for one person’s sanity. The excuse was something about the frat houses wanting to recruit more members, but you swore it was always the same faces attending the parties anyway. 

Despite it only being Tuesday, you found yourself at the front steps of a frat house that you were all too familiar with. You knew that you were bound to run into Jeongin, but that wasn’t going to stop you from loosening up a little tonight. You were doing this for yourself — not for him. 

You effortlessly blended into the sea of people already spilling out of the living room. To most, you were simply another girl to chase. Jeongin sensed that you were more, but he wasn’t here right now. It was just you and a crowd full of semi-familiar faces. 

The night hadn’t even begun before you were four shots in. There was no reason for you to get totally fucked up in the middle of the week, but you promised that there was a reasonable excuse somewhere in the back of your mind for your actions. 

After your fifth lackluster conversation of the night, you decided to walk away and catch some fresh air. Grabbing a drink on your way out, you headed toward the back yard of the house. 

The second that the fresh air kissed your skin, you felt slightly more alive. With the click of the door, the restless sound of the party dulled and you were able to hear your own thoughts again. However, you were only allowed to take two breaths before ultimately being interrupted. 

“God answered my prayer,” Jeongin sighed dramatically while not-so-casually leaning against the banister in front of you two. 

“Looks like he did the opposite for me,” you scoffed, not really upset. Frankly, at this point in the night, you were hoping to run into him. 

“Ouch, Y/N. Ouch,” Jeongin feigned hurt. 

“What did I say about using my name, pretty boy?” you warned him, cocking an eyebrow his way. 

“My apologies, your highness,” he snickered, the alcohol seeming to have more of an influence on his personality. 

When you rolled your eyes at his drunken giggles, he didn’t back down for a second. Matter of fact, he somehow managed to step even closer to you.  

“You know, you somehow look even more gorgeous under the moonlight,” Jeongin slurred, staring at you with pure adoration and intoxication. 

“Oh, really? That’s funny, because you look just as annoying right now.” Your comeback was weak, but you still stifled a laugh at Jeongin’s reaction. 

“What did I do to earn such harsh treatment, baby?” he whined. 

“Baby? Now you’ve gone way off track,” you tsked, staring off into the night sky. 

“I figured that I would at least try,” he blubbered, a smile present on his face. 

“You should do less of that,” you casually spoke, shooting a glance his way. 

“What?” Jeongin was slightly confused, 

“Trying,” you replied, short and simple. 

“Alright. Alright. You are breaking my heart, beautiful.” Jeongin wiped away a fake tear. 

Regardless of how little your desire to speak to Jeongin initially was, you still found yourself slightly enjoying the conversation. You definitely wouldn’t let him know that, though. 

“Do you ever stop?” You fully turned to look at him. 

Under the moonlight, Jeongin’s red cheeks were illuminated, only highlighting his features further. You found yourself naturally leaning forward with each passing moment. 

“Stop what?” Jeongin questioned you yet again. 

“Talking,” you reiterated, as if it were common sense.

“I don't know. I haven’t figured out how to do that quite yet,” he taunted, playing into your teasing. 

“Do you need help?” you pried. 

“Help how?” Jeongin’s brows furrowed together in confusion. 

Before he could ponder any further, you smashed your lips against his. 

It was the alcohol. At least that is what you told yourself. That was easier than thinking about what this might actually be. 

Jeongin gasped, but it was quickly swallowed by your own lips as you continued to melt into his essence. Immediately, he followed your actions, kissing back with just as much — if not more — effort. 

Jeongin’s restless hands found themselves resting upon your hips as he struggled to ground himself. In his mind, he was absolutely losing it. Though he had only known you for a total of three days now, you were constantly running through his mind. Your sarcastic nature would have never led him to believe that you’d be initiating anything further with him. 

Truthfully, you didn’t plan this initially. Maybe subconsciously, but you were convinced that you didn’t want to see Jeongin again after class yesterday. Now, you were starting to realize that you may have been lying to yourself this whole time.

Is this the alcohol? Is this his annoying charm working on you?

That was something for sober Y/N to worry about. 

You aren’t even sure how you went from making out with Jeongin under the stars to being back in his bed once more. 

Sunday night replayed in your head as Jeongin pulled out and fell beside you in a whirlwind of panting. 

This time, when his warm skin brushed against yours, you didn’t instantly run. Instead, you leaned closer toward him. 

Resting your head on his shoulder, you allowed yourself to soak in the ecstasy lingering in the air. 

“You will never fail to amaze me,” Jeongin mumbled against your hair, falling deeper into the comfort of your touch. 

“Yeah, you weren’t too shabby,” you giggled, mimicking your words from the other night. 

“Not too shabby?” he challenged, “Should we go again? I think that I can do better than shabby.”

You chuckled, leaning over to fully face him.

“Am I ever going to get rid of you?” you questioned. 

“Me? Not a chance,” he smirked before leaning in to bring you into another kiss. 

As Jeongin flipped you on top of him, you truly lost the line between drunken wishes and true desire. Looking down at the desperate man whimpering beneath you, you weren’t sure that you could be too frustrated with him anymore. 

Whatever was blossoming between the two of you, you could face in the morning…inevitably in his bed with a raging hangover. For now, you were in for the ride, simply enjoying yourself with quite possibly the most hopeless boy on campus.

Taglist: @seung-min-the-building @melancholicw @karlee10261990 @emmalabo @stronglychanbiased @hanberrymilk @minhosglasses

[nonranghaes]

"why don't we ever go on a real date?" you ask it so casually that minho thinks he's dreaming for a moment.

he's made you breakfast and lunch today, doting on you a little more than he usually does. you fell asleep next to him last night, and woke up feeling better (you always do, apparently, since you always tell him that he's like your own dose of headache medicine). but minho's still caring for you, because he knows how bad your migraines can get. he knows how you tend to feel useless when you're left laying in the dark, hoping that medicine will work or sleep will wash it away once it finally claims you again.

"that implies we've gone on dates."

"haven't we?" again, so casual... it's frustrating in an endearing way. "we take advantage of couple's discounts."

right, but both of you would do that with anyone. "where do you want to go?" he decides to play along. if this is a game, the two of you will laugh. but maybe chris is right.

fuck, chris is right. chris wouldn't lie to him about this. not when he knows how deep this goes.

you just let out this long hum as you think, and he almost thinks you're messing with him. "first dates are so hard," you mumble to yourself, and minho doesn't think he's meant to catch it.

"so it doesn't have to be." he dries his hands on a dish towel, and then takes a long sip of his tea as he watches you. "didn't you say we've been on dates before?"

you just nod, and don't answer him, still caught up in your thoughts.

"how long?"

that gets your attention. you look at him, "hm?"

"how long have you known?"

you open your mouth, then close it, averting your gaze. "after jisung asked why you don't date anymore a few days ago. you looked over at me for a second, and then made an excuse, and..." you let out this long sigh. "i realized things weren't so one-sided for me."

one-sided...? "how long, then?"

"years. i don't know. i think i've spent my entire life loving you." you rest your cheek against your palm. "and somewhere along the way, it turned into something romantic. i don't know when. i've never thought about it."

he laughs a little. of course your story is parallel to his own. he doesn't know when he went from loving you like a friend to loving you like your souls are more than intertwined, from loving you to being in love with you.

after a moment of studying him, you pose the question back to him.

"always, i think." he can't imagine a time in his life where he hasn't loved you now, though. in some way, you were always love to him. "is that cheesy?"

it's your turn to laugh at him, warm and loving as always. "a little. but i don't mind. we can be cheesy for a while." you just grin at him. "maybe dinner."

dinner is good. simple. and he nods. "wherever you want to go." he'll follow you anywhere at this point.

[featjunranghae]

NCT DREAM smau

[ uni version ]

note: can be read in order or as a stand alone but I think it's fun reading it in order. open to all criticism and new ideas

[ requests open ]

main masterlist - nct masterlist

Loaded - Zhong Chenle [complete]

chenle x fem!reader

- in which a desperate joke about needing a sugar daddy accidentally manifests a millionaire classmate who takes his new role very seriously.

Intro to Being Delulu 101 - Lee Donhyuck [complete]

haechan X fem!reader

- in which one disastrous chemistry experiment turns into a feud and haechan thinks you bullying him online is a form of love language

Quarter Life Crisis - Park Jisung [complete]

jisung x fem!reader

- in which Jisung puts his feelings aside and plays boyfriend for his dream girl to make her situationship jealous

Focal Point - Na Jaemin [complete]

jaemin X fem!reader

- in which you blackmail Na Jaemin with his stalker level photographs and his only solution is to double down because his ego is as big as his portfolio

Loser's Luck - Mark Lee [complete]

mark x fem!reader

- in which dreamies decide that mark's taking way too long to ask you out so they take matters into their own hands via a thirst trap and DM

Sold Out - Lee Jeno [ongoing]

jeno x fem!reader

- in which Jeno Lee needs a solution to his mother's matchmaking and you need a front-row view of your favorite artist

[comment to be added to the taglist]